#even if it doesn't cast me in the best light

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Creature Craft | Identification

Read on Ao3 Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Warnings: none

Pairings: analogical

Word Count: 1935

A visit to the clinic.

The clinic is not a very imposing building. It's a little thing tucked in the corner of a strip mall between a Chinese restaurant and a craft store. The sign on the front doesn't even have a name or anything on it, just the company's logo in a flickering neon sign. He falters in front of the door all the same.

A hand squeezes his. He glances up, Logan already looking at him with that same infinite patience. They squeeze his hand again but make no move forward.

Virgil takes a deep breath and pushes open the door.

A light tinkling bell announces their presence to the few people inside, the receptionist smiling from behind the pastel green counter. She waves them over, past the few rows of blue plastic chairs and light wooden tables.

"Hi! Checking in?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm—it should be under Virgil? I'm here for a—"

"For the follow-up, yes, okay, I've got you down. Hey, thanks for getting here a few minutes early, we really appreciate it."

"No worries, it's, uh, it's a habit."

"Well, far from the worst habit to have. If you could just confirm your information on the screen…" Virgil taps a few buttons. "Great, thank you, and—your name, please, for the records?"

"Logan," Logan says smoothly, holding out their hand. The receptionist lifts up a futuristic-looking touch pad and they press down for a few seconds.

"Wonderful." She scrolls on her computer for a few seconds before her eyes light up and her grin widens. "Oh, it's you two! We've been expecting you, yes, okay, the technician will be ready in a few minutes. If you just want to have a seat?"

"Thank you," Logan says before Virgil can realize that he's staring at her with an open mouth, taking him gently by the arm and steering him over to a few seats. They quickly take his hand in theirs again. "Alright?"

"What did she mean, that she's been expecting us?"

"Well, you never did have that appointment that was supposed to brief you on me, remember?"

"Oh. Right."

"Would you like me to come back there with you?"

"Isn't—it's supposed to be like that? Or are you—am I not supposed to have met you yet?"

"It's up to you, sweetheart."

Virgil shuffles. "Is it…is it gonna be weird to hear us talk about you like you're—like—"

"Is it going to be weird to discuss the metaphysical existence of a magical being created from your spell?"

"Okay, point taken."

"It really is up to you," Logan says after a few more moments, "whatever you would like to do. If you'd feel more comfortable asking questions without me there, then I can wait here for you."

"…is that okay?"

"Wouldn't have offered if it wasn't."

Still, it takes a few moments for Virgil to let go of Logan's hand when someone finally comes out to the front and asks for him. The woman smiles at him and guides him into a small office in the back of the building, introducing herself as Amelia Longsworth. A window looks out onto a planter filled with colorful flowers, a small bouquet in a vase on her desk. He sits in the chair and tries his best not to look too obviously uncomfortable.

"Virgil, I have to admit I've not been this excited about the outcome of a spell in a long time," Amelia says as she sits down. "Though I'm sure you have questions, if I can explain a few things first?"

"Sure."

"First off, my apologies for the delay in the spellcraft. It's just—well, how much do you know about magic?"

"Next to nothing."

"I won't talk your ear off with jargon, then. But at the root of spells like this is establishing a firm link between caster and result. Magic is incredibly reliant on the energy the person casting it uses to shape it, which is why the exact same spell can have so many different results based off of who is casting it, why they're casting it, and what they intend for it to do. It's why magical education takes so long."

"Is that why the process takes so long here too?"

"Yes. Obviously you're not the one casting the spell, primarily, but because we want the spell to be shaped using your energy, we need to spend a longer amount of time actually in the 'casting' process before the spell reaches its last stage." Virgil nods. "I have to ask, since you've said you don't know much about magic, did you start this process with any sort of expectation? Or end goal in mind?"

"I, uh, I didn't actually know what it was before I signed up for it. My friends really wanted to do it, and they needed one more person to sign up for it to get this, like, discount or something? They were, um…they didn't really explain a lot about it before I said they could use my info."

Amelia blinks. "You—you didn't know what this was before you signed up for it?"

"No, no, I—I did, like, a check on you guys and everything, I didn't just let my friends sign me up for a magic thing I had no knowledge of," he says quickly and her shoulders relax, "but I didn't—yeah, past the basics I didn't really know anything."

"Okay, phew, I was going to say—you can get yourself in all sorts of trouble that way."

"No, yeah, I didn't—I knew something."

"Right. Well, anyway, the reason I ask is that you…your spell, Virgil, the reason it took a little bit longer to finish it was that your tether—the thing binding you to it, it was really volatile."

His hands clench on the arms of the chair. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Not necessarily, but the purpose of this spell is to be for you, and you…can I show you?"

He nods and she turns one of the monitors on her desk around so he can see it. On the screen is a colored image of…something magical, he guesses, and there's a few labels describing things with several syllables he's not sure he'd ever know how to pronounce.

"So this is what a typical tether with this spell looks like. See how the colors are pretty consistent throughout the image?"

"Yeah."

"That means the tether is only running off one main energy. There's only one thing—or one type of thing that the spell is supposed to accomplish, so the tether is nice and strong. I'm going to show you a picture of what your spell profile looked like at the end of the second phase."

Virgil blinks. Unlike the previous photo, his is more like an explosion of color, everything is sort of everywhere and it's hard to even make out that it's supposed to be a clear path from one to the other. "That looks…bad."

"It's not bad, it's just really broad. There wasn't one thing that you were feeding the spell because you—okay, no, not like that. Can you tell me a little about what your though process was when you were caring for the plant and the cat?"

"I, uh, I didn't really know a lot about either of them, so I did my best to like, figure it out as I went? Sorry, that's probably not a very helpful answer."

"Actually, that's incredibly helpful. This spell and most with tethers like these are designed to respond to the energy you give it. But because you were letting it dictate what you gave it, most of the time, it was responding to an unrestricted energy source."

"Is that why it went so…wild?"

"Partially. I think the other part of it is that you…" She sighs, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. "Not all of the spellcraft we do here is just based off the magic profiles. We also have experts that refine and read them to make sure the spell is safe and ready for release. Am I—forgive me if this is being really forward, but you're…you tend to put everything else before yourself, don't you?"

Virgil opens and closes his mouth a few times. "It's that obvious from this?"

"A little, yeah. The delay came from trying to get an accurate read on your profile so we could make the tether more stable." She clicks over to another photo. This time, the tether has the same shape as the one from the first photo, but the colors are still all there, no less vibrant. "This is what we reached, and what eventually turned into Logan."

"Why is it still so colorful?"

(There's like, four different jokes he could make here.)

Amelia smiles, a little resigned. "Normally when we get to this stage, we refine the 'colors,' so to speak, so we can give the spellcraft one specific energy to focus on. In this case, helping to address one issue or specific group of issues for the client."

A flush comes to his cheeks. "So I have, um, a lot of issues that needed to be addressed?"

"No! No, that's not where I was going with that at all. No, I was going to say that the tether you formed with this spell was so powerful that we couldn't do anything more than shape it a little. It wouldn't let us."

"It wouldn't let you?"

"What has Logan told you about his magic so far?"

"Their magic," he corrects, before explaining, albeit a little sheepishly, only to stop in confusion when Amelia hides a snort. "What?"

"Of course they'd describe it like that," she laughs. "It was like they were hoarding the colors. Every time we'd try to reduce the energy in the spell, make it easier to manage, it was like it was snatching it back from us, insisting it needed it for you."

"F-for me?"

Amelia's expression softens and she reaches across the desk, patting his shoulder. "It's not an accident that your spellcraft produced a fiercely protective and caring person, Virgil. Magic has a way of revealing things about us that we would never have the courage or words to admit out loud. In caring for the cat and the plant the way you did, you gave the spell energy from you, just you, no other strings or expectations attached, and the resulting tether made something—someone capable of returning that to you, tenfold."

Virgil's eyes go back to the picture. The colors are so strong, so vivid…and the idea that Logan was stubbornly holding onto them, insisting they needed them to—to take care of him…

"Oh, sweetie," Amelia says, quickly handing him a tissue box, "do you want me to grab them for you?"

"No, no, 'm okay, I'm okay, I just—" he blows his nose— "I get to keep them?"

"Yeah, yeah, Virgil, you get to keep them. There's no take-backs, no refunds, I don't think Logan would let anyone take them away from you." She pats his arm again. "Your magic is yours, Virgil. All yours."

"Thank you," he blurts out, "just—thank you."

Amelia smiles. "No, thank you. Some of us here were beginning to lose faith in our craft, so thank you for bringing some of it back."

He's still floating a little as Amelia walks him back towards the front. This is real. There aren't any tricks here. He gets to keep this. He gets to keep all of it. He gets to keep Logan.

He's about to push open the door to the front of the clinic when he stops at the sound of some very familiar voices.

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[terresdebrume]

Sometimes I find myself thinking back on my first stint of work as a camp supervisor for summer camp geared towards autistic and psychotic kids when I was 21 and just like. Hoping M. is doing fine. I'm sad that I didn't have the experience then that I have now because the way I handled conflict with him was not great, and I wish I'd thought to apologize for it in the brief time we saw each other afterwards

[potionwine]

Oooh, you’ve also seen Nirvana in Fire?!? That was SO good. And as inspiration for PF?? That, explains some things, dang! It works

My friend. My dear. My lovely Cimi—

WHAT in the world—

Have I seen the drama that bloody changed my life; my favourite comfort c-drama; the series that I rewatch yearly the way I rewatch lotr every Christmastime; that exquisite story with the most incredible breadth and variety of characters with impeccable character work and amazing themes and an ending that respects its viewers which however tragic is thoroughly earned and identity porn and politics and pride and grief, god, so much grief—and an Emperor who is shakespearean in his tragedy and—

Okay. Okay, no, you could not have known, tis a failure of my part if I have not spoken enough about it—I probably mostly reply to other people's posts as they liveblog their watching but. BUT. God when I saw your ask it felt like you came up to me to remark "hey wow so you also ship PF?" that's how gobsmacked I was lol!!!

I have dragged everyone in my life into watching this show! I have mutuals on here who can testify to my introducing them to it omg. I just checked and the earliest NIF post I reblogged was in 2016 so I have been watching it every year since 2016 hahaha!!! Although it's pretty complex chinese, and since so much of the show is made up of characters sitting around talking the intricate plot into existence, it's not really a beginner-friendly c-drama either!!!

NOW I DIDN'T KNOW YOU'VE WATCHED IT TOO???!!!

I. have. been. going. UTTERLY MENTAL. at the lack of anyone with whom I could talk about it? OR SO I THOUGHT. So many times I thought of going into our discord to be like "has anyone ever heard of NIF because hhhhhhh the phoenixflare resonance" or like "so is anyone into TGCF perhaps perchance mayhap???"——because heh. hehehehe. heheheh??? My fic is practically a NIF/TGCF mashup, it's a Lin Shu+Xie Lian!Joshua Rosfield & Jingyan+Hua Cheng!Dion Lesage——and I CANNOT TELL YOU HOW MANY TIMES I wanted to ask god please does anyone else see my vision please god does anyone?? but no one would even understand the references, and I couldn't even ask in areas (asian fandom) where there would be a higher chance of people knowing what crack I'm on because asian fandom is all about that...you know...that I loathe—and I have been in pain and I thought right well fine I'm writing the fic anyway it's fine if I have no one to scream about it with because I'm writing it and then I'll find fellow competence porn+politics enjoyers if they find my fic and—and.

God. What an earth-shattering message to receive in my askbox! You are some sort of miracle <3

Do you see it??? Do you see it? A boy who burned to death in an inferno as an innocent betrayed youth in a catastrophic event caused by his own family, his father slain, his entire clan (and all the troops under his banner) wiped out or scattered. A boy reborn after extensive and horrific injuries after an agonisingly long period of recovery: a ghost who crawled his way out of the gates of hell, the last of his broken once-noble house.

That boy's transformation into his new identity of Mei Changsu/Margrace. His off-screen discovery of the truth that led to Meiling/Phoenix Gate and his continued on-screen quest to learn more. His determination to hold the true culprits accountable at immense personal cost and suffering. His dogged persistence despite incredible odds and visibly failing health. Being surrounded by people who love him and want to protect him, and himself constantly undermining their efforts because his goals are more important than his health. (Because in truth he knows perfectly well that he won't survive, but he can make a difference while he is alive.)

Something that amuses me hugely is how Lin Shu and Joshua literally both come back as 宗主? I love it so much! They come back with the same title! Both of them come back as clan leaders of an organisation that obeys their every command! Margrace is the 不死鳥教団の宗主(=leader of the cult of the undying bird) and Mei Changsu is 江左盟的宗主(=leader of the Jiangzuo alliance).

AND. Hooooo yea this PF fic is just JingSu at this point because oh, a handsome, principled, prideful, and stubborn prince who is a decorated warrior famed for his numerous military accomplishments and the man who is essential to the success of Lin Shu's/Joshua's plans? The resurrected boy barging into his prince's life: no matter how insane it is to choose your side, still "I choose you, Your Highness Prince Jing"??? The fact that the undervalued prince has a history with our secretive ghost protagonist? And (arguably) frequently thought about and missed the bright boy he knew once upon a time in happier days—"I know you," says Dion Lesage without a shadow of a doubt, extremely normal of him to instantly recognise a dead boy he met 20 years ago?

Mutual admiration of each other's integrity and capabilities? Reciprocal faith and remembrance? The foundation of deep respect and enduring friendship, their shared goals and shared family??? I froth at the mouth. JingSu are cousins, PF are stepsiblings by their parents' marriage. Each pair is bound by destiny and by choice—other people have made choices that permanently entangled each pair's lives together forevermore (Joshua+Dion and Jingyan+Xiaoshu), and the choice they themselves personally made to choose each other—

DO YOU SEE THE VISION.

How difficult it is to pursue justice when everyone involved is family and how impossible it is for Lin Shu the nigh-extinguished Chiyan fire for Joshua, the guttering flame, to indict Jingyan's father the Emperor of Liang Dion's father the Emperor of Sanbreque of his crimes against Joshua's family without opening old wounds and hurting many loved ones in the process including Dion himself. The people directly responsible for the tragedies are related to the protagonists in one way or another! If Lin Shu Joshua ever wants resolution for his grief unending, he has to strike at his beloved's father, and plot meticulously to avoid all of the dangers of attacking such a powerful enemy.

(Of course, I acknowledge the critical difference in Jingyan's versus Dion's feelings about their respective fathers.)

Now if only Joshua had done the famous blizzard scene with Dion instead of letting him go off to carry out his ill-advised coup—"Xiao Jingyan! You stand where you are! If I don't stop you today, what are you going to do? What do you think you can possibly accomplish if you charge in to challenge imperial power like this? Do you think you can simply force the Emperor [to do what you want/change his mind about Anabella Wei Zheng]? You have honour and valour but why do you just not have brains! How many more people must be hurt, you tell me!"

Anyway Joshy doesn't have the insufferable smugness of Xiaoshu but he does absolutely have Xiaoshu's pride, the sort of pride that is not just personal pride but familial pride too (after all Joshua comes from extremely prestigious lineage)—just look at how he speaks to Ultima in every scene, his lordly manner. Joshua I think has more Consort Jing to him, and Consort Jing is only my favourite character in all of NIF, in a drama where I love every character to bits—steel in softness, ever gentle ever polite yet not to be bullied and not to be underestimated and also extremely perceptive and learned and patient. Extra sweet bonus that Consort Jing is also a healer. Elegant, restrained, and very repressed. Who knows the depths of Joshua's Consort Jing's grief and loss?

But you know, Jingyan, near the end he is completely in charge—the prince who was always a great and respected general on the battlefield is now more than that, he's directly taking responsibility for all of his people as their future ruler—that means thinking on multiple fronts and exerting control over all of the key governing officials, not merely his military officers. He's leading with confidence, and there's that little scene where he apologises to Xiaoshu for taking action on several plans without consulting him, and Xiaoshu says no, this is the way it should be, this is the correct state of affairs: you are the crown prince, and this is rightfully your arena. You lead, you decide, you command.

Jingyan now sees clearly, he's found out and accepted the truths of his father's role in the atrocity at Meiling and everything that happened back then. He rightly perceives the failings of his family and seeks to redress past wrongs and avoid repetition of past mistakes, he weeds his court of the corrupt and the cowardly, he's become the best possible version of himself: stronger than ever, not just a powerful wartime commander-in-chief but an inspiring leader in the imperial court, careful, thoughtful and politically up-to-speed, finally stable in his sense of self instead of being permanently stuck as that angry and lost and hurting child. He has renewed purpose, he possesses hope for the future, he is able to dedicate himself fully to what he truly believes to be right and act in furtherance of righteous causes—

Critically, this is the man he becomes only because Xiaoshu came back into his life to shake it up. Without Xiaoshu he wouldn't even have the opportunity or means or knowledge. The radiant and fiery boy who Jingyan missed all his life came back to save him. From the outsider prince without contacts or support within the imperial court->to the crown prince who has the court subdued within the palm of his hand. From his pitiful existence as a neglected, unfavoured prince, his lowkey constant simmering resentment, his half-dutiful half-forced obedience of paternal orders that chafe at his conscience->into the steadfast and self-assured prince who is capable of fighting for the betterment of his country and the rallying point for virtuous officials who share those aspirations. The drama shows the audience that Jingyan is unquestionably ready to assume rulership, and together with the person he loves most, they achieve their goals, they save each other and their country (by arresting its downward slide due to the rotten state of its governance).

It's just a strong headcanon of mine (albeit one that I can absolutely present extensive arguments for) but to me Joshua Rosfield is the one and only character able to perform that same abovementioned function for Dion Lesage. Catalyst, turning point, spark that ignites the fire—whatever you call it, this is salvation. It is beautifully poetic that both Lin Shu and Joshua are characterised by fire. They are the fires of change that burn away the old life: before their arrival, the two war princes exist in a state of wearying routine, long-suffering and almost hopeless. Both Jingyan and Dion are shackled by their stations and duties, both are unloved sons with virtually no chance of their circumstances improving without drastic action, and both are trapped in precarious situations where they are subject to the whims of their father (if their imperial fathers turn on them, it will result in irrevocable loss of their status).

Dion's position is weak in the Oriflamme imperial court—pretty sure this point isn't up for debate, since no one ever speaks up in support of him despite the obvious injustice of his ill-treatment. His degree of influence in the court is much, much, so much less than any reasonable person might expect someone who is literally Bahamut and crown prince to have. The Council of Elders and other officials stand by haplessly while he is progressively stripped of power in favour of Olivier. Nobody defends him, nobody objects. (Or maybe some did, and were eliminated.) Even Dion himself submits to the abuse despite inherently superior abilities. Career politicians know which direction the winds blow—they don't defy their Empress, meaning they are either her cronies or too fearful of her to make themselves a target by any raising any opposition. Added to that is the implication that Dion was often away for long periods—and as Xiaoshu explicitly tells Jingyan in the drama, the crown prince cannot leave the imperial capital untended because that is the surest way to lose power. Dion may be Sanbreque's mightiest weapon and revered by the populace, but in practice his political sway is almost negligible. He is not able to leverage himself effectively.

Don't get me wrong, for these reasons I extra extra love the canon portrayal of J*** obeying Joshua against her wishes and T****** obeying Dion against his wishes—I absolutely think their obedience is, to them, the truest and highest and final demonstration of their love and understanding of their respective masters. And both Joshua and Dion expected no less from them. [I've not typed the names out just in case the search function ends up capturing the post and putting it in their tags, not because I hate those characters; I just don't want to be uncivil within fandom.]

But the very point here is that, you know, sometimes you aren't supposed to leave someone just because they say so. Sometimes it is the worst possible course of action to obey someone just because they command it. Sometimes it is undesirable at best and disastrous at worst to support someone's every decision out of unchanging (if uncharitable, one might even say unthinking) loyalty. That is a fundamentally unequal relationship, and while beautiful in its own way, is also uniquely doomed. The truth is, Joshua was always going to pull that trigger, and Dion was always going to pull that trigger: the master was always going to sever the relationship. Those pairs were doomed as soon as they began, because one party can only ever say yes, and yes means the end, you see? That is The End, that is the final break. By their very subordinate nature and by their established personalities within the game, "yes" is the one and only answer J*** and T****** can ever or will ever give. Their master will say, "Leave me", meaning it is over, and they will reply, "Yes, I obey". Because this is the only answer that proves their devotion, leaving them totally incapable of changing the script. Both J*** and T****** knew it and played their parts to perfection, and my heart hurts for them.

In NIF terms, I reckon J*** is Gong Yu, and T****** is Lie Zhanying. Zhanying will follow Jingyan to the end, whatever it may be—in fact in one episode he explicitly says so, and his loyalty is never in doubt. He will go to his death if Jingyan orders it. He will always support Jingyan's decisions. He and the rest of Jingyan's men have been following Jingyan even when the prince was out of favour and cold-shouldered and constantly dispatched to safeguard the country's frontiers—inconvenient places where comfort is low and the environment harsh. Jingyan's favoured brothers live in the lap of luxury within their palaces (like Olivier), while Jingyan himself (like Dion) has always been at war. And as with Zhanying, T****** will never be able to change this status quo on behalf of Jingyan (Dion). For all his boundless dedication to his lord, Zhanying will never be able to improve his prince's standing in the court, never be able to secure more political power for his prince (unless his prince decides to revolt/coup), never be able to make his prince's father love or prize his prince.

It is not a problem of character or willpower or desire. It is, simply put, a problem of power. It is a problem of class. The servant rises as their master rises, and falls as their master falls. In other words, the servant's status is determined by their master's status. Zhanying is Jingyan's deputy. When Jingyan's status was elevated, Zhanying naturally also assumed commandership over more troop divisions because those were allocated to the prince by the Liang Emperor. (There is no doubt in my mind that T******'s status as second-in-command is because of Prince Dion. He's too young to have earned that position by gradual promotion through meritorious accomplishment. Unless you're telling me that the knights dragoon don't have a single officer above age 30.) Zhanying is invaluable to Prince Jing in security, in warcraft, and in a variety of generic daily tasks. However, he is part of the rigid imperial system and lower in the hierarchy. He may persuade his lord, but he cannot order him. He may disagree, but he cannot defy. He may privately despise the Emperor/Empress, but he cannot show it and cannot act on it (literally treason). His role is to follow and obey. If he does not perform that role for whatever reason, he fundamentally negates his utility to his lord.

Ergo, endgame Jingyan is only possible because his true equal and soulmate, his real zhiji, came back to challenge the status quo. In fact, came back to challenge him. It is not merely the fact that this person understands him above all, it is also the fact that this person has the ability to act on that understanding. Jingyan is technically also Xiaoshu's prince, master, and eventual Emperor—so where is the difference?

The difference is, Lin Shu is comparable in nobility. Lin Shu is the cousin of princes and the incumbent Emperor's nephew, Lin Shu was raised amongst the imperial household, and played and studied and fought and hung out with them as peers of roughly equal rank. In this respect Joshua actually outstrips Lin Shu: Joshua is a prince by blood, and had Rosaria not fallen (especially if Sylvestre had not risen to the throne), would have been higher status than Dion. It's a massive pet peeve of mine that so many fans in XVI fandom don't seem to realise that Joshua was crown prince? Everybody knows Dion is crown prince, but do they realise Joshua is the original? In the English version prologue, the knights do call him "prince" and "your highness". The Rosarian throne is Joshua's by right of birth. At the time of their meeting as children, Joshua outranked Dion. They were equals as Dominants of their nation, but Dion back then was the child of a Cardinal and not the child of Sanbreque's ruler at that time; i.e. he was not a prince and not in line for the Sanbrequois throne.

The other wonderful similarity is Lin Shu's and Joshua's statuses as outsiders to the system when they reintroduce themselves to Jingyan/Dion. As Jingyan's strategist, Lin Shu has more leeway with regards to making his prince listen to him and take his advice. But importantly, he is now Mei Changsu, and that means he is able to play outside of the system. The imperial system effectively cast him out when it killed him. The strict codes of imperial conduct no longer chain him as they chain those confined within its structure. As a free agent unlike Zhanying, he has the right and privilege of choosing his own master. That includes the right to leave or to change his mind. And although the prince's strategist is supposed to be subordinate too, Xiaoshu would never truly be subordinate in the same fashion no matter how many times he bows his head, because at his core he is still high nobility and it still shines through despite everything. His manners are still perfect. He still navigates life with the easy expectation that people will serve him. He grabs the Duchess' hand and yells at Prince Jing and gloats at Marquis Ning. It's all the little ways that remind the audience, over and over, that this man was raised as a posh lordling. You can remove the boy from the upper class but you can't remove the upper class from the boy. It's the same with Joshua. His manners are still court-perfect. He still moves through life accepting that he will be served. He may bow his head to Dion and call him "your highness" but he also takes the liberty of throwing himself at Dion for a hug. Because to him, the prince is not some lofty and untouchable figure to be addressed with unfailing deference, he's just a friend.

(I know T****** is minor nobility, to be honest Zhanying definitely is too. The deputies of high level royals aren't going to be commoners. But I don't think I have to explain the gulf between ruling class/a close blood relative of the monarch versus lower nobility.)

Joshua too is an outsider that isn't beholden to Sanbreque's Emperor in the way that all of Dion and his knights owe their fealty. Again in this respect Joshua has it better than Xiaoshu—Joshua is his own sovereign master, and that should impact his perspective, his sense of self, and therefore his behaviour with others and how he navigates the world.

Gong Yu... I think anyone who's watched NIF will know exactly why I say that J***'s counterpart is Gong Yu lol. I think the s/h/u/a/t/e/s want her counterpart to be Princess (Duchess) Nihuang and they certainly produce fanwork in that vein, and I respect them for it because fans be doing what they love and hooray for that. But..... she's Gong Yu.

For all these reasons I am utterly obsessed with a Joshua that pushes back at Dion. The person able to challenge the status quo and challenge Dion. An equal who listens to Dion's absurd speech in the palace at Twinside and calls utter bullshit, who says, "A matter for the imperial family? are you joking? that's my mother, that's my younger brother. an imperial matter for you to resolve? say rather, our family, OUR problem to resolve. You don't get to go off half-cooked to arrest or kill my mother without actual political strategies, notwithstanding your military capability to launch a coup. And also, what about your dad? However much I love you, my darling Dion, we have to talk about the way that you insist on poor little meow meowing your awful father because my dear old mum didn't do Phoenix Gate alone and she for sure didn't immaculately conceive Olivier."

Endgame Dion isn't satisfactory in several glaring ways and it annoys me hugely that even unto the end he never grapples with and confronts the truth of his father instead of the idealised version that lives in his head. It's a little bizarre how Dion's arc is often praised by fans, since it feels very incomplete to me. Or, well, fine, perhaps just unsatisfying (since XVI simply isn't his story). His deep-seated need to be loved by his father prevents him from seeing anything clearly, which is so ironic for the only character to possess a third eye in canon? His honour and his might have been squandered in service to a selfish, uncaring, and objectively bad monarch, yet despite how earnestly Dion wants to be a good prince to his people he seems wholly incapable of recognising this fact? His mind repeatedly shies away from his father's shortcomings. In one scene he calls his father out for words befitting a tyrant, yet ultimately he persists in the belief that his father simply needs to be saved from Anabella's evil influence as if Sylvestre Lesage isn't a 50-year-old adult man who schemed his way to the throne and killed a woman's whole family and happily married that woman to beget legitimate offspring with her.

Soooo....... I've just spoiled the whole plot of my fic but it's really just NIF nonsense as usual and that is actually extremely predictable of me. But honestly the spoiling is not a big deal, because as with NIF, fundamentally my story is not meant to be plot-twisty and suspenseful—the real storytelling skill of the NIF drama is that the audience should be able to quickly grasp the overarching plot with no difficulty because the pleasure of this particular type of story is to watch the protagonist achieve their heart's desire, step by delicious step. The objective of this type of story is to properly pay off what it promises. NIF=the wronged protagonist seeks justice. We already know Lin Shu will obtain justice by the end of the tale, what we are here to enjoy is the journey! Same really for IEM I reckon; by the end of chapter 1 Joshua's goals should be really obvious, and since my little fic will have the happy ending tag because I only ever write happy endings, the audience basically knows he'll succeed—it's very much a journey not destination kind of story.

Ooof the post is crazy long and took me 3 nights to compose an answer and I haven't even managed to go into any TGCF elements but that work mainly contributes to characterisation instead of plot. One of the craziest XVI scenes was the Hideaway's sickbay after Twinside, the genuine regret Joshua expressed and how he blamed himself for not reaching out to Dion sooner; now the Empire and her prince lie in ruins etc. Surely he remembers this is the country that destroyed his own? Surely??? What kind of person, robbed of home and throne, can find it in himself to respond with so much empathy and kindness? Sanbreque has now experienced pretty much the same tragedy they inflicted on Rosaria two decades ago, and isn't that just the funniest parody of divine retribution? Instead of viewing this as Sanbreque's just deserts, Joshua Rosfield pities them and wishes he could have helped them avert this disaster.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Wonderfully Xie Lian-coded. Something something someone who has been through the worst and nevertheless chooses goodness and kindness. Someone who intimately understands the ugliest and lowest depths that people sink to, yet refuse to lose themselves in that temptation even when vengeance would seem perfectly justified.

You've known for a long time now that I love a Joshua who is very similar to his mother. This is why lol. It's about that delicious, delicious contrasting foil. It is the difference between Jun Wu & Xie Lian, as it is the difference between Anabella & Joshua. That the indestructible integrity we see from Xie Lian or Joshua didn't come easy, they weren't born perfect, their ethics were tested and forged and earned through suffering the likes of which most people will never know. The person that they have each become is the sum of their choices actively made. In the canon of TGCF and XVI, both of these ex-crown-princes live on in disgrace, in circumstances best described as reduced and humiliating, their respective kingdoms fallen, their wealth and glory spent—but they are better and braver human beings than everyone around them, they are beautiful and noble souls, quiet and unacknowledged, and only Hua Cheng and Dion truly see and fully understand that (and therefore cannot help but love them utterly).

I've a few more thoughts regarding Joshua swirling around as captured in other Xie Lian posts: here, here, here, and here. Not sure if you know TGCF or are into it as well, but just leaving links to those posts here for my own benefit too. I've been gravitating towards phoenixflare comparisons in various hualian meta posts since early 2024 so clearly these concepts have been stewing in my head for some duration, but I haven't fully teased out what it is about these two ships that gives me that niggling sense of connecting similarities.

^ Whereas I clearly know exactly what it is about JingSu that makes me point and holler "THEM!"

[tonycries]

Hope They Catch Us - G.S.

Synopsis. When you’re on-screen, it’s always a rivalry to see who’s best - you just never thought that it would be the same struggle in bed.

Pairing. Actor! Gojo Satoru x Co-Star! Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, rivals-to-lovers, co-stars to lovers, unprotected, oral (fem receiving) slight exhíbitionism (stuff with cameras), marking, praise, Satoru is actually down BAD, cúmplay, tabloids, lowkey fluffy at the end, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 5.5k

A/N. YA GIRL IS BACKKKK ;D Also happy belated three months to this blog hehehe.

Lights, Camera, Drama: Gojo Satoru and Leading Lady’s Off-Screen Feud to SINK Box Office Darling?

“They’ll Kill Each Other!” Insider Source Spills All on the Royal Rivalry Between Hollywood’s Hottest Bachelor and Bachelorette.

Enemies of The Century or Publicity Stunt? Recent Cast Outings Sets Fans Speculating!

---

You hated him. Oh, how you hated him. All because of a red-hot rivalry that had sparked ever since the two of you took the industry by storm. And everyone from Hollywood’s bigshots to your adoring fans knew that no matter where Gojo Satoru goes, you were sure to never be within a ten-mile radius. 

Well, usually. 

“I…shit- I’m in love with you.” 

Because avoiding Gojo like a plague really isn’t saying much when said plague was currently sitting right next to you. Eyes boring into yours, signature smirk plastered on his face while he rattles off a disgustingly sweet confession - all on the set of your latest movie. 

Somehow, in a cruel twist of fate, your co-star. 

And to add insult to injury, this wasn’t just any movie - it was only set to be the biggest romance film of the summer. So not only did you hate to tolerate Gojo, you had to pretend to be in love with him. 

Perfect. Great. Wonderful. If only the check wasn’t as tempting as it was, you think he would’ve successfully driven you to an aneurysm already. Especially considering that the scene tomorrow was-

“CUT!” 

That snaps you out of your little reverie, bringing you back to the still very ongoing film shooting. You risk a glance at the disgruntled director, cheeks aching from the sappy fake smile you had to hold for this scene.

“Something wrong?” you bat your lashes deceivingly innocently. You knew exactly what was wrong. And one look at Gojo - dressed to the nines and huffing sulkily at being interrupted in the middle of his monologue - told you that he did as well.

“It just doesn’t feel real.” The director shuffles his script, voice dropping to a sigh at your confused gazes. “The spark, it doesn't feel real.”

“What?” you silently thank your years of acting for keeping your voice steady. You squirm in your seat the longer the silence stretches. This cozy little café they rented out too tight, Gojo’s fingers intertwined with yours too hot. Too soft. 

“C’mon. You are in the perfect romantic set-up.” the other man gestures wearily at the café, at the dim-lighting and the proximity of your seats. “So why do you two look like you want to just- strangle each other?”

“Ooo kinky~”

It’s the first time Gojo’s spoken up since the scene was ended early and honestly that was enough to have you fulfilling the director’s suspicions. 

“That.” you give him a pointed stare. “That is probably why.”

And that just draws out such an infuriatingly light chuckle from Gojo, as he sprawls all over his chair with the audacity of someone that owned this entire set. “Lighten up. You’ve told us, n’ in the next take I’ll fix it. Easy peasy.”

If only it was that “easy peasy”. The director was anything but satisfied, running a hand through his hair frustratedly. “It’s not just me, even the public is worried whether your ‘feud’ will get in the way of such intimate scenes. You-” he jabs a finger your way. “-better pretend like you want to kiss him senseless and you-” whirling now to Gojo. “-better act like you’ve wanted nothing more for years- Not to mention tomorrow’s sex scene-”

Ah, right. The sex scene. 

How could you forget? It might not be a walk in the park to giggle and make heart-eyes at Gojo, but to actually pretend to have sex with him? All on camera? Curse whoever wrote this damn script. You could’ve almost laughed at the universe’s absolutely awful sense of humor if it hadn’t been for your paycheck - and the next words that tumble out of Gojo’s pretty mouth. 

“We’ll ace it, you just watch.” 

You hurriedly snap your eyes to meet Gojo’s, sending him a look that says “behave”, in a way that very much makes him not want to. Twinkling with such dangerous mischief that makes your stomach flip as he hums, “Or- I’ll ace it.”

God, was it a battle to remain professional. The only thing stopping you from snapping back being the way he squeezes your hand mockingly reassuringly - to which you send him a death grip back, of course. 

“Oh? Care to elaborate, Mr. Gojo?” the director asks, eyes flitting between the two of you. And you can’t even laugh at the rest of the staff for almost toppling out of their seats in an attempt to hear his answer - because you are, too. Mind whirling as you lean closer, wondering just what nonsense would come out of Gojo’s mouth. 

“Well, you could say…” he trails off suspensefully, like the smug bastard he is. Looking right in your eyes as he flashes an unfairly pretty smile your way. “I’m irresistible like that.”

Exactly the type of nonsense that would come out of Gojo Satoru, of course. And one glance at the director told you he was thinking the same thing. He was going to be the death of you. You can’t help but breathe out shrilly, “You fucking-”

“My apologies, director, but our leads have a scheduled interview soon. Rest assured, we will be early on set for filming tomorrow.”

You were definitely giving Nanami a raise after this. 

Because if looks could kill then Gojo would be six feet under and you’d be dancing on his grace already - and you let him know. A little over twenty times, actually, as the both of you are hastily escorted away from the set for an “emergency interview”. 

It was a flimsy excuse, you both knew, but Nanami hadn’t exactly felt like cleaning up a crime scene today. Instead, settling for a swift escape, the director calling out after you two to “Look like you’re gonna rip the clothes off each other tomorrow.”

Rip the clothes off each other, huh?

With the way things were going, you couldn’t be surprised if you ripped him a new-

“C’mon, sweetheart~” Gojo gets out through giggles, that familiar cackle echoing in the narrow hallway leading to your trailer. “Y’know I was just having a little fun with that ol’ man.”

He saunters unhurriedly behind your brisk pace, easily blocking the way you swing the door shut in his face. Letting it shut with such infuriatingly smooth nonchalance. 

“Fun?” you scoff, jabbing an accusing finger right in the middle of his sculpted chest.“Do you even realize the mess you could’ve made?”

“Easy there, m’not insured for these pecs just yet.” Gojo clasps your hands together. Some strange little part of your skin burning at the touch in- anger? Something else? But you don’t think too hard about it, because he’s plowing on, “Besides, a little teasing never hurt anyone.”

Such a shame he was so pretty with the stupidest mouth.

“A little teasing? You practically declared to everyone in that room that we’re gonna fuck this up.” you move to pull him down by the collar instead, clearly unimpressed.

But oh you shouldn’t have done that - because he’s so close now. Too close. Hot breath fanning your face, looking so smug as he murmurs unrepentantly, “Do you?” Chuckling lightly at your little head tilt, “Do you think we’ll fuck it up?”

You clench your jaw, trying to keep it all together. “...No.”

“Exactly. We’re good then.” he winks. 

“No. We’re not fucking ‘good’.” you grit out. Wondering exactly how difficult it might be to bother the director into completely recasting the male lead for the movie. Looking up at that million dollar smile and- yeah, it would be very difficult. “You’re so insufferable. I don’t know why they cast you.” 

“My good looks? My charisma? The way I’m the-” he trails off with a sigh at your glare. “Well, you’re not exactly a ray of sunshine, sweetheart.”

“At least I can act and-.”

He whines dramatically, cutting off your rant. “Me too!” 

This conversation was so ridiculous - but, hey, the great Gojo Satoru always did bring out the worst parts of you. 

“Nuh uh.” 

“Yuh uh.” 

“Then why are you so stiff when acting like you’re in love with me?”

Somehow, that makes Gojo shut up. Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water - gasping out a strangled little, “B-because- well-” And if you didn’t know any better you’d say that was a light blush dusting his ears.

Only for a split-second, though, because he’s grabbing you gently by your shoulders, more seriously than you’d ever seen him. “Fine. Listen, we both want the same thing right? To have pretend-sex and ace this film to win like five Oscars?”

And maybe at the heat of his newfound proximity, maybe at the way he was looking at you so goddamn intensely - you feel something hot and prickly pooling in your stomach. Swallowing thickly, you manage to get out, “I’ll be the one winning the Oscars...but yes.”

Gojo’s gaze roams all over you - from the quirk of your eyebrow to the dress hugging you so sinfully tight. “Then we’ll do it. Ace the scene.”

Traitorously, a shiver runs down your spine. And because the universe loves to play jokes on you, Gojo notices - of course, he does. Eyes lighting up with amusement and something you really didn’t want to decipher as you blink up questioningly, “How?”

“Method acting, silly.” he rolls his eyes, as if he wasn’t implying something that wasn’t seen in even the cheesiest of romcoms. “Think of it as running lines.”

If there was ever a moment where your life flashed behind your eyes then this just might be it. 

“You-” you gulp, so hot all over. “You better shut the fuck up and pray your face is insured because-”

At this, Gojo throws his head back and laughs - loud and boisterous. And usually you’d have a thing or two to say about keeping his voice down so as not to let anyone outside hear, but shit you were mesmerized. Damn, a weird little part of you kind of understood why directors loved him onscreen. 

“Feisty,” he muses. “But how can I shut the fuck up when they’re second-guessing the two best actors in the game?” 

“The best? Me, maybe.” you lean in closer, mouth as bitchy as ever - even when you’re so obviously crumbling bit by bit under his gaze. And he knew that. “But not you.”

“Well, only way to find out is with tomorrow’s scene, right, sweetheart?” 

He drove you mad - everything from his heady cologne, to the way that overpriced button-up clung to him like second skin. But, don’t pull away - how could you? Not when he inches closer ever-so-slightly. Not when he lets those overpriced glasses slide down his nose, eyes locked so heavily on you.

Fighting to keep your words steady, “There’s nothing special about that scene, just fake moan in front of the camera, right? We don’t need any…‘method acting’.”

Gojo only raises a brow in amusement, lips curling into a grin that really makes you too aware of his little dimple by the corner. “Then why…” His eyes flicker down from his hands, searing on your shoulders, to yours - still grabbing his collar, just grazing the soft skin of his neck. Not pulling away. “...can’t you let go of me, sweetheart?”

And then you’re kissing him - or maybe he’s kissing you, you really don’t give a fuck. The only thing running through your mind being that shit this was Gojo bane-of-your-existence Satoru, and he tasted so…sweet. Like those cheap lollipops he often snuck on-set. Strawberry, you think.

But you don’t get to confirm, because suddenly he’s pulling away mere millimeters. Whispering hotly, absolutely dripping with something dangerous, “Sooo, is that a ‘yes’ to running lines?”

“Ugh, shut up.” your lips ghost his. “And just fucking kiss me.”

And, well, Gojo doesn’t have to be asked twice. Because it only takes a split second for his lips to find yours again. 

Yeah, definitely strawberry lollipops.

You hadn’t filmed any of the kissing scenes just yet, but damn you didn’t expect him to be so hot and messy - like he was drunk off of you. Licking at the seam of your candied lips, groaning softly like he wanted more more more-

“Sh-shit, Goj-” 

“Call me ‘Satoru’ when we’re fucking.” he cuts you off. “Or, my bad. When we’re ‘running lines’.” 

Shameless. Though, you guess you weren’t any better - not as you press yourself closer running your hands all over his sinfully thin shirt, feeling every bump and curve of his abs. “You talk too much, Toru.” you hiss, muffled against his lips. 

Oh that cute lil’ nickname had all the blood rushing to Satoru’s cock, you were so unfair. 

“You little minx.” Like a little punishment, he’s biting down on your bottom lip, tugging lightly at your surprised squeal. “You’re gonna regret that.”

“Hmm, I doubt it.”

And then your back is hitting the couch before you can react, bouncing lightly at the sheer force. And you’re so swept up in him - the way he hovers over you, arms looping around your waist, his knee wedging between your legs - that it almost hurts for you to pull away.

“Patience.” you huff out a laugh at Satoru’s disappointed whine, eyeing those pretty pink lips mere inches away from you. You just wanted them on yours. So badly. But no, there was something more important you had to do right now. “Jus’ thought we should record our little rehearsal, whaddaya think?”

“Record it?”

“Record it.”

“Record it, hmmm?” he’s whispering, more to himself than you. Fumbling with the zipper of your dress. “So you’re sayin’ we tape it, let the camera see how pretty you look all fallin’ apart f’me.” Kissing down your neck, letting the flimsy fabric fall down, “N’ then we improve for the pretend sex. Shut all those snobby directors up by giving them the best fucking sex scene they’ve ever seen.”

“Y-yes?” you mutter, as he starts tweaking your hardened nipples through your bra, clearly having way too much fun with this. “Unless-”

“Fine by me.”

The fabric hits the floor before you even realize what’s happening. Head spinning too much from the idea of being fucked on camera - by Satoru of all people, it takes you a second to realize that this bastard fucking ripped your dress off. 

“You probably broke-” 

“I’ll buy you a new one.” muffled, as he kisses down your navel, blindly fumbling with his phone. 

“It was expensive.”

With an impatient sigh, Satoru sets the camera up on the coffee table beside the couch. “Five new ones.” Angling it just right to perfectly capture you - in all your disheveled, horny glory, and Satoru, smugly seating himself between your thighs. 

“Ready?” he asks, finger hovering over that damn red button.

Well, it’s just for rehearsal, right? Right? 

“Do it.” you manage to get out, voice getting stuck in your throat at the faint ding! that rings throughout the heady room. “For my Oscars?”

“For my Oscars. N’the camera’s gonna know.”

And whatever retort on the tip of your tongue dies when he rocks his hip against yours, grinding his cock against your soaked panties. Rock-hard and so damp with precum already - so big that any and all rational thinking flies out the window.

Which is probably why you’re letting out such a pretty gasp, ‘S-Satoru, I want-“

“What?” And Satoru only flashes you a devilish grin, hands spreading your legs as far as they’d go on the couch. “This?”

He licks a long, long stripe up your inner thigh, all the way till he just meets the hem of your drenched panties. Teasing. So hot and depraved in the way he breathes in your scent. 

“Oh fuck, sweetheart.” Satoru grunts, looking down in awe at the damp fabric, so flimsy and see-through with your sweet juices. You slick beading through so sloppily, just a hint of the state you were in. “You don’t know how you drive me mad.”

Rip! 

He’s so fucking starved that he’s just tearing your poor panties clean off. Throwing them behind him to God-knows-where before spreading your swollen folds with his thumb, showing off just how wet you were for him. 

“You’re a tease.”

“And you’re fucking addictive. Look how fuckin’ wet you are. For who, huh?” he slurs, breath hot against your cunt. Circling your entrance just barely with his fingertip, teasing you like he was addicted to those frustrated moans coming out of your pretty lips. 

“S’for you-” you whine, “All for you, Satoru.”

“Exactly what I wanted to hear.”

And that’s all that needs to be said before he’s burying himself nose-deep. Drunk off your pussy as he licks long, languid movements. And it wasn’t enough - never might be, actually, because only one taste and Satoru was like a man possessed. 

Bullying his tongue between your folds, just dipping into your sloppy hole in a way that had your slick smearing all over his pretty face. Letting out such deep groans that had you clenching around his hot tongue. 

Shit, if you knew that this was the way to shut up the great Gojo Satoru then you would’ve done it a lot sooner. Because for one in his life, Satoru’s too entranced with something else to run his mouth, so fucking satisfied between your thighs. 

“Fuck- hah- think I like you better w-when hngh- you’re like this, Toru.” you purr, breath hitching as he bullies his tongue between your folds. 

Maybe you were an idiot - maybe you were a genius, because that only sets him off more. 

And suddenly Satoru’s pulling your body closer onto his hot mouth, like you were weighless. Pushing himself so impossibly closer while he makes out deeper with your wet cunt. 

“Ah! Hngh- Satoru-” you keen, tugging at his soft locks. As delirious as Satoru was pussydrunk. Drinking in all your cute lil’ whines of his name, angling your hips to lick all over like he couldn’t decide between fucking your sloppy hole or toying with your poor, ravaged clit. 

“Mhm?” he murmurs, the vibrations making you squeal.  Eyes rolling to the back of his head as lets your sweet juices slide down his throat. “Ya like this?” Stretching you out on his tongue, thrusting in and out of your sloppy hole. Over and over- “Like when I tonguefuck your pretty pussy?”

“Ngh- love it- s’good. Ah fillin’ me up s’good.” you squeal, bucking your hips desperately into his pretty face, broken little whimpers leaving you at each rough push of Satoru’s tongue. 

And oh Satoru thinks he wouldn’t mind being on his knees every day if it meant he got to taste you like this. “Tell the camera too, sweetheart. Practice how you’ll come around my tongue.”

Those words send a jolt up your spine - or maybe it was the way Satoru was sucking harshly on your clit. “F-fuck off.”

“Mhmmm, n’ this is why I’m the better actor..”

Ugh, this fucker. And with that you fight to turn your head - looking right in the camera. Feeling so fucking lewd as you let out such pornographic moans.

“Yeah- feel s’good.” you whimper, “Wanted this for so long, ever since I first saw- ngh- you-”

And shit were you so fucking evil - at least warn a guy! Because that has Satoru’s heart lurching, almost jumping up from between your legs before it hits him with a pang - ah, right, you were just quoting your character’s lines. Of course.

Well, two can play that game.

“Yeah?” he mutters into your folds. Two fingers plunging knuckle-deep in your pussy, massaging your plushy walls. Roaming around for that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so deliciously. “Can’t believe I waited s’fucking long. Y’know how hard it was to hold back? With you wearing all those slutty skirts f’me?”

Your body is jerking violently, both at his - practiced - words, and the way he was devouring you like you were his favorite meal. His favorite taste.

So eager and in-character with the way he was setting such a dizzying pace on your poor cunt. Slick trailing down from his fingers, all the way to his wrist. So sloppy and- Pressing down. Hard. “Found it.”

And you can only sit there and take it, such cute little whines of Satoru’s name leaving you as he leaves no mercy. Jaw grinding deeper and deeper, maddening. Aching as he rolls and swirls his tongue against your clit over and over. And you were so-

“Close?” Satoru’s grunting and smacking his lips against your own. Truthfully, he didn’t even have to ask - if the way you were trembling and squeezing so fucking tightly around him was anything to go by. “Go on darling. scream my name. Show off f’the camera like you do best.”

“Sh-shit. Toru- fuck yes-” you’ve got an iron-tight grip on his hair now, pulling and angling him as you pleased for more. Barely able to let out those strained lil’ moans, definitely not with the way he’s dragging your sloppy pussy all over his face. Fingers cramping up from how rough he was going - but still not stopping. 

“Go on. Cum f’me.”

And then you are. Letting out such a teary, strangled moan of Satoru’s name as you cum all over his face. 

And it’s not just for the camera either - because this orgasm is probably the best one you’ve had in a while. So hard that you don’t even realize you’re arching and rocking your hips into Satoru, white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, blood roaring in your ears. Using him. 

And he doesn’t stop you. Why would he? You were so pretty falling apart all because of him. He wishes he could see this more often…

“S-Satoru.” you mewl, overstimulated. Jolting with each flick of his tongue, trying to close your legs but you can’t - he won’t let you. Greedily lapping up all your sweet juices, everything that you give him. 

“Nope.” he drawls, finally pulling away, delicate strings of your slick snapping as he does. Looking so fucking drunk off of you that it makes your cunt quiver exhaustedly. “C’mon now, sweetheart, you were s’pposed to say my character’s name. S’how the scene goes.”

Oh. Shit, you got too caught up. But one look at Satoru - eyes half-lidded, hair disheveled, your juices glistening all over the bottom half of his face so prettily - tells you he was much the same. 

“Well…” you huff, voice shot. “According to the script you were supposed to stuff that-” pointedly eyeing the achingly hard cock straining his pants, “-in my mouth first before eating me out. So here we are.”

With a chuckle, he rises slowly. “Touché.” Looking you straight in the eyes - and probably into your very soul - as he pops his fingers into his mouth. One by one. Groaning at the taste of your sweet sweet juices while he sucks them clean. “But I don’t think I’d last one second with those pretty lips wrapped around my cock.”

And it almost makes you want to tease him for it - one of Hollywood’s biggest It Boys but you can’t handle a lil’ blowjob? But all of that gets stuck in your throat as Satoru starts peeling off his shirt ever-so-slowly. 

Shit, you think. All mouthwatering curves and dips, all the way from his toned, milky shoulders down, down, down to those neat tufts of white peeking out from the hem of his underwear. Sculpted like he was handcrafted so meticulously - a fucking masterpiece, you had to admit. 

One that made you wish you took a longer look at all those shirtless magazine covers instead of throwing them out. One that had your thighs squeezing in such anticipation.

And Satoru seemed to be admiring you just the same, eyes locked on your pussy, the way it glistens and clenches around nothing - so ready for him. Distinctly aware of how pathetically needy you were being in front of the blinking camera, you crane your head to glance at it. Was it really capturing-

“Now now, first rule is to never look at the camera during this scene.” Only for Satoru to squish your cheeks together, forcing you into an embarrassing little pout as he turns you back to face him. “Look at me.”

And oh you can’t not look at him. 

Especially when he tugs his pants down, just enough that his throbbing cock springs out, so fucking long and pretty. Smearing glossy precum all over his abs, flushed your favorite shade of pink, rock-hard and so so angry. Shit, he was so hard it looked like it hurt. 

“Satoru…” you breathe, legs wrapping around his slutty waist to pull him closer. Only needier despite that little nagging voice wondering how the fuck you’d take his sheer size.

“Sweetheart?”

“I remember he didn’t do a lot of waiting in the script.”

And God were you right - but Satoru doesn’t think he could’ve kept this act of restraint up any longer even if you weren’t. Too impatient, too starved, his sanity dancing away from him with each second his fat cock wasn’t stuffed inside your pretty cunt. 

“Mhm.” he purrs, one hand reaching down to drag his fat head up and down your slit. Heavy balls squeezing painfully at the way your lip wobbles in frustration. Up and down up and up and- “You’re right.”

And then it’s like something snaps.

Because it only takes a split-second for Satoru to start splitting you apart on his massive cock. Big fat tears pricking at your eyes at the feeling that he was pushing all the way into your lungs. 

“Sh-shit, s’fuckin’ tight-” he lets out a low grunt at the slight resistance, taking everything in him to not just fuck into your snug pussy and use you like his little plaything. “You gotta hah- relax, pretty girl.”

You needed to relax more - to breathe maybe, just something. You weren’t even in the right state to wonder whether that little nickname was in the script - and God was Satoru thankful for that. Because all you can think of is how you never imagined what the bane of your existence would look with his cock stuffed in your dripping cunt - but now that you’ve seen it, you think you’ll imagine it for many lonely nights to come. 

“Hey, now. Don’t get camera-shy just yet.” Satoru gives your ass a playful smack. “After all, this is only the best- part-”

Each word is punctuated with shallow, mindless little thrust to fit himself inside your dripping pussy. Such cute lil’ whines leaving your swollen lips that he really can’t help but tease you a bit. Leering down at your fucked-out face with a smirk, “Or- my bad. Forgot such a scene would be hard for a rookie.”

Oh, did he know how to press your buttons just right. 

Because immediately, you’re blinking away the delirious haze in your eyes, voice so adorably shaky - but determined - as you grit out, “Bring it on, you B-list wonder.”

That’s all that has to be said before he’s finally bottoming out inside you, mercilessly. Inch by fucking inch. You gasp as his twitching balls smack your ass so lewdly, feeling his veins beat in such a slutty lil’ thump! thump! thump! against your heavenly walls. 

“T-Toru- big- ngh- too fuckin’ big. M’gonna break mpf-” his lips claim yours. Partially because it’s been way too long since he’s kissed your pretty lips, and partially because Satoru might just cum right then and there if he let you run your mouth. 

So he lets his hips do the talking instead. 

Cooing into your mouth at each little ah! ah! ah! every time he stuffed you full of his dick, quick, experimental thrusts to try and find that one spot he knows will have you falling apart so prettily.

“Sounds so beautiful, sweetheart.” rocking his hips faster into yours. So hard you were sure he’d leave marks. “No camera in the world can pick up how fuckin’ perfect ya are. Can’t ngh- pick up those cockdrunk lil’ heart eyes.” Angling your chin just so that your sinful expression is caught on camera, “Shit do ya even know you’re doing those? Might just make me lose it for real tomorrow. Might just make me sneak you off to the dressing rooms n’-” Manicured fingers digging into your hips while he fucks you in jagged, purposeful strokes. Hitting that one spot. Hard. “Fuck you all over again.”

You flinch as he uses you like some object. Dangerously liking it more and more as he smugly hits that magical spot over and over- 

And it was so sloppy - so filthy with the way Satoru still had remnants of your slick all over his lips, matching the way you were soaking his cock. Fingers moving down to draw erratic little patterns on your clit, making it even messier. 

Close - too close. 

So, so desperate and debauched.

“C’mon. Show the camera. Tell the camera how much you love it.” 

“Ngh- f-fuck you.”

“Oh? Who’s fucking who now?” he’s laughing at your absolutely wrecked state. You can feel Satoru twitch inside you as you mumble out such delirious little praises to the camera - were they coherent sentences? You’ll never know, because the next words that fall from his lips have your mind reeling. 

“God, m’addicted to you, my girl.”

“That’s not- ah- in the script, Toru.” you hiss. Close. 

“I know. And neither is that.” he leaves such uncharacteristically gentle kisses down your neck. Miles away from the relentless place on your poor, abused pussy, fucking you deeper and rougher every time despite already bottoming out. “Does it have to be?”

“Th-that doesn’t ngh- make sense.” you gasp into his open mouth. 

“Doesn’t have to.”

Maybe it’s the way Satoru’s panting those words against your lips. Or maybe it’s the way he’s looking right in your eyes while he says them - like it would kill him to pull away. Maybe even that fleeting little kiss he leaves against your lips. 

Because before you know it, you’re cumming and cumming so hard that you wonder whether you’d make it out alive. The only thing you can do is throw your head back and take it, thighs quivering, Satoru’s names spilling from your lips in such broken little whines while he thrusts so sloppy. Once. Twice. 

“Ah- this is gonna have me fallin’, huh?” And then he’s letting out such a low, muffled moan of your name, filling you up with rope after rope of his cum. 

What? 

It’s so messy - his cum overfilling your poor pussy, spilling out and coating his twitching balls. Shit, you can’t even worry about whether it would stain that overpriced couch below you. Not when Satoru’s whispering out sweet- lines from the script?

“Fuckin’ beautiful underneath me. Always was.” Hips still fucking into you - not even thinking at this point. “Always will be. Such a vision onscreen, sweetheart.” So thick and hot, and dribbling all the way down your legs with every movement.

And then Satoru’s lips are finding yours again, tasting so unfairly sweet while he drinks in all your cute breathless gasps. “Such a vision f’me.”

Those weren’t from the script either.

Something soft. Something scary. Something that has you looping your legs tighter around his waist, letting him collapse onto you. Pulling him closer, in fact, because now that you know the weight of his body on yours, it just felt so right.

It takes a moment of silence for you two to catch your breaths, the still rolling camera being the last thing on your minds. Neither willing to speak first, because shit Satoru might’ve gone to countless red carpets and film sets but this - you are what strips him away from all the glamor and fame. Until he was just, well, embarrassingly Satoru.

The Satoru that was now shifting shyly in your arms, trying to get up. “Uh- Hell of a way to run lines, huh? Better check the camera n’ see where to impro-”

He might be one of the biggest actors in modern Hollywood, but Satoru didn’t fool you - not one bit. So without a word, you’re tugging him back to rest against you. Heart lurching just a little bit as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. Like a little hideaway - from the camera, from the world, hell, maybe even from you.

“Y’know,” he flinches ever-so-slightly at your teasing tone, giving you a playful bite. “I have one area of suggestion and it might just be that you’re too good at ‘running lines’.”

“...Good enough to win those five Oscars?”

“No.”

“Then guess I better prove it to ya, huh? Is the camera still on, sweetheart?”

Just then, some weird little part of you thinks that, hell, maybe you don’t hate Gojo Satoru after all.

Not anymore, at least. 

---

The Enemies-To-Lovers Trope of The Century?! Hollywood’s Biggest Rivals Sport Matching Hickeys (And Smiles) On-Set of Upcoming Film.

Oops! Gojo Satoru's Phone Wallpaper Accidentally Exposed: Surprise, Surprise It’s His Leading Lady! More on Page 6.

“No Comment. Though, I Have Moved Trailers. Twice.” Anonymous Manager Speaks on Latest Movie Rumors.

Director Is All Smiles As He Raves About Upcoming Romance Movie. “Hell, If I Didn’t Know Any Better I’d Say They Were Really-”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

in his corner

words: 2.7k

warnings: 18+ only, smut, boxer!rafe, established relationship, p in v sex, semi public sex, violence but not in great detail, unprotected sex, mentions of rafes anger issues

rafes head is down as you step into the locker room. it's dark and gloomy, no need for bright lights that just illuminate the blood and grime more.

the fleeting sunlight peeking in through the windows only casts light upon the dust floating in the room as you close the door behind you, causing rafe to finally look up.

his eyes shift from pure focus to something softer. “hey.” his voice is still low, slightly hoarse from not speaking most of the day.

“hey.” you move the rest of the way into the room, your footsteps sounding thunderous in the silence that always cloaks the gym before a fight, especially one like this.

“ill be safe.” you see a hint of humor in his eyes now as you roll yours. you always tell rafe to stay safe before a fight, it's become such an expectation that he beats you to it.

“do you have your gloves?” you ask, looking towards his gym bag, wanting to rifle through it to make sure rafe has everything he needs, even though you packed it for him.

“of course.” rafe smiles, wrapping his hands around the back of your thighs and pulling you closer into him, his forehead pressing against your stomach.

“you're nervous for this one.” rafe states. he doesn't need to ask, he can tell just by your energy, the way your breathing is more frantic, your eyes opened ever so slightly wider than normal.

“im not the one in the ring.” you hum, hand coming to the back of his neck, stroking over his hairline, taming it despite knowing it's only a few minutes before it's going to get messed up again, either by rafe rubbing at it or the opponent.

“i know.” rafe looks up at you, a soft smile on his face. “but ya love me.”

“mmm, unfortunately.” you joke, a smile flashing across your lips before you drop your head to press your mouths against rafe, the kiss hungry and desperate, knowing it may be your last for a while if rafe gets his lip busted open.

“okay-” rafe sighs, pulling away, restraint in his voice as his insides call to continue kissing you. “it's almost time. love you.”

“love you too.” you back away but keep your eyes locked with rafe until your back is pressed up against the door. “win for me.”

you step out, eyes flickering around his team, waiting in the hallway for you, knowing better than to interrupt your moment with rafe.

“he's ready.” you nod to rafes coach before ducking out of the way as they file into the locker room.

you can hear the noise of the crowd grow as you walk into the arena, rows of seats all facing towards the central octagon. none of the security stops you to ask for a ticket as you walk to the front, rafe has become a headliner at the boxing gym, and you a vip along with it.

you take your seat, a coveted one, right in rafes corner. you know he has supporters, and while you appreciate most of them, the female ones who fawn over him anger you every time they shout his name or try to give him their number, but his quick shut down of advances always washes away the brief resentment.

“hey y/n.” rafes coaches brother, lewis, sits next to you, your de facto personal bodyguard. you insisted you didn't need someone looking over you, but rafe was always worried about a fight starting in the crowd. it certainly wouldn't be the first one that has broken out at a boxing gym.

“hi lewis.” you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and lean back in your seat as the prematch comes out, beginner fighters to keep all the early attendees from getting impatient while the crowd grows and seats fill.

overall, it's a professional arena. not on a pro level by any standards, but the best you can get in the area without making boxing full time. it certainly puts the smaller gyms rafe started out in to shame.

you were the one who originally suggested it. any sort of contact sport to work through some of his anger. you saw it bubbling under the surface, and you knew rafe would never do anything in your presence, even if he wanted to scream and punch a wall, he'd bottle it all in just to not scare you.

you clap as the first round comes to an end, ever the good supporter and attendee. it's part of the reason the gym likes rafe so much, he's no fuss, no personal drama, just pure fighting.

there's more rounds as you wait to see rafe, the rest of the seats being filled along with standing room in the back for anyone getting in late. 

a new referee steps into the ring, a professional with years of experience who doesn't bother with the lower level fights, saving himself for the main event. 

you sit up a little straighter in your seat as your eyes move to the door, a smile stretching over your cheeks as rafe steps out to applause and the thumbing base of a rap song. you applaud as well, keeping your eyes on rafe despite knowing he won't look at you, not until he gets in the ring, some sort of superstition that he's developed as he keeps his head down.

the other fighter comes out to the booming announcement of their name, a silly nickname you immediately disregard. clearly someone trying to rise the ranks and become a well known name, but you can tell just by his stature that rafe will take him down.

you breathe a little sigh of relief as rafe climbs into the ring and looks over to you, a slight smirk you're sure only you can see. he knows just as well as you do that this will be an easy day.

the official facilitates the handshake between the opponents before they're back to their corners to tape wrists and put on gloves, getting everything prepared. you keep your eyes on rafe, of course, taking in his every movement.

you feel a stirring in your stomach as he stands, tank top stretched tight across his body while his shorts are looser, allowing him to move easily around the ring.

you hear a woop coming from the back but know better than to divert your attention, rafe surging forward right when the official starts the round. he wastes no time throwing quick punches before defending, stepping to the side to miss the opponents swipes.

rafe lands a few more blows, but you don't cheer yet. you've made the mistake before of thinking he's in the clear too early.

the movement of rafes body is almost a dance, one driven by passion. his biceps bulge with every punch, swear gathering on his chest, making your mouth water as you watch.

the officials whistle to end the round makes you jump, too wrapped up in rafes looks to pay attention to the fight like you know you should.

you really do try to shift your attention back, but as the next round starts, you're quickly drawn back to watching rafes body and smooth movements. 

every punch he throws makes your legs tighten further, hoping the pressing of your thighs offers you some sort of relief, but any comfort is fleeting.

your body responds for you when the fight comes to end, rising to your feet and clapping as you snap back to attention. rafe of course wins, the opponent not even getting a punch to his face other than a brief touch on his jaw that didn't even knock his mouthguard.

“i knew you'd win.” you smile and step forward as rafe comes to the ropes, leaning over to press his lips against yours.

“let me talk to the team and shower then we'll get out of here, yeah?” rafe kisses you again before leaning in to whisper into your ear. “i can tell you're turned on.”

--

“how'd you know?” you question as rafe shifts the car into drive, his free hand immediately coming to your thigh as he pulls out of the parking spot and onto the road.

“that you were- are turned on?” rafe smirks, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead. “you get a look in your eyes, baby. and i can tell you want me.”

“and i have that look right now?” you hum out, turning the volume up on the radio slightly as the kid cudi song comes on.

“mhm. and it'll only intensify when i do this-” rafes hand slides upwards between your thighs. you quickly part them for him, letting out a soft moan as his fingers rub right where he knows you like it best.

“shit.” you lean back into the seat, trying to keep yourself from jumping over the center console and pouncing on rafe instantly. you pray you don't hit traffic as he presses harder on the gas pedal, ready to get home as well.

“you looked so pretty tonight cheering me on baby.” rafe pushes his fingers harder against your pants, creating tight circles. “even if you were spaced out the entire time.”

“mhm.” you hum, not even truly listening to what rafe is saying, just enjoying the tambor of his voice and the feeling growing in your stomach.

you know when rafe laughs that it's at you and your current state, but you've done far too much and been with him far too long to be embarrassed or ashamed by your lust as you let out another moan.

your eyes are glossy as you turn to look at rafe, hand gripping the wheel tightly with a clear tent in his sweatpants. you blink a few times to clear your vision as you take in his hard set jaw, tension building as he is forced to wait to get inside you.

you reach over to place your hand on rafes crotch, hoping the pressure of your hand sustains him a little longer.

“it's taking everything in me not to pull over and fuck you here in the car.” rafe says through gritted teeth.

you look out the windshield as rafe moves his hand to grip the steering wheel with both hands, needing it now that you're touching him to keep the vehicle steady. “we're almost home.” you hum out, petting your fingertips over his length, contemplating pushing his pants down and bending over the center console, but your clenching pussy needs him.

rafe pulls into the driveway at speeds he shouldn't be going inside a residential neighborhood, the car calming to a halting stop, and not even a second passes before you're out of your seats and out of the car.

rafe beats you to the front door, throwing it open for you to rush inside, locking it tight after you've entered.

you know you won't make it to the bed. you never do on nights like this. both on a high from rafe winning his fight, an easy opponent with not even a scratch to his knuckles.

rafe presses you against the wall of the hallway, his body molding against yours as his lips smash forward into a passionate kiss. you reach between your bodies immediately, knowing you're already soaking wet and ready from rafe playing with you in the car.

you push down on the hem of rafes sweatpants until rafe moves his hips and allows you to shove them down along with his underwear. 

rafe lets out a sigh as your hand wraps around his length, holding his cock in your grasp as you quickly begin to stroke.

“fuck, baby.” rafe places his fist around your hand. “as much as i love you touching me like this i need to be inside you now.”

there's a desperation in his voice that makes something in your chest tighten.

you nod and release him, undoing your button and zipper to shove your pants to the ground and kick them away. rafe grabs the hem of your tshirt before you can take it off yourself, pulling it up over your head before it also joins the clothes scattered around the foyer.

rafe connects your lips back together, his hands sneaking behind your back to undo your bra before pulling the cups off, large palms quickly replacing them as he holds your breasts, giving them a gentle squeeze that has your mouth falling open in a satisfied sigh.

“bedroom, counter or right here?” rafe asks, pulling on your lip before you can answer and giving it a tug.

“right here.” you reach down and take rafes cock in your hand, giving it a stroke. “right here, right now.”

“mmm, don't have to tell me again.” rafes arms circle around you and pull you up, pinning you against the wall. your body moves so naturally like it's done a hundred times before, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

rafe lines up his cock with your entrance and sinks forward. your arms wrap around his shoulders and pull him in tight, mouth dropping open and eyes squeezing closed as he slowly enters you.

“oh god.” rafe groans, mouth opening as well, but to press his teeth against your skin, biting down gently so as to not actually hurt you, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin.

“fuck me rafe.” your fingertips are digging into his shoulders, trying not to pierce him with your nails as you grip onto his muscles, muscles he just used to pummel his opponent.

“fuck me hard.” you don't often ask for it hard or really give him any direction. rafe knows how to please you, but it's different today. you need his full force, everything he has left in him.

and he doesn't make you wait.

rafe pulls his cock out slowly before slamming in, forcing your ass back into the wall with a thud, your whole body shuddering as he thrusts.

you tighten your arms even more, needing your bodies to become one as he pumps his hips forward, the sound of skin meeting together spreading through the empty house.

tomorrow, you'll clean up the clothes off the floor. tomorrow, you'll make a large breakfast to replenish rafe from his fight and open every window in the house to let in light and air, but tonight, you're going to remain in the dark hallway with your legs wrapped around rafes waist.

“harder.” you beg again, even though you're not sure you can take it.

rafe complies, swinging faster as one of his hands manages to find a way between your bodies, tips of his fingers pressing against your clit. he knows he should fuck you longer, but he can build you up again for the second time in the bedroom, you've teased each other too much and he needs to feel you fall apart in his arms.

“you're so tight and warm.” rafe mumbles, burying his face in your neck as he huffs, absorbing your heart after being apart physically for too long, the cold air of the gym and locker room now being replaced with you.

“i love you.” rafe mumbles, lips against your neck as he presses a few kisses to your throat. “thank you.”

he doesn't need to say what for. you understand. for being with him, for encouraging him to try boxing, for standing by his side and knowing what's best for him even when he didn't know himself.

“i love you.” you moan out, pussy clenching around rafes cock as your high suddenly hits, back arching off the wall in pleasure only to be slammed back against it as rafe pushes as deep as he can go inside of you, the squeezing of your cunt triggering his own high as his cum spurts inside of you.

“f-fuck.” you whine, nails fully leaving marks now as you breathe deeply, chest rising and falling, pressing against rafes with every breath.

“let's go take a bath.” rafe says, his voice suddenly softer, almost like the sex was the last bit of excursion he needed to calm himself after the fight.

“okay.” you can't help but giggle.

despite your agreement, rafe doesn't pull out, his softening cock still inside of you and bodies connected.

“okay.” you repeat, pressing your lips against rafes cheek before resting your head against his, realizing what he needs in that moment. “i love you.”

you stay there, still, for minutes that stretch into what feels like hours, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

“okay.” rafe finally responds, eyes blinking with a new clarity, any sort of anger or frustration he had before the fight now freed from inside him. “bath time, yeah?”

[mondaymelon]

₊⊹ 𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐒 ♡. | genshin!various x gn!reader

「 "𝐚𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐩…"」

— in which you kiss him ... accidentally, and indirectly.

𝐅𝐋𝐔𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃 — kazuha, gaming, FREMINET, THOMA, KAVEH, chongyun, gorou

— "Ah, wrong cup."

It's a warm morning, yet the shade of the light canopy of trees provides ample comfort. At your words, however, the amicable conversation halts. Gingerly, you place his cup back on its saucer, uttering a quiet apology. "Sorry, sorry..."

Ugh, a quiet moment with someone you'd been pining after for ages, and you likely just sabotaged any chance you had. Making someone uncomfortable is surely not a way to have someone fall head over heels for you. You cautiously glanced upwards, catching the sight of... something you didn't expect...!?

He hid in his hand, raised and flush against his face. It was rather insufficient in the whole "hiding" department, however, for you could still clearly see the fluster on his features and the red cast across the tips of his ears. Just above the cover of his fingers were his eyes, hurriedly averted from yours. His mouth was slightly ajar, but in the moments that passed, his lips moved to form whispers you couldn't quite catch.

You stood, frantic. Really, every one of your plans was going awry. "I'm sorry! I, I'll go get you a new cup-"

"He caught his hand in his before you could fully depart, clutching it tightly. His usually cool skin was warm. "N, No, I- It's fine..."

He watched your face brighten with relief as you sat back down, completely cheery again, and released a breath quietly.

Ah, how was he supposed to tell you that the mere sight of your lips touching where he had put his made his heart skip a beat?

— It simply wasn't fair.

𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 — HEIZOU, KAEYA, CHILDE, venti, ayato, LYNEY

— "Wait, let me try..."

Word had gotten around of a new drink, supposedly "the best in all of teyvat"... naturally, that called for a timely visit. It didn't exactly matter who you went with, though who were you fooling, it did, and he'd been the first one that came to mind when you were drafting a letter. Now, he stood by your side, leisurely swinging his arms while he walked and smiling smugly.

The reason? The moment you reached into your pocket to fish out your wallet to pay the fee for two drinks, you'd found your pockets empty, and that's where he had swooped in, graciously handing over his mora instead. The moment the two of you exited the vicinity of the drink stall, however, he somehow materialized your wallet once more and placed it in your hands with a cat-like grin. That little... you'd be sure to treat him to a meal sometime soon, a favor like that couldn't just be gone unpaid.

...That, and it was a convenient excuse to spend another outing with him.

"Hey, you got the limited edition flavor? C'mon, give me just a sip..." You beamed when he handed said drink down towards you, taking a sip from his straw — until you realized just what you'd done, of course.

It wasn't like it was something dire, not by any means. You were rather the romantic, and the fact that... well, hadn't the two of you just kissed indirectly?

You didn't voice your thoughts, only meekly retreated after handing the bottle back to him, growing even more flustered when your fingers brushed against his in the process. He seemed to hear them, however, and a smirk made its way onto his lips.

"Oh, don't tell me you were aiming for an indirect kiss all along?"

"W- No!" Ugh, that twinkle in his eyes was dangerous. It's easy to see that he doesn't believe you in the slightest. Yet, before you can dispense another rebuttal, he reaches a hand up to your hair and makes a mess of it.

— "Aha, who knew you were so sly~"

𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓 — alhaitham, XIAO, albedo, diluc, neuvillette

— "Is something wrong?"

Well, not exactly "wrong", per se. Instead, there was definitely something wrong with you in particular.

The situation started off like any other would. You found the man in his usual place, and greeted him with a smile, to which he nodded in response. He was a busy person, so you'd decided to take the initiative and make him a boxed lunch, only planning to give it to him and then let him carry on with whatever tasks he needed to complete — only... hey, wasn't it too out of character of him to ask you to feed him??

He glanced up at you, his head subconsciously tilting to the side. Just with that simple movement, a figurative arrow struck your heart. "If it's too much trouble, nevermind-"

You awkwardly coughed into your fist, trying to disperse any awfully hopeful thoughts of "hey, isn't this so romantic!?" in your head — yearning for him was one thing, but projecting your imagination of him would be another entirely. "No, it's fine- I was just caught off guard, is all..." At this point, you were more so convincing yourself than him. You dipped your head in a nod to yourself. Of course, he was so swamped with duties that he couldn't spare the time to feed himself, that was the case, wasn't it?

"Here, open wide..." You took a portion of the food and lifted it up to his lips, and he ate it agreeably. Hamster. He's like a hamster, a thought you really shouldn't be having considering how his disposition was, but seeing him swiftly chewing the portion in his cheeks... you cleared your throat, only to flinch with a start upon realizing he'd taken the utensils from you. Now, he held some of the lunch up to you, gesturing it to your mouth.

"Eh, but this is for you-" You declined, yet the insistence in his gaze only grew.

"You brought it for me, so you should have some as well."

"Well... alright," not willing to bother with an argument you were not likely to win, you ate what he hovered before you gratefully, trying to ignore the way he was staring at you as you ate.

W, Wait, hold on, isn't that the same cutlery he used-

"Your face is red. Did you choke? Here, let me-"

"No, it's just that- we, just now- ah, it's nothing."

— "Mhm."

( a/n ) new post format and its silly ( i hate everything about this ) :stareyes: ahahah anyways. trying to revive myself so. you guys get ( poorly cooked ) food :>

𝐭 𝐚 𝐠 𝐥 𝐢 𝐬 𝐭 : @manager-of-the-pudding-bank, @iamdedinside, @ilyuu, @falors, @swivy123, @scara-is-my-wife, @lupicalbestwolf, @justyoureader,@fiannee, @aether-darling, @ceneid, @avensuersa, @solxima, @sangoqueenkoko, @haliyamori ...

[be4chywritez]

sweet like honey | max verstappen

max verstappen x fem!reader

"you're to sweet for me."

Max doesn't like how nice you are towards him.

beachy’s masterlist🐚

prompt list

Max isn't sure why he doesn’t like you. You’ve never wronged him, never talked bad about him, or been rude in any way. But for some odd reason, Max hates you.

Maybe it’s the Verstappen genes kicking in, that innate tendency to be an asshole. Or maybe it’s bred into him to keep sweet things like you at a distance. So, you can imagine his shock and horror when he sees you perched on the couch, flipping through a book in his friend’s Italian villa.

Your eyes meet his, and a smile graces your lips. You place the book in your lap, and he watches as your eyes brighten at the sight of him, the same way they might light up at the sight of a pretty flower.

Your small yellow sundress barely covers your upper thighs, and Max can’t help but stare before quickly looking down at his phone, not wanting to be too obvious about his boyish gawking.

“Max,” you say softly, your voice warm and rich like honey, drawing his attention whether he wants it or not.

He hears you, of course, but pretends to focus on his phone. His thumb moves slowly over the screen, though nothing he sees holds his interest. It’s the way you say his name that sticks in his mind, making it impossible to ignore.

“It’s nice to see you,” you continue, your tone sincere as if you mean it more than you should. You settle back into the cushions, your dress slipping a little higher on your thighs, and he catches himself glancing before looking away again.

Max lets out a quiet huff, his eyes still fixed on his phone, but his attention is all on you now. “Didn’t know you’d be here,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, almost guarded.

You shift, crossing your legs under you, the air feeling warmer, closer. “A surprise, I guess,” you reply, a faint smile tugging at your lips, the kind that lingers, soft and effortless.

Max clenches his jaw, forcing himself to look back at his phone. Still, he’s hyper-aware of your presence, of the subtle scent of your perfume lingering in the room. He swallows hard, trying to steady himself, even as his chest tightens.

“Yeah,” he mutters, almost under his breath, like he’s afraid to say anything else, and you let the moment settle, content with the quiet between you.

Just then, his best friend Jamie stumbles in, holding a glass of chardonnay. “Maxie,” he coos, squishing Max’s cheeks together, making his lips pucker. Close behind comes your best friend, Mila—Jamie’s girlfriend.

A few others join the group, a mix of Jamie and Mila’s friends, and Max’s brow furrows as he realizes that they’re all couples. He internally groans, watching your eyes flit around like a lost puppy.

“Alright, everyone,” Mila announces with a clap of her hands, “time to head up. We’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow.”

One by one, the group starts dispersing, grabbing their things and heading upstairs. Max lingers, scrolling aimlessly through his phone, but he’s acutely aware of you standing up from the couch, smoothing down the hem of your dress.

You move with an easy grace, slipping past him with a soft, “Goodnight, Max.” There’s no sarcasm, no bite—just genuine kindness that he doesn’t understand. You flash him a small smile before heading toward the stairs.

Max’s jaw tightens as he watches you go. You’re far too calm, far too kind for his liking. It makes him uncomfortable, like you’re holding a mirror up to the way he behaves, forcing him to see the stark contrast between you.

He takes a deep breath, tucking his phone into his pocket, and follows behind the group. The villa is beautiful, the soft glow of the lights casting long shadows across the walls as everyone makes their way to their respective rooms. His room is at the far end of the hall, and as he reaches it, he notices you standing just outside the door next to his.

“Looks like we’re neighbors,” you say lightly, your voice warm and soft. You hold your toothbrush and a towel, your yellow sundress replaced by pale pink silky pajamas, and there’s something almost disarming about how comfortable you seem.

Max nods, his expression neutral. “Yeah.”

You don’t push the conversation, only smile again as you step into your room. “Sleep well, Max,” you say over your shoulder, as if you mean it.

He huffs quietly, more out of habit than frustration, and slips into his own room. The door closes with a soft click, and he leans back against it, rubbing a hand over his face.

For a moment, he stands there, in the silence of the room, staring at nothing in particular. He doesn’t know why your kindness unsettles him so much. It’s not like you’ve done anything wrong, but that’s exactly the problem. You’re too nice. Too understanding. And for some reason, it gets under his skin.

Max changes into a T-shirt and shorts, moving about the room on autopilot. He keeps hearing your voice, soft and sweet, lingering in his thoughts.

Finally, he pulls back the covers and slides into bed, trying to shut everything out. But it’s quiet now—too quiet. And even though you’re just on the other side of the wall, he can’t stop thinking about you.

In the middle of the night, he’s still awake, tossing and turning, when there’s a soft knock on his door. Max sits up, frowning slightly, wondering who it could be at this hour.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed and pads across the room, opening the door just a crack. It’s you, standing there, a little sheepish, your arms crossed lightly over your chest.

“Sorry,” you whisper, barely audible, “I didn’t mean to bother you. It’s just… my room's really hot. I think the AC is broken.”

Max blinks, unsure of what to say at first. Part of him wants to tell you to deal with it yourself, but another part of him can’t ignore it.

His eyes linger on you more than he’d admit—your hair sticking to your neck from sweat, your cheeks flushed, and you nibble your lip nervously. Your tank top has ridden up, a sliver of your hip exposed, and Max does everything in his power to push those thoughts away.

“Uh… you could just crack open a window,” he suggests, his voice a bit rough from sleep. He knows the words sound hollow even to him. He doesn’t want you in his space, yet part of him doesn’t want you sweating alone either.

You fidget slightly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “I tried, but it didn’t help. I just thought… maybe I could crash in here?” The words hang in the air, hopeful yet tentative.

Max’s heart races at the idea. The prospect of sharing the bed makes his palms sweat. It’s one thing to be in the same room, but sharing a bed? He hesitates, biting the inside of his cheek as he weighs his options.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but there’s a hint of something deeper in his tone. The image of you curled up beside him—too close for comfort—sends a shiver down his spine.

“Yeah, no, you’re right,” you offer a nervous smile, clearly not wanting to invade his space, so you back away, ducking into your room. He watches you until the door is shut behind you.

Max stands in the doorway, his heart racing as he processes the moment. He’s not sure why he feels such a strong urge to call you back, to insist that it’s okay, but the words remain stuck in his throat. He runs a hand through his hair, feeling a mix of irritation and something else—something he’s not ready to name.

As he paces back to his bed, he tries to shake off the lingering image of you standing there, your flushed cheeks and nervous smile. He lies down again, staring at the ceiling, trying to focus on anything but the fact that you’re just a wall away.

A few moments pass before he hears a soft, muffled noise from your room—a sniffle, maybe? It makes his chest tighten at the thought of you crying because you're uncomfortable.

“Damn it,” he mutters to himself, tossing an arm over his eyes. He’s not going to sleep if he keeps thinking about you like this.

After what feels like an eternity of tossing and turning, he finally sits up, his decision made. He stands up, his heart pounding in his chest, and makes his way to your door. He raises his hand to knock but hesitates, uncertainty flooding in.

“Why the hell am I doing this?” he mutters, his self-doubt creeping back in. But the thought of you feeling uncomfortable alone is enough to push him through. He knocks softly, the sound barely more than a tap.

“Hey,” you call from inside, and he can hear the surprise in your voice. “Is everything okay?”

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, his voice worse than he intended. “I… just thought maybe you could come back. It’s probably not that hot here.”

There’s a brief silence, and he can imagine the look on your face—surprised and perhaps a little hopeful. “Really?” you ask, and he can’t help the slight smile tugging at his lips despite himself.

The door swings open, revealing you still in your silk-clad pajamas. He rips his gaze away, feeling a tightness in his throat. He doesn't utter a word, just turns around, walking to his room. He can hear your feet padding behind him, and you close the door behind the both of you.

Max keeps his back to you as you quietly follow him into the room, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The air feels heavier now, thick with unspoken tension as you stand there in the dim light, waiting for him to say something. But Max doesn’t. Instead, he heads straight for the bed, pulling back the covers on one side, his movements stiff and a little too deliberate.

“You can take the right side,” he mutters, not looking at you, as he slides under the covers on the left. His heart is pounding, though he tries to act like everything is fine.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to thank him or just keep quiet. Deciding not to push it, you simply nod, even though he isn’t looking at you. You cross the room and slip into the bed beside him, careful not to make any sudden movements.

The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he can feel the same tension thrumming between you that you do. The bed feels impossibly small now, the space between you a thin sliver of air that crackles with awkwardness.

You lie still, facing away from him, but you can feel his presence—so close and yet so distant. The sound of his steady breathing fills the room, and you wonder if he’s doing the same as you, staring at the ceiling, trying to will himself to sleep.

Minutes stretch on, and the silence between you is deafening. Every creak of the bed, every shift in the sheets seems louder in the stillness of the night. You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice so soft it barely breaks the silence. You don’t expect a reply, and for a few moments, there’s nothing but the sound of your own breathing.

Then, finally, Max shifts slightly beside you. “Yeah, whatever,” he grumbles, his voice low and rough, but there’s something different in it now. Something that isn’t as cold as before.

You can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips. Maybe he isn’t as indifferent as he wants you to think. You curl up a little more, trying to make yourself comfortable, even as the tension lingers in the air between you.

As the night drags on, you begin to drift in and out of sleep. The heat from the earlier part of the night is gone now, replaced by a cooler breeze that drifts in through the open window. The sheets are soft, and for the first time since you entered Max’s room, you start to relax.

Just as you’re on the edge of sleep, you feel something shift again. Max turns slightly, the mattress dipping as he moves closer—just barely, but enough for you to notice. His arm brushes against yours, and the warmth of his skin sends a small jolt through you.

You stay perfectly still, wondering if he did it on purpose or if he’s just restless. Either way, you don’t move, afraid to disturb the delicate balance between you.

Your mind races—what if you roll over onto him in your sleep? What if you start snoring?—and the nerves bubble up, spilling out before you can stop yourself.

“So… I haven’t slept in a guy’s bed in ages,” you blurt out, staring at the ceiling. Max barely reacts, his only acknowledgment a low, noncommittal “Mhm,” but it doesn’t stop you from talking.

“Yeah, it’s been, like… a long time. I’m more of a 'sleep with a thousand pillows' kind of person, you know? Gotta have the right setup.” You laugh a little, mostly to yourself, feeling the need to fill the quiet. Max doesn’t respond, but you keep going, too nervous to stop. “Oh, and I’m really bad with directions, like, I get lost in grocery stores. Once, I ended up in the freezer aisle for thirty minutes just trying to find the cereal.”

“Mhm.”

His replies are half-hearted at best, but you don’t mind. If anything, the sound of his quiet indifference weirdly helps soothe your nerves.

“Oh! And I can’t swim,” you say with a laugh, thinking it’s just another random fact to throw out there. But this time, Max’s head snaps toward you.

“You came to the amalfi coast, and you can’t swim?” he asks, his voice sharper than before, with a hint of amusement. His eyes narrow slightly, and you can’t help but grin.

“Yeah,” you reply, shrugging like it’s no big deal. “Figured I’d just, you know… stay on the shore.”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “That’s stupid.”

“Maybe,” you say, laughing softly, your nerves easing a bit. “But I’m good at other things. Like… did you know I can recite the entire script of Finding Nemo? Well, mostly.”

Max rolls his eyes, but there’s a hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Great skill.”

You keep talking, the words flowing easier now. Your voice fills the room, soft and rhythmic, and even though Max doesn’t say much, you can feel the tension in the air start to shift. His body relaxes slightly, the space between you feeling a little less awkward.

“And another thing, I’m a terrible cook. Burnt spaghetti once. Didn’t even think that was possible. It’s water and noodles, right?” You laugh again, and this time Max lets out a quiet huff—almost like a chuckle, though he’d never admit it.

Your voice is like a steady hum, lulling the room into a gentle calm. You talk about everything and nothing, the words spilling out in a quiet stream. Max listens, his responses becoming softer, almost inaudible, but it doesn’t matter. His breathing slows, his eyes fluttering shut as your voice washes over him.

You don’t notice when he finally drifts off, his chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm. But somehow, you feel it—the way the energy in the room has shifted, his earlier sharpness melted away into something softer, more relaxed.

The next morning, sunlight spills through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You stir first, the warmth of the bed enveloping you, your body reluctant to wake. For a moment, you forget where you are, and then it hits you—Max’s bed, Max’s room. You blink your eyes open slowly, turning your head slightly to see him still there, asleep.

He’s lying on his back now, the sheets tangled around his waist, his chest rising and falling with each slow breath. His face is serene, the harsh lines you’ve come to associate with him softened by sleep. His hair is slightly tousled, giving him an almost boyish look, something so different from the hard-edged man who usually glares at you.

You feel a strange flutter in your chest as you look at him, this version of Max—unguarded, vulnerable. It’s a side of him you never thought you’d see, and it’s almost too intimate, too close. You shift a little, trying not to make any noise, but the bed creaks softly under your weight.

Max stirs, his brows furrowing slightly as he slowly wakes up. His eyes open halfway, still hazy with sleep, and for a brief moment, he looks at you without the usual edge in his gaze. It’s like he’s forgotten for a second who you are, where he is.

Then, reality seems to settle back in, and his eyes narrow ever so slightly, though there’s no real malice there. Just a kind of gruff annoyance.

“Mornin’,” he mutters, his voice rough and low, thick with sleep.

“Good morning,” you reply softly, offering a tentative smile.

He shifts, pushing himself up on his elbows, the sheet falling further down his waist, revealing more of his toned torso. You can’t help but glance, quickly averting your eyes when you realize you’re staring.

Max runs a hand through his messy hair, yawning as he glances at you. “You talk a lot in your sleep too, or is that just when you’re awake?” he asks, a hint of that familiar sarcasm creeping back into his tone, though there’s no real bite behind it.

You chuckle lightly, relaxing a little. “Only when I’m awake, I promise.”

He grunts, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and sitting up. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence between you less awkward than you would’ve expected. It’s almost… comfortable.

Max stretches, his muscles flexing slightly as he does, and you try not to let your eyes linger too long. You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks, and you’re grateful when he doesn’t seem to notice.

“So,” you say, breaking the silence, “how’d you sleep?”

He glances back at you, his expression unreadable for a moment before he shrugs. “Fine, I guess.” There’s a pause, and then he adds, almost begrudgingly, “Didn’t mind all the talking.”

Your heart skips a beat at that, the small admission catching you off guard. You smile, warmth spreading through you. “Glad to know I didn’t annoy you too much.”

Max doesn’t respond, just grabs his phone from the nightstand and checks the time. But you catch the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips before he turns away.

He stands, pulling on a shirt and running a hand through his hair again before heading toward the door. “We’re leaving for breakfast soon,” he mutters. “Don’t take too long.”

He steps out before poking his head back in his face serious, “Don’t tell anyone about this,” he says gesturing a finger around towards you and him, right asshole Max is alive and well.

“Right.” you deflate, but none the less walk to your room. You notice the AC now works. 

The warmth of the Italian sun is already starting to filter in through your window as you slip into your pale yellow babydoll dress. The soft fabric feels light against your skin, perfect for the warm weather and the laid-back vibes of the villa.

When you finally make your way downstairs, the smell of fresh coffee and pastries fills the air, and you can hear the familiar hum of laughter and chatter. The villa’s terrace is bathed in sunlight, with everyone seated around the large outdoor table, enjoying breakfast. 

Max is already seated, of course, his usual stoic expression in place. He’s leaning back in his chair, sunglasses on, making it impossible to tell if he’s even noticed you. 

An array of colorful fruits and pastries litters the table, couples chatting and laughing as you offer everyone a warm smile while taking a seat next to Mila, who returns the gesture. “How was the room, darling?” she asks, taking a sip of her tea. You can feel a pair of laser beams on your face, as if Max is staring into your soul.

“Oh, it was truly nice,” you reply, feeling the tips of your ears heat up with nerves. Mila seems to buy it and turns to address the entire group.

“So, guys, today we’re going to take the yacht around,” she announces, eliciting a few excited hoots from your friends. Your stomach tightens at the thought of being stuck on a yacht, but you brush the anxiety aside.

As the chatter around the breakfast table grows, the knot in your stomach tightens at the mention of the yacht. You toy with the edge of your napkin, trying to suppress the wave of nerves that accompanies the idea of being out on the water, especially since you can’t swim.

Max, still leaning back in his chair, tilts his head slightly in your direction, as if he senses the unease radiating off you. His sunglasses shield his eyes, but you swear you can feel his gaze tracing over you. A small smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and you can almost hear his voice echoing in your mind: “You came to the Amalfi Coast, and you can’t swim?”

You swallow hard, forcing a smile as you join in on the group's excitement, even though the thought of being surrounded by water sends a shiver down your spine. Mila stands, gathering everyone’s attention, and starts guiding the group toward the dock.

The villa’s outdoor space spills into a sprawling garden, leading to a private path that takes you to where the yacht is docked. The sunlight glints off the water, almost blinding in its brightness, as you walk with the others toward the sleek, luxurious yacht. Everyone seems thrilled—laughing and talking about the views they’ll see—while you stay quieter than usual, taking deep breaths to calm your nerves.

You tug at the sleeves of your oversized polo, the fabric bunching slightly in your grip as you focus on steadying your breath. The path to the dock feels longer than it actually is, the sounds of the group’s lively chatter fading into the background. You glance at the shimmering blue water ahead and bite the inside of your cheek.

Max lingers just a few steps behind, and you can feel the weight of his presence even without looking. His footsteps are slow and deliberate, as if he’s watching you closely, waiting for any sign of weakness. You try not to dwell on it, though the image of him smirking at your fear lingers in the back of your mind.

As the group finally boards the yacht, you become hyper-aware of the water surrounding you. The boat rocks gently as everyone gets settled, and you grip the railing tightly, trying to hide your discomfort. Max watches you for a moment before walking past you, his shoulder brushing lightly against yours.

“Relax,” he mutters under his breath, not even looking at you, but there’s something almost reassuring in his tone. You exhale slowly, forcing yourself to take a seat with the others, letting the warmth of the sun and the sound of conversation distract you from the vast ocean around you.

As the yacht pulls away from the dock, you try to focus on the scenery. The Amalfi Coast is breathtaking—cliffs draped in greenery, colorful villas dotting the shoreline, and the ocean sparkling beneath the golden sunlight. Everyone around you laughs and soaks up the beauty of the day, but your hands remain clenched in your lap, your mind preoccupied with the endless expanse of water.

Despite your nervousness, you find yourself stealing glances at Max. He’s sitting at the back of the yacht, one arm draped casually over the side, sunglasses shielding his eyes as he stares out at the water. He looks so at ease, completely unaffected by the swaying of the boat or the openness of the sea.

The breeze picks up, ruffling your hair, and as you turn your attention back to the group, you feel the yacht slow down. Mila claps her hands, announcing that they’ve anchored near a beautiful cove, perfect for swimming.

Your stomach drops.

Everyone begins shedding layers, excitement buzzing through the group as they prepare to jump into the water. You stay seated, gripping the edge of your chair as they leap overboard, laughter echoing around you.

Max stands, pulling off his shirt and revealing the defined muscles of his back and shoulders. Your eyes linger for a moment longer than you intend. He catches your gaze just before he moves toward the edge of the yacht, that same smirk playing on his lips.

“You coming in?” he asks, his voice low, almost challenging.

You shake your head quickly, offering a small laugh. “No, I think I’ll just… stay here and enjoy the sun.”

Max arches an eyebrow, clearly not buying your excuse, but he doesn’t push it. He gives you one last look, his smirk still in place, before diving effortlessly into the water.

You watch as your friends giggle and enjoy themselves. Mila waves up at you, and you give her a fake salute. She giggles and goes back to swimming. A few minutes later, several members of the group come up to take a break, Max among them. You hate to admit it, but you watch the water droplets roll off him, his cheeks flushed from the sun, and a tight feeling blooms in your core as you force yourself to look away.

The group is lively, and at one point, Jamie, always the instigator, starts playfully shoving friends toward the edge of the boat, teasing and laughing. You stand at the back, watching, hoping to stay out of the chaos.

But in a moment of playful exuberance, Jamie swings his arm and accidentally nudges you forward. Time seems to slow as you lose your balance, and before you can even process what’s happening, you tumble over the side of the yacht. The water crashes around you, and as you hit the surface, the cold rush envelops you, sending panic gripping your chest. Instinctively, you kick your legs, but the water pulls you under, and you flail in confusion. The world above disappears, and the muffled sounds of laughter and splashing fade into silence.

Just as you start to lose hope, a strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back to the surface. You gasp for air, blinking the water from your eyes, and find yourself face-to-face with Max. His expression is intense, irritation etched on his features.

“What the hell were you thinking?” he snaps, though his grip is steady and reassuring as he keeps you afloat.

You can’t help but laugh nervously, trying to shake off the fear. “I didn’t want to go in!” you manage to sputter, still clinging to him for dear life.

Max rolls his eyes, the frown returning, though it’s softer this time. “You need to stop thrashing around,” he says, his voice lower now.

As he helps you back onto the yacht, the warmth of the sun hits your damp skin once more. Laughter and cheers erupt from the group as they realize you’re okay, but Max’s presence is the only thing that matters to you in this moment. He doesn’t say anything; his expression remains unreadable as he sets you down.

You catch your breath, water dripping from your hair and running down your arms. “Thanks, Max,” you say, trying to brush off the embarrassment. His usual smirk is absent, and for a split second, you wonder if maybe—just maybe—he cares.

But as soon as you’re on the boat, he steps back, leaving you with the others. “Try not to drown next time,” he says, his tone flat as he pulls his shirt back on, the fabric clinging to his damp skin. It feels more like a reflex than a genuine jab, but you let it slide, laughing it off. “I’ll try my best.”

He turns away, and you can’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment. You shake your head, trying to focus on the laughter around you as Jamie and Mila check to make sure you’re okay. “Really, I’m fine,” you assure them, even as your heart races from the close call.

Just like that, everyone goes back to normal. Lunch is served, and as the yacht heads back to the dock under the fading light, you’re the first one off, eager to touch solid ground once more. You don’t bid anyone goodnight; you’re all too tired for that. You head upstairs to your room, closing the door behind you and shrugging off your damp polo and swimsuit. You hop in the shower, rinsing the salt water off your skin.

After your shower, the soft sound of knocking pulls you from your thoughts. You wrap yourself in a towel and open the door to find Mila standing there, concern etched across her features.

“Hey, just wanted to check on you,” she says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. Her eyes scan your face, searching for any signs of distress. “That fall looked pretty rough.”

You chuckle softly, waving it off. “I’m fine, really. Just a little embarrassed.”

Mila raises an eyebrow, a sly smile creeping onto her face. “You sure it’s not because of Max? I saw the way he pulled you out of the water. It looked pretty… intimate.”

The mention of Max sends a warmth flooding through you, one that you quickly dismiss. “Oh, please. He was just being a jerk, as usual.”

She smirks, crossing her arms. “Or maybe he just likes the attention.”

“Yeah, right,” you scoff, but a small part of you can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it. “He’s just… Max. You know how he is.”

Mila studies you for a moment, trying to read between the lines. “Well, just think about it. He’s not always the way he acts, you know?”

With that, she leaves, and you find yourself lost in thought, her words echoing in your mind. What if Max really did care?

Later that night, curiosity gets the better of you. You stand in front of Max’s door, your heart racing as you knock softly.

“Come in,” he calls, and you push the door open cautiously. He’s lounging on his bed, scrolling through his phone, and for a moment, you’re struck by how at home he looks.

“Hey,” you say, your voice soft. “I just wanted to thank you… for earlier.”

Max looks up, a flicker of something in his gaze before he masks it with indifference. “You mean for saving your ass?” he quips, his smirk returning. “Don’t mention it.”

You roll your eyes, stepping further into the room. “You know, for someone who supposedly doesn’t care, you sure have a funny way of showing it.”

His expression shifts, annoyance flickering across his features. “What do you want me to do? Throw you a parade for not drowning?”

“Maybe just a little acknowledgment would be nice,” you counter, crossing your arms defensively.

He stands, taking a step closer, and the air between you crackles with tension. “I don’t like how sweet you are,” he says, his tone sharp. “It’s annoying.”

“Annoying?” you challenge, feeling a rush of defiance. “Is that really all you’ve got? Because it sounds like you’re just scared of someone actually caring.”

Max’s eyes darken, and for a moment, you think he might snap back. But instead, he steps even closer, invading your personal space. “You think you’re so great, don’t you? All sunshine and rainbows, but it doesn’t work with me.”

Before you can respond, he closes the distance, and suddenly, his lips are on yours—fervent and demanding. His warmth envelops you, slightly chapped against your own, igniting a spark that sends a thrill coursing through your entire body. You’re caught off guard at first, but your instincts take over, and you melt into the kiss, feeling his hands slide around your waist, pulling you closer.

As the kiss deepens, you wrap your arms around his neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He presses you against the door, his body firm and solid against yours, radiating heat that makes your pulse quicken. The kiss is intoxicating; every second stretches into eternity—his lips moving against yours in a dance that feels both wild and tender.

When you finally pull away, breathless, your heart races as you search his eyes. “Wait… Max—”

He leans in again, his breath mingling with yours, heavy with longing. “You taste sweet,” he murmurs, his voice low and husky, a smirk tugging at his lips.

A rush of warmth floods your cheeks at his words. “Is that all you have to say?” you tease, a smile breaking through your fluster.

Max steps back slightly, his hands still resting on your hips as he watches you intently. “What do you want me to say? That I’m an asshole who can’t help but want you?”

The air between you buzzes with unspoken tension—a mix of frustration and attraction. You feel exhilarated yet confused, unable to ignore the thrill of being this close to him, the chemistry crackling like electricity.

“Maybe you could start by admitting you actually care,” you challenge softly, a playful glint in your eyes.

“Maybe,” he replies, a hint of seriousness in his tone before leaning in again, capturing your lips with his. This time, it’s even more intense; his hands grip your waist as he deepens the kiss, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he can’t get enough of you.

But as the moment stretches on, you pull back slightly, breathless. “Max—”

He leans in again, and you find yourself needing to physically stop him, your hands resting on his chest. “Wait, we can’t just—”

“Why not?” he presses, his voice low and needy, his eyes dark with desire. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while.”

You’re both panting, caught in an electric moment. “You’re infuriating, you know that?” you say, a smile creeping onto your lips despite the chaos swirling around you.

Max smirks, his expression softening just a fraction. “Yeah, but you like it.” He crashes his lips against yours once more, and as he pulls away, he runs his tongue along his lower lip, a boyish smirk breaking through. “Sweet like honey,” he teases, prompting you to laugh and tilt your head back. Without thinking, you pull him down by his shirt collar, kissing him again, lost in the moment.

[juleswritesstuff]

Holy hands, will they make me a sinner ?

You seem to have a little secret. Regulus figures you out immediately.

regulus black x fem!reader

warnings: smut

“If you bore holes in them I won't be able to finish my essay, Y/n” 

His voice brings you back from the apparent state of trance you had unconsciously fallen into. Blinking rapidly, you regain perception of the walls of your dorm room surrounding you and the myriad of books scattered across your bed.  You shift your gaze to his gray eyes and you find them already set on you.

“Pardon ?” your voice has a confused edge that almost makes him chuckle.

“My hands” he explains, his tone as neutral as ever “You were staring”

Your eyes go a little wide, like you had been caught stealing the last chocolate frog of the stash. You swallow, trying to compose yourself as best as you can.

“I was doing no such thing” you declare, a bit too solemn and defensive to be the truth.

Regulus pins you with an unimpressed look, his left brow arching just enough to tell you that he isn't buying any of your bullshit.

A defeated sigh leaves your lips. 

It is no use hiding something from Regulus Black. He will find out one way or another, and you got caught right with your hands in the jar.

“Ok, fine” you admit, lifting your shoulders to make it seem like the most casual thing ever “I was looking at your hands”

Regulus’ expression doesn't change, but the glint of amusement flashing in his eyes doesn't go unnoticed.

“More like ogling, I would say” even his tone has a playful bite to it.

You like this side of him. The Regulus who is able to relax a bit and let go when he is surrounded by the people he is comfortable with.

But carefree Regulus also means menace Regulus apparently.

“I wasn't ogling” you grumble, rolling your eyes “I was just admiring them” 

His eyebrows furrow.

“Why ?” he seems intrigued as the question leaves his lips.

Why, he has the courage to ask.

Well the answer is that Regulus Black has the prettiest, hottest, most gorgeous hands you have ever laid eyes on.

They are elegant, slender, the little veins underneath the pale skin gracing your eyes with their presence with every movement he makes, every flex of his muscles, producing a delicious design that hypnotizes you. 

They are smooth but decorated by light calluses, undoubtedly caused by Quidditch, that create a divine contrast with his otherwise untainted skin.

His fingers are long, lean, clad in silver rings that make your mouth water with how exquisitely sultry they make him look.

And suddenly, but not surprisingly, you find yourself imagining what it would feel like to have those hands on you, exploring every inch of your body, dancing on your skin like flames dance in the cold hair of the night. The cool metal of his rings being at odds with your scorching hot skin, making you hiss as his skilled fingers create a burning path over your body, traveling everywhere. Your legs, your thighs, your hips, chest, shoulders and stopping right at your neck, wrapping delicately, reverentially around it. Worshipping the sensitive skin, feeling the erratic pulse of your heart and-

“You’re doing it again” his words interrupt your spiraling for the second time that day, sounding dry and apathetic as always, but a hint of teasing twinkles in the otherwise coldness of his eyes.

“You have nice hands, that’s all” you manage to say without giving away all the less than pure thoughts flooding your mind in that moment. “From an artist point of view, obviously” you add, shrugging, trying to make everything less than obvious.

You really hope Regulus didn't learn to cast a Legilimes in his free time, otherwise you were well and truly screwed.

Bringing up your passion for drawing is futile and you know it. You know he knows the drooling over his hands isn't for the sake of art. You can't fool Regulus Black, not even if you try to.

Which is both extremely annoying and criminally hot in your humble opinion.

But pretending is the only thing you can do to not feel embarrassed, holding onto the hope that maybe he doesn’t have you all figured out.

“So you’re saying that your interest is purely artistic ?” he cocks a brow as his head tilts slightly.

There’s something in his voice, in his eyes, that you can’t quite figure.

Your forehead scrunches in confusion.

“Yes, of course” you answer, trying to hide the stutter of your voice as best you can.

You are pretty sure he knows that you aren’t telling the truth, he somehow always knows. He reads you like an open book, and, for someone who doesn’t engage in showing his emotions too often, he is pretty damn good at reading the ones of others. 

So why that question ? You almost expected him to tell you to cut it out and get back to study because that essay isn’t gonna finish itself.

This is new, unexpected. 

Interesting.

“Would you like to draw them ?”

Your eyes go wide in surprise.

Wait.

What ?

Never, in all the years you have known each other, had he offered to model for you. 

He knew about you having an interest in arts, he even saw a couple of your drawings and paintings and he often asked about them and how they were coming up, but he never asked to be in them.

You never brought up the suggestion either. He is a reserved guy and he loathes having eyes on him, so you figured he would’ve never accepted even if you did.

That never stopped you from sketching him from afar, though. Those gorgeous features deserve to be portrayed.

But why the sudden proposition ?

You aren’t stupid. Regulus might know you like the back of his hand, but you could say the same about him. And this, whatever this might be, is not like him at all. 

Regulus never does anything for nothing, there is always an explanation, a reason to his every move. You think even his breaths are perfectly calculated.

But this time the why gets lost on you, and the harder you try to understand the less it all makes sense.

“I can see the gears in your brain twinsting and turning,” he says, calm and composed as ever.

He is sitting on your bed, the quill he was using to write his Charms paper now abandoned next to him. His back is perfectly straight, leaning on the headbord to support his weight. The raven strands of his hair create soft waves that frame his face in a delicate and enchanting way. His lips are stretched in a rare, playful smile, curling up slightly on the left side.

He is beautiful. Dangerously so.

“It’s just-” you are confused, there is no doubt about that, but most of all you are intrigued “You have never asked me before”

“I know” 

That’s his only answer. Simple, concise. Enigmatic. 

Just like him.

“So why now ?” 

The question escapes your lips before you can stop it. You can’t help it, curiosity is consuming you, and the possibility of learning a new part of him makes your skin tingle with excitement.

“Why not ?” he shrugs “There is a first time for everything, right ? So why not now ?”

There is still that glint of something in his eyes. You don’t know what it is, you don’t think you would be able to give it a name even if you knew, but it's there, and it’s strong.

“I’ll get my supplies then” 

You slowly get up from the bed, feeling your heart in your throat in a mix of anticipation and nervousness, and you retrieve your album and a pencil.

When you sit back down you notice that the books have been neatly stacked in a small pile next to your bed and all the papers, previously scattered all over your sheets, are nowhere to be seen.

“Figured we might need the space” he says, like he read your mind.

“Thank you”, you give him a small smile before opening your album, turning the pages one by one, until you find a blank sheet, ready to be filled.

“Where do you need me ?” 

The way he utters those words with the utmost nonchalance, apparently unaware of the effect they have on you, nearly sends you into cardiac arrest.

Everywhere, you think, before mentally smacking yourself.

You need to get a grip, for Merlin’s sake.

“Right there is fine,” you're able to say without your voice faltering “just angle your hands towards me, so the light is right”

He does as he is told, adjusting his position and moving his hands a bit to the right, veins on full display and rings shining under the warm rays of the sunset seeping through the window.

“That’s good” your mouth is suddenly dry as you gulp at that sight.

He is a bit far, and the light doesn’t hit as perfectly as you had expected, but you’ll work with it. If squinting your eyes a bit is the price to pay to maintain your mental sanity, then so be it.

Then you start drawing. The only sound filling the room is the gentle scraping of your pencil as your eyes focus on the white sheet in front of you, your gaze shifting to his hands ever so often to take a peek at them, like you haven't learnt every detail by heart.

You can feel his eyes on you. You try not to focus on it, but the shivers those pools of the color of a summer storm send down your spine are difficult to ignore.

“You’re straining your eyes” he blurts out of the blue.

Observant as always.

“It’s fine,” you assure him, your gaze never leaving the paper “this distance is good for perspective” 

“But it’s a problem for the lighting”

Those words make you lift your head up, your brows knotted in a frown.

How does he-

“And what would you know about the lighting ?” you eye him suspiciously, a small grin curving your lips.

“I guess all your rambles about that muggle painter weren’t in vain” he says, and there’s a cheekiness in his tone that is completely new to you “Caravaggio, right ?”

Your grin turns into a full smile.

“Right,” you nod, your eyes widening a little “I can’t believe you actually remember”

“I remember a lot of things,” he remarks defensively.

“Only those important enough to you” the teasing in your voice is light, playful, as your pencil glides on the sheet swiftly, adding strokes and shadows here and there.

There’s a beat of silence.

One second. Two. Three. And then-

“Exactly”

Your hand halts every movement, freezing completely. You look up from your paper and you find his gaze already on you.

Suddenly you are lost. Your heart is beating so fast you wouldn’t be surprised if he was actually able to hear it.

The implications of that single word swirl in your brain, creating a hurracane of thoughts that almost gives you whiplash. 

He doesn’t give you the time to even think properly about what he may have just suggested, because he decides to speak again. 

“I can come closer if you need me to” his voice is lower, deeper, oozing with that same something he’s had in his eyes since he caught you staring at his heavenly hands.

You want to scream. You have no idea of what the hell is going on and it’s confusing the shit out of you.

You know he is asking for that forsaken drawing you still have in your lap, but it somehow doesn’t feel like it. The electricity in the room is so high it feels like an open cable sending sparks flying everywhere, setting the air on fire. 

The only coherent thought in your brain is a chorus of yes, please and nothing else.

So you cave.

“You can,” you manage to say, because the necessity to protect your sanity might be strong, but the need to have him close to you is apparently stronger “if you want to”

His gaze is so penetrating you feel it in your soul, consuming you from the inside out and setting your whole body ablaze.

It’s compelling, hypnotizing even. 

“This is not about what I want, Y/n”

Oh, the way those words leave his perfect lips, making shudders erupt all over your body should be studied. 

Your world shifts on its axes and it starts spinning ten times faster. Because he knows. 

He knows. 

“We're not talking about art anymore, are we ?” you ask, swallowing soundly as your breath gets stuck in your throat.

“Were we ever talking about that in the first place ?” his question is rhetorical. He doesn’t need an answer because he already knows it. He figured you out, like he always does.

So what was the point in pretending anymore ?

“No,” you admit “I guess we weren't” your trembling hands move the paper out of the way.

There is a spark in his eyes. It’s foreign, thrilling even, and it makes your skin prickle in the best way.

Suddenly he moves. He shifts his weight forward, approaching you slowly. The veins in his arms and hands bulging from the pressure and knocking the air out of your lungs in the process.

“So tell me” he whispers, crawling to you bit by bit, like a hunter advancing towards his prey. He seems to be calm, poised, totally in control of his body as he comes closer and closer.

It’s his eyes that betray him. 

They have always been the window to his feelings, talking more than his mouth ever did. And right now they are burning, engulfed by a heat that makes your legs weak and your heart roar. The realization hits you, a rush of adrenaline running through your veins.

They are hungry.

“Tell you what ?” you stutter, unable to regain a hold of yourself. You can’t breathe, your palms are sweaty, you feel hot all over and he is close, so damn close.

He stops right in front of you, mere inches between your faces and a tension so heavy you can cut it with a butter knife.

“What you want” the warmth of his breath delicately caresses your skin. Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, his eyes following the movement intently almost making you squirm under his gaze.

“You seem to know what I want” you murmur breathlessly, your body heating up in response to his proximity. 

Those hands, protagonists of some of the filthiest dreams you’ve ever had, are right next to you. Close enough to graze the skin of your thighs with his knuckles, but never indulging in the act. Like he is teasing you, waiting for you to beg for it. You shift your gaze to them and you swallow hard, the need to feel them on you growing stronger every second that passes. 

You are about to fucking combust.

His silver eyes are still fixed on you, intense and magnetic, as they follow your line of sight.

“I won't move a muscle unless you tell me to, Y/n” 

Those words, mouthed so close to your lips and mixed with the low, velvet-like husk of his voice, make your legs clench and your stomach churn in the best way possible.

You can’t take it anymore.

You move forward, abandoning your position on the bed to place your legs on each side of his hips, almost straddling him. Your hands are on his shoulders, helping you to keep your balance, feeling the lean muscles underneath the shirt as you hover over him.

His head tilts up, eyes sharp and hot and glued to yours. You hear him suppress a hiss as your thighs brush his hips. His arms are still next to him, hands gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles turn white.

He is restraining himself. From touching you. 

Your thoughts are clouded, your mind hazy and completely out of it. The only thing you want right now is for him to place those perfect fucking hands on you and never stop.

“Do it” your voice is so weak and breathy it’s a miracle he hears you.

“Do what ?” he mouths, so close to your lips it makes your head spin.

You’re needy, desperate even, but you don’t care. You don’t have time to think right now. You want to feel.

“Touch me” you beg.

“Where ?” he sounds just as gone as you are, and you finally crumble.

“Everywhere”

It’s nothing more than a whisper but it shakes the both of you like an earthquake. 

You meet in the middle, your lips colliding and completely knocking the breath out of you.

His mouth is sinful, greedy, chasing yours with a hunger that almost makes you melt on the spot. You get lost in the softness of it, in the ungodly brush of your tongues making you moan breathlessly. You bite and nibble and lick and he follows you, matching the languid pace just as eagerly, as your hands tangle in his hair, pulling at the black strands delicately. The low groan that escapes his throat sends goosebumps all over you.

You are so focused on the filthy dance of your mouths that you almost miss the agonizingly slow graze of his fingers on the exposed flesh of your legs, gently tracing a path on your thighs.

The metal of his rings meets the hotness of your skin and you hiss.

Oh, it’s just as delicious as you imagined.

“Ah- fuck” you pant, millimeters away from him. Your head feels light, dizzy. 

You feel like you’re dreaming, lost in your own fantasies.

But his hands running up and down your thighs feel too fucking good to be just a product of your imagination. They travel slowly, excruciatingly so, making you lose your mind with every new inch of skin they explore. 

Until they sneak under your skirt, reaching your hips to gently knead the supple skin, applying enough force to bring you forward.

“Sit” It feels more like a plea than an order but-

Holy shit.

A gasp escapes your mouth before you can stop it.

Every cell of your body threatens to explode as he pushes your weight on him all the way, making you straddle him completely.

“Fucking finally” he curses, more to himself than to you, like he has been waiting for this moment his whole life.

His eyes are dark, fogged up by lust and need, and it's the lewdest thing you have ever witnessed.

“I have never seen you like this” you whisper directly on his lips, nibbling on the plush flesh.

He smirks, smirks for Salazar's sake, as his fingers move, reprising their mission to make you lose every ounce of control.

“It seems you were busy looking at something else”

His thumbs rub the skin of your inner thigh in a hypnotizing manner, sending bolts of electricity down your spine.

You whimper as they get closer and closer to your core, your grip on the junction between his neck and shoulder tightening in pleasure.

But he must take it as some sort of sign of discomfort because he halts suddenly.

“Want me to stop ?” his eyes search for yours, the veiled concern in them making your heart stutter.

“Don’t you even dare” you say, a mere breath away from him before you dive in, capturing his mouth again.

It's messy and dirty and you get addicted to his taste way too quickly.

His hands move up, massaging your skin at every caress of your tongues, until they reach the hem of your panties.

He moves away from your lips for a quick moment, and he looks at you.

The silent ‘Can I ?’ written in his eyes almost makes you swoon.

You nod your head.

“I need words, chérie” he whispers sensually.

The combination of his right hand so close to your most sensitive spot, his left one traveling up to your hip, holding it tightly, posessivly, and that fucking pet name almost make you cum on the spot.

“Yes” you practically beg.

Only then he resprises his journey of exquisit torture along your body.

“Shit-” you quiver as he kisses your neck, branding the sensitive skin with his lips and teeth. His hands move, fingers skilled and sinful as they reach your heat.

You mewl as they make contact with the light material of your underwear.

“Jesus Christ” hs hisses a groan “you’re soaked”

A series of choked out whimpers leaves your lips as he strokes his fingers over your panties, feeling your wetness through the fabric.

“Fuck- Reg” a moan ripples from your lips when his thumb brushes your clit tentativley, making you gasp. Your hands fly to his hair, lightly pulling the soft strands with trembling fingers.

“Look at you, all horny and needy over my hands” his voice is tantalizing but you can hear the breathlessness, the strain in it. He is affected by this just as much as you are and it makes you go almost feral.

“Please” you breathe. You don’t even know what you’re begging for. Your mind is too hazy, too fogged up by lust and need to have a single coherent thought in it.

But he sure does know, because his digits move your panties to the side, just enough to glide over your slickness, making contact with the tender skin of your folds and spreading your wetness all over.

Finally, finally the hands consuming your every thought are on you, right where you had craved and imagined them the most.

You arch your back in ecstasy, biting your lip.

And it’s when his middle finger eases inside of you, slowly breaching your velvety walls, that you lose it completely.

The air gets knocked out of your lungs, liquid fire engulfs every cell of your body, every nerve and muscle consumed by pleasure.

“Regulus-” it’s the only thing you manage to mewl as he slides in and out of you in a rhythm so sensual and sultry it makes you melt. The cold metal of his ring meets the warm, sensitive skin of your cunt with every prod, creating a delicious contrast.

You never break eye contact, your gazes locked together drinking in every little detail, every wave of bliss swimming in them.

“Is this what you fantasized about, love ?” he pants right on your lips “All the times I caught you staring, is this what you were imagining my hands doing ? Fucking you senseless, feeling how tight and needy you are ?”

His words are as dirty as his eyes as he slides another finger into you, making you inhale sharply and stretching you out so good you could almost cry. 

“Ohmygodyes” you moan as your hips start moving to their own accord, meeting the prodding of his fingers eagerly, riding his hand like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do.

“But this is not the only fantasy you have, right chérie ?” he teases, going faster, harder, pumping mercilessly and leaving you a blubbering mess.

His left hand leaves its place on your hip and moves up, grazing the soft skin of your stomach, the supple and tender flesh of your breasts, the natural dip of your collarbones, worshipping every inch of your skin in their path, until they reach their goal.

“I bet you thought about this too, didn't you ?” 

You were always sure this would remain just one of your daydreams, the kind of dirty thought that should remain in your mind and nowhere else. But Regulus Black was Regulus Black and reading you was one of his favorite hobbies.

It still comes as a surprise, though, when he delicately wraps his hand around your throat, resting it there, feeling every pulse of your heart, every pump of your blood and adorning your neck with the prettiest fucking necklace you could ever ask for.

“Yes” it’s nothing more than a breath, but it sends him into a frenzy. His right thumb rubs your clit relentlessly, adding to the unforgiving pace of his fingers sliding in and out of you with lewd, wet squelches. The whimpers coming out of your mouth are raw, filthy and downright pornographic as you feel your orgasm approaching.

Your head is in the clouds, a hundred thousands miles from earth as the only thing you can focus on is the feeling of his hands on you, fucking you to your release as the one on your neck squeezes the faintest bit, enough to almost send you over the edge.

His left thumb leaves its place right above your jugular, moving upwards to caress your jawline, your cheek and, lastly, your lips.

You can feel the digit caressing the red, bitten flesh, brushing it with reverence, worshiping it with his whole being. His heated gaze is bewitched, entranced by your mouth parting, welcoming him past your lips, and lightly grazing the pad with your teeth before enveloping it wholly.

“Bloody fucking hell, Y/n” he rasps, voice low and dangerously close to pleading as you suck on his thumb like it's the tastiest treat you have ever put in your mouth.

The hand on your cunt speeds its pace, pounding in and out of you like a fucking machine, the vibrations on your little bundle of nerves getting more intense by the second, sending you over the edge in a mess of moans and whimpers.

“Reg, fuck, I'm-”

You reach your release with his name on your lips, back arched and hips rolling to help you ride your orgasm on those unholy fingers of his. 

Your vision is blurred, your brain fuzzy and overwhelmed by bliss as you slowly come back to your senses.

It takes you a few seconds to regain control of your body and mind, but when you do you are graced with a vision you are sure you will never forget.

The ever composed and collected Regulus Black is right in front of you with his expression contorted in pure lust, eyes bleary and unfocused, hair tousled by your hands relentlessly stroking them, lips red and glossy from the heated kisses, tie loose, crooked and shirt crumpled.

He is a mess.

The hottest mess you have ever seen.

You're still not fully out of your head space when he speaks again.

“You're loud” he grins, his tone teasing but still a little raspy.

“You're filthy” you bite back weakly, your voice hoarse and strained. 

“Maybe. But I don’t think I'm the only one” 

The fingers that have been inside of you not even a moment ago are now in front of you, coated and glistening with your essence.

He slowly brings them closer to your mouth, and you don't even think twice before eagerly welcoming them inside it.

The taste of yourself mixes with the metallic tinge of his rings as you suck leisurely, restraining a moan before he takes them out with a wet pop.

“Sale fille” he groans in french, lowly and right on your parted lips, before he dives in an alluring kiss. (Dirty girl)

It's slower than all the others you shared, but it's deeper, sensual and it almost gets you worked up all over again.

His tongue meets yours in a erotic dance and when the taste of your very essence coats his tastebuds a moan rumbles in his throat.

“You're sweet” his voice is nothing more than a whisper as his teeth nibble at your lower lip gently.

“Want me to find out if you're sweet, too ?” You offer with a teasing smile on your lips . His hands might be your biggest fantasy, but they sure as hell are not the only part of him you fantasize about.

“Eager, are we ?” he teases playfully, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear “Not today, chérie”

The little pet name creates butterflies in your stomach and makes your cheeks warm, but doesn't hide your disappointment. 

“Why ?” you ask, your hands going to fiddle with his tie.

“As I told you, this is not about what I want” he explains, his arms circling you in a loose hug “and I don't know if you noticed, but it's pretty late”

You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, and only then you realize that the sun has already set and the room would be totally surrounded by darkness if it wasn't for the few magic candles lighting up automatically when twilight hits.

Your eyes widen.

“How long have we been here for ?” your voice has a panicked hint to it, making Regulus laugh.

“I'm pretty sure dinner is getting served right now” he says nonchalantly, like it's the most normal thing ever to engage in sexual activities with your best friend and miss supper because of it.

“Which might be for the best,” he adds.

“Why ?” you ask in genuine confusion.

“Because I’m the only one lucky enough to hear your dirty little sounds” he says with a shit-eating grin before kissing you again.

Thank you for reading 💖

[hoe4hotchner]

hey! i love your stuff :)! was wondering if you could maybe do a short fic with hotch where he's interrogating the reader (who is a suspect, but is actually innocent), and the reader politely informs hotch that they're about to faint (they have a fainting condition, like POTS or something). hotch doesn't panic bc he's, well, hotch, but he calls for medical help. meanwhile, reader is just casually lying down on the cold floor of the cell and being really chill waiting to faint, even making conversation. anyway, hotch finds out that the police officers who had arrested the reader had denied them their medicine, and he rips them a new one.

OBVIOUSLY DONT WRITE IT IF YOU DONT WANT TO, I THINK YOU'RE LOVELY AND I DONT WANT TO PRESSURE YOu

have a nice day!

Unexpected Interrogation | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader | WC: 0.9k | CW: Hurt/comfort?, medical condition (POTS), mistreatment by law enforcement, fainting, medication.

A/N: I'm trying a new layout for when I answer requests, I don't know if I'll commit to it, but I like it for now.

Also I don't know anything about POTS or other fainting conditions, so I hope I did it justice - feedback is appriciated.

Hotch sat across from you, his expression stern and unyielding as he leaned forward in his chair, the dim lighting of the room casting sharp shadows on his face. To any observer, you would seem calm - your hands folded neatly in your lap and eyes focused - but inside, you were already feeling the telltale signs. The tightness in your chest, the lightheadedness creeping in. You’d been here for hours, and now, without your medicine, it was simply a matter of time before you would faint.

"You've been uncooperative since the moment we brought you in," Hotch said, his voice level but carrying the weight of suspicion as he couldn't quite figure out if you were guilty or not. "Tell me why you were at the scene."

You took a slow breath, trying to center yourself. "Agent Hotchner," you said politely, your voice a little too soft for the intensity of the moment. "I understand why I'm here, and I will tell you everything you want to know, but I think I should let you know… I'm about to faint."

He blinked, his gaze sharpening but not a trace of panic crossing his face. If anything, his brows furrowed, a mixture of confusion and concern settling in his expression. "You're about to faint?"

"Yeah," you nodded, shifting slightly in your seat, trying to ignore the swimming sensation behind your eyes. "I have a fainting condition - it's called POTS. Normally, I’d take medicine, but..." You gave a tired shrug. "The officers who arrested me didn’t let me have it."

The tension in the room shifted. Hotch leaned back slightly, the gears in his mind already turning. He wasn’t a man to panic, even in strange situations. He pressed a button on the desk to signal for help, keeping his eyes on you. "I’ll get a medic in here."

You offered him a small smile. "Thanks, but it’s cool. Happens all the time. I’ll just… lie down." Without waiting for a response, you eased yourself off the chair - thankful that you weren't cuffed to the table - and laid flat on the cold tiled floor, your head resting on your arms as if this was the most natural thing in the world. The coolness of the floor helped somewhat, but your vision was already narrowing at the edges.

Hotch stood, watching you for a moment before kneeling next to you, his tone softened slightly. "How long have you been without your medication?"

You glanced at him from your place on the floor, blinking slowly. "Since they arrested me… hours ago? Honestly, it could be worse. But you know, fainting isn’t great for clearing one’s name." You chuckled lightly, trying to make the best of the situation, though it quickly turned into a weary sigh. "I’m innocent, by the way."

He didn't respond to that directly, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something acknowledging the injustice of your situation. "How often does this happen?"

"Often enough that I’m pretty used to it," you said casually, your breath slowing as the dizziness increased. "But hey... it gives me an excuse to lie down on the job, right?"

A small smile tugged at the corner of Hotch’s mouth - just for a moment - but then his professional mask slipped back into place. "Don’t talk. Just focus on staying calm."

You hummed in agreement, though your vision was blurring fast. "I’ll be out soon, but when I wake up, I’d love to continue this conversation. I mean, I know I’m innocent, but it would be great to convince you of that too."

He gave a short nod. "We’ll get to that. First, let’s get you taken care of."

Moments later, the medics arrived, rushing into the room with a stretcher and medical kit. But Hotch didn’t leave your side, ensuring they knew about your condition, making sure they were doing everything right. As they checked your vitals and prepared to move you, you started to fade, your words becoming slow and drowsy. "Thanks, agent… you’re not as intimidating as I thought you’d be."

The medic smiled at that, while Hotch’s lips pressed into a thin line, the smallest hint of amusement in his eyes. But once you were being taken care of, Hotch’s focus shifted back to the situation that had led to this. The officers who had arrested you. The ones who had denied you your medication.

Minutes later, Hotch found the officers outside the room, his demeanor stone cold. “Which one of you denied the suspect their medication?”

One of the officers, a tall man with a smug expression, stepped forward. “We didn’t think it was relevant. They didn’t say it was urgent.”

Hotch’s eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a low tone. “Didn’t think it was relevant? You’re lucky they’re stable, or you’d be facing a lawsuit at the very least.” He took a step closer, towering over the man. “You do not withhold medical treatment from anyone in custody. I don’t care if they’re a suspect, a witness, or guilty. Do you understand?”

The officer faltered, clearly not expecting the sharp reprimand. “Y-yes, sir.”

“I’ll be filing a report about this. You’ve jeopardized a life today. If I ever hear of anything of the sort again, you’ll be out of a job.” Hotch didn’t wait for a response, turning on his heel and heading back toward the interrogation room. There were few things that set him off more than mistreatment, especially under his watch.

He returned just as the medics were finishing up. You were still unconscious, but stable. Hotch stood by the door for a moment, watching as they prepared to transport you, his expression unreadable.

Innocent or not, he was going to make sure you were treated right.

[witherby]

LW first crush??? Or first time being crushed on???

👉👈

I love it when the hive mind comes together 🤝

Listen, I took the general concept of what you guys are asking for and made this. It's 4100+ words. Don't look at me 🙈

Littlest Wayne: Piety

Masterlist is Here!

"True piety hath in it nothing weak, nothing sad, nothing constrained. It enlarges the heart; it is simple, free, and attractive." - Francois Fenelon

Growing up in a family of rich people moonlighting as vigilantes, you're more than used to chaos. Secret-keeping, combat training, socializing with the Gotham Elite, and helping your grandfather patch up one of your brothers or parents after patrol are some of the routine shenanigans you have to deal with on a regular basis, and you aren't even a vigilante yourself.

School is supposed to be your little slice of normalcy, where you can decompress as a civilian amongst other civilians. Just go to class, talk to your friends, and maybe participate in an extracurricular if you want! That's it! Nice and simple! You love it when things are nice and simple!

So the fact that a gang of arsonists are currently holding your class hostage during a field trip to Metropolis Conservatory and threatening to burn down everything and everyone inside, is really fucking annoying you!!

"Hi, dad," you mumble into your backup cellphone. The arsonists took everyone's phones when they raided the conservatory, but Bruce made you keep two on hand for this exact scenario. "Don't freak out. There's a —"

"I know." He sounds freaked out. You barely suppress a sigh. "It's on the news. Clark is off-world with Hal or you'd be safe by now. ETA is twenty minutes for me, and 17 for Jason. Are you hurt?"

"No," you whisper, "they haven't done anything yet. I'm in the Butterfly Garden with my —"

You quiet down when one of the men turns and makes eye contact with you. You hunch over and press your hands against your head as though frightened, but you're trying to keep your cellphone concealed.

Bruce calls your name, audibly stressed. You can hear his car picking up speed on the highway. You click your tongue to reassure him you're fine. When the man looks away again, you relax a bit.

"There's at least five of them," you whisper as softly as possible. "Probably more. The lighting isn't bright or dim enough to cast shadows in here."

Overcast days are your biggest pet peeve. The level of darkness required to manipulate shadows is lax, but for some reason, the very rare occasions in which a space is simultaneously too light and too dark make it impossible to use your ability. You can see shadows being cast on the floor. You can feel them, even. But they aren't solid enough to control. It's like trying to stop water from slipping through your fingers; it works for a minute until you inevitably watch it seep through the spaces in between.

"No talking!" One of the men barks. You exhale slowly and keep still.

"You're gonna be fine. Stay calm and do everything they ask of you," Bruce says. "I'm entering the city now, and Jason is thirteen minutes out. We'll be there as soon as possible."

You click your tongue again, then hang up and slip the phone up your jacket sleeve. You hug your waist and draw your knees up, scowling at the dirt underneath you like it's personally responsible for what's going on right now.

A dark hand reaches over to clutch your arm. You glance to your right to spot Chiffon, your best friend, frowning worriedly at you.

"You okay?" She mouths. You nod and place your hand over hers, giving it a quick squeeze.

"Are you?" You mouth back. She nods as well. She doesn't seem frightened so much as irritated. Chiffon told you on the bus ride over that she was wearing all new clothes for the field trip, and now the two of you are sitting on the ground with your other classmates so it's likely dirtying them up.

"Are ya done yet!? How long does it take to swap out a fucking flag..." One of the arsonists complains into a radio on his hip. "I'm gettin' itchy, man. I don't even care about the message anymore; I need to feel the heat. I need to see somethin' burn before some dumbass Meta shows up and ruins the fun. I'm about to just strike my matchbook!"

Oh, shit. That was good news and bad news. Good, because fire casts shadows you can manipulate. Bad, because the arsonists also have guns, and you might not be able to subdue them all before one gets a lucky shot off. You have a soft, squishy body and no kevlar to protect it right now, which your family routinely complains about every time you leave the house. The vindication on their faces after this is gonna suck hard.

"The flag's up!" The radio crackles. You and your classmates tense up. "Light this joint!"

The three arsonists in the butterfly room with you pick up the cans at their feet and start pouring the contents out. The sharp smell of gasoline hits your nose and your classmates start complaining and shouting at them to stop.

"You're not actually doing this, right!?"

"Oh my god...oh my god!"

"Hey! Burn down whatever building you want, but let us out first you psychos!!"

"I was gonna skip school today. I wish I had!"

"I don't wanna die!!"

One of the men takes out a gun and fires a round into the ceiling. Colors whip around you as the butterflies all take off in a flurry. There's some brief shrieking and screaming, which makes you cover your ears, but when he starts aiming at your classmates, everybody gets quiet real fast, nothing but quick breathing and wingbeats disturbing the peace.

"Good," he sneers. "Listen here, you little squealers: it's your very unlucky day today. We staked out this spot until we knew Superman wouldn't be here t'save the day, and that just so happened to coincide with your stupid field trip. We're sendin' a message to that alien freak to stop meddling in human affairs, and you all get the honor of contributing to that message."

"Who's ready to be martyrs!!" The second one shouts, splashing gasoline in yours and your classmates' direction.

You gasp and scramble to your feet when your arm and shoulder gets splashed. You tug Chiffon up and usher her behind you, scowling. Your temper flares, made worse by your current inability to stop any of this from happening, and despite your father's warnings you begin lashing out.

"That doesn't make any sense, dumbass!" You snap.

"The fuck'd you say?" The man growls. Your pulse jackknifes, heart hammering wildly in your chest, but you don't falter. "I asked you a question!!"

"Martyrs are killed for supporting a cause, not objecting to it. None of us want to be part of this! We're just here for a stupid field trip!"

Chiffon grips your wrist painfully tight, hissing at you to be quiet. You know you should listen to her, but if help doesn't come fast enough and you die, you're at least gonna die having fought back. You're gonna die having tried.

"Did I ask what you wanted, kid?" The man says, stepping so close that you feel like the gas fumes coming from his jerrican are getting you high. "Hmm? Did any of us say "oh, raise your hands if you don't wanna be hostages?" No, we didn't."

"Did any of you take a second to think "oh, maybe I don't wanna be child murderers today?" No, you didn't."

The arsonist snorts.

"I dunno. Sounds to me like you wanna be the kindling."

He reaches out and grabs your arm with more force than you anticipate, yanking you away from your group. You yelp in pain, instinctively lifting your fist to strike him in the neck. He chokes and coughs as you brutalize his Adams apple, but doesn't let go of your arm. Instead, he uses the hand holding the gas can to strike you back. It connects with your head, and when you blink, you're suddenly lying on the floor and your temple is throbbing.

Aw fuck, you think, vision blurred. It's so hard to tell up from down right now. You feel your clothes getting splashed with more gasoline. You hear your schoolmates screaming and shouting in terror for the inevitable. You see an indecipherable ocean of colors dancing around you, butterflies trying in vain to escape the fate you're all about to share. You hear someone strike a match.

Oh, please don't make my parents identify the remains. Please don't do that to them.

You close your eyes and try to steady the trembling in your limbs, hoping the pain doesn't last long.

The screaming reaches a crescendo, causing a sharp ringing in your ears. You flinch and press your hands to your head, just barely stifling a sob. There's a loud, crashing sound, and gunfire all around you. The ground reverberates when people start running, bolting in all directions, and you're unable to make yourself look at what's going on.

Heat licks at your side. The fire is spreading and the crackling drives a spike through your heart. You are deathly afraid. You want your parents. You want your brothers. You want your grandpa.

Something hits the ground beside you, right as you feel your sleeve catch fire, and you yelp when a pair of hands start to pat it out before it can spread.

"Hey, hey! It's okay! It's fine, look at me, you're okay!"

Relief makes your stiff limbs slacken, and you crack an eye open to find a stranger staring down at you. It's not your father, it's not Jason, and it's not one of your classmates.

It's...a boy wearing a Superman suit, but with a black, leather jacket thrown on top of it. He's looking at you with the widest, brightest blue eyes you've ever seen. They seem to become impossibly wider when he locks onto your own.

He's very handsome, your brain musters in between all the panic. Shiny black hair that was buzzed underneath and long at the top, clear, tanned skin, and near-effeminate facial features are the most eye-catching bits you pick up on.

He doesn't seem to be phased by the fire crackling around you, but you cannot say the same. When you try to breathe in, the hot smoke fills your lungs and you start coughing painfully, grimacing.

The boy frowns — you realize belatedly he'd been grinning before — and shrugs his jacket off. He drapes it gently on top of your head to block out the flames and smoke, then gets an arm under your back and behind your knees to lift you up.

"Hold on a second!" He says, and then you're suddenly outside and being laid down on the grass. The jacket is removed and your breathing gets much easier now that you're in the open air. He kneels next to you again, checking on your arm. "You okay?"

You give him a jerky nod and a thumbs up. You don't recognize this Meta. Did uncle Clark have a kid and forget to tell anybody? It wouldn't be the first time, like when he got engaged to Lois a couple years back and realized he'd neglected to send out any wedding invitations.

This boy looks your age, though. How would Clark have avoided bringing him up for so many years, even in passing?

"Who are you?" You mumble, voice still slightly hoarse from the smoke inhalation. The conservatory is quickly being consumed by flames, if the steadily brightening orange and red in your periphery is anything to go by. You hear sirens quickly approaching in the distance, and wonder where the arsonists went. You wonder where your classmates are, too. Did everyone make it out?

The boy smiles at you again, wide and proud, and gestures to the symbol on his chest.

"I'm Superman. You and your school buddies are safe now, I promise."

"Oh," you say, and wonder if the hit to your head is affecting you worse than you thought, because you are definitely not looking at Superman.

--

When Conner opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is Lex Luthor. He recognizes him immediately, instinctively, despite never having met before now.

"Can you hear me?" Lex asks. Conner nods his head. The motion is new. It feels practiced. The dichotomy is throwing him for a loop as he steps out of the capsule he'd spent weeks growing in. His eyes dart around the space, taking in the other staff members present in the lab. Some of their names and faces click together like scattered puzzle pieces in his mind, while others are strangers he holds no information about.

He knows these people. They've just been introduced this very second. He feels helpless. He feels his immense powers buzzing under his skin.

Lex is talking, and Conner listens. Conner is an experiment. Conner is the result of years of work and programming. Conner is a success in a long line of failures.

He would have had siblings if they'd survived. He wouldn't be alone in these warring sensations and feelings. He would've had someone to relate to.

Conner is a success, but he woke up early. Didn't age enough. Conner is less than an hour old, but he's physically a teenager. He is supposed to be older. He is supposed to be bigger. He needs to be better than Superman. He's a success, but there is more work to be done.

His brain is packed full of theoretical knowledge with no practice. He knows what he can do but not how to do it. How to fly. How to control his super strength. How to shoot lasers from his eyes. How to summon ice breath. How to block out the overwhelming inputs to his brand new senses.

Lex is talking, and Conner listens. He gets coached through handling himself and reigning in his power. It's clinical and professional. He practices in another part of the lab for days. He does not learn how to speak for a week. No one had noticed beforehand.

Superman got years to do this. Superman got to grow into his body, not have it be grown for him and his consciousness injected into it. Superman got to take his time to become great. Conner does not have that time. He's told he doesn't need it.

Conner succeeds, because he is the better Superman as he was made to be. He is praised for his quick adaptiveness and brilliant control. He wishes he knew what a hug felt like.

He's given a suit and has to learn how to put it on. He's got knowledge of what he is and what he can do and who he is supposed to be, but they did not think to implant in him the knowledge of dressing or hygiene or socialization. He's got all the skills of a person with none of the experience. He's an egg shell walking on egg shells.

Lex is talking, and Conner listens. He's told that he is ready for action. Superman is not around to stop a crisis from occurring right now, so he must take charge and show Metropolis that a new hero has emerged. One that is reliable and mighty and belongs to this planet.

Conner is a hero. He is reliable and mighty and belongs to this planet.

"Make me proud, son," Lex Luthor tells him, flashing his teeth in a wide smile as he pats Conner's shoulder.

Conner grins back. He will not disappoint. He was made to do this. He is Superman. A better Superman. He is Metropolis' hero.

He knows the way to the Metropolis Conservatory, despite never having been there before. The layout of the city is implanted in his mind. He knows it like the back of his hand.

Nevermind that he's only known the back of his hand for all of three weeks.

He does not fly as quickly to the Conservatory as he's capable. The sensation of wind against his face is so new it stuns him in the air for a minute. The warmth of the sun against his body is so comforting that he learns how to cry in that same, stunned minute. The speed at which he flies dries any tears he might shed, and the excitement of getting to help save his city prevents an overload.

He sees the defaced American flag as he approaches, turned upside down and half-burnt, and the anti-alien flag hanging proudly right above it. He uses x-ray vision to spot the ten arsonists scattered amongst the Conservatory. He sees the class of students corralled into the butterfly garden, with one brave and impulsive soul daring to take a stand.

He knows he's impervious to flames, which gives him the confidence to swoop in and rescue everyone trapped inside the building. Only the three arsonists holding the students hostage need any medical attention ("Grip strength, Conner, we've been over this. You need to work on your grip strength!") due to how roughly he'd pulled them out of there. The rest, he's able to collect and deposit in a little pile of bodies, taking the rope off of the flag pole to tie them all up together.

Then he goes back for the civilians. The building is quickly evacuated and everybody moved to the large lawn behind the conservatory. He leaves the building to burn — he can hear firetruck sirens going off in the distance, piercing his ears and making his breathing quicken. He could use more practice tuning out the overwhelming sounds of everyday life. He will ask Lex to help him hone the skill.

There is one more civilian to rescue. He can see minor injuries on their body he doesn't want to exacerbate. When he kneels next to them to pat out the fire, he is as gentle as he can physically be. They're trembling and shaking from fear, and he musters up the words to console them.

This will be the very first person he's spoken to outside of the lab. He cannot afford to feel shy, despite the novelty of the emotion.

"Hey, hey! It's okay! It's fine, look at me, you're okay!"

And they do. You do. You open your eyes and ensnare him with your gaze.

Something deep, very deep inside him, clicks together, and the world becomes quiet.

There is nothing else.

There is no one else.

The only thing he can see is you. The only thing he can hear is you. The only thing he can feel is you.

Conner's world shifts so fundamentally to accommodate you, it's like he's never known anything else.

He is not Metropolis' hero. He is your hero. He is your anything. He is your everything. All you need to do is ask it, and he'll make it happen. Conner cannot live the rest of his pitifully short life without you. He simply won't survive.

Your mouth opens to reply to him. He leans forward, beaming, eager to hear the sound of your voice like a dog to his master's key turning in the door.

You start coughing. The rest of his senses kick back online, and he remembers that you are in a burning building that nearly burned you with it. He can hear your lungs straining against the smokey air, and that won't do at all.

"Hold on a second!" He says, removing his jacket to cover your face and mouth from the worst of the fire. When Conner gets his arms around you to take you to safety, his whole body seems to zing where you make contact. You fit against him perfectly. He memorizes your weight and warmth as he flies out of the conservatory.

Out in the daylight, under the bright sky, you are somehow even more stunning. The sight of your eyes shining under the light when he uncovers your face sears itself into his memory. It's a fight against his every instinct to stop cradling you and just sit in the grass (and isn't it something, that he's never felt how soft grass is and doesn't care in comparison to your presence) and admire you.

"You okay?" He asks, instead of "Do you feel this, too? Do I create the same, soft weight in your chest like you have in mine? Do you feel like we belong to one another?"

You nod and give him a thumbs up. It's better than any praise Lex and the other lab assistants have ever given him. He memorizes the shape of your thumbprint at just a glance and wonders if Lex will give him a pen and paper later so he can draw it.

"Who are you?"

You're talking to him. You're talking to him. You asked him a question and you're talking to him. Every word crashes into his ears like waves against the shore, and he almost drowns in it.

There's a brief war in his mind. He wants to hear you say his name. He wants to know what the word sounds like on your lips. He also knows that this is his debut as the next superhero. He needs to leave a good impression. He needs you to like him. He grins and points to the sign of Hope on his chest, because he was made to be —

"I'm Superman. You and your school buddies are safe now, I promise."

He clocks your obvious confusion, but it doesn't hurt his feelings. He is, after all, claiming someone else's title. The Superman you know is not the best one for you. Lex taught him that. Conner just needs to prove that he deserves to take that name, that he is worthy of the same accolades and respect that the alien predecessor is getting.

After all, the alien isn't the one that saved the day today. Conner is.

"Let's get you to a medic, okay?" He says, offering his arms to you, palms up. You glance around, then nod, and he's got you cradled in his chest again.

The knowledge of what uniforms a first responder would wear is already embedded in his mind. It helps him locate the proper people to hand you off to when the cacophony of colorful clothing and swarming bodies threaten to overwhelm him. He can pick out police, who are busy untying and detaining the arsonists. He can pick out firemen, who are hooking up hoses to extinguish the roaring flames. He can pick out journalists, who seem eager to talk to him after what he's just done.

More people to talk to. More socializing to be done. He spares you one last glance, memorizing the exact shade of your eye color with a fond smile, then focuses up to finish the job. He's got to make Lex proud. He's got to let the city know that a new player's stepped onto the board. He hopes you'll watch his interview segment.

In the aftermath, when all is said and done and he returns to LexCorp to report to Luthor, he realizes he doesn't know your name.

Late in the evening, after going over everything he did right and wrong, after more training, after honing his body even further to become the better Superman, he lies in his cot and tunes into the world, instead of tuning it out.

He listens, and listens, and listens.

He catches it. Your voice, not in Metropolis but its sister-city beyond the water. Gotham, if his implanted memory serves.

You're talking to your family, who sound like they're dressed to leave somewhere while you remain behind. He listens to them exit your home, one by one. He listens to you walking around different textured rooms. Hardwood. Carpet. Linoleum. He listens to you climb into bed and open a book, turning the page approximately every minute and thirty-two seconds. He listens to the rhythm of your breathing and matches his own to follow. He listens to your heartbeat, strong and steady in your chest, because he saved your life today.

Conner inhales when you inhale. He exhales when you exhale. He repeats this action until you eventually bookmark your place and settle down to sleep, then matches his breathing to your new, sleeping pace. This continues for hours, that deep, instinctual part of him just barely sated by listening to you from so far away.

He needs to meet you again. Properly, as Conner and...

Conner frowns.

He has to learn your name.

The next morning, he asks Lex if Gotham needs a Superman, too.

[killerplink]

🌃NIGHT RIDE🌃

Pairing: Dick Grayson x Female Reader

Words: 8,4k

Plot: You can't sleep, so Dick takes you out for a late ride ✨ (a little makeup for yesterday's angst, besties 🙂‍↕️)

CW: established relationship, 18+, smut, oral sex, overstimulation, creampie, public sex, praise, aftercare, rough sex, fluff

You can't sleep.

It's too hot under the sheets, too cold without them, and no matter how much you shift, you can't seem to find a position that doesn't leave you feeling restless. Your body is wired, thoughts buzzing, keeping you stuck in that awful in-between state—too awake to drift off, too exhausted to do anything else.

And of course, Dick notices. He always does. Even half-asleep, he picks up on the way you toss and turn, the little huffs of frustration you let out when you can't get comfortable, the way your body shifts just a little too much, disturbing the stillness of the night. For a while, he lets you try, gives you space to settle, but when you roll over again with another sigh, he finally moves.

A warm hand slides over your waist, his voice low and heavy with sleep as he murmurs, "Baby, what's wrong?"

You exhale sharply, staring up at the ceiling. "I just... I can't sleep."

His nose nudges against your shoulder, lips brushing over your bare skin. "Mmm. Want me to help?"

And it's sweet, the way he asks, the way his fingers trace slow, absentminded circles against your stomach like he's already trying to soothe you, but you shake your head.

"I don't know. I don't think I can stay still."

Dick hums, his thumb sweeping over your skin. "Then let's go for a ride."

It takes you a second to process what he means, and when you do, you blink, surprised. "Right now?"

"Yeah," he breathes, propping himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with a soft little grin, his blue eyes glinting in the dim light. "Come on, pretty girl. You always like it."

And... yeah. He's right. There's something about riding with him that clears your head, that settles something deep inside you. The cool night air, the hum of the city passing by, the steady, solid warmth of him right in front of you—it always helps.

So you don't argue. You just nod, and in the next few minutes, you're slipping into clothes, following him down to the garage, watching as he swings one leg over his bike and settles onto the seat like he was born for it. Which, honestly, he kind of was.

Dick Grayson and motorcycles just make sense. The way his body moves with them, the way he handles them like they're an extension of himself. It's effortless. Fluid. And when he turns to look at you, offering his hand so you can climb on behind him, you don't hesitate.

You slide into place, pressing against his back, your arms wrapping around his waist, and the second he feels you holding onto him, he glances back again.

"You ready?"

You nod, and with that, he kicks up the stand, rolls out of the garage, and then, you're flying. The wind rushes past you as he speeds through the quiet, empty streets, the city still and half-asleep at this hour, Gotham's usual chaos simmered down to a rare kind of peace. Streetlights flicker past, casting long, golden streaks over the road, and the further he takes you from the towering skyline, the calmer you feel.

You press your cheek against his back, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment, and when he feels it, he squeezes your thigh gently, his voice warm, teasing.

"You fall asleep on me, baby?"

You smile, shaking your head. "No."

"Good." He speeds up a little, the deep purr of the engine vibrating beneath you, and it makes you hold onto him a little tighter, makes your fingers press a little firmer against his stomach. "Almost there."

You don't ask where—he always finds the best places. The hidden little spots tucked away from the city's noise, where the sky stretches wide and the night feels softer, quieter. And true to form, after a few more turns, he pulls onto a secluded overlook, the kind of place that feels secret, like it belongs only to the two of you.

When the bike rumbles to a stop, he kills the engine, kicking the stand down, and as the quiet settles, you take a slow breath, letting it fill your lungs. The air is cooler here, cleaner, untouched by Gotham's usual smog, and in the distance, the lights of the city twinkle faintly against the horizon. It's beautiful.

Dick shifts, glancing back at you with a small smile. "Better?"

You nod. "Yeah."

He watches you for a second, his gaze flicking over your face like he's making sure, like he's double-checking that the tension that had been keeping you up is really gone. And then—he turns fully, swinging his leg off the bike, reaching for you.

"C'mere, love."

You let him help you off, let him pull you close, his hands finding your waist as he leans back against the bike, guiding you between his legs. And for a moment, neither of you say anything. You just stand there, his warmth against you, your arms resting over his shoulders as the night stretches around you.

Then—softly, like it's instinct—he leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You hum, tilting your head just slightly, teasing. "That's all?"

His hands tighten at your waist, just a little. "That depends."

"On?"

"If you want more."

And oh, you do. So you kiss him, deep and unhurried, sinking into the press of his lips, the slow drag of his mouth over yours. His hands move, one sliding up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other settles lower, gripping your hip, keeping you close.

You melt against him, letting your fingers scrape up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips, his body tensing under your touch. And fuck—you don't miss the way his grip tightens on you, the way his fingers flex like he's trying to keep himself in check, trying not to pull you in even closer, trying not to let himself get too lost in you.

But you want him lost. So you shift, pressing yourself against him fully, pressing your thighs between his, pressing your chest to his, pressing your mouth harder against his until his restraint starts to slip, until that soft, teasing kiss turns into something else, something heavier.

And then—

Oh, then he's kissing you like he means it. Like he needs it. It's hungrier now, deeper, his tongue sliding past your lips, his hands tightening at your waist, his body shifting, pushing up against you like he can't help himself. And God, you feel it—the heat rolling off him, the way his breath comes a little faster, the way his hips shift ever so slightly against yours, slow, testing, like he's gauging your reaction.

And when you sigh against his lips, letting your nails drag down the back of his neck, he makes a low, rough sound in response, his grip on you tightening, his mouth pressing harder, deeper, hungrier. It's not enough. You need more.

And from the way his hands start to roam, the way his hips press forward just a little more insistently, the way he kisses you like he's about to devour you whole—

So does he. You feel him.

The thick press of him, hard and throbbing against you, even through the layers of clothes between you. The heat of his body, the way his hands slide lower, fingers gripping at your ass, pulling you closer, pressing you tighter against him. And fuck—he groans when you grind against him, when your hips roll just slightly, when you suck on his tongue, pulling him deeper into the kiss.

It's messy, hot and wet, your mouth moving over his, his fingers flexing against you, like he's barely holding on, like he's losing himself in the way you kiss him, in the way you push against him, in the way you sigh into his mouth like you need this just as much as he does.

And then—he pulls back, just barely, just enough to catch his breath, his lips slick, his pupils blown wide, his voice a little hoarse as he murmurs, "Do you wanna turn back?"

You shake your head immediately. And really—he should've known.

Because you're his wild girl, his reckless girl, the one who never holds back when you want something, the one who doesn't care who might see when you're desperate for him, the one who looks at him like you could eat him whole and wouldn't even mind if someone caught you in the act.

And right now, looking at you, seeing the hunger in your eyes, the heat in your flushed cheeks, the way your lips are still parted, still slick from kissing him—

Who the fuck is he to say no to you?

So he doesn't. He just slides one hand down, slow and deliberate, slipping behind you, fingers brushing over the curve of your ass, then lower, between your legs.

A sharp, shallow breath leaves you when he finds your pussy, rubbing you through your leggings, pressing his fingers against the damp fabric, feeling just how fucking wet you already are.

"Shit," he exhales, low and rough, his forehead dropping against yours, his lips brushing against your mouth as he groans. "You're soaked, baby."

And you are. Just from kissing him.

Just from the way he touches you, the way he sounds, the way he looks at you like he's barely holding himself back. It should be embarrassing, how easy it is for him, how it doesn't matter that it's been years since you've been together—he still turns you on like crazy, still gets you dripping before he even really touches you, still makes your body react like it's the first time, every fucking time.

And when he presses his fingers a little firmer, rubbing you through the damp cotton, you can't help it—you moan softly, nuzzling into the crook of his neck, your hands clutching at his shirt, your breath coming a little faster, a little heavier. Dick groans, his hips shifting, his cock pressing harder against your stomach, and fuck—you want him. You need him.

So you slip a hand between your bodies, pressing your palm against his dick through his sweatpants, rubbing him, feeling how thick and hard he is, how he twitches under your touch, how his breath shudders just slightly when you wrap your fingers around him, squeezing just a little.

A heavy sigh leaves him, low and throaty, his hips pushing into your hand, his fingers pressing harder against your pussy, rubbing slow, teasing circles over your clothed clit.

Your breath shudders as he slides his hand into your leggings, slipping past the waistband, past the thin lace of your panties, straight to your dripping cunt. His fingers brush through the slick mess between your legs, slow and teasing, just barely grazing your entrance, just enough to have you gasping, to have your hips twitching forward, desperate for more.

"Fuck," he breathes, voice low and rough against your ear, fingers spreading through your wetness, gathering it up, smearing it over your clit in slow, lazy circles. "You're so fucking wet for me, baby."

You whimper, clutching at his arms, your legs going a little weak as he finally presses one thick finger inside you, sinking deep, curling just slightly.

"Jesus," he groans, his lips dragging over your cheek, over your jaw, his breath heavy, his cock twitching against your stomach. "You're fucking dripping."

And you are.

You're soaked, so wet he slides in easily, so turned on you can feel yourself squeezing around him already, so desperate you barely think before you murmur, "I need you inside me, baby."

That does it.

His breath hitches, his grip on you tightening for a split second before he snaps, voice rough as he growls, "Bend over the bike."

And you don't even hesitate. You turn, your body moving before your mind catches up, hands pressing against the seat as you arch your back, offering yourself up to him.

His breath shudders out, rough and uneven, and his hands are on you immediately—gripping your hips, smoothing up your sides.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing. "Bend over a little more for me... yeah, just like that. Spread your legs, let me see you."

You do as he says without hesitation, shifting, arching deeper, pressing your palms against the seat as you widen your stance. His hands guide you, thumbs stroking over your skin, voice warm and approving.

"Perfect," he breathes, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pressing your legs open a little more. "Knew you'd listen so good for me, baby. Always so good."

But then—

Dick steps behind you, his fingers curling into the waistband of your leggings and panties, yanking them down to your knees in one smooth motion, exposing you to the cool night air. His hands slide up the back of your thighs, spreading your legs a little wider, guiding you, making sure you're exactly how he wants you.

And you expect him to fuck you. You expect him to grab your hips, line himself up, push inside you, give you exactly what you're aching for. But instead, he pauses, and you hear his breath hitch. And then—

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath, voice strained, like he's just seen the most tempting thing in the world.

You shift slightly, glancing over your shoulder, lips parting to ask what's wrong, but—

"Dick..." you murmur.

"I wanna taste you, baby," he rasps.

And then, he's on his knees. Before you can say anything, before you can even process it, his hands are gripping your ass, spreading you open, and then his tongue is on you, hot and wet, licking straight through your folds.

"Oh—fuck," you gasp, your fingers clenching around the seat, your thighs trembling as he buries his face between your legs, licking deep, slow, dragging his tongue over your cunt like he's starving for it.

And he is. He's losing his fucking mind.

Because you're soaked, so warm, so fucking sweet on his tongue, and the way you moan, the way you arch into it, the way you give yourself to him so easily—

It drives him insane.

His grip on you tightens, his fingers digging into your ass, pulling you open even wider as he licks deeper, his tongue flicking against your clit, then dipping back up, fucking into your pussy, tasting everything you have to give him.

You're moaning, gasping, pushing back against his mouth, and fuck—he loves this.

Loves how desperate you sound, loves how your thighs tremble, loves how messy and filthy and fucking perfect you are like this.

And he's so good. Better than anyone you've ever had. Because he knows exactly how to eat pussy, knows exactly how to make you fall apart, knows exactly when to press his tongue against your clit, when to push it inside you, when to suck, when to go slow, when to speed up—

And right now? Right now, he's making you fucking lose it.

You can feel it, the heat coiling in your stomach, the tension winding tight, your body tensing up as his tongue moves over you, pushing deeper, licking faster, his hands gripping your hips, holding you still so you take it, so you let him ruin you.

And fuck, does he ruin you.

His tongue drags through your slick folds, savoring the taste of you, groaning like he's the one getting off on this. His grip tightens, fingers digging into your skin, keeping you exactly where he wants you—right here, bent over for him, spread and dripping, his to devour.

"God, baby," he murmurs, lips brushing against your cunt, the heat of his breath making you shudder. "You taste so fucking good."

Then he's back on you, mouth hot, tongue relentless, flicking over your clit in quick, teasing strokes before dipping back down, fucking into you, pushing as deep as he can, like he's trying to pull your orgasm out with nothing but his mouth. And shit, it's working.

You moan, high and needy, your thighs trembling as he eats you out like he has all the time in the world. He hums against your cunt, the vibration sending another sharp wave of pleasure through you, and you jerk forward, almost losing your balance, but his hands are there, strong and steady, keeping you still, keeping you right where he wants you.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading you wider, and then he's burying his face even deeper, tongue working you open, licking into you like he's starving. Your body jerks again, a desperate whimper spilling from your lips, and he groans, loving it, loving how wrecked you are for him.

"That's it, baby," he mutters, voice rough, breathless. "Give me everything."

And you do. You can't help it. The pleasure is too much, winding tighter, burning hotter, your body teetering on the edge, your moans turning into frantic little gasps. He feels it, the way you're shaking, the way your body clenches, and he knows—he fucking knows.

"Cum for me," he rasps, sucking your clit into his mouth again, tongue flicking over it in tight, fast strokes, relentless. "Cum all over my tongue, baby, let me taste it."

And then, it snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you, sudden and sharp and so fucking good, your body shaking, your moans breaking, your fingers clawing at the bike seat as he fucks you through it with his tongue, licking you like he needs it, like he lives for this, groaning against your pussy, his lips wet, his face buried between your legs as he drinks you down.

And all you can think, all you can fucking feel, is how much you love this, how much you love him, how no one has ever, ever made you cum like this, like they know your body inside and out, like they own it.

Like Dick does. And fuck—he's not even done yet.

He knows he should stop. He should give you a break, should let you catch your breath, should let the aftershocks of your orgasm fade before he touches you again.

But he can't.

Because you're so fucking pretty like this—your body still trembling, your pussy swollen and soaked, your thighs quivering as you try to come down. And he loves you so much, but he also loves the way you fall apart when he overstimulates you, loves the way you whimper when he keeps licking you, loves how you try to squirm away but don't really mean it.

So he doesn't let you.

His hands tighten around your thighs, his grip firm, holding you there, keeping you spread, keeping you open, keeping you exactly where he wants you. And then he licks you again. Slowly, softly—just a teasing flick of his tongue against your swollen little clit.

Then another, just as light, just as lazy. His breath is hot against your drenched cunt, and he hums like he's savoring the taste, like he's enjoying the way your hips twitch, the way your body reacts even before your mind can catch up. He drags his tongue lower, tracing the mess he's made of you, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your slit, catching the slick, the warmth, the leftover pulse of your orgasm.

And then he moans against you, low and deep, the vibration sinking into your skin, making your legs jolt in his grip. He's drowning in it, in you, in the way your pussy is still fluttering, still so puffy and needy even after everything.

His mouth is hot and wet as he kisses your clit again, this time with more pressure, and when he flicks his tongue just right, he groans like he can't help himself, like he's the one getting wrecked from how fucking good you feel.

And you sob out his name. "Dick—fuck, please—"

But he doesn't stop. He flattens his tongue against your clit, licking slow, lazy circles, making sure you feel everything, making sure you take it, dragging his tongue through the mess he's made of you, humming as he laps at you, flicking his tongue just right.

Until you're whimpering. Until your thighs are shaking. Until you're trying to pull away, trying to lift yourself off the bike, trying to escape the overwhelming pleasure—but his hands hold you firm, keeping you there, making you feel all of it, until you're gasping, until you're pleading—

"Dick, please, I can't—I need you to fuck me, baby, please—"

That snaps him out of it.

His mouth leaves you with a final, wet kiss to your clit, his chest heaving as he presses one last, open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. Then he's nipping at your ass, kneading it, squeezing it, letting himself feel you, letting himself worship you. And then, he gets up. And fuck, he's so hard.

His dick aches, straining against his sweatpants, desperate to be inside you, to feel your tight little pussy squeezing around him, to fuck you the way he knows you need. He pulls himself out, his dick heavy in his hand, the head flushed, leaking precum. He groans softly as he slides it between your legs, pressing it against your soaked folds, sliding it through the slick mess, coating himself in your arousal.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters, watching the way his dick glides so easily through your wetness, watching how your slick clings to him in strings as he drags the tip through your folds, bumping against your swollen clit. "Look at you. So fucking wet for me."

And then, he pushes in. The head of his cock stretches you open, slow and deep, sinking inside your tight, drenched cunt, pressing in inch by inch, splitting you open around him. And fuck—you still struggle to take him, still stretch tight around his thick cock, still feel yourself pulse, struggling to accommodate him even after all this time.

But you love it.

You love how big he is, how good he feels, how he always makes you feel so fucking full, like you're made for him, like you need this, need him. And fuck—he loves it too.

Loves how tight you are, how needy, how your pussy clenches around him as he pushes deeper, struggling to take all of him, struggling to handle it—but trying anyway, because you always do, because you always take him so fucking well.

"Jesus, baby," he groans, his head falling forward, his hands gripping your hips, his breath ragged as he bottoms out with a slick little squelch, his dick buried all the way inside you.

You shudder, your whole body trembling, your fingers gripping the seat, a broken whimper spilling from your lips. And he leans over you, pressing his chest to your back, pressing his lips to your ear, his voice low, sweet, warm.

"You okay, pretty girl?"

You nod frantically. "Yes—yes, baby, please, move—"

And with a moan, he does. Slow, long thrusts, dragging his cock out almost all the way before pressing back inside, giving you everything, filling you completely, making sure you feel all of him with every deep, slow stroke.

And fuck—how can he not?

You're so good for him, so wet, so hot, squeezing his dick like you never want him to leave, and he needs to give you everything, has to make you feel good, has to let you feel how much he fucking loves you.

His hands slip under your shirt, sliding up your stomach, finding your tits, teasing your nipples as his cock thrusts into you, slow and deep, groaning into your ear, lost in the way your pussy grips him, lost in the way you moan for him, lost in the way you let him ruin you.

Dick groans against your ear, voice thick with arousal, breath hot against your skin as he keeps you right where he wants you—pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped tight around you, his cock buried deep inside your soaked little cunt.

And fuck, he can feel you.

The way your pussy clenches around him with every slow, deep thrust. The way your walls flutter when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot that makes you gasp. The way your slick coats his cock, dripping down his length, soaking him in your arousal.

"God, baby," he mutters, dragging his lips along your neck, licking, sucking, nipping, loving the way you shudder against him. "You feel so fucking good. Always so fucking tight for me."

His fingers slide over your tits, teasing your nipples, rolling them between his fingers as he fucks you—slow, deep, shallow thrusts, grinding into you, making sure you feel it, making sure you take it all, making sure you know how much he loves this, how much he loves you.

And your little moans—fuck, they drive him crazy. So sweet. So needy. So fucking perfect.

"Love your pussy, baby," he breathes, dragging his tongue along your throat, nipping at your jaw, rolling his hips into you just right to make you whimper. "So wet for me. So fucking soft. Always take my dick so well, don't you?"

You moan, your hands gripping his forearms, your nails digging into his skin as he grinds deeper, making your breath hitch, making your body tremble. And then, his hand slides lower. Fingers dipping between your thighs, finding your swollen little clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

And God, your whole body shakes.

Your moan breaks into a whimper, your cunt clenching so tightly around his cock that he groans against your throat, his hips stuttering, his fingers pressing firmer against your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make your thighs quiver.

"Yeah, that's it," he breathes, kissing the corner of your jaw, murmuring soft little praises into your ear, words meant just for you. "Feels good, baby? Love when I fuck you like this? Love when I take my time with you?"

You nod frantically, gasping when his fingers press just right, rubbing you so perfectly in sync with his thrusts, fucking you so deep, so slow, like he's savoring every second. And he is.

Because you drive him crazy. Because he loves you more than anything. Because he loves the way you fall apart in his arms, the way your little gasps turn to soft, needy moans, the way you tremble when he whispers in your ear, the way you whimper when he tells you—

"So fucking pretty, baby." His lips brush your ear, voice sweet, voice filthy. "So good for me. Love you so much. Love this perfect little pussy, all wet and warm for me, squeezing me so tight. Made for me, huh?"

And you sob out a moan, thighs shaking, pussy clenching around his dick, making him groan, making his fingers work your clit just a little faster, making you whimper as he thrusts slow and deep, keeping you right on the edge, keeping you panting, trembling, desperate—

"C'mon, pretty girl," Dick murmurs, voice thick with want, slow and sweet and hot against your ear. "Wanna feel you cum on my dick, baby."

His fingers press down on your clit, rubbing slow, teasing circles that make you whimper, that make your whole body tremble against him. And he knows—he knows you're close, knows exactly how to keep you there, hovering on that edge, making it last, making you feel everything.

And God, the way your pussy clenches around him, the way you squeeze all the precum from his dick, making every slow thrust sloppier, slicker—fuck, it drives him crazy.

"Feel that?" he breathes, rolling his hips slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch, making sure you feel how his dick drags inside you, stretching you open, making you shiver. "Feel how wet you are? Fuck, baby, you're dripping for me."

And you are. You can feel it—feel how your pussy grips him with every slow, deep thrust, feel how his dick slides against your walls, so slick, so fucking good, feel how his fingers rub your clit just right, how his body is solid and hot against yours, how he fucks you so good your thoughts scramble.

It's too much, it's not enough, you need more, you need him to ruin you—

"Dick," you gasp, clutching at his arms, nails digging into his skin, body shaking against his.

And he knows.

"Yeah, baby," he breathes, his voice soothing, his fingers pressing a little firmer, rubbing a little faster, his dick grinding deep, grinding right against that spot that makes you sob. "You gonna cum for me?"

And fuck, you can't stop it. The thick stretch of him, the way he splits you open, the way you still struggle to take him, even after all this time—like your pussy was made for him, like it's still adjusting, still molding around his dick every time he fucks you.

And God, the curve of him—it drives you crazy. The way it presses against every sensitive spot inside you, the way it drags so deep, so perfect, the way he angles his hips just right, making you shudder, making your breath hitch, making you feel everything.

He knows exactly what he's doing, knows exactly how to fuck you, knows exactly how to make you fall apart—and he loves it.

Loves feeling your pussy squeeze around him, loves how wet you are, how slick and messy and slippery, loves how your little whimpers turn into breathless moans, how your whole body trembles against him, how you fucking lose yourself on his dick.

And God, he loves his girl. Loves how you take him, loves how you want him, loves the way you beg, the way you moan, the way you don't care where you are, don't care if anyone sees, don't care about anything except how good he makes you feel.

Your whole body shudders, your pussy pulses, squeezing his dick, making a mess, your slick coating him, soaking his thighs, your legs shaking as the pleasure crashes over you, deep and wet and sloppy, and Dick groans, because fuck, you feel so fucking good.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, groaning against your skin as he fucks you through it, slow and deep, letting you feel it, letting you ride it out, letting your cunt milk his dick, squeezing him tight, making him throb. "There we go, pretty girl. Just like that. Just like that, baby."

And you sob, your body wracked with pleasure, your pussy clenching around his dick, dragging out every slow, sweet second of your orgasm. But it's not enough.

Your whole body is still buzzing, your nerves lit up, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in gasps, your heart hammering, and you want more, you need more, you need him.

"More," you whimper, voice needy, breathless, head falling back against his shoulder as you beg, "I want more, please—"

And he gives it to you, no hesitation. Because he loves fucking you. Loves fucking you however you want, however you need—but like this, slow and lazy, rolling his hips into you, feeling every little shiver, every little whimper, making sure you feel it, making sure you take it—

Yeah, this is his favorite.

Because God, you're so good for him. And he's gonna make sure you know it. And fuck, it's sloppy—messy and wet, the sounds of it obscene, your slick coating him, making every thrust loud, making his dick glisten every time he pulls back, only to sink back into you, thick and hot and deep.

And it's so good. Your body trembling, your legs weak, his arms strong around you, keeping you in place, keeping you right where he wants you, right where you need to be. And his voice—low and rough and wrecked against your ear, telling you how good you feel, how tight you are, how fucking perfect.

"God, baby," he groans, sucking a mark into your throat, hand slipping down between your legs again, fingers teasing your clit, circling it slow, firm, right in time with the slow drag of his dick. "You're so wet, fuck—dripping all over me, you hear that?"

And God, you do. You hear everything.

The slick, obscene sounds of your pussy, the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the breathless little moans spilling from your lips, the low, deep groans of his own, rumbling through his chest, against your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

And he knows you're close again, knows your body too well, knows the way you tense, the way your walls flutter around his dick, knows the way your little gasps turn breathless, shaky—knows exactly how to push you over the edge.

"Cum for me, baby," he breathes, rubbing slow, teasing circles over your clit, just enough, just right, pressing harder, thrusting deeper, fucking you slow and deep and so, so good.

With a sharp, broken gasp, your whole body locks up, pussy tightening, squeezing down hard around him, and he groans, breath shuddering, arms tightening around you as he fucks you through it, lets you ride it out, lets you lose yourself on his dick, lets you drown in it. And God, you do.

The pleasure hitting you in waves, crashing over you, rolling through you, heat rushing down your spine, leaving you wrecked, leaving you gasping, shaking, still grinding back against him, because you need more, need him, need everything.

And he gives it to you. Because of course he does. He's a giver, always has been, always will be—and he's still so fucking hard inside you.

Still throbbing, still fucking you slow, dragging every last bit of pleasure out of you, making sure you feel everything.

Every inch of his dick, every curve, every ridge and vein, every pulse, every slow, deep thrust—

And you're still so needy.

Still desperate, still trembling, still aching for more, still chasing it, rolling your hips back against him, moaning softly, pleading without words. And fuck, he loves it. Loves how much you want him, how much you need him, loves how good you are for him, how perfect.

And God, he wants to cum inside you. Even though he always does, even though he always pumps you full, he still fucking wants it, still needs to hear you say it—and he knows you will. Because you love it.

So when he whispers, "You want my cum?"

You fucking whimper. Nod frantically, grinding back against him, breathless, desperate, murmuring, "Yes, baby, please, I need it."

And fuck, that's all he needs. All he ever fucking needs. And then he gives it to you.

A little harder, a little faster, hips snapping against your ass, dick fucking into you, long and deep, chasing his release, groaning against your neck, panting against your skin, moaning your name.

And it wrecks you.

The way he moans for you, the way he fucks you so deep, the way his body tenses, muscles flexing, his arms strong around you, the way his hand stays between your legs, the way he presses his fingers against your clit, rubbing slow, firm, so fucking good.

And you cum again. Sharp and sudden and overwhelming, moaning so loud, your whole body locking up, pussy pulsing, squeezing tight around his dick. And fuck, he loses it. Groaning loud, moaning into your neck, his hips stutter, slamming deep one last time as his body shudders against yours.

His dick throbs, pulsing, pumping thick, hot ropes of cum into your cunt, filling you up just the way you love. It's so much, so hot, spilling deep, coating your walls, and you whimper, arching against him, squeezing him tighter like you can't get enough.

"Fuck, baby," he groans, voice wrecked, his breath ragged against your skin. "You feel that?"

You do. You feel every hot pulse, every slick, messy drip of his cum inside you. Your pussy flutters, clenching down on him, milking every last drop from his still-twitching dick, greedily keeping him inside.

His hands flex on your hips, keeping you steady, keeping you in place, and he swears under his breath as he feels you squeezing him like that, like you never want to let him go. His cum seeps out in slow, sticky dribbles, slicking your thighs, but he doesn't pull out, not yet.

He presses his body flush against yours, murmuring, "Fuck, I love filling you up, baby. Love keeping you full of me."

And God, you love it too. Love the heat of it, love the way it fills you up, love the way it spills out, love the way he gasps, the way his whole body shudders. Love how fucking wrecked he is, how fucking gone he is, how fucking perfect he makes you feel.

His grip tightens on your hips as he pulls you back against him, his dick slipping deeper, pushing his cum further inside your pussy. His breath is hot against your skin as he groans, the sound rough and needy, matching the way his hands spread you open, watching the way your slick, mixed with his release, coats his length as he slides in and out.

"Fuck, baby, look at that," he murmurs, voice thick with lust, his thumbs digging into your hips as he pulls you back onto his cock, each thrust just a little rougher, just a little filthier.

His eyes are locked on the way your cunt clenches around him, sucking him back in every time he pulls out. "You love this, don't you?" he murmurs, dragging his fingers up your spine, making you arch for him. "Love when I fuck you full, keep you dripping, keep you messy for me."

Your moans are desperate now, hands gripping onto the cool metal of his bike as he pounds into you, every thrust sending shockwaves through your body.

The way he stretches you open, the thick curve of his dick hitting deep, brushing against that sweet, sensitive spot inside you over and over, has your mind spinning. Every time he moves, you feel him pressing against your walls, filling you so completely, so perfectly, you can barely breathe. His hands slide up your waist, one reaching between your legs to rub slow, teasing circles against your swollen clit.

"Gotta make you cum again, baby," he groans, his thrusts getting rougher, his fingers pressing just right, his name tumbling from your lips in breathless moans.

Your pussy tightens around him, your walls fluttering, the pleasure building so fast it makes you dizzy. You whimper his name, your legs shaking, pleasure curling deep in your belly as he fucks you through it, his voice coaxing you over the edge.

"That's it, pretty girl. Give it to me. Show me how good it feels."

Your orgasm crashes over you, and he doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just keeps fucking you through it, his fingers still rubbing, his dick still stretching you, filling you, making it last until you can't take it. Your body trembles, your voice breaking as you gasp for air, the pleasure so intense you can barely hold yourself up.

Your pussy clenches tight around him, throbbing, squeezing, so slick and swollen, overstimulated, every nerve sparking like a live wire. Your whole body quivers, and you let out a desperate, broken whimper, feeling the wet, messy squelch of his dick sliding in and out, pushing his own cum even deeper. It's too much, too good, your thighs shaking, your breath catching, your skin hot and damp.

And he still isn't done.

He grips your hips, fucking into you deeper, his pace relentless, chasing another release. "Gonna fill you up again, baby," he groans, his voice thick with lust, his body tense against yours. "Gonna pump you so full you feel me dripping down your thighs. You want that, don't you?"

You nod frantically, moaning, begging, "Yes, baby, please, I need it."

That's all it takes.

He groans, deep and raw, his pace getting erratic, desperate. His hands grip you tighter, pulling you onto his cock, thrusting deep, fast, his breath ragged, moans spilling into your ear as he finally snaps, spilling inside you with a low, filthy groan.

You shudder as the heat of it spreads through you, the way he throbs inside making you whimper, your walls fluttering around him, milking every last drop. He stays buried deep, breathing hard against your skin, his hands smoothing over your waist, your stomach, possessive and tender.

"Fuck," he whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of your shoulder, his hands still gripping you tight. "You take it so good, baby. So fucking good for me."

And even as he catches his breath, he rocks into you just a little more, just to feel how perfectly you fit around him, how fucking good you feel when you're full of his cum.

Your whole body shudders, wrecked from the pleasure, from the way he's fucked you so good and so deep, left you trembling, sobbing, barely able to keep yourself standing. Your knees threaten to buckle, but you don't fall—because he's there.

Strong and steady behind you, his chest warm against your back, his hands firm as they hold you up, keeping you in place while his dick still pulses faintly inside you. He's still so deep, still stretching you out, his cum thick and leaking from where he’s buried, seeping out slow, messy, coating your inner thighs in sticky warmth.

"Shhh, I've got you, baby," he murmurs, lips brushing against the back of your neck as he presses soft kisses there, slow and sweet, shushing you gently while his hands smooth over your waist. His thumbs rub comforting circles into your overheated skin, grounding you, letting you come back to yourself. "Breathe for me, love. You okay?"

You sniffle, body still shaking as you nod, and he lets out a quiet little chuckle, kissing the shell of your ear, your temple, the damp curve of your cheek.

"So good for me," he praises, his voice all soft and warm, wrapping around you like something safe.

He stays like that, just holding you, keeping you steady while your heart slows, while your body catches up to itself, while your mind drifts back from the haze of pleasure. His chin comes to rest on your shoulder, and he sighs, deep and content, letting his hands settle at your hips, thumbs stroking lazy, soothing lines over your skin.

After a while, he murmurs, "Ready to head back home and let me clean you up, baby?"

You hum, nodding sluggishly, all soft and spent, and the sound you make when he finally—finally—pulls out is a wrecked little whimper, a shuddering gasp as you feel the way he leaves you empty.

He kisses your cheek, murmuring, "I'm sorry, my love," because he knows how sensitive you are, how raw and used you feel, even as his cum spills out of you, dripping down the inside of your thighs in thick, messy trails.

And fuck, the sight of it nearly ruins him.

His hands flex at your hips, and he has to force himself not to do it—not to spread you open and push it back inside, because that's exactly where it belongs, inside your pretty little pussy, keeping you full, making sure it stays. He bites his lip, exhaling hard, but then you shiver, and he blinks out of it, groaning softly as he tucks himself back into his sweatpants before sliding your panties and leggings back up.

You turn in his arms, sluggish, needy, clinging to him with tired limbs, and he lets you. He wraps you up tight, tucks you against his chest, his chin resting against the top of your head as he whispers, "I've got you, baby. It's okay. We'll be home soon, yeah?"

You nod, nuzzling against him, eyes heavy, body still trembling faintly in the aftermath, and he smiles, cupping the back of your head, stroking his fingers through your hair before he helps you back onto his bike. He makes sure you're settled, hands firm at your waist as you swing your leg over, and fuck—he knows.

He knows exactly what you feel when your panties, full of his cum, press up against your still-sensitive cunt, the slick warmth rubbing against you, making you suck in a sharp little breath as you shift against the seat.

His fingers squeeze at your hips, and his voice is low, teasing as he murmurs, "Feel that, baby?"

You bite your lip, nodding, and his grin turns wicked, but he doesn't push, doesn't tease you any more than that. He just pulls your arms around his waist, making sure you're snug against him, and then he starts the bike, the low rumble vibrating through you as he takes off, heading home.

And the whole way back, he's thinking about the mess between your legs, about the way you feel pressed up against him, warm and soft and still twitching slightly with aftershocks. His grip tightens on the handlebars, and he exhales hard through his nose, resisting the urge to push the speed higher, to get home faster, to lay you out and do it all over again.

But tonight—tonight he just wants to clean you up, wrap you in one of his t-shirts, and kiss your pretty face. By the time you make it home, you're already half-asleep against his back, your arms slack around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

He smiles as he parks, turning the engine off before squeezing your thigh, murmuring, "Baby, we're home."

You make a soft, sleepy sound, nuzzling against him, and his heart clenches at how sweet you are. He doesn't even make you move, just swings off the bike before helping you down, steadying you when your legs wobble. You blink up at him, dazed and adorable, and he can't help himself—he cups your face in both hands and kisses you, soft and lingering, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones.

"Let's get you inside, love," he murmurs against your lips.

But as soon as you take a step, your legs nearly give out, and he's got you before you can even think about falling. A small chuckle rumbles from his chest, warm and fond.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Without another word, he bends slightly and scoops you up into his arms, holding you close as he carries you inside. You don't protest—just tuck your face against his neck, breathing him in, the heat of his skin, the lingering scent of leather and the night air. He walks up the stairs effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, like holding you is the most natural thing in the world.

In the bathroom, he sets you down gently, keeping his hands on your waist until he’s sure you're steady. "Let's get you cleaned up, baby," he says, voice soft as he reaches in to turn on the shower, letting the water warm up.

Then he's undressing you, peeling away your clothes with slow, careful hands, pressing kisses to each inch of skin he reveals. You're already blinking sleepily at him, and that little pout he loves so much starts to form on your lips—unconscious, drowsy, so sweet it makes his chest ache. He smiles, running his thumb over your bottom lip before leaning in to kiss it.

"My sweet, pouty girl," he murmurs against your mouth, teasing but impossibly fond.

He undresses too before stepping into the shower with you, guiding you under the warm spray. You sigh at the heat, your body melting against his as you press close, clinging to him with sleepy hands. He chuckles, smoothing his hands down your back, keeping you steady against him.

"You're so cute like this," he says, pressing a kiss to your damp hair.

He washes you both with slow, careful hands, massaging the shampoo into your scalp, rubbing gentle circles along your body, making sure to clean every inch of you. You hum softly as his fingers trace along your skin, your arms still wrapped around him, like you don't want to let go even for a second. Not that he minds—he loves when you get clingy like this, all warm and soft in his arms.

Once you're both clean, he turns the water off and grabs a towel, wrapping you up before lifting you into his arms again. You make a tiny noise of protest, burying your face in his chest, and he laughs, rubbing a hand up and down your back.

"I know, baby. I've got you."

He dries you off gently, warm towel brushing over your skin as he murmurs quiet, loving words—praises, reassurances, things he knows will soothe you further. Once you're warm and dry, he tugs one of his t-shirts over your head, letting it swallow you up, before guiding a clean pair of panties up your legs.

He loves you in his clothes—loves how small you look in them, how the fabric drapes over you, hanging loose on your frame. There's something about it, about you wrapped up in something that's his, that makes his chest ache, that makes him want to pull you close and never let go.

"There we go," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "All set, my love."

Then he's picking you up again, carrying you into the bedroom, and laying you down in bed before sliding in beside you. You immediately curl into him, nuzzling into his chest, your legs tangling with his, your body molding against him like you were made to fit right there. His arms come around you, holding you close, one hand smoothing over your back, the other rubbing gentle circles into your hip.

He kisses your face—your forehead, your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the soft curve of your jaw—until he feels your body fully relax against him, your breathing slowing, your fingers stilling where they'd been tracing over his skin.

"Sleep, pretty girl," he whispers, pressing one last kiss to your temple.

You sigh softly, nuzzling closer, your body warm and pliant in his arms. Your voice is barely more than a whisper, drowsy and sweet, as you murmur, "Love you so much, baby."

His chest tightens at how soft you sound, how utterly at peace you are in his arms. He tucks the blankets around you, making sure you're wrapped up and comfortable, then presses another kiss to your temple, lingering there for a moment.

"I love you too," he whispers against your skin, his voice low, full of warmth, full of everything he feels for you.

You hum in response, already slipping deeper into sleep, your breath warm against his chest. He watches you for a few moments longer, running his fingers gently through your hair, before closing his eyes and letting himself relax too, holding you close through the night.

[writers-potion]

Let's Scare Your Readers!

Combine the techniques below with the techniques for building suspense to give your readers a palm-sweating sensation!

Darkness

If absolute darkness doesn't make sense in your story, aim for semi-darkness: dusk, a single lantern/candle, heavily curtained windows, a thick canopy of trees, etc. Flickering lights that create confusing shadows can also be effective.

Let the darkness pool gradually around your MC. Show the night or fog rolling in, the camp-fire subsiding, or the candles burn down one by one.

Examples:

The candle sputtered. The light wavered.

The lamp cast its smoky light on the brick walls.

The night was silent, but for the dry rustling of leaves as the wind whispered through the trees.

Sound

Of all the senses, the sense of hearing serves best to create excitement and fear.

the clacking of the villain's boots on the floor tiles, the ticking of the wall clock, a dog barking outside, the roaring of a distant motor, a door slamming somewhere in the house, water dripping from the ceiling, the chair squeaking, the whine of the dentist's drill, the scraping of the knife on a whetstone, a faraway siren wailing the heroine's own heartbeat thudding in her ears.

When the surroundings are dark, your MC will grow to be more aware of the surrounding noise, even if it's not relevant to the plot.

Chill

Make it uncomfortably cold for the MC, and your readers will shiver with them.

powercut cutting off the heating, nightfall naturally bringing in lower temperatures.

winter, evening, a cool breeze that chills everything, survivors running our of fuel, the ceiling fan is over-active, stone builindg/caves/sbuterranean chambers tend to be cold.

Describe how the cold pinpricks the MC's skin, stunting their thinking and making them shiver.

The opposite can also be effective: turn up the temperature using a stove, an overheated motor, or the sweltering sun to make the MC sweat.

Isolation

This is a common technique: let the MC face the monster alone with no external help. It's also easier to limit the resources and escape routes available for the MC.

an abandoned factory, remote mountaintop, the depth of an unexplored cave.

It can also be more everyday locations: a construction site, the sewer, a malfunctioning bathroom.

Meet the Monster

When describing the threat, spread out your descriptions so that (1) the scene has constant action (2) you have material to build up later.

Good details to show:

hands, fingers, nails, talons, claws

the sound of the voice, growl, roar

the smile, teeth

the texture of skin, fur, scales.

Get Visceral

Never tell your readers that the MC is scared. Describe the fright using these physical effects:

the skin crawling, breath stalling, scalp pricking, clenching of the chest, stomach curling, heart thudding, sweat tricking down, clogged throat, pulse in the ears, cold sweat, chills up/down the spine, stomach knotting, breathless, etc.

The Gory Bits

Instead of describing everything, limit yourself to particular details, keeping overall description short. Non-stop gore doesn't shock - its bores.

Create a contrast: the child's mutilated corpse still clutches the doll. The brains from the baby's plt skull spill across the fluffy pink blanket.

Use similes, comparing gruesome buts to something from ordinary life. The intestines look like spaghetti in tomato sauce. The blood spilling from the mouth looks like lipstick.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* . ───

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[evieelyzabethh]

"awkward"

⭒"you look at me different, so i let you see my body"⭒ Arcane characters walking in on you changing (modern au!, pre-relationship) {fem!reader}

cast ✧ Vi, Ekko, Jayce

cw ☞ slightly suggestive for everyone, slightly pervy jayce + airheaded!reader

♞Vi♞

♞Shocker to no one, Vi doesn't often knock before she enters a room. It's a bad habit she keeps meaning to get better about, but with how often she hangs around your apartment, she thinks of it as her own place. Why would she knock to go into your room? She doesn't knock to enter her own bedroom, and yours is interchangeable to her. Besides, you've been friends for years, there really isn't much she could see that would surprise her. You used to bathe together for fucks sake, granted that was before either of you could speak and ended before your adolescent tongue had figured out how to properly pronounce the letter V, but still.

♞If not for her sake, at least for yours. The number of nights you'd thought your house was broken into only to find it was Vi in your kitchen making herself a sandwich was starting to get a bit ridiculous. It's not even like she's particularly stealthy, she really can't sneak around to save her life, but sometimes you really wonder about putting a bell around her neck.

♞You knew she was heading out before you got in the shower only because she shouted it through the door. You didn't hear much through the pressure of the water mixing with the music you had blasting, but you thought you heard the door shut faintly and that was enough to start your everything shower in what you thought was complete solitude. You thought you would've been met with empty air and the clothes you set out on your bed when you left the bathroom towel-less, but you were sadly mistaken. Vi, however, was pleasantly surprised.

You didn't notice her at first as she was on her knees on the opposite side of your bed, feeling around the floor with phone flashlight dimly lighting the dark space beneath your bed. The sound of the door shutting behind you gains her attention, her head popping up to see you...in front of her...naked. Your first instinct is to scream as you grab your clothes and try to figure out what's more important to cover. She sits there dumbfounded with her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide. "Violet!" You shout, wishing she would cover her eyes rather than her gaping mouth, but she is practically frozen until you shout her full name. "Violet?" It almost sounds foreign coming from your lips. Her brows furrow in confusion. Who's Violet? It doesn't help not much is happening behind those eyes. The lights are on, and no one is home. You could've called her Vi and she still would've been perplexed. "That is your name isn't it." Is it? It is! She's Violet, you're her best friend of years...naked and so very attractive and shit she's staring. She stands up quickly, maybe too quickly as she stumbles over her feet as she desperately tries to turn herself around or at least avert her gaze. "Yeah, but I only get the Violet treatment when I do something wrong. I didn't mean to catch you fresh out the shower." "You weren't supposed to be here. Didn't you say you were going to the gym or something!" Getting dressed is made infinitely harder while trying to avoid her gaze. You somehow managed to nearly put your pants on backwards during your struggle. "I mean I was but then I got hungry, so I made something to eat and then I remembered that I left my keys in here, so I came back for them." "And you didn't think to knock?!" The funny thing is, you had fantasized about this scenario before, but it's kinda like how dancing in the rain looks so much more fun in the movies than it feels in actuality. In a porno, yeah, this would be great. She'd throw you on the bed, you'd play coy before eventually confessing you had been waiting for this to happen, and the sound of fireworks in the distance would be covered by the sound of your headboard banging against the wall. You weren't prepared for this. You'd think that would make it hotter, but performance takes some preparation. Spontaneity needs at least the possibility of it happening, and as far as you knew she was hot, sweaty, and punching a sandbag half an hour away. "Please stop yelling at me with your tits out, I can't focus." You collect your bearings long enough to hook the closures on your bra and throw a shirt over your head, completely out of breath and exhausted. "Vi, I don't know why your keys would be in here. Last I saw them, they were on the couch." Her cheeks red, her eyes wide, and her lips pursed, she has a thought for the first time in the past ten minutes. Shit, I did leave my keys there. Not knowing how to leave the situation, she robotically walks to your door, her head down in shame as she mumbles apology after apology and doesn't breathe until the door shuts behind her. When she gets over the initial shock, she does have a bit of pep in her step for the rest of the day. To put it simply, she was given a joy that no one would be able to take from her for at least a month.

★Ekko★

★He thinks he's great at acting nonchalant after the fact, but he is in shambles. It's even worse that you weren't great friends beforehand. Like, if he was to say 'hello' of course you'd say it back, but it was really nothing more than that. Passing acquaintances who, at least for him, was desperately in love with the other to the point of roses, pearls, and unsent love letters.

★He's willing to admit it was completely his fault. You were close enough, or rather it was his way of flirting and trying to get closer to you, that he would swing by and use you as a recipe tester. You were just down the hall from him, practically neighbors, and what was more neighborly than brining by a plate of food every once in a while. He was still workshopping some dumpling recipe, unsure if he got the texture of the wrapper quite right, and he didn't give you any notice, figuring that if you were too busy you just wouldn't open the door for him. When he shows up and you open the door for him, looking as if you had just woken up, he's too distracted to listen to the words coming from your mouth to register that you just told him you were about to get in the shower and that you'd be out in a bit.

★He tentatively waits in your living room for a few minutes, hot plate growing lukewarm in his lap as he twiddles his thumbs on your couch when he hears a large bang come from your room. Being the chivalrous, brave young man Ekko is, he barges in without a second thought, immediately distracted by the sight of you completely topless. He freezes, but only for a moment, swinging the door closed and shouting 'I'm sorry!" from behind it as he basks in his shame on the couch.

It's been a week. A terrible, miserable week of sleepless nights and forced smiles and shame. A terrible week for Ekko that is, Scar finds it hilarious how often he fucks up his words to the point of silence. If the humiliation wasn't bad enough, he hasn't built the courage to even be seen by you. Any place possible to cross paths, in the downstairs lobby to get mail or on the stairs after a grocery trip, his usual dopey smile flashes by in an instant as he moves to duck his head. No 'hello', just the jingling of his keys in the lock and the slamming of his door. You think its endearing how embarrassed he is. It makes you feel even better about how embarrassed you are. Your friends had to have gotten sick of you by now with how often you think about it. "Do you think he saw...them?" you ask, the answer already in your head but you're hoping someone is going to feed your delusions or at least lie to you. "Girl, of course he saw them, he's a lovesick idiot, not blind." You hate how nonchalantly she says it, as if you haven't been crushing on this guy for weeks and him seeing your bare chest is just a normal Tuesday afternoon. "Well, then why hasn't he said anything since?" Because surely, he would. Right? And, believe me, he does want to say something. In his own apartment he's talking to his roommate, Scar, about it, forcing him to roleplay as you, which he does begrudgingly only so he can hold it over his head later. Not that Scar is any help, he does your voice all wrong and slaps him every time he starts to ramble. "Because he's too busy still thinking about it. I really don't know what you're so upset about. You gave him another reason to be obsessed with you." Yeah, and it's absolutely killing him. He feels gross, like some pervy teenage boy. Like a peeping tom! Ekko is a nice young man. He respects women! He doesn't even say the word 'bitch', and he knows that you're much more than your figure. His heart knows and his brain knows. His dick doesn't, but that doesn't matter!! When he decides to settle this once and for all, he is a complete wreck. His palms are sweaty, he spent more time than usual picking an outfit that screamed 'I'm not a pervy loser', he even got you flowers to make the apology really official. After standing at your doorstep for a few minutes to work up the nerve, he eventually knocks, slightly surprised when you answer the door as quickly as you do. You stare at each other for a few moments, flowers awkwardly thrust into your hands as he licks his lips and wipes the moisture of his hands onto his pants. "Hey, so I just wanted to apologize for a couple days ago when I totally accidentally and absolutely not on purpose at all caught you while changing. I heard a bang, and I went to go check it out and I wasn't thinking before I went in there which is totally my bad. I completely understand if you feel violated and if you would like you never have to see my face every again, but I really just wanted to come by and make it abundantly clear that I am not some gross creepy guy and I never wanted to make you uncomfortable and-" "Ekko?" He's so glad you stopped him when you did because he could feel himself going blue in the face from how fast he forced his words out. "It's cool. We're good." "We are?" If he wasn't standing right in front you, he may have just literally jumped for joy. "Yes, Ekko, it's ok. I was more concerned when you started avoiding me. I thought you were like grossed out or something." And he doesn't know how to respond. Something tells him that saying you have a nice rack is probably not the way to go. "NO! I mean, no I wasn't grossed out. If I may, you looked really pretty, not that I saw much anyway. Your towel covered the...important stuff. I just assumed you would want your space from me after that." "If I wanted space, I would've asked. I missed you." He could faint after hearing that. "Yeah, I missed you too."

❂Jayce ❂

❂His crush on you is starting to get really embarrassing, actually. He signs his notes with his first name and your last name, he's giving himself pep-talks in his foggy bathroom mirror, and the number of wet dreams is really starting to get out of hand. It's not like he hasn't imagined what you'd look like undressed before he sees it, on the contrary, some of those dreams are so realistic he gets confused when you don't acknowledge them.

❂He is starting to make progress, by which I mean he was convinced by Mel to start interacting with you like a normal human rather than staring at you from a far. He invites you over to his place, he gets invited to yours, to everyone but you it's very obvious that he's courting you. You don't think much of your walks around the gardens, your coffee shop meetups, or when he invites you to nice events. You think he's just another one of your friends.

❂Jayce knew you liked shopping, why else would you ask him to accompany you so often. At first, he thought it was your way of flirting with him, or at the very least your way of getting someone else to carry your bags, but everything is very platonic. Does it hurt it bit when he finds out you only ask him as a last resort when your girlfriends are unavailable, yeah, but he gets to join you in the changing room, so he doesn't have much of a problem with it.

You had been in this shopping mall for hours, or at least it felt that way. His feet hurt, there were rings starting to form on his arm from where he held your bags, he felt like he was getting a workout in from all the shoe boxes that were shoved into his arms. He could barely see what store he was being dragged into, only feeling the warmth of your hand wrap around his. It wasn't until an employee offered to take the load off him that he sees you're in yet another clothing store. What started as last minute Christmas shopping eventually became buying a whole new winter wardrobe. You had already gone through everyone on your list, including him. You forced him to wait outside of the store with his eyes closed as you asked the man behind the counter to wrap it for you and ship it to your address. He wishes you weren't so good at keeping secrets, because he certainly worked at getting it out of you before giving up after you switched the conversation topic for the umpteenth time. Now, he aimlessly walked around a few paces behind you, occasionally rubbing a piece of fabric between his fingers as you hop from rack-to-rack flitting through sizes and adding looping another hanger over your arm. Occasionally, you'll hold up a skirt or a top and ask his opinion on the color or whether or not they go together, to which he responds to the best of his ability. 'No, I think you should go with the other color; compliments your undertones better.' or 'I would go with the tighter skirt, the flowy one doesn't match the top'. He thinks he's gotten better at shopping with you. You used to look at him like he was crazy when he gave his opinion, but recently he's overheard one of your girlfriends say, you've trained him well. After thoroughly moving through all the displays, you make your way to the fitting rooms, going back and forth with attendant who gives him a death glare as he walks past. "The fitting rooms are only meant for one person." He knew what that tone meant. I don't get paid enough to clean cum out of those cubbies. "Oh, don't worry about it, he's just a friend." The man looks him up and down while Jayce stands there awkwardly, hands clasped together behind his back with a strained smile on his face. "Right..." And bless your heart because you are not picking up on his disgust or distrust that what you're saying is true. "Right! So, if you'll excuse us-" Jayce would look smugly back at the man but he knows exactly how honest you're being. He wishes you two were about to fuck back here, God know he's been thinking about on everyone one of these trips. Instead, he sits on the small wooden stool provided, half of him hanging off of it, as you close the door behind you and meticulously sort the clothes you picked out. He struggles on where to place his gaze as you strip nonchalantly, folding whatever you had on carefully and setting in on his bouncing thigh as he prays to whatever God there is that if he's already hard you're either to kind to say anything about it or too preoccupied to notice it. He's trying his best not to stare at how your tits fill out that bra, but with how long it's taking you to figure out the strappy shirt you picked out and how cramped the room is, of course his eyes naturally flit to them and stay there. By the time you figure it out, his eyes may as well be cartoonishly popping out of his skull. "What do you think?", you ask cheerfully, still playing with the straps and flattening out the fabric against your skin. "I like you." "Aw, I like you too, Jay; you have good taste in shoes. Now what about the top?"

[jjennuine]

BUS STOP ────── confronting your best friend for avoiding you ends in an unexpected way ..

엔하이펜 니키 x fem reader / non idol au ────fluff . angst . best friends to lovers . high school au ♡ skinship . swearing . bickering 734WC ｡｡ ARCHIVE ( ˶ˆ3ˆ˵ )

- ai’s love note 💌 this is not proof read sorry ^^

“You’re avoiding me.” Riki stops in his tracks when he hears the slight crack in your voice, hesitation filling his mind. Sighing, he slowly turns to face you, an anxious expression on his face.

“I don't know what you’re talking about” You raise an eyebrow in suspicion, and Riki seems to notice. His behavior becomes cautious because he knows you can read him like an open book.

You let out a sigh, “Did I do anything wrong?” The tall male gulps and scratches the back of his neck. "N-no," he mutters. You know he’s lying — you've known him since you were five.

Whenever you try to greet him in the halls, he avoids your gaze and walks away, during lunchtime he seems to disappear from your sight, and he won’t talk to you unless you force him to. So here you are, confronting him at a bus stop.

“Tell me the truth, I don't like you avoiding me” He sighs as he knows he has to give up his facade, but instead decides to ramble out excuses and dumb reasons so he doesn't have to admit the embarrassing truth.

You scoff at his stupid excuses, determined to know the truth — you shove him onto the bench, trying to appear intimidating even though he’s still taller than you sitting down. The height difference causes a flush of red to spread across your cheeks, making you flustered.

Thoughts race through your mind as you overthink why he has been avoiding you. Is he tired of you? Is he embarrassed to be your friend? Or does he simply hate you now? Your heart aches at the possibility that it might be true.

Riki noticed your sad expression, and it felt like his heart shattered into a million pieces. The last thing he wanted was to see you upset. Yet, he couldn’t help but feel his heart flutter at the adorable pout on your lips — it was as if you had cast a spell on him.

“Listen.. It’s not that I don't want to be friends with you anymore, it's just-” You hated all of the possible reasons he might have had, so you cut him off. “Then why? Just tell me the truth.”

Riki’s eyes widened, and he felt like he could melt from embarrassment. He was hesitant to admit the reason behind his feelings. You rambled about him probably being embarrassed to be your friend and his brows furrowed to see you think he could ever feel that way. “I know it! You hate me don’t you-” But then you hear a deep voice snap, and you freeze in place.

“I like you!”

Your eyes widened, and the world seemed to stop. Riki looked down in shame, and you were still in disbelief. “You like me..?” Riki nodded, flustered as he fidgeted with his fingers.

“I'm sorry.. I know we’re just friends but-” Riki flinched in surprise when he felt you tug on his hoodie and kiss his lips, his heart thumping in his chest. His eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights.

After a few moments, he felt himself close his eyes and kiss you back. His hands gently explored the skin of your waist while you played with his hair. When you finally let go to catch your breath, Riki wore a pout on his lips, clearly not wanting you to stop. In Riki's eyes, it was as if you had stars shining within your eyes, and he couldn’t bring himself to look away.

He was in a love-struck trance, his mind was only on you. But then he felt a light slap on his cheek. Plap! “That’s for being stupid! We could have been dating right now if you weren't so dumb!”Typical of you, he thought. He let out a laugh at your offended look and pulled you in for a second kiss, making you the flustered one.

But what you two didn't know was that Sunoo and Jungwon were watching with binoculars, gasping at the two of you.

“Hah! Pay up, Jungwon” Jungwon rolled his eyes, knowing he had to pay Sunoo twenty bucks because he lost the bet. There was no way that Riki was smart enough to confess, but he had misjudged him.

Jungwon scoffed as he reached for his school bag and reluctantly handed the money to Sunoo, making Sunoo giggle, knowing he was right.

[blossomwritesthings]

𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 ˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊ [𝒎.𝒍 𝒅𝒓𝒂𝒃𝒃𝒍𝒆]

pairing: idol!mark lee x needy!afab reader

genre: smut, 18+ content ahead. minors dni ˚₊ · »-♡→ inspired by this nsfwtwt post!!

word count: 1.5k

synopsis: sometimes your shyness gets the better of you when it comes to being intimate with mark. it's a good thing your boyfriend doesn't mind giving orders.

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, explicit language, teasing/foreplay, fingering, brief mention of fisting, pet names (nothing degrading)

🖤 - ̥۪͙۪˚┊❛ other cool stuff ❜┊˚ ̥۪͙۪◌! ࿐ྂ

. . . ⇢ ˗ˏˋcheck out my masterlist! ࿐ྂ

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ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ sɪᴛᴇs (ᴛʜɪs ɪɴᴄʟᴜᴅᴇs ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs). © ʙʟᴏssᴏᴍᴡʀɪᴛᴇsᴛʜɪɴɢs ⤐ ᴀʟʟ ʀɪɢʜᴛs ʀᴇsᴇʀᴠᴇᴅ

You were so, so incredibly shy around your boyfriend sometimes. Especially if things got intimate. Even though you had been together for so long, you couldn't help yourself. He was just too goddamned perfect for you to ever truly exist around him - to ever let loose.

And Mark knew this, despite your best efforts to try and hide the shyness and anxiety that would bubble up in your tummy and sprout forth in your mind whenever he was around. It was so noticeable to him - from the way you'd pull away slightly each time he started making out with you, or how you'd whimper just a little bit each time he teased you mercilessly.

Deep down, you think that Mark liked the shyness. Even if it meant he had to take things a little slower at times, or talk you through certain feelings and thoughts. He loved to care for you, after all. He fucking adored you and worshipped the ground you walked on. So he didn't seem to mind it too much.

That's how you found yourself in your current position: completely bare expect for the thin pink-and-white panties that covered your heat, limbs sprawled haphazardly across your yellow daisy-printed bedspread. And with Mark bare on top, his broad, sculpted shoulders gleaming in the dark.

The moon's light shone somewhere in the distance of your peripheral vision, casting an ominous, cool tone to everything in your shared bedroom. Mark's own figure was shrouded in hues of blue, thanks to the nearby curtains that shielded the two of you from the chaotic world outside.

Your boyfriend was staring down at you, walnut-brown eyes already a little blown out and hooded. You could feel the blush begin to creep up the column of your neck, the unmistakable flutter of nervousness cascading throughout your entire system, aching in your jugular.

"Baby..."

Is all he said at first. Voice a soft whisper, staring down at you like nothing else in the entire world mattered to him right then. Or ever, really. He was kneeling back on his heels, warm palms grounding you by resting atop your bare knees.

"I-I know, Mark... just, give me a second. Yeah?" You started to say, swallowing down the strangled groan that wanted to burst forth from your mouth. You didn't know why you were getting shy - the two of you had been in this exact same positions hundreds of times.

But sometimes, it was simply the presence of Mark Lee that left you teetering over the edge. That left you unbalanced in a way that was so very delicious and yet daunting all at the same time. It forced bees to erupt in your tummy just as it sent a rippling of heat through your entire bloodstream.

The way he always gave you so much attention - called you the prettiest named, gave you all of the love that you could ever ask for. The way he was always so fucking in-tune with your needs and wants. You never even had to tell him what you wanted, because 95% of the time, he'd already know before you could get it out.

At the smidge of stuttering in your voice, Mark leaned closer into your form, mouth hovering over one of your knees. His lips ghosted across the skin there, before he was giving it a gentle kiss. "You always get like this, babydoll. Just take some deep breaths, okay? I gotchu." His eyes never fled from yours, as he spoke against your flesh.

His mouth touching even the littlest semblance of your skin left your craving more in the most insane of ways. It made the feral beast deep inside of you start to claw its way out of its holds in the dungeons of your heart. It left you whining out quietly, "But Mark- please-"

But he was already beginning to shake his head, his fingers pressing into the sides of your knees. And you knew it was too late. The switch was flipped almost instantly across his face - from the sound of you crying out his name, from the vision of you lying underneath him practically naked.

"Now... open up and show me, princess. I wanna see your pretty pussy lips," he said in the darkest of voices, lips kiss swollen from your earlier make out. Slowly, he was prying your legs open. And you let him, despite the incessant pounding beneath your ribcage. Despite the wetness that had soaked through your panties long before your toppling onto the bed.

Almost as quickly as it started, it stopped. And Mark had you right where he wanted you. Completely open and spread for him, slick running down your soft thighs, the moonlight filtering in through the nearby windowpane and casting a glittering shine of quicksilver across your stomach. Truly, it was a sight that only the Greek Gods could've conjured up - could have painted with their ethereal brushstrokes.

At your submission to him, Mark was smirking incrementally. "See? Wasn't that hard to listen to me, was it?" His mouth found the inside of your knee, as he began a trail of wet kisses down your leg. Drawing closer to your aching heat.

"Baby- don't tease me. Please..." You found yourself moaning out, head tossing and turning across the white downy pillows.

Mark's focus flashed from your covered pussy up to your face that was red with a flush. "Why? You're so fucking cute when I tease you."

"Because- I don't need your fingers right now. I need your cock." You cried outloud, just as his palm found the mound at the centre of you that was barely covered by the wet mesh fabric of your panties.

Raising a dark eyebrow in question, Mark let out a deep chuckle. "Funny... 'cause I've barely touched you and you're already dripping," he said with a sardonic laugh. Without any warning, he was pushing your panties aside, swiping his fingers up your cunt, pressing his digits to your swollen clit.

Your spine convulsed across the bedsheets at the immediate contact, and you had to hold everything in yourself back to nog come undone right then and there.

"Guess you don't want me fingering you, though-" Mark started to say with a taunt, even though he began to dip two fingers into your entrance and curl them towards the sky. Immediately, he found that gooey, warm spot inside of you. Pressing up against it, massaging it, he elicited a string of breathless cries from you. "Such a shame, because stretching this tiny pussy open is one of my favorite pastimes."

Just then, he started to pull his fingers out, and at the feeling of the drawling absence you haphazardly shot one of your hands down to meet his between your legs. Quickly taking ahold of his wrist, you shoved his fingers back into you.

Giving him a sheepish smile, you giggled lightly. "A-actually wait. Hold on, maybe... maybe you can finger me for a little bit longer." You both knew he had been teasing you and wasn't asking for your permission to stop or begin anything. You had given everything to him freely a long time ago, and by the looks of your shaking thighs and dripping cunt, your body had submitted to him all the same.

Your boyfriend's pearly canines flashed your way after that, against plump lips. "That's my good, pretty girl." He managed to fit three fingers in, pumping them in and out of you at a toe-curling pace. You rode the high, moving against his hand with a practiced kind of precision. "My pretty princess... so fucking tight and hot for me. Only me, right? You don't let anyone else fist you, hmm pretty girl?"

He slid a fourth finger into your entrance after that, the stretch so delicious your eyes rolled into the back of your skull and you swore you saw galaxies splash across your vision. Gradually, your hips lifted up from the bed in anticipation of your release.

"I didn't hear an answer, babydoll."

Mark's voice cut through your reverie of pleasure, and you stared up as him with a faint smile and blown pupils. It felt like you were looking through the rainbow-tinted glass of a kaleidoscope. "Y-Yeah, Mark. Only you."

He reached out to you, one hand taking a fir grasp of your hip and pressing you down into the bed the harder he pumped his fingers in and out of you. You were so wet, the slip and slide left the scent of sex and the lewd sound of lovemaking to resonate across the entire room.

"Need you to moan for me, okay princess? Let everyone know- the neighbors and the people below us... how good I give it to you. How good your boyfriend fucks this perfect pussy of yours." Mark said with a demanding kind of tone. Your high-pitched moaning began to lift your hips off of the bed again. This time, Mark took full action against you by dragging his hand away from your waist and pressing it against your tummy. Gradually, you could feel the weight of his warm palm meeting the thrusts of his fingers, as he ground his digits between your clenching walls and that golden spot deep inside of you. "C'mon, babydoll... moan for me."

And that's all it took for the screams of ecstasy to start falling from your lips.

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊fin.

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[avelera]

(Arcane Meta) The Hexcore was already controlling Viktor in S1

As a follow-up to my post about how the Hexcore's control over Viktor in S2 is probably best compared to the One Ring from Lord of the Rings, in that it magically amplifies desires but to what extent its manipulations could be confused with free will is very hard to determine, I wanted to offer this piece of comparison to Lord of the Rings as further evidence that Viktor is under some level of control from the Hexcore as early as S1.

I was fortunate enough to take a course on Tolkien's works in college and there's one point our professor made that stuck with me. He pointed out that Frodo was always doomed to fail at casting the One Ring into Mt. Doom because he was already unable to do so back at Bag End, before he'd even spent significant time with the Ring.

It's less apparent in the show than in the book, so here's the quote,

"To Frodo's astonishment and distress the wizard threw it suddenly into the middle of a glowing corner of the fire. Frodo gave a cry and groped for the tongs; but Gandalf held him back."

Though his time with the Ring has only barely just begun, already Frodo is distressed at the thought of harm coming to the Ring and is trying to save it, before he even stepped out his door. How then was he ever supposed to throw it into the fire of Mt. Doom after having spent months in close proximity to it?

Well, this moment reminds me rather strikingly of this one:

This is only S1, the corruption of the Hexcore has only spread to Viktor's hands and leg, but it has also just killed Sky right in front of Viktor. He has been weeping on the ground, mourning her when he then resolves to destroy it and rises up, brandishing the stool.

Unlike Frodo, who had no idea what the Ring was at that point and still was distressed by the idea of harm coming to it, Viktor just saw the Hexcore kill someone right in front of him. And yet, like Frodo, he can't bring himself to harm it.

The Hexcore then actually physically shies away from the stool, which is where I get the notion at least that it is sentient, and then because Viktor had the audacity to raise a hand to it and fail to follow through, it knocks him out like a light:

This is why Viktor has to beg Jayce to destroy the Hexcore, and even there he can barely get the words out, and he only makes this request while far away from the lab and the Hexcore.

I would argue that the reason he doesn't explain more to Jayce there is because he might even be unable to, even asking that much might have been a strain. Or, I'll admit, perhaps there's any number of human reasons he didn't, like shame and fear.

Shame and fear that is of course gone by the time the Hexcore has consumed him when he finally tells Jayce what happened to Sky.

I would argue that the look of hopelessness and disappointment on Viktor's face when he decides to leave Jayce isn't because of the weapons blueprints he might have spotted on the lab table. Or at least, it's not only that.

Personally, I see that as Viktor knowing that he was now so physically consumed by the Hexcore he had no hope at all of fighting it anymore. To quote Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde, "I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil..."

So when people ask why Viktor is suddenly going along with everything the Hexcore wants, when before he wanted to destroy it, I would argue this: because it was already infecting him in S1 and in S1 he realized this and begged Jayce to destroy it because he knew it could stop him from doing so already. But because he was unwilling, or unable, to tell Jayce more about why he wanted it destroyed, Jayce instead defied his very strange request and used it to save Viktor's life as they had originally planned.

From that point on, I would argue, Viktor is under the thrall of the Hexcore and is carrying out its virus-like desire to spread itself and grow. I mean, just look at him, it now has consumed nearly every part of his body except his face. By the end, it has taken that from him as well.

Viktor might still have his own intelligence on top of it, but how much is very much the topic of ongoing debate. For the man to say that there is always a choice to suddenly say that there is no choice, the man who tried to destroy the Hexcore now freely spreading its power, and who once lashed out at the very notion of the use of Hextech as weapons making his own army of apex Hextech robots and using the Hexclaw against Jayce, and who looks so horrified at what he has done once the Hexcore's shell has been broken off of him by Ekko's bomb and Jayce's revelations, I would argue that we should assume at least some level of control was overpowering Viktor for much of S2, and that is exactly the fate he was trying to avoid in S1.