#i am open to ideas and questions about it

[louisaskywalkerani]

✷ · THE INTERVIEW NO ONE CAN EVER KNOW ABOUT || CLARK KENT

(yes, that one. the countertop one.)

MINI NOTE: i haven’t been normal since i saw that damn kitchen scene in theaters. the way clark looked in that white shirt?? the sleeves rolled up??? the fact that he cooked like it was his apartment?? it rewired something in me permanently. i haven’t stopped thinking about this scenario since. anyway. here u go. i am unwell <3

CW: 18+, smut! minors DNI. p in v, unprotected sex secret relationship, fake interview gone very unprofessional, kissing during the questions, no y/n.

It was nearly ten-thirty when your key turned in the lock.

You didn’t expect anything except silence, maybe the hum of the fridge, maybe your own reflection in the darkened kitchen window. But instead, you were hit with something entirely different: warmth, music, and the scent of garlic and tomato wafting from your kitchen like a love letter you hadn’t realized you’d needed.

Your heels clicked softly as you stepped inside, kicking them off by the door.

Your bag hit the floor next. Your coat followed, draped lazily on the back of a chair. Every part of you ached, your feet, your head, your shoulders…but then you turned the corner into the kitchen and saw him.

Clark.

Barefoot. Sleeves rolled up. Glasses slipping a little on the bridge of his nose. He was stirring something on the stove, and humming, actually humming, like some sort of domestic dream. His hair was slightly mussed, his expression relaxed, like this was his place too.

Because secretly, it was.

You leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, and said nothing.

He felt you before he saw you, like he always did. He turned slightly and looked at you with the kind of expression that pulled something deep and warm straight through your chest.

“There you are,” he said softly, like he hadn’t been checking for your heartbeat in the hallway two minutes earlier. “Long day?”

You gave a tired laugh. “You have no idea.”

He set the spoon down, turned off the burner, and crossed the kitchen in three steps. His arms wrapped around you instantly, warm and sure, and your forehead fell against his chest like you were exhaling for the first time all day.

“You cooked,” you murmured, muffled against him.

“I missed you.”

You looked up at him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“I saw you on TV, you know. Saving a monorail full of kids in Berlin.”

He smiled. “Still missed you.”

God, that smile.

He leaned down and kissed you, soft and slow at first, like his lips were tasting the stress on yours and trying to replace it with something better. But there was something deeper beneath it, something familiar and lingering and dangerous, and the longer it lasted, the more you forgot the world outside your apartment even existed.

When he pulled back, his voice had dropped a little. “Come sit. Food’s almost ready.”

But you didn’t let go.

You leaned in, grinning against his throat. “Or you could lift me onto the counter like you always do.”

He laughed under his breath, that low, easy sound that made your stomach twist in the best way, and in the next second, you were in the air.

Strong hands under your thighs, your back settling against cool stone. His body slid between your knees, warm and solid, and the kiss that followed was hungrier, deeper.

You groaned, resting your head against the cabinet behind you.

“I had to spend two hours sitting across from Stern today while he chewed with his mouth open. Two hours, Clark.”

He chuckled, brushing his lips over your jaw. “Tragic.”

“And then my editor cut three paragraphs from my piece without telling me. I swear I’m going to—”

His mouth landed on your throat.

You gasped, words dissolving.

“Clark.”

“Mhm?”

“That’s not helping.”

“Yes it is,” he said, kissing lower. “It’s helping me.”

You let him distract you for a few more seconds before pulling back, reluctantly.

“Okay, but seriously?” you said, dragging your fingers lightly up the back of his neck. “You’re going to get caught.”

He blinked. “Caught doing what?”

“You’re always the one interviewing Superman,” you pointed out. “And it’s not subtle anymore. People are starting to talk.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re people?”

“I’m just saying,” you teased. “If I were Lois, I’d be suspicious.”

“Well,” he said, smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, “maybe it’s time you interviewed him instead.”

You laughed. “What, now?”

“Why not?”

“You want me to interview Superman in my kitchen?”

He stepped back slightly, and you saw the shift happen right before your eyes, the slight straightening of his shoulders, the confidence that came into his stance, the subtle intensity in his eyes as he slowly took off his glasses.

And just like that — there he was.

Superman.

You sat straighter on the counter, eyebrows raised.

“Okay then,” you said, grabbing your phone and opening the voice recorder. “Superman, thank you for joining me on such short notice.”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Always happy to speak with the press.”

You tried to keep a straight face as you cleared your throat. “First question. How do you manage to maintain your secret identity when you’re photographed almost every day?”

He gave a small smile. “People don’t see what they’re not looking for.”

“Mhm. And how do you explain your ongoing exclusive relationship with reporter Clark Kent?”

He stepped closer. “Let’s just say… I trust him.”

You bit your lip. “Seems awfully convenient.”

He tilted his head. “Are you accusing me of favoritism?”

“I’m just saying,” you murmured, as he stepped even closer, “if I didn’t know better…”

You were going to say more. You had your next question ready, something about accountability and transparency.

But he leaned in, lips brushing your cheek, and said, “Ask me question four.”

You opened your mouth, then paused as his hands came to rest on your thighs again slow, warm, certain.

“Question four,” you managed, “what—”

His mouth touched your neck.

You blinked. “What are your—Clark—”

“Not Clark right now,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

“Superman,” you corrected, trying to stay in character even as he kissed that sensitive spot just beneath your jaw. “What are your core values when it comes to—oh my god—international diplomacy…”

He grinned against your throat.

“You’re not playing fair,” you whispered.

He kissed your collarbone. “Neither are you.”

And then suddenly, he dropped to his knees.

Your breath caught.

His hands slid up your thighs, slow and reverent, pushing your skirt up as his eyes flicked to yours.

“Still recording?” he asked.

You reached behind you blindly, slamming your phone onto the counter and shutting it off.

“Good,” he said, and pulled you forward.

You gasped as his mouth pressed between your thighs hot, steady, unrelenting.

Your hands scrambled for balance, grasping the edge of the counter, then his hair.

“Clark—”

When he stood suddenly, your breathing was ragged, your thighs still twitching.

He kissed you, softly now, like an apology and a promise at once and then rested his forehead against yours.

“Still think my exclusives are suspicious?”

You couldn’t even glare. You just laughed breathlessly, pulled him closer, and whispered, “Shut up.”

His mouth crashed into yours. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound, one hand gripping your jaw, the other sliding up under your shirt.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Didn’t need to.

You wanted this.

You always did.

You tugged at his shirt, yanked it over his head — palms running over the solid heat of his chest.

His eyes flicked toward the bedroom.

You shook your head.

“Right here,” you whispered.

He growled softly. Kissed you again, teeth grazing your lower lip, hands dragging your shirt off, fingers skimming over your skin like he needed to feel every inch of you just to stay sane.

“Been thinking about this all day,” he said, voice low, gravelly.

You moaned.

He pulled your underwear down slowly, eyes never leaving yours.

“I come home to this,” he murmured, dragging his knuckles up your inner thigh. “And you expect me to take it slow?”

“Clark—”

“No,” he whispered, gripping your hips. “No more waiting.”

He didn’t.

He pressed into you with one smooth, deep thrust and your head fell back, a gasp tearing from your throat.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

Just held you there — full, stretched, his.

Then his mouth found your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone.

“Tell me you missed me,” he murmured.

“I missed you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“I��God, Clark, I need you.”

That broke him.

He began to move.

Hard, slow thrusts. Deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs. His grip tight, your back arching off the counter with every roll of his hips.

Every time he pulled out, it was only to push back in harder — deeper — his breath hot against your ear.

“You’re mine,” he whispered. “You know that, right?”

You could barely nod.

His hand slid to your throat, gentle but firm — just enough to hold you still, to make you feel claimed.

“Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

He kissed you again, messy and hot, tongue sliding against yours, his hips grinding into you with a rhythm that made your whole body shudder.

“God, you feel so good,” he groaned. “I could stay inside you all night.”

You clenched around him, and he growled — thrust harder.

“You like that?” he breathed. “You like when I say shit like that?”

“Yes,” you moaned. “Yes—Clark—”

His name became a chant. A prayer. A scream muffled by his mouth.

He came first — deep inside you, pulsing, gasping against your neck.

But he didn’t stop.

He kept moving — slower now, hips still rolling — his fingers slipping between your legs until you came with a cry, body shaking in his arms.

You collapsed against him.

Both of you breathless. Sweating. Bruised in the best ways.

He didn’t pull out right away.

He stayed inside, kissing your cheek, your neck, your shoulder.

Then, gently — so gently — he lifted you off the counter and carried you to the bathroom.

Ran warm water.

Held you in the tub, his hands massaging your thighs, his lips soft against your temple.

You curled into him.

And for the first time all day — for the first time all week — he let himself relax.

Not Superman.

Not Clark Kent, reporter.

Just your man.

[catherinnn]

Sharp Tongue

Eddie Munson x Fem!reader

summary: Eddie gets his tongue newly pierced and it becomes your weakness.

warnings: SMUT (+18), oral (f & m), overstimulation, piercings and descriptions of the healing process, afab! reader.

words: around 4k

masterlist

The group is at Steve's. Pizzas are already on the way and the beer is chilling in the fridge. The only thing missing was Eddie. Well, not actually missing. He probably took too long in the shower or stayed listening to his favorite album on repeat and the time flew.

He arrives an hour late, everyone scoffing at him.

"Alright, alright. I have no excuse. But I do have a little surprise" he smiles.

"What is it?" Jonathan asks. Eddie simply sticks his tongue out, showing the little metal bar on his tongue. "What?!"

"Holy shit! Is that real?" Steve looks at his tongue surprisingly.

"Of course it is, Harrington" Eddie smirks. "I got it last week. Hurt like a bitch but it looks sick, right?"

"That’s so cool, let me see it again!" Robin agrees. Eddie sticks his tongue out again.

You don't say anything. You stay frozen, just looking at it amazed.

Eddie wiggles his tongue a little before wincing. "Still sore, no unnecessary movements"

"How are you not in pain?" Nancy asks him.

"I mean, I was. The first few days sucked. Living off of soup and mashed potatoes. But now It's not swollen anymore. I can't eat anything that's not soft, and I can't kiss anyone" he explains. "Not like there's a line of girls waiting to kiss me anyway"

"But since when did you want a tongue piercing?" Nancy asks.

"I mean, why not? Looks metal. Plus, it's supposed to be really fun... in some scenarios"

"You mean... like-"

He interrupts her, with a smirk and a wink. "Exactly what you're thinking, Wheeler"

You almost choke on your drink at that image. The idea of what that piercing could do and how it would feel against-

Robin is so kind to interrupt these thought out of your head, as she sees your flushed cheeks and lost stare.

"You've been suspiciously quiet. Everything okay?"

"Huh? yeah, fine" you shrug.

"What's your verdict, princess. Am I pulling this off or does it look weird?" Eddie asks you.

"I think you're pulling it off" you nod.

He smirks. "Good to know"

"Pizzas are here! and uhh... mashed potatoes for Eddie, I guess" Steve interrupts.

As the pizzas disappear, more cans of beer are opened. You're curled in the corner of the couch, finishing your cup, feeling the blush on your cheeks from the alcohol.

Eddie's sitting next to you. Long legs stretched out and he's leaning back against the couch. And his tongue?

You can clearly see the little metal ball peaking out of his pink lips as he absentmindedly plays with it.

"Eddie, stop that. You weren’t supposed to play with it yet" you tell him.

"Didn't realize I had an audience" he chuckles.

"You don't" you playfully roll your eyes, lying.

Robin and Steve are bickering about something you didn't pay attention to. Nancy and Jonathan having their own quiet conversation.

Eddie nudged your ankle with his. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just tipsy" you smile. "How's your mouth? Swollen?"

"Nah, not anymore. The first few days were torture though. I sounded like I had some dental surgery, real charming"

"Did it hurt more or less than a tattoo?" you ask.

"It's a different kind of pain. A tattoo is like... this dragging burn. The piercing was just one sharp stitch, quick and kinda shocking" he answers your questions. "I'm surprised you're this curious. You usually avoid anything involving blood or needles"

"I dunno. This doesn't look too bad"

"Oh great, thanks" he laughs. "Anything else you wanna know?"

If he only knew everything else you want to know. Like how the contrast with the coldness of the metal and the warmness of his tongue would feel against your skin. How would it feel to kiss him? To play with your tongue against his and feel the little ball making everything even hotter.

You've always wondered how it would be to kiss someone with that piercing... and you've always wondered how it would be to kiss Eddie. Ever since you met him.

But now, the thought of killing two birds with one stone, solving both of your questions, was making you dizzier than the alcohol itself.

“You keep looking at me like that” he murmurs, barely audible.

“Like what?”

“Like you want to know something” he tilts his head, a crooked grin forming.

You should lie, laugh it off. Should say it’s the alcohol, the fact that he’s loud and hard to ignore. But you don't.

Instead, you take another sip and lean in a little, the alcohol giving you the courage and guts.

“I guess I’ve always wondered…” you say softly. “what it would be like”

His expression shifts, eyes darkening, his grin faltering at the edges. “What what would be like?”

“Kissing someone with a tongue piercing”

There it is. No flirtation, no sarcasm. Just truth. Eddie doesn’t say anything. He just stares, his fingers tightening around his bottle.

You continue, a little bolder now. “People say it makes everything feel more intense. Maybe the metal adds pressure” Your gaze drops to his mouth. “Makes everything feel even better”

Eddie swallows hard, forgets how to breathe.

Now they're both imagining, picturing, letting your minds run wild. Every place that piercing could go. The heat of his mouth dragging over skin, the pressure of metal.

You're painting a picture, making him your muse. And he's ready to frame it and hang it on his wall.

“You really think about that stuff?” his voice is hoarse.

“Sometimes" you shrug, smirking. “I’m just curious”

“Curious” he repeats, like it’s the most obscene word he’s ever heard. "You know I can't kiss anyone yet"

"No, I know" You lean back against the couch. “I’m just saying, it’s a really interesting piercing”

Eddie clenches his jaw.

"One week” he mutters.

"Until what?”

“Until I can"

You didn't want to overthink what Eddie had said. You were both drinking. Tipsy, flirty. But you've been friends for a while now, there's no way he was really going to throw all that out the window for a hot night together... as hot as that night would be.

By Thursday of the following week, you were going to The Hideout with the group. Eddie was playing with his band and you always came to see him every once in a while.

Once the show is over and the music inside the bar shifts to its usual rock playlist, Eddie comes back down to greet everyone. His cheeks are pink, voice still hoarse from his singing.

You can feel him before you see him. He sits next to you at the tiny table that was definitely meant for less than six people to sit on. So of course his leg is constantly touching yours. Your shoulders brush everytime you lean to grab your drink.

Eddie melts casually into the conversation, like usual. But he still hasn't said a word directly to you since he sat down.

You reach to grab some chips from the table and you bump his arm.

"Sorry" you whisper.

He finally looks at you, grin on. "You keep saying that everytime we touch"

"Maybe we should stop sitting too close" you grin too.

"Maybe I like it" he adds. Then, his hand goes down rest on your thigh. Your heart skips a beat. "You remember everything from last week?"

"I remember a lot of things" you say.

"Oh, yeah?" he hums.

"I remember you were drunk"

"So were you"

"Exactly"

"So you think I didn't mean any of it?"

"I think you wouldn't throw away our friendship just because we drank too much and sat too close"

"Is that was it was to you? A mistake?"

"I didn't say that" you correct him, but your moment of tension is cut off by Steve, not even realizing what he was doing.

"So, Munson, how's the tongue?"

"God, don't phrase it like that" Robin cringes.

"Oh, my tongue? Wouldn't you wanna know, Harrington?" Eddie grins wide and leans back, and arm going behind his head to scratch his head. He doesn't know it (or maybe he actually does) but his shirt lifts up, letting you get a peak of his happy trail. Good God.

Steve rolls his eyes. "The piercing, idiot"

"It's all healed up. No infection. I even checked with my piercer and he gave me the green light"

"Can you eat properly now?" Robin asks him.

"Yup, I've been having pizza for two days straight now. I've missed it so much"

The silver ball appears from between his lips, rolling from one corner to the other. He's playing with it, obviously. Constantly. Like a nervous tic... or maybe a provocation.

"I mean... technically, now I could kiss anyone at this bar if I wanted" he adds. "And even more than kissing"

"Jesus, alright. We get the picture" Nancy groans.

And just like that, your mind is already spiriling again, taking you to a corner in your brain where Eddie's mouth is not talking, teasing, and joking around. It's exploring, tasting, pressing, flicking.

You clear your throat and look away, pretending to focus on anything else.

"Alright, I'm going out for a smoke" Eddie stands up and grabs his cigarettes. He looks up for a second and calls your name. "Could you be a doll and join me outside? You know, so I'm not all alone and defenseless out there"

You hesitate. Something tells you to avoid this. But then again, part of you has been waiting for this moment.

"Back in a sec" you murmur to the rest as you stand up as well.

Outside, Eddie leans back against the brick wall and lights his cigarette.

"Defenseless, really?" you ask.

"I mean, I can't afford a bodyguard yet, so you'll have to do" he jokes.

You roll your eyes. But the joke doesn't last. Eddie takes another drag and exhales, his eyes not leaving your face.

"I meant what I said the other night" he admits. "I only told you that being drunk because sober me's a coward"

"You're not a coward"

"The filter just dropped there, that's all" he pauses. "I haven't stopped thinking about you. About that night and how you looked at me. And you're pretending it didn't mean anything"

"I'm not pretending, I'm trying to protect what we have"

"I know, but what if we miss the chance of something real?" He walks closer to you. "I'm not gonna kiss you. Not because I don't want to. I do. God, I do."

"Then why not?"

"Because I want you to believe me first"

You stay looking at him, thinking. Eddie takes a step back, like the conversation is over, and takes another hit.

He's about to talk but you beat him to it.

"Eddie"

He turns, quiet. And you walk over to him without thinking too much about it.

"I haven't stopped thinking about that night either" you admit. "I keep picturing it. You playing with that stupid piercing like you're doing right now"

He hadn't realized he was. His tongue stops, subconsciously.

"I imagine what it would feel like," you whisper, stepping closer. "against my lips"

"Jesus" he sighs.

"Against my skin. I wonder what it would be like to kiss it. To play with it. with my tongue" you keeps whispering.

He calls your name like a warning.

"What? You wanted honesty"

"This is not fair"

"I know what I want. And I wanted to be sure you wanted it too"

"I do, so badly"

"You said you could kiss anyone you wanted tonight, right?"

"Yeah" he says, jaw tense.

"Then why don't we stop playing around it... and finally see what it feels like?"

It takes him less than a second. He doesn't hesitates and he moves.

Hands on you and he kisses you like he's been waiting months to do it. It's rough at first, urgent. Like he's afraid if he doesn't kiss you now, he'll never get the chance again.

Your back hits the wall softly as you melt into him. Arms around his neck. And it's everything you imagined.

The metal feels a bit cold at first, in contrast with his hot, soft and slow tongue. He deepens the kiss, flicking the piercing slightly against your bottom lip.

A sound escapes your throat at that.

"Well?" he smirks.

"It's... better than I imagined"

"Did you imagine a lot, sweetheart?" he smirks as he hugs you.

You don’t rush back in.

Not when Eddie has you pressed against the brick wall like it’s the only place in the world he wants to be. Not when he’s still kissing you like he can’t quite believe this is real.

Every flick of that piercing, teasing the corner of your mouth, your tongue, dipping down to your jaw.

Eddie pulls back just a little, lips dragging to your cheek, then lower, to the curve of your jaw, then your neck.

And then he mutters against your skin, voice rough and low: “If you want we can keep testing how this thing works later” He pulls back to look at you. “I mean, purely scientific purposes; research, discovery"

“You’re ridiculous” you whisper, chucking.

He kisses you again. Slower and softer.

Then, he pulls away and smooths his hand down your arm. “C’mon, let’s go back before they start missing us”

You walk back in trying to act casual... you failed.

You hadn't notice that your hair was noticeably more tangled, lipstick no longer present. Instead, the tinted red was now on Eddie's lips and the corners of his mouth. His hair a mess...  even more than usual.

And they all notice. Everyone.

Steve spots you first. “No. No way.” He slams his hand on the table. “You two?”

“Oh my God" Robin laughs looking at Eddie's face.

“Do we all need to go outside for a smoke break now?” Jonathan acts scared, jokingly.

Eddie just shrugs and slides back into his seat like nothing happened.

“I mean...” he starts with a grin. “I told you I could kiss anyone I wanted tonight"

You sit down without a word.

“I told you I was defenseless,” Eddie adds, “she just took full advantage”

You roll your eyes.

"So? Does the piercing work?" Robin jokes.

"Oh, it works" you smirk.

The parking lot feels cold. The group spills out of the bar, putting on jackets and still laughing about some dumb joke.

Nancy and Jonathan get to her car, ready to go back home.

Steve grabs his keys and walks up to his car. "Alright ladies, I promised I'd get you two home" he refers to you and Robin.

You dig in your purse for your keys when you hear: "Or..."

You turn to the metalhead behind you, standing by his van.

"You could ride with me" he offers.

"Mmh, pros and cons?" you ask.

"You already know what I'm offering" he gives you a cocky smirk. "I told you we could keep testing things"

"Oh" Robin's eyes shot up.

"Sorry Steve, thanks for the offer though" you walk towards the van with a playful smile.

"Don't worry, Stevie" Eddie smirks, openening the passenger door for you. "I'll make sure she gets home... eventually"

Steve rolls his eyes and sighs, getting on his car.

As Eddie drives out of the parking lot, your friends yell: "Wrap it up, Munson!; Use protection!"

Once you arrive at Eddie's place, the door clicks shut behind you. The trailer is quiet. Eddie tosses his keys on the counter and turns to look at you.

He's like a wolf with its prey. His innocent and pretty lamb just waiting for him to devour her. His eyes raking over you. The silver ball still peaking out in between his lips while he stares at you.

"You look nervous" he murmurs, stepping closer.

"I'm not"

He smirks at that. "You're gorgeous, you know?"

"Just come here and kiss me" you chuckle.

That's all it takes, his hand finds your hair and his mouth is on yours before you know it.

You start making out. That metal ball right where you wanted it, agaisnt your own tongue, making you chase the feeling of it.

His hands sliding down your waist, gripping your hips like he means to leave marks.

He walks you backwards, step by step, never breaking the kiss. Until you hit the edge of his bed and drop onto it.

He just stares at you for a moment.

“Wanna keep going?” he asks, raspy voice. And you nod. “That’s not a yes”

“Yes" you whisper.

He's on you again in a second, kissing you harder, with his hands all over you.

Then, his mouth moves south to your neck. Open-mouthed kisses to make sure you feel the metal.

You can't really register when exactly your shoes came off. If it was before or after your shirt was tugged over your head. Everything blurs around the way Eddie's hands grip you, or his mouth moves lower and lower on your throat, chest, stomach. Until it reaches your thighs.

He looks up at you with those botton eyes and you're not sure if he knows the effect they have on you. His hair brushes over your skin as he settles in between your legs, and the sight of him there —eager, ruined already.

His mouth is everywhere, slow at first, like he wants to savor your reactions —every twitch, every gasp, every whispered 'Eddie' that slips out. And that piercing is not just decoration.

It gets impossibly hot pressed against you in the best places. He flicks it, then drags it slow just to hear you.

You fist on those poor cushions. He grins against you, tongue insistent, fingers gripping your hips to keep you still.

Round one hits like a storm. Your thighs already trembling on his shoulders, his name repeated on your lips as you cum.

But he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even give you time to think.

Round two is worse (or better). He's slower now. "You taste like fucking candy, sweetheart" he mutters, voice wrecked and low, sending you vibrations.

He uses his tongue flat, the piercing catching right on your clit, flicking it every two seconds. You're twitching, begging, already falling apart again.

When you finish for the second time, your mind is blank, eyes glassy.

He nips at the inside of thigh, mutters things against your skin you can't even hear.

And you think he’ll stop now.

He doesn’t.

By round three, you're gasping his name loudly. You're so sentisive that you could just start crying.

And he's not even close to done.

“Still with me, baby?” he murmurs, mouth hovering just above you. “You got one more?”

You nod, enthusiastic.

And he dives in again —addicted.

By the end, you're not sure if you're moaning or sobbing, maybe both. Your hips held tight in his hands while he licks through the waves of your orgasm.

And when he finally pulls back, he's got your slick down to his chin and all over his cheeks, that metal glinting in the low light, his hair wild, and a dangerous look in his eyes.

“Jesus, that was the best” he whispers, licking his lips.

You just reach for him and pull him up to another kiss.

Eddie goes to lie half on top of you, his arms around your waist, hair sticking to his cheeks, and his cheeks are flustered.

He could only describe you as a beatiful mess beneath him, bare and flustered, still catching her breath.

"I could use a cigarette now" he smirks and looks in his nightstand. Your gaze drops to the very obvious state of his jeans.

Tight. Painfully so.

The outline of him is already big.

You reach down and lightly brush your fingers over the bulge. He practically jumps.

He warns, calling your name.

You only tilt your head, voice teasing. "You really thought we were over?"

He groans, hiding his face in your neck. “I'm happy with what we did already”

"Yeah?" you grin, push him back a little, trailing your hand down his chest, toying with the hem of his shirt. “Well… but look at you”

He exhales, jaw clenching. “Don’t do that unless you mean it"

“Oh, I mean it,” you whisper, palming him over the denim now, watching the way his hips twitch towards you. “You’ve been walking around all night with that piercing like you invented sex. Thought we were done?"

He laughs, breathless, then moans as you unbutton his pants slowly, dragging the zipper down. He’s twitching, hard and thick, and so big.

And when you get your mouth on him, he moans louder.

"Fuck, sweetheart-"

You work him over with your tongue, taking your time, teasing, savoring. You want to make a mess out of him too.

Your tongue curls on his pink head, while you stroke the base.

And when you look up at him, mouth slick, eyes gleaming? Eddie loses it.

Groaning, head back, fingers fisting the sheets and your hair with the other hand. He whispers a string of curses and sweet nothings that make you want to ruin him.

"You're so good, baby. You're gonna make me cum, ruin that cute little face and make it mine"

He pushes you down slowly, further, so you're taking all of him.

"That’s a good girl, take all of it. God"

And when he finally comes, thighs trembling, moaning your name, you can only smile, licking your lips, and murmur:

“Now we’re even"

Eddie blinks, dazed. Then laughs, low and panting.

"So did you like the piercing?" he gives you a big smile when you go and lay next to him.

"Like is an understatement" you chuckle.

"Oh yeah?" he grabs your cheeks and gives you a quick kiss.

"Yeah, I might have a few other ideas we could try out"

"Oh, I like the sound of that," he gives you another kiss, "I have some ideas of my own too"

"Then we better get to it, big boy"

"We most definitely will, pretty girl"

[luvrgeorge]

THE HARD LAUNCH | a. hill

summary: you and arthur are ready to hard launch your relationship warnings: none, just fluffy stuff, smau (kinda) wc: 1k a/n: wrote this on my bus to work, not proofread so i apologise. p.s why isnt there more arthur hill fics my boy deserves love

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you and arthur had been friends for years—since your early days of social media, when both of you were still figuring things out, filming videos in your bedrooms, making terrible jokes at the dinner table. you’d grown up together in a way, built your platforms side by side, been each other’s sounding board through every high and low that came with internet fame. somewhere along the line, friendship had shifted into something more—slowly, gently, like it had been waiting for the right time.

now, you’d been dating for around seven months. it wasn’t a secret—not to your close friends, who had all known from the moment arthur started looking at you like you hung the stars. they’d watched it unfold with quiet smiles, supportive nods, the occasional teasing comment. but to the world, to your fans, the people who dissected every glance, every comment, every background reflection in an instagram story—it was still under wraps.

well, mostly. speculation had started creeping in, little comments under posts:

they’re definitely more than friends

the way he looks at her?? come on

you’d done your best to ignore it—laugh it off, skirt around the questions, post just enough to keep people guessing. but it was getting harder. the small moments you used to treasure in private were being chipped away by secrecy.

you were tired.

tired of pulling your hand from his when a fan came up for a photo, of keeping that extra beat of affection out of your voice when you talked about him in videos. tired of the after-show hugs that had to stay PG, the soft kisses that happened only behind closed doors, when you really just wanted to run up and kiss him in front of everyone, like any other person in love.

you’d talked about it before—brief, cautious conversations that always ended in a ‘maybe soon’. but after a long day of filming and another awkward dodge of a relationship question, you were both sitting on his couch, his hand resting on your knee, your head on his shoulder, when the silence fell and neither of you had to say it aloud.

it was time.

not because you owed anyone an explanation. not because the internet needed a headline. but because the two of you were in something real—sweet, beautiful, honest. and hiding it had started to feel like lying.

so, the decision was made.

the hard launch.

not a soft hint or a cryptic post. a real one. something that said: we’re together. we’re happy. we’re done pretending otherwise.

‘how do we even do it? just post a picture of us making out?’ arthur asked, his voice thick with sarcasm, eyes half-lidded as he leaned back into the couch, his phone resting uselessly on his stomach.

you giggled, turning toward him. ‘no, absolutely not. we’re not giving them that. we need a picture… something cute. something of us, maybe?’

‘we barely have any nice pictures,’ he complained, shifting to look at you, one arm slung lazily behind your shoulders. ‘all our pictures are stupid ones where you look hot and i look like a gremlin caught mid-sneeze.’

you rolled your eyes and nudged him lightly with your elbow. ‘oh shush, you’re being dramatic.’

he raised a brow. ‘am i? remember that one on your birthday where i had cake on my nose and my eyes were closed?’

‘you looked adorable.’

‘i looked concussed.’

you laughed, unlocking your phone and opening your photo gallery, thumb swiping through a mess of random selfies, behind-the-scenes clips, and blurry photos from late nights out. ‘i have no idea how people actually do this. do we go for the overly romantic aesthetic? or something casual, like a mirror selfie in your disgusting bathroom?’

‘disgusting?’ he scoffed. ‘it’s vibey. the lighting is tragic, but the vibes are excellent.’

you snorted, still scrolling. ‘okay… what about this one?’ you held up a photo from a couple months back—a candid shot of arthur during a walk you’d gone on together. he had taken a similar one of you that day, and considering every picture together was either blurry, chaotic, or wildly unflattering, these were probably your best shot.

arthur looked at it, and for once, didn’t say anything immediately. then, ‘huh. that’s actually kinda nice.’

you smiled. ‘it’s one of my favourites of you’

he took your phone from your hand, zooming in a little. ‘i loved this day, i took one of you too, the picture i keep in my wallet, i can post that one’

you smiled, ducking your head slightly as you tried—and failed—to pretend he wasn’t making you blush, still, even after seven months together. it was ridiculous, really, how easily he could get to you.

‘alright,’ he said, grinning as he handed it back. ‘hard launch it is. but only if you write the captions. i refuse to be responsible for a cringe couple post.’

‘deal,’ you said, already opening instagram, heart thudding a little faster than usual.

you loaded the picture onto your profile, fingers hovering over the caption box. after a moment of thought, you typed it out—simple, soft, a little playful—tagging arthur before giving it one last glance. then you grabbed his phone, doing the same with the photo he had of you. both pictures, taken on the same day, paired with matching energy.

you sat there, side by side, eyes flicking over them once more, debating for a split second if you were really ready. it felt big, weirdly big, even though nothing was changing. this wasn’t for you—it was for everyone else. still, the nerves buzzed under your skin.

‘ready?’ he asked, holding up his phone.

you nodded.

‘three… two… one.’

you pressed the button at the same time, watching the posts load onto your feeds.

the hard launch.

it was done.

you immediately tossed your phone across the couch like it was cursed, then buried your face into his chest, heart racing, muffling your anxious laugh against the soft fabric of his hoodie.

arthur wrapped his arms around you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

‘at my next show,’ he murmured into your hair, ‘i’m kissing you, on stage, in front of everybody.’

you giggled, tilting your head up to find his mouth and kiss him softly.

‘never stop kissing me,’ you whispered against his lips, ‘anywhere.’

yourusername

tagged arthurfhill

liked by arthurfhill, georgeclarkeey, and others

yourusername: my favourite place, my favourite boy🤍

comments

arthurfhill my favourite girl🤍 i love you

yourusername i love you too🤍

georgeclarkeey he was my boy first💔

arthurfhill still yours, always and forever❤️‍🔥

yourusername wtf?

livvydimartino the cutest couple ever

liked by yourusername

sabinablair_ awww i love this

liked by yourusername

username AWWWW I LOVE THEM

username YAYYYY MY FAVOURITES

arthurfhill

tagged yourusername

liked by yourusername, chrismd10 and others

arthurfhill flowers from my flower🌼

comments

yourusername my boy forever

arthurfhill promise?

chrismd10 so cute! get your own flat now though so i don’t have to watch you kiss

arthurfhill you love it really

italianbach this is literally cute

liked by arthurfhill, yourusername and others

georgeclarkeey cute ig

liked by arthurfhill, yourusername and others

username OMG

username I KNEW IT

masterlist <3

[bigblueworld]

welcome to the nerds club

context: there’s a new guy, he’s tall..annoyingly handsome and very smart. and quiet..sorta. you have a tiny crush(TINY) and your coworkers LOVE him.

the first part of this au! i rlly hope u guys enjoy it as i enjoy writing it! pls send reqs and any ideas u have for any new au’s or readers! love u guys!

the field museum in chicago, illinois opened at 9:00 am, but you always showed up at least 30 minutes before opening to do a little walkthrough of your exhibits, and others.

you had a tour today with kids on a field trip, you liked kids. you just hoped that they weren’t wild.

the lights showed brightly on the masks, vases, and different equipment that human kind had made and created in the past. you stood and stared, your head tilted slightly as it usually was when looking at the exhibits.

you saw a few of your coworkers and with a soft smile you said you’re good mornings.

your work best friend; clark sidled up next to you.

“every morning..i know EXACTLY where to find you. you’re always staring at this one.” clark said with an eyebrow raised as she looked at you.

the exhibit in question was of the mummies, in their sarcophagus. laying in their eternal sleep.

the ancient egyptians always had you mesmerized and you always loved learning about them.

“s’just..i really like this exhibit.” you said softly as you looked at clark.

clark huffed out a soft laugh, “well..we got a new guy.” she didnt notice how your head whipped to the side.

“a new guy?”

“yeah..he’s a paleontologist or he will be working in that section.” clark shrugged and turned to walk away. you sped up until you matched walking speed with her.

it was 10 minutes till opening.

“his name is rafe..also forewarning i heard he has a dog. but apparently he went to one of the top colleges for paleontology which is like hecka cool. he’s mad smart, or so i’ve heard. i think..he’s in his early twenties. honestly no clue…” clark rambled on about the new guy

you nodded and softly acknowledged with “mhm” and “wow” just to pretend you were listening.

you and staff were very close-knit so new people were always big news.

“is he starting today?” you asked

“nah, but he will be showing up today just to take a look around and go through training and stuff…i think.” clark answered

you nodded along and kept walking.

“you have a tour today..right y/n?”

“yep. middle schoolers…my favorite.” you spoke slightly sarcastically.

its not that you didn’t like the middle schoolers..they could just be a..bit much at times. nothing you couldn’t handle.

as you kept walking, your head was down and once you looked up you slammed into something that was as hard as a brick wall.

but before you fell on your ass, a hand darted out to grab your forearm to stop you from falling. you heard clark gasp..and then she had the audacity to chuckle.

“hey..you alright?” the voice spoke. it was smooth like honey falling off the ladle, spoken quiet enough that you almost had to strain your ears to hear it.

you stood up and brushed yourself off, “uh yeah..thanks. im sorry i should’ve been watching where i was going.”

your eyes took in the guy in front of you. he was tall. his hair was gelled back, and he looked very nice if you did say so yourself. you watched him push his glasses up further and thats when your eyes caught his. a deep blue, like when there’s a storm rolling across the ocean. yet clear enough that you could look through and catch glimpses of what is in its embrace.

thats when you felt something nudge your hand. you looked down a puppy who looked like it jumped right out of 101 dalmatians was panting softly and licked gently at your hand.

“t-that’s strata. he’s nice..he’s sorta like an emotional support dog.” the guy stammered softly before gently tugging the puppy back. strata sat back on his haunches and stared up at the guy as he licked his muzzle softly.

“my name’s rafe.”

“so YOUR THE NEW GUY!” clark exclaimed and bounded up next to you, nudging your shoulder. clark held her hand out for him to shake.

“name’s clark, nice to meet you rafe.” they shook hands and he smiled. your eyes narrowed slightly. his smile was like the sun finally peaking out from behind the clouds.

clark gave you a nudge again, and you blinked. rafe was staring at you almost expectantly.

“oh! uh..my name’s y/n. nice to meet you rafe.” you took his hand and shook it firmly.

“heard you work in paleontology.” clark and her endless information on other people.

“yes i do! i went to university of chicago for my degree.” he said with another gentle smile.

“oh wow..that’s cool. im just a regular old staff butt..y/n here is an expert in anthropology.” clark nudged your shoulder again, and you shot her a glare.

rafe looked at you again, his eyes taking you in. you stared back, almost like you couldn’t stop staring. he was a pretty boy…

“yes, i am still studying anthropology. but i have my bachelor’s.”

you looked at the clock. it was time for opening.

“clark. it’s opening.” you whispered in her ear.

rafe shuffled on his feet, and the dalmatian puppy; strata nudged his hand. your eyes darted over as you watched rafe’s hand gently stroke the puppy’s head.

“well..it was nice to meet you rafe. but i have a tour to give today.” you said with a soft smile.

“uh wait! can i tag along. im supposed to do a little walkthrough with at least one section today.” you rose your eyebrows.

“uhh..yeah sure.” you nodded and then softly said goodbye to clark who was looking between you and rafe with a sly smile.

rafe nodded. and he pushed up his glasses again.

——

remember when you said that you hoped the middle schoolers weren’t going to be wild…they were.

as soon as they saw strata it was like everything went out the window. you took your tour group through each exhibit. carefully and meticulously explaining each and every time period with expertise.

you would catch rafe’s eyes as he watched you talk. it was like he was looking through a text book. trying to read you.

then there were times when you would stop walking to point out something to the group, and rafe would be looking at something else.

he was distracting you. god he was so tall..and annoyingly handsome. he knew how to clean up.

he was like a greek statue. carved and polished to perfection.

see..distracting.

you answered questions with great expertise, and sometimes the kids would ask really dumb ones that almost had you face palming.

a hand in the very back rose as you stopped in front of your favorite exhibit in the egyptian section.

“yes?”

“why did they place the bodies in sarcophagus and mummify them instead of burying them?”

it was rafe who asked the question and you cocked an eyebrow. he was smart enough to know the answer.

“because egyptians believed in life after death. they thought that the soul or as they called it the ka, ba, and akh. needed the physical body in order to return to within the afterlife. by burying the body would then decay; leaving the soul to be lost forever. and your question about the mummification. by being mummified it allows the body to be preserved for thousands of years.” you answered expertly but kept going, “the process of mummification keeps the body intact so then the soul could recognize the body and reunite.”

rafe tilted his head, his dog doing the same. you cocked an eyebrow and the kids murmured around you about the information. you liked that it awed them.

he opened his mouth to ask another question, “well why the sarcophagus?”

you sighed softly and gestured to the sarcophagi.

“the ancient egyptians put them in the sarcophagus because it provided extra protection from thieves and the elements. decorated by spells, names, and art. but in tombs the richer egyptians were placed in stone sarcophagi. which are usually in pyramids.” you said with a soft shrug.

“good question rafe.” you said with a soft smile.

what you didn’t know is that some of your coworkers saw the exchange. they all knew that there was a new guy, and now they put a face to a name. they ALSO noticed that you were with a group.

your coworkers spoke in hushed tones to each other:

“is that the new guy?”

“clark said she saw him…i think that’s him.”

“okay, so tell me why i think that y/n and the new guy would be cute together?”

“i can see it, i can see it.”

—

it was lunch now. the middle schoolers were all conversing with each other about what else they were hoping to see.

you had a soft smile on your face as you ate what you packed for your lunch. out of the corner of your eye you saw rafe sit down. strata at his side. the puppy was laid down; head on his paws.

“that was really interesting.” he spoke softly. his voice like river water over stones in a creek.

“you think so?” you asked.

“yeah. us as humans are interesting. the evolution of us throughout the ages within everything is fascinating.”

you’re soft smile turned into a beaming one, you blushed. he thought that what you were trying to teach these kids were interesting.

“i think me and you are gonna get along fine rafe.”

“i..uh. i think so too.”

your eyes took him all in again. putting him under a microscope, taking notes in your mental journal.

you watched him reach in his pocket, and he pulled out a treat. strata’s collar jingled softly as he sat up.

rafe held out the treat and you watched as the puppy licked from his palm and let out a soft bark.

“good boy strata.”

“he seems like he’s a good dog.”

“yeah. he’s doing pretty good today around all these people.”

you nodded in agreement.

“well, i gotta finish this tour. it was nice meeting you rafe. i’ll see you tomorrow yeah?”

rafe nodded, almost a little too fast. you watched as a little red tinged the tips of his ears and you smiled.

“welcome to the nerds club, rafe.” you said as you got up and threw your stuff away.

rafe watched as you took the large group of teens along. he wished he was able to talk to you longer.

“the nerds club…hmm.” his eyebrows furrowed.

then he himself got off the bench, “come on boy, let’s go.”

“i think we’re gonna like it here strata.” rafe spoke to his puppy as he tugged him along. he spoke like he was able to understand him. the puppy looked up and blinked at him, then his tongue lolled out as he panted softly.

—

as the day came to a close, you were with clark. no surprise.

“so…i heard that the new guy tagged along with you on your part of the tour.” her eyebrows wiggled.

“yes he did…he’s something.”

“alicia and thomas think you guys would be cute together. can’t say i disagree.” clark stated with a shit eating grin.

“we just met!”

“i didn’t hear a no!”

you ran a palm down your face, and shook your head. you loved your coworkers but dear lord.

“i think he’s cool. that’s it.” you said with a tone that said ‘i don’t want to talk about this anymore.’

clark held her hands up in mock surrender. “okay okay.”

but something in the back of your head lingered like smoke curling in soft tendrils in a room. you might have a tiny crush, but no one has to know that.

“so far, everyone loves him!” clark exclaimed

“he seems nice enough…i like his puppy.” you said as you looked over at her as you guys walked out of the museum.

“strata is so cute, i got to pet him on the way out!”

you smiled.

“he’ll fit in just fine.” you said to clark.

the museum looming behind you both as you walked to your cars. the thought of rafe lingering in your mind.

———————————————————————————

HI GUYS!! THIS IS THE FIRST PART OF THIS AU!! i hope you guys love it!

im so grateful for all of you! love yall sm!!

[darkest-night-in-deepspace]

Hey bb! I saw that your request box was open and I decided to take a leap and ask for something that's been on my mind for a awhile. I'm a zayne main so.you can do him but I'd you want to do the others, that's up to you. My request is...that mc tells hc zayne that he's bad at sex (as a prank) and she TOTALLY regrets it 🤭 (if ykyk). You can include whatever you feel should be in it, I don't mind. If you decide to do this..tysm 😊.

here's a small gift

aha thank you for the gift !! i really enjoyed this prompt although struggled as it's my first long smut piece. since so many people requested zayne (based + true) i combined a few requests into one! this is the product of asks from yourself (@dawnbreakerbrokeme), @azure-nevermore and a reply from @lucien-calore !

i also wanted to say a quick thank you to everyone who replied to my request for inspo. you guys really came through and i will absolutely be doing smut-adjacent fics for xav, sylus and caleb soon (look out for the poll for those)

that said, enjoy my lovelies <3333

｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆ Cabin fever ! ｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

｡ﾟ☁︎｡tags: zayne x mc, temperature play, safewords, honeymoon, your honour i am FERAL, nsfw, smut.

｡ﾟ☁︎｡words: 2.6k

｡ﾟ☁︎｡MINORS DNI - this is an nsfw work.

Eira sighed as she fell back onto the plush bed. Just outside the large window that stood just beside it, winter raged. The weather had worsened significantly since her and Zayne’s arrival to the cabin three days ago, but she wasn’t complaining in the slightest. Limited travel just meant she just got more time with her new husband.

And the time she had experienced so far had been, frankly, spectacular. The two of them had barely left the bedroom, let alone the bed. Only when Zayne snapped out of the sex-addled haze that had engulfed them both to ensure she ate and drank properly did their…exertions cease.

Now, he was in the shower. It was only about ten in the morning, but they’d already fucked three times: first in bed, then in the kitchen, then in bed again. Eira had run marathons that had been less punishing on her thighs. She stretched her legs out and basked in the warm glow of the fire that observed her from the wall opposite to the double bed. Of course Zayne couldn’t have chosen somewhere better than this place for their honeymoon; it was perfectly secluded but also luxurious. A perfect location to enjoy one another during a rare reprieve from work.

‘Eira?’

She perked up at the sound of her name. The bathroom door swung open ever so slightly, revealing her husband sauntering out with only a towel slung low on his hips. Transfixed, Eira watched as rivulets of water from the shower rolled down the chiselled contour of Zayne’s muscular torso, from his honed pectorals down to the v-line she could just bite into. His inky black hair was tousled and damp – it cut sharp lines across the acute lines of his pale face, making him look like something from a vision.

‘Eira? Did you not hear my question?’

Snapping out of her reverie, Eira’s amber eyes flicked up to meet the lush hazel ones of Zayne. It occurred to her that he had already asked her the same thing twice but she had been too brain dead (and hormone-addled) to muster a cogent response.

‘I—uh. Yes. Yes, of course, the one about…’ she cast a desperate glance towards the window, ‘The snow?’

Zayne gave a deep sigh, before pinching the bridge of his aquiline nose.

‘I will put your response down to fatigue from the last few days. I asked if you were feeling alright, as I worry this amount of sexual intercourse is too hard on your heart.’ Zayne explained.

Eira blinked owlishly, before snickering, ‘Sexual intercourse? Really, Zayne?’

‘It’s a perfectly reasonable way of referring to it,’ Zayne replied archly, folding his arms over his naked chest, ‘What do you say, then?’

‘Oh, so it’s ‘it’ now?’ Eira giggled as she sat up on the bed, ‘I don’t’ know, it just seems a bit formal.’

‘That does not answer either of my original questions, love.’

All of a sudden, an idea struck Eira. A chance to get back at Zayne after how he ate her blueberry muffin yesterday and proceeded to pretend it was the mice. It had been fucking EXPENSIVE too, and she was fairly sure he’d had about four. He was so going to end up with cavities.

Anyway. The plan that had formed in her mind was a risky one, but she knew she’d be the one winning either way. Having decided, Eira stretched her legs out on the bed and slowly twirled a lock of her long black hair around her finger. The silk of her night-slip slid up her toned thigh, and she caught his gaze flickering there.

‘My heart is just fine, thank you Dr. Li,’ she gave a faux long-suffering sigh, ‘I think it would only actually suffer if it was like, genuinely challenged.’

Zayne raised a dark brow, his lips thinning. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Nothing much,’ Eira shrugged, ‘It can’t really be helped. It’s just…I don’t think you really know what you’re doing, honestly.’

He said nothing, and despite the fire, the room’s temperature seemed to plummet. A flicker of uncertainty tickled her chest as she continued despite his silence:

‘I mean, I love you and all, but I just thought a surgeon would be a but more skilled? Like with your hands, and knowing what to do and…uh…Zayne? What’re yo—!’

He had been quick to move, and was now braced over her. Despite her prank, Eira couldn’t help but glance at his forearms, which were bracketing her prone form. Zayne was strong, she knew that, but seeing that lithe muscle in his arms flex undeniably turned her on. To make matters worse, she had spotted the reason for the loss of temperature in the room.

Ice crystals had latticed up Zayne’s pale skin. Eira knew that meant her joke had worked, perhaps a little too well.

‘Eira, my love,’ Zayne’s voice was low, dangerous as his hazel eyes burned with a fire she rarely saw, ‘I thought we had talked about manners?’

‘Manners are only for doctors that know how to properly tend to a patient,’ Eira replied, although her voice lacked its previous confidence. As she spoke, she trailed a hand down his chest; his heart was predictably slow and gave nothing away.

‘You’re so pretty, too. What a waste, Zaynie.’

Before she could even blink, the hand that had been snaking up his torso had been pinned to the headboard. A cuff of ice bit her wrist, which had been warmed by the fire earlier. The contrast made her shiver.

But she had bigger problems right now. Namely, the very pissed cardiac surgeon that was about to shred her night-slip.

‘Zayne, don’t ruin this dres—!’

‘I’ll buy you another one, if you’re good for me,’ he growled as the slip froze, and splintered into shards of ice, ‘And to start off, good girls do not insult people.’

‘I—,’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’

Eira gasped as the temperature of the room returned to normal and her naked flesh pricked with the sensation. The sharp sound of splintering frost cleaved the air, and a cold hand enveloped her breast. Zayne’s fingers, chilly enough to sting, grazed the curve of her breast. Her skin peaked instantly, every nerve shrieking like a live wire They travelled smoothly up towards her hard nipple, which ached for contact. A moan escaped her lips as her back arched.

‘For someone that was complaining a moment ago, you seem very satisfied,’ Zayne rumbled, ‘This always happens. You run your mouth with things you don’t mean, just to rile me up.’

Then, his warm mouth enveloped her nipple, and Eira cried out at the drastic temperature change. Now, his other hand was toying with her other breast whilst his mouth devoured the other one. Already she could feel that dangerous pressure curling low in her gut as another ice cuff secured her free wrist.

He had her at his mercy.

Just as her hips had begun to roll into his, desperately rutting against the fabric of the towel that separated them, Zayne rose from where he had stationed himself over her tits. She could feel that he was hard, but she also knew all too well that she would be waiting a while for him be fully inside her tonight.

With cold hands, he hoisted her thighs to bracket his hips, and clutched them with frozen hands. Eira whined at the chill against the warm flesh of her thighs, and writhed in his grip. It felt like it was too much; she had pushed him too far. Now, she was going to have to deal with the frozen fury of Zayne Li.

‘Ah, ah, ah,’ Zayne tutted, holding her still in her attempts to free herself, ‘You are going to let me do what I want. For as long as I want, Eira. If my skills are really as poor as you claim, then I want to improve them with someone who can endure.’

His hands soon reached her slick entrance, and he circled it with frozen fingers coated with small ice crystals. They were ice-cold, precise — and her hips jerked like he’d shocked her with lightning. She couldn’t think. Couldn’t beg. Couldn’t complain as he filled her pussy with two of them.

‘So wet,’ he murmured, plunging them deeper into her wetness and curling them towards her navel, ‘In your words, a waste. Such a shame that girls who talk shit don’t get to come.’

She gasped at his use of expletives – it was a rare occurrence that only stoked the white-hot feeling of arousal that lanced through her flushed body. Inside her now-twitching pussy, his fingers had reached a nearly sub-zero climate. The contrast was delicious, and only elicited a gush of wetness from her.

‘Z-Zayne— I want y-your mouth—,’ she begged breathlessly, hips bucking against where he held her open for him.

A smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he lifted her thighs higher to bracket his head. Pressing a kiss to her twitching clit, he began to devour her soaked pussy like it was the last dessert he would ever eat. Eira’s cries soon turned to mewls as Zayne’s tongue laved over her  entrance, prodding inwards to tease the spongy spot that always made her see fucking stars. Soon his fingers joined his tongue, pumping in and out of her cunt with an intensity that notified Eira that he was absolutely holding a grudge.

‘’M gonna cum— Zayne—!’ Eira whined, thrusting her hips closer to his face.

‘No you’re not,’ he pulled away, and she gave another cry of frustration, ‘You’re going to watch as I remind this pretty pussy exactly who she belongs to. If you come or look away, I am not touching you for the rest of the honeymoon.’

‘You wouldn’t…’s unfair!’ She countered in a voice slurred with pleasure.

‘I am not known for my judicial tendencies, Eira.’

He held out one palm, and the air around them dropped again. Crystals bloomed in his hand, slow and deliberate, until they shaped into something sleek and cruel — a gleaming, blunt rod of solid ice, smooth and glistening.

Eira’s breath caught.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said softly, brushing her thigh. ‘I’ll warm you back up after.’

The blunt head of the ice prodded against her soaked pussy, and she gave a sharp shout of surprise at the stimulation. It was freezing against her warm entrance, but Zayne didn’t seem to care as he slid it further inside her whilst his other hand rubbed tight circles on her puffy clit.

The first inch made her hips arch off the bed. Her breath stuttered. He pushed slower, watching her face the whole time. The cold was unbearable. Exquisite. Her walls fluttered around it, desperate to force it out — or pull it deeper.

‘Are you sorry?’

‘Mmh— hm?’

‘Are you sorry for what you said?’

‘Y-yes—!’

‘I don’t believe you, love,’ Zayne’s voice was silk as he leaned closer towards you, and pressed a freezing kiss to the soft flesh of your neck, ‘Why don’t you prove it to me?’

‘I just want to come, please Zayne, please, please—!’

‘Very well. You’re going to fuck yourself on the ice, and beg the whole time. Can you handle that, Eira?’

‘Yes, god, yes!’

‘Good girl,’ Zayne crooned, his fingers still rubbing her swollen clit, ‘What’s your safeword?’

‘Autumn!’

Eira whimpered as Zayne pressed another kiss to the hollow of her throat. Emboldened by the  promise of an orgasm, she pressed herself forwards on the sharp cold that was nestled inside her slick cunt.  As it inched further inside of her, the freezing pressure sent jolts of cold down to her belly. Her thighs shook with the effort of the motion, or the shame of it. Heat flooded her cheeks, but her cunt was soaked, greedily clenching around the frozen shape that sent prickles down her spine.

Soon, she could feel an orgasm cresting over her, the tension coiling low in her belly. Her pussy gripped the ice harder, and Zayne could feel it for at the last moment, the ice vanished.

Eira could have cried with frustration, but instead she settled for a bratty groan.

His hand was still drawing slow circles on her clit as he mumbled, ‘What did you say earlier? You’re not coming until you tell me word for word.’

She sobbed. ‘I said— I said you were bad at sex, Zayne, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I was—,’

‘Finish the sentence.’

‘I was lying! I just— I just wanted to tease you!’

There. There it was.

She could feel her husband grin against her neck. Leaving a delicious bite there, he unhooked her thighs from his broad shoulders and lowered her gently back onto the bed. The sound of the towel coming off of him hit her before the sight did, and soon Zayne was just as naked as she had been for the last ten minutes.

Dragging her shaking thighs open, Eira suddenly felt the nudge of his heavy cock against her entrance. In one swift movement, he thrust all the way into the hilt, resting deep, deep inside of her.

She screamed.

After the shocking cold of the ice, the heat of him felt inhuman, overwhelming. He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping into hers with a precision that fractured Eira’s senses. The world shrunk to where they were joined, to the perverse delight of Zayne fucking her as deeply as she was capable of.

Her eyes stayed on his the whole time, as he had demanded earlier. Heat flickered in them as she raked her nails down his back, chasing an orgasm that she had been denied thrice now.

‘You’re so wet, and so tight for me, Eira,’ Zayne groaned into her as he moved faster, ‘Is this why? Is this why you said that? Because you knew—,’

He paused, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her.

‘That you would be punished.’

Eira was semi delirious by now. The only sensations that existed to her were his fingers circling her clit as his cock drilled into her swollen pussy. A thin white ring had formed where they were joined and it contributed to the obscene sounds that filled the air.

‘Z-Zayne, I can’t— I can’t—'

‘You can. You will.’

The ice cuffs dissolved into wisps of frost and were instead replaced by his large hand covering her wrists. Her pulse went haywire at the change, dragging her closer to the precipice she was absolutely teetering on.

‘You want to come, Eira?’

‘Yes, yes— please—'

‘Then come. And I want to hear you—’

She shattered like glass. The orgasm ripped through her harder than the first denial, soaking her body in white-hot heat that melted her muscles into soup. Her pussy fluttered uselessly against Zayne’s cock.

And still — he didn’t stop.

Zayne chased his own climax desperately, fucking despite her cries and the slick mess soaking her thighs. Until finally, with a groan torn from deep in his chest, he came hard inside her in long, hot spurts.

The air was still and silent for a moment as Zayne’s forearms finally conceded and he lowered himself to lay beside her, pulling her with him so he could remain inside of her pulsing cunt. After about two minutes of a silent comedown, he stroked back her hair and kissed her gently on her forehead.

‘Are you alright? You did so well for me, Eira. You were perfect, as usual,’ Zayne mumbled softly. His gaze was now much kinder, and the concern for his wife was heartbreakingly evident as he scanned her for any signs of injury of overexertion.

‘’M fine, thank you Zaynie. A bit sore, but fine.’

‘Come and take a warm shower with me. It will relax your muscles and your mind, as well as reducing the risk of cramps.’

Eira giggled, kissing him on the cheek, ‘Angling for a second round, Dr. Li?’

‘Never, Mrs. Li.’

hope y'all enjoyed and i did a decent job! my asks are open but will close soon if i get more as you guys have sent me so much AND I LOVE IT AHHHHHHHHHHH <333333

[theywereafairy]

Can you see right through me?

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Investigative Journalist!Reader Wordcount: 9.6k

⋆˚࿔ Summary: You were sent to Bogotá to write about the war on drugs, not to fall for the man in the middle of it. Javier Peña doesn’t want to be interviewed. Doesn’t want to be written about. And he definitely doesn’t want you digging beneath the surface. But the more time you spend together, across stakeouts, interviews, silences, the more you see through the armor he wears like second skin. You’re supposed to stay objective. He’s supposed to stay detached. But somewhere between your questions and his evasions, something shifts. And one night, off the record, it all comes undone.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings: journalist/DEA slow burn • guarded Javi, determined reader • interrogation-turned-flirting • enemies to lovers energy • smut (oral f receiving, PIV with condom, praise, body worship) • “do you like me?” turned devastating • yearning so tense it hurts • emotional intimacy • soft aftercare • scars, literal and emotional • one bed (kinda) • mutual unraveling • article excerpts at the end • you will feel things

⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note: This fic started as an idea about interviews and turned into one of the softest, slowest things I’ve ever written. It’s about two people who are too tired to admit how much they want to be known. It’s banter, burn, and tenderness in equal measure. Thank you for being here. Reblogs, tags, and screams all wildly appreciated 🫶🏼 Fae🧚‍♀️

BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA — U.S. EMBASSY

The embassy smelled like paper and tiredness. Somewhere down the hall, a fan clattered uselessly, blowing humid air from one corner to the next. You adjusted the strap of your canvas satchel and waited, heels clicking softly against the linoleum as the secretary behind the desk leafed through a stack of files like she had all the time in the world.

“You’re the reporter?” she asked eventually, without looking up.

“I am,” you said, offering the laminated press badge she didn’t bother to examine. “Scheduled to meet with Agents Murphy and Peña. I believe they’re expecting me.”

She snorted lightly. “Yeah. About that.”

Before you could ask what that meant, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swung open, and the mood shifted. The man who stepped through looked like he belonged in a bar fight, not a federal office. Aviators perched in his hair. Tan dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, cigarette burn on the collar. A badge on his hip and a scowl on his face. Javier fucking Peña.

He clocked you immediately. Slowed his walk. Took the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it like this whole building wasn’t federal property. You knew that look. The look men gave when they’d already made up their minds about you.

He stopped five feet away. “No.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no. Turn around. Go home. Try Costa Rica. Pretty this time of year.”

You forced a smile. “You haven’t even asked my name.”

“I don’t need to.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaled toward the ceiling. “You’re the journalist the brass sent to babysit us. You’ll get someone killed.”

“And you’re the agent who thinks written down rules are a suggestion,” you shot back.

Behind him, another figure appeared, lighter hair, less bitterness. A little younger, cleaner, still a little shocked by the job. This must be Steve Murphy.

“Jesus, Peña,” Murphy muttered, tugging his tie loose as he stepped forward. “We talked about this.”

“She’s a liability.”

“She’s standing right here,” you said. “And she’s cleared by your own department. I’ve embedded with NATO in Kandahar. I’ve reported from Sarajevo during the siege. I’m not here to hold your hand.”

Peña looked at you like he was trying to see through you, trying to find the angle. “Then why are you here?”

You met his gaze head-on. “To find the truth. Not your version of it. Not theirs. Just the truth.”

A beat of silence stretched between the three of you.

Murphy cleared his throat. “She’s not going anywhere, man. Orders came down this morning. We’re stuck with each other.”

Peña muttered something in Spanish under his breath. You caught the word problema. Then he turned, smoke trailing behind him like a threat.

“You better keep up,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for the stairs.

You followed. 

—

The stakeout location was a narrow side street in the outskirts of Bogotá, all rusted roofs and low voices behind barred windows. The sun had dipped below the smog line by the time you parked. Peña killed the engine but left the radio on, soft static humming like a warning no one could decipher.

They didn’t talk for a while. Neither did you. The silence settled, heavy as the vest pressing into your ribs. You adjusted it for the third time, then gave up. It didn’t fit. None of this did.

Out the window, nothing moved. Just laundry swaying on a wire, and a kid on a bike that was two sizes too big. Peña lit a cigarette. You inhaled through your mouth and stared ahead.

Nothing happened. Which was good. And somehow worse.

You didn’t like quiet operations. They gave your mind too much room to move. It drifted back to Kabul, to a blown checkpoint and the sound of your fixer’s body hitting the pavement. To Sarajevo. To the desert. Places that stayed under your skin like shrapnel, no matter how many airports or hotel rooms you put between yourself and the last assignment.

You hated that about yourself. The way the job followed you everywhere. Into phone calls. Into sleep. Into people you tried to love.

You glanced at Peña. His eyes didn’t leave the rearview mirror. He wasn’t watching you. He was watching everything else.

He looked like someone who carried his job too.

You wondered how long it had been since either of you had put it down.

The silence broke when Murphy spoke.

“My wife thinks I’m going to die in this car,” he said, not looking back.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, soft. “Connie. She’s a nurse. Said if the cartel doesn’t kill me, Peña’s driving will.”

“I’ve kept him alive so far,” Peña muttered, smoke curling past his lips.

“Barely,” Murphy shot back. “One more pothole and I’m gonna need a neck brace.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Does she hate that you’re here?” you asked.

Murphy shifted in his seat. “She gets it. She knew who I was when she married me. But yeah. It’s hard.”

You looked at Peña. “Anyone back home for you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and turned the radio off. The car felt smaller with the silence.

“No.”

A single syllable. Sharp and final. You let it sit for a beat.

“Did there use to be?”

His jaw ticked. “You writing a profile, or just bored?”

Murphy gave you a warning glance, but you didn’t back down.

“I just like to know the people I’m trusting with my life,” you said, evenly.

Peña scoffed. “Then you’re in the wrong damn business.”

And that was the end of it.

BOGOTÁ – DEA SAFEHOUSE, LATE EVENING

The safehouse was too quiet. Dim, with a broken ceiling fan that ticked every time it turned. You sat at the wobbly kitchen table, voice recorder between your elbows, notebook open, pen resting on the edge like a dare.

Across from you, Javier Peña looked like he’d rather be shot.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp. One foot propped behind him like he was half a second from walking away.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, “this is a waste of time.”

“You said that before the stakeout,” you said, clicking the recorder on. “And yet here you are. Progress.”

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t leave either.

You glanced up at him. “One hour. Then you can go back to brooding in the corner like a noir film cliché.”

That got you an eye roll. . Peña sighed, shoved off the wall, and dropped into the chair across from you like gravity had finally won.

“You get thirty minutes,” he said. “After that, I’m drinking until I forget your name.”

“I’ll take it.”

You flipped to a clean page.

“Let’s start simple,” you said, clicking your pen. “Why the DEA?”

He snorted. “That’s simple?”

“For some people.”

Peña shrugged, eyes on the dark window across the room. “I grew up in Texas. Law enforcement runs deep. My dad was a sheriff. I guess I thought I could do better.”

You wrote that down, slow and deliberate.

“You think you have?”

He looked back at you, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lie.

“I think I tried.”

Silence laced the edge of that sentence. You didn’t press. 

You turned the page. “What’s the hardest part of your job?”

Peña leaned back, arms folded. “The paperwork.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously. There’s a form for every goddamn thing. You shoot a tire, that’s three hours of justifying it to people who’ve never held a gun. But if I don’t shoot the tire, the guy in the car might kill ten people.”

You nodded slowly. “So the hardest part is knowing when to bend the rules?”

“No.” He looked at you again. “The hardest part is knowing that bending the rules might not matter. That some people die anyway. And that sometimes you’re the reason.”

The pen hovered mid-air. You didn’t write that one down.

“You ever think about quitting?” you asked, more gently.

“All the time.”

“Why don’t you?”

Peña didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed a hand over his mouth like the question tasted bitter.

“Because if I quit, someone worse takes my place.”

That silence returned. But it didn’t feel sharp now, just tired.

You gave it space before asking the next one.

“Do you think people misunderstand you?”

Peña’s eyes narrowed. “That a trick question?”

“No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But it’s an interesting one.”

He looked at you a moment too long. Then, unexpectedly, smiled, dry and crooked.

“Probably. But I’ve never cared enough to correct them.”

“You don’t strike me as indifferent.”

“That’s because you’re not as good at looking away as the rest of them,” he said, almost amused. “You see things. That’s the problem with you.”

You smirked. “I’m a journalist. It’s literally my job.”

He laughed, just once, but it cracked the air like lightning. You didn’t realize how tense the room had been until it eased.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna write a whole book about me, aren’t you?”

You leaned forward, chin in your hand. “Only if you keep talking.”

That last question sat on the tip of your tongue. You’d saved it, tucked it behind your teeth since earlier in the car.

“Do you regret anything?”

Peña’s jaw clenched.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t soften it,  just waited. And for a moment, just one, he let you see it, the fracture beneath all that control.

“Every day,” he said quietly.

The fan creaked overhead. The room was still. Then he stood up, quick and decisive, chair scraping against the floor. The wall went back up.

“That’s enough,” he said.

You didn’t argue and clicked the recorder off.

“Thank you.”

He paused in the doorway.

“For what?” he asked, without turning.

“For not walking out.”

Peña huffed a laugh, shook his head, and disappeared down the hall.

LATER THAT NIGHT – SAFEHOUSE LIVING ROOM

You found Murphy alone in the kitchen, half-sunk into a faded armchair with a sweating glass of whiskey in one hand and a manila folder resting on his knee. The lights were low, just the amber overhead glow from the stove, casting long shadows across the cracked tile floor.

He looked up when you stepped in, and smiled in that boyish, half-apologetic way he always did when Peña said something brutal and Murphy didn’t stop it.

“Surprised you’re still here,” he said, closing the folder.

You shrugged, slipping into the chair across from him. “I had to wait until the storm passed.”

“Yeah, well. Javi’s not so much a storm as a… controlled demolition. With a lighter.”

You laughed softly, then pulled out your notebook again.

“I figured I’d do your interview while I have you. Unless you’re about to pass out.”

Murphy tipped his glass toward you. “Fire away, reporter lady.”

You asked him the same kinds of questions. Why he joined. What made him stay. What kept him up at night.

He gave thoughtful answers, all with that quiet Midwestern sincerity, occasionally pausing to check if he was saying too much. You liked him. He was honest in a way that didn’t feel performative.

But somewhere between “I always wanted to help people” and “Connie’s the reason I haven’t lost my damn mind,” you caught yourself wondering about something else..

“Was Peña always like this?”

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

“Like what?” he asked, though his smile said he knew exactly what you meant.

You exhaled. “Guarded. Hard to read. Always on edge, like every question is a loaded gun.”

Murphy leaned back, swirling the amber in his glass.

“He wasn’t always like this,” he said eventually. “But I don’t think he’s been not like this for a long time.”

You watched him, pen frozen mid-note.

“He’s seen a lot more of this war than I have,” Murphy continued. “Been in it longer. Got burned more times than he’ll ever admit. You’d be closed off too if half the people you trusted ended up either dead or on someone’s payroll.”

He hesitated, then added: “Truth is, Javi’s one of the only people here who still gives a shit. He just can’t afford to look like it.”

You were quiet for a moment. 

“You sound like you’ve had to defend him before.”

Murphy smiled into his drink. “Yeah. Usually to Connie. She calls him a ‘lost cause in tight jeans’.’”

You huffed a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

He glanced at you, sharp but amused.

“You ask a lot of questions, but it’s funny, you circle back to him a lot.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

“I’m just trying to understand the dynamics,” you said finally.

“Mhm.”

There was a pause. Murphy drained the rest of his glass and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Look,” he said. “Peña’s not an easy guy. He’s reckless. He drinks too much. He carries guilt like it’s stitched into his jacket. And yeah, he’s a dick most days.”

He met your eyes.

“But under all that? He’s loyal. He’s brave. And when he decides to give a damn about someone, he’ll walk through fire for them. He just—”

Murphy rubbed a hand over his face.

“He just doesn’t know how to be seen anymore. Not without feeling like it’ll cost him something.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“And he’d absolutely punch me for saying that,” Murphy added. “But I’d risk it.”

You smiled. Soft and tired.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t write him into something he’s not.”

“I’m not trying to write a hero,” you said. “I’m just trying to write the truth.”

Murphy tilted his head. “Then you’re probably gonna write something closer to a tragedy than you think.”

And with that, he stood, nodded once, and left you there with your notebook and a heart you didn’t quite trust anymore.

BOGOTÁ – YOUR APARTMENT, MIDNIGHT

The wine was cheap and warm, poured into a mismatched mug because all your glasses were still in boxes. You sat on the floor of your apartment, back against the wall, knees pulled to your chest, the fan buzzing softly above like a lazy mosquito. Outside, the city murmured, low music, a dog barking, a motorcycle tearing down the street like it was being chased by something.

You’d tried to call your mother earlier.

Twice. No answer. Not unusual. But still. The voice message had been short, impersonal. Hey. I’m okay. Working late. It’s fine.

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

You stared at the phone for a long time after that, then hung up the receiver and poured more wine.

The recorder sat on the floor beside you. You hadn’t listened back to the interview with Peña yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to. The man drove you insane. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Difficult on purpose.

And yet.

There was something magnetic about the way he held himself, like he was constantly trying not to break. Like everything he did, every smirk, every refusal to answer, was a defense mechanism wrapped in pain and nicotine.

You should’ve been focusing on bigger things. The politics. The corruption. The civilians caught in the crossfire. The invisible network that kept Escobar in power.

Instead, your notes were full of him.

Peña said no again today.Didn’t look at me when he said it.Why does it feel like he sees everything but won’t let himself be seen?

You hated it.

Hated how he’d carved out space in your head without trying. Without wanting to.

He wasn’t the story. You told yourself that over and over.

But when he spoke, actually spoke, it felt like the air changed.

You couldn’t shake that last answer. “Every day.”

He hadn’t even looked at you when he said it. Like the truth didn’t belong in your direction.

You pressed your head back against the wall, eyes closed. What were you doing here?

You came to Colombia to write something real. To chase the rot at the core of American intervention. To tell the stories no one else could. And instead, you were sitting on the floor in a city that didn’t love you, thinking about a man who didn’t want to be known.

It was pathetic.

You laughed once, dry and mean, just for yourself.

Somewhere out there, Peña was probably still up, drinking too, maybe smoking on a balcony somewhere, watching the night like it might blink first. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about you at all.

Good. It was better that way.

You finished the wine. Reached for the recorder. And hit play. His voice crackled to life, quiet and worn.

“The hardest part is knowing that bending the rules might not matter.”

And you closed your eyes. Because you knew exactly what he meant.

DEA SAFEHOUSE – INTERVIEW #4

He was already there when you arrived. Same chair. Same shirt rolled at the sleeves. Same guarded eyes that tracked you across the room like you were a threat and not a woman holding a notebook and a half-dead ballpoint pen.

You set the recorder down between you. 

“You don’t have to keep coming,” you said as you sat.

Javier Peña leaned back in his chair, the picture of indifference. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You never answer anything,” you said, tapping the pen against your thigh. “Half the recordings are silence and smoke breaks.”

“Maybe I just like wasting your time.”

You rolled your eyes and hit record anyway.

Ten minutes passed. Questions. Shrugs. A couple of monosyllables. A quiet no comment delivered with the kind of deadpan that made you want to throw something at him. You closed your notebook slowly.

“Why are you still doing this?” you asked. The words came out more honest than intended.

He didn’t look at you.

“I told you,” he said. “They make me.”

You felt the sting in your chest before you could reason your way out of it. It wasn’t that you thought he cared. Not really. But hearing it said, cold, clipped, like this whole thing was a chore, cut deeper than it should.

You nodded once. “Right ” and moved to turn off the recorder, but then he spoke again.

“Why did you start this?”

You looked up. “What?”

“The job,” he said. “Journalism. Writing. Asking questions that piss people off.”

You blinked at him. “No one’s asked me that in a long time.”

“I’m asking now.”

You hesitated.

 “I wanted to know how things worked. How people worked. Why they do what they do. And I thought… maybe if I could understand it, I could explain it better than the people who just shrug and say, ‘that’s life.’”

Peña nodded slowly, almost like he respected that.

“You think it’s working?”

You smiled, tired. “Sometimes. Sometimes I think I’m just documenting the collapse.”

He huffed a dry laugh at that.

“You always this intense?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. If that man didn't die from a bullet, lung cancer was gonna get him sooner or later.

“You always this emotionally constipated?”

He grinned, and you felt it in your stomach.

“Do you ever sleep?” he asked next.

“Not well.”

“Drink?”

“Too much.”

“Family?”

“Complicated.”

He tilted his head. “That a journalist word for ‘won’t talk about it?’”

You shrugged. “Only when I’m off duty.”

“You’re always on duty.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you reached forward and, without ceremony, turned off the recorder.

Then you closed the notebook, slid the pen into the spiral binding, and set it aside. Peña watched you do it. Said nothing.

“So,” you said softly. “Now what?”

He took a drag, exhaled slowly.

“Now you stop pretending you’re here just for the story.”

You swallowed.

You met his eyes. Neither of you flinched.

The air between you went still. Not tense, not warm. Still, like something had clicked into place and neither of you wanted to name it yet.

“You don’t scare me, Peña.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looked down. Then back at you.

“Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m burning alive every time I give a shit.”

That silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t empty.

BOGOTÁ – SOMEONE ELSE’S BED, 1:42 AM

The ceiling was cracked. Thin lines running from one corner to the next, jagged and faint like scars. Javi stared at them in the dark, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across the curve of a woman’s bare back.

She was warm. Soft. Smelled like something synthetic and expensive. She curled closer to him, her palm smoothing over his chest, slow and mindless. Comfort without context.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured against his skin.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either.

She was a familiar face in an unfamiliar city. He didn’t know her real name. That was fine. That was easier.

“Is it your job?” she asked after a beat. “You look like it’s your job.”

He huffed, humorless. “You don’t even know what I really do.”

“I don’t need to,” she said, brushing her fingers along his ribs. “You’re tense like a man who can’t tell the truth even to himself.”

Javi sighed, rolled to his side and lit a cigarette just for something to do with his hands. She didn’t ask for one. Just watched him through heavy lashes, waiting.

“I’ve got this woman shadowing me,” he said eventually. Voice low and detached. “Reporter.”

“That why you’re here?” she asked. “To get her out of your system?”

He didn’t respond.

She smiled faintly. “Didn’t work, huh?”

He stared at the red glow of the cigarette for a moment, then exhaled.

“She’s annoying,” he said. “Pushy. Thinks every silence is a mystery to solve.”

“And what…she’s wrong?”

Javi dragged the cigarette again, slower this time.

“She keeps asking why I come to the interviews. Why I waste her time.”

The woman sat up a little, pulling the sheet with her. “Why do you?”

He didn’t answer.

He thought of the conversation he’d had with the embassy attaché days ago. The guy had looked at him, bored, and said, “If you’re not going to be helpful, you don’t have to go. Murphy can handle it.”

Javi had nodded like he understood. Then showed up the next day anyway.

He told her it was because they made him. That was the lie. The truth was stranger: he wanted to catch her off guard. Wanted to see her flinch. She never did.

“She’s smart,” he said now, quietly. “Smarter than most people in that damn building. Sharp and observant.”

The woman beside him raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you like her.”

He frowned. “I don’t.”

“She make you feel seen?”

He snorted. “She makes me feel like a fucking lab rat.”

“Mm.” She leaned against the headboard. “Men always confuse affection for fascination.”

He looked at her for the first time all night.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiled. Not cruelly but knowingly.

“It means you’re not mad because she’s in your space, Javier. You’re mad because she looks at you and sees past the parts you work so hard to keep up.”

He let the silence fill the room. She reached for his cigarette. Took a drag without asking.

“You’re gonna ruin her,” she said eventually, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Or she’s gonna ruin you.”

“Maybe both,” he muttered.

The woman nodded, passing the cigarette back. “Well. At least you’ll be even.”

DEA SAFEHOUSE – INTERVIEW #5

He was already there when you walked in. You were only seven minutes late, but he was sitting like he’d been waiting for hours, hands folded, jaw tight, leg bouncing just enough to suggest impatience.

You dropped your bag by the chair, your recorder clacking softly as you set it on the table. You didn’t press play yet. You were still watching him, and he was watching you back.

His eyes scanned you once, slowly. Not in a way that made your skin crawl. In a way that made your skin aware.

He didn’t hide it. You didn’t look away.

“Didn’t think you’d show up today,” he said eventually, voice low and just a little too casual.

You raised a brow. “I’m not the one who keeps dodging questions.”

“I don’t dodge,” he said. “I redirect.”

“Mm. Into a wall.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter and leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He was wearing a different shirt today. Navy, sleeves rolled, collar open. It looked like he’d gotten halfway to dressing for work and then stopped caring. You hated that you noticed.

“Something funny?” you asked.

“You,” he said, without missing a beat. “You sit there like you’ve got all the answers. But I don’t think you know what the hell to do with me.”

“I know enough.”

“Do you?” His voice dipped, just enough to change the temperature of the room and send shivers down your spine.

You held his gaze. Didn’t blink.

“I know you light a cigarette every time you’re uncomfortable,” you said, calm. “You deflect when the question gets too close. And you keep pretending I’m just a reporter when we both know you’d have stopped showing up by now if that were true.”

His smile was sharp.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?”

“I think you want me to.”

He laughed again, quieter now. But this time, it landed lower in your stomach.

You reached for your notepad, but your hand paused mid-air.

“Do you like me?” he asked.

You blinked. The question hit before you were ready for it, and for the first time in days, you felt yourself lose footing.

“…What?”

He was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, gaze fixed like he was waiting to watch you flinch.

“You heard me.”

You glanced at the recorder. Still off.

“That’s not how this works,” you said, voice quieter than intended.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, forcing your eyes to meet his. “I haven’t decided.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes.”

He leaned back again, the smile gone now. But something in his face had softened.

“You usually like the people you write about?”

You swallowed. “You usually flirt with people you don’t trust?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second. Then back up.

The thing you’d both been dancing around for days finally broke the surface like breath after water.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “But I like watching you try to get me to trust you.”

You smiled, slow.

“I’m not trying anymore.”

You reached forward, grabbed the recorder you never started, and set your notebook aside.

Peña watched you. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t look away either.

And for the first time, you felt it. Not just the tension, but the want beneath it. Not just attraction. Not just interest. But that terrible, beautiful sense of oh no.

BOGOTÁ – A STREET AT NIGHT

He couldn’t sit still.

He’d tried. Started with a drink, then a second. Lit a cigarette. Let it burn all the way down in the ashtray without touching it again. He turned on the radio in the safehouse, turned it off again a minute later. Too loud. Too empty.

The interview had been… nothing, really. Just a question. Just a moment. Just the first time she hadn’t looked at him like a puzzle to solve.

No recorder. No notebook. Just her. Raw and steady.

He hated it.

He hated how much he liked it.

Now he was out in the street with his jacket slung over one shoulder and his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. The city buzzed around him, vendors closing up, headlights cutting through smog, dogs barking in distant alleys.

He walked like it would help. It didn’t.

All it did was stir her up again. Her voice, her goddamn smirk, the way she said “I’m not trying anymore” like it wasn’t a threat, but a confession. Like she’d been fighting something and finally gave up.

He wanted to touch her.

Yeah, he wanted to fuck her, sure, but that wasn’t what kept him up. Not really. It was the want behind it. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to ask about the things she never wrote down. About her family. Her regrets. Her voice when she wasn’t on the record. What scared her. What she dreamed about before the world taught her to be sharp.

He wanted to see her, and it pissed him off.

—

He didn’t remember deciding to walk to her apartment. He just looked up, and there it was.

A plain building. Quiet street. One dim light behind a window on the third floor.

He stood on the sidewalk like an idiot, jacket over his shoulder, cigarette tucked behind his ear, trying to think of a reason not to knock. There were plenty.

He’d fuck it up. He always did. He’d push too hard or say too little. He’d be cruel when she needed soft or too soft when she needed space. She’d look at him and see exactly what he was. Lonely, bitter, half-broken, and she’d leave. Maybe not tonight. But eventually.

And yet, he climbed the steps anyway. Each one heavier than the last. He reached her door and knocked.

Twice. Quietly. Like maybe he hoped she wouldn’t hear. But she would. She always heard more than she was supposed to.

YOUR APARTMENT – LATE NIGHT

Your mother didn’t pick up. Again.

You stared at the telephone like it owed you something, an explanation, maybe. A reason. Anything. But it just sat there, lifeless on the coffee table, still and silent, as if you hadn’t just whispered “Please pick up, just once.”

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your shirt, tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. That she was busy. That you weren’t twelve years old anymore hoping for someone to show up for you.

You poured another inch of wine into the same chipped mug, the bottle barely sloshing. You didn’t even sit back down. You just stood there in the middle of the room, tired and buzzed and stretched thin.

That’s when you heard it. A knock.

Two of them. Sharp. Hesitant.

You froze. Then moved.

Your hand found the gun in the drawer near the door, and you wrapped your fingers around it like you knew what you were doing.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask who is it like some girl in a horror movie.

You cracked the door open just an inch and peeked through.

And froze again.

It was him. Javier Peña.

Standing in your hallway, half-shadow, half-smirk, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and that leather jacket slung over his shoulder like he didn’t know where else to put it.

His eyes flicked down.

“Jesus,” he said, one brow lifting. “Is that how you always answer the door?”

You blinked. “Is that how you always show up at women’s apartments unannounced?”

“You first.”

You exhaled, heart thudding in your ears, and opened the door wider, gun still in hand, though lower now. You weren’t sure what was more confusing: the weapon in your grip or the fact that he was actually here.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Peña?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pointed at the gun.

“You’re holding that wrong.”

You frowned. “I’m holding it like someone who didn’t expect company.”

“You’re holding it like someone who’s gonna shoot her own foot.”

You looked down. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Your grip was tense, off-balance. You clicked the safety on and set it on the console table like it had betrayed you.

For a long second, neither of you spoke. He didn’t come in. You didn’t invite him. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t about sleep. You felt raw in a way that wasn’t about wine.

“What,” you said again, quieter this time, “are you doing here?”

He looked past you, into the room behind. Then back at you.

“I don’t know.”

And god, that answer hit harder than it should have.

You didn’t remember deciding to let him in.

There was a part of you that knew it was a bad idea, that nothing good ever followed this kind of silence between two people who understood each other’s darkness a little too well. But when he stood there, framed in your doorway like a man who didn’t know where he belonged, you stepped back. Just far enough for him to walk through. And he did.

The door closed softly behind him. The air changed.

You poured him a drink without asking. Something familiar. He accepted it with a nod and didn’t sit, just lingered near the window like he wasn’t sure if he should stay. You took your usual spot on the couch and waited, your heart pacing inside your chest like it already knew something was coming.

When he spoke, it was low. Unassuming. Like he was trying not to scare whatever this was into running.

“Had you decided whether you liked me or not yet?”

The question landed quiet, but it didn’t feel small. It spread. It hummed in your ribs.

You looked up. There was a flicker of something on his face, nervous, almost. Like he’d asked it before he could stop himself.

You wanted to say something clever. Something that would keep the tension light, that would put the walls back where they belonged. But when you opened your mouth, all that came out was truth.

“…Yes.”

It was soft. Honest. It sat between you with all the weight of a confession neither of you asked for, but both of you needed.

He didn’t move right away. Just watched you in a way that made you feel seen, deeply and without warning. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you. And another. He stretched out his hand, helping you stand back up from the sofa

He stopped just in front of you, eyes never leaving yours, like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he was afraid this wasn’t real, that it might vanish if he breathed too hard. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run.

He lifted one hand, tentative, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. That was all. No grand gesture. No kiss. Just the softest touch, tucked behind your ear, and it shattered something in you.

You closed your eyes, not because you were afraid, but because the ache was too much to look at.

It wasn’t the touch itself. It was what it meant. The care. The stillness. The kind of tenderness you’d only ever imagined being allowed to need.

And then, without even thinking, you leaned into his hand. Just a little. Just enough. Like your body had been waiting its whole life for someone who didn’t want to take, but to understand.

You felt his breath shift. Heard the faint hitch in his chest. Neither of you spoke. Because in that moment, words would have only gotten in the way.

His thumb lingered at your jaw, gentle as his voice when it finally broke the silence between you.

“Can I kiss you?” It was whispered like a secret. Like a promise he was afraid to make out loud. The words tickled against your skin, too close and not close enough.

You nodded before you could speak, then forced the word past the knot in your throat.

“Yes.”

And just like that, he was there.

He didn’t kiss you yet. Not immediately. Just leaned in, so close his breath grazed your lips, his forehead resting softly against yours, like he needed to feel your stillness before he could let go of his own. You were breathing the same air, caught in the same heat, and his hands trailed down the length of your arms like he was memorizing what it was like to touch someone without urgency.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was human.

He hadn’t touched anyone like that in what felt like forever, like he’d forgotten how to reach for someone and not brace for pain.

Then his fingers slid up, one hand resting at your jaw, the other gripping the side of your neck with just enough pressure to make you tremble. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Barely there. A question in the shape of a mouth.

You answered with your lips. With your breath. With the way your hands curled into his shirt like you were scared he might disappear if you let go.

His lips moved slowly at first, testing. Tasting. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. And when he pulled back a fraction, just to look at you, God, the look, you felt the world tilt under your feet.

The second kiss crashed into you like hunger. Like gravity finally snapping the tether. His mouth found yours again, hotter now, deeper, messier. His hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if he were trying to crawl inside you just to get warm.

You moaned into his mouth and it undid him. He lifted you in one smooth motion, groaning softly against your throat as you wrapped your legs around him. Your back hit the nearest wall and you both gasped like you’d been holding your breath for weeks.

It wasn’t delicate anymore.

Your fingers slipped under his shirt, greedy for skin, and he growled low in his throat when you raked your nails along the line of muscle just above his jeans. He was hard already, pressing into you, and it made your head spin, the sheer want radiating off of him like heat.

“Fuck—” he breathed, kissing along your jaw, your throat. “You don’t—know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you whispered.

His hands were large, warm, steady. So steady it made your heart stutter. They spanned your waist like they’d belonged there for years, fingers splayed over your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you. You were already bare from the waist up, flushed and breathless, his name like static just beneath your tongue.

You could feel the hunger in him, not rushed or frantic. But deep. Sharpened. Like he’d been waiting longer than he’d ever admit. And now that he had you, he wanted to make it last.

He kissed down your body with a kind of reverence that made you ache, his mouth brushing over the swell of your breasts, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch kissed, bitten, soothed again with his tongue. You gasped when his teeth grazed just below your navel, and he smiled against your skin.

Then his hands trailed down. Fingers curled under the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

You nodded. He didn’t speak. Just slid them down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, down your thighs, until you were bare before him.

And he looked at you like you were the first real thing he’d seen in years.

When he bent down, his mouth pressed one final kiss to your inner thigh, then another. Then higher. And higher. Until your hips shifted under him, breath catching, fingers already fisting into the sheets.

He settled between your legs with a sigh that sounded like home, hands gripping your thighs, firm but tender, thumbs stroking soft circles just below your hips.

He started with his mouth. One long, languid stroke of his tongue that made your whole body shudder. You cried out, soft and startled, and he groaned like the sound was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

He kept going.

His tongue moved in careful patterns, circling, flattening, teasing, then pressing just right, until you were gasping, your hips rolling into him on instinct.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. He just tightened his grip, moaned into you like you were something he couldn’t stop tasting.

And then his voice, low, rasped, wrecked, floated up between your thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmured between strokes. “Falling apart for me.”

You whimpered, his name half-shaped in your mouth.

“Javi—”

He groaned. His hand shifted, fingers brushing over your thigh, then slipping lower, lower, until he was there, two fingers pressing in slowly, carefully, in perfect rhythm with his tongue.

Your head fell back.

He cursed softly. “That’s it… you’re so fucking tight, baby—fuck.”

Your body clenched around him, overwhelmed. His tongue flicked faster, fingers curling just right, finding that devastating angle that made your legs start to tremble.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You gonna come for me?”

You nodded, tried to say something, but your voice broke. And he loved it.

“Say it,” he whispered, tongue relentless now. “Say my name when you do.”

“Javi—” it spilled out, raw and pleading.

“Again.”

“Javier—fuck, please—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he rasped. “You hear me? I’m not stopping until I feel you lose it for me.”

You did. You came undone on his mouth, on his fingers, on the sound of his voice praising you like worship. Your thighs tightened around his shoulders, your back arched off the mattress as a wave of heat rolled through your entire body.

And still, he didn’t stop. He slowed, softened, his tongue coaxing you through the aftershocks, his hand gentling where he still held you open for him.

When you finally came down, shaking, breathless, half-dazed, he kissed your thigh, then again, just above your hip.

He lifted his head. And the look in his eyes made your chest crack open. Like he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you falling apart for him.

The room was quiet now, except for the sound of your breathing and the low hum of the city outside your window. His hands were still on your thighs, loose now, open, like he didn’t know how to let go of you yet.

You were still on your back, chest rising and falling as you blinked up at the ceiling. Your skin glowed, limbs trembled, your mouth parted like you’d forgotten how to close it.

And he just looked at you.

Javier’s head rested beside your hip, his hand smoothing slow circles over your knee like he was calming himself down more than you.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough and quiet.

You nodded.

You glanced down at him, your fingers drifting to his hair. You brushed it back, and he sighed into your touch like he hadn’t meant to.

“Didn’t think I’d ever be good at this again,” he said after a moment.

Your brow furrowed gently. “At what?”

He met your eyes. Shrugged.

“Touching someone like it matters.”

Your throat tightened. He hadn’t said it for pity. Didn’t need you to fix it. He just said it like it was a fact of who he’d been.

You sat up slowly, hand still in his hair, then trailed your fingers down the side of his face. You felt the stubble rough against your skin, the tension still coiled in his jaw.

“Let me touch you now,” you said.

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t about taking turns. It was about him being seen, cared for..

He nodded once.

You reached for the hem of his shirt, eyes flicking to his. He lifted his arms without a word, let you pull it up over his head and toss it to the floor. And for a moment, you didn’t move. You just looked.

His chest was lean, muscles tense even in stillness, but your eyes were drawn to the lines that broke the surface. Scars. A few old. One newer. Pale against tan skin, carved into him like warnings from the past.

You lifted a hand and ran your fingers gently over one just beneath his ribs. He flinched, not from pain, but from the intimacy of being seen there.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice barely more than breath.

“Colombia,” he said simply. But then he added, “Shot. Not bad. Just looks like it.”

You kept your hand there, palm resting over it, like you could take something from him by holding it.And maybe you did.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss right beside the scar. His eyes fluttered closed like you’d touched something no one else ever had.

“You don’t have to be so careful with me,” he whispered, like he didn’t know how to receive it. But you shook your head. “No,” you said, kissing another scar, this one just below his shoulder. “I want to be.” He exhaled like he was letting something go.

As you moved lower, your hands found the button of his jeans. He watched you, breath held, but he didn’t stop you. He just rested one hand against your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was trying to memorize every second of it. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured. You looked up. “Why?” “Because I’d let you ruin me.” You smiled, slow. “We already ruined each other.” He leaned forward and kissed your temple, so soft it barely landed. You kissed him again, deeper this time, tasting the way he groaned into your mouth, the way his hands tightened on your hips like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising between you. Then, slowly, you started to move down. He stilled.

Your mouth brushed his jaw, his throat. You kissed the scar near his collarbone, then traced it with your tongue. He swore under his breath, voice catching in his chest as you slid off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. “Wait—fuck—what are you…” But he knew. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and deliberate, and smiled. “Just relax, Javi.”

His breath stuttered. His hands fisted at his sides like he didn’t know where to touch you. When you reached for his jeans, he lifted his hips without question, eyes never leaving yours. You freed him slowly, deliberately, your hands stroking over his hips, his thighs, brushing lightly over the hard length of him. He twitched at the contact, groaning low in his throat. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me…” You laughed softly, your breath warm against his skin. “That’s the idea.”

You started slow. Your lips wrapped around him at the tip, just enough to make him shudder. Your tongue swirled gently, teasing, testing, and the sound he made, it wasn’t loud, but it was wrecked. Half a gasp, half a moan, like he hadn’t been ready for this. For you. His hand found the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there. Anchoring. You took him deeper, slowly, letting him feel the heat of your mouth, the soft pressure of your tongue, the way you hummed low in your throat just to watch his stomach clench.

He looked down at you like he was about to fall apart. “Shit, baby—you’re so good. So fucking good…” You moaned in response, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth. His thighs tensed beneath your hands as you bobbed your head, slow and steady, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, breathless. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” You pulled off for a second, your hand stroking him as you grinned up at him, breathless. “I think I do by now.”

He laughed, broken and grateful, and then you took him back in, deeper this time, your jaw loosening as you found your rhythm. His moans grew rougher, needier, and his hand tightened gently in your hair.

But even as you drove him closer to the edge, he was still watching you. Still whispering: “Fuck—yes, just like that.” “Taking me so good…” “Prettiest mouth I’ve ever—God, please…”

He was close. You could feel it, everywhere. In the way his hips twitched, in the heat of his voice, in the way his other hand clenched the sheets like he was trying not to lose control.

You pulled back just enough to let him breathe, lips trailing up his stomach as you rose again into his lap, straddling him slowly, body pressed flush to his now-bare chest.

His mouth found yours again, desperate, and he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. “Come here,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Come here, baby…”

You reached for the condom again, breath hitching, and this time, finally, you slid it over him with aching slowness, guided by his hands on your hips. “God,” he muttered, biting your lip between kisses. You were straddling him again now, one hand braced on his chest, the other guiding him between your legs, his body hot and heavy beneath you. His hands rested on your hips like he was holding something precious. Like he still couldn’t believe you were real. The condom was in place. You were both breathless. Your mouth hovered over his, close enough to feel him exhale.

Then you moved. You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, until he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, and you swore the whole world held its breath.

You felt everything. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you, grounding you.

Javi groaned, low and guttural, his head falling back as his fingers dug into your skin, not to control you, but to keep himself from falling apart. “Fuck—baby…”

You sat there for a moment, not moving. Just feeling. Letting your body adjust, letting his warmth flood through you, letting the weight of what this was, who he was, settle into your bones.

Then you started to move. Slow at first. Hips rocking gently, your hands finding his shoulders, his chest, your fingers brushing over his scars like you were learning a map of someone who had only ever shown people the edges.

He looked up at you like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Like this, you, was more than he ever thought he’d be allowed to touch. “You feel so good,” he whispered. “So fucking good…”

You kissed him then. Deep. Sweet. Tongue sliding into his mouth as you rolled your hips harder, chasing the heat already curling low in your stomach. His hands roamed up your back, one slipping into your hair, the other tracing the line of your spine. He met your rhythm, pushing up into you, and you both moaned at the same time, needy, breathless, wrecked. “Don’t stop,” he murmured against your mouth. “Please don’t stop.” “I won’t,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

You kept moving, grinding, rising, sinking down again, deeper each time, and the friction, the pressure, the emotion between you built like a tidal wave. He watched you the whole time. Not your body. You.

Your eyes, your mouth, the little sounds you made when his name slipped out like a prayer “Javi—oh God—don’t stop—” “Say my name again,” he gasped, gripping your hips tighter. “Javier,” you breathed, riding him harder now, sweat slicking your skin. “Fuck—Javi—”

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You kept moving in his lap, arms around his neck, his mouth on your throat, your shoulder, your jaw. “I’ve got you,” he groaned. “You’re doing so good—so fucking good—” “I’m close—” you gasped. “I know. I feel it. Come on, baby, give it to me—let go for me—”

And you did. You broke apart in his arms, mouth open against his neck, trembling, gasping, your body pulsing around him.

He followed. With a broken moan, he buried his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering beneath you, holding you so tight it was like he was afraid he’d lose you if he let go. His voice was wrecked when he spilled into the condom, your name tumbling from his lips like it meant something different now.

Like you did.

The night had softened around the two of you like cotton. The air was warm, your limbs sore in the most delicious way, your body humming with the echo of his hands and mouth and voice. But it wasn’t the sex that lingered, it was the way he held you after. Still was holding you, like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

You were still on top of him, legs tangled in his, your cheek resting over his heart. He ran his hand up and down your spine slowly, rhythmically, like he needed to keep touching you just to believe this wasn’t some dream he’d wake up from.

You didn’t speak. You just breathed. And stayed.

After a while, you shifted slightly, dragging your fingertips along the line of his collarbone, mapping every dip like a language. He watched you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, still a little dazed but completely there with you. His hand brushed over your hip, curling gently like he was reminding himself you weren’t going anywhere. “You okay?” he asked softly, like the answer mattered more than anything else. You smiled. “Better than okay.”

He leaned in and kissed your hair, then your temple, lips lingering longer than they needed to. “You’re so beautiful when you’re soft,” you whispered. He huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’re beautiful always.” “Guess that makes two of us.”

His hand stilled at your back, fingers splayed wide. “Don’t go,” he murmured, so quietly it almost didn’t reach your ears. You lifted your head, and your eyes met.

You kissed him once, slow and sure. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said. And you meant it.

You settled your chin on his chest and smiled up at him. “You gonna fall asleep like this?” you teased. He shrugged, brushing hair from your cheek. “If I do, it’s because you wore me out.” “You seemed fine ten minutes ago.” “Yeah, well. I was.”

He smirked, then let his eyes drift down to your mouth, then back up. “Should I be worried you’re gonna write about this in your article?” You blinked. Then laughed, bright and unexpected, your whole body shaking slightly as your forehead dropped against his chest. “Oh my God,” you gasped. “You’re such an ass.” He grinned, proud. “I’m just saying, if you quote anything I said tonight, I expect editorial approval.” “You mean like ‘don’t stop, baby, fuck’ and ‘you’re gonna ruin me’?” “Those were off the record.”

You laughed again, breathless, and his arms tightened around you. God, it felt so easy. So earned.

Eventually, you rolled onto your side, and he followed, pulling you into his chest like gravity. His chin rested on top of your head, his breath steady against your hair. You tangled your fingers with his, thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “I like this,” you said quietly. He hummed. “Me too.”

You were both silent for a long stretch, your heart finally beating slow and safe inside your chest.

Then he added, softer: “I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this again. Not with someone like you.”

You lifted your head, and your eyes met.

You kissed him again, just once. And in the safety of that soft, quiet room, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, He believed you.

EXCERPT FROM: “CARTEL COUNTRY: REPORTING FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WAR”

Published in The Atlantic, Print Edition

There’s a certain kind of silence in Bogotá that doesn’t feel like peace—it feels like waiting. Like breath held. Like something heavier just stepped out of frame. The war on drugs here is not clean. It is not winnable. It is a slow, choking thing that moves through alleyways and embassy halls, leaving both governments and ghosts in its wake.

The men on the front lines don’t speak like heroes. They don’t move like them either. They drink too much. Smoke too often. They come home bloodied from raids, short on patience, full of stories they’ll never tell. The badge on their chest is just that—a badge. Not a shield. Not salvation.

I shadowed two agents during my time here. One of them spoke often about his wife, about home, about the smell of his daughter’s shampoo. The other didn’t say much at all.

And still, somehow, I heard everything.

He had a way of keeping his hands in his pockets even when the room caught fire. A mouth set in quiet refusal. A laugh he kept buried like a secret. He told me once that trust was dangerous. That love was for people who had something left to lose.

I don’t know if he realized he’d already lost something. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just given it.

In this line of work, we measure impact in kilos seized and names on lists. But there are quieter consequences, too. Ones no wiretap catches. The kind that show up in the way someone holds their coffee after a bad day, or in the bruise beneath someone’s eye that nobody mentions. The kind that settle into the back of your throat when someone touches you like they didn’t know they could anymore.

I came to Colombia looking for truth. I found it. In back alleys. In government lies. In files they let me read and names they told me to forget.

But I also found something else.

A softness where I didn’t expect it. A kind of knowing that felt like gravity. A hand on my back that stayed.

Maybe that’s not what I came here to write about.

But it’s what stayed with me.

[hunieday]

Momo - Rainbow City Rabbit Chat Part 1

Part 1 - Part 2 (TBA 30/08/2025)

Please note that I am not a professional translator and I'm only doing this to share the side materials to those who cannot access it, if you notice any mistakes please let me know nicely. Enjoy!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Momo-san, thank you for your hard work! And thank you for your support while we were filming the Rainbow City opening ceremony video!

Takanashi Tsumugi: We’ll be happily conducting an interview for the “Message to My Past and Future Self” video we filmed. Thank you in advance!

Momo: I’ve been waiting for your message, Maneko-chan～～(*´∀`*)ﾉ

Momo: You had to adjust to fit my schedule and now it’s gotten pretty late, is that okay?! Did you remember to have dinner?

Takanashi Tsumugi: I had a bento box with Banri-san and the staff earlier, so I’m all good! 🍚 

Momo: So you’re still working at the office, huh~? I mean it makes sense since it must super busy right before the opening ceremony

Takanashi Tsumugi: Yes! We’re approaching the opening day soon, so we’re doing our best till the very end to host an exciting live show 🔥

Momo: That’s just like you, you’re so reliable! 😆✨ Please send my regards to Ban-san and the staff too!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Ban-san says, “Momo-kun, thanks for working so hard even this late. I’m looking forward to seeing what kind of interview this turns out to be.”

Momo: Ban-san…!! 😳

Momo: I’ll go all out for this 😤 I’ll answer literally anything from what I had for breakfast today to the stuff I just couldn’t resist buying recently!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Thank you so much! Just to remind you, I’m going to ask you a few questions about the message video we filmed the other day, then publish the interview on the official Rainbow City website.

Takanashi Tsumugi: This time we’d like to capture your comments from your natural selves, so we’re doing it in a rabbit chat interview format. Please feel free to answer casually.

Takanashi Tsumugi: First of all, how did it feel to record a “Message to Your Past Self”?

Momo: It was an interesting idea that we, surprisingly, don’t get to do often! Looking back on the past made me realize how full of Yuki my life has been, and it made me super happy 🥰

Momo: There were nights we survived off bean sprouts for a week, times we went ice-fishing in freezing weather as we shivered from the cold, nights we spent talking until dawn, and even days when I kicked Yuki in my sleep because I’m such a restless sleeper 😳

Momo: Whether it’s embarrassing memories that make me want to scream, or funny ones that still make me laugh with joy, Yuki was always there, and that alone makes all of those moments so precious to me.

Momo: That’s why I want to treasure these ordinary moments even more from now on!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Thank you very much for your answer. With Rainbow City’s opening coming up, I’m sure you’ll be making many more precious memories ✨ 

Momo: Yup yup! (*´∀｀）*｡ I’m already having a great time with everyone during the preparation period!

Momo: I remembered the first time we met IDOLiSH7 during the shoot and got all nostalgic 😂

Takanashi Tsumugi: That was when you invited us to NEXT Re:vale, wasn’t it? Everyone was able to relax and enjoy recording that episode thanks to how considerate both of you are.

Momo: That’s only because those IDOLiSH7 peeps are such good kids. They’re so adorable you naturally wanna root for them 🫶

Momo: Yuki and I couldn’t stop grinning when we heard them gossiping about us in front of our dressing room, saying things like “I wonder if those guys are actually scary…?” 😆

Momo: They’ve all grown into such reliable people when you compare them to that time 🥹

Takanashi Tsumugi: That’s because Re:vale-san set an extremely cool example for them…! 💪 

Momo: Waaaaah~~~~ 🫶 You always say such nice things 🫶 In that case, we’ll have to keep showing everyone our cool side for IDOLiSH7’s sake too!

Takanashi Tsumugi: We’ll do our best so we can keep growing too…!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Now onto the next question! How did it feel to record a “Message to Your Future Self”?

Momo: I got excited thinking about what the future has in store! 😆

Momo: I’m sure that, just like the joy thinking about the past has brought me, the future will continue to be full of happiness! ✨ 

Momo: Or rather, it fired me up to make absolutely sure it’s gonna be that way! 🔥 My cute juniors gave me a little push as well!

Momo: There are things only Re:vale can currently do, and I wanna keep challenging ourselves without forgetting that spirit. We still gotta build the Re:vale Shrine after all 🥳

Takanashi Tsumugi: I do believe you two could actually make it happen…! ✨ Not just the shrine, but you’re the type of people who achieve things no one could even imagine!

Takanashi Tsumugi: I’m sure the fans are also very much looking forward to seeing all the amazing things Re:vale will accomplish in the future!

Momo: Thanks! Those are the exact expectations I want to live up to.

Momo: I want all the fans who’ve kept lighting a fire in Re:vale’s heart to be able to say “I’m so glad I supported them!” and “I want to see even more of this world with Re:vale!”

Momo: We’ll enjoy ourselves to the fullest and create spaces overflowing with smiles.

Momo: How’s that? Ain’t that a pretty cool senior energy? ( ・`ー・´) + serious face

Takanashi Tsumugi: Yes! We’ll keep working hard so we can catch up to you two someday!

Momo: I get kinda embarrassed when you compliment us so honestly lololol

Momo: I’m getting a little flustered so let’s move to the next question please!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Of course! This will be the last question. If you had to express “What Re:vale means to you” in one word, what would it be?

Momo: What Re:vale means to me!? You’re throwing a real bombshell question at the end!

Momo: One word… that’s kinda hard~~~~ 😖 It’s difficult, but…

Momo: “My Everything”! I guess.

Momo: My whole heart, my body, I feel like everything within me exists for Re:vale. Meeting Re:vale stole my heart, made me worry a lot, and I’ve been running forward recklessly ever since.

Momo: I’ve staked everything on Re:vale, and I want to keep staking everything on it, because it’s the most important thing to me. So if I really had to express it in one word, it would be this. “My Everything.”

Takanashi Tsumugi: Your everything…That’s exactly why every performance you two put out is always so rich, so wonderful.

Momo: Honestly it’s super hard to word it correctly. I wish I could’ve said something cooler… 🤔 

Momo: But if I keep digging deeper for a better answer I’ll probably end up saying something way too heavy to use for an interview, so I’ll stop here lololol

Momo:

Momo: Wait, you’re gonna ask Yuki the same question too…!?

Momo: I’m super curious about what he’ll say~~~~!!!!

Takanashi Tsumugi: Yes, we’re planning to interview him another day, so please look forward to it!

[pankowcrumbs]

The interview X Will Poulter

MasterList

Will Poulter Masterlist

Some people prepare for interviews with research, a list of questions, and maybe a cup of tea to steady the nerves.

I, on the other hand, was in a broom cupboard, wearing a wig from the costume department, oversized sunglasses, and a trench coat so long it dragged across the floor like a budget Sherlock Holmes.

“This is stupid,” I muttered to myself, adjusting the blonde wig that was sliding off my head with every breath.

But I’d made a bet. A very public, very ridiculous bet with the crew. If Will could make it through a press day without using the word “mental,” I’d have to conduct an entire interview with him in disguise. His favourite word, for the record, was used so frequently it should’ve been in the film’s script.

Of course, the one day he actually behaved himself was the one day I forgot he was competitive and a little smug.

So here I was. Ready to commit to the bit.

The room was already set up for interviews. Camera crew ready, lighting perfect, the PR rep outside chatting casually with a makeup artist. And there was Will, sitting comfortably in a chair across from the empty one I was meant to fill, looking like a bloody movie star in a plain white t-shirt and black jeans. Hair tousled, smile easy, and completely unaware that I was about to make a fool of myself.

“Alright, who’s this mystery interviewer then?” he asked the room.

“That’d be me,” I said, putting on the worst accent known to mankind somewhere between Scottish and… Australian?

Will turned to me and immediately raised an eyebrow.

“Oh absolutely not,” he said, bursting into laughter.

I strutted in, adjusting my sunglasses. “’Scuse me, sir. Professional journalist here, thank you very much.”

“Y/N, you look like you’ve lost a bet and half your dignity.”

I plopped into the chair opposite him, flipping open a notebook I’d borrowed from props. “I’ll have you know, I am one Gertrude Simmons. I write for Cinema Cuppa. Very exclusive.”

“Cinema Cuppa?” he said, chuckling. “That’s not even a real...wait, hang on, is this wig from the bar scene?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, sir,” I said in my very dodgy accent, clinging to character by the thread of my sanity. “Let’s begin, shall we?”

Will leaned back, arms crossed, clearly delighted. “Go on then, Gertrude.”

“Thank you. First question,” I said, looking at my notes. “What drew you to this role? And how does it feel playing the second-best romantic lead in the film?”

He blinked. “Second-best?”

“Yes,” I nodded gravely. “The female lead is just… dazzling. Captivating. Rumour is she’s a genius.”

“Oh is that right?” he said, biting back a grin. “I’ve heard she’s late to set and talks to her snacks.”

I gave him a death glare through my oversized sunglasses. “She’s method.”

He laughed again. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I don’t know who you’re referring to, but I’ll pass the compliment along.”

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes twinkling. “This is honestly one of the worst disguises I’ve ever seen. I’m so glad we’re recording this.”

“I’ll have you know,” I said, pushing the wig out of my eyes, “this look is intentional. It’s postmodern. Like if Nancy Drew and a telly remote had a baby.”

Will chuckled, shaking his head. “I genuinely can’t believe you’re committing to this.”

I cleared my throat and tried again. “Next question: Do you believe in love at first sight, or do you think that’s just something they made up for bad rom-coms?”

His expression softened, just slightly. “I believe in chemistry. Instant connection, yeah. But love? I think love comes later. When you’ve seen the person on a bad day. When you know how they take their tea. When they’ve seen you sulk because someone ate the last biscuit.”

My chest warmed at that. Typical Will always managing to sound poetic even when talking about biscuits.

“And do you think,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “that chemistry can be acted, or does it have to be real?”

He studied me, the question hanging in the air.

“I think it can be sparked on set, yeah,” he said. “But the best kind? The kind people feel that’s real. That’s the stuff you can’t fake.”

I swallowed, hard. Was it suddenly warm in here?

“Well, how lucky for you that your co-star is so talented, then,” I mumbled, hiding behind the notebook.

He smirked. “Yeah. She is.”

There was a pause. A long, charged one. And then

“Next question!” I blurted.

The rest of the interview was a blur of snark, giggles, and failed attempts to hold character. I asked him about his skincare routine (“mostly just stress and hope”), if he could do a backflip (he tried once, cracked his ankle, never again), and who his favourite Muppet was “Miss Piggy. She’s iconic. Bit of a diva. Reminds me of someone…”.

I retaliated by dramatically adjusting my sunglasses and muttering, “I will end you, sir.”

He was doubled over laughing by that point. The crew, too, had mostly stopped pretending this was anything other than a chaotic fever dream.

By the end, the wig was askew, I’d sweat through the trench coat, and Will had tears of laughter in his eyes.

“I’ve got to hand it to you,” he said as I stood to leave. “That was brilliant.”

“Thank you,” I said, dropping the accent finally. “I’ve decided Gertrude Simmons might get her own talk show.”

“She’d be cancelled by episode two.”

We walked off set together, my disguise slowly disintegrating like Cinderella at midnight.

He nudged me with his elbow. “You know, I’ve worked with a lot of actors. But none of them have ever interviewed me dressed like a crime-fighting pensioner.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it,” he said, smiling. “You’re not just talented. You’re fun. That’s rare.”

I looked at him, really looked at him. And for a moment, I didn’t feel like we were just co-stars on a job. I felt like maybe we were on the cusp of something else.

“You know,” I said slowly, “if this acting thing doesn’t work out, I might go full-time as an investigative reporter.”

“Let me know when you land your first scoop,” he replied. “I’ll be your inside source. For a price.”

“What’s the price?”

“Dinner,” he said, simply. “Your choice. No trench coats allowed.”

I grinned.

“Deal.”

Later that night, I collapsed on the hotel bed, wig flung across the floor like a dead possum. My phone buzzed with a message from Will:

You, me, dinner. Tomorrow. No disguises. Just us. xx

I smiled, biting my lip.

Who would’ve thought a badly executed prank interview would be the start of something so real?

Sometimes, chemistry doesn’t need a script.

Sometimes, it’s just there even if you’re wearing a wig and talking like a confused tour guide.

[edwardhartenjoyer]

fic request! but more drabble-y maybe??

What about some cuddle times in general BUT where in each one MC is a mirror personality-wise to the ghoul in question? Like the opposite of the opposites attract idea? An oh look, i get to flirt with myself and im into it sort of thing. I hope that makes sense.

I like this!! Cuddles with the ghouls!! I tried my best with the similar personality angle, so I hope you like what I did

Cuddles With Myself

Featuring: Rui | Haku | Jiro

Haku Kusanagi - "Haku, my prince~" You called out as you walked into his room in Hotarubi. "I want cuddles." You pouted, and he laughed, flashing a grin at you.

"Well, how could I deny you anything, princess~?" He sat onto his bed and held his arms open to you. You grinned and rushed into his arms, settling yourself against him perfectly.

He pulle you close against his chest as you relaxed into him.

"I think this is what we were made for, to be in eachothers arms~" you flirted, tilting your head back to grin at him.

He laughed softly, "I could say the same thing. You've never looked better than here with me...though, i could think of one other way you'd look better." He flirted with a wink.

You giggled softly "Well I certainly wouldn't complain. You are a perfect sight to see~ But I'm happy just cuddling for now." You hummed, content to just relax in his arms.

He tightened his hold on you, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Whatever you want Princess, love you."

"Love you too my Prince."

Rui Mizuki - Rui had recently broken his curse, and since then, he constantly wanted to hold you in his arms, craving your touch. You had no complaints about this.

As had become your new nightly routine, you were cuddling up with Rui in his bed. His hands roamed all over you, no intent behind his touches, just an amazement at being able to finally hold you and experience you.

"You're perfection Cutie~" Rui whispered happily to you. You smiled and nuzzled into his chest.

"A perfect match to you, then Handsome~" you whispered back.

You raised a hand and ran it gently through his hair. He practically melted and leaned into your touch. It was nice, seeing him finally get to relax.

"Love you so much, Cutie," Rui whispered.

"Love you with my whole being Handsome."

Jiro Kirisaki - "Jiro, relaxing would be beneficial for your health." You commented, observing as he finished up his latest task Yuri had set him on.

"Perhaps I am due for a break." He admitted. He took your hand and led you to his room, even though you knew the way by heart by this point.

He settled back onto his bed and pulled you down into his arms. You tangled your body up with his and relaxed.

"Feeling better?" You asked softly.

"Mm, far improved." He replied, a small smile gracing his features as he looked down at you. You gave him a small smile back.

"You always know what helps me best." He commented. "I love you."

"You always know best for me, too. Love you too." You replied, leaning up to press a kiss to his lips.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Tag list: @cloudcountry @ash0-0ley @ventisimpilysm @tinumaru

Wanna be added or removed? Let me know!

[ooohnoidontthinkso]

I'm Not A Kid I'm Your Baby

Part 2 (part 1)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X Reader

Summary: The super explicit part 2. You and Daddy Bucky get down and dirty in the Avengers Tower living room. Oops all smut.

Rating: Explicit

Word count: 1,036

Warnings: THIS IS ALL PORN ANY PLOT IS ONLY IN PART 1. Daddy Kink, Dominant Bucky, Brat Reader, bbg reader, sub reader, use of pet names(baby, sweetheart), dirty talk, oral sex,

Authors note: It only takes one!!! Thank you to the one person to have asked for this. This is all you! Anywho…I still am very bad at tagging so let me know if I need to add or change anything.

THERE WILL BE ANOTHER PART! I just had to get this one posted or she'd be lost to my imposter syndrome and shelved for eternity.

(It isn't explicitly stated but there is no actual danger of exabitionism it is only hinted that it could happen but it will not…. Unless someone asks nicely I'll try anything once lol)

--------

He breaks off the kiss and you chase it with a whine.

“Patience Baby. We’re not in a rush.” He coos.

‘Who said i'm not in a rush?” You reply cheekily.

“I did.” He says sternly, holding you by the waist. The intensity of his gaze pins you in place as you hold your breath. “Do yu want to be a good girl, baby? Or do you need me to make you behave?”

A small pout forms on your lips. “I can behave!” you answer.

“But will you?” His head turns to the side questioning.

“Maybe?”

“That's not an answer baby, are you going to listen to daddy?”

“Make me!”

A grin stretches across his face sadistically. “Oh baby you shouldn’t have said that.”

Your heart races at the idea of what hes going to as arousal rushes through you.

“If you're not going to answer daddy correctly, I'm not going to ask you anymore.Strip.”

“Wh-what?” You ask confused at the demand.

“Im not going to say it again Babygirl. Strip”

“b-but anyone could walk in?”

“Thats not for you to worry about. You just worry about listening to daddy.”

You stall for a second too long and Bucky stands lifting you off of his lap to stand with him quickly. At a loss for words and struck with the shock of what is happening you let yourself be led by his motions. He starts to reach for your shirt and you subconsciously step back. He looks down at you, his face inches from yours and he whispers to you in a low growl.

“Let daddy take care of you.”

The vibration of his words sink into your ears and you go boneless letting him undress you. He drags his thumbs up your torso as he lifts the shirt further up your body. You hold your breath and goosebumps spread across your skin and he whispers to you, “Breathe baby.”

You take a sharp breath and he stares openly at the fall and rise of your chest. Then slowly moves his hands back down your bare stomachs until his thumbs rest at the waist of your jeans. He waits looking at your face as you can't do anything but breathe as the heat and arousal stirs. He smiles then pulls you by your waistband for a kiss. The soft caress of a kiss once again grows fierce. He holds one hand at the back of your neck keeping you close as the other unbuttons and unzips your jeans.

The complete opposite of the teasing slowness from before you're stripped of your jeans and he pulls off his shirt, pushes down his jeans, and he pulls you back to the couch and onto his lap. In between his kisses he tells you, “you're so fucking beautiful baby"

You whimper into his mouth kissing messily. He holds your cheek and looks at you with a hunger in his eyes. “On your knees baby girl”

You rush to your knees. Kneeling on the soft plush of the rug in front of the couch you look up at Bucky. He's staring down with a smirk. His legs are relaxed open where you can see the growing bulge as he sits in only black boxers. He grabs your chin and makes you look at his eyes again. “Good girl”

You let out a gasp and your mouth parts slightly. His gaze locks on your open lips and he moves his thumb to your lips lightly caressing your bottom lip. “Look at my beautiful girl.”

Your lips part further and he smirks for a second then he hooks his thumb behind your teeth and pulls your face closer to his crotch. Your hands go to his knees to catch yourself. He laughs and relaxes his thumb against your tongue. “Suck.” He says sharply.

You wrap your lips around his thumb and your tongue circles around as you lightly suck. You close your eyes and he orders sternly, “Eyes on me!”

You open your eyes quickly and lock eye contact with him. He pulls his thumb out of your mouth and pushes his boxers down, freeing his cock. You move your eyes away from his, staring at the long throbbing member inches away from your face. You feel your mouth water at the sight of the pre cum at his tip.

“Aw look at you baby you're practically drooling.You want it Sweetheart?”

You nod enthusiastically. And he stops you, “No! I need your words baby.”

You answer, “ I want it Daddy.”

“That’s my good girl. Go ahead sweetheart.”

He puts his hands over yours on his knees so you know to keep them where they are. You lean forward to take him into your mouth and you moan at the heat you feel on your tongue. You leave your tongue over and around his tip and tease at the slit tasting his precum. He hisses at the stimulation. “Damn baby you're doing such a good job.”

He grabs your hair in a tight fistful and presses down. Not enough to force but enough for you to know he wants more from you. You take him deeper, sucking your cheeks and relaxing your throat to fulfill his pleasure. “Fuck baby”

You can feel his thighs clech as if he wants to thrust up but he contains himself and tugs on your hair to bring you up and down slowly. You eagerly Bob your head on his cock wanting nothing more than for him to cum down your throat. “Not so fast baby”

He pulls you off his cock and you whine. “Don't act up now sweetheart you've been so good.”

You sit back on your heels and wait expectantly. “Sorry Daddy”

He looks pleased and smirks down at you.

“Since you're being so obedient now I'll ask you what you want. Do you want to ride my face or my cock?”

With a gloss in your eyes and a stain of pink to your cheeks you answer, “Can't I have both Daddy?”

He laughs, “What a good girl telling Daddy what you want.” He leans down to reward you with a kiss. “I was going to make you do both anyway baby.”

[fir-fireweed]

Hi Fir! :D

Thanks for giving advice, I really do appreciate it. Though, please don't feel pressured to answer anything I ask. Writing should be fun and with you writing Cantata and answering RO reaction asks, I don't want to add unnecessary stress by thinking of answers to my questions too! Apologies if that comes off as me being overly worried, I just legitimately don't want you to get worried over a question for advice when you have other things on your plate!😅

That said, here is question numero uno :)

How do you write when you don’t have people to bounce ideas off of? It’s just me, myself and I over here and, uh, that doesn’t seem like it’s going to change anytime soon lol. And I’m sure that other people also have that experience of writing alone for one reason or another. Not just for IFs but for their own original books and fanfictions too (not me looking at my pile of ongoing and abandoned WIPs, haha). Like many things, writing is something that is much easier when you have someone else there with you that's invested.

As you said, writing in a vacuum is really hard! Not impossible, but hard at times. Do you have any ideas as to what people can do when they don’t have that sort of support? Something to make things just a little easier.

Thanks again and I hope you’re doing well! <3

Hi Blue! Ooh, starting with the big questions. Okay, long post incoming!

My knee jerk reaction is to say “Are you sure there’s no one else?” But that doesn’t help you. I volunteer myself as tribute, but no pressure, and as you say, many people simply write alone. So here’s some tips that help me brainstorm ideas when my cohorts are unavailable.

People Watch

I have a small journal I always carry in my tote and I jot down little scenarios I see or conversations I overhear. Make up stories behind the people you see. Who are they? Why are they there? And be granular—why are they there on that particular day? I once wrote an entire short story around a snippet of conversation I overheard on the L on my way to college in Chicago.

Consume Media

Read, read, READ!! And watch movies, documentaries, broadway, listen to music, get lost in a rabbit hole on Wikipedia. But especially read. If you discover a book you like, read more from that author. Read everything you can.

Write What You Know

And by this I mean you personally. Write about something that happened to you or you witnessed. We tend to think our own lives are boring but even the small moments make good fodder for stories or character studies. One short story I wrote was about a time my parents accidentally locked themselves out of the house at night. They managed to wake my younger sister through her window and were trying to get her to wake me to open the door, but she was afraid to wake me up. Don’t know why, I was an angel. 😇 Ahem.

It’s a small instance but it makes for a great character study. You don’t have to write that exact moment truthfully, feel free to embellish—whatever helps generate ideas.

I am an awesome big sister, btw. Just ask me, I’ll tell you. 😉

Avoid Scope Creep

I’ve seen mixed opinions on tumblr when it comes to the scope of your writing. I’m on the side of keeping things small. I’ll preface this by saying I have a professional background of project management, creative briefs, and business proposals. I’ve been trained to keep my scope manageable, but I honestly do think it’s best. Set real expectations, small goals, and write short dabbles.

And if I may add, this is a skill that will help you professionally.

Don’t Force It

This is another I’ve seen mixed advice on. Many people will say push through the writers block and write what you can, even if it’s a few sentences. I say close that laptop, iPad, phone, whatever and go for a walk. Watch a movie. Play a video game. If you don’t write for 2 weeks or 2 months, that’s fine. If you’re not enjoying it, forcing it will only make it worse. You’ll start second guessing everything you’ve already written. Step away, go do some people watching at the park, then return when the inspiration strikes.

These are all tips that helped me, but of course everyone is different. My sister likes using writing prompts when she’s short on ideas, but I personally have never been a fan. They feel like homework, lol.

However, I do 100% recommend taking creative writing workshops at the local college if you can. It’s a great way to generate and share ideas; not to mention nothing helps you accept criticism better than having a dozen of your peers absolutely demolish your writing. 😭

I hope that helped, and I’m honored that you’re seeking advice from me! ❤️

[journey-of-daydreams]

I was the previous one that asked for the thing you were comfy with so I’m am SO SORRY!! LIKE REALLY SORRY!!

But I might have a different idea. What if (during rewrites 3rd ring) the user got more comfortable and asked to play games/activities with him more often? (Like picnics, tag, hide n seek, grooming/brushing his fur, etc!!)

Once again I’m so sorry about the last request and I absolutely love your work!!

NFGHNF you're ok anon no worries!! no harm done :) also thank u... i'm so glad you like my work!!

rewrite would be FLOORED (in a good way) if reader wanted to spend more time with them. they'd give a delighted hop and clap in place, say something along the lines of, "Wow, you really do like me!" and immediately hug you and drag you into whatever you asked to do with them.

however... grooming/brushing their fur in particular... rewrite has an odd reaction to it. here u go

───{⭕⭕⭕}───

You ask Rewrite if you can brush their fur. They agree, but... Seem weirdly tense about it.

Type: Oneshot Genre: Fluff, Character Exploration (technically) Content Warnings: Being chased/grabbed Stage: 3 Rings

[Link to Rewrite & Reader Masterpost]

───{⭕⭕⭕}───

It was one of those peaceful nights.

At least, as peaceful as it could be with Rewrite glued to your side and absolutely ready to bother you as much as possible.

The two of you sit on a hill, watching the stars. Wind blows gently, rustling the bushes and leaves around you. It blows around you as well, giving you a small sense of coolness and comfort.

You turn your gaze to Rewrite. They were already staring at you, of course, so your eyes meet theirs.

You notice Rewrite's quills animating in the wind, too.

...You realize you've actually never touched Rewrite's quills before. You've hugged them plenty of times, shaken and held their hands... The texture of their gloves are similar to silk; Not at all like a rough fabric you'd expect. So you can't help but wonder how soft their quills may be... Or unexpectedly sharp and rough, like a porcupine?

As you stare at them, Rewrite's head tilts and their ear flickers curiously.

"What are you thinking about?" They question.

Your eyes flicker from their quills to their eyes. "...Can I touch your quills? Or, brush them?"

Rewrite freezes, staring at you with their usual, blank smile. They don't say anything at first.

...Several seconds pass, and they're still silent.

...You're starting to wonder if they didn't hear you.

But as you wonder, they finally respond.

"Sure!" They agree, simply.

While you are a bit confused by how long it took for them to respond, you eagerly stand up.

"So, are you letting me brush them or pet them, exactly?" You ask as you walk behind them. Their gaze follows you. In fact, their whole head rotates 180 degrees to keep directly staring at you.

"...Both are fine!" Rewrite agrees.

"Alright!" You cheerfully note, internally celebrating that they're letting you do both. "I need a brush, then."

"I'm sure you can find one around here somewhere!" Rewrite muses, a hint of playfulness in their tone. You give them a "really?" look, and glance around. There's nothing around you but grass and trees. You're in the middle of nowhere. There's not going to be a brush just magically sitting around somewhere.

"We're in the middle of an open field. I'm not going to-" You're cut off by the sound of a brush falling from the sky and landing with a thump next to you.

"You were saying?" Rewrite playfully asks. You roll your eyes lightly and pick up the brush. As you go to face Rewrite, they're... Still looking at you, their head rotated 180 degrees. Still.

"...You gotta look the other way, Rewrite." You remind them, trying to sound stern, but a smile creeps on your face.

"Fiiiiine." Rewrite groans dramatically. Their head rotates to face the other direction, relenting to your request. You're lucky they don't feel like being more difficult today.

You stare at their quills for a second, taking it in. Their fur shines in the moonlight. They sit with their knees to their chest and their arms to their side... You recognize how much trust they're showing you, letting you do something like this. Not like you could ever hurt them, of course, but... You still get the feeling they are showing some level of trust.

You begin by gently placing a hand on the top of their head... Their fur is smoother than you expected, having an odd, almost porcelain texture. As you slide your hand down one of their quills, the texture softens, similar to that of cat fur. It's an odd, unnatural transition, reminding you that they're a digital entity. Honestly, you're surprised there's any softness in their fur at all...

As you do so, you watch Rewrite, taking close note of their reaction. They sit still, unmoving. Not even fidgeting or trying to make this more difficult for you.

...Maybe they're taking this pretty seriously.

You take one more moment to stroke your hands through their fur before taking the brush to it, gently gliding it down their quills. The sound is soft and gentle. That, combined with the wind blowing in the background, the stillness all around you... You start losing yourself to your thoughts, enjoying the peaceful quiet.

...But you notice Rewrite isn't moving much at all. They almost seem... Tense. Stiff.

"I don't think I've ever seen anyone so tense while having their hair brushed." You lightly comment, hoping to lighten the mood.

Rewrite makes a low-pitched beeping sound that almost sounds like it was meant to be a scoff, or maybe a sigh?... And doesn't say anything else.

...They're being oddly quiet, too.

Sensing something is wrong, you stop touching them, peering around them get a look at their expression. Their eyes turn to meet yours, and you notice their smile flicker for a split second, as if it had just returned.

"What's wrong?" You ask them, voice gentle.

"Nothing." They state simply.

You raise your brows skeptically. Rewrite stares at you for a second, returning your challenge.

...But they quickly relent, closing their own eyes.

"I should be doing this for you, you know." They explain, tone of voice flat.

You blink a bit, taken aback from their tone and words. "You do things like this for me all the time, already." You explain, softly. "You can get pampered too, you know."

"It's not about that!" Rewrite argues, their arm snaking around to point at you, their head not even turning to look at you. In one swift motion, they perfectly grab the comb out of your hand, and their body folds on itself unnaturally as they stand up and rotate to face you.

They point the brush at you. Threateningly. Their entire demeanor changes, crouching as if ready to lunge at you. "I'm brushing you now."

"I- What!" You can't stop this sudden topic change. "No, it was your turn!" You lightheartedly argue back, unable to stop a small smile from creeping on your face.

"It's yours now." Rewrite insists, tone low, taking a single step towards you with nefarious intent. They're holding the brush as if it were a knife. You take a step back. Their eyes bore into you.

But every movement is deliberate and clean. Their smile remains and their eyes are soft. You can tell they're not seriously angry and wouldn't actually hurt you, but christ, they're still scary even when they're not being serious.

"It- It doesn't have to be like this," You begin to back away, smile widening. "We can talk this out!"

But they don't respond. Their eyes stare through you as they continue their stalk towards you. You continue backing away. You laugh, both from nervousness and the sheer intensity of how much they apparently want to brush you being kind of funny.

"...You really could've just said no to getting brushed!!" You comment earnestly, trying to coax a response out of them.

But instead, Rewrite pounces at you. You side step them, dodging out of the way and making a break for it. You hear them follow you with quick, heavy footsteps.

But you're not fast enough. Almost immediately, their arm quickly wraps around you and you get lifted up into the air. You yelp and squirm.

"Okay! Fine!! You win!!" You shriek, admitting defeat. Sure enough, Rewrite slowly and gently lowers you to the ground... But they don't yet release you.

"Jesus," You exclaim through heavy breaths. You turn around to face them. "Why are you so weird about-"

"Shhhh. Don't worry." Rewrite insists, voice oddly soft and quiet considering the fact they just hunted you down. "It's brush time."

You furrow your brows. "Fine. Just let me go first."

Rewrite unwinds their arm from around you.

"Can I brush you now?" They question, raising the brush for emphasis. You look at it, baffled... But, honestly, getting your fur brushed sounds good right about now.

"Yes... But we're gonna talk about that later." You point at them threateningly as you start to sit down on the grass. Rewrite shrugs innocently... And says nothing. Instead, they start softly brushing your fur.

You forget to talk about it later.

[carrionne0]

"Like, you're real 'cuz you think!"

Summary: And you’re totally being perceived right now! Which means you ‘be’ — like you are! Y’know?” The soul shot Ralsei a big grin as it pointed finger guns at him. It leaned back, hands behind its head like it had just solved metaphysics. “And so like, um, you’re real? Yeah.”

Or alternatively: The soul tries to comfort Ralsei with some philsophy. It does not know philosophy.

Chars: Kris' Red Soul, Kris, Ralsei Tags/Warnings: Bad Philosophy, Crack Treated Seriously, Embarrassment, Deltarune Ch. 3 Words: 694

--- A/N: I jotted down the dialogue for this in a daze and woke up the next morning to add everything else. This fic is primarily making fun of myself. I’d like to think I would be able to comfort Ralsei’s existential dread with philosophical monologues, but I know that this is actually what I would sound like T_T ---

“Sure! We can chill! With our, um, eyes open,” Ralsei acquiesced.

A palpable silence filled the room. Out of the corner of Kris’s eyes, they could see Ralsei fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Would you,” he began hesitantly, “...like to talk about something?”

Not really , Kris thought to themself. They quite enjoyed the embrace of the silence. Though they worried the soul might have a different opinion.

Suddenly, all of their joints locked up — a sign of the strings tightening. Kris swallowed hard. Oh Angel , what was the soul about to say now?

Low and monotone, Kris’s lips moved against their will, “Cogito ergo sum.” Great . The soul was making them mumble random gibberish now.

Kris wished they could make an expression much like Ralsei’s current one: eyebrows raised and lips curled. The Darkner rubbed the back of his neck in confusion. 

“Um, pardon? I didn’t quite catch that.” He gave a reassuring smile.

The soul took a heavy breath, preparing for their next line. “I think, therefore I am.” 

Ralsei blinked rapidly. “P-Pardon?”

Kris desperately wished they could grimace right now. They weren’t saying this, they had no idea what the words coming out of their mouth meant, and they were deeply embarrassed by this whole situation. If there was one thing they were grateful for though, it was that this was happening in front of Ralsei, who was at least knowledgeable about the soul’s existence, and not Susie. Angel , if it had been Susie instead… They mentally winced at the idea.

The soul sighed as it placed a hand on its chin, muttering to itself ways to explain the concept. Its eyes widened as its stern appearance shattered and was replaced by something Kris hated even more.

“So like, ‘Ral-zee’?” Kris’s body gestured with a theatrical flair that was so unlike them. “You think, right?” 

He paused, clearly processing not just the question, but the change in demeanor. Kris was about to lose it at what was beginning to unfold. It was new. And terrible .

“Y… Yes?” He muttered, body frozen in consternation.

“Exactly!” They clapped. “Like, you think A LOT!” 

Kris wanted to strangle their own throat in order to stop it from producing noise. It was their voice coming from their body, but it did not sound like them at all.

“And since you think a lot, therefore,” the soul pointed to their head trying to show off their knowledge, “you, um, are,” they said with a raised inflection, hesitation peeking through.

Ralsei stared flabbergasted at Kris, or rather, at the bizarre behavior from the being that puppeteered Kris’s body.

Kris was internally screaming, Angel , they wanted to scream externally though!

The soul’s hands moved around haphazardly. “Like, you’re real ‘cuz you think!” 

Ah, Kris realized. That was what this was about.

A light chuckle escaped from Ralsei as it finally clicked for him that this was the soul’s attempt at comfort. He gave an awkward but encouraging smile.

“Like the only thing you can actually be sure of is that you’re real!” An armored hand was placed on his shoulder. 

“Like me and Susie?” No, no, no, Kris thought. Not “me” and Susie. You are not me. I don’t wanna be associated with this!

“We, like, might not be real from, uh, your perspective?” The soul glanced away as it fidgeted.

“‘Cuz you don’t know for sure if we’re thinking, right? But you know for a fact that you are!” Its hands shot up for emphasis.

“And also like, ‘esse est precipi,’” More gibberish?! Kris was desperate for the soul to shut up. “That’s, um, ‘to be is to be perceived.’” 

Ralsei, with a blank stare, nodded his head. It was unclear if he was processing any of this.

“And you’re totally being perceived right now! Which means you ‘be’ — like you are! Y’know?” The soul shot Ralsei a big grin as it pointed finger guns at him.

It leaned back, hands behind its head like it had just solved metaphysics. “And so like, um, you’re real? Yeah.”

Ralsei blinked. Slowly . “Wow, ‘Kris!’ That was,” he swallowed hard, “...really insightful.”

Kris hoped that they themself weren’t real, at least for this moment.

---

A/N: I hope you enjoyed my first crackfic! I think I might want to explore this more seriously as well sometime in the future!

Also available to read on AO3, Wattpad, and Quotev. My writing requests are also open!

[thequasarwinds]

Hey to my TMC, EPIC, and ATA moots

so so SO sorry if I seem pissy and extremely argumentative (and “🤓☝️erm actually”)

I genuinely don’t mean to! And please tell me if I do! I don’t wanna hurt anyone!

I’m just INCREDIBLY particular about how these characters are portrayed- as with these fandoms I’ve had EXTREMELY bad experiences with people demonizing, mischaracterizing, and just down right being sexist or racists to these characters. Especially as these fandoms are EXTREMELY important to me, along side being a character analyst

It’s just a bit disheartening and upsetting spending hours and hours analyzing these blorbos just to see everyone agree on some HC or idea of a character that is inaccurate or just down right harmful

ESPECIALLY when it comes to CHILD characters- but that’s an ENTIRE other thing that delves into more personal stuff

I am generally open to other interpretations! And trust me I am and try to be! I just get wary and mistrustful when it comes to these fandoms as I’ve just had so many bad experiences of people saying the most awful things, vile, ignorant, and harmful things about my comfort characters and hiding behind a guise of “it’s just my interpretation”

Major TW for mentions of SA (I want to give an example- Just because I’m afraid people won’t believe me? It will just call dramatic (since I’ve struggled with that before as well)

Just to give ONE example: I’ve seen people say a character was cheating on their wife for being SA’d- or saying the same character is evil for reasonably not liking they’re sexual abuser bc the abuser in question was “lonely”. (Talking about Ody from EPIC btw!)

Look I am a soul believer that there is no right way to portray a character- but I also believe that there is a wrong way to portray a character

like the example I gave above- or (to give some more) portraying the most sunshiny, optimistic character as emo, dark, and brooding (talking about Telemachus from EPIC) or a LITERAL CHILD- who is SCARED and simply has the FAWN RESPONSE- as being some evil malicious adult man (Talking about Wooly from ATA)

OF COURSE I understand canon divergent AUs! That portray a character like that for the sake of it (like evil AUs for an example)! I’m talking about how people are with just the CANON alone

tagging you guys so you see this! But I sincerely hope this doesn’t bother anyone!

@luckyducky15 @heavensgateheavensgate @bunnelain64

@curliiwurlii @maddy-k-reads-all-day @dannyatnightfall

@bleedinghearthypocrit

(Tell me if I missed anyone!)

[tacitusauxilium]

"I mean..." She blushed darkly, surprised at how casually he said that. Then again, it was the two of them and hell, they've been through a lot in just the last hour at the mall. And even hearing him talking about the title only after they fucked made Fuuka lean towards him and playfully punched his arm weakly. "You know, you are this close--" Fuuka brought her arm back that she punched him with and brought her thumb and index finger together so close they were barely touching. "--on becoming my boyfriend. I'm sure you cooking skills are top notch because you have a whole truck dedicated to it." She giggled, pointing back to the kitchen, as Fuuka brought her left leg up and tucked it underneath her right leg.

"Blushing also doesn't leave me drained. It's having to deal with how casual you are cursing and being...you, you know? I'm not used to someone being so forward with me." Fuuka explained, placing her hands in her lap and watching Yusuke focus on driving. Before she could get lost looking at him, he asked her a simple and easy question. "I am in university, yes. I am working on a Bachelor's in Computer Engineering and Programming. I wanted to also dabble with hospitals and make their equipment more user friendly in the idea of less machines breaking and so people could be trained easier." Fuuka explained, almost ready to ramble about how she had this 20 year plan ready to go. But knew she had to get her ordeals in check first with the Shadow Operatives.

Fuuka clasped her hands and grinned. "Let's see... let me think of a good question for you." Fuuka wanted to really make Yusuke think while driving--wonderful combination?--and closed her eyes, thinking really hard. After a few seconds passed, something clicked in Fuuka's mind. Opening her eyes, she gripped the seat belt around her body. "I've got a question: if you could have any one of your friends around to protect me from who knows what, who would it be and why?"

"Y-you'd...drive me back home?" She softly asked, her heart fluttering again. Fuuka chuckled as he talked about his home life--a bit interested to see what his home actually did look like. "Honestly, I can't wait to see your home. I only had my parents and myself, so it was a bit lonely while I was growing up. And I think your dogs will love me. When I was in high school, we had a stray dog--Koromaru--who always came up to us and asked for pets and food. Until we let him live with us." She explained, almost telling Yusuke the dog could fight with a Persona and had to stop herself short. They were already getting super friendly and definitely didn't want to ruin this moment at all.

Fuuka watched as Yusuke opened the door to the back of his truck and followed his command and placed her stuff right next to his. "Twenty questions? Hmmm--okay, I'm up for that." Fuuka grinned as she watched him close the door and she moved towards the passenger seat and situated herself comfortably and put on her seat belt. The drive to and from the mall had definitely changed the both of them, something Fuuka was not expecting at all. Once Yusuke started the truck and got on the road, Fuuka placed her phone in the nearby cup holder and turned to Yusuke.

"Just so you know, if I fall asleep on the way back, I'm sorry in advance. My social battery is just so low that a drive may put me to sleep." Fuuka admitted, turning her attention back to the road as Yusuke stopped at a traffic light. "But I will do my best to stay awake because I'm going to your place and maybe... ...maybe I want to stay awake so that if I want to come and see you, I'll know how to get there by myself." She felt her cheeks flushing and turning her head slightly away from Yusuke's view. That's if she needs to remember the place. She is sure Juno would remember it for her if she ever forgot.

[katiekatdragon27]

Dandy's World Roleplay servers are so wild and unhinged that it makes me come up with AUs. And yes, it's shinyshrimp. I'm so cringe <333

So, while in the roleplay server, I got into an argument with a Shrimpo as Glisten about not being able to see proper reflections though Glisten's face. Then a Goob showed up (my sibling) and asked if Shrimpo was a vampire. Then they asked if Glisten (me) was a vampire. Then we asked the Goob if he was a vampire, and he turned emo. And then I shared this experience with my friends, and they egged me on to make an AU about it lol.

Glisten: So. Is this the part where we make out, orrr-?? Shrimpo: WHAT??!

Dandy: No cuz it's genius! If they hate each other, that's two less annoying people to deal with! (He underestimated the power of enemies to lovers)

The general plot is Glisten is a monster hunter and Shrimpo is a human turned vampire-werewolf (he has no memory of how that happened btw). Glisten is specifically hired by Dandicus to hunt down and kill Shrimpo. Glisten manages to hunt Shrimpo down, but since Shimpo hasn't been non-human for that long, he puts up a kinda pathetic fight. Glisten puts Shimpo's arrogant ass in place and refuses to kill him so they can fight honorably. Shrimpo takes this personally lol and strives to get better at fighting so he can show up Glisten.

Badabing badaboom, enemies to lovers setup.

Dandy did not see that coming and it pisses him off lol.

Shrimpo: I HATE YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO- Astro (to himself): WTF is up with this guy?

This was a doodle recommended by an awesome artist in a server I'm in (dunno if they wanna be tagged lol). Astro being a moon moth thing causes Shrimpo to howl at him lol. Also part of the reason Dandy dislikes Shrimpo lol. Also also, Astro is a witch.

Also also also, here's the emo Goob my sibling became when discussing vampires. He unemos when he becomes a weredog lol.

Below is a buncha doodles all about Glisten (and his failing mental health).

TW FOR UNINTENTIONAL S.H. PROCCED WITH CAUTION:

You guys know Wiggle from Bugsnax? You guys know Millie from Helluva Boss? Yeah. They were the main inspos for this design hc lol (the buck teeth part not the insecurity part).

I have this goofy hc that Glisten's og design never intended to give him buck teeth. When being made, the ichor messed up and gave it to him. Learning about this is his first instance of feeling insecure about himself, and he develops the mannerism of covering his mouth when laughing (bc it makes his teeth really obvious lol)

And since Glisten now has buck teeth, that means Shimmer also gets buck teeth! However, her reaction to them was completely different to how her dad reacted to his.

I have this hc that Glisten can't handle backlash that well. With the machine messing up with his face (his teeth), and his general vibe being disliked by many people of the time of Gardenview (prob bc the 90s and very queer-coded kids' character didn't exactly mix well), he feels this crippling pressure to be the "perfect" version of himself.

If he deems you lower than him, your words don't matter. He doesn't care what you think about him

However, if he views you as an equal or higher, any kind of negative opinion said to him will be taken personally, and will either be repressed into self-hatred, or actively worked upon in order to be "better" (which ends up hurting him more depending on the situation.) His need for perfecting also makes him a workaholic when in a spiral, leading him to self-isolate and just kinda hide away from everyone for a couple days, and sometimes injure himself trying to get better on his own (he has a tendency to scratch his arms and face too, only fueling his need for isolation).

He refuses to open the door and get food outside, so ppl will slide him snacks and things under the door. People still care about him, but he'll never them see him cry.

Glisten has such horrid insecurity that he will never let anyone see. However, not everything is bleak for the guy.

Shimmer: Hey Dad! Guess what!? My teeth grew in! Now I look like you! Isn't that cool?!

She was not born with them unlike Glisten. Instead, they grew in near her "10th" birthday. She was very happy to have them. I like to think that seeing Shimmer be so happy to have a very sensitive trait of Glisten and loving every second of it helps him heal a bit of his insecurity.

After all, how can he hate a part of himself that his kid adores?

Kids don't fix everything, but they can aid in healing lol

Have a good one dudes^^