#i've had like. no energy to write or draw

[pekoeboo]

man. I've been reworking a lot of content involving Act II of Home Is Where You Are and like. ugh. it'd work so freaking well in novel form but I just Do Not have the dedication or the drive to start from scratch and rewrite everything that happens.

idk how else to share the updated version of that part of the story with y'all tho, considering that Khalan's journal is insanely outdated now and isn't entirely canon anymore, so I'll probably just have to accept that I likely won't ever be able to update the story for y'all in the way I wish I could. >n<;;

[somegrumpynerd]

I'm eating your art

It tastes like marshmallows and sweet /vpos

Eeeee thank you!! That's so sweet oh my god <3 I hope it tastes good and you don't make yourself sick!!

[wyn0rrific]

where. did yall come from.

[forcedhesitation]

*wheeze* slowly, but surely, working on art of them all

[ragsy]

my fallout brain parasites have returned and i've been struck with the need to make a fallout au of my ocs, including detailed character portraits, attributes, skills, and perks, and i know for a fact that i'm not doing ALL of that but maybe if i post this here i'll hold myself accountable.

[pocketjeeble]

Okay I gave in. I'm reviving, rewriting and repurposing two 'old'* ocs. I have started drawing one of them already too. And this is making me want to get so extremely good at drawing so I can draw my favourite characters too.

*I say old in quotes because I actually first created them either last year or the year before.

[seaofreverie]

I actually made 9 drawings in 2 days

[xannerz]

roblox death noise

[keeps-ache]

drink on the bed to my left. we know where this is going, but

[beastblade69]

I cannot describe how much I fucking ENVY people who can write a story/dialogue w already existing characters and it won't seem even slightly off the character. LIKE GUYS UR INSANE HOW ARE Y'ALL ABLE TO DO THAT, IT'S SO COOL

[theonottsbxtch]

EL COQUETO | FC43

an: welcome back as we write about my n.1 pookie, i've got some more works planned for him BUT i've just gotten to france so imma be very busy rip, based off of this request

summary: when franco catches feelings for a journalist who is persuaded he doesn't really want her.

wc: 7.6k

The paddock was alive with energy, buzzing with the hum of engines and the chatter of the press as they swarmed around the new driver. She watched him move through the crowd with ease, a slight swagger in his step and a dazzling smile that had already made him the focus of every camera. He was the story of the weekend: Franco Colapinto, the unexpected mid-season replacement, here to shake up the grid with his flashy driving style—and, evidently, his unapologetic charm.

He caught sight of her, raised an eyebrow in recognition, and made a beeline toward her with the confidence of someone who knew he’d be welcome, even if he hadn’t been invited.

“Hola,” he greeted, his voice carrying a thick, rolling Spanish accent that seemed to coat every word in warmth. “You must be my next question of the day. They warned me about the best journalist here—of course, I was told to behave.”

She gave him a practised smile, cool but polite. “Franco, welcome to the team. How are you feeling about joining mid-season?”

His eyes sparkled, unfazed by the businesslike tone. “How am I feeling?” He leaned in just slightly, as though sharing a secret. “Well, right now, very lucky. They said I’d get tough questions, but they didn’t say the interviewer would be… distracting.”

She fought the urge to look away, just barely managing to keep her composure. “So you feel ready for the pressure, then?” she asked, refocusing, though the tiniest hint of a blush warmed her cheeks.

“For the track? Yes, I am prepared to race anyone.” He paused, letting his gaze linger on her a beat too long. “For the interviews? That remains to be seen. Perhaps you can teach me how to handle that part, sí?”

She could sense her colleagues nearby, some watching with open amusement as they caught his flirtatious energy. Franco was as smooth as they came, that much was certain. But she wouldn’t be the one to crack first.

“I’m sure you’ll learn quickly,” she said, tilting her head, her voice steady, though her heart raced. “Now, back to the race. What are your goals for this weekend?”

His grin broadened, but he played along. “Goals for the weekend,” he echoed thoughtfully, shifting back into the question. “Win a few hearts, break a few records—no particular order.” He winked, and she felt a laugh bubble up before she stifled it, opting instead for a brisk nod.

“Right. Well, I hope you’re ready for the competition,” she managed.

He shrugged, eyes glinting with mischief. “With you here, qué competencia?”

She gave him a pointed look, resisting the smile tugging at her lips. “You know, charm doesn’t score you points on the track.”

“Ah, no?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “Then I suppose I’ll have to win the hard way.”

Just then, a flash of cameras went off around them, the media eating up every angle of Franco’s arrival. He seemed entirely unfazed, even performing slightly for the flashes. The crowd around them surged with questions about his plans, about what his first practice would look like, about his last season in Formula 2. But Franco’s attention was still locked on her, and he hadn’t missed a beat.

“So,” he said, with that soft smile of his, “do you think I’ll be able to charm Formula One, or will they be immune to my Argentian ways?”

She gave him a dry smile. “You might have your work cut out for you. It’s not a stroll through Argentina, after all.”

He laughed at that, clearly enjoying her wit. “You’re tough,” he said, a touch of admiration sneaking into his voice. “I can see why you’re the best.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t distract me from the questions, Franco.”

“No? Not even if I try very, very hard?” he asked, drawing out the words with a grin. It was ridiculous, really—the way he leaned into every word, the way he seemed to shine in the spotlight. But there was something endearing about it too, something that felt… unexpectedly genuine.

“Not even then,” she replied, her tone light but steady. “Let’s talk strategy. What’s your focus for your first race?”

He sighed, shifting slightly but keeping that glint in his eye. “Fine, I’ll behave,” he said with a sigh, straightening up to answer. “My focus is simple: get the car under me, push it to its limits, and aim for a strong finish. Maybe even a few surprise overtakes. I’ve been itching to get back on the track.”

It was the most serious answer he’d given yet, and she noted the shift in his voice—a hint of intensity breaking through the smooth, easy charm.

“And your teammate?” she pressed, sensing she’d found the thread to pull him out of his flirtatious veneer. “Are you prepared for the rivalry?”

Franco’s expression turned thoughtful for a moment, a flicker of something sharper in his eyes. “My teammate…” He paused, glancing away briefly before meeting her gaze again. “He’s William’s best. I’ll learn from him, give him the respect he deserves. But I didn’t come here to play second.”

She watched as someone next to her scribbled down his answer, though her mind wandered slightly, wondering at the complexity beneath his charm.

“Good to hear,” she said, offering a small nod. “We’ll all be watching to see if you live up to that confidence.”

“I live up to my promises,” he replied smoothly. Then he leaned in one last time, lowering his voice just for her. “One of them being to get at least one smile from you by the end of the weekend. I’ll start with that goal.”

Before she could reply, he gave a casual wave to the crowd, moving on to the next journalist as though he hadn’t just made her heart skip a beat with his easy, disarming confidence. She watched him go, flustered despite herself.

One thing was certain: Franco Colapinto was going to be a story.

When the time came, the race had barely begun, but her eyes were already glued to the screen, following the sleek white-and-blue car with Franco’s number emblazoned on the front. Despite her best efforts to stay neutral, to approach this like any other weekend, there was something magnetic about watching him. Franco Colapinto, the audacious rookie, who’d barely spent a week with the team and had taken to the grid without a single day of training in an F1 car.

From the start, it was clear he was playing it differently. He didn’t charge forward recklessly like other rookies might have, eager to prove themselves. Instead, Franco took a few cautious laps, feeling out the car, testing its responses. She noticed how his style evolved lap by lap, each one more aggressive, his moves sharper. He was adapting, learning the car right there in the thick of the race.

As the race progressed, he began to gain ground. Corner after corner, he squeezed every ounce of performance from his machine, edging closer to the pack with each lap. By mid-race, he was overtaking the backmarkers, slipping past seasoned drivers who had years on him, and the commentators were buzzing.

She caught herself smiling, feeling a strange, almost foolish pride as she watched. The memory of his easy, arrogant grin flashed in her mind, his voice low and teasing: “Do you think I’ll charm Formula One?” She’d laughed it off, but he had something special, didn’t he? That hunger for the track, the sheer nerve to go head-to-head with anyone in his way.

Then, as if her thoughts had summoned trouble, the camera cut to his car—a close-up on his visor as he fought for P12. Her heart caught as he made a daring move, threading his car through a razor-thin gap into the next turn. It was reckless, and yet somehow—somehow—he made it stick.

“P12!” The radio crackled through his team radio, their voice as surprised as she felt. For a rookie with zero F1 experience, it was practically a victory.

She exhaled, releasing a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The chequered flag fell, and Franco’s car slowed down, his voice breaking through the team radio with a triumphant laugh, half-sighing, half-cheering in disbelief at his own result.

When she saw him back in the paddock, she managed to slip past the swarm of journalists waiting to pounce, positioning herself where he’d inevitably cross her path. She didn’t want to admit how much she wanted to hear his version of the race firsthand, to see if the adrenaline still sparkled in his eyes the way it had behind the visor.

When he finally caught sight of her, his face lit up. “Ah, my toughest questioner returns,” he said, the grin wide as he raked a hand through his hair, still tousled from the helmet. “So? Impressed?”

She raised an eyebrow, trying to keep her expression composed. “Not bad for a first race,” she said, voice calm but betraying the slightest hint of a smile. “Though I have to say, you took some pretty risky moves out there.”

Franco laughed, that low, familiar chuckle that could disarm anyone. “You sound like my engineer. But I had to make it interesting, didn’t I?” His gaze softened slightly, the playfulness ebbing for a moment. “I did better than you expected, maybe?”

“Maybe,” she admitted, leaning in just a bit. “I wouldn’t let it go to your head, though.”

He feigned a wince. “Ah, so I’ll have to work harder to impress you, then.”

With that, she couldn’t hold back the smile any longer. “Perhaps,” she said, voice softer. “But you’ve made a start.”

She followed the rest of the press corps into the media pen, her notebook in hand, watching as Franco slipped into his role with practised ease. The other drivers, still catching their breath, answered questions in measured tones, clearly exhausted. But Franco was… well, Franco. He leaned back against the barrier, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips as he answered questions, some about his lack of training, others about his shockingly high finish.

She hung back at first, observing him as he effortlessly charmed each journalist in turn, flashing that disarming grin and making even the toughest questions seem like casual conversation. But when his eyes caught hers across the small crowd, he subtly waved her forward, his grin widening.

“Ah, finally,” he said, his tone playful as she approached. “I was starting to think you were hiding from me.” The other journalists shot her curious glances, some smirking at Franco’s obvious interest.

She managed to keep her expression neutral, clearing her throat and lifting her voice to a professional tone. “Franco, congratulations on P12. Quite a debut.”

“Gracias, cariño,” he replied, eyes sparkling. “For a moment, I thought you didn’t think I could do it.”

“Well, you didn’t exactly take the most traditional route,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow. “You had us all on the edge of our seats with those overtakes.”

He leaned in a little, lowering his voice to just above a murmur, his gaze fixed on hers. “I thought about what you said. ‘Charm doesn’t score points.’ So I had to give you something else to smile about.”

She could feel her cheeks warm under his steady gaze, and she fought to keep her expression cool. “Don’t flatter yourself, Franco. I’m just here to report the facts.”

“Hmm,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully, though a playful smirk tugged at his lips. “Well, the fact is, I went from P20 to P12 on my first day. But somehow, I think I still haven’t impressed the person who matters most.”

“The person who—?” She trailed off, exasperated. “Franco, you were the story today.”

“Was I?” he asked, the innocent tone entirely ruined by the mischief in his eyes. “Because if I’m the story, you’re the reason it’s a good one.”

Before she could protest, he glanced over her shoulder at the next journalist, nodding politely. Then, in a flash, he was back to her, clearly undeterred. “When can we continue our interview?”

She forced herself to keep her composure. “I think you’ve given me more than enough material for one day.”

“A pity.” He shook his head, though his grin was unmistakable. “Then maybe next time, you’ll be a little more impressed.”

She watched him walk away, shoulders loose and steps casual as he moved from one group of reporters to the next, answering their questions with the same easy confidence he’d shown with her. She could still feel the heat of his gaze, the lingering effect of his words making her pulse quicken.

“Wow.” The journalist next to her, a seasoned reporter with a wry smile, gave her a knowing look. “You okay there? He has that effect, doesn’t he?”

She blinked, quickly snapping out of her daze, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up her neck. “I—yeah, I don’t know what’s going on,” she muttered, shaking her head, trying to compose herself. But she could still hear his words ringing in her ears, his playful teasing, the warmth in his gaze. “The person who matters most.”

“Oh, I think I do.” The other journalist smirked, nodding in Franco’s direction as he laughed and clapped a fellow driver on the shoulder. “It seems Franco over here has a slight crush.”

She scoffed, though it came out more flustered than she’d intended. “Franco has a crush on every woman he talks to. It’s his… thing since he got here.”

The journalist raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Maybe so, but I’ve watched him all day and that was different.”

Her colleague’s words only made her cheeks grow warmer. Was it that obvious? She was used to managing tough interviews, unflappable under pressure, and here she was, thrown off by a driver who hadn’t even been in Formula 1 for a full week. But somehow, Franco’s charm wasn’t just some casual game to him; it felt more… intense. And he’d directed every bit of that intensity straight at her.

The journalist chuckled. “Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the attention—it’s not every day a rookie looks at you like you’re the finish line.”

She glanced away, her lips twitching into a reluctant smile. She didn’t want to admit it, not to her colleague, and definitely not to herself, but there was something in the way he’d looked at her, like she was more than just another journalist, more than just one of the many people crowding his spotlight.

“Well, let’s hope he stays focused on the real finish line,” she replied, aiming for a casual tone that didn’t quite land. But she couldn’t deny it—Franco Colapinto was becoming more than just the story of the weekend. He was starting to feel like her story, too.

Later that evening, she sat in her hotel room, trying to unwind from the chaos of race day. The lights of the city glimmered outside her window, but her mind was still caught on Franco—his effortless charm, that maddening smirk, the way he’d singled her out, even with half the media pen watching. It was absurd, really. She’d covered far bigger stories, spoken with veteran champions, and yet one rookie had managed to leave her feeling more flustered than she’d care to admit.

With a sigh, she scrolled through her phone, halfheartedly catching up on messages, until a notification popped up that made her heart skip.

Francolpainto has sent you a message.

She hesitated, a mix of curiosity and nerves swirling in her stomach as she opened it. The message was simple, casual—like he hadn’t already spent the whole day keeping her off balance.

Franco: Hola! Are you at the hotel?

Before she could talk herself out of it, she typed a quick reply.

Her: Yes, I am.

The response came almost immediately.

Franco: Perfect! I’m downstairs in the lounge. Come have dinner with me?

She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It was tempting—she’d be lying to herself if she said it wasn’t. But she knew his type all too well, didn’t she? The charming new driver who flirted with every journalist, every fan, anyone who would listen. She could already imagine him saying the exact same things to another reporter tomorrow.

No, she couldn’t let herself get pulled in. Not by someone who was probably just looking for a bit of attention.

Her: Thanks, but I think I’ll pass. Long day.

She set the phone down, hoping that would be the end of it, but a new message came through almost instantly.

Franco: Too bad. I was hoping I’d finally get a smile out of you without a hundred cameras around.

She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t deny the small flutter his words sent through her. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Her: You’re very determined, Franco. But I have to ask—do you make this invitation to all the journalists?

A pause, just a few seconds longer than his usual quick responses. Then, his reply appeared, simple and direct.

Franco: No, just the one who keeps me on my toes.

Her: Pity, this one isn’t intrested.

She set her phone down after typing that, ignoring the little thrill that shot through her when he messaged her again almost immediately. Franco’s charm was undeniably effective, but she wasn’t about to let herself become just another name on his roster of admirers. He’d have to do a lot more than offer a casual dinner invite if he wanted her attention.

Franco: Really? You’re going to turn me down just like that?

She smirked at the screen. Of course he wasn’t used to hearing “no.”

Her: Really. I’ve seen you in action today, Franco. I’m sure you’ll find someone else to keep you company.

A longer pause this time, as if her words had taken him off-guard. When he replied, his tone was more thoughtful.

Franco: That’s not what I meant. Today was… different. I don’t want to go to dinner with just anyone. I want to go with you.

Her heart skipped a beat, but she forced herself to stay firm. She typed a quick reply, keeping it casual.

Her: Nice try. But I’ve seen the way you charm everyone you talk to. You’re going to have to try a lot harder if you want me to believe that.

A few minutes passed, and she wondered if maybe he’d let it go. But just as she was about to put her phone down, another message appeared.

Franco: Okay. Fair enough. How about this: tomorrow, after practice, let me show you what a real date looks like. No crowds, no cameras. Just you and me.

She hesitated, feeling the pull of curiosity mingled with doubt. She knew he could be as persistent as he was charming, and there was something intriguing about his willingness to push past her refusal.

Her: Why should I believe this isn’t just a game to you?

His response came quickly this time, almost earnest.

Franco: Because no one else makes me want to try this hard. I’m not playing around here, cariño. Tell me what I need to do, and I’ll do it.

She smiled, a little thrill rushing through her. For the first time, he seemed genuinely off-balance, unsure, and she couldn’t help but enjoy it.

Her: We’ll see if you mean that. Good luck tomorrow, Franco.

Franco: Gracias. And just so you know… I’m not giving up that easily.

The following week, she found herself in the bustling paddock of the Baku, her eyes catching sight of Franco’s car parked in the paddock. She had to admit, he’d stayed true to his word since their last exchange, staying out of her messages—though his lingering glances and smiles across the paddock hadn’t exactly disappeared. If anything, he seemed more determined, more focused. It was all part of his act, she reminded herself. And yet, there was something undeniably thrilling about it.

She was busy gathering notes when she felt a familiar presence beside her. Franco had sidled up, hands tucked into the pockets of his team jacket, his easygoing grin making her pulse quicken in spite of herself.

“Back to cheer me on, sí?” he asked, eyes bright with that familiar mischief.

She held back a smile, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “I’m here to cover the race, Franco. Your cheering section is back there.” She nodded to the growing crowd of fans waving his name on signs with Argentinan flags just a few metres away.

He laughed, the sound warm and rich. “They’re great, sure, but I was looking for one particular fan. The one who told me I’d have to work harder if I wanted to impress her.”

She raised an eyebrow, stepping out of earshot of the nearest camera. “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

“Every word,” he said, his gaze steady. “I thought about it all week.”

A small thrill ran through her, though she kept her voice steady and her tone cool. “Well, if you’re serious, you’ll have to do better than last week’s P12. Otherwise, it just looks like more talk.”

His expression shifted, his easy grin giving way to a flash of determination. “If it’s a higher position you want,” he said, leaning in just slightly, “then I’ll get it. Just keep watching.”

She crossed her arms, fighting the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll be watching, Colapinto. Don’t disappoint me.”

He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes flickering with something that felt genuine, earnest. “I don’t plan to,” he murmured, stepping back with a wink before heading toward his car.

As he disappeared into the garage, her heart raced. Franco Colapinto, the rookie charmer, was setting out to prove himself to her. And, as much as she hated to admit it, she was looking forward to seeing if he could keep his promise.

She sat in the media centre, eyes locked on the screen as the race unfolded. Franco’s car was easy to spot, weaving its way through the pack with a precision she hadn’t expected. He was starting further up this time, P18, but it was still a long shot to even think he’d break into the top ten. Yet as the laps ticked by, he held his ground, pushing, clawing his way forward with a tenacity that had everyone watching in awe.

“Impressive for a rookie,” she overheard another journalist mutter, and she felt a strange pang of pride.

Halfway through the race, Franco made a daring overtake, squeezing past two midfield drivers into P10. She sat forward, barely breathing. He wasn’t just hanging on—he was gaining, going after every single opportunity on the track with a fierceness she hadn’t seen before.

He’d promised her he’d finish higher than last week, and she’d thought it was just talk, maybe a little playful charm. But here he was, proving her wrong lap by lap.

By the time he made it to P9, she was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her notebook tightly. And then, with a bold move on the final few laps, he passed another driver, slipping into P8. Her heart raced as she watched him hold his ground, fending off the competition, determined to keep the position he’d fought so hard for. The chequered flag dropped, and Franco crossed the line in P8.

She exhaled, a rush of surprise and admiration flooding through her. She’d known he was talented, of course—he wouldn’t have made it this far otherwise. But this? Climbing ten positions in a single race, all for a chance to prove himself to her? It was more than she’d expected.

As the race ended, she moved through the paddock, her mind whirling. Franco Colapinto, the charming rookie who flirted with everyone, had just delivered one of the most impressive drives of the day. For her. And she wasn’t sure if she was more impressed with his skill or his determination to keep his word.

She barely had a chance to catch her breath before she was back in the paddock, microphone in hand, ready to take on the post-race interviews. As she waited for Franco, she replayed his climb through the ranks in her mind—his nerve, his timing, the way he’d handled himself on the track. It wasn’t just impressive; it was astonishing. And as much as she tried to shake it off, she couldn’t ignore the small thrill that ran through her at the thought that he’d done it, in part, for her.

Finally, Franco appeared, still in his race suit his face glistening with the sheen of hard work. There was a slight glimmer of triumph in his eyes as he spotted her, a grin spreading across his face. He walked over, ignoring the other cameras and reporters, his gaze focused squarely on her.

She raised her microphone, keeping her expression as neutral as she could. “Franco Colapinto, P8—your second race in Formula 1, and already a massive improvement from last week. Can you walk us through it?”

He took a quick breath, then leaned in, a spark of mischief in his eyes. “Well, you know, someone told me I had to get higher than P12 if I wanted to impress them,” he said, his tone light but his gaze steady on hers. “So I did it for them. Great motivation.”

Heat crept up her neck, and she forced herself to stay focused. She could feel the eyes of the other journalists and team members on them, her colleagues probably smirking at his obvious attempt to fluster her, but she managed to hold her ground.

“Impressive,” she said, keeping her voice level. “And this ‘motivation’—I assume it’s the same one who’s kept you on your toes all week?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, unabashed. “Absolutely. Turns out, when someone challenges me, I take it seriously.” He shifted his stance, his gaze softening just a fraction. “And if they ask, I’ll do it again.”

A few people around them chuckled, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes. This wasn’t the usual post-race banter, and he didn’t seem interested in giving anyone the typical driver answers. He was speaking to her as if they were alone, and for a brief moment, she almost forgot the cameras.

“Well, whatever you’re doing,” she replied, finally letting a small smile slip, “it seems to be working. P8 is no small feat.”

He tilted his head, as if studying her. “Then maybe next week, you’ll set the bar even higher for me?” His voice was low, just enough for her to hear.

She felt her resolve waver slightly, but managed to maintain her professionalism. “We’ll see, Colapinto. For now, let’s just focus on how you plan to keep this up.”

He chuckled, shifting his grip on his helmet. “Oh, I think I have all the motivation I need right here.” With one last grin and a wink, he turned to greet the other journalists, leaving her to process what was easily the most disarming post-race interview she’d ever conducted.

Later that night, she was back in her hotel room, unwinding with a cup of tea, trying to shake off the lingering thrill of Franco’s performance—and his audacity in the post-race interview. She still couldn’t believe how he’d shamelessly directed half of his answers at her, leaving her just as off-balance as he had on the track. But as much as she tried to dismiss it, her thoughts kept circling back to his determination, his promise that he’d push harder just because she’d challenged him.

Her phone buzzed with a message, and she glanced down to see it was from the William’s Instagram Account.

Team Rep: Hey, what’s your room number?

She frowned for a moment, surprised by the casualness of the message. But teams occasionally followed up with journalists for clarifications or comments, especially after high-profile performances like Franco’s. Assuming they needed to drop off some post-race press notes or team statements, she quickly typed back her room number.

Her: Room 914.

Team Rep: Perfect. Thanks.

Not even a minute later, she heard a quiet knock on her door. She glanced at the time, wondering if the team rep had come by himself. But when she opened the door, the hallway was empty. Instead, resting on the floor in front of her was a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers—vibrant, unruly, and charmingly imperfect, wrapped with a small card slipped between the stems.

Her pulse quickened. She didn’t have to check the note to know exactly who had left them.

Still, curiosity got the best of her, and she crouched down, carefully lifting the bouquet to pull the card free.

“To my motivation: thank you for the push. Let’s raise the stakes again soon. — F.

A soft, reluctant smile tugged at her lips. She felt the warmth creeping up her cheeks, aware that Franco Colapinto had managed to surprise her again. It was a move so bold, so unexpected—and, somehow, more genuine than any casual dinner invitation could have been.

She sighed, shaking her head but unable to fight the smile any longer. As she placed the flowers on the table, their vibrant petals catching the soft light, she couldn’t help but wonder what Franco would pull next to prove himself. Because one thing was certain: he wasn’t giving up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want him to.

She couldn’t resist. Picking up her phone, she sent a quick message, keeping it light, casual.

Her: Cute.

It didn’t take long for his response to pop up.

Franco: Oh? You find me cute?

She rolled her eyes, though her heart skipped a beat as she typed back.

Her: No, the flowers were a cute move.

A beat passed, and then came his reply, playful but edged with a hint of something more.

Franco: Well, then… would you let the guy behind the cute move take you out for dinner?

She hesitated, fingers hovering over her phone. She knew what this looked like—a line blurred between work and something personal, maybe too personal. And for him, a rookie who’d just broken into the sport, one misstep could easily become a distraction he couldn’t afford. It wasn’t just her reputation, but his too, and the stakes felt higher than either of them probably realised.

Her: I don’t know, Franco. There’s too much on the line.

A pause, longer than his usual quick responses, and for a moment she thought maybe he’d let it go. Then his reply came through, brief and simple.

Franco: Okay.

She stared at the word, an unexpected pang of disappointment catching her off guard. Franco, usually so persistent, so bold, had accepted her hesitation without a fight. But as much as she wanted to push away her own reservations, she knew she was right. Still, the thought of him backing off now left her feeling… unbalanced.

Setting the phone down, she let out a sigh, glancing over at the flowers resting on her table. A small part of her wondered if maybe, just maybe, she’d made the wrong choice.

Four weeks later, they were back at the track, Austin, the usual energy humming through the paddock as teams and drivers prepared for the weekend ahead. She found herself scanning the garages, a little spark of nerves in her chest that had nothing to do with work. Franco had kept his distance over the past few weeks—well, as much distance as someone like him could manage. He was still his playful, charismatic self with the press, charming everyone in sight, but there was something different. He hadn’t followed up on his dinner invitation, hadn’t tried to push beyond her boundaries. She told herself it was for the best. Still, a small part of her couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d been too cautious.

Just then, she spotted him near the team’s garage, leaning against the wall in his race suit around his hips, deep in conversation with one of his engineers. When he looked up and saw her, his face lit up, a grin breaking across his face as if no time had passed. She felt a little of that old thrill in her chest as he walked over.

“Hola, stranger,” he greeted, hands tucked into his pockets of his team jacket, his voice as warm and casual as ever. “Miss me?”

She rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t help the smile tugging at her lips. “You were just here four weeks ago, Colapinto. Don’t flatter yourself.”

He chuckled, giving her that familiar, playful look. “Four weeks is a long time, don’t you think?”

She shook her head, feeling a bit of the tension from the past month melt away. Whatever her own doubts, Franco hadn’t let her brush-off change him—he was still here, as charming and persistent as ever. And somehow, that lifted a weight off her shoulders.

“Have you been behaving?” she asked, arching an eyebrow. “Or should I be prepared for more unexpected flower deliveries?”

Franco’s grin grew wider, his eyes flashing with that spark she was growing dangerously used to. “Depends. You miss them?”

She laughed softly, looking down to avoid letting him see her smile. “I’d hardly admit that if I did.”

He leaned in just slightly, his voice lowering. “Good thing I’m a patient man, then. Because I’m not done yet.” There was a softness to his tone, a hint of something genuine beneath his usual confidence, and it made her heart skip a beat.

Despite herself, she found comfort in his persistence, in his way of toeing the line between serious and playful without putting any pressure on her. For all his charm, he hadn’t crossed any lines. He was waiting, leaving the door open if she ever wanted to step through.

As he turned to head back toward his car, he glanced over his shoulder, giving her a wink. “You know where to find me if you change your mind, cariño. I’ll be around.”

And with that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving her standing there with a soft smile, feeling just a little lighter, a little braver.

She found herself glued to the screen as the race unfolded, Franco’s car darting through the pack with all the finesse and raw determination she’d come to recognise in him. Starting from P17, he had a long climb ahead of him, and as the laps ticked down, he kept gaining ground, his timing sharp, his decisions bold. He was relentless, working his way through the grid with an intensity that kept her at the edge of her seat.

By the halfway mark, he was already up to P12, and she could feel the anticipation building among the journalists and crew around her. Franco wasn’t just driving; he was fighting for every single position, taking advantage of each moment with an almost calculated risk. And he was doing it with the confidence that had both frustrated and charmed her from the start.

Then, in the final laps, with a daring overtake on the inside line, he claimed P10. A top ten finish. It was almost too perfect—his words from the last race echoing in her mind as he crossed the line: “If they ask, I’ll do it again.”

The paddock was buzzing with excitement as she made her way toward the media pen, preparing herself for the post-race interview. She tried to tamp down the flutter of nerves, reminding herself that he’d been charming his way through interviews with her for weeks now. But there was something different this time, a spark of pride mingled with her excitement, and she couldn’t wait to see him walk in.

When he finally appeared, the smile on his face was brighter than she’d ever seen. Still in his race suit, a towel on his head, he strode over to her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. She raised her microphone, struggling to keep her voice steady.

“Franco Colapinto,” she began, her own smile betraying just a hint of the thrill she felt. “P10 from P17—congratulations. Tell us, how did you manage such an impressive climb?”

He grinned, leaning casually into the microphone. “Well, you know me. I like a good challenge,” he said, his gaze holding hers for a second longer than necessary. “And I couldn’t let down the one person who told me I had to keep improving.”

The implication wasn’t lost on anyone listening, and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She rolled her eyes slightly, playing it off as best she could. “Seems like you’re making a habit of climbing positions to impress,” she replied, keeping her tone light.

Franco’s smile softened, turning almost genuine. “For some things,” he said, his voice low enough that only she could hear, “it’s worth the effort.”

She swallowed, momentarily at a loss for words, but managed to pull herself together, keeping the interview rolling. “Well, you’ve certainly earned that P10. What’s the plan for next time? Any more surprise performances in store?”

“Oh, definitely,” he replied, flashing her a grin. “But let’s say I’ll aim higher than P10 next time. If someone out there is willing to set a new challenge for me, I’ll be ready.” His words hung in the air, a subtle invitation that made her heart skip a beat.

She couldn’t hold back her smile as she wrapped up the interview, his gaze lingering on her with that same unspoken promise. And as she watched him walk away, her heart raced with the thrill of what might come next, realising that maybe—just maybe—she was ready to see where this challenge would lead.

As Franco walked away, she felt the lingering warmth of his gaze, that same thrill coursing through her that she’d tried so hard to brush off. But now, it seemed, she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to. The interview had felt like more than just a casual exchange; his words, his look—there was something real beneath the flirtation, something she found herself wanting to chase.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of post-race coverage and media duties, but her thoughts kept drifting back to him, to the way his eyes had held hers, steady and genuine, as he’d promised to aim even higher. It was only when she caught herself looking around the paddock, almost instinctively, that she realised she was seeking him out. By then, her professional caution had faded, replaced by something far less reasonable but far more enticing.

She knew she was violating so many unspoken rules as she made her way around the paddock, ducking out of the more crowded paths and slipping past the occasional lingering crew member. A pang of guilt buzzed at the back of her mind, but it was no match for the magnetic pull drawing her toward his driver’s room.

She stopped outside the door, exhaling a shaky breath as her pulse raced with a mix of nerves and anticipation. The hallway was quiet, the sounds of the bustling paddock fading away. Before she could second-guess herself, she raised her hand and knocked softly.

The door opened, and there he was, in a grey tracksuit and plain black top, his expression shifting from surprise to that warm, familiar smile that had always managed to disarm her.

“Well,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a low murmur, “I didn’t expect my motivation to show up in person.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no hiding her smile. “I figured I’d come to make sure you’re planning to keep your word. That climb to P10 wasn’t exactly a small feat.”

His smile softened, and he stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in. As the door clicked shut behind them, the noise and pressures of the paddock slipped away, leaving just the two of them. The look he gave her—warm, unguarded, and almost vulnerable—made her heart skip a beat.

She’d broken so many of her own rules just to get here, but in this moment, she couldn’t bring herself to regret a single one.

Taking a moment to look around, she noticed his bags were packed and ready for the triple header and that there was nowhere to sit.

She sat on the edge of his bed, trying to look at ease despite the heat rising in her cheeks. Franco stood in front of her, close enough that her knees brushed his legs. The room felt charged with his presence, the quiet intensity in his gaze making it impossible to look away.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he murmured, leaning down a bit. The way his dark eyes lingered on her, sweeping over her face and holding her gaze, sent a rush of warmth through her.

She felt a smile tugging at her lips, trying to keep her voice steady. “Figured I’d make sure you’re holding up after all that hard work.”

He chuckled, his voice low, with just a hint of playfulness. “Oh, I’m holding up just fine.” He reached out, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek, letting his thumb linger just a moment too long against her skin. “In fact, I think I’m doing better than fine.”

Her cheeks flushed even deeper, but she held his gaze, determined not to let him throw her off-balance—at least not completely. “You know,” she said, trying to match his tone, “you don’t have to turn everything into a line, Colapinto.”

Franco tilted his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Only with you, cariño.”

She let out a soft laugh, her heartbeat picking up as he moved closer, until he was standing right between her legs. She felt his fingers trace gently along her jawline, his thumb tilting her chin up so she was looking directly into his eyes.

“Not used to being flirted with, cariño?” he asked softly, his voice smooth and teasing.

She swallowed, feeling her blush deepen as her usual composure slipped. “No… not like this.”

“Shame,” he murmured, his thumb grazing her cheek as his eyes searched hers, warm and intent. His voice softened, and the playfulness gave way to something more genuine. “Because I’m just getting started.”

She felt her breath hitch, her pulse racing as his words sank in, leaving her both disarmed and impossibly drawn in. And in that moment, she realised that every wall she’d put up around him was slipping away, piece by piece.

For a moment, she couldn’t take her eyes off him, the air between them thick with anticipation. Then, she noticed the small silver chain dangling from his neck, glinting faintly against the fabric of his black top, and without thinking, she reached up, wrapping her fingers around it gently.

Franco’s gaze flickered in surprise, his breath catching as she tugged on the chain, pulling him just close enough that their faces were inches apart. She could feel the warmth radiating from him, and the intensity of his gaze sent a thrill through her that made her heart pound. His hands settled on either side of her hips as he leaned in, their breaths mingling in the charged silence.

Before she could talk herself out of it, she closed the space between them, pressing her lips to his. The kiss was tentative at first, soft and exploratory, but the warmth in his response was immediate. His hand slid up her back, pulling her closer, and she felt his fingers tangling in her hair as he deepened the kiss, his touch gentle yet confident.

She didn’t realise how tightly she was gripping his chain until she felt his hand cover hers, his thumb tracing lightly over her knuckles as if to say, I’m here.

When they finally parted, both of them slightly breathless, Franco looked at her, hand caressing her cheek, his smile soft and real, devoid of his usual playfulness. He looked at her with a quiet intensity that made her stomach flip.

“You know," he started, his voice dipping into that smooth, charming tone, “I thought I never had a chance with you. You made me work for every single look, every smile…” He shook his head, his hand still resting against her cheek, his thumb brushing just beneath her jaw. “I was convinced you’d never actually let me get this close.”

She felt a warm, amused smile tugging at her lips as she listened to him, his words genuine but tinged with that familiar, playful charm. Watching him, her heart surged with an undeniable impulse, one she didn’t want to ignore any longer. In one fluid motion, she slid her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him down, pressing her lips to his again with a fierce, unrestrained intensity that sent sparks through her.

Franco’s surprise melted instantly, his hands slipping from her cheek to either side of her hips, matching her passion. The kiss deepened, turning slower, almost reverent, as if neither of them wanted the moment to end. She could feel his pulse racing under her hands, his warmth overwhelming in the most exhilarating way.

Without breaking the kiss, she leaned back, drawing him down with her onto the bed. She felt his weight settle gently over her, his hands bracing on either side of her as he kissed her with a hunger that felt both new and inevitable. When he finally pulled back just slightly, his lips hovering over hers, his voice was breathless, a bit dazed.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, his fingers tracing down her arm as he held her gaze, a vulnerable softness there she hadn’t seen before.

“Good,” she whispered back, her own voice unsteady, feeling as though her walls were completely gone now. “Because I don’t plan on making it easy for you.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he leaned down, his mouth finding hers again with an eagerness that left them both completely lost in each other, as if the rest of the world had faded away.

Maybe he was worth the wait.

the end.

[always-just-red]

I've been lookin for a writer who takes reqs for lnds 😭 Can i req sfw hcs/one-shot (choose which one u prefer more) for sylus & fem/gn reader?

I remember there was one call for zayne x mc where mc called zayne accidentally because mc was drunk & mc called zayne (accidentally) instead of booking a cab (mc did book a cab but w/ a wrong destination).

Can i maybe req what if the scenario is like that but it's w/ sylus instead? Feel free to tell me if this req is too much or if u wanna decline it, thanks a lot!

My first Sylus fic! Yay! (Don't look at me Rafayel 🥰) Anon your mind is so powerful! This prompt was so much fun to write, so thank you, hope you enjoy!

Wrong Number

Sylus x Reader 🩸

Summary: You're having a bit of trouble getting hold of that taxi you booked, but more trouble help is on the way...

Genre: fluff, kinda ends on an angsty note (sorry 😇)

Warnings/Additional tags: drunk reader, some swearing, humour, uses of 'sweetie' and 'kitten', threat of violence/death at the start, a slight bit of suggestion (it's Sylus, ok? He's having ✨fun✨)

| Word count: 2k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

“Mr. Sylus, please! It was an honest mistake— almost indistinguishable from a genuine protocore, I swear!”

Sylus is lounging back in a plush leather armchair, feeling thoroughly short-changed as he turns about a fake protocore with his fingers. He’s been listening to this noise for almost a full minute, growing awfully impatient, though he did like the last excuse.

“Say that again,” he drawls with a sinister smile.

“It was an honest mistake,” the black-market dealer stutters, tripping over his words. “It was almost indistinguishable from a—”

“Almost indistinguishable…” Sylus confirms. “Almost. Almost.” He’s savouring each syllable— tasting them like wine.

“It would have fooled almost anyone!”

“Almost anyone?” Sylus laughs, and it’s a wicked, dangerous thing. “Well yes, I rather think that’s the point. But it didn’t fool just anyone, did it? It fooled you.”

His smile is gone in an instant, his hand closing around the fake protocore, splintering it with a crack. He drops bloodied, sapphire fragments from his palm, red and blue, red and blue, and they skitter across the hardwood floor like rain.

“Please, Mr. Sylus!” the dealer pleads, desperate. “I’ll do anything! I will! I’ll make it up to you!”

“No, thanks.” Sylus studies his palm as it heals. “I’ve had my fill of fake protocores.”

“Sylus!”

The leader of Onychinus stands, drawing his gun with a customary apathy. Dark energy manifests, twisting around the dealer’s limbs, holding him still, while a lone tendril crawls around his mouth, holding him silent. He’s struggling, but he should know better. He should have known better from the very beginning. With a wistful smile, Sylus levels the gun with his head, and—

Something rings.

His red gaze shoots up, instinctively seeking Luke and Kieran, but they shrug from their station at the other side of the room. The sound is closer than that, anyway. Glaringly more familiar. Sylus’s spare hand goes to his pocket, and he draws out his phone.

“Mmm?” he greets, thumb sliding across the screen as he puts it to his ear.

There’s only one person who calls him at this time of night.

“Where are you?” your voice echoes from the other side of the line.

“That’s a question I prefer not to answer without knowing what motivates it.”

“Wha— Sylus?”

“Yes, sweetie,” he drones.

There’s a moment of silence. “Shit.”

It’s not the reaction he aspires to, but you sound agitated, so he’s going to let it slide. There’s a loud crackle from the speaker, followed by a few, harsher sounds, and he pulls the phone away from his ear, wincing slightly. His eyes are trained on the man at his feet, but he lowers his gun, distracted.

“What are you—” he begins, but then he identifies the sound. It’s a finger— your finger— jabbing away at a screen. “If I didn’t know any better, Miss Hunter, I’d say you were trying to get rid of me.”

“No…” you deny too quickly. It’s still there: the tapping. Like Mephisto, pecking furiously at a locked window from outside. A few more jabs, and then…

The call cuts out.

Sylus scoffs, looking down at his now silent phone in disbelief. He flops back into his chair, tossing his gun onto a side table before hitting the button to call you back. You know he’s not a patient man, but you don’t pick up the first time, and so he has to try again. He can be patient for you— he tells himself— as he thinks up some creative ways for you to return the charity. Speaking of charity…

His gaze drops to the dealer. “Get out,” he sneers.

The man doesn’t have to be told twice. He scrambles to his feet as his blood-dark bindings retract, practically throwing himself towards the room’s exit. Luke pushes open the door, the intense music of the nightclub beating through the gap, but Kieran’s being less helpful. He steps into the doorway, blocking any escape. He feints right. Then left. Behind the masks, both men are laughing.

Eventually Kieran steps aside. He shoves the dealer the rest of the way through the door as Luke kicks it shut, and they exchange a high-five.

Sylus pinches the bridge of his nose. His call connects.

“Hello?” You’re back. “Finally! Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“Still me, sweetie.”

“Sylus?” you actually whine. It’s adorable. “Why is it you? Go away.”

“No,” he lilts tunefully, and then he’s coaxing: “I want to help you, kitten. Won’t you let me help you? Tell me, who are you trying to call?”

Frustration spills from you— fake, exaggerated sobs tearing themselves from your throat. “The taxi, Sy,” you whine again. “The stupid taxi, ok? It’s not here. It’s meant to be here.”

“Where’s here?”

“Ha!” you exclaim like you’ve evaded a masterplan, and not a casually asked, run-of-the-mill question. “No. Nice try, but no. You wanna help me?”

“Yeah.”

“Then leave me alone!”

With— he can imagine— some sort of theatrical flourish, you deliver your phone a final, decisive tap. It beckons a fateful silence. Sylus brings his phone in front of his face, unmoved by the moment’s gravitas. There’s a pop-up on the screen. Kitten: requesting video chat.

He smiles to himself. Then accepts. “Hi sweetie.”

Your face is lighting up his screen, your cheeks flushed, your brow furrowed, and your eyes sharp with determination. “Why can I— wait, why can I see you? Get out of my phone, Sy!”

“My, my,” he tuts, but he’s smiling still, “look at you— the illustrious Miss Hunter. It is a relief to know the fate of Linkon rests in such… reliable hands.”

“What d’you mean?” you mumble.

“You’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!”

He chuckles. “And there’s that infamous wit.”

You bite your lip as you ignore him, still fixated on trying to end the call. It occurs to him that you will eventually succeed; even a broken clock is right twice a day. “Listen to me, sweetie. Are you alone?”

His tone is sober enough for the two of you, and your exasperated eyes meet his. “Yeah.”

“Then be a good girl and send me your location. You remember how to do that, right?” He carefully enunciates each word of his plan. “I’ll come and get you, but I need to know where you are. Don’t go with anyone else. Wait for me, ok?”

You’re nodding away, the odd ‘mmhmm’ escaping your lips, but you’re not at all listening. He catches on after a minute. Trails off— realises your gaze is too vacant, and your focus? Wandering. You’re cradling your phone with both hands. His view is interrupted as your thumb passes over the camera; you’re… stroking the screen?

“You’re so pretty, Sy,” you murmur breathlessly.

His gaze softens. He sighs, “You’re pretty too.”

Then you make a sound he’s never heard before: you squeak, the phone’s audio almost cutting out. A blush is spreading through your cheeks, so much darker than the alcohol’s afterglow, and gods he wishes your face was in his hands. The vision is short-lived, however, because suddenly you’re gone.

There’s a circling view of a dark street, split by streaks of white light, as your phone careens through the air. It strikes concrete a moment later, stuttering to a stop, and Sylus’s grimace deepens with each jarring crack. Your screen has gone black, but he doesn’t think it’s broken. He’s face down, apparently— subjected to an unexciting view of the pavement.

“Oh, shit!” He hears you gasp.

Though your voice is far away, your phone is in your grasp again in no time. You’re turning it over, peering down at him, tracing the outline of his face with worry. “Sorry, Sy. Are you ok?”

“I’ll survive.” He raises an eyebrow. “You know, if you wanted to throw me around, you only needed to ask.”

His voice has dropped, and he loves watching you notice. You stand from your crouch with a smirk, bringing him with you— a dark idea in your eyes. “Wanna go again?”

Before he can protest, he’s looking at the back of your head. Your arm is stretched behind you, gearing up to send him on another short flight.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he interrupts, panicking briefly, but you’d never detect it with all your wits about you, let alone none. He’s brought in front of your face again, and you’re frowning oh so sweetly. “I asked you to do something, remember?”

“You told me to do something.”

So pedantic. “What did I tell you to do, sweetie?”

You don’t say anything. There’s a short huff as you blow hair from your face, and then you’re concentrating. You have that look he likes: the one you get when you’re whittling away at your paperwork like a good little hunter. The same stubborn resolve, too, that makes you lean over it when he or Mephisto are conveniently behind your shoulder.

Your location comes through with a ping and his smile widens. He’s up in a heartbeat, telling you he’s on his way— that you did such a good job— and that you need to stay on the phone with him, ok? He spins his fingers as he passes between Luke and Kieran, a gesture they’ve long grown accustomed to and can easily translate.

I'm leaving. Clean this up.

…

“So then Xavier, like— well, you know Xavier— he was all, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ but he never did, Sy! Off he went, leaving Nero and I to do all the paperwork, and I asked Nero, and Nero was like, ‘ask Xavier yourself’, and I was like, ‘I literally just did!’, and he just shrugged, and it’s… driving me crazy, you know? Because where does he even go? Tara and I have this bet going, she thinks it’s because he—”

Your anecdote comes to a sudden stop.

“What does Tara think, sweetie?”

“Shh shh shh! Wait a second…”

You clutch your phone to your chest like it’ll somehow suppress Sylus’s voice. You’re sat, leaning back against a chain-link fence, but you rise as a black car pulls up in front of you. The windows are tinted. You squint, leaning forward to try to look through them anyway.

“I don’t like this, Sy,” you frown as you plant a hand on your hip. “There’s a car here.”

“Oh?”

“Shh!” you hiss again. It’s not the only car parked on the street, but it is the only one alive. The engine purrs and its lights are glowing like angry embers, refusing to be snuffed out by the dark. You take a step closer, then the engine cuts out. You take a bigger step back.

“What exactly are you afraid of?” Sylus asks, his tone so thick it’s practically bleeding through your phone. “Is a big, bad man trying to get you?”

“Well I don’t know what they look like, Sy. The windows are tinted, and I— AH!” you gasp.  

A strong pair of arms wrap around you from behind, lifting you from the ground. “Got you, sweetie,” Sylus chuckles in your ear as tell-tale crow feathers settle around you. His breath is hot on your neck and it tickles, turning your panicked shrieks to laughter.

“Sylus!” you squeal as you attempt to wriggle free. You don’t think you’re trying very hard.

The man lowers you back to your feet, but his arms stay around you and he dips his head, resting his chin on the curve of your shoulder. “Hi,” he whispers.

“Hi.” For a little word, there’s so much fondness.

“Let’s get you home to bed, ok?”

You nod compliantly with a yawn, swaying a little as his arms retract and you’re having to stand on your own again. He chuckles as he steadies you— placing a hand on the top of your head— and you pivot, drawn by the sound. His crimson eyes find yours and they’re dark with something that stirs you, even with your mind swimming and nothing really making sense. You’re not sure of anything at all, except—

No-one has ever looked at you like that before.

And you won’t remember it tomorrow.

“Come on,” he prompts, nudging you towards the car, and you start to walk, though you’re dragging your feet. “I want to hear all of the association’s dirtiest secrets while I still can.”

“Tara has a crush on the new weapon specialist, you know.”

Sylus blinks, then laughs— a tender, comfortable thing. Completely enthralled. “You don’t say,” he beams.

No, you won’t remember it tomorrow.

[pyrriax]

what if i just waited to post stuff until i've got my current three Ideas written

just post em all back to back and then sleep for a week

[ !! venting in the tags !! ]

[ssahotchnerr]

Could you write something where someone compliments Hotch for "babysitting" and "helping out" when hes out with his kids and he gets all 😑😑 do you mean parenting my children?

standard parenting

omg LOL cw; dad!aaron, reader is referred to as mom, a ton of domestic fluff, very light suggestiveness (hehe reader and aaron are soo in love <3) wc; 1.2k

"Jack." Aaron moved forward, spotting his son as he climbed up a curved ladder, at the ready if he were to suddenly slip. "Careful."

"I am." He took the last, big step, his hands gripping the supporting bars and landing on the platform safely. "I've done this two times already Dad."

"Help your sister down the slide, okay? I'll meet the two of you at the bottom."

"Okay." He confirmed, beelining down a rattly bridge in the direction of Ellie.

It was approximately 3 pm on a Tuesday, the park filled with the afternoon rush of children freshly out of school. A doctor's appointment had brought Aaron out of the BAU early, and after picking up Jack from school, Ellie from preschool, he figured there was no better way to burn off energy than the playground.

Hopefully it allowed for a quiet, relaxing night at home, with both kids in bed at a decent time.

Aaron stood at the bottom of the slide, peering upwards and squinting - he had regretfully left his sunglasses in the car. Ellie stood at the top, looking a bit lost once her turn was next, the slide intimidatingly large for a newly four-year-old.

"Jack's coming, honey."

It took some convincing; Aaron reassuring her he was right there, there to catch her if she overshot into the mulch. Jack would be right behind her. Further hesitation on her end: Do you want Jack to go first? No. Are you sure you want to go down? Yes.

Finally down came Ellie, giggling profusely and not paying a mind to the static the slide caused (Aaron mentally winced at the sound). Jack followed soon after.

"See, there you go." Aaron praised, hands moving to his hips.

"Again, please please please." Ellie whined gently, looking up at Aaron with her identically adjacent brown eyes. It was something she was beginning to master, the puppy dog look that could cause him to cave within seconds.

He was in for it.

"Sure pumpkin." Aaron grinned down at his little piggy-tail headed daughter. "Just a few more times though, Mom's waiting at home."

"C'mon Ellie. I'll race you." Jack suggested, kicking up dirt as he bolted off without waiting for a distinct answer. She ran after him, as fast as her small legs could carry her.

Aaron called out after him, "The stairs, Jack."

"I know!"

"Cute kids."

A mother - Aaron inferred - commented, falling alongside him. Aaron's eyes continued to track the two of them, ensuring they remained together and stayed far away from any arched ladders. They dashed up the stairs, into the depths of the play structure.

Aaron offered her a friendly smile in return, "Thank you."

"It's nice to see someone so attentive for a change." She huffed, notably an impressed breath. "Most babysitters just sit on the bench on their cell phone."

Aaron's expression dropped; a mix of confusion and dumbfound, his smile gradually fading. The only thing going through his mind: I'm sorry, what?

"Well, I'm not like most babysitters." He frowned, pressing his lips together and eyebrows drawing into a line.

"Good for you." She commended, not taking the hint. A child called out to her, causing her to move forward. "See ya."

She left, but scowl on his face stayed.

It hadn't put him in a bad mood, but rather, a dulled mood. The inference could've been an honest mistake, it most likely was, but it settled funny within him.

Only at Ellie's, 'Daddy look!' did his face brighten up. For them.

-

"Hi Momma!" Ellie bounded into the kitchen, nearly crashing into you and smiling from ear to ear. "We're home!"

Jack added to her status report, voices intertwining. "Dad took us to the park!"

"It looks like you two had fun." You grinned, using the pad of your thumb to swipe away an unblended bout of sunscreen on the side of Jack's nose. You also took note of his grass stained sweats, and the dirt scuff on Ellie's knees.

"We did! Jackers helped me down the slide and Daddy pushed me on the swings-"

"No one pushed me on the swings." Aaron commented, his hand finding the small of your back momentarily as he brushed past.

"That's 'cause you're big." Ellie made a face at her father.

"Can we go again on Saturday?" Jack asked, "I wanna bring my soccer ball."

"We'll have to see what we're up to, bud," Aaron answered, also fetching him a cup of cold water. The car ride consisted of Jack stating how thirsty he was, and how he refused to drink the lukewarm water his bottle held. "But I don't see why not."

Meanwhile, Ellie plopped herself onto the floor, pulling off her shoes and dumping the remnants of lingering mulch onto the floor.

"Hey hey hey let's not do that." You said, your nose scrunching lightly too; the normal kid-stink that followed after an afternoon spent in the sun. "And baths, both of you. Go on, I'll be there in a second."

Ellie's voice carried as she ventured up, something along the lines of bringing her mermaid Barbie in the tub with her. You ruffled Jack's hair gently as he passed, pressing a kiss to his sweaty head.

"You know what someone said to me today?" Aaron asked, turning towards the sink to wash his hands.

"Aren't you forgetting something first?"

He stopped, a knowing smile forming on his face. "How dare I."

Aaron moved forward, hands finding your waist to pull you near, placing his lips onto yours for a few seconds. Albeit how short it was, you savored it; coming home after a long, long day.

Satisfied, "Enlighten me."

He paused to actually wash his hands, flicking the water droplets off once he finished. You tossed him the hand towel that happened to be nearby.

"Someone mistook me for a babysitter."

"What?" You snorted out a laugh.

"Left me speechless." He exasperatedly rolled his eyes, wiping his hands and throwing the towel back onto the counter. "Can you believe that?"

"Well, you know how some people can be." You shrugged. Your statement wasn't much help, but what could you do.

"Oblivious?"

"What prompted it?"

"Standard parenting. I was simply keeping a close eye. The slide made Ellie nervous, Jack was being a bit adventurous today, and the playground itself was a nightmare. Everyone had the same idea I did, it was packed."

You hummed in response, dumping the neglected water from Jack and Ellie's water bottles out. Aaron continued to ramble on.

"And she saw the two of them. Jack - he resembles Haley a bit more, sure. But Ellie?"

"Your twin."

"Exactly." Aaron scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Babysitter. How in the world does that title come to mind before Dad?"

He shook his head as his eyes found the ceiling; utter disbelief.

"You know," you raised an eyebrow, regaining his focus, "you're hot when you're fired up."

"Am I?" Aaron smirked, pulling you in again just as he did before, arm winding behind your back.

"Mom!"

A whine drifted from upstairs, Aaron pulled away from your lips with a comically heavy, defeated sigh.

You shoved him at the chest playfully, grabbing a laugh from him, heading upstairs.

"She, huh." You teased, "Are you sure it wasn't some strategically formed ploy in hopes you were unmarried? Wouldn't be the first time."

He trudged up the stairs behind you, a chuckle shaking through his chest. "I doubt it. She seemed genuine."

"And you would know." You quipped, ends of your mouth turned upwards.

"With my profiling expertise?" He bantered back, playfully patting your behind as you reached the second level. "I'd hope so."

[helen-with-an-a]

Can you please write something with Aitana based on the video of her saying “fan number one?” and “you work or not work?”

Hiiii - so I used the dialogue in a way that I don't think I've seen other people use - I didn't want to make it too samey. This is inspired by how hot it was here for a little bit during the summer. Also, sidenote - next weeks post will be out on the Saturday rather than the Friday because of the football/international break. I hope you enjoy <3<3<3

Heat

Aitana Bonmatí x Reader

Description: The heat is getting to everyone in Barcelona

Word Count: 3.5k

One thing you loved about Barcelona was the heat. Coming from England, sunshine was a rarity, and sunshine that was actually warm was a precious commodity that you cherished. You could often be found dozing away in the sunlight, curled up like a cat absorbing the golden rays as you napped your free hours away. The warmth soaked into your skin, loosening the knots of tension that had become second nature in the grey, drizzly days back home. It was as if the sun in Barcelona had a different quality, something richer, more generous, wrapping you in a golden embrace that you had never known in England.

It was something you and your girlfriend had in common. Aitana was as much a sunworshipper as you were, perhaps even more so. Raised in the heart of Catalonia, she had grown up with the sun as a constant companion, and she revelled in its warmth with a kind of effortless grace that you admired. While you had learned to cherish the sun’s rare appearances in your life, for Aitana, it was a way of life. She would often tease you about how you could fall asleep anywhere as long as the sun was shining, but the truth was, she was no different.

The two of you had a ritual – every off-day, when you finally had time to relish in the sunshine to your heart’s content, you would pack a small bag with some snacks, a blanket, and a book or two, and head out to one of Barcelona’s many parks. Sometimes it was the sprawling greenery of Parc de la Ciutadella, with its majestic fountain and shaded pathways. Other times, you preferred the more secluded spots, like the hidden corners of Montjuïc, where the trees provided just enough shade to keep the heat bearable, but still allowed the sunlight to filter through.

You’d find a spot, lay down the blanket, and spend hours just basking in the warmth. Aitana would stretch out beside you, her hand always finding yours as you both soaked in the sun. There was something so simple, so pure, about those moments. The world would fade away, and it would be just the two of you, cocooned in a bubble of warmth and contentment. Sometimes you’d talk, sharing dreams and stories, your voices mingling with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. Other times, you’d fall into a comfortable silence, letting the sun do all the talking.

But one thing you hated about Barcelona was also the heat. You weren’t used to it. The relentless sun that you had once welcomed with open arms quickly became an overbearing force, pressing down on you with an intensity that made you feel like you were perpetually walking through a furnace. You found yourself sticky, sweaty, and hot far too often for your liking. The sweat would bead on your forehead, trickle down your back, and make your clothes cling uncomfortably to your skin. You felt like you couldn’t breathe in the heat, the suffocating temperatures wrapping around you like an unwanted blanket.

This was where you and Aitana differed. She relished in the heat. The intensity that overwhelmed you seemed to invigorate her. Where you saw oppressive warmth, she saw life brimming with energy. Aitana would thrive under the sun’s unyielding rays, her skin glowing, her movements light and carefree. She seemed to draw strength from the very heat that left you seeking refuge.

On those days when the sun blazed down mercilessly, you’d find her with an easy smile on her face, wandering the streets of the city as if the heat were a friend she was catching up with after a long absence. While you sought anywhere with cooler air, she would coax you back into the light, playfully insisting that a little more sun wouldn’t do you any harm. Sometimes, she’d lead you to the beach, where she would dive into the cool Mediterranean waters with a laugh, emerging refreshed and radiant. You’d follow, grateful for the temporary relief, but always aware that as soon as you left the water, the heat would be waiting for you again.

Yet, despite the discomfort, there was something about the way Aitana embraced the heat that made it bearable for you, even on the worst days. Her joy was infectious, her love for the sun a reminder of why you had fallen in love with Barcelona in the first place. She had a way of making you forget the sweat trickling down your back, or the way your clothes clung to your skin. Instead, she made you focus on the beauty around you – the vibrant colours of the city, the scent of blooming flowers, the laughter of children playing in the fountains.

Barça knew all about your conundrum surrounding the heat. It was a running joke among your teammates, how the sunlight and heat seemed to be locked in an eternal duel, yet somehow always managed to work together to make your life both blissful and unbearable. Sunlight often battled with the heat, but they were a bonded pair—you couldn’t have one without the other, much like they would find you trailing close behind Aitana as she traipsed around the city. The team would rib you about it in the locker room, laughing as they imagined you wilting under the sun's rays, while Aitana, always vibrant, led the way through the bustling streets of Barcelona.

It had become something of a ritual for the team to watch you struggle with the heat during training sessions. The mid-afternoon sun would hang high in the sky, relentless and unforgiving, as you ran drills on the pitch. While your teammates seemed to have adjusted to the searing temperatures, you were still caught in a love-hate relationship with the heat. You’d catch them grinning as you wiped the sweat from your brow, the back of your shirt clinging to your skin, while they effortlessly powered through the drills.

This wasn’t usually a problem—the gym was air-conditioned to a frigid temperature, offering a welcome reprieve from the sweltering outdoors. The cool blast of air that greeted you as you stepped inside was a small but cherished comfort. The staff, always attentive, kept extra ice packs and cold towels on hand, ready to pass them your way during particularly grueling sessions. They had come to expect your need for these little luxuries, and you had become something of a connoisseur of the best ways to beat the heat.

You were usually the first to dive into the ice baths, even when it wasn’t on your designated recovery schedule. The shock of the cold water was intense, but it was also the quickest way to bring your body temperature down from the brink of boiling over. You’d sink into the icy depths with a sigh of relief, feeling the cold seep into your muscles, soothing the burn from hours spent under the relentless sun. The other players would laugh and shake their heads, knowing you’d be there long before any of them even considered it.

Yet, despite all the precautions, the heat had a way of creeping back into your bones the moment you stepped outside. The contrast between the chill of the gym and the furnace waiting outside always caught you off guard, no matter how many times you experienced it. It was as if the sun, sensing your brief escape, redoubled its efforts to remind you who was in charge. The walk from the training facility back to your car felt like a marathon, the heat radiating up from the pavement, wrapping around you like an oppressive cloak.

Your teammates often teased you about this too, their voices carrying over the sound of cleats on concrete as they watched you dart from one patch of shade to the next. “Careful, chica, you might melt before you get to the car!” they’d joke, their laughter ringing out in the sun-drenched parking lot. But it was all in good fun, and you’d laugh along with them, shaking your head as you fumbled with your keys, already looking forward to the sanctuary of the air-conditioned interior.

While the heat was your enemy, you knew how to combat it. You had your routines, your strategies, your little comforts that made the relentless sun bearable. Until the day the air-con broke.

It had been on its last legs for a while now, the fan making a strange clanking noise that echoed through the gym like a ticking time bomb. You and your teammates had joked about it, but there was an unspoken understanding that the day it finally gave out would be a disaster. The unit had a habit of cutting out at random intervals, plunging the gym into a suffocating stillness until someone managed to coax it back to life with a few well-placed taps. But this time, it was different.

It was a scorching afternoon, the kind where the heat seemed to seep into everything, turning the city into an oven. The air outside shimmered with intensity, and stepping into the gym usually felt like a sweet relief. But not today. The moment you pushed open the door, you were hit by a wall of stifling air, thick and heavy, clinging to your skin like a wet blanket. The usual blast of cool air was conspicuously absent, and instead, the gym felt like an extension of the inferno outside.

You exchanged a glance with Aitana, the dread setting in as the reality of the situation sunk in. The air-con was dead – really dead this time. The fan was silent, the strange clanking noise gone, but not in the way you’d hoped. There was no more coaxing it back to life. The temperature inside the gym was already climbing, the walls seeming to radiate heat that had nowhere to escape.

“Oh, amor meu,” Aitana sighed, already dreading the moans that would be coming her way throughout the session. She looked at you wearily as your studied the machine forlornly.

“Maybe … maybe someone can fix it?” you looked up at her hopefully, eyes pleading innocently.

“I’m sure they’ll get a maintenance guy in,” she smiled at you. Aitana's smile was both reassuring and sympathetic, but you could see the glint of amusement in her eyes. She knew exactly how much you dreaded the heat, especially in a place where you had come to rely on the cool, controlled environment of the gym. Still, she tried to offer some comfort, even as the oppressive warmth started to settle around you both like an unwelcome blanket. “They’ll have someone here in no time,” she added, her tone light, though the sweat already beading on her forehead betrayed the discomfort you were both feeling. “Until then, we’ll just have to power through, won’t we?”

You nodded, trying to muster up the same optimism, but the thought of spending the next couple of hours in a gym with no air-con made you want to run back to the car and crank up the AC instead. Aitana, always the more resilient of the two of you when it came to the heat, took your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, silently urging you to tough it out.

“Come on,” she said, leading the way to the changing rooms. “We’ll get through this together.”

You did not get through it together. You struggled limply through your workouts - refusing to do the optional extra reps and keeping the weights light. As you looked around the room, it seemed like you were the only one grappling with the oppressive heat.

The native Spanish players, their bodies accustomed to the relentless Barcelona sun, appeared to breeze through their routines. Alexia and Mapí chatted amiably through their sets, the heat barely registering on their relaxed faces. Irene and Marta, both seasoned in navigating the city's sweltering conditions, moved with their usual ease, seemingly unaffected as the temperature in the gym climbed higher. Cata, Pina, Patri, and Vicky handled the heat with a nonchalant grace. Even the Scandinavian players, usually the first to wilt under the sun, seemed to be faring better. Ingrid had her hair neatly tied up in a bun, but otherwise, the heat seemed to have minimal impact on her or her teammates.

Frido and Esmee were sharing jokes, their laughter ringing out above the hum of the equipment. Caro, in her typical fashion, was methodically stacking more and more weights onto her machines, her focus unwavering despite the stifling conditions.

It was then that you noticed Keira. She was the only one who seemed to be struggling as visibly as you were. Maybe it was because you both shared an English background, and despite years on the team, you were still not fully acclimated to the heat. Keira, with her freckled skin and usually upbeat demeanour, looked as if she was fighting a losing battle against the oppressive warmth. Her movements were slower, her breaths more laboured, and her usual efficiency in the gym was replaced by a noticeable struggle.

You caught her eye across the room, and she gave you a small, weary smile – a silent acknowledgment of your shared plight. There was something comforting in seeing someone else feeling as drained and overheated as you were. It was a rare moment of camaraderie amidst the collective struggle.

Aitana had left your side a while ago, a subtle sign she was over your complaints about the heat. You felt a little put out by it, but you understood. You knew you could grumble until the cows came home if it felt justified, and though her patience had worn thin, you couldn’t blame her for needing a break from the relentless whining.

You watched as she rejoined the rest of the team, seamlessly slipping back into the rhythm of the workout as if the heat was a minor inconvenience rather than the oppressive force it felt like to you. Her movements were fluid, and her energy seemed unshaken by the sweltering conditions that had left you feeling utterly drained.

As she chatted with her teammates, her laughter cut through the dense air, a reminder of how effortlessly some seemed to adapt. You took a moment to let your frustration settle. Deep down, you knew you were being unreasonable – Aitana had been more than supportive, and her patience had to be running thin after weeks of listening to you moan about the heat.

With a sigh, you decided to focus on finishing your workout. You adjusted your weights and forced yourself to push through the remaining sets. Each rep felt like a small victory against the heat’s oppressive grip. Even if you couldn’t match the others in performance, you could at least maintain your commitment.

By the end of the session, you were thoroughly exhausted, but you felt a slight sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t about setting records or impressing anyone; it was about getting through it, even when it felt nearly impossible.

Your self-imposed silence meant you had finished your workout a lot earlier than the others. You flopped onto the floor, letting the coolness of the mat seep into your skin. The contrast between the refreshing chill of the floor and the relentless heat you’d been battling was a welcome relief, even if it was fleeting.

As you lay there, catching your breath and trying to cool down, you watched the remaining teammates still at work. Their movements were fluid, a testament to their adaptation to the heat, and you couldn’t help but feel a pang of envy mixed with admiration. The intensity of their focus and the ease with which they handled the oppressive warmth was something you hoped to emulate someday.

Minutes ticked by as you lay there, taking in the quiet hum of the gym’s remaining equipment. The distant sounds of grunts and the rhythmic thud of weights being lifted became a soothing backdrop to your respite. You closed your eyes, allowing yourself a few moments of stillness and gratitude for the rare, cool touch of the mat beneath you. You let your mind drift away to icy places; Antarctica and the penguins, the walk-in freezer in the physio rooms, England in the winter.

Someone cleared their throat above you. You cracked one eye open to see Aitana standing with her arms crossed, a scowl gracing her usually smiling features.

“You work or not work?” she asked, unimpressed at your supposed slacking.

“I work, thank you very much, Tana. I’ve just finished,” you said offended at her implications. You sat up, matching her scowl and raising and eyebrow at her. “Just ‘cos I’m not used to the heat doesn’t mean that I’ll slack off.”

Aitana’s eyes softened just a touch, though she kept her arms crossed, her posture still radiating a mix of concern and frustration. “I didn’t mean to suggest you were slacking off. It’s just… you looked like you were resting more than working. And you know how important it is to keep up the intensity, especially when we’re all pushing hard.”

“Yeah, I do know that Aitana. It’s all anyone ever reminds me off whenever I take an extra water break or need a sit down because I think I’m going to faint in the heat.” You huffed, standing up and snatching your water bottle from the floor. “I’ll see you at home.” You snapped as you walked out of the gym.

You knew you were just angry because of the heat. It had a way of getting to you. Aitana was a cuddler, much like you were, but in the heat of the summer, you couldn’t stand to be near her, much less sleeping wrapped around each other like you usually did. It resulted in a sleep-deprived, touch-starved you trying to go about their normal day and push themselves further with the increased intensity of the season.

As you walked out of the gym, the late afternoon sun blazed down with an intensity that only made your frustration worse. Each step felt like wading through a hot, sticky swamp, and the city’s noise blended with the oppressive heat, making it hard to think straight. You tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, knowing that the anger you felt was partly a result of the sweltering weather and not just Aitana’s well-meaning but poorly timed comment.

Once you reached your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and slumped onto the couch. The coolness of the indoor air was a brief but welcome respite from the heat outside, though it wasn’t enough to fully ease the agitation that had built up inside you. The usual comfort of being home felt diminished by the weight of the day’s frustrations.

You tried to calm yourself by closing your eyes and taking deep breaths, reminding yourself that Aitana’s intentions were good. She was trying to help, but the heat had made everything seem more intense, including the way you reacted to her. You knew that the combination of exhaustion, heat, and the pressure to keep up was making you more irritable than usual.

You must have fallen asleep because the next thing you knew, you were being woken up by a blast of icy air. You jolted slightly, not used to the coolness on your skin. For a moment, you were disoriented, blinking at the sudden chill that seemed to sweep over you.

As your senses returned, you saw Aitana standing beside you, holding a small handheld fan in her hands and adjusting the settings with a satisfied smile. The cool air that had stirred you was now filling the room, making the previously stifling atmosphere feel refreshingly crisp.

“Bona tarda, amor meu,” Aitana said softly, her tone laced with affection.

“Hi, Tana,” you smiled back, feeling a warmth spread through you that was as comforting as the cool breeze.

“I thought you might appreciate a little cool relief after the heat of the day.” You sighed, relief flooding your body as you felt yourself cool down.

“Thank you, baby,” you said, shifting to sit up and lean against her. You didn’t recognise the fan – small, white, with red and blue stripes clearly hand-coloured, and a large number 1 printed on the side.

“Fan number one?” you guessed, your lips curving into a playful smile.

“Exactly!” Aitana laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And fan number two.” She reached behind her and produced an identical fan, its stripes and number 2 matching the first one perfectly.

Aitana grinned and settled beside you, aiming one of the small devices in her direction. “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” you said quietly, not wanting to break the peace.

“And I’m sorry I implied you were slacking.” Aitana’s smile softened as she reached out and placed a gentle hand on your arm. “We both let the heat get to us. It’s been a tough few days, and I guess we both needed to cool off a bit, in more ways than one.

“I love you, Tana.” You sighed, feeling your eyes slip shut.

“T'estimo, amor meu.” You felt Aitana place a feather light kiss to your hair.

[nanamis-baker]

"Not so Breakable, huh?"

Summary: You went on a mission without informing anyone, and well, Gojo is mad.

Content: 18+ mdni, Angry/Makeup sex, unprotected sex, edging, overstimulation, Gojo's blindfold being used, choking, oral, and other stuff!

Word Count: 6.4k

a/n: I've been itching to write this for AGES, and now I finally had the time to do so! I can't wait for you to enjoy it! 🤍

Satoru's voice echoed through the room - not a shout, but a guttural roar. "How could you be so reckless?!" The words reverberated off the walls, shaking the very ground you were standing on. You stood toe-to-toe with him, nostrils flaring, your defiance burning in your eyes.

"Me? Reckless?" you shot back, mirroring his volume. "Satoru, it was my. mission!" Each word was punctuated with a jab of your finger towards him, desperate to break through his wall of anger. You waved your arms wildly towards your body, “Besides, I am not even hurt!”

You could feel the icy intensity of Satoru's eyes burning into you, even though his blindfold covered them. Not just anger, but a raw possession radiated from him. His rapid breath seemed to be laced with physical manifestation of his fury and worry, and a surge of curse energy crackled in the air between you.

He didn't respond to your words. Instead, he moved towards you. Each menacing step Satoru took sent a tremor through the room, causing you to step back. The floorboards groaned under his weight, the sound similar to terrified whimpers.

The air buzzed with emotions that transcended simple anger. It was raw, primal, and laced with something you couldn't quite define. His powerful frame loomed over you, blocking out the warm glow of the living room light, casting his shadow over you. You stepped back, your feet coming to a halt when you felt the cold wall brush against your back.

When he stopped just a hair's breadth away, your breath hitched. You could smell the faint, familiar scent of his cologne and something else - something musky. You both stood frozen, locked in a silent battle of wills.

The tension in the air was so thick it felt like suffocation. He moved his arms, caging you between his muscular chest and the rough wall. You were trapped, not just by physical force, but by the intensity radiating from his very being.

"You went on a damn mission alone without even informing anyone!" His voice was a low growl against your ear, a storm brewing beneath the surface. It wasn’t just anger in his words - his words were laced with a raw, dominating edge that sent shivers erupting all over your body.

"A dsmn special grade mission, for God's sake!" he roared, the words a physical blow that vibrated through your chest.

This was impossible. Dealing with a special-grade cursed spirit solo was reckless, yes. You knew that. But Satoru was being overly protective. You were a grade-one sorcerer, trained to handle such threats. You weren't a fragile doll he could keep locked away.

Fury burned in your eyes, a mirror image of his own. You shook your head, defiance hardening your features until your jaw ached. Your fists clenched so tight your nails dug into your palms, drawing a bead of blood that you just ignored.

"The mission was an emergency," you spat, your voice barely above a whisper despite the roiling anger within you. "And I am not as breakable as you think  –"

"Cut the bullshit!" he snarled, cutting you off with brutality. His voice had dropped to a dangerous purr, sending a shiver down your spine that wasn't entirely from anger.

"I care only about the fact that you went ahead with it without even telling me," he continued, his voice low and dangerous. He was so close, you could feel his lips brushing against yours as he spoke.

The air between you pulsed with a raw, electric current, drawing your bodies closer despite the anger simmering between you.

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words wouldn't come. This was ridiculous. Satoru was being ridiculous. There was no way to escape his dominance, or was there?

Suddenly, in a move fueled by a mix of anger and a desperate need to assert yourself, you did something unexpected. You reached up and cupped the back of Satoru’s neck in your hands, tilting his head down to meet yours.

The kiss that followed wasn't a gentle one - a lover’s kiss. It was a clash of wills disguised as intimacy, fueled by your anger. Pouring your emotions into the kiss, you tried to communicate what he wasn’t willing to understand. You grabbed the front of his shirt, the fabric crumpling in your fist as you yanked him closer. Your lips met his in a battle for control, a fierce collision that sparked something electrifying within you.

There was a desperate need inside you - a simmering desire for something more that you were very familiar with.

Despite his initial shock, Satoru returned the kiss with equal fervour. His hands, previously braced against the wall, reached for you with a possessive hunger. One hand slid down your back, tracing the curve of your spine with a searing touch that made your head tilt up, deepening the kiss. The other hand cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek, a silent demand for submission.

But you wouldn't submit. Not now, not entirely. You met his force with your own, pushing back against his kiss, your tongue a weapon mirroring the fierce need you felt deep in your core. A low growl rumbled from Satoru’s chest, a sound both primal and urgent.

The tension in the air changed and became something far more dangerous, fueled by your cursed energy and frustration. The kiss became a dance, a push and pull for control. Satoru deepened the kiss, stealing your breath away and weakening your resistance. You fought back, nipping at his lower lip, drawing a gasp from him. The taste of blood, metallic and sharp, ignited a new kind of heat between you, a heady mix of aggression and need.

The room faded away, replaced by the urgency of the moment. You were lost in the kiss, consumed by the raw emotions swirling between you. It was a fight, a dance, a desperate yearning all rolled into one. And as the kiss deepened, as both your anger and your desire reached a feverish pitch, you broke away, gasping for breath.

You looked at Satoru, taking in the rapid rise and fall of his chest against your fist. A beat of heavy silence stretched between you before Satoru spoke, his voice a husky rasp.

"Not so breakable, huh?" he murmured, repeating your words, his voice laced with a dangerous edge. It wasn't a question, but a statement accompanied by a hint of amusement. A slow smile spread across his face, causing the hair on your arms to rise up.

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear, caressing the shell. "How about we put that to a test?" he whispered, the words soft like the calm before the storm.

With that, he threw you over his shoulders effortlessly, his strength leaving you breathless. A gasp escaped your lips, both from the sudden movement and the unspoken challenge hanging in the air.

Satoru’s hands caressed the back of your thighs, massaging the muscles as he made his way towards the bedroom. The touch almost felt like an apology as anticipation filled the air. 

Not even bothering to turn the lights on, he roughly tossed you onto the bed, with your back pressed against the cool sheets. His eyes were blindfolded, yet you could clearly picture the storm brewing in his cerulean eyes.

"Show me you mean it, then," you said breathlessly, your voice laced with challenge.

A slow smirk spread across Satoru's face, a hint of danger flickering in his voice as he replied, "Careful what you wish for, darling." Without wasting another moment, he was on top of you. The weight of his body was a powerful press that pushed you to the bed.

His hand gripped the back of your neck with a rough urgency before his lips met yours again, finishing what you started in the living room. Your hand tangled in his hair, pulling at the roots, the soft fabric of his blindfold a frustrating caress against your fingertips. Your other hand reached for his back, nails digging into the hard muscles as they travelled down, pulling him impossibility close, the heat of his body mirroring the fire burning in your core. Your fingers brushed against the hem of his shirt, slipping inside his shirt before lifting it up. You craved to feel his skin against yours

But Satoru was quicker. He grabbed your hand by your wrist, long fingers curling around it before pinning it to the mattress beside your head, keeping your hand in place. His touch was electrifying, a mix of frustration and raw awareness.

"Take it off," you mumbled against his lips, the command laced with barely contained anger. Satoru pulled back a fraction, his lips hovering a tantalising distance from yours. A slow smile played on his lips, his voice a husky purr. "So eager, huh?"

He didn't wait for a reply. Instead, his lips trailed down your jaw, his lips peppering wet kisses along the bone. A searing kiss landed on the pulse point at your neck, the heat of his breath igniting a fire within you. You moaned - a sound that was desperate for more, much more.

Satoru chuckled at your frustration, the sound clinging to your skin. He rained kisses down your neck and chest, moving your shirt away to trace the length of your collarbone. His teeth brushed against it, before he sucked hard, his teeth sharp against your skin, leaving his mark.

He went on, his lips moving with a slow, deliberate purpose over the barrier of your clothes. Each kiss felt like a tease, a promise of what was to come. His free hand slipped under your shirt, the fabric bunching beneath his touch, a flimsy obstacle that only heightened your growing desire.

"These are getting in the way," he murmured against your skin, referring to your shirt. His hands, strong and sure, began a slow exploration beneath the fabric, sending sparks flying wherever they touched. You arched your back into him, a whimper escaping your lips as he brushed against a particularly sensitive spot.

The frustration was a delicious torture. You wanted him to rip the clothes away, to feel his bare skin against yours. But a strange pleasure arose from this slow, deliberate undressing. It was a battle of dominance, and for now, Satoru was the victor.

With a sigh that was half frustration, half surrender, you let your head fall back to the mattress. You knew you wouldn't win this fight, and in truth, a part of you didn't entirely want to.

Your shirt was bunched above your chest as Satoru worked off your bra, his fingers reaching behind your back to unclasp the material before sliding the straps off your shoulder. Cold air hit your bare chest as you felt a tightening sensation, your nipples pebbling up.

Satoru’s fingers danced over your buds, the touch feather- like, causing a soft whimper to escape your lips, a sound you couldn't quite control. He smirked at your desperation, “what is it, love?” He asked, “Want more than this?” as if to show what you could get, he pinched your nipple, causing a sharp gasp to leave your mouth.

“Fuck - Satoru I -” A strangled gasp escaped your lips as Satoru's lips brushed against your nipple, a whisper of heat that sent shivers down your spine. Then, teeth scraped against the sensitive peak, before he left a sharp bite on the skin. His tongue darted out - a wet caress soothing the sting. It was a delicious ache, a thrilling sensation that left you breathless.

He moved down your chest, savouring every inch of your body. Each nip, each suckle, left a raw ache in its wake, a desperate yearning blooming within you. You wanted more - more of this intense, bordering-on-painful pleasure that pushed you to the edge.

"Satoru," you gasped, your voice breathless - thick with desire and a hint of something darker. "Don't stop." The words were a plea, as you arched your back - an attempt to get more of this sensation - more of him.

“Don't worry, love” he said, before leaving a kiss right over his mark on your chest, “The night is still young.” Pain and pleasure clouded your senses, and by the time Satoru was done, your chest felt raw and so sensitive. 

The world narrowed down to Satoru; the feel of his lips against your skin as he left a hungry trail down your body, devouring every inch of your exposed flesh till he reached the waistband of your pants. You felt a tug at the fabric, your eyes widening as you realised his intentions.

"Wait!" you gasped, the word barely escaping your lips before there was a sharp rip. The sound echoed in the tense silence as Satoru tore your pants down the seam in a single, swift motion before removing the material and discarding it.

Heat flooded your face, a mix of fury and something else entirely. You opened your mouth to protest, but Satoru cut you off.

"Don't worry, love," he murmured against your thigh, before nipping at the skin of your inner thigh, "I'll get you something new. Hated them anyways."

Before you could even process his words, Satoru's strong hands parted your legs, settling between them. His hot breath brushed against your stomach as one of his hands wrapped around your thigh, keeping it open.

He didn't waste time. With a swift movement, he pushed your panties aside, his lips replacing the cool, wet fabric. The sudden shift in sensation was electrifying. A gasp ripped from your throat, a sound that mingled with a desperate moan. "Fuck, ‘Toru," you breathed, your voice thick with desire and a touch of surrender under his touch. Your hips instinctively bucked upward, seeking a deeper connection with his touch.

You could feel the smugness radiate from him. “Eager, are we?” He asked, before his tongue darted out and slowly traced the length of your slit, gathering your wetness, leaving a trail of saliva. Satoru then focused on your clit, sucking and licking, sometimes even biting it while his fingers teased your entrance, drawing agonising circles around it. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, a throaty moan leaving your chest. You knew Satoru was just getting started, but it already felt so intense - you could feel your orgasm building.

He continued this, but the pressure kept changing. Sometimes it was just a tender touch - a feather-light brush of his lips. The other times it was a hard, deliberate suck on your clit, his teeth nipping at your most sensitive spot. It was hot and cold, frustrating and maddening.

Your hands fisted the bed sheet by your head, the force enough to rip the expensive fabric.

Just as your core clenched, the first tremors of release building, Satoru's focus shifted. His mouth focused on your entrance as Satoru stiffened his tongue before plunging into you. His thumb tracing light, small circles over your clit, the touch a fleeting brush - never giving you what you wanted, but showing you what it could be. Testing you, testing how far you’d go before you broke. It was a constant reminder of what you craved just out of reach.

Your hands snaked down your body, a desperate attempt to claim the pleasure that danced just out of reach. Your fingers twitched towards your clit. But before you could find solace, Satoru's grip tightened on your wrist. He yanked your hand back, pinning it against your stomach. 

Satoru pulled back a little, blowing softly on your clit, the cool air a world away from the heat you felt, giving rise to goosebumps all over your skin. He left a soft kiss on your inner thigh as his finger continued their torturous dance over your heated skin.

Your toes curled and dug into his clothed back, urging him closer - to do something more, but Satoru wasn’t deterred. He kept teasing you, keeping you balanced on the knife’s edge.

Your senses were overloaded, the feathery touch of Satoru’s fingers on your skin so different from the firestorm building within. His silky hair brushed against your inner thigh, the ticklish sensation enhancing your pleasure. You arched your back, trying to escape the delicious agony, but Satoru kept you in place, his muscular arms tightening around your thigh.

"Satoru!" you gasped, your voice a desperate plea laced with a hint of something wilder. A single, sharp moan ripped through your throat, held back by a dam of rising pleasure that threatened to burst. You were close - so close.

Your hand, shaking with a strong need for release, reached out and tangled itself in his hair, your grip tight. You knew it would hurt - it had to. "What are you trying to do?" you hissed, the words laced with a breathless urgency.

Satoru pulled back, his lips brushing against your inner thigh, caressing it, “Patience love,” he said softly. “I am trying to show you something here.” with that, he left one final kiss on your clit before he started pulling away.

Your heels dug into his back, to prevent him from pulling back, but Satoru just pulled himself back, letting go of your hand before grabbing your ankles, pulling you down until you were teetering on the edge of the bed, your breath catching in your throat.

You pushed yourself up on your elbows, your clit throbbing, so desperate for a release. But before you could do anything, your eyes darted to the man in front of you. Moonlight glinted off his face, highlighting the wet glossiness on his lips. His hair, a tangled mess mirroring the tangled emotions between you, obscured the blindfold that had slipped a little. Despite the anger, despite the unresolved words, a raw truth hung in the air. He looked beautiful, even when he was a mess.

Satoru reached for your shirt that was bunched up over your chest. He pulled it over your shoulder, the soft fabric scraping against your burning skin. With ease, he manoeuvred your arms behind your back, before he took the discarded fabric and wrapped it around your wrists, twisting the fabric with cruel efficiency, transforming it into a makeshift handcuff.

A new wave of heat flooded in your core, accompanied by shock and a new challenge. "Oh really, Satoru?" you hissed, lifting your head to look at his face. “Did I intimidate you so much you had to tie me up?”

Satoru's grin promised both danger and exquisite pleasure. His hands moved to lift the blindfold, revealing eyes that encased a storm. The moonlight glinted off the sapphire irises, causing them to glow, but it was the rim around them, a ring of raw, unbridled desire, that stole your breath. It spoke of a hunger that mirrored your own, a hunger that was far greater than the anger simmering between you.

Somehow, in that single, electrifying moment, Satoru looked more dangerous and more tempting than ever before. His eyes invited you to fly too close to the sun- an invitation to a dance on the edge of control, and you were ready to take flight.

After the blindfold came off, he leaned down, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he whispered, “Oh love, you will not just be tied up.” With that, he lifted his blindfold over your head before lowering it down, covering your entire world in pitch darkness.

The sudden absence of light intensified the heat radiating from Satoru's body, his every breath a ragged whisper against your ear. You could feel him move away - the heat of his body disappearing, before he settled down on the bed beside you. 

His hands were on your thighs, pulling you so that you were straddling his lap, the strong muscles of his thigh hard against your sensitive skin. His hands were on your back, caressing the curve of your spine, his nails dug into your skin. A gasp escapes your lips - a mixture of pain and arousal - as wetness flooded between your legs. You were sure your back had the crescent shape of his nails branded into it. 

“You want to cum right?” he asked, as if he wasn’t painfully aware of your needs. 

You kept your mouth shut - not giving him the satisfaction he craved, but the tremble of your body against his - desperate for a release - gave away enough. “Ride me, darling.” he murmured, “Take whatever you need.” The words were a taunt - a challenge - one you were willing to take.

With that, he settled back, leaving you to do what you pleased; well, it wasn’t like you could do much. You settled yourself against the bulge of his pants, hissing as it rubbed against your throbbing core, the texture of his pants feeling oddly smooth. But you paid it no mind as you began rocking your hips back and forth, reigniting the flames in your core.

Your back arched, your head tilted back and you moved your hips against him, throaty, deep moans leaving your lips. Yet, something was different - weird even. You have done this countless times in the past, yet why was it so different this time? 

Your fingers itched again to toy with your clit - to get the friction you craved, but there was nothing you could do.

Frustration gnawed at your senses, reaching its peak when you could feel nothing, even as you increased your pace. Your thighs burned with exertion.

Satoru's hands were a constant presence on your back, tracing a lazy path over the length of your back. A sharp sting on your nipple jolted you; Satoru had pinched it - hard - you realised. “What is it, love?” Satoru asked, his voice dripping with mock innocence. “You seem to be having some trouble, hmm?”

You could see nothing, yet you could feel Satoru's eyes on you as a frustrated whimper escaped your lips. He was enjoying this - enjoying every damn second of your desperation.

“Satoru you-” just then it dawned on you. Why it felt as if you were riding nothing - why it had no texture, no form - because it was nothing, it was just emptiness.

Satoru was making you ride his infinity.

Your eyes widened behind the blindfold, a strangled cry erupting from your throat at the realisation. He was doing it on purpose - of course he was! Getting you worked up and needy, begging for him.

 The world was a frustrating blur of darkness and incomplete sensation. The phantom friction only amplified your desire, making you squirm against the sensation.

Satoru reached out, trailing his fingers down your folds, a slow, deliberate path that sent shivers down your bound arms. Every brush sent a wave of pleasure straight to your core, a promise of release dangerously close. But then, he'd withdraw, leaving you burning with a frustrated heat - Satoru's touch was a cruel tease, determined to push you over your limit.

"So close, aren't we, love?" he gently kissed your cheek, the touch as soft as a butterfly’s flutter. You could practically feel the smirk playing on his lips against your cheek.

"Satoru," you growled, the warning clear in your voice.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through you. "Feeling impatient, hm?" he cooed, his fingers brushing your inner thigh with a whispering touch, causing you to hiss and pull back slightly, but Satoru’s strong hands stopped you. 

“You should look at yourself right now,” he breathed against your neck, his words dripping with amusement as he described what you were unable to see. “Looking so pretty like this, riding nothing but air,” He sucked on your pulse, drawing a gasp out of you. “Making a mess all over me.” his fingers brushed against your core again, as if to prove his point.

Just after those words left his mouth, Satoru flipped you over so that you were on the bed with him on top. Without any warning, his fingers plunged into you and you groaned - finally, you could feel something - something tangible.

Satoru’s long fingers pumped inside you, his thumb drawing tight circles on your clit. Your wetness immediately coated his fingers. His fingers curled and twisted, the movement promising an intense release. Your breath came in short pants as Satoru quickened his pace, adding another finger inside you, stretching your walls. Your back arched to give him better access, encouraging him to go deeper.

“Fuck, Satoru, don’t hold back,” you panted, knowing he needed a little push. “Oh, not even planning to,” Satoru replied, twisting his fingers inside you, brushing against all your stops, the pressure delicious against your muscles. 

Your impending orgasm finally greeted you, igniting every cell in your body in its wake. You were screaming or crying - you didn’t know, as Satoru continued pumping his fingers into you, elongating your release.

But he didn’t stop once you were done. Satoru pumped his fingers inside you as he increased the pressure on your sensitive clit, bringing you so close to another intense orgasm. Your eyes rolled back into your head behind the blindfold. Your legs shook, your bound fists clenched behind your back as another wave of pleasure took over you, chants of Satoru’s name leaving your lips.

He went on, his fingers gliding in and out effortlessly. HIs long, slender fingers sent shivers down your spine with each deliberate stroke. Lost in a haze of pleasure, breathless whimpers and groans escaped your lips as your body arched for more. Undulated pleasure took hold, wave after wave washing over you. You felt yourself melting, boneless - a pile of blissful surrender under his touch.

By the time he was satisfied, you were a mess. Your core was so sensitive - like a live wire, a bundle of exposed nerves. Your throat ached as pleasure coursed inside your vein, making your skin burn. Satoru held you close against his warm body as you struggled to catch your breath, before he leaned down and whispered, “We aren’t done yet, love.”

“But Satoru -” you began, but Satoru placed a finger over your lips, silencing you. “Shh, you have got some more in you - I know it.”

With that, he moved away, the rustle of fabric greeting your ear. He was undressing, you realised. The situation felt weirdly ironic. Here you were sitting on the bed, completely bare for his eyes - at his mercy, yet you couldn’t even see him.

As if sensing your thoughts, Satoru said, “Don't worry, sweetheart,” his hands brushed against your ankles, “You'll get what you want soon.”

You parted your legs, giving Satoru the space he needed as he settled closer to you, the mattress shifting under his weight.You could feel his tip against your sensitive core, a hiss leaving your lips as you lifted your hips, trying to get more of him.

Satoru moaned at the sensation, a sound that resonated through you. He pressed a hand on your lower stomach, forcing your hips down before he reached back, undoing the bonds of your hand. 

A sigh of relief left your lips as you reached out, ignoring the stiffness of your muscles. Your hands found his broad shoulders, pulling him closer.

Satoru's warmth enveloped you, his cologne a heavy presence in your senses. His tip brushed against your clit. Satoru used his cock to gather your wetness, before he found your entrance, plunging into you with a force that left you breathless.

Satoru’s pained hiss filled your ears as your walls clamped down around his sensitive length, eager for all of him. But before he completely settled inside you, Satoru stilled, moving inside you with short, shallow movement. He moved deliberately, each thrust a calculated tease designed to send you spiralling.

The frustration that had been simmering all night boiled over, coursing through your veins. You had enough of his teasing, and with a surge of newfound power, you wrapped your legs around his hips, hands gripping the back of his neck. In a smooth motion, you flipped the two of you, taking control, Satoru still nestled deep inside.

“What are you doing, love?” Satoru questioned, the sudden change in positions taking him by surprise. You moved over him, your walls squeezing around his length, causing Satoru to moan. “Taking what I need, honey” you answered breathlessly, using his own words against him. Your hands travelled up his chest, brushing against taut muscles, before moving over his shoulder and wrapping your hands around his throat. You squeezed his neck, the touch powered by the anger and frustration you felt all evening.

A moan ripped from Satoru’s chest, the sound vibrating against your hand as your hips pistoned against his. His hand tightened on your hip, providing stability to your thrusts. His other hand, a searing brand, traced a path up your side, sending shivers cascading down your spine. Reaching your blindfold, he paused, his fingers lingering on the cool fabric before he lowered it, the fabric hanging around your neck.

The darkness lifted, revealing Satoru. His eyes burned with a desire and need that mirrored the simmering anger in your gut. His hair was a mess of damp tendrils clinging to the flushed skin of his face. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his skin, mirroring your own. His chest heaved with short, ragged breaths, evidence of the effect you had on him. Your gaze finally landed on his lips, where a smirk played. 

This fucker was enjoying this.

Your grip around his throat tightened, watching as his skin turned a deeper shade of pink. You quickened your pace over him, your head thrown back in a gasp as intense pleasure coursing through your body.

Satoru’s grip on your hips tightened further, controlling your movement, making you bounce on his cock. A gasp escaped your lips as his other hand found your throat and squeezed, a shocking contrast to the gentle brush of his thumb against your pulse point. For a moment, the world narrowed to his touch, the pressure building a delicious tension in your chest.

“So pretty, love.” His words were like fuel, feeding the growing fire of pleasure inside you. His eyes raked over your body, lingering on your chest - the reddened patches of skin, each one a map of his touch. The marks he left burned under his gaze, like flames dancing over your skin.

His hand left your throat and the pressure on your throat vanished, replaced by a gasp as you gulped in air, your pace becoming frantic. The room was filled by the sound of moans and skin slapping against skin. 

You felt your orgasm building, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to crash over you. With a gasp, you arched your back, tightening around Satoru's hardness. A hiss escaped his lips as his grip on your hips tightened further. His nails dug in, drawing sharp, red lines across your skin, his desperate urgency that mirrored your own.

Satoru’s finger reached down, travelling between the valley of your chest, over your stomach before reaching your aching clit. His finger danced a maddeningly rhythm over your bud, each circle a deliberate tease. Anticipation coiled tighter with every caress, a pressure building in your core that threatened to explode. “Cum for me, love,” he murmured, a barely concealed tremor in his voice. When he flicked and pinched your clit, a gasp ripped from your lips.

The dam broke. Pleasure surged in a white-hot wave, crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your walls spasmed, clenching down on Satoru with a pulsing intensity. Your back arched so high you felt bone strain, your breath a ragged cry clawing its way out of your throat. You crawled at Satoru’s chest, leaving red, angry marks all over his glistering skin.

The aftershock of your release left you breathless, clinging to Satoru for support, your face buried in his chest. But before you could completely bask in the afterglow of your orgasm, Satoru shifted. With ease, he flipped you onto your hands and knees.

He shifted behind you, leaning down to press a kiss on your sweaty temple. His voice was a low rumble against your ear as your eyes met. "Enjoyed that, sweetheart?" He smirked, but the glint in his eyes held a different promise. He hovered at your entrance, the tip of him a torturous brush against your heated core.

"Because," he continued, his voice dropping to a husky whisper, "it's my turn now." Without a warning, he plunged into you again, this time from behind, taking control over your body. 

You whimpered - it felt too much. But it also felt so good.

Satoru leaned down, his hands cupping your throat, pulling you towards him. He placed a kiss on your forehead, his hands digging into your lower back, urging you closer. A shudder wracked your body, the aftershocks of your release battling the building heat within you.  

"You're doing so well," he rasped out. "Just one more," his lips moved against your cheek, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. "Can you manage that, love?"

Exhaustion gnawed at your limbs, but the raw desire in his voice was impossible to resist. You could only nod, your body already betraying your mind as he surged back into you.

His hand reached for the blindfold hanging around your neck, grabbing it. You sucked in a breath, a thrill shooting through you, already knowing what was about to come. Satoru’s hand twisted around the blindfold, tightening it, cutting off your oxygen. Your blood rushed to your face as his other hand grabbed the front of your hair, his fingers digging into your scalp, tugging at your roots.

He used the blindfold and the grip on your hair to leverage your body, controlling your movements, moving you back and forth on his cock. Tears welled up in your eyes, a mix of overwhelming sensation and exhilaration. Your body moved instinctively against his, lost in the delicious friction he had created.

Satoru's grip on your hair intensified, pulling your head up. “Fuck love, you take me so well” he groaned. his movements became erratic, fueled by his own rising desire. His gasps filled the space between you, mirroring your own quickening breaths. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart echoing against your back

A surge of heat flared low in your abdomen, spreading outwards in a delicious wave. Your walls instinctively clenched around him, mirroring the tightening grip of his hand around the blindfold. You squeezed your eyes shut, overwhelmed by a tsunami of sensations - the press of his body, the unrestricted sounds of his pleasure, the exquisite friction building within you and the way he filled you.

Your orgasm finally took over you - over every muscle in your body, leaving a white - hot fire burning in its wake. It felt as if your senses had stopped working, the intensity of your release replacing everything. Your breath hitched in your throat, replaced by a guttural moan that tore from your lips.

Satoru hissed behind you, his movement becoming jerky as his length pulsed inside you, “So close -  love” he choked out, gasping, before you felt his warm cum filling you up. He shuddered, his body mirroring yours as his own orgasm greeted him.

Satoru continued pumping into you, pushing and burying his release deep inside you - where it belonged. He pulled out, using his cock to gather the cum and wetness leaking out of you, before pushing it back into you, stuffing you up completely.

He held you close, his ragged breaths mingling with yours. The world faded away, leaving only the press of his body and the aftershocks of pleasure reverberating through you. “See what you do to me?” he asked, still pulsing inside you, before pulling you in for a kiss.

Satoru's fingertips traced lazy circles over your bare back, his fingers cool against your heated skin. You nestled deeper into his chest, the crisp scent of fresh bed sheets and his bodywash calming your senses.

"You did so good today, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear. You could hear the tenderness, the unmistakable pride lacing his words - You knew he wasn’t just talking about the events that took place moments before.

Confused, you lifted your head, meeting his gaze. The question forming on your lips died in your throat as he pressed a finger against them, a playful glint in his sapphire eyes. "Let me finish, okay?" he asked, a soft smile playing on his lips while his eyes pleaded you to remain quiet - to let him say what he was thinking.

Your hand instinctively wrapped around his, a silent invitation for him to continue. His other hand brushed through your damp hair, still wet from the shower. "Taking on a special grade curse all alone? Without even a scratch?." His voice hushed with awe, "You're incredible, love."

A blush crept up your neck. You knew you were more than capable - you had trained hard to reach where you are today - but hearing it from Satoru sent warmth through you. You knew he wasn’t saying it just for the sake of it - he genuinely meant it. "It wasn't that big of a deal," you said, trying to deflect his praise, ignoring the warmth blooming in your chest.

He chuckled, a rich, rumbling sound. Then, his expression turned serious. "Seriously, though, next time something like that happens, just let me know, alright?” he asked, cupping your face, your eyes meeting his. “Even a quick text would do."

The playful glint returned to his eyes. "Besides," he added, a mischievous smirk spreading across his face, "it wouldn't be any fun if I don’t show up every now and then, saving your ass" 

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing in the quiet room. You playfully yanked his arm “It was just once!” you said, the laughter still bubbling out of you. 

But you knew he was right, knew he just wanted to be there for you, to offer his strength when you needed it most.  "Alright," you conceded, a smile gracing your lips. "Whenever something like this happens again, I will let you know."

He squeezed your hand, the warmth spreading through you. "Good," he said, before pulling you closer, his lips brushing against your temple.

Your eyelids felt heavy - the day’s fatigue finally caught up to you. You nestled in Satoru’s arm as sleep pulled you into its comforting embrace.

a/n: Ahhh, writing smut is always SO difficult but so fun lol. I hope you enjoyed this!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune!