#on the other hands i like drawing him now

[enhaflixer]

Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

Academic Rival!Jake x f!Reader (Smut, Crack, Fluff) MDNI 18+ ENHA HARD HOURS

Jake Sim has one job—beat you in the race for the Harrison Fellowship. His strategy? Get close. Get under your skin. Get you too distracted to focus. His method? Kissing you stupid. Pressing you against walls. Finding out exactly how far he can push before you snap. The problem? You like to push back. Now, between tangled sheets, heated arguments, and “just one more time” turning into every damn night, Jake’s got a new problem. He’s not thinking about winning anymore. He’s thinking about you. 💔 “This was supposed to be a game. So why do I feel like I’m the one getting played?”

-

You drum your fingers against the desk, watching Professor Martinez pace at the front of the lecture hall. The midterm papers are stacked neatly in his arms, and you can practically feel the anxiety radiating off the two hundred students packed into the room.

But you're not anxious. Not really.

You know exactly what score awaits you—the same score you've received on every major assessment since freshman year: the highest in the class.

Your eyes drift across the lecture hall to where Jake Sim sits, surrounded by his usual entourage. Even now, minutes before receiving a grade that could make or break their GPA, they're laughing at something he's said. The sound of his rich laughter carries across the room, drawing more than a few admiring glances.

Jake Sim. Campus golden boy. The kind of person who walks into a room and immediately owns it. The kind of student professors mention in other classes. The kind of face that appears on university brochures—which it literally does, as he's been the unofficial "face" of the university's marketing materials since sophomore year.

He's also the only person who's ever come close to beating your scores.

"Before I hand these back," Professor Martinez says, silencing the murmurs, "I want to discuss the grade distribution."

He clicks to display a graph on the projector screen. The curve looks normal enough, with a significant peak around the B-range.

"As you can see, the class average was 78.4," he continues. "We had a standard deviation of approximately 12 points. However—" he pauses, adjusting his glasses, "—we also had two outliers."

The next slide shows the same curve with two dots far to the right of the main distribution. Your throat tightens with a familiar tension.

Jake's eyes meet yours across the lecture hall. His expression is casual, but you recognize the intensity in his gaze. This is what it's always been like between you two: a silent acknowledgment of the competition that's defined your college experience.

"Our top two scores," Professor Martinez announces, "were separated by only half a point."

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

You see Jake sit up straighter, his perfectly coiffed hair catching the light as he leans forward. Even from across the room, you can see the flash of white teeth as he grins confidently. His friends nudge him, already assuming victory.

"Mr. Sim scored an impressive 98.2," Professor Martinez says, and a ripple of impressed murmurs spreads through the lecture hall.

Jake's golden-boy smile widens as he accepts congratulatory shoulder pats from his friends. He hasn't looked at you yet, clearly believing he's finally done it—finally beaten you.

"And Ms. L/N—" Professor Martinez pauses, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, "—scored a 98.7."

The half-point difference might as well be a chasm.

Jake's smile freezes in place, his dark eyes immediately seeking yours as the realization hits him. He's lost. Again. By the slimmest of margins.

You allow yourself a small, satisfied smile before looking down at your notebook, pretending to be humble about your victory. But inside, you're savoring the moment. It never gets old, watching the golden boy settle for silver.

After class, you take your time gathering your materials, accepting quiet congratulations from a few classmates. Unlike Jake, you don't have an entourage. You have acquaintances, study partners occasionally, but your focus has always been on achievement rather than popularity.

As you make your way up the steps of the lecture hall, you sense someone behind you. You don't need to turn to know who it is—you can tell from the expensive cologne and the sudden hushed whispers of nearby students watching the university's academic rivals in proximity.

"Congratulations," Jake says, falling into step beside you as you exit into the hallway. His voice carries none of the warmth it does when he's with his friends. "Half a point. Must be nice."

"It is," you reply coolly, clutching your midterm paper with its red 98.7% circled at the top. "Maybe next time."

Jake stops walking, forcing you to stop too unless you want to seem like you're fleeing. You turn to face him, noting the way his dark hair falls perfectly across his forehead despite the late afternoon humidity that has your own hair frizzing at the edges.

"There's always the final," he says, his voice lowering into something almost like a threat. "And the Harrison Fellowship application is due next month. Midterms are just one battle."

You raise an eyebrow. "A battle you lost."

Something flashes in his eyes—not anger exactly, but frustration mingled with something else. Challenge, perhaps. Determination.

"This isn't over," he says, his voice carrying just enough for a few passing students to slow down, sensing drama between the two top students.

"Never said it was," you reply with a sweet smile, hugging your perfect test paper to your chest.

Jake maintains eye contact for a moment longer than comfortable, then breaks into the easy, charismatic smile that's plastered across half the campus publications. The sudden shift is disorienting, his intensity disappearing behind his golden-boy mask so quickly you almost doubt it was ever there.

"See you in Advanced Statistical Methods tomorrow," he says cheerfully, as if your competition is just friendly banter. "Front row as usual?"

"Where else?" you respond, puzzled by his sudden change in demeanor.

He winks—actually winks—before turning to join his waiting friends, who immediately surround him like a protective bubble of popularity. You watch him go, telling yourself the flutter in your stomach is just the satisfaction of victory, not a reaction to those dark eyes or that practiced wink.

One of Jake's friends says something that makes the whole group laugh, and you catch Jake glancing back at you before joining in. Something about his expression makes you uneasy, like he's not quite done with this interaction.

You shake off the feeling and head toward the library. The Harrison Fellowship application won't write itself, and you'll need to maintain your perfect GPA if you want to beat Jake Sim for that too.

What you don't realize, as you push through the heavy library doors, is that Jake is watching you go, his mind already formulating a plan that has nothing to do with studying—and everything to do with making sure you don't beat him again.

-

Jake closes his apartment door behind him and leans against it, loosening his tie with a frustrated jerk. The congratulatory words from his friends still ring hollow in his ears. Second place. Again.

"Damn it," he mutters, tossing his backpack onto the couch. His roommate looks up from his laptop, eyebrows raised.

"Let me guess. You didn't beat her again?"

Jake shoots him a glare that would silence anyone else, but Ethan has been his best friend since orientation week. He's immune.

"Half a point," Jake says, collapsing into an armchair. "Half a freaking point."

Ethan whistles. "That's close, though. Closest you've gotten."

"Close doesn't get me the Harrison Fellowship," Jake snaps, running his hands through his perfectly styled hair, messing it up for the first time all day. "Close doesn't get me into Stanford. Close is just another word for failure."

"Dramatic much?" Ethan chuckles, turning back to his computer.

But Jake isn't listening anymore. He's staring at the ceiling, where he's pinned his vision board—Stanford acceptance letter (photoshopped, for now), Harrison Fellowship certificate (also photoshopped), summer internship offer from Goldman Sachs (real, but he turned it down for a research position), and a cutout from last semester's dean's list (where your name appeared just above his).

A slow smile spreads across his face as an idea forms.

"I need to change tactics," he says, sitting up straight.

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

Jake jumps up and begins pacing, energy suddenly radiating from him. "I've been trying to beat her on a level playing field, but that's clearly not working."

"So what, you're going to cheat?" Ethan frowns.

"No, nothing like that," Jake says, waving his hand dismissively. "I'm going to... distract."

Ethan closes his laptop, now fully invested in the conversation. "Distract how?"

Jake's smile grows wider, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "I'm going to ask her out."

Ethan stares at him for a long moment before bursting into laughter. "You're joking."

"I'm completely serious," Jake says, grabbing his planner from his backpack and flipping it open. "Think about it—if she's spending time with me, that's less time studying. If I can get under her skin, disrupt that perfect focus..."

"That's cold, man," Ethan says, though he sounds impressed. "Even for you."

Jake shrugs, already jotting down ideas. "It's not personal. It's strategic."

"And what if she says no?" Ethan challenges.

Jake looks up, his signature confidence returning. He runs a hand through his hair, instantly restoring it to its usual perfection, and flashes the smile that got him voted "Most Likely to Succeed" three years running.

"No one says no to Jake Sim," he says with a wink.

Over the next hour, Jake crafts what he considers the perfect plan. He maps out your study schedule based on when he's seen you at the library. He notes your usual coffee spots, your preferred study locations, even which days you attend office hours. He's been your competition long enough to know your habits.

"Phase one: casual coffee," he mutters, writing it down. "Phase two: study dates. Phase three: actual dates."

Ethan watches with growing concern. "You know, most people just ask someone out because they like them."

"I do like her," Jake says absently, still planning. "I like beating her."

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

"And what happens when midterms are over? When you've gotten what you want?"

Jake looks up, genuinely confused. "Then I end it, obviously."

Ethan shakes his head. "You're going to fall on your face with this one, Sim."

"Watch me," Jake replies, holding up his planner with a flourish. Every hour of the next two weeks is now color-coded and annotated with his "Distraction Campaign."

He's never been more excited about a project in his life. The Harrison Fellowship is as good as his. And the look on your face when he finally beats you? He can already imagine it, can already feel the sweet satisfaction of victory.

What Jake doesn't account for is the possibility that his perfect plan might have one fatal flaw: himself.

-

The next morning, you're settling into your usual spot in the library's northeast corner—the one with the perfect combination of natural light and distance from foot traffic—when a coffee cup appears in your peripheral vision.

"Americano, extra shot, light room for cream. That's your usual, right?"

You look up to find Jake standing there, holding not one but two cups of coffee, dressed in a blue button-down that makes his eyes seem impossibly dark in comparison. His hair is artfully tousled, and he's wearing the smile that graces the university's promotional materials.

"How do you know my coffee order?" you ask, suspicious.

Jake shrugs, sliding the cup toward you. "I notice things."

"Like my study schedule?" You glance pointedly at your books, then back at him.

"Actually, that's why I'm here." Jake pulls out the chair across from you without waiting for an invitation. "I was thinking we could study together for the Advanced Statistical Methods final."

You nearly choke on your first sip of coffee. "Study together? You and me?"

"Why not? We're the top two students. It makes sense."

It makes absolutely no sense. You and Jake have been academic rivals since freshman year. Studying together would be like a gazelle inviting a cheetah to dinner.

"What's your angle?" you ask bluntly.

Jake places a hand over his heart, feigning offense. "Can't a guy just want to collaborate with a fellow academic?"

"A guy, yes. You? No."

His smile shifts into something more genuine—smaller but reaching his eyes. "Fair enough. But I'm serious. Professor Rivera's finals are legendary. Even I could use some help with time series analysis."

God, I'm good, Jake thinks, mentally congratulating himself. The humble approach is working perfectly. A little vulnerability, a touch of self-deprecation, and she's already softening. Time series analysis? Please. I memorized that chapter last week. But she doesn't need to know that. Step one of the Distraction Campaign is officially in motion.

Against your better judgment, you agree. You tell yourself it's because you can keep an eye on him this way, maybe even figure out his study techniques.

By the fourth study session, you're beginning to regret your decision. Not because Jake is unpleasant company—quite the opposite. The problem is that nothing gets done when he's around.

"So if we apply the Durbin-Watson statistic here—" you begin, only to be interrupted by Jake's phone buzzing for the twelfth time in twenty minutes.

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry at all as he checks the message. "Study group chat. They're trying to figure out where to meet later."

"You have another study group today?" you ask, exasperated.

"No, tonight's the Alpha Delta Pi mixer. I'm helping set up." He flashes that campus celebrity smile. "You should come."

"Pass," you say, trying to refocus on your notes. "Some of us prioritize academics."

"All work and no play," Jake tsks, leaning back in his chair. His foot nudges yours under the table—accidentally? You can't tell.

"Can we please get back to time series analysis?"

"Sure, sure," he concedes, but within minutes, he's tapping his pen rhythmically against the textbook, creating a distracting beat.

You grab the pen from his hand. "Jake. Focus."

He grins. "Sorry. Did you know you get this little crease between your eyebrows when you're concentrating? It's cute."

The comment throws you so completely that you lose your place in your notes. Jake takes advantage of your momentary disorientation to check his phone again.

"Don't you have a system?" you ask, frustration mounting. "A study schedule? Notes? Anything?"

Jake laughs. "I have a photographic memory. I just need to read through something once."

You stare at him in disbelief. "That's..."

"Unfair? Yeah, I know." He winks. "But we all have our strengths. Mine's memory. Yours is..." he gestures vaguely, "...being intensely organized, I guess."

You narrow your eyes, not sure if you've been complimented or insulted.

The pattern continues for a week. Jake shows up at your study spots with coffee, snacks, or once, inexplicably, a small potted cactus ("It reminded me of you—prickly but low-maintenance"). He asks insightful questions just often enough that you can't justify kicking him out, but he constantly interrupts with texts, stories, or unnecessary observations.

"Did you know the librarian at the front desk used to be a professional ballerina?" he whispers, leaning so close you can smell his cologne. "She performed with the National Ballet for ten years before blowing out her knee."

"Fascinating," you mutter, trying to ignore how his proximity makes your heart rate pick up. "Can we please focus on the practice problems?"

"I was focusing," Jake protests. "I finished the set fifteen minutes ago."

You glance down at his paper. Sure enough, all twenty problems are completed, with work shown in his surprisingly neat handwriting.

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

Jake shrugs, looking pleased with himself. "Photographic memory, remember? I read the chapter once."

"Then why are you even here?" you snap, frustration boiling over.

His expression softens into something unreadable. "Maybe I like the company."

You don't have a quick response for that.

-

The day before your Advanced Statistical Methods final, Jake suggests studying at his apartment "for a change of scenery." Against your better judgment, you agree.

You arrive to find his roommate Ethan headed out the door.

"You must be the competition," Ethan says with a knowing smile. "Good luck." He shoots Jake a look you can't interpret before leaving.

Jake's apartment is surprisingly neat, with an unexpected number of books lining the walls. You'd pictured a bachelor pad with pizza boxes and sports memorabilia, not this adult space with actual furniture and framed art.

"What? Did you think I lived in a frat house?" Jake asks, reading your expression with annoying accuracy.

"Kind of," you admit.

"I'm more than just the campus golden boy, you know." There's an edge to his voice you haven't heard before.

The study session starts out productively enough. You quiz each other on formulas, and Jake makes flash cards that actually help clarify a complex concept you've been struggling with.

Then, in the middle of explaining autocorrelation, Jake suddenly says, "I'm starving. Want pizza?"

Before you can answer, he's on the phone ordering, and somehow twenty minutes disappear into a conversation about the best pizza toppings (you: mushroom and olive, him: Hawaiian, which leads to a heated debate about pineapple as a legitimate topping).

When the food arrives, Jake insists on taking a study break. One episode of a show turns into three. When you finally check your watch, it's 11 PM, and you've accomplished maybe a third of what you planned.

"I should go," you say, gathering your notes.

"It's late. I can walk you home."

"I live in the north dorms. It's a fifteen-minute walk."

"Exactly. Perfect opportunity to quiz each other on regression analysis."

You want to say no, but he's already grabbing his jacket.

The night air is cool, and Jake walks close enough that your shoulders occasionally brush. True to his word, he quizzes you on formulas as you walk, and you're begrudgingly impressed by how much he actually knows.

At your dorm entrance, he hands you a final flash card. "Last one."

You take it, squinting in the dim light. Instead of a formula, it reads: "Coffee tomorrow morning before the final? 7 AM?"

You look up to find him watching you intently, his usual confident smile replaced by something more hesitant.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," you say slowly. "I have a morning routine before exams."

"Part of which includes coffee, right? I'll bring it to you. No study talk. Just caffeine and moral support."

You should say no. This whole "friendship" with Jake has already cut into your study time more than you'd like to admit. But there's something in his expression that makes you pause.

"Fine. But if you're late with my coffee, all bets are off."

His smile returns full force. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As you head into your building, you realize with a start that you've actually enjoyed spending time with Jake. Not that you'd ever admit it to him.

What you don't see is the way Jake's smile transforms into a triumphant grin as soon as you're gone. He actually pumps his fist in the air like he's just scored the winning touchdown.

"Phase two: complete," he whispers to himself, pulling out his phone to text Ethan. THIS IS TOO EASY, he types, adding three crying-laughing emojis. She's actually letting me walk her to her dorm. Tomorrow I'll sabotage her entire morning routine.

He strolls back toward his apartment, checking items off his mental Distraction Campaign list. Yet somewhere between his self-congratulation and plotting tomorrow's coffee delivery (he plans to be precisely seven minutes late—just enough to throw off her exam prep but not enough for her to give up waiting), he realizes he's humming.

Jake Sim doesn't hum. But here he is, practically skipping down the sidewalk, because he's seeing you again in less than twelve hours. For the plan, he tells himself firmly. Obviously just for the plan.

-

The Statistical Methods final comes and goes. Despite Jake's best attempts at sabotage, you still manage to edge him out by two points. His frown when Professor Rivera announces the scores is brief but noticeable before he slips back into his golden boy persona, all easy smiles and gracious congratulations.

"This calls for a celebration," he says afterward, falling into step beside you as you exit the classroom.

"Me beating you again?" you ask with a smirk.

"Our combined brilliance," he counters smoothly. "Dinner tonight? I know a place off campus that makes incredible pasta."

You hesitate. The study sessions were one thing—you could justify them as academic. But dinner? That sounds suspiciously like a date.

"I have to start my research paper for Political Economics," you say, which is true. The paper isn't due for two weeks, but your color-coded semester planner has tonight blocked off for outline development.

Jake's smile doesn't falter. "Perfect. I'll bring takeout to the library. Which section will you be in? The third-floor carrels or your usual table by the east windows?"

It's unnerving how well he knows your study habits.

"Fine. East windows. 7 PM." You shake your head, wondering when exactly you started agreeing to Jake Sim's proposals so easily.

Jake arrives at 6:58 PM with two bags of food that smell so divine you immediately realize how hungry you are. He pulls up a chair beside you—not across the table where a study partner would sit, but close enough that your elbows occasionally brush.

"I got you the mushroom ravioli," he says, unpacking containers. "And garlic bread. And tiramisu."

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

Jake grins. "You mentioned it during our pineapple-on-pizza debate. I pay attention."

The food is incredible, and despite your intentions to eat quickly and get back to work, you find yourself lingering over dinner, drawn into Jake's animated story about his disastrous first college party.

"So there I am, completely soaked, holding this stranger's pet iguana, while the campus police are knocking on the front door," he concludes, and you're laughing so hard you have to cover your mouth to avoid disturbing other students.

Jake reaches out and gently moves a strand of hair from your face. The gesture is so unexpected that you freeze.

"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "It was bothering me."

Perfect, Jake thinks, noting how you momentarily freeze at his touch. One small touch, ah-ah-ah! Another step in my master plan. He mentally checks off another item on his distraction checklist, feeling rather pleased with himself for how easily you've been thrown off your focus.

You clear your throat and turn back to your laptop, suddenly very interested in your research paper outline. "I should really get back to work."

"Of course," Jake says, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he pulls out his own laptop. "I've got some reading to do anyway."

Every few minutes, he shifts in his seat or sighs or taps his fingers on the table, each movement pulling your attention away from your work. You're about to snap at him when he leans over to look at your screen.

"Your outline structure is impressive," he says, genuinely. "I never thought to organize political theories that way."

The compliment catches you off guard, and you find yourself explaining your approach. Before you know it, an hour has passed discussing political philosophy instead of writing your outline.

"You're doing this on purpose," you accuse, suddenly realizing his game.

"Doing what?" He widens his eyes in mock innocence.

"Distracting me."

Jake places a hand over his heart. "I'm wounded. Can't I just enjoy intellectual conversation with the smartest person on campus?"

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Seems to be working so far," he says with a wink.

You roll your eyes and turn back to your laptop, determined to ignore him. It works for approximately five minutes before he slides a folded piece of paper in front of you.

Curious despite yourself, you open it to find a surprisingly good sketch of you concentrating on your work, complete with the small furrow between your eyebrows that he'd mentioned before.

"When did you do this?" you ask, startled.

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

"Is there anything you're not good at?" The question comes out more sincere than you intended.

Jake's cocky smile falters for a moment. "Beating you, apparently."

There's a hint of genuine frustration in his voice that makes you look at him more closely. For a brief moment, the golden boy facade slips, and you catch a glimpse of something more complex beneath—ambition, insecurity, determination all mixed together.

Before you can respond, he stands up. "I should let you work. But first..." He hesitates, then plunges ahead. "Would you go out with me? Like, on an actual date. Not studying. Not takeout at the library. A real date."

You stare at him, speechless. This isn't part of your carefully planned semester. Dating Jake Sim doesn't fit anywhere in your color-coded schedule or your academic goals.

"Why?" you finally ask.

His smile returns, but it's different somehow—less practiced, more nervous. "Because I like you. Because you're the only person on campus who doesn't buy into my whole..." he gestures vaguely at himself,"...thing."

You stare at him blankly for a moment, then raise an eyebrow. "What 'thing'? Your dick?"

Jake's eyes widen in shock before he bursts out laughing, a genuine, unpolished laugh that's nothing like his carefully cultivated campus-celebrity chuckle.

"No! I meant—" he gestures vaguely again, still laughing, "—the whole golden boy persona. The Jake Sim Experience™."

"Oh," you say, fighting a smile. "I thought you were just being weird."

You should say no. Every logical part of your brain is screaming to reject this distraction from your goals.

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

Jake's face lights up with genuine surprise, as if he expected rejection. "Friday? 7 PM?"

"I have to work on my—"

"Political Economics paper, I know," he interrupts. "But even you need to take breaks sometimes. I promise to have you home at a reasonable hour, and I'll even help you with research on Saturday."

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

"Okay," he echoes, looking so genuinely pleased that you momentarily forget this is Jake Sim, campus golden boy and your academic rival.

He gathers his things, still smiling. "I'll text you details."

As he walks away, you try to refocus on your outline, but your mind keeps drifting to Friday night. It's just one date, you tell yourself. What harm could it do?

-

Back at his apartment, Jake crosses off "Step 7: Secure actual date" from his Distraction Campaign list with a flourish.

"She actually said yes?" Ethan asks, looking up from his video game.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Jake tosses his backpack on the couch and collapses next to it.

"Because she's smart enough to know better?"

Jake throws a pillow at his roommate. "The plan is working perfectly. I've already cost her at least ten hours of study time this week. By the time the Harrison Fellowship application is due, she'll be so off her game I'll finally beat her."

"And you're still convinced this is just about winning?" Ethan asks, pausing his game to give Jake a knowing look.

"What else would it be about?"

Ethan snorts. "You sketched her, man. You never sketch anyone."

"It was part of the distraction," Jake insists, but he finds himself pulling out the second drawing he made—the one he didn't give her, the one that captures her mid-laugh, eyes bright with intelligence and humor.

"Right," Ethan says, noticing the drawing. "Just make sure you know which one of you is actually getting distracted here."

Jake rolls his eyes. "Please. I'm totally focused. You should hear my internal monologues when I'm with her. I literally count every successful distraction tactic like I'm Count Dracula or something. 'One missed study hour, ah-ah-ah! Two coffee dates, ah-ah-ah!'"

Ethan stares at him for a beat. "Yeah, right. Because that's not what love sounds like at all."

"Right?!" Jake agrees enthusiastically. "It's pure strategy. Nothing else."

Ethan face-palms. "That was sarcasm, you idiot."

"Whatever." Jake waves him off, completely missing the point. "You'll see when I win the fellowship and she's wondering what happened to her perfect GPA."

-

Friday arrives faster than you anticipated. You spend an embarrassing amount of time choosing an outfit—something casual enough to maintain your dignity but nice enough to acknowledge this is, in fact, a date.

When Jake knocks on your door at precisely 7 PM, he's brought his A-game. Designer jeans, a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to showcase his forearms, and that calculated smile that's gotten him through every social situation since puberty.

"You look nice," he says, his eyes doing an appreciative sweep that makes you momentarily self-conscious.

"So do you," you reply, because it's true, even if you wish it weren't.

The restaurant he's chosen is a small Italian place tucked away on a side street downtown, far enough from campus that you're unlikely to run into other students. It's intimate without being overtly romantic, with exposed brick walls and soft lighting.

The conversation flows surprisingly well. Jake is charming when he wants to be, asking questions about your hometown, your family, your childhood dreams. You find yourself laughing at his stories, drawn in by the way his face lights up when he talks about his first debate tournament victory.

This is going perfectly, Jake thinks, watching you smile at something he's said. Phase three proceeding exactly as planned. Every minute she spends with me is a minute not spent on the Harrison application. By this time next month, that fellowship will have my name on it.

His internal victory lap continues through dessert, especially when he catches you staring at his mouth while he tells a story about his freshman year roommate.

After dinner, Jake suggests a walk along the riverfront. The night is cool but not cold, and the path is lit by old-fashioned lampposts that cast a golden glow on the water.

"So," Jake says, walking close enough that your hands occasionally brush, "this was nice."

"It was," you admit, surprising yourself with how much you mean it.

"We should do it again sometime," he suggests, stopping by the railing overlooking the river.

"Maybe," you say, unwilling to concede too easily. "I do have a lot of work to do on my fellowship application."

Jake takes a step closer, exactly as he'd planned during his pre-date strategy session with Ethan. "The fellowship isn't for another month," he says, his voice dropping lower. "Plenty of time for both work and... other things."

Before you can respond, he leans in and kisses you.

It's meant to be calculated—the perfect mix of confidence and restraint, designed to leave you wanting more, to occupy your thoughts when you should be focusing on academics. But something unexpected happens when his lips meet yours.

For a brief, disconcerting moment, Jake forgets the plan entirely.

Your response, the soft sound you make as your hands find his shoulders, the way you taste like the tiramisu you shared for dessert—it short-circuits his strategic thinking. When you pull back slightly, he follows, chasing your lips without conscious thought.

"That was..." you begin, sounding slightly breathless.

Jake quickly regains his composure, mentally adjusting his strategy. This is even better than I planned. She's completely flustered.

"Just the beginning," he finishes with a confident smile, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "If you want it to be."

You narrow your eyes slightly, as if trying to figure him out. "What's your angle, Sim?"

"No angle," he lies smoothly. "Just enjoying the moment."

You don't look entirely convinced, but when he leans in again, you meet him halfway.

-

Over the next week, Jake implements what he privately calls "Operation Kiss Distraction." The strategy is brilliant in its simplicity—physical contact prevents academic focus. And it works every time.

On Monday afternoon, you're reviewing notes for Professor Wright's Macroeconomics seminar when Jake slides into the chair beside you, coffee in hand.

"How's it going?" he asks, leaning close enough that his shoulder brushes yours.

"I need to finish these notes before—"

He silences you mid-sentence with a kiss, soft and deliberate. Your protest dissolves as his hand cups your cheek, tilting your face toward his. By the time he pulls away, you've forgotten what chapter you were reviewing.

"Before what?" he asks innocently, his thumb tracing your lower lip.

"I... don't remember," you admit, and Jake's smile is nothing short of triumphant.

On Wednesday, you're in the library's reference section, surrounded by economics journals for your fellowship research. Jake finds you there, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before you even realize he's arrived.

"How did you find me?" you ask, trying to maintain your focus on the article you've been highlighting.

"I always know where to find you," he murmurs, his lips moving to the sensitive spot below your ear. The highlighter slips from your fingers as he works his way along your neck, leaving a trail of heat in his wake.

"Jake," you protest weakly, "I have to finish this research."

"In a minute," he promises, turning your chair to face him. His kiss is deeper this time, more insistent. Your hands find their way into his hair as he pulls you to your feet, backing you against the shelves. The solid weight of the books behind you contrasts with the warmth of his body against yours, his mouth hot and demanding.

When he finally breaks the kiss, you're both breathing hard. Jake's usual perfectly styled hair is mussed from your fingers, his eyes dark with something that looks like genuine desire.

"See? Just a minute," he says with a grin, though it's been at least fifteen.

You try to remember what journal article you were reading, but your mind is blank, filled instead with the lingering sensation of Jake's mouth on yours.

-

By Friday, you've developed a Pavlovian response to his presence—one look from Jake across a room and your pulse quickens in anticipation. He knows it too, using it to his advantage.

During a study group at his apartment, he waits until the others are engrossed in problem sets before leaning close, his breath warm against your ear.

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

You shouldn’t go. You have work to do. But two minutes later, your book is forgotten, and you’re following him anyway.

The moment you step inside, Jake is on you. He shoves you against the counter, his mouth crashing into yours, hungry and insistent. His hands are already under your sweater, fingers skimming up your sides, making you shiver at the contrast of his heat against your skin.

“We shouldn’t,” you pant as his teeth scrape against your collarbone, his grip tightening on your waist. “Everyone’s right there.”

“Then be quiet,” he murmurs, lips dragging lower.

A moan slips out before you can stop it as he sucks a deep mark onto your throat, his tongue teasing the bruised skin before moving lower. His hands wander, slipping beneath the waistband of your shorts, fingers brushing over your soaked underwear.

“Fuck,” he exhales against your neck, pressing the pads of his fingers firmly over the thin fabric. “Already wet for me?”

Your breath hitches as he rubs slow, teasing circles, the pressure making your thighs shake. He chuckles, dark and low, before slipping his hand beneath the fabric, his fingers sliding against your slick folds.

You grip his shoulders as he works you open, curling his fingers just right, his pace unrelenting. Your body arches against him, desperate for more, but he doesn’t let up—doesn’t stop marking you, doesn’t stop driving you closer to the edge with expert precision.

“Cum for me,” he whispers against your skin, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Be a good girl and make a mess for me.”

And you do—your climax crashes over you, your body shuddering as his fingers continue their slow, torturous strokes, dragging it out until you’re barely holding yourself up.

He finally pulls back, admiring the deep red bruises blooming across your neck and chest, the way your body still trembles in the aftermath. He smooths a hand over your thigh, smirking as you struggle to catch your breath.

Twenty minutes later, you return to the study group, cheeks flushed, legs weak, lips swollen from his kisses. You pretend to focus, but you can still feel the ghost of his fingers between your thighs, the bruises throbbing like a silent confession.

Jake follows a minute after, looking impossibly composed, except for the self-satisfied smirk he can’t quite suppress.

Another productive session, he thinks, eyes flickering to the marks on your skin. She’s falling further behind every day.

-

The next Tuesday, after an especially intense makeout session that leaves you both disheveled and breathless, Jake captures your hands in his, expression suddenly serious.

"I've been thinking."

Your stomach tightens. Is this where he admits the whole thing has been a calculated distraction? That none of it meant anything?

"We've been doing... whatever this is... for a couple weeks now," he continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm in a way that makes it hard to focus. "And I think we should make it official."

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

"Be my girlfriend," he says, flashing that perfect Jake Sim smile that's graced countless campus publications. "Properly."

It's the logical next step for his plan, he tells himself. Girlfriend status means more of her time, more distraction, more control over her schedule. It's strategic brilliance, not genuine desire. The flutter in his chest when she smiles up at him? Merely satisfaction with his own cunning.

"Okay," you agree, and he kisses you again, mentally checking off another item on his master plan.

Phase Four complete, Jake thinks triumphantly. This fellowship is as good as mine.

What Jake doesn't acknowledge, even to himself, is how often he finds himself thinking about you when you're not around. How he's started skipping his own study sessions to meet you. How his friends have noticed his GPA slipping while yours somehow remains steady.

"Dude, you missed the entire Econ study group yesterday," his friend Matt points out after class. "We're two weeks out from finals."

"I had something more important to do," Jake says, thinking of how you'd smiled against his mouth when he surprised you outside your afternoon lecture.

Matt looks skeptical. "More important than maintaining your GPA for the Harrison Fellowship? You've been working toward that since freshman year."

Jake shrugs it off, but the comment nags at him. Has he possibly overcommitted to his distraction strategy? Is he risking his own academic standing in the process?

He resolves to recalibrate, to find a better balance between distracting you and focusing on his own work. But that resolution lasts exactly as long as it takes for you to text him asking if he wants to meet at the library.

Just an hour, he promises himself. I'll kiss her senseless for an hour, then go back to my apartment and work on my application.

The hour turns into three, and he doesn't get any work done that night.

The pattern continues. Each time Jake thinks he's the one in control, each time he mentally tallies another successful distraction, he fails to notice how his own academic focus is slipping. How his perfectly organized planner is suddenly full of your name instead of study reminders. How he's started dreaming about you instead of his acceptance letter to Stanford.

-

"The plan is still on track," he insists when Ethan questions him. "She's completely distracted."

"And you're not?" Ethan asks pointedly, gesturing to Jake's phone that he's checking for the fifth time in ten minutes.

"Of course not," Jake scoffs, hastily putting his phone face-down. "I'm laser-focused on victory."

"Right," Ethan drawls. "That's why you've written her name in your planner instead of 'study for Econ final'?"

Jake slams the planner shut. "That's... strategic. So I remember when we're meeting to... implement distraction tactics."

"And the fact that you've started wearing cologne to the library?"

"Psychological warfare."

"You missed basketball with the guys to help her carry books."

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

"You turned down Jessica Miller—who you've had a crush on since freshman orientation—because she asked you out on the same night you were supposed to see the protagonist."

"Commitment to the mission."

Ethan picks up a crumpled paper from Jake's desk and unfolds it. "And this poem?"

Jake snatches it away, cheeks reddening. "Research! I'm researching what kind of sappy stuff might further distract her."

"Uh-huh. And you've set her text tone to a special sound because...?"

"So I know exactly when my target is messaging me," Jake explains with the confidence of someone completely deluding himself.

"You literally have a framed photo of her on your nightstand."

"That's just to... remind me of the enemy."

Ethan throws his hands up in exasperation. "You planned your entire class schedule around hers for next semester!"

"Advanced strategic planning," Jake insists, even as he absently doodles her initials on his notebook margin. "The long game."

The truth—which Jake is nowhere near ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real conversations, his perfect plan has developed a fatal flaw:

He's falling for you. And he doesn't even realize it.

-

Jake wakes up in a cold sweat, staring at the calendar on his wall. Three weeks until the Harrison Fellowship deadline, and his plan is working too well—on himself.

"I need to recalibrate," he mutters, grabbing his planner. "Time for phase five: Total Disruption."

After a hurried breakfast, he texts Ethan his new strategy while walking to class.

"You're digging yourself deeper," Ethan replies immediately.

"Watch and learn," Jake types back with the unfounded confidence of a man about to step on a rake.

He implements the new tactics that very afternoon. When you mention needing to study at your apartment that night, Jake suggests studying together, kisses you until you agree, then "accidentally" falls asleep on your couch. By the time you wake him at 2 AM, neither of you has done any work, but he counts it as a win.

"Sorry, princess," he murmurs sleepily, using one of his new strategic pet names. "Guess I was more tired than I thought."

You raise an eyebrow at the nickname but let it slide. "You should go home and get some actual sleep."

"Or I could stay," he counters, pulling you down for another kiss. "Save myself the walk across campus."

It works. You let him stay, and Jake falls asleep feeling smug about another night of study time successfully sabotaged.

What he doesn't anticipate is waking to find you already up, quietly typing at your desk, wearing his sweatshirt from the night before.

"Morning, sleepyhead," you say without looking up. "Hope you don't mind I borrowed this. It's comfortable."

Jake stares, momentarily forgetting his master plan because something about seeing you in his clothes makes his chest feel tight. "I... no, that's... it looks good on you."

"Thanks," you reply, still focused on your laptop. "I made coffee. I've been up since six working on this fellowship essay. Having you here actually helped me focus—I didn't want to wake you by going out to the library."

Jake's smug feeling evaporates. "You've been working for three hours already?"

"Mmhmm. You're cute when you sleep, by the way. Very peaceful. Not at all like when you're awake and plotting world domination."

He's not sure which is more disconcerting—that his sleepover tactic completely backfired or that you called him cute.

The next day, he tries a new approach. While you're in the bathroom during a study session, he quickly closes all fifteen tabs on your laptop, thinking it will set your research back significantly.

You return, notice immediately, and sigh. "Did you close my browser?"

"Oh, did I?" Jake feigns innocence. "Sorry, I was just checking something and must have hit the wrong button."

"It's fine," you say, pulling out your phone. "I was using the cloud sync feature. See?" You tap a few buttons, and all fifteen tabs reappear on your laptop screen. "Everything's backed up automatically. Handy, right?"

Jake's smile feels brittle. "Super handy."

His attempt to hide your textbooks the following week is thwarted when you casually mention that you primarily use the e-book versions anyway. "They're searchable," you explain, showing him how quickly you can find specific information. "Much more efficient."

The emergency ice cream date he arranges the night before your Political Economics paper is due—which should have derailed your writing schedule—somehow turns into a productive discussion about Keynesian theory that actually helps you refine your thesis.

"This is exactly what I needed to tie my argument together," you tell him excitedly between bites of rocky road. "You're a genius, baby."

The casual endearment catches Jake so off guard that he chokes on his ice cream.

"You okay there, Jakey?" you ask, patting his back as he coughs.

"Fine," he wheezes, face red. "Just... went down the wrong way."

You continue using the nickname throughout the evening, each "Jakey" hitting him like a physical blow. It shouldn't affect him—it's just a name—but something about the affection in your voice when you say it makes his stomach flip in a way that has nothing to do with ice cream.

By the time he walks you home, Jake is thoroughly confused by his own reactions. This isn't part of the plan. None of it is.

The clothing swap attempt is perhaps his most spectacular failure. After a particularly heated make-out session at his apartment, Jake deliberately puts his t-shirt in your bag and hides the one you wore over.

"Can't find my shirt," you say, rummaging through your things the next morning.

"That's weird," Jake replies, feigning confusion. "Maybe it got mixed in with the laundry?"

"Probably," you agree easily, grabbing one of his shirts from his drawer. "I'll borrow this one, okay? I'm already running late for Richardson's lecture."

Jake watches in disbelief as you pull his shirt on, gather your books, and kiss him goodbye. The shirt is too big, sliding off one shoulder, but instead of looking disheveled, you somehow make it look deliberate and stylish. When you walk into lecture twenty minutes later, he overhears two girls complimenting your outfit.

"Isn't that Jake Sim's shirt?" one whispers. "They must be serious."

The comment shouldn't please him. It's supposed to be about making you late, not about public confirmation of your relationship. Yet he finds himself smiling anyway.

-

The text message barrage during your Advanced Economic Theory seminar is Jake's next carefully plotted distraction. He sets alarms for precise intervals, determined to make your phone buzz continuously throughout Hammond's lecture.

8:05 AM: Morning. Left a coffee on your desk. Hope Hammond doesn't bore you to death today.

8:13 AM: Still thinking about last night. The way you gasped when I touched you there...hard to focus in class right now.

8:19 AM: Prof Wilson just used your elasticity argument from last week. Didn't credit you though, the bastard.

8:24 AM: thinking abt you in that tiny red dress of yours, suddenly my dicks stood up like a perfectly inelastic supply curve

8:31 AM: Found that article you needed for your paper. I'll trade it for dinner tonight. Thai place just opened downtown.

8:36 AM: You look so good in that blue sweater. Even better when I was taking it off you yesterday.

8:42 AM: Remember what we did in the library stacks last week? I keep picturing you pressed against those books, trying not to make a sound.

8:47 AM: Study at my place tonight? Ethan's gone till morning. We can actually be loud for once. I love it when you're loud.

8:52 AM: The hickey I left on your inner thigh still there? Maybe I should check personally after class.

8:55 AM: Just realized I still have your underwear from Tuesday. You can have them back... or not. Your call.

The messages continue, alternating between casual conversation starters, blatant attempts to tempt you away from academics, strategic pet names (Jake has privately ranked their effectiveness, with "princess" at the top), and the memes he's carefully selected as backup distractions.

But when class ends, you emerge looking perfectly composed. "Phone on silent," you explain when he casually asks if you got his texts. "I always silence it during Hammond's lectures. He's strict about interruptions."

"Right," Jake says, deflated. "Smart."

"But I did see them after class," you continue, linking your arm through his as you walk across the quad. "The memes were funny. Nice distraction technique."

Jake glances at you, trying to gauge whether you're annoyed about the explicit messages.

"So..." he ventures, "the other texts didn't bother you?"

"Bother me? No." You give him a sly smile. "Though I'm pretty sure Hammond would've had a stroke if he'd seen what you wrote about perfectly inelastic supply curves."

Jake feels his face warm slightly, which is ridiculous because he's not the type to blush. "I meant every word."

"I know you did." You lean closer. "And yes to dinner tonight. Though I already found that article myself."

"I meant what I said about my place too," Jake says, his voice dropping lower as a group of freshmen pass by. "Ethan really is gone all evening."

You pretend to consider it. "I do have that study block scheduled..."

"I'll make it worth rescheduling," he promises, mouth close to your ear.

"You always think you're so irresistible, don't you, Jakey?" you whisper back.

There it is again—that fluttering in his stomach at the nickname. It's getting harder to ignore, especially the way it sounds so natural coming from your lips. Jake doesn't understand why his calculated pet names feel like strategic maneuvers while yours feel like treasured endearments.

"We'll see," he says, already thinking of ways to make you forget all about your study schedule tonight. Maybe he'll wear that shirt you like, the one that brings out his eyes. Maybe he'll suggest dessert after dinner. Maybe he'll use that cologne you always seem to lean in for.

Jake's so busy plotting his next move that he doesn't notice the knowing smile on your face—or the flash drive in your bag containing a nearly completed fellowship draft that you've been working on during the hours he thinks you're distracted.

-

Three days later, Jake implements what he considers his most strategic move yet: the extended weekend getaway. Under the guise of a romantic surprise, he books a cabin at a lakeside resort two hours from campus for the weekend before a major economics presentation you both need to prepare for.

"No internet," he tells you with what he hopes is a charming smile. "Just you, me, and nature for two days."

To his surprise, you seem genuinely excited. "That sounds perfect! I've been so stressed with all these deadlines. A break will help clear my head."

"Exactly," Jake agrees, already imagining how far behind you'll fall without internet access or your usual study materials. "It'll be... relaxing."

They arrive Friday evening, and Jake is pleased to discover the cabin is as rustic as advertised. No WiFi, spotty cell service, and blissfully isolated from neighboring cabins.

"It's beautiful," you say, walking onto the small deck that overlooks the lake. The setting sun casts everything in a golden glow, including your profile as you lean against the railing.

Jake finds himself staring, momentarily forgetting his ulterior motives. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Beautiful."

You turn and catch him looking, and something in his expression makes you smile in a way that creates a strange tightness in his chest.

"So," you say, walking back to him slowly. "What should we do first in our internet-free paradise?"

Jake has a detailed plan for keeping you thoroughly distracted all weekend. It involves hiking, canoeing, cooking together, board games, and strategic makeout sessions whenever you mention anything remotely academic.

What he doesn’t plan for is how the isolation amplifies everything between you. Without the constant interruptions of campus life, without the pressure of appearing a certain way for classmates or professors, something shifts.

-

Friday night, you build a fire in the small stone fireplace, and Jake uncorks a bottle of wine he brought specifically to lower your academic defenses. One glass turns into two, which turns into lazy kisses on the couch that grow increasingly desperate, increasingly needy.

Your hands slip under his sweater, dragging over warm, taut skin, feeling the way his muscles flex under your touch. When you tug it over his head, he helps you, throwing it aside like it’s useless, like all he needs right now is you. Then he does the same with your shirt, his hands immediately returning to your skin, sliding up your sides, his rings cold and teasing against your heat.

“Fuck,” he breathes, staring at you, pupils blown. His hands roam, fingers grazing over your bare stomach, thumbs brushing up to your tits, teasing your nipples until they pebble under his touch. He groans, head tipping back for a second as if he’s trying to compose himself, but it’s useless. He’s already too far gone.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, voice gravelly, unfiltered. It’s not calculated—just a raw, messy confession that makes your breath hitch.

You don’t answer. You just pull him back down, kissing him deeper, harder, tongue sliding against his as you push up against him. He moans into your mouth, low and needy, gripping your hips as you press closer.

“Bedroom,” you whisper between kisses, and he barely nods before hauling you up, hands firm under your thighs as he carries you there.

The cabin’s lone bedroom is small, but he barely notices it, too focused on the way firelight spills across your skin, making you look almost unreal. Almost untouchable.

But he does touch you.

He lowers you onto the bed, spreading you out beneath him, then he’s kissing his way down, taking his time, dragging his lips over your collarbone, your stomach, leaving a path of heat in his wake.

And then he’s between your thighs, spreading you open, eyes dark, his rings a sharp, cool contrast against your burning skin.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, voice already wrecked. “Look at you, baby. So fucking wet.”

You whimper as he trails his fingers through your slick folds, the sensation heightened by the hard, unrelenting press of his rings against your sensitive skin.

“Jake,” you whisper, thighs twitching as he spreads your folds with his fingers, watching the way you glisten in the dim light.

“Shit,” he breathes. “You’re dripping. You want me that bad?”

You nod, gasping when he drags his thumb over your clit, pressing down, rubbing slow, torturous circles. The metal of his rings makes it colder, sharper, and the sensation sends a full-body shiver through you.

“Fuck,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Need to taste you.”

Then he dives in, licking a long, slow stripe up your slit before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking, hard.

You cry out, hands immediately burying in his hair, gripping tight, and Jake—Jake fucking moans so loud into you it vibrates through your whole body.

“Oh my god—Jake,” you whine, head falling back as he keeps going, licking, sucking, absolutely devouring you like he’s starving.

He groans again, his hips grinding into the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you, and the desperate, wrecked sounds coming from him make you even wetter.

Then he slides two fingers inside, and you swear you see stars.

“Holy fuck,” he pants against your thigh, thrusting his fingers in and out, his rings catching against your slick heat with every movement. “You’re so fucking tight. Jesus, baby.”

His fingers curl, finding that spot that makes your whole body jolt, and he moans again, practically whimpering against you as he watches you come undone beneath him.

“Listen to her,” he groans, voice shaking, fingers plunging deeper, faster, wetter. “Fucking talking to me, baby—your pussy’s talking to me—”

You sob his name, hips grinding against his mouth, and he loses it, sucking harder, fingers working even faster. The sounds are obscene—wet, messy, loud—but he loves it, loves how ruined you are, how ruined he is.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he rasps, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, his lips slick with you. “Gonna make a mess all over my fingers, yeah?”

Your whole body tightens. The heat in your stomach snaps, and you cry out, thighs shaking as you come, clenching hard around his fingers.

Jake moans so loud it’s almost embarrassing, almost filthy the way he reacts to your pleasure like it’s his own.

He keeps moving, working you through it, voice a wrecked, desperate mess of praise. “That’s it, that’s my good fucking girl—holy shit, you feel so good—”

You whimper, body twitching from oversensitivity, and he finally slows down, pulling his fingers out, bringing them to his lips. He groans as he licks them clean, eyes dark and half-lidded as he stares at you.

Then he’s crawling up your body, kissing you breathless, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

He’s lining himself up, pressing in, and the moment he pushes inside, his head drops back and he lets out the most wrecked, filthy moan you’ve ever heard.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” He sounds like he’s falling apart, like this is undoing him completely. His forehead presses against yours, his breath ragged. “Oh my god, baby, you feel—” He exhales sharply, shaking. “I can’t—I need to move—”

“Do it,” you whimper, nails digging into his back.

He groans as he starts thrusting, deep and slow at first, like he’s savoring the way you feel wrapped around him. But then you moan, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he breaks.

He picks up the pace, fucking into you hard, deep, the bed creaking with every movement.

And he’s so loud.

Every thrust rips another filthy moan from his throat, another wrecked gasp, another desperate curse as he loses himself completely.

“God, you’re so loud,” you tease, voice breathless but smug, knowing full well how completely undone he is.

His response is immediate—he gets louder. A shameless, broken groan rips from his chest, his head tipping back, fingers digging into your hips.

“You—fuck—” His voice cracks, his thrusts turning erratic. “You’re gonna—gonna make me—”

“Cum inside me,” you whisper, staring right into his dark, blown-out eyes.

Jake fucking breaks.

He lets out the filthiest, most desperate moan you’ve ever heard, his whole body shaking, his hips snapping against yours one last time as he spills inside you, burying himself deep, filling you up with everything he has.

After, he collapses against you, still shuddering, breath uneven, lips brushing over your skin as he whispers something you can’t quite hear, something too soft, too raw.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a distraction. But as you drift off to sleep against his chest, Jake stays awake, staring at the ceiling, completely, utterly fucked in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

-

Saturday morning, Jake wakes to find you gone from the bed. Panic spikes through him momentarily before he hears movement in the kitchen. He pulls on sweatpants and pads out to find you at the small stove, wearing nothing but his button-down shirt from the night before, making pancakes.

"Morning, angel," he says, the endearment falling from his lips without conscious thought. He wraps his arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder, and is rewarded with a smile that does strange things to his heart rate.

"Morning, Jakey," you reply, turning to kiss him properly. "Sleep well?"

That nickname again. He should hate it—it's childish, diminutive—but when you say it, it feels like some private treasure between you.

"Very," he says, and means it. "Those look good."

"Blueberry pancakes. I found some berries in the fridge."

Jake blinks. Cooking breakfast together was on his distraction agenda, but you've already taken the initiative. He'd planned to get up early, hide your phone to prevent you from checking emails, and control the day's activities. Instead, he slept later than intended, and you seem perfectly content in this tech-free environment he designed to frustrate you.

After breakfast, you suggest a hike, another item from his distraction checklist that you've somehow adopted as your own idea. The fall morning is crisp and clear, perfect for exploring the trails around the lake.

"I needed this," you say as you walk hand in hand along a pine-scented path. "I've been so focused on the fellowship and finals that I forgot what it's like to just... breathe."

Jake feels a twinge of guilt. "You have been working really hard."

You squeeze his hand. "We both have. That's why this weekend is so perfect. A chance to reset before the final push."

The guilt intensifies. He's been working hard, yes, but not as hard as he should be. Not as hard as you. His grades have slipped over the past few weeks, his focus increasingly fragmented between his academic goals and his fixation on sabotaging yours.

The hike leads to a small clearing overlooking the lake. Without discussion, you both stop to admire the view. You lean back against Jake's chest, and he wraps his arms around you instinctively, resting his chin on top of your head.

It's peaceful. Simple. For a few minutes, Jake forgets about fellowships and competition and distraction strategies. He just exists in this moment with you, and it feels bizarrely right.

"Thank you for planning this," you say softly.

"You're welcome, princess," he replies, the pet name now coming naturally.

You turn in his arms, looking up at him with an expression he can't quite decipher. "I like when you call me that," you admit.

"Yeah?" Jake tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "I like when you call me Jakey."

The admission surprises him as much as it seems to please you. You rise on your tiptoes to kiss him, soft and sweet, and something in Jake's chest aches.

The moment is interrupted by a distant roll of thunder. You both look up to see dark clouds gathering on the horizon.

"We should head back," Jake says, taking your hand. "Looks like rain."

You make it halfway to the cabin before the skies open. By the time you reach the porch, you're both soaked through and laughing. Jake pulls you inside, where the remains of the previous night's fire have left the cabin pleasantly warm.

“We should get out of these wet clothes,” Jake suggests, voice thick with heat, his smirk widening when he sees your eyes darken.

You don’t hesitate. Your soaked jacket hits the floor with a heavy plop, followed by your drenched shirt, clinging to your skin before you peel it off.

“Race you to the shower,” you tease, already backing toward the bathroom.

Jake growls low in his throat, tearing off his own clothes as he follows, jeans hitting the floor as he stalks after you.

The moment you step under the spray, hot water cascading down, he’s on you—pressing you against the cold tiles, kissing you deep, messy, hungry.

His hands roam your slick skin, fingers trailing up your waist, over your tits, down your stomach—gripping, groping, claiming. The sharp chill of his rings against your heated body sends a shudder through you.

Then you reach for his hand, dragging it to your mouth. Holding eye contact, you wrap your lips around his middle and pointer finger, sucking slow, obscene.

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

His hips jerk forward, cock twitching against your stomach, eyes blown wide as he watches you drag your tongue up the length of his fingers before pulling off with a wet pop.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groans, voice wrecked, and suddenly his mouth is at your ear, his breath hot, desperate. “Turn the fuck around.”

You obey without hesitation, pressing your hands flat against the tiles, arching your back just enough to tempt him.

Jake grips your hips, dragging his cock through your slick folds, teasing—

And then he slams inside.

“Fuck!” His moan is loud, raw, unfiltered, tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt.

You gasp, gripping at the tiles as he stretches you open, splitting you apart. He barely gives you time to adjust before pulling out and slamming back in, setting a brutal, punishing pace that has you wailing.

“Louder,” he growls, voice shaking as he bites down hard on your shoulder, his hips snapping against you. “Fucking scream for me, baby.”

Your moans rise in pitch, gasping and broken, but it’s not enough for him.

“Fucking louder,” he snarls, gripping your chin and turning your head slightly. “Let everyone fucking hear what I’m doing to you.”

And fuck, that does it. You wail his name, voice cracking, high-pitched and desperate, and Jake fucking snaps.

“Oh my fucking god,” he groans, loud, no shame, no restraint. “That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck, you’re so loud for me, fuck, fuck—”

His fingers slide between your legs, rubbing your clit in harsh, fast circles. “Come on, baby—come for me—fucking scream for me while I ruin this little pussy—”

Your body locks up, pleasure crashing over you in waves, your moans turning into sharp cries as you come hard, clenching down so tight around him.

Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck, oh my god, fuck, fuck, fuck—ngh—”

His voice shatters, his thrusts turning wild, his hands gripping your hips hard as he slams into you one last time and spills inside you, hips twitching, letting out the most wrecked groan you’ve ever heard.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—” His head tips back, mouth hanging open, the filthiest, most obscene moan tearing from his throat as his cock pulses inside you, filling you up.

He keeps thrusting, whimpering, riding it out, his forehead pressing to your shoulder, panting so hard he’s practically breathless.

Silence. Just the heavy, ragged sound of your breathing, the water pounding down over you both.

Then—Jake laughs, breathless, pressing a lingering kiss to your shoulder.

“Well.” His voice is wrecked, rough. “Guess I should’ve made you scream my fucking name sooner.”

-

Afterward, wrapped in the cabin's fluffy towels, you curl up together on the couch to watch the storm through the large windows. Jake pulls a blanket over you both, and you nestle against his side, fitting perfectly.

"This is nice," you murmur, already sounding half-asleep. "Just being here with you. No competition, no pressure."

Jake feels a fresh wave of guilt. "Yeah," he agrees quietly. "It is."

Eventually, you doze off, your head on his chest, one hand curled possessively on his stomach. Jake strokes your hair absently, listening to the rain and your steady breathing, trying to ignore the growing realization that he's no longer sure what game he's playing—or if he's playing one at all.

That evening, Jake cooks dinner as planned, but the romantic meal meant to keep you from studying now feels like something he wants to do for you rather than to you. He finds himself putting extra effort into the pasta sauce, adding spices he knows you like, opening the better bottle of wine he'd brought as a backup.

You set the small table by candlelight, and when you sit down to eat, the conversation flows easily—not about classes or the fellowship, but about childhoods and dreams and favorite books. Jake learns more about you in one dinner than he has in three years of competitive observation.

"I want to make a difference," you tell him when he asks about your post-graduation plans. "Economics isn't just about markets and money to me. It's about understanding systems that affect real people's lives."

"That's... actually really cool," Jake says, surprised by his own sincerity.

"What about you?" you ask. "Why economics?"

Jake opens his mouth to give his standard answer—the one about prestigious job opportunities and his father's expectations—but what comes out is something closer to the truth.

"I'm good at it," he admits. "And being good at things has always been important to me. Maybe too important."

You reach across the table to take his hand. "There's nothing wrong with wanting to excel."

"There is when it's the only thing that matters," Jake says quietly, the words emerging from some honest place he usually keeps carefully locked away. "When you'll do anything to win."

You study him for a moment, head tilted thoughtfully. "So when exactly were you planning to tell me that this whole relationship was just an elaborate scheme to distract me from winning the fellowship?"

The question hits like a physical blow. Jake stares at you, mouth actually dropping open. "What—how did you—"

"Please." You roll your eyes. "The timing was painfully obvious. You suddenly wanted to 'study together' right when applications opened? The constant texts during lectures? Accidentally closing my browser tabs? Hiding my books? The weekend getaway with 'no internet'?" You make air quotes with your fingers. "I've been onto you since day one, Jake Sim."

Jake runs a hand through his hair, completely thrown off script. "I—well—shit."

"Did you actually have a written plan? Like an actual document called 'How to Sabotage Her Academic Career'?"

Jake winces. "It wasn't called that exactly, but..."

"Oh my god, you did!" You start laughing, which confuses him even more. "Let me guess, you had phases? Codenames? Did you rank your distraction techniques by effectiveness?"

His silence confirms it all.

"You stupid dumb fuck," you say, shaking your head in disbelief. "I knew everything from the very beginning. Every single move. And you thought you were being so clever."

Jake stares at you for a moment, then his expression shifts from embarrassment to something closer to amusement. His lips quirk up at the corners.

"Baby, I'm so sorry," he says, though his tone makes it abundantly clear he's not sorry at all. He leans forward, lowering his voice. "But I'm also not at all because honestly? Fucking you, being with you is so fucking enjoyable that I don't care what I did to get here."

"Are you serious right now?" You're caught between outrage and reluctant admiration at his audacity.

Jake shrugs, completely unrepentant. "The plan was stupid, sure. But it got us here. And here..." he reaches for your hand across the table, "...is pretty damn good."

"You're unbelievable," you tell him, though you don't pull your hand away.

"I know," he grins, completely missing the criticism. "So, do I need to grovel, or can we skip to the part where you forgive me because you've been playing me just as much as I've been playing you?"

After dinner, you curl up together in front of the fireplace with the second bottle of wine. The storm continues outside, rain pattering against the windows, making the cabin feel even more isolated from the rest of the world.

"Tell me something you've never told anyone," you challenge, your head in Jake's lap as he plays with your hair.

He considers for a moment. "I almost transferred after freshman year."

You sit up, surprised. "Really? Why?"

"Because of you, actually," Jake admits. "You beaten me in every class we shared, and I'd never... I wasn't used to being second best. I thought maybe I wasn't cut out for this university after all."

"What changed your mind?"

Jake meets your eyes. "Pride. Stubbornness. I couldn't let you win like that."

"So you stayed just to beat me?" You sound more amused than offended.

"I stayed to prove I could," Jake corrects. "And then it became about more than that. About actually learning, actually growing. Having you as competition made me better."

You smile, leaning in to kiss him softly. "You make me better too, you know. You push me to work harder, think differently."

The kiss deepens, wine and confessions making you both bolder. Before long, you're straddling his lap, the blanket fallen to the floor as his hands grip your thighs.

“Take me to bed, Jakey,” you murmur against his ear, voice dripping with heat, but your body is soft, pliant against him.

Jake groans, gripping your thighs tighter before standing, lifting you with ease, your legs locked around his waist. His arms wrap securely under you as he walks the short distance to the bed, his lips dragging over your jaw, your neck, your shoulder—like he can’t stop touching you.

The bed creaks as he lowers you onto it, but instead of diving in like usual, he hesitates. Hovering over you, eyes dark, his fingers trailing over your ribs, your stomach, up to your collarbones.

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

Jake peels your clothes off piece by piece, kissing each newly exposed patch of skin, his mouth reverent, like he’s memorizing every inch of you. He lingers at your stomach, your hips, your inner thighs—leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses, his breath hot against your sensitive skin.

And you do the same, taking your time dragging your hands down his torso, feeling the muscles tense under your fingertips. You push down his briefs, freeing him completely, and the way his cock twitches in anticipation makes your thighs press together.

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

The stretch, the heat, the way his hips press flush against yours, leaving no space between you. His forehead drops to your shoulder, a wrecked, trembling breath escaping him as he fully seats himself inside you.

He doesn’t move. He just stays there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard, his body shaking like he’s about to fall apart.

You feel everything—every pulse, every twitch, every inch of him pressing so deep inside you it makes your breath hitch.

“Jake,” you whisper, voice soft, fingers threading through his hair. “Look at me.”

Nothing.

He’s still hiding—head tucked against your neck, panting against your skin, avoiding your eyes like he’s afraid of what he’ll see.

“Jakey,” you murmur again, voice lilting, teasing. “Baby, look at me.”

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

“Ow—what the fuck?” he sputters, head snapping up.

And you take advantage of his shock—grabbing his face, cupping his jaw, forcing him to look at you.

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

His pupils are blown, his lips parted, his breathing erratic. You watch his throat work as he swallows hard, his body stiffening above you.

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans, completely mesmerized, and instead of thrusting, instead of moving at all—he just stares. “Holy shit.”

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

“SORRY!” He grins, voice breathless, but his eyes don’t leave your chest. “It’s just—you look so fucking good—”

“You dumbass, I said look at me,” you growl, yanking his chin up—forcing his eyes back on yours.

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

Eyes locked on yours, he lowers himself, lips grazing over your collarbone, trailing lower—lower—until his mouth finallycloses over your nipple.

“Ohhh, fuck,” you moan, your back arching into him as his tongue flicks over the sensitive bud.

Jake groans, low and deep, sucking hard, his lips wrapping around the soft flesh, but his eyes never leave your face.

“That’s it, baby—” His voice is thick, raspy, hot against your skin. “Wanted my fucking eyes? You got ’em.”

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

The way he’s sucking on your tits, so focused, so intent, his hips starting to rock against you in slow, deep thrusts—never breaking eye contact.

“You’re gonna watch me, baby,” he breathes, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses over your skin between every filthy suck. “Gonna watch me fucking ruin you.”

You whimper, clenching hard around him, and his groan vibrates against your breast.

“Oh my fucking god,” he chokes, voice breaking. “*You’re squeezing me so fucking tight—ngh—fuck, baby, you feel so good.”

You’re a mess now, panting, gasping, fingers threading through his damp hair, pulling him closer.

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

“Louder,” he demands, voice rough, biting just hard enough to make you cry out. “Scream for me, baby—let me fucking hear you.”

And you do.

You moan his name so loud, your body shaking beneath him, and Jake fucking loses it.

“Fuuuuck— baby—fuck, you’re gonna make me—ngh—”

His hips snap forward, pace turning desperate, his breath coming in wrecked, gasping moans as he buries himself inside you, his cock hitting so deep it makes your vision blur.

“Come with me,” he pleads, voice wrecked, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing rough, frantic circles. “Fuck, please,”

The coil snaps.

Your orgasm rips through you, your walls squeezing around him so hard it has Jake shouting.

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

His whole body trembles as he spills inside you, his hips twitching, his moans so loud, so filthy, his eyes still locked on yours even as he completely falls apart.

His thrusts stutter, erratic, drawing out every last wave of pleasure until he’s completely drained, panting, shaking, forehead pressed against yours.

A few moments pass, the air thick with heat and heavy breathing.

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

“Did you really fucking smack me?” he murmurs against your skin.

You smirk, breathless, fingers still buried in his hair. “Wouldn’t have had to if you weren’t a goddamn tit guy.”

Jake grins. “Guilty.” He kisses your collarbone, then your throat, then your jaw. “But can you blame me?”

You roll your eyes, legs still locked around his waist. “Just shut up and hold me, Jakey.”

And this time—he does.

"I think I'm falling for you," he says quietly, the words slipping out in the darkness before he can consider their implications.

You're silent for a moment, and Jake holds his breath, suddenly terrified. Then you prop yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him in the moonlight.

"I know," you say with a small smile. "Your distraction campaign has been pretty obvious."

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

"Of course I knew. I've been competing with you for three years. I know how your mind works." You trace his jawline with one finger. "What I couldn't figure out was when it stopped being a strategy and started being real."

"I'm not sure I know either," Jake admits. "Maybe it was real from the beginning, and I just didn't want to admit it."

You lean down to kiss him, soft and sweet. "For what it's worth, I'm falling for you too. Even though you're still a competitive jerk sometimes."

"And you're still an academic show-off," he retorts, but he's smiling as he pulls you back down against his chest.

As you drift to sleep in his arms, Jake realizes with a start that he hasn't thought about the Harrison Fellowship once all evening. More surprisingly, he doesn't care.

-

Sunday morning brings clear skies and the reluctant awareness that their weekend escape is coming to an end. Jake wakes to find you already up, sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed with your laptop open.

"I thought there was no internet here," he says, sitting up groggily.

"There isn't," you confirm. "But I downloaded all my research documents before we left. I've been working on my fellowship application."

Jake blinks, his brain still foggy with sleep. "You... what?"

You glance at him over your shoulder. "I've been up since six. Thought I'd get some work done before you woke up."

"But this was supposed to be..." Jake trails off, realizing too late what he's about to admit.

"A way to keep me from working on my application?" you finish, arching an eyebrow. "Yeah, I figured that out about five minutes after you invited me."

Jake groans, falling back against the pillows. "Am I that transparent?"

"Only to me," you assure him, closing your laptop and crawling up the bed to kiss him. "And I came anyway, because I wanted to spend the weekend with you. But I'm still going to win that fellowship."

"You're terrifying," Jake informs you, pulling you down for a proper kiss. "And impressive."

"I know," you reply with a smirk that reminds him exactly why he's been obsessed with you for three years.

They spend their final morning at the cabin making love once more before reluctantly packing up to return to campus. The drive back is comfortable, your hand resting on Jake's thigh as he drives, the radio playing softly in the background.

As the campus comes into view, Jake feels a strange reluctance to return to reality—to classes and competition and the looming fellowship decision. The weekend has changed something fundamental between you, but he's not sure how it will translate back to real life.

"What now?" he asks as he pulls into a parking space outside your dorm.

You turn to face him, expression serious. "Now we both work our asses off on our applications, ace our finals, and see what happens. No sabotage, no distractions."

"And us?" Jake asks, surprised by how much your answer matters to him.

"Us is separate from the competition," you say firmly. "I want to be with you, Jake. But I'm still going to try to beat you in every class."

Jake laughs, relief washing over him. "I wouldn't have it any other way, princess."

You lean across the console to kiss him goodbye, lingering longer than necessary. "See you tomorrow, Jakey. I've got a fellowship application to finish."

As he watches you walk away, Jake is struck by the realization that for the first time since freshman year, he doesn't care if you beat him. He just wants you both to succeed.

-

Back at his apartment, Ethan takes one look at his face and bursts out laughing.

"Oh man, you've got it bad," he says, shaking his head. "What happened to 'Total Disruption'?"

Jake collapses onto the couch with a groan. "It all backfired. Spectacularly. She knew what I was doing the whole time."

"No shit," Ethan says, not even looking up from his game. "Everyone knew. You weren't exactly subtle."

"What do you mean everyone knew? I was totally subtle!"

Ethan pauses his game and turns to face Jake, exasperation written all over his face. "Dude. You literally canceled a meeting with your fellowship advisor because she texted asking if you wanted coffee. You've been walking around campus with this dopey smile for weeks. You drew her. Multiple times."

"That was part of the plan!" Jake protests.

"The plan you spent more time talking about than actually studying for the fellowship you supposedly care so much about?"

Jake opens his mouth to argue, then closes it. "Okay, but here's the thing—"

"No," Ethan holds up a hand. "Here's the thing. You're in love with her. You have been for weeks. Maybe months. Maybe years, who knows?"

"I just realized it today," Jake admits quietly.

"TODAY?" Ethan throws his hands up. "Oh my god. I literally told you this would happen the day you made your stupid plan! Day one, I said, 'You're going to fall for her,' and you said, 'No way, it's purely strategic.'"

"I didn't think—"

"Obviously!" Ethan's practically shouting now. "You've been so busy convincing yourself this was all some master scheme that you completely missed what everyone else could see from a mile away."

"It wasn't that obvious," Jake mutters defensively.

"You FRAMED a PHOTO of her! It's on your NIGHTSTAND!"

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

"Oh my GOD, will you STOP?" Ethan throws a pillow that hits Jake square in the face. "Just admit it. The great Jake Sim, master strategist, completely played himself."

Jake is silent for a long moment, then sighs heavily. "Fine. You were right. I played myself. I fell for her. Hard. Are you happy now?"

"Ecstatic," Ethan deadpans. "So what's the plan now, Romeo?"

Jake stares at the ceiling, thinking about your parting words. About competition and companionship, about winning and wanting.

"The plan," he says slowly, "is to stop planning so much and just... see what happens."

"Revolutionary," Ethan rolls his eyes. "What about the fellowship?"

Jake sits up, a new determination settling over him. "I'm still going to try to win it. But not by sabotaging her—by actually earning it. And if she wins instead..." He pauses, surprised to find he means what he's about to say. "Then she deserves it."

"Who are you and what have you done with Jake Sim?" Ethan asks, though his sarcasm has softened slightly.

Jake's phone buzzes with a text from you. He checks it immediately, a smile spreading across his face at the message: Missing my Jakey already. Study date tomorrow? I'll bring the coffee if you bring those amazing notes from Richardson's lecture.

"Case in point," Ethan says, watching Jake's expression change. "Completely whipped."

"I am not—"

"Just answer your girlfriend and spare me the denial," Ethan cuts him off, turning back to his game.

Jake ignores him, typing back: It's a date, princess. I'll even let you borrow my sweatshirt again.

Your reply comes seconds later: Bold of you to assume I was planning to give the first one back.

The warmth that spreads through Jake's chest at your message is undeniable, as is the realization that his perfect plan has completely, utterly, wonderfully failed.

Because the truth—which he's finally ready to admit—is that somewhere between calculated kisses and genuine laughter, between strategic touches and real connections, Jake Sim has done the one thing he never planned on:

He's fallen in love with his greatest rival. And he couldn't be happier about it.

fin.

TL: @ziiao @beariegyu @seonhoon @somuchdard @ijustwannareadstuff20 @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @kkamismom12 @princesstiti14

[bluegiragi]

ok im going to be brave and not be on anon for this because i need to send screenshots as i rave about how INSANE ABOUT THE REDRAW IS. IM NOT OKAY. HOLY SHIT IT WAS SO GOOD. i went frame by frame to compare and im losing my mind because the two year improvement is so OBVIOUS and im like. balls to the walls insane. (i hope this was okay i'm so normal i swear but this was just SO COOL. and showed so much growth i need to speak about it because it was so cool and i was very inspired hi) first off, i didnt even REALIZE it was a redraw. the original was just that good in my mind. i saw it, saw your style and didnt even QUESTION the jump in quality cuz "ah yes ofc thats always been how i saw it in my head" anyways. i have things im literally clawing at the walls for. first things first! GOING INSANE AT HOW OBVIOUSLY YOU IMPROVED IN ANATOMY UNDERSTANDING

LOOK AT THIS. THIS IS SO COOL. THE DETAILS. THE IMPROVEMENT. THIS IS SO INSPIRING. IM GOING INSANE. when i read the og i LOVED the way the hands moved, but the change makes so much SENSE. i love how theres less tension in the redraw, it feels like he's being casual about it. he's calm, he's not kickstarting his engines like he's eager to rock konig's shit!!!! his body is more serious and relaxed, it feels less flirty and more a genuine lesson he wants to teach konig to help the guy out again, the ANATOMY UNDERSTANDING!!!!!

improvement goes SO hard im staring im staring im staring but also haha i see that you drew the right hand this time its not cut off heehee BUT ALSO THE BODY LANGUAGE. in the og he doesnt look tense he just looks uncertain, in the redraw he looks like a startled meerkat standing at attention and again AUGHHHH IT MAKES SO MUCH SENSE IN CONTEXT OF THE PLOT HERE. CUZ YEAH HE JUMPED TO ATTENTION WHEN GHOST CALLED HIS NAME YOURE SO CORRECT IM GOING INSANE AT HOW YOU MANAGED TO CONVAY THAT IN THE REDRAW. but also slay you kept his slutty little waist yippee we never stray far from the source material HUIEHFDIEURFIER ugh i LOVE the soap redraw

in the redraw they feel so much more weighted and aged and grounded and im clawing at the ground CUZ WHOA LOOK AT THAT JUMP IN UNDERSTANDING AT LIKE THE PLANES OF THE FACE AND STUFF WHOAAAAA YOU CLOCKED IN FOR THESE TWO YEARS I LOVE HOW IN THE REDRAW HE TILTS HIS HEAD UP he looks so SMUG and sure of himself it shows off so much CHARACTER UGHHHH HIS EXPRESSIONS FEEL UNIQUE AND BELIEVABLE FOR HIS CHARACTER also heehee i see hand improvement (slay!) i LOVE the head swivel cuz it feels like his eyes are!! leading!! us!! to where!! we should be looking !! next!!! UGHHHH THE IMPORVEMENT.

it adds movement IT FEELS SO ALIVE!! IT FEELS SO MUCH MORE IMMERSIVE!! SHEDDING REAL TEARS!!! AUGHHHHHHH THE ANATOMY IMPROVEMENT (i scream for the millionth time) but also HEEHEE HAND IMPROVEMENT !!! I SEE HAND!! AUGHH IM SO INSANE ABOUT HOW MUCH THE HANDS IMPROVED THEY CONVAY SO MUCH IM STUDYING HOW YOU DRAW THEM SO HARD

also i saw the redraw and went "heeehee he's so burly omg" before i realised it was a remake and now im insane over how much you beefed him up. thats so real and correct of you actually. OKAYYYYY WE'RE GETTING TO THE ACTION. WOW I HAVE SO MUCH TO YAP ABOUT.

LOOKAT THAT IMPACT. UGHHHHHHH LOOK AT THAT ANATOMY UNDERSTANDING AND HOW IT FEELS LIKE REAL MUSCLE HITTING THE GROUND. UHGHHHH IM SO INSANE THAT LOOKS SO GOOD IT LOOKS SO AUGHDYRYURRJHEHBFHFEVHBEH im doing laps. i love how you hint at existing muscle im studying your art under a microscope. THIS SHOT. THIS PIN. its almost the exact same pose but UGHHHH THE IMPROVEMENT.

i love how theres so much more tension in the way you draw figures. it feels so purposeful. i love the bunching of muscles as they interact with each other and the slight camera angle change that makes you FEEL the weight of ghost pressing down. i love the change in expressions too!! it feels like konig is taking this seriously and actively struggling against ghost's grip and IUGHH i could go on forever but also HEE HEE HANDS!!! HANDS WERE DRAWN!! HAND UNDERSTANDING IMPROVED!!! (i love. so much. sorry i keep pointing it out) THIS. IMPACT. GOES SO HARD UGHH.UHEWFHIUFIUHFRDF. i love LOVE the experience that putting FORCE into the movement speaks to

i LOVE HOW DYNAMIC IT IS I LOVE THE SLIGHT ANGLE OF THE GROUND TO REALLY FEEL HOW IT REELS TO HAVE YOUR FACE SMASHED INTO THE GROUND LIKE THAT hehe i love hand i LOVE hand i love how you draw hand THIS SHOTTTTTT THIS SHOT THIS SHOT THIS SHOT (i say. but i am fully aware ive just been going frame by frame)

I LOVE THE CHANGE IN ANGLE I AM SCREECHING I AM FROTHING AT THE MOUTH I FEEL SICKKKKK. THAT PERSPECTIVE CHANGE IM GOING INSANE ITS SO DYNAMIC IT FEELS SO GROUNDED i love how your character interact with each other and the way you draw the give of flesh and cloth is so :((( IS SO. IM STUDYING OKAY. IM LOOKING. IM STARING SO HARD. but also the redraw really makes you feel what its like from konig's perspective and and how ghost is looming over him and you feel it so much more keenly cuz he feels like he's looming over US (the audience) and and THE COMIC MAKING SKILLS SHOW THEYRE SHOWING THEY SHOW I SEE THEM I SEE THE SKILLS love the weight of his knees hitting the floor. love how CLEAR you made it in the redraw even though it was totally understandable in the og love how you panel things you make it look so easy and i KNOWWW its not and its just so AUGHHH

love the perspective change again love how CLEAR AND CLEAN IT IS TO REALLY FEEL KONIG BEING CHOKED (slay) AND THE NEW PERSPECTIVE CREATES SO MUCH TENSION IN FORM AND ADDS SO MUCH TO THE STORY AND AND i love the slight change in konig's pose cuz he's still trying to break free and in the redraw its like a show of ghost's strength and skill that he's not budging even when konig is making a genuine effort AND AND IM. IM SO. UGHHH ITS JUST DONE SO WELL OKAY. HEEHEE THE HAAANDSSS i love how you posed them a little differently to give the readers clear view of what theyre both doing while still keeping pretty much everything the same

BUT ALSO THE BODY LANGUAGE. in the og (i loved this shot of the og btw it still goes hard) he looks slumped over, it feel passive, its like he's defeated and just letting ghost whammy him into the ground over and over which is real but the redraw adds so much DETAIL AND STORY OKAY ITS SO AUGHHH LIKE LOOK AT THE LITTLE WORD ADDITION I FORGOT THE NAME it makes it feel like he's trying to catch his breath and also like he's moving instead of being slumped over and it shows he made an EFFORT in the spar like lOOK HE'S BREAKING A SWEAT HE DOESNT LOOK DEFEATED IT JUST LOOKS LIKE HE'S STRAINING WHICH HE SHOULD BE CUZ HE'S PARTICIPATING IN THE LESSON ITS SO REAL ITS SO IUERHFIUREHFGIURFGRIUGIU ITS SOOOOOO. but also heeehee ghost is so burly in the redraw i love how you gave him a little bit of pudge but thats not the point here sorry i got distracted AUGHHH THE HAAAAAANDS sorry ive been struggling with hands recently and seeing you draw them so well is making me spin circles in joy

BUT THIS. THIS SHOT. UGH. I LOVE HOW HE HAS HIS HAND BRACED AGAINST THE GROUND AND ITS LEANING BACK IN THE REDRAW. he looks shy and startled instead of nervous and uncomfortable AND THATS SO. ITS SO STORYTELLING ITS SO PEAK POSING ITS SO IMPROVEMENT ITS SO. i really struggle with having characters interact believable with the things around them and the redraw just shows how weighted and grounded your art feels and and its so inspiring actually sorry if i keep using the same words but its TRUE love the realistic change of the mask being yanked from the chin instead of grabbing ghost's face and also i love how much more real? the fabric looks bunching in his hands AND ALSO EEE the HANDSSS

but also i cant reall say anything here that i havent said above so instead is repeating myself like a freak i will scream and shout into the void unintelligibly AUGHHHHHH THE POSES THE HANDS IUIE3RIHFTRIUGTUG EEEEEEEE THE ACTION LINES I DONT KNOW WHAT THEYRE CALLED BUT AUGHHH THEY ADD SO MUCH LIFE AND MOVEMENT AUGHHHHH. HEEE HEE HANDS but also i love how he looks angry/intense here instead of shocked like the redraw. its a lovely reminder he is, at the end of the day, a dangerous violent guy in a violent profession. very cool 10/10 change

skipping over ghost being pinned cuz i have nothing better to say than "heehee. nice." and im getting dangerously close to the 30 picture limit ugh i LOVE how you draw ghost looming every frame he's in. he's such a solid undeniable presence that feels so correct with his character. i love how he's so looming he's covering most of konig which adds to the feeling of konig scrambling back like YES. THIS IS SO CORRECT. i love how in the redraw konig's hands are tucked to his chest instead of waving like he's trying to make himself smaller and less of a threat. VERY COOL. very sick. very nice.

to end it off, i love how smug you redrew johnny. like look at that fuckass smile. look at that SMIRK. that eyebrow raise johnny i know what you are. i also love how the long mullet propaganda from the monster au came back to haunt the redraw 10/10 excellent wow that took so long to put together holy shit. IN SUMMARY. dude. i'm sure you dont need me to say anything. dont look at me. but i've been following your art for half a decade (only found this account last year by accident but i've been on the other one) and your improvement is so incredible and its so inspiring and i've been looking up to you since i first started drawing (this is not an exaggeration) and i love your comics and you've always been such a pillar in what i strive for in my skills and I DUNNO MAN YOUR IMPROVEMENT IS SO OBVIOUS AND IM ALSO VERY EMOTIONAL AND ITS SO COOL and i love your art and LIKE AGAIN, ME SAYING THIS MEANS NOTHING BUT like. i know deeply how much WORK goes into skill like this and its so ugh i know ive used the word inspirational like 30 times BUT I DONT HAVE A BETTER ONE and yeah. love your stuff. perceive your skills. sorry i went insane in your askbox i really hope you done mind. i also hope you know how cool you are. <333 have a nice day! :)

"me saying this means nothing" it means everything jelly...(i hope its okay i call you jelly, i went to your blog to see what you like to go by bc after such a long and thoughtful message i felt like i couldn't not refer to you by your name). ive been having a real tough time for a while struggling with my relationship with my own art and my stamina and how things that used to come so quickly and easily seem to come so much slower and. just the fact that someone out there feels so much about my work that they'd sit down to write such a long message (with screenshots!!!!) means so much more than i could put into words...like you interpreting all the little things like slight alterations in posing or angles and even the shading like...the care....im just so touched

im really so unbelievably grateful and happy over this message, it made me genuinely grin from ear to ear seeing you appreciate all these little details and my art improvement and god, you saying you've been watching my work for half a decade is OOFT but so, so humbling and kind. and. yeah uhhhh thank you so much? for all of this? and being here still, somehow? i just. yeah. im kinda just lost for words. thank you so much. what a wonder it is to be perceived...

(also, idk if you ever stop feeling like you don't know how to draw hands, im definitely still in that boat looking at some of my peers!! which isn't to deter you or be condescending and i hope it doesn't come off that way, just that it's a relatable feeling and I definitely know how you feel some days ;_;)

[corvidmellow]

"So you crossed half the continent just to not do the work we've hired you to do?"

"Woah woah woah there," the assassin holds out a gloved hand waving the squire down. "I'm not hired yet."

This much is true. They'd crossed mountains and plains to get to the kingdom, but honestly, they'd also pissed off a loooot of people where they'd come from, so a change of scenery is more than welcome, even if it is sounding like it's going to be temporary.

The squire, a young looking man with dark hair that sweeps over thick brows, huffs and goes to stomp a foot, then seems to realize that that's quite a childish thing to do and instead crosses his arms over his chest. "You were called here by my sir knight, so you should-"

"I came here of my own free will," the assassin reminds the squire. "Your letter was preeeeetty vague, so I agreed to come scope it out before signing a contract."

In fact, the assassin hadn't even signed their name at the end of their own response letter. They've been scammed before and aren't terribly keen to have it happen again.

The squire looks even more annoyed, if that's even possible.

"It should be your duty as a citizen t-" "Hey, woah, okay. First of all, I don't live here. I've got nothing to do with this. Second of all, EH." The assassin makes an exaggerated shrugging gesture. "My political beliefs are more along the lines of 'pay me to not pay attention' and I just kill people on the side. I'm very easily swayed one way or the other, and I'm not gonna lie to you, she seems like she has a lot more money than you or your knight do."

They know they're just toying with the squire now, but his face just keeps getting redder and the assassin's glee only grows. They're digging themself a grave and it's never been more entertaining to pick up a shovel.

"The- I- Well- Hmph!" The squire looks around desperately, shifting on the spot and trying to find something scathing to say. "The queen wouldn't be interested in you anyways!"

At that, the assassin shrugs again, gloved hands lifting level with their cocked head. "Maybe not, but I'm young, I'm dumb, and she looks like she knows her way around a dungeon, if y'know what I mean."

They give the squire a dramatic and suggestive waggle of their eyebrows, which draws an outraged half-shout from him, but their mind is elsewhere.

The long, dark hallway of the throne room, where the queen had sat, a stunning centerpiece draped in lascivious reds and purples. The nobles that had come and go, all looking dull and frightened next to her unrelenting aura of strength and power. The flick of a spiked silver gauntlet, glittering in the torch light. The shine of those same torches across exposed cleavage.

What really takes up space in the assassins head, though, is the moment--the singular, heart-stopping moment--when the queen had looked directly at them. Calculating dark eyes had sought their own in the shadows of the rafters, and when they had met, one finger drew itself inward in a gestured command the assassin still intends to obey.

Come to me.

The assassin is shaken out of their reverie by the squire snapping his fingers far too close to their face. Their hand instinctively twitches towards their quiver for a moment, then stills.

"Will you still accept the contract?"

Oh. Is he still on that?

The assassin sighs, then props a hand up on their hip. "How about this, I'll go meet the queen and make sure she doesn't have a better offer for me, and then maybe we can talk. Sound good?"

The squire seems to realize right then and there what the assassin's been trying to tell him the entire time, and his hand drops to his sword.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that."

"Shame. For you, that is," the assassin cracks a smile, gapped teeth bright in the dying light of evening, "I don't take orders from people who haven't paid me."

The squire doesn't even have time to fully draw his sword before the assassin's thrown themself over the side of the bridge, landing a little less than gracefully in the river below.

However, for all their mishaps, for all of the excitement of the day, for how heavy their sopping wet clothes are, they return to the castle. And when they collapse to their knees; when the queen sits forward to appraise them; when the cool finger of her gauntlet curls under their chin to guide their wide, willing eyes to meet her own sly, approving ones; they don't think they could imagine a better outcome for this venture.

"Let me put this in a way you'll understand: you may have summoned me, but the evil queen is like really hot, and my moral compass is very hormonal."

[effervescentwolf]

"No one believes me," Buck complains when Eddie picks up the phone, "when I say that I'm not in love with you."

Eddie's heart drops. Then, like his stomach isn't still in his throat, like he doesn't feel out of his body for no reason at all, "Hey, Buck." He gestures, imagines Buck's hands waving around as he talks. "Hi, Eddie. How's the house?" Then, back to himself, "Finally unpacked most of my stuff. How's your unpacking going?"

"I don't get it," Buck continues morosely like he didn't even hear Eddie. He sounds a little like a kicked puppy, and there's a fond little feeling tugging at Eddie's chest. It feels good to feel that again, even though it hasn't been that long yet.

Yet.

But it still feels like something familiar in this unfamiliar house, familiar in a way all of Eddie's worldly possessions don't either. The closest he got to comfort were Christopher's things, and then the things Buck has bought him over the years. The rest felt—impersonal.

"You told them I'm straight?" Eddie says, and there's that other feeling again, the one that makes him feel like he's missed a step when walking, like his feet are being swept right out from under him.

"That's what I said," Buck says, glum. "Even Tommy—"

"Tommy?" Eddie repeats, brows drawing together, warmth in his chest snapping shut, like turning a key in a lock, like there's something closing up.

"Yeah, I—" Buck starts and stops. "I—I ran into him the other night when I was out with Ravi, and—"

"You were out with Ravi? Didn't think you two had much in common," Eddie says, not sure why he asks or why he says it, not sure what he wants to know. Buck didn't tell him that though, and it feels almost like panic for a second, except Eddie doesn't panic, and Buck isn't—Buck is his best friend. Buck just... hadn't told him yet.

"Yeah, Maddie said I needed to make friends so—" Buck groans. "Why is this so hard?"

He's whining. Eddie smiles despite himself, fiddles with the hem of his shirt. "Never really needed to," he says absently.

"I know! And I'm fine being alone—uh, not that I'm alone," Buck immediately backtracks, still doing that thing of stepping around Eddie to protect him.

"Buck," is all Eddie has to say.

"But I can't sleep in your house and pretend," Buck says, and now it's an outpour, "It doesn't feel like my house. Even when I—I hooked up with Tommy here, and—"

"What?" Eddie says, and he thinks the only thing keeping him standing is the way he's about to shatter his phone with his grip, so tight it hurts, fingers numb, mouth dry, heart pounding. "Buck, why would you—"

"I know, I know," Buck replies hastily, "I won't do it again. I thought it was—I mean I didn't want to be alone, but he asked me—he thought I was in love with you," he rounds out, sounding small, and Eddie has to swallow two times before he can even say anything. Buck beats him to it, still on a roll. "I guess he was... jealous? I get it, I guess."

Eddie's lips are numb now. He still feels a flicker of something vindictive, a little bit of satisfaction. That's what he gets for breaking Buck's heart, he thinks. Should've stayed away in the first place. "You get it," he repeats anyway.

"Yeah, I mean—you know," Buck says, hesitant, and Eddie can see him so clearly it hurts, see the way his face scrunches up, the way he shrugs and turns his shoulders inward like he's trying to hide, just a little. "We're—close. We're—you know. You and me."

"Yeah," Eddie says. He's not choked up, not really, but he's so grateful for everything he has, and he's just—he's glad he has Buck. He misses him, and he's glad for him. If he has to blink back tears, there's no one to witness it. "Me and you."

Buck doesn't respond for an eternity. "I just miss you," he says eventually, soft.

"Not in love with me, though?" Eddie has to ask, and he doesn't know why.

Buck laughs a little, sheepish. "Not in love with you," he says, and what he should sound is relieved, but he sounds nervous, mostly.

What Eddie should be is relieved. But it takes him another eternity to realize he's not that, and he's not breathing either, and then he inhales and the world keeps going, and Buck is still on the other end of the phone, and he thinks there's a very tiny part of him, something hidden away in a corner, something that he hasn't dared touch, that wonders what it would have been like in another world and another conversation where he wasn't the tiniest bit, guiltily, disappointed.

[ent-is-indecisive]

id : a sketchy digital painting primarily in shades of dark teal and muted red. charles, in a red polo and dark trousers both embroidered and customised, is kneeling on a bed nearly in profile. he is looking up at edwin who is standing in front of him with an expression half awed, half pained. edwin is holding charles' face in both of his hands, looking down at him kindly, also in profile, wearing his teal jumper and dark slacks, both discreetly embroidered with some small flowers. over charles' head is a circle with sun-like rays, while edwin has concentric partial circles reminiscent of a (de)crescent moon. at the bottom of the frame are softly shining outlines of marigolds and heliotropes./end id

helloooooo im back with the second out of three sketches for 'i would worship you instead of him' by purposefullyinlove/ @coraline-piange as usual it was supposed to be a fun sketch, and then i kept going over stuff and now it's a half tidy half messy half painting. don't look at the heliotropes, the last stretch of this drawing already made me forget lunch on my lunch break. anyways, peace and love to all of you, and other colours under the cut.

id : the same drawings as the first one, without the flowers and halo overlays. one is in black and white, the other in shades of red and yellow./end id

[fairyhaos]

◈ over the hills and far away // boo seungkwan

seungkwan x gn!reader, 2.1k+ words

tags: requested by anon and @raevyng, established relationship, fluff, picnics, ducks, spring, cw for food mentions

notes: is that nursery rhyme reference in the title? why yes. yes it is. also this is pure 100% rambly fluff lol enjoy

summary: you and seungkwan go on a picnic date out to the park. that's it, thats the fic.

“did you know,” you say conversationally, swinging a basket by your side, “that ducks are partially nocturnal?”

seungkwan, walking side by side with you down the pavement, smiles and shakes his head. “no way. have you seen a duck before? they're the most non-nocturnal birds you'll ever see.”

you laugh, tugging seungkwan into your side by your intertwined hands. “well, they're not fully nocturnal. they're just often active at night also, ‘cause… hm, actually i don't know why. but i do know they like hunting and stuff at night because they have great night vision.”

a look of horror dawns over your boyfriend's face. “so i can still get chased by ducks even in the middle of the night?”

“just stay indoors at night, babe.”

“what?! so now the ducks are locking me inside my house?”

seungkwan wrinkles his nose in distaste, dramatically horrified by this revelation, before you laugh again and his face melts into a smile. he doesn't actually have anything against ducks, but he likes making you laugh. 

today, the two of you are out on a date. nothing special, but the weather is finally, finally warming up after what felt like the longest winter ever, and so you've decided to have a picnic date with your boyfriend in the park, under the blue sky and among the green grass. 

seungkwan's quite excited about this date, to be honest. he hates the cold months, so march is always like a godsend to him. and to top it all off, he's spending time with you, the literal love of his life. nothing can be better than that. 

“hey, don't swing the basket like that! be careful, you're going to ruin the apple pie i made,” seungkwan complains, just as the two of you arrive at the park. 

you look down at the basket, peering inside it worriedly. “it's fine,” you reassure. “also, what do you mean? we made this pie together.”

“you mean you bought the pastry and then sat there twiddling your thumbs whilst i did the actual baking?”

you beam brightly. “but i looked so pretty while you baked, didn't i?”

seungkwan rolls his eyes, fond. “i suppose.” he looks out at the park, surveying the green area. “where do you wanna sit, by the way?”

“oh!” your eyes light up, and you tug on your intertwined hands towards the willow trees framing the pond on the other side of the park. “come on. let's go over there.”

you make your way across the park, and once a spot has been found that you deem acceptable, seungkwan spreads out the picnic blanket he was carrying and then takes the basket from your hands, taking out all the food as you remove your shoes and kneel on the blanket. 

“be careful,” you echo his words from earlier, when seungkwan lifts the apple pie out of the weave basket. “you’re going to ruin the apple pie you made.”

seungkwan raises an eyebrow at you, unimpressed, and you giggle. 

“c'mon, kwan,” you say, shuffling forward, crossing your legs, “quick, get out the food. there's bread inside, and i wanna feed it to the ducks.”

at that moment, seungkwan fishes out the bag of bread, and your face lights up. you make a move to grab it from him, but he instantly draws back, holding up a hand to stop you.

“hey, hey, not yet,” he says, when you pout at him. “let’s eat first, hm? then you can feed the ducks as much as you want.” he gestures to the food he’s already taken out of the basket. “i worked so hard to prepare all of this, i don’t want it to just sit here sadly whilst you do something else.”

he looks genuinely very sad as he says this, corners of his mouth turned downwards at an adorable angle as his eyes melt with disappointment. you smile, endeared, happily settling down next to him again with a placating kiss on his cheek.

“okay, babe. let’s eat the food we made.”

“uh, actually, i made most of it.”

“nonsense. i had the very important role of sitting there and looking pretty.”

───────────── ‘🌿, 

if anyone asked you, you'd say that this outing, this activity right now—the sitting out in the park, eating sandwiches with your boyfriend underthe big willow tree—is actually part 2 of your date which started, like, a week ago. 

you've been patiently waiting (or, impatiently waiting, in seungkwan's opinion) for the weather to clear up so you can finally go out on that picnic date that you've been dying to have for ages. having a picnic with your boyfriend (a.k.a the most wonderful person on the planet) on a lovely pleasant day sounds like heaven, and you know that seungkwan feels the same way. 

(that's kind of why the two of you work so well together. you're kind of telepathically linked.) 

and so, when you'd checked the forecast a week ago and seen that today would be a delightfully sunny day, you'd jumped at the chance to finally begin preparing for the perfect park picnic date. in your opinion, there are very few things that are better than getting to sit and talk and eat with seungkwan as the spring breeze rustles the leaves on the trees and the sun shines merrily down on you. so for the past week, you've been very busily preparing for this date. 

for example, the spread of cheese and crackers you're currently feeding seungkwan? you cut them into flower shapes with him five whole days ago. 

“is it good?” you ask, as seungkwan chews thoughtfully through his mouthful, half of the cracker still in your hands.  

“not bad,” he says, slightly muffled, wiping the crumbs from his lips. “i liked the cranberry cheese more, though.”

your eyes light up, and you feed seungkwan the rest of the cracker. “right? i thought so too! let's buy more of the cranberry cheddar later.”

the two of you have been working on all this food for a week, together, and in your honest opinion, that time spent together counts as part 1 of your date. it's just… all quality time spent with seungkwan counts as a date, you think. you just love doing anything with him. 

currently, most of the food you've prepared is pretty much gone. both of you are pretty big eaters, and the pleasant weather has only increased your appetite. there's only the apple pie left. 

“alright,” seungkwan says, once the two of you have had time to fully prepare yourselves for the main event. he really did work hard on this pie, and he'll be damned if you don't get to appreciate it to its fullest. “i hope you're ready for the best thing you've ever had in your entire life.”

you laugh, adjusting yourself on the picnic blanket as seungkwan brandishes a serrated knife at the apple pie. it really is such a pretty creation, and you praise him for it now as he cuts you a slice. 

“you really worked so hard, i'm so proud of you,” you coo, smiling when his ears instantly turn red at the compliments. “this looks gorgeous, my love. i can't believe you did this.”

“well you better believe it, ‘cause i did,” seungkwan says, face red but his eyes shining. he places a slice onto your plate at the same time as he places a kiss onto the top of your hair. “and i hope it tastes as good as it looks, else i'm throwing myself into the pond.”

you laugh, picking up your place and inspecting the slice carefully. “have more faith in yourself, kwan. i'm sure this tastes amazing.”

with that, you lift your fork and take a bite of the pie, chewing very slowly as seungkwan watches you, expression pensive and anxious. 

your face freezes mid-bite, turning wide eyes to seungkwan and he freezes too, scared. you slowly resume chewing, and then after what feels like an eternity, you swallow and clear your throat. 

“oh my god. kwan, that's amazing.”

his face melts in relief so prominent that it's almost tangible, and you laugh. 

“you made me so worried there!” he complains, finally relaxed enough to finish cutting himself a slice. “i thought i did really badly or something.”

“of course not,” you say, still laughing as you continue eating your slice. “it's delicious. i love it so much.”

he smiles at you, your cheeks full of his pastry, your eyes crinkled with joy that he instilled in you. “and i love you so much.”

your face contorts at that, somewhere between cringing and cooing at his words. “baby, that's so cheesy!”

“i can't help it,” he says, smiling. “you bring out the sap in me.” and then seungkwan takes a bite of his own pie, and he does a double take in amazement. “oh my—wow. this really is amazing.”

he's looking at you in disbelief, and you can't help but beam back. 

“i told you. i love it so much.”

seungkwan's eyes crinkle, overjoyed. 

───────────── ‘🌿, 

“okay, so can i go feed the ducks now?”

after polishing off your second slice of apple pie, you're now more than ready to finally give the lovely ducks some of your attention now too. seungkwan looks up at your question from where he's tidying away the cutlery, and nods with a dramatic sigh. 

“i guess. i guess you can leave your boyfriend to go throw bread at some ducks, if that's what you really—”

“awesome! you're the best!”

you grab the bag of bread before seungkwan can even finish, shuffling over to the side of the picnic blanket to get your shoes. he rolls his eyes in faux exasperation at your excitement, before moving over to you also. 

“wait, y/n.”

you look up as he nears you, before he leans down, closer to your face, and the pad of his thumb swipes over the skin on the side of your mouth. he pulls away, looking terribly pleased with himself. 

“you had some apple sauce on your face,” he says, all sweet, as if your face isn't burning from that one simple gesture. 

“woah,” you say softly, dumbfounded. “that was so smooth.”

seungkwan laughs, incredibly delighted with your reaction. he leans in a presses a swift kiss to your cheek. “off you go,” he says brightly. “you can go feed your ducks now.”

you blink rapidly at him, looking like you're in a daze, before a slow smile spreads across your face and you reach over to peck him on the mouth. 

“if you're going to kiss me, do it right,” you say, smiling, before jumping up and running off to the pond. 

seungkwan watches you go, a smile on his face and his heart in your hands, so devastatingly fond that it makes his chest hurt. and then he turns back to continue packing away the picnic, pulse singing in his ears. 

you're the sweetest, loveliest person he's ever had the pleasure of meeting, and he's so lucky to love you. everything you do is just so—kind, so sweet, so full of affection and it has him melting. 

like this date, for example. you've been so excited to go out with him now the weather's finally turned, and he's had so much fun prepping for it with you. for any other couple, going to the park and having a picnic wouldn't be such a big deal, but it is for you: partially because it's something you love, but also because you know seungkwan will love it too. 

he loves how you pay attention to those kinds of details, how you light up his day by being so passionate and so kind. 

he feels so lucky to love you, because truly, he loves you so much. 

“ah!”

your panicked scream makes him look up, and he sees you whirling around to face him, an incredulous look on your face. 

“seungkwan! the duck just stole the bread right from my hands!”

you look so wronged, like the duck has committed an unspeakable crime, and seungkwan can only laugh, endeared. 

“clearly they don't appreciate you,” he calls. “unlike me. come back to me and don't pay attention to the ducks anymore.”

in an instant, your face brightens into a brilliant beam. 

“okay!’ you say, and come skipping back to the picnic blanket, situating yourself at seungkwan's side, resting your cheek against his shoulder, asking him about what else there is in the basket. 

and there, under the sun with your laughter warm in his ears, seungkwan feels perfectly content. 

fics tags: @jeonginssa @weird-bookworm @minhui896 @slytherinshua @haowrld @belladaises @moonlitskiiies @mirxzii @zozojella @kawennote09 @a-wandering-stay @abibliolife @wonranghaeee @icyminghao @sweet-like-caramel @your-yxnnie @odxrilove @kyeomyun @crackedpumpkin @kellesvt @eightlightstar @onlyyjeonghan @aaniag @starshuas @raevyng @isabellah29 @hrts4hanniehae @mcu-incorrect @dokyeomkyeom @suraandsugar @tulsa24 @melodicrabbit @dokyeomkyeom @hopeless-foolery @aaa-sia

[demonic0angel]

Dani being violently protective of Kon and/or Tim.

She snarled.

“Spirit,” Superman argued as gently as he could. “They need help. We can help. Please let us through so we can get to them.”

“No!” She swiped at them with her claws, drawing blood as Green Lantern had tried to reach for them. He pulled back with a yelp, eying her with alarm. She hissed again, bristling like a cat.

Looking at her, she was practically feral, crouched over the unconscious bodies of Red Robin and Superboy. Her pupils turned into pinpricks as she glared at them in mindless rage, her fangs bared and her wispy hair ablaze like a living fire. If any of the heroes approached them, she was quick to scratch or blast them with her ghost rays.

Superman glanced at Batman in worry, who was similarly stiff. No one could think of a plan to both subdue her and take away the unconscious boys without more injuries.

None of them wanted to hurt Spirit or the two boys, but the latter were bleeding out and desperately needed medical attention. Spirit had been protecting them for hours now until the Justice League had finally arrived, and it looked as though she needed medical assistance herself, bleeding green from various cuts and bruises.

A voice spoke up then. “It’s a wonder how she hasn’t passed out yet. Move, please.”

Everyone stepped aside as Phantom floated over, eying Spirit who was spitting mad, furiously hissing at anyone who approached Superboy and Red Robin.

“Dani,” he said suddenly, “you need to let us see them. They’re going to die if they don’t get medical attention now.”

Spirit shook her head. “No! No!” However, she seemed to recognize Phantom and she faltered, glancing downward at where she was covering Red Robin and Superboy.

Phantom was calm. “No, they will. I can tell. You have to let us help them. Or they’ll die.”

“No! N-No…” Spirit mumbled, her hair flickering.

Phantom reached for her and she didn’t move as he gently touched her face, rubbing the blood away from a scratch. “Sleep. We’ll take care of them, alright? On my honor, little sister.”

Spirit stared at him and then her eyes fluttered shut before she dropped like a stone. There was a bright light and when everyone blinked the spots out of their eyes, Phantom had Spirit wrapped up in his jacket, concealing her underneath. He lifted her into his arms and then said, “You should take the other two. I’ll take care of Spirit.”

As he turned to leave, Batman reached for his shoulder. Phantom paused and turned with a sigh. “Before you ask, yes, we have to have a talk about why my sister is so overprotective over your son. Yes, he will have to fight to the death for her hand. No, you can’t stop it from happening.”

Batman froze in place and then sighed loudly. “No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. Spirit is your sister?”

Phantom rolled his eyes. “Yes. Now go and take care of your son.”

Batman stared after him as Phantom flew off. Superman approached him and then they both looked at each other.

They had a lot to talk about.

[writingoddess1125]

We Missed You pt. 2

Welp- Didn't expect this to be liked so much, So to keep with theme. Wrote during a lecture. (After late night brainstorming)

Nikto x FemReader + OOC

<<< Part 1

Warnings: Creepy shit, Stalking, Awkwardness

NOTE: If you've never seen Nikto from COD before he does have acute dissociative disorder, so at times he will refer to himself as 'Us/We' a bit randomly.

Let's see..

'How to share custody with a shady military parent?'

1. Seek legal advice

Yeah that wasn't going to work, Doubt that you even knew Nikto real name. Let alone could think to afford a lawyer nor wanted to legally deal with whatever he was tied into-

2. Prioritize child's care- make sure other parent wants to be involved.

Well- Nikto had seemly wanted to be involved in some way, He hadn't done anything wrong yet...

So far you'd only seen him once more but it had only been two weeks since he seemed to just appear in your home- of course at night which seemed to be his prefered hours of life, Having dropped off a about a 2000 dollars randomly then Once again creepily looked at Ava who has awake that time and the two having this weird game of staring at each other.

Which was something you suppose-

3. Create a Military- Specific Parenting Plan

You sighed, Doubting once again if a guy who literally didn't show his face would really want a legit custody agreement.

'Oh Hey, I'm gonna be gone foorrrr however long in a country I can't talk about- But can I have Ava for the weekend?'

Yeah No-

Welp Thanks Google-

Snapping from your disappointing phone search as you hear the shrill cry of Ava in her crib- Having woken up from her nap for needing to be changed it seemed.

It still baffled your mind that you had started to understand the cries of your daughter- biology is fucking wild..

"I gotcha I gotcha pretty girl"

Rolling up from bed you grab her to bring to the changing table. You are quick to change her and put her in a fresh onsie. Her bottom lip still poked out and eyes watery as she looked up at you still coming down from her crying fit.

"It's okay Ava, All better hm?"

Grateful she was fast to calm down this time around. After a moment you looked to her, seeing how now calm was rocking herself side to side a bit- Something your recently learned was the signs of her eventually able to roll over.

"Welp, looks like its tummy time"

You smile scooping her up you do a quick walk to the livingroom, sliding the little foam mat to you and lay her down on her stomach, Seeing how she babbled and made some random noises- adding some spicy kicks it seemed.

"Really?-"

Laying down next to her you can't help but smile at her random noises. Deciding to just have a made up conversation with her random vocals.

"Oh wow, You're a scholar in the making? And dancing?.. Triple threat right here"

Handing over toys that had random fruit and vegetables on it, seemingly the corn one had caught her attention this time as she held and shook it repeatedly.

"Yeah its Corn-"

She grunted some and continued to shake the toy a little as she gave a loud gargled squeal.

"I know right, It's absolutely A-mazing"

You hum out in a stupid voice, Earning another little babbled squeal from her. As you go to reach for another toy for her you see her gaze go up suddently, Looking behind you as she lifts her head more to look at whatever had caught her attention.

Your face scrunched up at this as you turn and see a dark figure standing over you, Drawing a small shriek from you before you quickly realize who it is.

"God Damn it Nikto!"

You rub your face, Coming down from the spike of adrenaline you'd just experienced. Nikto staring you down, you could practically feel him smirking at you.

"Must you always just appear? You can knock on the door or something-"

Grunting as you get up from the floor rather ungracefully, and glare at him. Nikto crossing his arms as he glanced around the room a bit almost inspecting it before looking back down at Ava clearly ignoring your complaint.

Once again starting his odd staring contest with the current baby who was trying to wiggle in what almost looked like poorly executed swimming.

"I gotta know- What's with the staring game?" You couldn't really help but ask.

"She is my daughter. We can look"

He mumbled rolling his eyes. Smartass..

"Yes. But why do you only look at her?"

Nikto is quiet again, moving his head side to side slowly- A habit you were starting to pick up on when he seemed to be conflicted.

"....She is small..."

You hear the tone in his voice change slightly at saying that as it clicks. He was nervous to pick up his child?

"Well, if you want you can hold her"

He grunted, Shaking his head 'no' almost too fast. You couldn't help yourself as you gave a bit of a dramatic shrug.

"Well, Thats unfortunate. Someone who can break into a apartment but cant hold a baby.. What a shame"

Nikto casting you a intense side glare as he knew damn well you were giving him a small jab to his ego. A hella dangerous game but, You needed some sort of win.

"Fine.."

You cackle at this- bending down you scoop up Ava to bring to her Father. Who was currently holding out his large gloved hands like how one would go to hold a pet, and seemingly unsure of how to even take her from you.

Your as hesitant as Nikto for a split second as he awkwardly picked her under her armpit from your hands, which makes her head bobble and your fast to support it. Nikto seemingly catching on quickly as he pulls her to his chest so she was rested against him.

Ava was able to be easily secured by just one of his hands which almost took up her whole back and bottom, Leaving the other hand just hovering near her like when someone guarded a flame from going out.

He stood almost perfectly still then.

You see a flash of absolute terror in his eyes as he feels her pressed gently to him. Like processing that the child he'd been staring at was actually real and currently breathing and moving against him.

He looks down slowly at her while she stares up at him, Her legs kicking a bit as she did so and still a bit bobbly. The two having that weird game of staring at each other again.

It was like this for a solid minute or so-

Before Nikto turned away from you rather suddently, His back to you completely as you see his free hand shift up to his mask and he slowly pulls it up. His body language was awkward at best as he seemed to be letting his daughter see his face and waiting for a reaction.

For a second your thought you saw a peak of dark brown hair. However you didn't dare go to actually look, Ava babbled a little as she stared up at him still- Drool coming down her chin as she gave a gummy sorta smile and continued her squeals. Her tiny hands grabbing at his hoodie and looking around overall before back to his face. Nikto shoulders seen to relax then.

You hear him mumble something in his native tongue seeming a small conversation- It was impossible to hear really by how soft he was speaking. However it seemed to keep Ava attention slightly, another to were she gave another odd drool filled squeal.

A soft chuckle leaving him as you only seeing his head dip slightly in what you assume was him kissing the top of her head before retracting and pulling his mask back down, Securing it in place before turning back to you to hand her over very carefully. Clearly only willing to hold her for a short period of time.

"You Okay?" You can't help but ask, Seeing the way his gaze seemed to be locked onto Ava still however much softer, almost spaced out. He nodded sharply.

"..She has a middlename right?"

Blinking at the suddently whiplash question- it feeling like there was only pop-ups of weirdness or terror from Nikto everytime he was here.

"Um, Yes? It's-"

"I want add Igorevna to it-"

"What?" Now just confused. Curious how him holding his daughter for a few minutes now was leading to a very minor name change of all things.

"Adding Igorevna to her name. Is that fine?"

"What like a second middle name?"

He gave a 50/50 sign at that, Which you have to surpress the eye roll on. Figuring you shouldn't bother asking what it ment. He probably wouldn't tell you anyway.

This was not a battle you wanted to get into- Besides adding another middle name wasn't terrible. You didn't really understand why this was something he wanted but seemed easy to give at least-

"Sure. I'll call the Vital records office this week an-"

He held up a hand to stop you quickly.

"Dont. We'll have done by the end of the week-"

Ah Yes, You'd forgot that soft terror that plauged you about this man- Of course he would have some magical way to change your daughter's middle name in a week.

"Also I gave you money to get more things."

Setting Ava back down on the mat now on her back with another toy toy.

"Well I used it to get Ava stuff and put the rest to the side incase of emergencies for her-"

"Yourself too. Its ment for you to take care of Ava and You. You need better care, youre terrible at it"

He said casually, Shaking your head mildly offended by him.

"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself thank you very muc-"

"(Y/N) you are unable at drinking water, you have had 'snacks' for lunches, you have not done your laundry nor showered in 2 days, all vegetables are frozen and 70% of diet is from the microwave or from box- You care for Ava, not yourself"

....

"Did.. Did you bug my house?"

You manage out, Staring him dead in the eyes at the painfully detailed critiques. He didn't say anything, just stared at you in return with a blank look. A cold shiver doing down your spine at the silent confirmation of his actions.

"Wait how many times have you been in here without me knowing?-"

"We will give more to you. Get better food and all you need-"

He said calmly, Brushing your question off casually as if he hadn't just told you he had been spying on you hard core. Pulling once more a tight wad of cash that was tossed to the near by coffee table. Before Nikto walked off without another word, Leaving you both terrified, shocked and heavily conflicted over what to really do next?..

Oh what the fuck is your life..

You did however comply with his wishes, Honestly too worried at what hed do otherwise- better food was purchased, as well as some clothes that weren't sweatpants, a big waterbottle too and other basic things you had been needing.

It was rather terrifying to know someone was watching your every move though. That and not knowing where he placed the cameras (You had tried to see if you could find at least one but utterly failed) or what he'd already seen..

That was here nor there at this point.

Later that week you went down to the mailbox units to sort through the forgetten avalanche of paper, (youd forgotten in your paranoid frenzy of Nikto watching you) Ava in a stroller currently blowing spit bubbles at you as you sorted through it all- However what stuck out was the rather massive manilla envelope which you had a inkling of what it was.

You open it quickly and sure enough, all new copies of your daughter's information was there. This time with the added Igorevna taxed on.

Looking through the rather impressive display of new documents your face couldn't help but scrunched up a bit- Pulling up a new birth certificate specifically which you see the father was now filled in. Only a Nikto as the front. Which from a Google search you knew ment 'Nobody' and what looked like a redacted last name.

Oh that's so comforting..

"Good Morning (Y/N)!"

You turn to see your landlord walking towards you, Most likely having gotten back from touring an apartment by the slightly winded look she had and one of her braids down from its usually neat neat headwrap.

"Morning Miss Rolle. How are you doing?"

Ms. Rolle was a nice women, a decent property manager and loved to stop you for chats especially when you had Ava. Always cooing at your daughter and offering helpful advice on small children.

Truthfully a godsend the first month of your daughter's life.

"Oh Im good Love just the same old. I just came over about your new unit, it will be ready in a few weeks just to keep you in the loop- Im sure packing is annoying with a baby. Just let me know if you need help, I know one of the maintenance men would be happy to help"

Ms Rolle said as she adjusted the tent of the stroller so it covered your daughter more. However you looked to the women fast and in confusion.

"New Unit?-"

She now looked at you both confused and clearly a bit worried. Probably sleep deprivation getting you.

"Yeah. You had sent an email wanting the 3 bedroom unit- you already gave the deposit and a years worth of rent and paid to break the current on your 1 bedroom too.."

Immediately you rubbed the bridge of your nose as you felt that acute pain of realization hit you in that moment.

Nikto-

However the irritate was short lived by a sudden thought.

Why was there three bedrooms?-

[strayingawayy]

i've loved you in scribbles and silences...

...the one where the silent creator meets the effortless muse

{ @jeonginsleftcheek requested a fic w/ reader as popular kid in class and hyunjin as the shy piner. i hope i did this justice, sweetheart 💌 word count: 1900 words approx}

hwang hyunjin was not the kind of guy you could just ignore.

even in his silence, he commanded attention, not in an intentional way, but in the way that made people naturally gravitate toward him. maybe it was his presence, lean and elegant, draped in effortlessly cool outfits that looked straight out of a fashion editorial. or maybe it was the way his sharp, expressive eyes always seemed lost in thought, like he was seeing something beyond the walls of the classroom, like he understood the depth lying in the professor's words in a way none of you ever could.

or maybe, just maybe, it was the fact that he looked like a literal prince but behaved like an artist stuck in his own little world, constantly sketching by the window instead of paying attention. not that your professors minded. after all, he was an art major for a reason.

one thing was that hyunjin didn’t talk much in class. he wasn’t unfriendly, but he wasn’t the type to insert himself into conversations either. people knew him, of course. the hot, mysterious art guy. the one who made lazy doodles look like renaissance masterpieces. the one who unintentionally broke hearts just by existing.

and then. well then there was you.

if hyunjin was the quiet presence in the corner, you were the center of attraction.

popular, passionate, hardworking, you weren’t just well-known, but well-loved too. a lethal combo. you had this energy about you, the kind that made people want to be around you, like standing in your orbit made their lives more exciting. balancing academics, extracurriculars, and a good social life, you made it all seem effortless.

and hyunjin?

he had been hopelessly, pathetically in love with you since the first semester.

but like he’d ever say it out loud.

he wasn’t delusional. he knew how different the two of you were. while you thrived under the attention of others, he was perfectly content sitting in the background, watching you shine from afar, his lips curling and eyes crinkling in the corners when you'd crack a joke that would have the entire class rolling over with laughter.

maybe that’s why his sketchbook was filled with you.

your laughter, frozen mid-motion like a memory, because it probably was. your hands, caught in the middle of an animated conversation. your eyes, wide with excitement when you spoke about something you loved. he'd hoped that one day you'd have that look in your eyes if you'd ever talk about him too.

god. he was so gone for you.

and it was getting out of hand.

because lately, his friends (ahem han jisung and lee felix) had started catching on.

"you're ridiculous," jisung had said one evening, watching hyunjin rip yet another drawing out of his sketchbook, crumpling it up. "just tell them."

"or don’t," felix added, flipping through hyunjin’s abandoned sketchbook like it was a diary. "just keep pining like a tragic 19th century ahh poet."

hyunjin groaned, yanking his sketchbook back from his friends. “they’re way out of my league.”

jisung rolled his eyes. "dude. you do know you're one of the hottest guys in college right?"

"careful ji, your bi confusion is on full display," seungmin says, only dropping into the conversation with a one liner before grabbing a donut off the table and leaving a flustered jisung stammering.

"that aside, yeah, if anyone has a chance with them, it's you mate." felix nodded, as if stating a fact, munching on a donut himself.

hyunjin scowled. “that’s not the point. they’re not just like, cool. they’re brilliant. they’re like, fuck,” he waved his hands wildly, searching for the words. “the human embodiment of shooting stars and ambition and-”

"oh my god" jisung clapped his hands dramatically. "he’s waxing poetic now."

felix gasped. "he's down bad. we need to stop him before he bends shakespeare over with his words."

hyunjin groaned, shoving his face into his ink stained hands and immediately regretting it. “i hate you both.”

but unfortu-fucking-nately, they were right.

maybe it was time he did something about it.

...

hyunjin was NOT going to half-ass this.

if he was going to confess, he was going to do it right.

so, naturally, he spent two hours spiraling over what right even meant, another hour staring at pinterest's idea of proposals for no reason, and then another seventeen hours crafting the most romantic, heartfelt, artistic confession ever.

his plan?

a huge, mural sized drawing.

of you.

obviously.

because, in his mind, there was no better way to show his feelings than through art.

the plan was simple:

1. sneak into the art room where you often kept your paintings too.

2. place inside the room, a breathtaking sketch of you.

3. casually bring you there and let the art do the talking.

4. pray you didn’t laugh in his face and pat his shoulder mockingly.

it should have gone smoothly.

but this was hyunjin.

and nothing, nothing, ever went smoothly when it involved his feelings.

...

the moment he finished the drawing, he knew two things:

1. it was the best thing he’d ever drawn in his life.

2. he was going to pass out from nerves.

but whatever. it was done. he just had to get you to see it.

so, the next day, he walked up to you, heart pounding, palms sweaty, already regretting everything, and blurted out:

“hey-wamma-see-something-cool?”

you blinked, mouth half-stuffed with the infamous campus canteen donuts, bottom lip covered in chocolate frosting (it was still one of the most breathtaking things hyunjin had ever seen in his life, he noted) “uh. sure?”

without thinking, he grabbed your wrist when you stood up (oh my god, he grabbed your wrist, what was he thinking, jisung was gonna scream when he told him this) and practically dragged you down the hallway.

"hyunjin, where are we-"

"just trust me," he muttered, swallowing hard, his cheeks already flushing when you spoke his name so tenderly, as if you hadn't dozens of times before in classes and group projects.

when he finally shoved open the door to the art room, he braced himself for the big reveal as he placed his fingers over the cloth covering the canvas.

"i- w-words fail me when i need them most. that's- probably why you don't hear me talk too often. and probably why i'm an art major instead of like- in mass communication or something. pfft can you imagine- anyway. (god he was rambling, he was rambling and you were smiling). just...just see for yourself yeah? please?" he said almost pleading. when you nodded, he inhaled deeply, like he was about to reveal the meaning of life itself ,and pulled the cloth off in one dramatic swoop.

hyunjin froze, his eyes widening.

no.

oh hell no.

staring back at him was a giant, fat, fucking cat drawn messily. big, googly eyes. a grin that was more terrifying than friendly, and nothing remotely close to being romantic. he can't believe a cat doodle was gonna get him rejected.

his entire drawing was gone and in front of him was a fat ass cat one covered by the same cloth he had used.

hyunjin’s soul left his body.

this was not happening.

you stared at the board. then at hyunjin. then at the board again.

“…hyunjin,” you said slowly. "i mean- it's. it's cool as fuck yeah-"

“nononono-there was-” he turned, searching every corner of the room like his drawing might miraculously reappear. “i drew something else. i swear it was romantic. it was you of course it was romantic-”

“-you drew me?“ you asked, a small teasing, curious smile on your face.

he turned back to you, ears burning, palms sweaty. “yes. i mean. yes.”

your teasing expression softened. “so… you were confessing?” you asked, expression almost hopeful.

hyunjin opened his mouth, closed it, then ran a frustrated hand through his short, blonde hair. "this is not how this was supposed to go."

you suddenly glanced to the side, eyes widening. “wait… is that it?”

hyunjin followed your gaze, spinning on his feet, and there it was.

his drawing.

propped against an easel in the corner, untouched, perfect.

the second you saw it, the teasing stopped.

your expression shifted, eyes widening, lips parting slightly, the kind of reaction that made hyunjin feel like time had paused.

because it wasn’t just a drawing of you.

it was you.

the way you laughed, the way you looked when you were deep in thought, the way your eyes shone when you talked about something you loved, it was all there, put into the strokes and shadows and scribbles like a love letter without words.

you didn’t say anything at first. just stared.

hyunjin swallowed hard. “…so.”

slowly, you turned to him, something unreadable in your expression.

"i-" he stammered, his voice cracking. "i just- gods-i wanted to do something... something that was real, something that would... show you how much i..."

his throat tightened. there it was again. the words that refused to come. the weight of his feelings choking him with each failed attempt to articulate it. he couldn't bring himself to say it. his head hung in shame, eyes fixed on the floor, desperate to escape the vulnerability that was threatening to suffocate him.

and you weren’t making it any easier. you were still looking at him with that unreadable expression. he felt like he was unravelling in front of you, a mix of fear and hope and something else twisted in his gut. why were you so quiet?

then, finally, your lips parted.

"hyunjin," you murmured, your voice soft, a gentle smile tugging at your lips. "this is... the most beautiful thing anyone's ever done for me."

hyunjin blinked, his breath catching in his throat as he prayed silently.

"really?" he asked, a little too desperately, the hope in his voice clear.

you nodded, stepping forward slowly, and the world felt like it was holding its own breath as you closed the distance between you. hyunjin stood frozen, unsure.

"you really see me," you whispered, your gaze locking with his. "all of me. even the parts i don’t really show...like...the little mole below my lip."

hyunjin’s heart skipped, a new rush of warmth spreading through him as he dared to meet your eyes again. "i do. i see everything. and it’s... perfect. you're perfect."

the words barely left his mouth before you reached up, your hand brushing against his cheek with a softness that was foreign but not unwelcome.

his breath stopped, and for a moment, everything in him screamed to pull away, to shield himself, but all he could do was blink slowly and lean into your touch.

"i’m not good with words either," you whispered, and before he could react, you gently placed your lips against his.

the kiss was tender, the kind that spoke volumes even in its softness. hyunjin’s breath caught as he melted into it, his hand reaching out instinctively to touch your arm, as if afraid you’d vanish the moment he didn’t hold on tight enough. when he realised he needed you closer, he wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you into him.

and as you both smiled into the kiss, hyunjin knew that words didn't have to be exchanged further. you understood each other. through brushstrokes and gestures that would take you down the road of life together.

somewhere above the classroom, felix and jisung screamed as they watched it all go down through the cctv camera while the security personnel snored beside them.

[revelboo]

All I can picture with the latest My Favorite Accident update is trying to introduce two cats to each other by smell through a closed door. KO is our housecat (or are we his human? 🤔) who is very protective of us and then BD bites our fingers when we try to let them get used to each other (it was going fine! We swear!) and suddenly KO is swatting the shit out of him because he’s the only one who can bite us excuse you

Pretty much the way his processor is responding to seeing you being manhandled by someone that’s not him.

My Favorite Accident Pt 14

Knockout x Reader x Breakdown

• Backpedaling as that spinning saw whines through the air inches from his chassis, grazing him to shower sparks and hurt, Breakdown stumbles and goes down. And he’s never seen Knockout like this, optics angry and smiling like that. Head tipping as he stands over him, he slowly extends his arm and Breakdown’s chin is forced up to avoid the blade. Knockout can’t possibly be this angry over him roughing up one, little human. Knockout knows him. And as awful as it is, his spike stirs. Responding to the dominance and anger with arousal. Frag. “You know I don’t like it when my favorite toys get taken away,” Knockout whispers, voice a low, angry purr. A seduction. “When they’re broken.”

• Head tilting at the sound of you limping away, his smile becomes brittle. You’re limping. “I wouldn’t have to steal your toys if you’d spend any time with me,” Breakdown counters, tone bitter, drawing his attention and the bigger mech’s yellow optics narrow in challenge. In anger. And it’s empowering to tower over him for once. Even as there’s a whisper of guilt at neglecting him, for making him feel like he wasn’t needed anymore. Had the big moron really thought he’d replace him with a human? “Or do you prefer squishies now?”

• Limping for the wall, you have no idea how you’re climbing up that slope without help when your entire body feels bruised. You don’t think anything is broken, but if they start genuinely fighting, you want to be far away. So over aliens and getting involved in their bullshit. Jealous maybe-boyfriends especially. You like hanging out with Knockout, taunting each other, but it’s hardly worth getting stomped for.

• “Please,” Knockout sneers, retracting the blade. “You can’t be serious.” But the medic’s head still turns to track your slow progress. Venting softly when you start clambering up the slope only to slide back down with a little squeak of noise and what he suspects is swearing. Lips quirking as you immediately make another attempt, he watches Knockout transform his weapon back to a hand, striding after you and leaving him sprawled on his back. It’s a slight, but better than feeling that blade. “What is it about you that just seems to make everyone want to murder you?” Knockout growls and you look up at him, expression relieved. Spark twisting uncomfortably at that, it’s strange to watch Knockout bend and pick you up by the back of your covering to set you back on your feet, a clawed servo lingering on your arm. On the way your skin is discolored and Knockout turns that deadly smile his way again.

• Using a servo to carefully lift your arm, there’s a flicker of anger at the bruises that Knockout can’t ignore. That Breakdown damaged you at all leaves him cold and furious, and your expression is guarded when you look up at him. “Must be my winning personality,” you say, trying to pull away and he hooks his servo around you. That neutral edge in your voice. Like you’re not surprised or angry that you got hurt. Like you expect it. What is he going to do with you? Stiffening slightly when Breakdown eases closer and you tense, eyes narrowing. Afraid of the bigger mech though it flits across your face so quickly before it’s gone and your expression blanks again. Pretending you don’t care. You’re both so exhausting. Venting softly as he studies you and Breakdown, both of you idiots matter to him and he’s not choosing between you. But you’re going to both make his life miserable if you can’t at least pretend to get along to humor him.

• Shivering despite the warmth of the evening, you know you’re not escaping unless Knockout decides to let you so you just glare at his big, dumb boyfriend while he scowls right back. And you’re aching and just want to lay down. Yelping when Knockout vents, seizes you and just thrusts you at his buddy, forcing him to cup his hands and take you in self defense. Clinging to Breakdown’s servos, your mouth falls open because Knockout is striding away from both of you. Abandoning you with his boyfriend, the jerk. “What am I supposed to do with this thing?” Breakdown growls, holding you out in his cupped hands away from his frame and curling his lip at you. It’s only the very real threat that he might drop you that’s keeping you from flipping him off again. “Knockout, come get your fragging human.” And he’s jogging after the medic with you in his hands, getting jarred.

Previous

[holyguardian]

The easiness of everything Aerith had done only began to falter once they were in the Lifespring, more-or-less concealed by the dancing of the water. Somnus looked down, stared at his own hands, spoke so painfully soft that she wondered whether she had pushed too much too soon.

Being bare before him hadn't been when the sparks of fear struck inside her chest. It was here and now when she was faced with the consequences of her own actions.

Her own eyes danced away, skimming the reflective surface of the water. The air was pleasantly thick — to her senses, she felt like the energy was hugging her here. If she closed her eyes, she could even hear the gentle hymn that carried with it the song of life.

She thought Somnus might feel it too. The holy ground which they stood upon.

Though now she felt a little silly. She had stopped using her words. Instead she guided him through action without any explaining. Then the words she had used... oh, Gods. Had she mocked him?

Just as Aerith was about to shrink down in size, she felt his hand brush against her. Her gaze immediately travelled to meet his. He cupped her face with a tenderness that felt new between them. How could she possibly sink now, when he held her steadily?

The smile twitched on her lips at first, and then spread as he pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. She allowed her eyes to close again. This time she did sink, not to lessen herself or to shrink away, but into the palm of his hand and the feelings that he stirred.

Her hands lifted and one after the other they settled to daintily hold over his. It was almost like she gently tried to draw his palm impossibly closer as she basked in his simple affection.

Only then did her lashes slowly blink open again. She felt much better. At first her answer to his question was in the form of a pleasant little hum. "... I do." she reassured. Afterwards her head turned and she brushed a kiss to his wrist.

Her hands brushed the back of his palm as they shifted and lowered from their hold, only to come back up in a sort-of-hug along the length of his own arms, her hands rested at his shoulders. Her moment of fear had knocked her into a more gentled approach with him. "What of you? Do you feel any better? You must have felt drained in your own way, training with all those different battle formations for so long."

Part of Somnus was in quiet disbelief as he heard her gentle footsteps coming closer. And the other part of him scrambled in utter bubbling-up… panic. It was hard tod escribe. He felt as if he was merely a witness to his own life happening there.

She would not simply- but she did.

Aerith stood in front of him. Nude. Her long brown curls were opened up and wet from water, clinging to her pale skin and veiling a little of her form. But she seemingly had no fear. She simply stood there, as she was, in all her beauty and calm certainty.

He should avoid looking at her. He should insist on wrapping a cloth around her. He should turn away again.

But… he could not.

This was not just the same fascination a young man felt for a young woman. There was more to it. Especially here, where the air was saturated with the Lifestream… it felt as if he was looking upon a goddess herself. And Somnus was not focused on her body… he was drowning in her eyes. How she looked up to him and their endless green light took all of his mind up, weighing him in a certainty and calmness he would not have shown if faced with any other woman like this.

When she touched him, though, gently tried to urge his loincloth of, Somnus sucked in a brief shallow breath. His fingers twitched. He… was vulnerable to her. No one had ever done this to him. No one. And he would never have allowed it either. Somnus hated it. He hated being vulnerable. He hated being weak. He hated being exposed. He would have fought anyone trying to do this.

And yet… under Aerith’s hands he was pliant. He let her do as she pleased. He… trusted her.

This had nothing to do with how a woman and a man could come together. And yet it also had. They were married. And he… wanted her. In this way. And so many more. He wanted her with him. Close. Her thoughts, her words, every bit of her being.

What she said painted red streaks across his cheeks. That sounded… well, yes. He had no one here. Only her. And that… was more than enough.

His fingers danced upon her shoulder, as if he was scared to touch her and yet he followed quietly. The Lifespring was beautiful. As if it tried to be worthy of Aerith, greeting her with gentle warm magic. Green sparks dancing and surrounding her, welcoming her – and him, as he carefully imitated the way she entered the water.

It was like a rush travelling through his body. From where his hand laid upon Aerith and from where the water played around his body. This Lifespring was just… more than the pools at the Lucian coast. As if all its magic and power lingered down here, sleeping for centuries, just to revitalize and supply especially the Cetran lineage.

It was so mesmerizing to follow her and watch her. Even more so than at the last Lifespring.

She smiled at him again, and for a moment Somnus cast his eyes down, as if she had caught him doing something he shouldn’t. Lifting his hands a little, watching the glowing water seeping from his palms, he shook his head a little and spoke a lot more quiet than he used to: “No…”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Somnus took a deep breath. He needed to calm his fraying nerves. All was alright. He was here. With Aerith. In one of the Farmlands’ most sacred places. Connected to the Lifestream itself, feeling its energy flow around him. As bare as the Gods had created them.

His heart thrummed in his chest and he was certain Aerith would be able to hear. It felt like his heartbeat travelled up till his fingertips, as he lifted his hands slowly again. Caressing one of her beautiful dark strands to the side before cupping her face. Bowing down a little, Somnus placed a kiss on her forehead, letting his lips linger there, holding her as sweetly.

“Are you feeling better already…?”

[megalony]

Sealed Their Fates

This is a new Tobias Eaton/ Four imagine for the Divergent fandom. I hope you will all like it, thank you for the amazing feedback on my first Four imagine.

Please let me know what you think.

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Main Masterlist

Summary: Everyone in Dauntless knows of (Y/n)'s relationship with Four, but some think that it gives her an unfair advantage. When they try and hurt (Y/n), she doesn't feel safe in her faction anymore.

Enjoy.

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Closing her eyes, (Y/n) tilted her head back when she felt a pair of arms encase around her middle. She let her head fall back onto a firm shoulder and her hands slid down to hold onto the wrists resting over her waist.

She didn't have to look to know who it was behind her. The arms around her were familiar, like a safety blanket. The firm chest that was now glued up against her back was a comfort like no other and the pair of lips that hovered over the shell of her ear were another familiar sense.

Tobias.

"Morning," His voice was gritty and low against her ear and (Y/n) slouched back against him a little more. Grinning to herself when she felt Tobias lean back too until his shoulders were pressed up against the stone wall behind them.

"Hi." It was getting routine to keep her voice quiet when they found little moments like these.

It wasn't necessarily a secret that the pair of them had found solace and comfort in each other.

Others had noticed the way that Four would smile towards (Y/n) whereas he would generally be cold and ruthless towards anyone else. They had seen him take her hand and interlock their fingers, and they noticed that Four wasn't the instructor who trained (Y/n). He wouldn't do that; he wouldn't train the girl he had fallen for, not when he knew people would turn against her and accuse him of giving her points and helping her stay in Dauntless.

That didn't mean to say that Tobias wouldn't help train her late into the night when no one else was around. And he would give her tips and pointers and tell her how to outsmart the others, but he wouldn't do any of that in public, and he certainly wouldn't go around giving her any points.

They didn't hide what they had, but they didn't display it either. Quiet moments together in the mornings like this and little interludes wherever they could was what they decided to do until (Y/n) made it as a fully fledged member of Dauntless.

"You okay?" Tobias kept his lips hovering over (Y/n)'s ear while his hand smoothed up and down (Y/n)'s sternum like he was drawing aimless patterns into her shirt.

She nodded to his words, nudging the tip of her nose against his neck before she angled her head better so she could lean over and kiss him. She liked the way his arms tightened around her, like he was making sure she stayed right where she was and didn't dare pull out of his embrace for a moment. And the feeling of his palms pressing down into her sternum and waist made butterflies swarm through her system.

Sometimes (Y/n) wished it could be like this all the time. She wished she could lean against Tobias or take his hand or walk around with him and no one would bat an eyelid or make a bad comment.

And maybe after the initiates were all chosen and blended into Dauntless, after the dust settled and there was no more competing to stay and for status, things would change. (Y/n) was sure they would. She was sure that things would settle down, that they would all find their own rooms after they were fully fledged members of the faction. They would partner off and find their best suited jobs and no one would care that (Y/n) and Tobias were together.

She just hoped that it wouldn't feel like a lifetime to get to that point.

It proved to be some effort to turn around in his tight embrace, but (Y/n) managed the small task and looped her arms around the back of his neck. Her fingers brushed against the short gazed hairs at the back of his head and she let her chest slouch into his chest, effectively pinning Tobias between her and the wall. Not that he minded at all, he seemed happy to be sandwiched up against her in the corridor. Especially since they were alone without any onlookers.

"What're you thinking?" Tobias's words were hushed and (Y/n) barely heard them when he spoke with his lips so close to hers that they were almost touching.

Their noses brushed and she could feel his temple resting against hers, but it was the feeling of those cold lips hovering less than a centimetre away from hers that made (Y/n)'s knees want to give in. She pushed up on her toes, keeping her chest merged with his as her arms tightened slightly around his neck and her eyes creased with a smile.

"Just that I can't wait for training to be over."

(Y/n) knew being in Dauntless meant endless training, they would never stop, per say. They would always be training and running and fighting and sharpening their skills. But at least they wouldn't be fighting against one another, they wouldn't be opposites anymore. They would all be working together as a group, a family, a faction. That was the goal and (Y/n) wanted to skip this tournament of sorts and be at that point.

She felt Tobias sigh down at her with that half smile pulling at his lips and one arched brow. He knew how she felt, he had never been worried about his training, he had beaten all others in his group, including Eric with no problems. But he was desperate now for (Y/n) to make it through this phase with no problems.

"Me too." His words were nothing more than a whisper on the wind and (Y/n) managed to catch a glimmer of a smile pulling on his lips before she moved one hand to cradle the side of his face.

Her fingers danced a pattern on his cheek and (Y/n) pressed another kiss too his lips, savouring the cold touch and the feeling of Tobias tightening his hand around her hip. They didn't have long before they would have to go. They needed to go to the training room and begin their day, and that meant the start of the rest of the day without being too close to one another.

Another hint of a smile traced over Tobias's lips when he felt (Y/n) murmur "I'm not ready," against his mouth that was savouring her touch and stealing as many elicit kisses as he could manage.

His nose pressed against hers and his lips felt positively bruised in the best way when they finally parted. He allowed himself to lean his cheek into her palm that was cradling his face and shivers coursed up and down his skin from her touch.

"There aren't any fights scheduled for today, just remember what I taught you in training, and you'll be fine."

There was something about the coy grin that lit up (Y/n)'s face which made Tobias intrigued. He arched a brow and squinted down at her, wondering why that look had suddenly flooded her eyes and why she had such a grin all of a sudden.

"Hm, I might need a refresher course on that training."

"Oh really?" He couldn't help but laugh and he kept his cheek leaning into her palm which thankfully hadn't moved away from his face yet. He quite liked the touch. "We'll have to train later then to remind you, won't we?"

It wasn't wrong, not technically when anyone could ask for help with training and anyone could put the hours in to do more. (Y/n) wanted to do better, she wanted to have a better shot at staying in Dauntless and doing the best she possibly could, and Tobias was giving her hints. He watched her practice and told her what she could do to improve. He helped her straighten her frame and improve her throw and taut her how to duck and punch better.

It was the same hints and pointers that he gave to anyone he was instructing, it just happened to be late on in the evening when everyone else gave up to rest.

"Suppose we'd better go." Surprise flooded through (Y/n) when Tobias leaned down to snag another kiss from her lips and he pushed off the wall until he was practically pushing down onto her instead.

Neither of them wanted to part and head off into the training area, into the room that would be flooded with the rest of their faction. But they didn't have much of a choice. This was their faction and they had to make themselves useful, after all.

It was comforting to feel Tobias slip his hand into hers and the feeling of his fingers tapping against the back of her hand was comforting.

When he stood- or rather towered- beside her it felt like (Y/n) had a protective armor around her. The way his shoulder brushed against hers, how tense his arms felt, the sound of his leather boots hitting the stone floor, it was all dominating and overpowering in the best possible way.

It wasn't until they actually reached the training room that the aura seemed to change and (Y/n) felt like she was three inches tall. She barely felt Tobias give her hand a squeeze like he was trying to give her some of his courage.

Eyes were upon them immediately. Some just glances, some long stares and some with pits of jealousy that (Y/n) could feel burning through her skin.

She wanted to shrink in on herself and become invisible, but that wasn't what a Dauntless would do and she didn't have to feel this way.

She felt Tobias give her hand another squeeze so tight he almost cut off the circulation to her fingers. And he leaned down to murmur "Good luck," in her ear because he knew training was as hard and draining as it was rewarding. And with his head angled down, he managed to press a kiss to the back of her head without anyone noticing.

The moment his hand slipped from hers and (Y/n) heard his footsteps retreating, she suddenly felt cold. But she tried to brush it off, shaking the feeling away as she rolled her shoulders and clicked her neck into place.

She wanted to work on her throwing and her aim today, especially since there weren't any fights lined up so there was no imposing need to work on her punches and her balance.

She took a deep breath, sinking her teeth down into her bottom lip when she approached the targets and noticed a few of the other initiates hovering around. One of them happened to be Peter. (Y/n) wasn't sure why, but he had taken an instant disliking to her. He liked to make jibes and jokes and play the tormenter.

Nothing to serious which (Y/n) suspected was because he got his fair share of irritating and pushing her buttons when they were paired up to fight.

"Where's your loverboy, stiff?" Peter clasped his hands behind his back and took a look around but he missed Tobias who mingled in with the other initiates near the climbing ropes in the far corner.

"Where's your girlfriend, Pete?"

(Y/n) didn't bother looking up at him as she spoke. He could be as crude and annoying as he wanted, she would simply respond and annoy him back until he stopped. He could try and make jokes about her relationship with Tobias as much as he liked, (Y/n) would just make jokes about his love life in response, or lack there of.

Her words made his smile slip into a frown and he looked down at his hands for a moment, clearly irritated that she had quipped back at him so fast.

"Suppose I should fine one soon, preferably an instructor. After all, you got in there quick and ranked up your points." His head ticked towards the scoreboard which showed (Y/n) was two places higher up than Peter. Both of them were in the clear, they weren't in the red on the verge of being factionless, but that could all change. They all knew the scoreboard was changing daily with people improving and slipping all the time.

(Y/n) swiped a pack of four knives up from the table and moved towards a target, taking aim and throwing a knife dead centre into the targets middle where the heart would be.

"Then you'd better hurry Pete. From what I saw, I don't think many girls in here would be pleased with the little you have to offer." She didn't bother to look at him as she spoke. She was only trying to level the playing field and irritate him in the same way he was doing to her.

She threw another knife, but this one didn't hit anywhere on the target when Peter roughly barged his shoulder into her side and knocked her forwards.

A huff escaped her lips and she shook her head to herself, but when she glanced her eyes to the right, they locked on Tobias. His features were ever the same, blank and fierce, warding people to stay away from him and not to bother even trying to strike up a conversation.

But his hands- which were now wrapped in tape around the knuckles, ready for both fighting and climbing the ropes- were balled into fists at his sides. He turned away from the wall and took three strides in (Y/n)'s direction before he stopped.

She shook her head.

He didn't need to do anything. As annoying as Peter was, he was only making jibes, he hadn't done anything that warranted Tobias coming over and giving him the third degree. (Y/n) would rather ignore Peter than have her partner come over and try to sort it for her. She knew he meant well and she knew Tobias would threaten Peter to stay in line like he did with everyone else, but it would be easier to let this one go than to make a fuss.

Tobias took a deep breath, letting his eyes linger on (Y/n) for a few seconds longer as he nodded at her and stepped back. She could hold her own, he knew that, but he didn't want Peter to think he could keep stepping out of line and being rude and get away with it.

If any of the initiates started fights or casting others out when they weren't in the ring, the instructors put a stop to it. Competition was fine as long as it was healthy and in good faith. If Peter really belonged in Dauntless than he had nothing to fear, and no reason to be picking on (Y/n) or anyone else.

(Y/n) kept her eyes on Tobias even after he turned and aimed for the rope again which he wasted no time in climbing like he was desperate to get away from everyone else.

She twirled the knife in her hand between her fingers as she watched him, letting herself relax and bask in the aura Tobias exuded, even from across the room.

Roll on phase two when all the competition would be over.

***

A slight sting burned in (Y/n)'s knuckles and she wrung her hands out at her sides, trying to shake away the dull sting and get the feeling back in her fingers. Most of the day had been spent fighting and (Y/n) could feel the bruises that were no doubt blossoming on her skin beneath her clothes.

Her knuckles had split open, grazes littered her hands and her fingers were practically on fire. She had fought against Peter today, curtesy of Eric who had noticed the pair arguing and getting annoyed with each other and thought a fight between them would air out the tension.

It hadn't.

Peter seemed to lose himself when he lost. (Y/n) had barely managed to win, but when she got Peter in a choke hold and made him blackout, he didn't have a choice but to back out of the fight. He physically couldn't get up and it took him too long to regain his breath back, so Eric called (Y/n) the winner and that was that.

He had stormed off in a rage, kicking anything and everything within sight and cradling his sore neck that had been inflamed red and would be littered with bruises and marks in the morning.

(Y/n) had done her best to stay out of his way since this morning and she was ready to sleep.

She didn't want to bother with any extra training tonight, her hands were too sore and she was too tired. Getting some rest would be a better idea than working herself to the bone and being run down tomorrow. Eric might try and pit her against someone else in a fight tomorrow and (Y/n) would need her energy for that.

Her hand rubbed at the back of her neck which she clicked into place as she slowly aimed down the corridor.

It was a long trek back towards the dorms and it was irritating to have to share a room with over twenty others, but it was only until they had passed. Once their training was over and the select few were included into Dauntless, they would each be able to get their own little apartment like the rest of the faction.

Thank God. (Y/n) was fed up sharing with others, fed up of hearing them snore and the beds creak and people getting up to use the toilet. She was fed up of getting up early to shower before everyone else and trying to change without people peering over to get a look.

Her own room would be a dream compared to what these last few weeks had been like.

All she wanted to do now was climb into her bed and disappear until the morning rolled around.

But as she turned from the corridor and headed towards the next hall, her hands clenched into fists and a surge of adrenaline coursed through her veins. She found herself stepping towards the wall as if it would provide some kind of safety when she saw who was walking down the hall towards her.

Peter. Followed swiftly by two of his cronies, and all three of them seemed to grin wider when they noticed her; and the fact that she was alone.

"Oh look, it's the stiff."

(Y/n) refrained from rolling her eyes, she didn't need to cause any arguments. It was late, she didn't want to stand around and berate each other when there was no need. He could go his own way and (Y/n) would aim for the dorms and they didn't need to have any interaction at all.

With her head ducked down, (Y/n) stuck close to the wall and tried to walk past them. She jabbed her elbow out to push Peter when he tried to get close. She didn't know what he was trying to do and she didn't want to know either, she just wanted to get away from him.

One of them, she wasn't sure which, tried to grab her wrist, but (Y/n) lashed out and slammed her heel against his inner leg which caused him to stumble.

"Just fuck off." She wasn't in the mood for a fight or an argument, she just wanted to go to sleep.

(Y/n) quickened her steps and veered down the hall with speed, praying that the three of them would just huff and carry on their way. And for a few seconds, she thought they had.

But then they grabbed her.

She hadn't heard them coming up behind her, not until it was too late. An arm deadlocked around her neck causing her to stumble backwards and her head slammed into a bony shoulder. A strangled sound escaped (Y/n)'s lips and she scratched her nails into the arm around her neck, about to lean forward so she could ram her elbow behind her. But her legs were swept from beneath her.

One of them snagged her ankles and heaved her legs up until it felt like she was about to fall down and slam her head into the ground.

A scream burst past her lips as much as she could with the arm pinned to her throat and her shoulders slid down the person's chest behind her until the third boy grappled to hold her waist.

Tears burned in the corners of her eyes which slammed closed as she began to writhe. She didn't quite know what to do to get out of this situation, but (Y/n) did whatever she could think of. She wriggled, she thrust her torso down and tried to whip her legs up in the air so they'd let her go. She shimmied her shoulders, desperate not to land with a bang on her head or back in case she injured herself or knocked herself out.

"Let me go!"

Another scream left her lips and she dug her nails viciously into the arm over her chest, continuing to writhe as the three of them struggled to hurry with her down the corridor. This was clearly an act of opportunity. They hadn't been anticipating this, (Y/n) could tell they were acting in the heat of the moment.

She wouldn't tell. If they put her down and let her go, she wouldn't tell on them and get them dropped down the scoreboard. But she needed them to put her down.

It felt like her lungs had popped when she managed to slam her foot into Alan's chest who was grappling with her legs. He dropped her. As soon as he did, the other two couldn't hold her up on their own and (Y/n) went down to the stone floor with such a bang she feared she had left a crack in the floor. Her lungs struggled to restart themselves and she laid gasping like a fish out of water.

Her eyes stung as she struggled to hold back her tears that were more out of pain than fear. And her lungs startled once again when a rough hand fisted in her hair and yanked her head back.

Her grazed hands scoured against the floor and her elbows straightened out as she tried to hold herself up while Peter yanked her head back so she was looking up at him. While he crouched down beside her, leaning so close he was sneering and almost spitting at her.

"You're putting out for him, that's why you're fifteen on the scoreboard."

Shivers coursed up and down (Y/n)'s spine causing her arms to tremble as she tried to hold herself up properly. Her lips curled up into a grimace and she closed her eyes when Peter leaned closer to her.

"No-"

"Maybe she'll put out for us." Alan's words made a sliver of fright dwell in (Y/n)'s stomach and she snapped her eyes open to look up at him.

They couldn't be serious. They couldn't try anything, they wouldn't get away with it and all of them had to know that.

Peter's hand in her hair tightened into a closed fist and (Y/n) swallowed down a yelp when he used her hair as leverage to yank her up to her feet. She tried to grapple for his arm, desperate for him to let go, but she couldn't do very much when his other hand gripped her chin and another pair of hands closed around her arms.

They steered her forwards, yanking her from side to side and causing her to stumble in almost every direction. She did her best to elbow them, to wriggle and become a nuisance in the hopes that they would stop and let her go or get tired of having to fight against her.

"No! G-get off!" She wouldn't let them do anything and she wouldn't just stand and let them mess with her. They needed to stop.

"We don't wanna play with you, we wanna get rid of you." Those words hit right at the pit of (Y/n)'s stomach, especially when she realised they were now close to the casm.

Hovering along the small corridor that acted as a ledge towards the edge of the casm. (Y/n) couldn't bring herself to look over the edge, not once despite the countless times she had walked down here. She couldn't lean over and look at the hundred foot drop that would kill anyone who fell down. Merciless.

And now these boys were trying to force her near the edge.

The will to fight burned bright inside of (Y/n) and adrenaline shot through her veins like a high as she bent forward and thrust her elbows back, trying to whack them and wind any of them so she could break free.

She screamed like a lion roaring into the wilderness when the third boy, Garrett- someone she barely knew- grabbed her ankles and yanked, pulling until (Y/n) fell and her front hit the ground. He tried to lift her by the ankles and Peter nodded, laughing maliciously as he tried to grapple for (Y/n)'s shoulders to lift her up. They were going to try and get her over the edge.

Garrett couldn't lift her when (Y/n) rammed her foot into his face. She heard the successful sound of his nose snapping like a twig before he groaned and dropped her ankles, letting her knees slam into the floor which shook her entire being.

"Get her over-"

"No!" (Y/n) shrieked and lifted her arm, using all the force she had to scratch her nails down Peter's face. She tried not to squirm when she felt her finger prod him in the eye and she felt the skin raking beneath her nails as she scratched deep enough to draw blood and leave sizzling burn lines down his face.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

It was Eric. His voice boomed through the air and echoed off the stone walls like he was a God among mortals.

But it was enough. His voice was enough to make them let go of (Y/n) just as her head was hanging close to the edge. Her already bruised and split knuckles scraped along the floor, gathering grit and dirt as she shuffled on her stomach until she was backed up near the wall. Near safety.

Her knees tucked up towards her chest and her arms coiled in on herself as she slammed her right side against the wall, not caring about the shockwaves it sent through her system. She just wanted to be safe. She wanted to be away from the ledge she had almost been thrown over.

It took some effort for (Y/n) to lift her eyes from the floor to look up and take in the scene around her.

Eric was stood with his hands on his hips and a face like thunder. She had never seen such confusion in his eyes and such clear rage across his face.

And the others looked petrified. Peter's chest was heaving and he had one hand cradling his scratched, bloodied face while his other hand flexed and shook at his side. Garrett was cradling his broken nose, knelt on the floor rather close to the edge of the casm which (Y/n) desperately wanted to throw him off right now. And Alan was stood to one side, both arms bound around his chest as he gasped for air and heaved for breath.

None of them answered. None of them had the words to explain what they had been doing when it was crystal clear what their intentions had been. (Y/n) was screaming, they were bloodied and beaten and they were near the casm. Added with the fact that (Y/n) was petrified and openly crying, it was clear what the three of them had tried to do to her.

"You think killing an opponent will get you on top of the scoreboard? Faction is family, you don't hurt your own." Eric snapped his jaw like a crocodile towards them but the way he sighed made him look like an annoyed parent who was fed up with his kids.

They were in trouble. They would be at the bottom of the scoreboard for this. They could have healthy competition with each other. They could fight in the ring and get grumpy and be annoyed, but that was it. They couldn't take that anger out on each other when they weren't training. They couldn't purposely intimidate or beat or attack a fellow member of the faction. They were all family in the end and this wasn't how family treated each other.

(Y/n) couldn't breathe.

Her lungs were burning, her eyes were stinging and her face was sopping wet as tears flushed her skin that she couldn't be bothered to hide.

When Eric tried to reach his hand down for her, he seemed a little more than surprised when (Y/n) slapped his wrist away and shuffled back. She didn't want his help. She didn't want him touching her. She didn't want any of them touching her; she just wanted to get away.

Eric sighed and held his hands out at his sides like he had no idea what to do when (Y/n) scurried to her feet. He watched her with a sense of sadness as she used the wall as leverage and stumbled away from them. He had a feeling he knew exactly where she was going and he didn't blame her, she hadn't done anything wrong.

He would have to remember to go easy on her over the next few days, she had fought for her life tonight and that earned her some points on the scoreboard and some respect from him.

(Y/n) heard the distinct sound of a slap and it echoed off the walls almost like a gunshot would have resonated, but she didn't look back to see which of them Eric had lashed out at.

She didn't care.

She wanted all three of them to be thrown off that casm.

Gasps and stuttering breaths left (Y/n)'s lips as she tried to swipe her sleeve against her eyes to clear her vision, but it didn't work very well. She still couldn't see where she was going, everything was a blur of grey and black with speckles of white in the mix.

She had to use her initiative and memory to guide her towards the stairs which she ended up crawling up like a toddler or some kind of deformed dog. Her body succumbed to trembling by the time she half jogged, half stumbled down the corridor towards Tobias's room.

It seemed rather like him to not bother locking the door, and (Y/n) was grateful. She was grateful that when she grabbed the handle and shimmied the door, it swung open like it had been expecting her all along.

Suddenly it didn't matter about calling out and alerting Tobias that she had found her way to his room and entered without knocking. All (Y/n) cared about was getting inside and staying away from everyone else; every possible source of danger and threat.

As soon as she was in the room, (Y/n) slammed the door closed behind her and fumbled to twist the lock to keep herself safe and secure.

Her eyes closed tightly until it became painful and her body slumped down to the cold floor that was soothing against her burning skin. She didn't bother trying to crawl into the room, she had no more energy left for that. (Y/n) shuffled back until she was against the wall and coiled her knees up to her chest.

Her trembling arms bound around her knees, locking them in place and her head dropped forward like her neck had snapped, slamming her temple onto her knees. She couldn't breathe as she began to rock back and forth, gasping, crying and heaving to gain a little bit of air.

"What the fuck-" Anger bubbled up in Tobias's voice when he heard the sound of his door slamming shut.

No one had knocked, no one had called out his name or asked if they could come in but clearly someone had waltzed straight in without an invitation. He didn't like the sound of that. He wasn't used to getting visitors to his room, barely anyone wanted to bump into him when walking around the buildings they claimed as Dauntless; why would someone come up to his room?

A deep frown set into his features as he wandered out the bathroom, jeans hung low on his waist and his shirt laid out on the bed which he didn't bother to grab in his haste to get to the door.

He didn't reach the door before all the anger dwindled out of his system and he was left with a wave of confusion and paranoia washing over him like the sea coming in across the sand.

"(Y/n)?" Her name fell from his lips in a hollow whisper as his brows furrowed and his lips curled into a grimace.

What had gone on since he saw her a few hours ago?

Tobias let himself scuff down to his knees on the floor once he was close enough to where (Y/n) was curled up beside the door. He shuffled closer until his knees were almost touching her feet but he wasn't sure whether to reach out for her or not when he realised how badly she was trembling. She looked like she was in shock.

Her face was buried down into the top of her knees, her arms were bound so tightly around her knees that she was going to hurt herself and she could barely breathe with her legs pushed up against her chest like that.

He took the risk and reached his hands out, carefully sliding his hands up (Y/n)'s arms until he was holding onto her just below her shoulders. His thumbs glided up and down her skin and he tilted his head down, trying to wait for her to look up at him, but she wouldn't lift her head.

"Baby what's the matter, what's happened?"

He couldn't very well do anything until he knew why she was so upset and what had happened. She could be hurt, she could have seen something, she could have been in an altercation. Hundreds of thoughts sped through Tobias's mind like lightning and he didn't like the sound of any of them.

When he didn't gain a response, Tobias sighed and slid his hand down to reach for her chin. He was careful and as gentle as he could be when he lifted her head so they were finally looking at one another. The tears pouring down her face made his heart lurch up into his throat while he tilted his head down a bit more until their gazes locked and she finally looked at him.

There was a sense of fear in her eyes that Tobias had never seen before, and that he wished never to see again. His thumb traced along her chin and up towards her lower lip and he leaned in closer until their temples were touching. Something broke inside of him when he watched another tear cascade down her face and he saw how hard it was to stop her lips from wobbling and letting out the broken sound she was holding at bay.

It took a few seconds for (Y/n) to gather enough air to speak without crying and it made her feel weak. She was Dauntless now, breaking down after an altercation like this wasn't what they were supposed to do. But no one else in the faction had almost been tossed over the side by their own group.

She had to divert her eyes down to Tobias's chin because looking into those dark brown eyes felt like a death sentence. And she knew she would never be able to tell him what happened if she was staring into his eyes.

"Peter, Alan and Garrett, t-they tried… tried to throw me down the c-casm. Said you're raising my score."

She wanted desperately to tilt her head down and bury her face back in her knees, but that proved impossible with Tobias still holding her chin. She was forced to see the lines appear on his face and watch how his muscles tensed and his jaw tightened until his teeth seemed like they were going to grind and break apart. But it was the way his eyes narrowed and a look of pure rage fuelled them that made (Y/n) want to cower down and hide.

"Did they hurt you?" His voice had never sounded so deep and it came with a low rumbling in his chest that was starting to feel an incessant fire surging throughout his body.

He watched as (Y/n) moved one shaky arm to wipe her eyes with her sleeve before she shook her head. "Eric caught them."

Her throat felt tender where one of them had practically gotten her into a headlock. Her chest was even worse than it had been from her fight with Peter earlier in the day and she was definitely bruised, but it was nothing that wouldn't heal. The scrapes and abrasions she had gathered tonight would heal, they weren't anything to worry about.

(Y/n) knew she was lucky. She could have smacked her head when they kept dropping her. She could have broken something in the scuffle to get away from them. And she knew she was forever lucky that Eric had been there at that exact moment, or else something worse might have happened.

She might have gone down the casm or she could have ended up knocking one of them down, and that may have been worse. They would have branded (Y/n) as a bad person, said she did it on purpose and she wouldn't have any way to defend herself or prove that they had been the ones to attack her.

When Tobias mumbled a gruff but quiet "Come here," (Y/n) tried to stop herself from tensing up and let her muscles go limp when he reached across for her. She wasn't sure whether he was going to try and get her up from the floor and take her to the bed or the bathroom.

But he didn't seem to have either of those things in mind. Instead, Tobias looped both his arms around her waist and pulled her across until she was sitting on his lap.

(Y/n) wriggled her legs around to curl them over his hips and she looped her shaking arms around the back of his neck, clinging to his front like a baby monkey of sorts. Her face burrowed down into the crook of his neck which caused him to shiver.

She could feel his hand splaying out in the centre of her back, trying to pin their chests together. Tobias wanted to tuck (Y/n) into his chest, to keep her safe and as close to his own heart as he could manage.

His lips attached to the side of her head but it didn't stop (Y/n) from being able to feel how tense he was and how each breath was laboured. He was trying his best not to implode. He was holding himself together when he desperately wanted to go off on a tangent and murder those three boys that had decided to mess with (Y/n). His girl.

It was comforting when Tobias began to rock back and forth, ever so slowly and very carefully like he wasn't sure whether the movement would be appreciated, but he knew he needed to do something.

"I… I don't wanna go back to the dorms, if th- if they're still there-"

"You're not going back there. You can stay here with me."

Tobias cut her off before she could even finish her trail of thought. She didn't want to go back to the dorms where all the other initiates would be. She didn't want to stay there if those three would be allowed back in there.

What if the others found out what happened? They might side with (Y/n), or they could agree that Tobias was giving her points and also bear a grudge against her. They might try and be spiteful and hurt her, and (Y/n) couldn't deal with anyone else turning on her like that. Those three were enough.

But she didn't have to go back. Tobias didn't want her leaving his sights. He didn't want (Y/n) to go back there and be with the others when three of them had just attacked her because she was doing better than them and they were afraid of becoming factionless.

She could stay here, Tobias didn't care how it looked or if anyone tried to say anything. She would be safer here with him and that was the point. He wasn't going to have this happen again, (Y/n) might not be so lucky if this occurred again.

"They won't be in this faction after tomorrow; they just sealed their fates." Tobias's tone was calmer than before, but his words were anything but.

He knew Eric would be on the same train of thought. They couldn't allow any of the newbies to act like this and think they still had a chance to stay in Dauntless. And their own families and factions wouldn't have them back after leaving and being in Dauntless for weeks. They had made their choice, and now they would have to deal with the consequences.

The rest of Dauntless might not feel safe, but at least here, sat on Tobias's lap, entangled in his arms, (Y/n) knew she was safe.

She pressed her lips against the side of his throat, breathing in his scent as she finally felt herself beginning to calm down. She was safe here. She wouldn't be running into Peter, Alan or Garrett anytime soon. Eric would be dealing with them right now and if he didn't, they'd better pray if Tobias found them in the morning.

[notsodelirious]

Good boy — Jason todd

synopsis: you fuck your boyfriend and then take care of him <3

notes: reader is mentioned to have a dick but you can entirely imagine it as a fem!reader with a strap and she takes it off when she cleans herself up in the bathroom — NSFW MDNI 💛

tags: smut like pure smut, aftercare, anal, subspace (not named), aftercare, established relationship, 1k words, no use of y/n, sub Jason (idk how subby I can make that man before it becomes ooc)

(also I’ve written like 3 drabbles in 3 days and I think I might be deceiving people as to how much I’m actually capable of writing but enjoy <3)

Your hands wrapped around his waist as you pulled him back onto your cock, over and over again, revelling in the sound of his soft, punched out moans. The grind of your hips against his ass was slow, methodical, as you made sure to brush against his abused prostate over and over again.

The desperate whine that had left his throat was glorious.

You had been at this for hours now. While he was patrolling, he kept one comm-line channel open for his family, and the other one for you, a temporary cure for his loneliness as he patrolled his streets. He’d been complaining about how wound up he felt, the stress of work and the thought of the world existing around him. As soon as you had gotten your hands on Jason, you undressed him and pushed him into your bed with a promise to fuck his brains out like he’d never had before, to make him forget he’d ever been stressed in the first place.

And now 3 hours later and 5 orgasms deep, Jason was shaking and panting on your sheets, clutching at the covers. You knew his entire body was oversensitive—you took pride in your work: his throat and chest were covered in hickeys, nipples puffy and ridden with bite marks from your abuse and his cock was barely half-clubbed but you were determined to pull one more small climax from his overspent body.

You continued to fuck him at an infuriating pace, knowing that if he had the words for it, Jason would be cussing you out for taking so long, for teasing him, not giving him what he wanted—but the blubbering, crying mess you had reduced him too was too far gone for words. The only words on his lips were your name and his pleas.

“What a good boy,” you said softly, as you brush your fingers through his hair, cradling the back of his head as your other hand runs over the large expanse of his back. There was something thrilling about having such a powerful man shivering in front of you like this—over 200 pounds of muscle and anger, capable of wielding more weapons than you can name, hands that have killed more people than you’ve ever met; and he was sobbing and begging you for something only you could give him.

You felt good.

And you wanted him to feel better.

You sped up ever so slightly, letting the hand on his back dip down to fondle his balls swinging temptingly between the two of you as he rocked back and forth.

“Want to cum again, big boy?” you cooed softly as you started to fondle him gently, rolling them in your palm before moving to wrap your fingers around his cock. He nodded eagerly, tilting his head to look up at you pleadingly. Dried tears streaked across his face, and there was drool on his pillow, all a testament to how truly gone he was.

He near screamed as you sped up, fucking him firmly into the mattress. His cock twitched valiantly in your hand as you jerk him off.

“You love it, don’t you?” you said softly as he moaned, loud enough that your neighbours would probably complain. Again. “Such a smart boy, going stupid for cock. You like being fucked stupid, don’t you?”

You weren’t even sure if he understood what you were saying, the only response to your words being a litany of “please, please, please,” tumbling from his lips as you felt him draw closer and closer to the edge.

“Cum for me, babe, let go.”

It wasn’t as explosive as his first couple of orgasms; he keened, burying his face in the pillows, his cock offering a pathetic spurt of nearly clear cum, adding to the already soaked sheets below him. You fucked him slowly through his orgasm, helping him ride it, before he tapped the space beside his head, drawing you to a halt. His skin was smooth beneath your hands as you rubbed his back for a quiet minute before you pulled away from carefully.

He whined as the overstimulation got to him; the soft squelch of the lube made you smile when you finally released yourself from him. You resisted the urge to run your thumb along his puffy rim, simply admiring how stretched out he was, appreciating how sore he’d probably feel in the next couple of days. You pat his hip, and gently manoeuvre him to lie on his side, away from the cuddle puddle.

“I’ll be right back,” you promised him in a quiet voice before you’re slipping out of the room to the adjoining bathroom. You made sure to be quick, dreading the thought of leaving Jason alone for too long after having put him through so much.

You cleaned yourself up before coming back to him with a damp, warm cloth. He shuffled closer to you as you wiped him down, careful of areas you knew were sensitive.

“Better?” you asked as you set aside the towel and brushed his hair out of his hair. Bright green eyes stare up at you, just about regaining their spark as he slowly comes out of his dazed headspace.

“Stay?” he croaked as he reached out to clasp your arm. You huff a small laugh, leaning forward to place a peck on his lips.

“Eat and drink something for me first, okay?”

He grumbled but sat up with your help, taking the offered water bottle with shaky hands. You reminded him to take small sips as you settled beside him on the edge of the bed, taking the bottle from him when he pulled away and offering him an open granola bar instead.

He pulled you into his lap as he chewed on his bar, an arm around your waist to make sure you weren’t going anywhere.

“Feel better?” you said as he dropped the empty wrapping on the bedside table to be cleaned up tomorrow.

He nodded before he was manhandling you despite still shaky limbs, until you were cuddling appropriately to his taste, his head on your chest and he practically laid on you.

“Thank you,” he said in a quiet voice, “For taking care of me.”

“Always, big guy,” you ran your hand through his hair, twirling his silver strand around your finger, “Thank you for trusting me with your body.”

“Only you.”

[getaapologist]

The Geta x Servant!Reader lore just keeps getting better and better 😍😭 If it ever strikes your fancy, I would love to see what happens if someone else (a bold servant or a drunk senator perhaps) tried to put their hands on her. Or literally anything else you want to write because I will continue eating it up and enjoying every moment of it!

More servant!reader because why not? We all deserve happiness.

[ Prior entry in the servant!reader blurb saga here ]

Loud, boisterous laughter. Soft music filtering in, a cool evening that drew the guests out into the gardens. 

The stars were bright pinpricks of light above, the sky clear.

Large hands gripped your calves, your ankles, your legs strewn across Geta’s lap. He was deep in conversation with a senator, who thought the wine and merriment might make Geta more amenable to whatever his desires were.

Or perhaps, having you in his lap would do the trick. 

If there was any discomfort in your legs, it would have been worked out quickly as Geta kneaded your muscles. 

“Emperor?” you whispered, not wanting to interrupt him, but greatly desiring one of the sweet cakes back in the main room.

He didn’t take his eyes off the Senator, but gave your ankle a squeeze, as if he sensed you wished to get up. His touch returned the shackle, but it was no longer a burden or a restraint. It was a soft band of silk, a tether, a way back to him. 

His hands left your legs and he glanced over as you slid off his lap, his eyes raking over you. “Do not be long, little lamb.”

The grass was cold beneath your bare feet, and the stone floor was even colder still. Geta had stolen your sandals earlier, deft fingers pulling at the thin leather cords keeping them on.

Still, your destination was just ahead, the table piled high with sweets and other things. You took your time, adding things to a small plate that you enjoyed, but also things you knew Geta particularly liked, just in case he wanted something. 

“I have not seen you at these gatherings before, for I would surely remember you.” The voice carried a smile with it, and you looked up, laying eyes on a man you did not recognize, clad in the white robes of a senator. “What is your name?” 

The smell of the bitter wine on his breath was unavoidable. You could see the slight sway in his posture as he stood, emboldened by the alcohol.

You knew better, you knew this was a situation you wanted to avoid. You missed the protective aura that Geta provided. You felt untouchable when with him. You wished you could tug on that tether, bring Geta over. But in lieu of that, you tried to remain polite as you dismissed his interest. “I must go, excuse me.”

A firm, unrelenting grip wrapped around your upper arm, stopping you, pulling you back to where he stood, his brows drawn together in barely veiled frustration.

“You refuse to answer me?”

“You really shouldn’t do that,” Caracalla warned, his voice lilting as an amused grin spread across his face. "That's his favorite." He approached the table, loading up a small plate of his own as if this confrontation were not occurring.

You could not ask Caracalla to intervene, You did not enjoy the same latitude with him as you did with his brother. You could only bring your arms up to try to shield yourself from the man’s prying eyes.

The hand at your arm tightened its grip, yanking you forward. The plate in your hands fell to the floor with a loud clatter, drawing all attention to where you stood.

Embarrassment and fear filled you, remnants of your former work not feeling so distant now as you looked down at the mess on the floor. You longed to scoop it up, lamenting the wasted sweet cakes.

“You will unhand her, senator!” Geta spoke, his voice laden with fury.

Before the man could, his hand was wrenched away from you, his breath leaving his lungs in a forceful huff as he was pushed up against a nearby column. Your skin burned painfully where the man’s hand had been. 

Caracalla leaned against the table nearby, watching with great amusement.

Geta raged, the halls echoing with his threats. His face and throat were bright red, neck flexing, veins prominent. You overheard something about being fed to lions before you needed a distraction from the attention.

Discomfort overwhelming, you knelt down to the floor, scooping the ruined cakes onto the empty plate in an effort to forestall the tears. The cakes were so destroyed, they were in small pieces, your hands growing quite messy as you attempted to clean them up.

“Leave it,” Geta whispered, his large hands stilling yours. The sticky sweet mess did not bother him, his large brown eyes worried. As he saw your expression, he moved his palms to your cheeks, urging you to look at him.

Shame burned through you, as if this was all your fault. “I am sorry, Emperor.”

Geta shook his head, anger in his expression, though it was not directed at you. “No, little lamb,” he whispered. “This is not your fault.” His tenderness was almost shocking after the volley of verbal abuse he’d just spewed at the senator. 

Geta stood, orders leaving his reddened throat. The senator was cast out, never to be invited again. The mess was cleaned up, a fresh plate laden with more sweets sent to his chambers. He even managed to ignore Caracalla’s derisive chuckling as he used a wet cloth to clean the both of your fingers.

“Cheer up, little lamb,” he smiled softly, nudging your chin with his knuckle. His large chestnut eyes watched you, eventually falling to the arm where the man had grabbed you.

“Thank you,” you whispered, reaching for his wrist. His eyes flitted down to the point of contact before meeting yours again, something else in his gaze.

He seemed to hesitate, something unexpected causing him to falter for a moment. And only a moment. Hunger surfaced in his eyes, his desire to smooth things over, to get you to forget about the handsy senator surely at the forefront of his mind. “Come, let me feed you all the cake you care to enjoy, mea mellitula.”

A/N: 'mea mellitula' is roughly my honey. Maybe we forgot about the finger incident, but clearly Geta didn't.

[itwasntimethatdidit40]

Yessss. It was an honor to read it first honestly, this is so good!

I'm still mad at him being a jerk but there's nothing I want more than for him to fuck me into the oblivion 🥵

favorite parts under the cut 'cause I don't want to spoil this deliciousness to anyone 😌

Y'all read this now!!!!

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus. You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.” “Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

LOL what an asshole. I love him. 🫠

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest. You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

I love her sass, tell him babe!!

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—" "You sit behind the counter and read Hustler.”

Hahahahahah AGAIN,  I LOVE HER.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control.” So we’re calling it quality control now? LOL can I do a quality control on his dick?  "You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Oh the good old blackmail, she’s a stronger soldier than me, I wouldn’t hesitate to do whatever he wanted. 🥵

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya.”

Oh look, that’s me, I have a whole fucking hurricane inside me 🥲

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."   Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.  

OOOOF yeah, so fucking hot 🤤

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Wreck me NOW, why don’t you 🥵

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Ooooh I'm combusting, byeeeee

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?” Yes, actually.  “Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.” “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

YES. 🧎🏻‍♀️‍➡️

“Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.”

I’M ON MY WAYYYYYY.

This was so great, I swear, reading this again was even better, I'm so glad you decided to write Clint 'cause you did a A+ job as always, I need him so bad 🫠

p.s. love you bee ❤️

sweet surrender

Clint x f!reader // 6k

summary: your sleazy boss convinces you to fuck in the break room to a shitty porn tape he rented

warnings: mdni, 18+, porn with minimal plot, sleazy!clint, daddy kink, oral f! and m! receiving, unprotected p in v, fucking at work, fucking to a porn video, reader has titties, edging, orgasm denial

notes: a big huge thank you to @itwasntimethatdidit40 for reading this and being the sweetest cheerleader and for making me a moodboard when I was going through this crisis I love you so very much, @milla-frenchy for reading and leaving me the best comments you are the sweetest bb <3 and a big thank you to @evolnoomym for reading this over too. You are all the best and I love you veryyyyy much. // ty @/darkissoulmybody on Pinterest for the clint pic <3

masterlist

The bell above the door jingles as you step into the dimly lit video store, the scent of old VHS cases and cigarette smoke lingering in the air. The neon glow from the ADULT SECTION sign flickers in the back, casting shadows over the rows of tapes Clint probably hasn’t dusted in a decade.

You spot him behind the counter, feet kicked up, flipping through a magazine like he’s got all the time in the world. His aviators rest low on his nose, and when he glances up at you, a slow smirk spreads across his face.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag onto the counter. “I’m five minutes early.”

Clint shrugs, shutting the magazine with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Coulda fooled me. Felt like I was sittin’ here all alone for hours.”

“Tragic.”

“You have no idea.” He leans forward, elbows on the counter, eyes raking over you in that way that’s become annoyingly familiar. “Lucky for me, I’ve got entertainment.”

You don’t have to ask. You already know. Like clockwork, there’s a VHS case sitting right by the register, an X-rated title in bold, red letters across the front. He picks out one every damn week like it’s just part of his routine. Sometimes he even makes you ring it up for him, just to see if you’ll get flustered.

Clint taps the tape with two fingers. “Think this one’s gonna be good?”

You glance at it. Sweet Surrender. Jesus.

You arch a brow. “Didn’t take you for a romance guy.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Clint drawls, grinning like he’s got you right where he wants you. “I got layers.”

You scoff, moving past him to clock in. Clint watches you go, the heat of his gaze pressing into your back. It’s always like this—him looking, teasing, toeing the line just enough to make you wonder if he’d ever actually cross it.

You haven’t figured out yet if you’d let him.

The night drags on slowly, the hum of the old fluorescent lights blending with the occasional creak of the front door. A couple of regulars come and go, renting their usuals, nodding at Clint. You organize the counter, stock a few shelves, and pretend you don’t notice the way Clint always seems to be near.

At some point, you duck into the break room, craving a moment of quiet. The tiny space is cluttered—half-empty soda cans, an old couch that smells like dust, and a mini fridge stocked with questionable leftovers. You lean against the counter, letting out a slow breath.

And then Clint’s there, filling the doorway.

“Escapin’ from me already?” he muses, arms crossing over his broad chest.

You don’t look at him, reaching for the fridge instead. “Just needed a break from your endless charm.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “That so?”

You grab a soda, cracking it open. “Mhm.”

Clint takes another step closer, and this time, you feel it. The heat of him, the scent of cigarettes and cheap aftershave, the way his presence always seems bigger than it should be in a room this small.

"Y’know, sweetheart," he drawls, voice dipped in that slow, southern thing he does when he’s feeling extra cocky, "I don’t think you appreciate me enough."

You take a sip of your soda, deadpan. "So sad."

"That’s what I’m sayin’." He clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "I’m here, night after night, keeping this fine establishment running—"

"You sit behind the counter and read Hustler."

"—And in return, do I get so much as a thank you?" He sighs, like he’s been personally victimized. "No, I do not."

You roll your eyes, setting your soda down with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Clint, for gracing this dump with your presence."

He smirks. "Anytime, sweetheart."

You turn to leave, but before you can, Clint starts talking.

"You ever get curious?" he asks, voice all low and knowing.

You frown. "About what?"

Clint taps the VHS tape in his hand. The one he brought into the break room with him. The one he’s now pushing into the old, busted TV set in the corner like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Your stomach drops. "Clint—"

The screen crackles to life. A grainy, oversaturated image flickers on—the unmistakable opening of Sweet Surrender, complete with cheesy saxophone music and a woman moaning through the static.

You stare at the TV. Then at Clint.

"What the fuck, dude?"

Clint just grins, sinking down onto the old couch like this is all one big joke. Like he planned for this reaction. He stretches out, legs spread wide, arm slung over the back like he owns the place.

Like he’s settling in.

"What?" He gestures lazily at the screen. "Figured we could do some, y’know, quality control."

You gape at him. "You did not just put on a fucking porno in the break room."

Clint shrugs, completely unbothered. "Looks like I did."

You’re about to cuss him out, maybe throw your soda at him, when he takes it a step further—because of course he does.

He pats the cushion beside him, smirking. "C’mon, sweetheart. Scared you might like it?"

You scoff, folding your arms tight across your chest. "Oh, fuck off, Clint."

But he just grins wider, eyes glinting. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

"That a no?" he drawls, tilting his head. "Shame. Thought we were friends."

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. "Friends don’t put on softcore porn in the break room."

"Softcore?" Clint clicks his tongue, shaking his head. "Sweetheart, you wound me. You think I’d waste my time on soft anything?"

You open your mouth to fire back, but then a particularly loud, breathy moan cuts through the static, and you feel your face heats up.

Jesus Christ.

Clint watches you, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s waiting—hoping—to catch you slipping.

"Y’know," he muses, stretching his arms up behind his head, "you could just not watch. Seems like you’re thinkin’ about it awful hard, though."

You shake your head, biting back the urge to tell him to go to hell. "I’m not thinking about shit."

Clint hums like he doesn’t believe you, like he can see right through you. He stays lounging, legs spread, fingers drumming lazily against his thigh as he turns his attention back to the screen.

Another moan filters through the static.

You grab your soda gripping it tighter. "You’re disgusting."

"And yet, here you are. Still talkin’ to me."

You glare at him, turning for the door. "I have actual work to do."

But before you can take a step, Clint clicks his tongue. "Ah, ah, ah—why don’t you sit down, sweetheart?"

Your spine goes stiff. "What?"

He gestures to the empty space beside him. "Take a load off. Ain’t like we’re busy."

You scoff. "Not happening."

Clint exhales, long and slow, like this is just another inconvenience to him. Then, he says it.

"You sure? ‘Cause if you’re not in the mood to be a team player…" He lets the words hang, lazy and sharp at the same time. "I could always find someone else to cover your shifts."

Your stomach drops. "Are you—" You stop yourself, clenching your jaw. "Seriously?"

He grins, all teeth. "Dead serious."

Your pulse kicks up, anger boiling under your skin. "You’re gonna fire me—because I won’t watch your shitty porn with you?"

"Don’t be dramatic," Clint says, patting the cushion again. "Just tryna boost morale. You don’t wanna be a team player? That’s fine. I’ll just start lookin’ for someone who will."

You glare at him, every part of you screaming to tell him to fuck off, to storm out and never come back.

But rent is due. Your car needs gas. And Clint knows it.

You don’t sit right away. You stand there, arms locked tight, fighting every instinct telling you not to give him the satisfaction.

And Clint just sits there, watching, waiting for you to crack.

Finally, with a sharp inhale, you place your soda down again and drop onto the couch beside him, arms still crossed.

He chuckles low, tilting his head toward you. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

Your jaw is clenched so tight it aches. "Go to hell, Clint."

Clint just smirks. "Darlin’, I’m already there. Might as well enjoy the view."

Clint spreads his legs enough to make sure you notice. His arm drapes across the back, fingers barely grazing your shoulder, like he’s settling in with you. Like this is comfortable.

For him, anyway.

For you, it’s fucking not.

"Ain’t too bad, huh?" he murmurs, voice all slow and smug.

You fix your gaze on the TV, jaw clenched. "Shut up."

But Clint isn’t the type to shut up.

He watches you instead of the screen, studying the stiff set of your shoulders, the way your arms stay locked tight across your chest. Like you think you can make yourself smaller. Like you think you can ignore him.

But he’s relentless.

He leans in, breath warm against your ear. "Relax, sweetheart. You act like I just asked you to do somethin’ real dirty."

You whip your head toward him, scowling. "This is dirty."

He grins, slow and lazy. "Yeah?" His gaze dips lower, raking over you in a way that makes your skin prickle. "Ain’t even touched you yet."

Fucking hell.

You snap your head back toward the TV, desperate to look anywhere else. The scene playing out is typical cheap VHS smut—bad lighting, a low-budget set, and a woman fake moaning as some guy runs his hands all over her. They’re both already naked, sprawled across a tacky, leopard-print couch that looks stiff and uncomfortable. Her curls bounce as she arches exaggeratedly, lips parted in an over-the-top gasp.  

“Mmm, yeah, just like that,” she purrs, dragging her nails lightly down his back, though the gesture looks more like a routine than genuine pleasure.  

The guy—tan lines stark against his skin, hair slicked back with too much gel—grunts, his expression unfocused. “You like that?” His voice is low, but the words sound hollow, like he’s said them a hundred times before.  

She lets out another moan, forced, too high-pitched to be real. The camera lingers on his hands moving over her, on the way she spreads her legs obligingly, even as her expression flickers—boredom creeping in beneath the act. The whole thing feels mechanical, like they’re just going through the motions, a loop they’ve rehearsed a hundred times before.

“God, you feel so good,” she sighs, her voice sweet, syrupy, and just a little too rehearsed.  

The man doesn’t respond, just keeps moving, his rhythm unchanged, like he’s punching a clock. The camera zooms in slightly, grainy and unflattering, the colors oversaturated in that distinct VHS way. It’s all so obvious—cheap, impersonal, bodies going through the motions for the sake of getting paid.

And yet, you can’t quite look away.  

Clint hums, tapping his fingers against the couch. "Gotta say, Sweet Surrender ain’t half bad. Got a nice lil’ build-up to it."

You exhale sharply, your patience hanging by a thread. "Do you ever stop talking?"

Clint just chuckles, low and amused. "Not when I’m enjoyin’ myself."

And then—he sprawls out even more, shifting so his knee knocks against yours.

You jerk away. "Clint—"

"What?" He feigns innocence, head tilting. "Ain’t my fault there's not much room on this ratty ol’ couch."

Your hands ball into fists in your lap. "You’re the one who told me to sit here."

He grins again, wolfish and filthy. "And lucky for you, I’m real good at sharin’."

You’re about to snap, about to say something vicious—but then his fingers brush your thigh. Just a ghost of a touch, casual as anything, but pointed.

Deliberate.

Your breath catches, and he notices.

His smirk deepens, voice dropping lower. "Aw, sweetheart. You nervous?"

You swallow hard, forcing your body to stay still. "No."

Clint tsks, shaking his head. "Liar."

And then, the fucker has the nerve to nudge his knee against yours again, slow and deliberate, his fingers tap a lazy rhythm against your thigh.

"You sit here actin’ all stiff, like you don’t wanna be here," he murmurs, his voice damn near silky. "But you haven't left yet."

Your nails dig into your palms. "Because you threatened to fire me."

Clint just grins. "Uh-huh." He leans in again, voice dipping into something rougher. "That the only reason?"

Your heart slams against your chest.

You should get up. Should shove him away, tell him to fuck off, storm out and let him deal with this shitty store all by himself.

But your legs won’t move. Your body won’t move.

And Clint? He just keeps watching you, looking at you like he’s already won.

Like he knows something you don’t.

His smirk turns downright predatory, all lazy amusement and smug satisfaction. "See," he drawls, fingers still moving up your thigh, "you talk a big game, sweetheart, but you like this, don’t you?"

You inhale sharply, turning your head to glare at him. "I do not—"

He chuckles, slow and deep. "Mmm.”

His hand drags a little higher, not quite a grope, but enough to feel. Enough to let you know he’s testing you, waiting for you to stop him.

You should stop him.

But your body betrays you, staying right there, locked in place, heat curling in your stomach in a way you hate.

Clint grins like he can taste your hesitation. "See? Ain’t so bad, am I?"

You grit your teeth, trying to keep your voice steady. "You’re a fucking creep."

He hums, unconcerned. "Maybe." 

The TV hums in the background, the flickering glow casting shadows across his face. Another moan filters through the static, obscene and drawn out.

And Clint? He doesn’t look at the screen.

He looks at you and winks.

"Y’know," he muses, voice all slow and smug, "coulda left five minutes ago. Could leave now." His fingers press a little firmer, teasing the edge of your inner thigh. "But you won’t."

Your breath shudders, hands curling into fists.

His lips twitch. "So, tell me, sweetheart. You gonna sit here, act all mad, or you gonna do what we both know you wanna do?"

Your whole body is burning—rage, humiliation, something else you refuse to name.

You need to leave.

And Clint fucking knows it.

His smirk deepens, hand creeping higher, his voice dipping into something rougher, darker. 

"That’s my girl."

Your whole body is wound tight, muscles locked, breath shallow.

And that’s when he knows he’s got you.

His smirk turns downright wicked. "C’mon, sweetheart," he murmurs, tilting his head toward his lap. "Why don’t you get a little more comfortable?"

Your breath catches. "Excuse me?"

Clint just pats his thigh, lazy and casual like he’s offering you the comfiest seat in the house. "Ain’t gonna bite. Unless, y’know, you ask real nice."

You should slap him.

He leans in a little more, breath warm against your ear. "I ain’t making you do nothing, doll," he says, slow and deliberate. "You wanna leave? Walk. But you stay sitting here, pretending like you don’t want it? Now that’s just wastin’ both our time."

Your stomach twists, heat coiling low. "You’re so fucking full of yourself."

Clint chuckles, dark and knowing. "Yeah? You ain't gotta pretend you don't like it.” 

You hate that he’s right.

Hate that your thighs press together, that your breath is shaky.

You inhale sharply.

Then, slowly, finally—you move.

You shift, hesitating for just a second before you swing your leg over and settle onto his lap.

His hands immediately slide to your hips, gripping firm, like he’s been waiting for this all goddamn night.

"Atta girl," he murmurs, voice all rough approval. His hands flex on your hips, warm and steady, holding you like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he knew you’d end up here eventually. You hate how he leans back just enough to take you in, like he’s already imagining exactly how this is gonna go.

You glare down at him. "Wipe that look off your face."

His smirk only deepens. "What look?"

You don’t answer, because if you do, your voice might shake. Might give something away. Instead, you grab the collar of his cheap button-up, fisting it tight like you’re considering shoving him away. He doesn’t look concerned. If anything, he looks even more pleased.

"Feisty," he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. "Always figured you had a little fight in ya."

You roll your eyes. And then you do it.

You yank him in and crash your mouth against his, all heat and frustration, and fuck you wrapped up in a kiss. Clint makes a sound—low, satisfied, almost like he’d been daring you to do it. His hands tighten, fingers digging in, and then he’s kissing you back, deep and consuming, dragging you under like he owns you.

It’s messy, all clashing teeth and the faint taste of cheap beer and cigarettes on his tongue, but fuck, it’s good. Too good. His hands slide up your sides, rough and sure, thumbs brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, teasing warm skin. You arch into it without thinking, and that’s all the invitation Clint needs—he groans, low in his throat, and suddenly you're moving, flipped onto your back before you can blink.

"Fucking finally," he mutters against your mouth, hands already pushing up your shirt.

You barely have time to register the old couch beneath you before Clint is on you, pressing you down, pinning you like he’s been waiting forever for this moment. His weight is solid, and grounding, and when he dips his head, dragging his lips down the side of your neck, you barely bite back a sound.

"Damn, you smell good," he rasps, voice thick, rough like gravel. "Been driving me fuckin’ crazy for weeks."

Your breath stutters as his teeth scrape over your pulse, the heat of his mouth making your head swim. You should say something, throw one last smartass remark his way—but then his hands are everywhere, tugging your shirt up, palming greedily over your ribs, thumbs teasing just beneath the edge of your bra.  

"You gonna help me out here?" he drawls, mouthing along your jaw. "Or you just gonna lay there all pretty and let me do all the work?"  

His voice is thick with something dark and amused, but there’s a heat behind it that makes your stomach tighten. You lift your arms, giving him exactly what he wants, and he wastes no time pulling your shirt over your head. The cool air hits your skin, goosebumps rising in its wake, but it's nothing compared to the warmth of his hands as they slide over your bare shoulders, and down your sides. Your bra follows, unhooked with practiced ease, and he groans as he takes you in—eyes dark, hands already reaching.  

"Look at you," he murmurs, brushing his thumbs over your nipples, watching the way they pebble under his touch. "Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen."  

Then he dips down, mouth hot and eager, dragging wet kisses along the swell of your breast before he takes one into his mouth. His tongue is slow, deliberate, circling, flicking, while one of his hands kneads the other, squeezing just enough to make you gasp.  

He hums against your skin, lips dragging lower before he sucks at the sensitive underside, teeth grazing just enough to make you arch into him.  

"That feel good, sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice rough, breath warm against your skin. His other hand rolls your nipple between his fingers, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet you like being taken care of, don't you?”

You let out a shaky breath, head tilting back as heat coils low in your belly. His mouth is everywhere—kissing, sucking, teasing—turning you pliant under him. His words send a shiver down your spine, and you barely realize you’re nodding before your lips part to speak.  

"Yeah," you admit, voice soft, a little breathless. "I— I like it."  

Clint hums against your skin, dragging his teeth along the curve of your breast. "Yeah, I bet you do," he murmurs, fingers rolling your nipple, teasing, making you whimper. "Bet no one's ever really taken care of you before, huh? Not like this." His voice is all gravel and heat, thick with certainty. "Not by a real man.”  

Your breath stutters, your fingers twitching where they rest against the couch. The way he’s looking at you—hungry, possessive, like he already knows the answer—makes your pulse race.

"S’okay, sweetheart," he soothes, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss between your breasts. "Daddy’s gonna take real good care of you."

Before you can even process the rush of heat his words send through you, Clint just grins, teeth flashing, and suddenly his hands are on yours, grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your head in one quick, easy motion.

You open your mouth—to argue, to tell him he’s full of shit—but then he grinds himself against you, and whatever insult you were about to spit out melts into a choked-off gasp.

Clint’s breath is hot against your skin as he leans over you, the flickering light of the TV casting a sinful glow over his face. The low, breathy moans from the video playing beside him fill the cramped break room, mixing with the sound of your own unsteady breathing. His grip on your wrists is firm, keeping you pinned as his hips press hard against yours, the thick outline of his cock grinding insistently where you need him most.

“You hear that? You sound even prettier than she does.”

You bite back a whimper, but he catches it anyway, grinning like the devil himself. His free hand slips under your pants, between your thighs, fingers stroking over the damp fabric of your panties, slow and teasing. The woman on the screen lets out a desperate little cry as the man behind her fucks into her deep, and Clint groans low in his throat.

“Fuck,” he rasps. “You wanna try it?”

Your breath stutters. “What?”

His teeth scrape over your jaw, fingers curling tighter around your wrists as his other hand slides beneath your waistband, fingers dipping into your slick heat. “The way he’s got her. Bent over that couch, takin’ it like a good girl.” He drags his fingers under your panties and through your wetness, teasing, torturing. “Bet you’d look real pretty like that.”

A shiver runs through you, half defiance, half raw, burning need. “And if I say no?”

Clint chuckles, a dark, knowing sound as he draws his fingers out of you, lifting them to his lips to suck them clean, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “Then I’ll just have to fuck you right here, just like this.” His hips press harder, the thick length of him straining against his jeans. “Either way, you’re gettin’ wrecked, sweetheart.”

Your pulse pounds in your ears, breath shallow as you glance at the screen—at the way the man’s hands are gripping the woman’s waist, pulling her back onto him, the obscene sounds of slick skin meeting skin filling the air. Clint’s watching too, tongue swiping across his bottom lip like he can already taste the way you’ll come apart for him.

“Tell daddy what you need,” he orders, voice rough, commanding. “Tell him how you wanna be fucked.”

Your pride wars with your arousal, but the heat in his eyes, the way he’s holding you down, leaves you with only one answer.

“Like that.” Your voice is breathless, shaky, but firm. “Fuck me like that.”

Clint exhales a low chuckle, fingers tightening on your wrists. “Yeah? Knew you had it in you, baby. Knew you’d give in.” His voice is smug, dripping with satisfaction as he leans in, breath hot against your ear. “Say it again. But sweeter this time.” His lips brush your jaw, teasing. “Come on, princess. Call me daddy like you fuckin’ mean it.”

Heat prickles down your spine, your body betraying you as a shiver rolls through you. You grit your teeth, but the way he’s looking at you—like he owns you, like you’re already his—makes resistance feel impossible.

“Fuck me like that… Daddy.”

His eyes darken, his cock twitching against his jeans. “That’s my good girl.”

In one swift movement, he releases your wrists, flipping you onto your stomach against the couch. The cushions sink beneath you as Clint tugs your pants and underwear down in one rough motion, his large hands knead at your ass before delivering a sharp slap that makes you gasp. “Goddamn, look at that,” he groans, spreading you open with both hands, his thumbs pressing into your skin. “Can’t wait to see this pretty ass bounce on my cock—gonna make you work for it, baby.” he groans, palming himself through his jeans before undoing his belt. 

He tugs the leather free with one sharp pull, letting it drop to the floor with a heavy thud. Then he slides a hand down between your thighs, his fingers spreading you open even further.

“And look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, his voice thick with hunger. “Fuck, baby, she’s already so wet for daddy.” He drags a finger through your slick folds, slow and teasing, before bringing it to his mouth. His groan is low, filthy, as he sucks your taste from his fingers.

“Sweet as fuck,” he mutters, gripping your hips, dragging you back toward him. He leans in and his tongue flicks out, tasting you properly this time. His groan vibrates against you as he licks a slow, wet stripe up your cunt, his hands gripping your ass hard enough to leave marks.

“Mmm,” he hums, licking his lips. “Gonna make a fuckin’ mess outta you.”

He leans back, and the sound of his zipper sends a fresh wave of arousal through you, your body humming with anticipation. He doesn’t waste any time, shoving his jeans down over his hips, kicking them off completely along with his boxers. His cock stands thick and heavy, already leaking at the tip as he wraps a hand around the base, giving himself a slow stroke while his other hand spreads you open again.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing, making you squirm. “Just like in the video, huh?” He presses in just enough to drive you insane before pulling back, smirking when you whine.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he taunts, rubbing the tip against your clit, making you jerk. “Gonna make a nice mess for me?”

Please,” you breathe, your voice barely more than a whine.

He stills, his grip on your hips tightening. “Please what, baby?” His voice is smug, low, full of satisfaction as he waits, knowing exactly what he wants to hear.

You bite your lip, pride warring with need—but the way he’s holding you, the way he’s teasing you, makes it impossible to resist.

“Please, daddy,” you whisper.

Clint groans, his cock twitching against you. And then he’s sliding into you, slow but deep, stretching you open until you’re gasping. His hands grip your hips tight as he bottoms out, his head falling forward with a low, guttural moan. “Oh baby, she feels good,” he grits out. “Takin’ daddy so damn good, like you were made just for me.”

The video is still playing, the sounds of pleasure in the background spurring him on as he starts to move. His pace is steady at first, measured, but you don’t want slow—you want exactly what he promised. You want to be fucked like the woman on the screen, raw and dirty and desperate.

“Harder,” you gasp.

Clint growls, snapping his hips forward with a punishing thrust that knocks the air from your lungs. His fingers dig into your hips as he sets a brutal pace, the slap of skin against skin echoing in the tiny room. The couch creaks beneath you, but you barely notice—your body is burning, strung tight, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine.

His grip tightens as he leans in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Look up, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice dark and commanding. “Look at the TV.”

Your dazed eyes flutter open, and the sight in front of you makes your breath hitch. On the screen, a woman is getting absolutely wrecked, her body bouncing with every deep, relentless thrust. Clint moans at the way your gaze locks onto it, his fingers move to your neck and tighten around your throat just enough to make your pulse race.

“See that?” he murmurs, thrusting harder, deeper, making your body jolt with each snap of his hips. “She looks so pretty takin’ it—just like you.” His hand slides down to your chest, squeezing rough, fingers rolling your nipple.. “Look at how her tits bounce, baby. Just like yours. Fuckin’ perfect.”

You whimper, your back arching into his touch, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

Clint’s grip moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look anywhere but the TV. “Bet you like watchin’ it, don’t you?” he taunts, voice thick with sin. “Bet you love seein’ how good she takes it while I fuck you just the same.”

A deep, broken moan rips from your throat, your nails clawing at the couch as pleasure coils tight, ready to snap.

Clint groans, hips stuttering as he watches your body shudder beneath him. “Shit, you’re squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me, sweetheart? Gonna let daddy wreck you just like that?”

You let out a choked-off whimper as the scene on the TV shifts—the man shoving the woman onto her back, spreading her wide before diving between her legs. Clint watches, his breath going ragged, and then his dark eyes flick back to you.

“Mmmm.” he murmurs, dragging his fingers down your trembling body. “Bet you want that too, huh?”

You don’t even get the chance to answer before he moves, gripping your thighs and yanking you to the edge of the couch. The sudden motion has you gasping, but Clint just grins as he kneels between your legs.

“Keep watchin’,” he orders, voice low and rough.

Then his mouth is on you, hot and wet and devastating. His tongue drags over your clit in slow, deliberate circles, teasing, making you squirm. You grip his hair, tugging hard, but Clint just groans, sucking harder in retaliation.

“Look at you,” he mutters against your skin. “drooling for me. You like this, don’t you? Bein’ my plaything while we watch?”

The only response you can manage is a desperate, breathless moan.

Clint chuckles, the vibration making you shudder. He glances up at the screen, where the woman’s back is arching, her hands gripping the couch as the man devours her. Clint growls and follows suit, wrapping his hands tight around your thighs and burying his face between them, licking and sucking you deep, messy, like he’s starving.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice muffled against you. “Lemme hear those pretty little sounds, sweetheart. Show me who does it better—me or him?”

Clint groans against you, his tongue flicking faster, rougher, his fingers digging into your thighs as he devours you like he’s got something to prove. The filthy, wet sounds of his mouth on you mix with the moans from the TV, the whole thing makes your head spin.

You’re so close—right on the edge, your body tensing, ready to snap—when suddenly, Clint pulls away. You whine at the loss, your hips bucking up instinctively, but he just grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he coos. “You’ll get to come—just not yet.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s gripping your wrist, pulling you up off the couch and onto your knees in front of him. His cock is right there, flushed, thick, slick at the tip from how worked up he is. He fists himself lazily, giving it a slow stroke as he watches you, his other hand brushing through your hair.

“Open up, baby,” he murmurs, tapping the head of his cock against your lips. “Wanna feel that pretty mouth on me.”

You part your lips, letting your tongue flick over the tip, and Clint groans, his fingers tightening in your hair.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Goddamn, you look so fuckin’ pretty like this.” His hips jerk slightly as you take him deeper, your tongue dragging along the thick vein on the underside. “Knew you’d be good for me. Knew you’d suck Daddy’s cock like a fuckin’ dream.”

He tilts your head up, making you look at him as you hollow your cheeks, taking more of him. His jaw clenches, a dark look flashing in his eyes. “Fuck, baby—look at you,” he groans. “So fuckin’ eager. You like it, don’t you? Like being on your knees for me, takin’ Daddy’s cock like a good little thing?”

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. His grip tightens in your hair, guiding your pace, making you take him deeper. You relax your throat, letting him use you, and the sound he makes is downright filthy.

“Shit, baby,” he grits out, his abs tightening as he thrusts a little deeper, a little rougher. “Gonna fuck this pretty mouth—gonna come down your throat.”

His other hand cups your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek, feeling how full your mouth is. “You’re gonna swallow every drop, ain’tcha, sweetheart?” His voice is rough, almost desperate now. “Gonna take it all like the good girl you are.”

His pace stutters, his hips jerking as his breathing goes ragged. “Fuck, fuck, that’s it—look at you, so perfect for me—”

With a deep, wrecked groan, he comes, spilling hot and thick down your throat, his fingers gripping your hair tight as he holds you there. You swallow around him, taking every drop just like he told you, and the way his body shudders from it sends another pulse of heat straight to your core.

When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes across your bottom lip, gathering the last drop of his release before pressing it against your tongue.

You swirl your tongue around his thumb, sucking it into your mouth just to tease him, hoping he’ll get the hint—hoping he’ll finally give you what you need. But instead of pulling you back onto the couch, instead of touching you the way you’re aching for, Clint just chuckles, leaning back against the cushions with a lazy, satisfied grin.

Your brows furrow as you shift on your knees, the dull throb of your own arousal making you restless. “What the fuck?” you snap, your voice breathless and frustrated.

Clint sighs, stretching his arms behind his head like he’s already settling in for the night. “Sorry, baby,” he drawls, his tone dripping with smug amusement. “Daddy’s tired.”

Your mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me.”

He smirks, reaching down to tuck himself back into his jeans before grabbing a nearby tissue to wipe his hand. “Nope.” His gaze flicks over your flushed, trembling body, your thighs still pressed together, desperate for friction. He lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Damn, look at you—so fuckin’ needy.”

You glare at him, gripping his knee, half tempted to crawl onto his lap and take what you need yourself. “Clint—”

But he just tuts, wagging a finger at you. “Uh-uh. Don’t be such a fuckin’ brat about it.” He reaches forward, tilting your chin up so you’re looking at him, his smirk deepening. “Tell you what, sweetheart—bring me another tape tomorrow. Somethin’ real dirty.” He runs his thumb over your bottom lip again, grinning when you shiver. “Then maybe—maybe—Daddy’ll let you come.”

Your breath hitches, your thighs clenching together involuntarily.

“Better be a good one,” he murmurs. “Now be a good girl and clean up, yeah?”

npt to those interested in the wips: @yxtkiwiyxt @baronessvonglitter @mushgloomz @arcanefox207 @gothcsz @probablyreadinsmut @iknowisoundcrazy @almostfoxglove @sawymredfox @whocaresstillthelouvre @myownwholewildworld @ace-turned-confused @jokesonthem

[prettybabybaby]

rating: 18+. mdni.

pairing: stepbrother!regulus x reader

word count: 1.1k

content: stepcest, dubcon

regulus’s bedroom is right beside yours. his door seeming to hold more weight than the others, your stomach feeling heavy at the mere sigh of it. you’re quiet as can be as you wander into your bedroom, light on your feet and holding your breath to rid the empty halls of any noise. you’re fearful to garner his attention before you can slam the door shut behind you once you’re in the safety of your own bedroom. it’s always safe in your space. most of the time anyway. regulus doesn’t like the fact that on the other side of the thin walls, your other older brother, sirius, likely lays lazily in his bed, scheming one thing or another.

you nearly jump out of your skin when you notice regulus sitting on your bed. his back is reclined on your headboard, his lithe fingers holding some novel, the pages weighing the right side of it down as he nears the end. he doesn’t look up as you enter, but you know he knows you’re here.

stupidly, you reach for the doorknob anyway.

“leaving already?”

your eyes flicker back to your bed, regulus stormy eyes now fixed on you. he remains as expressionless as he always is, but there’s a small flash of amusement within them that disappears as quickly as it appears. you don’t speak for a second, your lips glued shut as your blood runs cold from the mere intensity of his gaze.

before you can mutter out some unconvincing excuse, he speaks again. “come here.”

you swallow thickly, the feeling of dread heavy in your stomach. you take slow steps towards him, drawing out the time before you walk right into his arms.

you stop as your knees hit the edge of your mattress, the thick bedding brushing your skin. you look up at him, finding his eyes fixed on the flowing skirt you suddenly regret slipping on in the morning.

his hand slides beneath it, his touch splayed over the plush flesh. “I said come here.”

you had known what he meant. you knew that he wanted you to climb onto the bed and perch yourself on his lap. to present yourself to him and give him access to you.

you climb onto the bed, taking deep breaths to calm yourself. regulus taps his fingers against his thigh, his eyes locked on you as you move. you swing your leg over his lap and sit down, your hands clasped together in front of you like an obedient trained dog. you watched as his eyes roamed over you, filled with hunger and lust.

his hands rest on the tops of your thighs, roaming over the expanse before dipping to the inner area, squeezing the flesh there. he pushes the hem of your skirt up, baring even more of your skin to him but what catches his eye is the baby pink panties hugging the lips of your pussy. his thumb brushes over the front, right over your slit. you jolt at the touch, your hand twitching to push his touch away but you manage to keep it in place. regulus brushes his thumb against you again, the pad of his thumb circling the area where your clit sits, his head tilted to the side and his eyes glimmering with smug, mocking amusement.

“you were out late,” he murmurs, glancing back down to where his thumb now circles your clit through your panties. “where were you?”

“it’s mary’s birthday,” you say softly. “she had a few people over.”

regulus hums, disapproval laced within it. “and you went.”

you nod, already knowing what’s to come.

“in this… skirt.”

you nod again, muttering a halfhearted excuse, knowing he won’t believe you anyway. “the others were… dirty.”

regulus looks up at you, not the slightest bit surprised by your attempt at deception. “ah, yes. I’m sure all those appropriate dresses in your closet are so filthy.” he moves your panties to the side, parting your pussy lips and exposing your inner lips to the chill air.

you know what he’s doing. he’s inspecting your cunt, making sure no one has touched what he believes he’s entitled to. what is his.

his finger slides between the folds, the tip prodding at your dry entrance. he hums, pleased. “were you a good girl tonight?” he looks up at you again, his eyes locked on yours for any sign of hesitation.

you nod your head, but you’re words come out slightly fearful. “yes… there were… boys there,” you pause to watch regulus’s reaction, noting the subtle clench of his jaw. “but I… I didn’t talk to them, I promise. I walked away every time.”

“good,” regulus says, giving your clit a light pinch that makes you jump and hiss in discomfort. “wouldn’t want to give you another lesson so soon. think you had enough last time, huh? taught you real well.”

you stay silent, letting his touch roam your pussy. he sticks his fingers into his mouth briefly, coating his digits to aid his gliding hands exploring your tense body. his eyes flash with satisfaction and lust when your hole begins to drip with your essence, raising his fingers to your mouth that you obediently take, sucking them clean.

“that’s a good girl,” he purrs. “look at you learning so well already. you’ve only been here a few months and look at how obedient you are…” you think back to his cruel punishments, knowing better than to disobey.

he pats the side of your thigh. “lay down. you’ve earned a nice reward, sweet girl. would you like that?”

your stomach feels heavy but you know better than to show it, instead nodding your head and moving off his lap. you slowly lift your shirt over your head, slowly and teasingly as regulus has taught you. he lets out a small groan, his hand raising to paw at your tits, squeezing them and ghosting over your pebbling nipples.

you lay down next, sliding your skirt off before slowly peeling your panties away, baring yourself. regulus rises to his knees, still fully clothed. you spread your legs wide, allowing him to see your pussy completely.

“good girl,” he emphasizes, yanking his pants down just enough for his cock to spring free, hard and leaking like it always seems to be when you’re around.

“no crying this time,” he says, his heavy cock slapping your clit. “I hate when you do that. I could be a lot meaner than I am and if you keep up all that weeping, I won’t hesitate to show you.”

you nod again, bracing yourself for his inevitable harsh thrust, impaling you completely with one swift move. “I won’t… won’t cry. I’m… I’m strong.”

“that’s right,” he says, giving your cheek a light and almost loving tap, his hips meeting yours as he thrusts meanly. you bite your lip, holding back your tears with everything in you. he smirks, “my strong little sister.”