#real men keep cool in the face of a fire

[just-aake]

Endearing Entanglements Part 2

Pairing: Natasha Romanoff x fem!reader

Summary: Part 2 of Endearing Entanglements. Being on the run is tough. Natasha eventually has no choice but to call for some help.

Warnings: fluff, light angst, implied sexual themes

Words: 3430

The night air is cool against Natasha’s skin as she stands beneath the cover of shadows near the corner of the empty street. The dim glow of a distant streetlamp barely reaches her, leaving her concealed in the darkness. 

She adjusts the hood of her jacket, the recently cut strands of her dyed blonde hair swaying slightly as she turns her head, scanning her surroundings with caution.

Being on the run has been brutal—physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

Especially after the Raft prison break, forcing her into a constant state of movement with no real moment of rest. 

Supplies are limited, safe havens even more so. 

Every day is a delicate game of survival, narrowly avoiding authorities, slipping past Ross’ men, and making sure those with her remain out of harm’s way.

Keeping her teammates safe is one thing.

Keeping those who willingly choose to help her is another.

Mason has already paid the price for his involvement, detained for his so-called “assistance” to her. Though he had managed to get released, Ross’s watchful eye was now firmly planted on him. 

That alone is enough reason for Natasha to hesitate before reaching out to any of her remaining contacts. 

The risk was simply too high.

But desperate times call for desperate measures.

The sudden, sharp sound of shattering glass cut through the quiet night, instantly snapping Natasha’s attention upward. 

Her muscles tense, her hand instinctively hovering near her concealed weapon as her eyes lock onto the source. 

From the fourth-story window of the old brick building across the street, a shadowed figure propels through the new opening and into the air, twisting mid-fall with practiced precision. 

In one fluid motion, they fire a grappling line, the cable anchoring into the adjacent wall, allowing them to swing effortlessly into a controlled descent. 

At just the right moment, they release the line, landing with a smooth roll before rising swiftly to their feet.

Flashbangs detonate inside the building behind them, the brief bursts of light flickering against the windows, followed by the frantic shouts of those left scrambling inside.

Natasha’s gaze drifts from the chaos back to the figure standing just a short distance ahead.

A low hum of satisfaction escapes you as you casually brush the dust from your clothes, barely fazed by the intensity of your escape. 

You take a quick glance around before your gaze finally meets hers.

A grin, wide and utterly unapologetic, spread across your lips.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Without hesitation, you close the space between you, hands gently cradling her face. 

The moment your fingers brush against her skin, warmth surges through her. 

Then, without another thought, you lean in, capturing her lips in a kiss.

Natasha stiffens for just a second, caught off guard by the sudden intimacy.

But then, the tension melts from her body, her lips parting in a quiet gasp—one you eagerly take advantage of, deepening the kiss with a hunger neither of you had the luxury to indulge in for far too long.

Her hands find their way to you, fingers gripping the fabric of your jacket, pulling you in closer as if afraid to let go. 

It was grounding—this moment of familiarity in a life that had become nothing but uncertainty.

But then, as her hand brushes against your side, you suddenly break the kiss with a sharp intake of breath.

Natasha pulls back just enough to see the flicker of pain flash across your face. Her brows furrow, concern instantly replacing the haze of the moment.

“Careful, love,” you murmur with a soft chuckle, exhaling through the lingering sting. “I think I may have reopened the stitches on my landing.”

A familiar mix of exasperation and affection flickers in her expression, her fingers tightening slightly on your jacket.

“Of course you did.”

Even as she sighs, there is no mistaking the way her hold on you remains steady, unwilling to let you go just yet.

But then, a sudden movement flickers in the corner of her vision. 

In an instant, Natasha’s instincts take over. She yanks you sharply to the side, the sudden motion forcing you off balance just as her hand flies up, launching a compact taser disk at the oncoming figure. 

The moment the disk connects, an electric surge crackles through the air, the assailant convulsing before collapsing to the ground with a dull thud. 

The whole exchange happened in mere seconds.

You barely had time to register it before glancing over your shoulder at the now-unconscious attacker. 

A slow smirk tugs at your lips as you turn back to her, eyes flickering with something both teasing and admiring.

“Still exceptional as always, love,” you muse, tilting your head slightly as your fingers twirl a lock of her blonde hair between them. “Even with the new look.” 

Natasha huffs, rolling her eyes, but there is no real annoyance behind it. If anything, the ghost of a smirk threatens to tug at the corners of her mouth.

“Yeah, well,” she exhales, shaking her head as she glances down at the unconscious attacker. “That was my last one, so we need to move.”

She doesn’t wait for a response before grabbing your hand, her grip firm as she leads you down the dimly lit street.

You follow without hesitation, but as you shift your grasp, threading your fingers more securely through hers, you half-expect her to pull away.

She doesn’t.

If anything, her hold only tightens slightly, bringing a small smile to your face.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha curses under her breath, jaw tightening as she wrestles with the lock on their current safe house door. The rusted key refuses to fit properly, scraping against the metal edges of the keyhole with stubborn resistance. 

Her fingers clench around it, frustration mounting with each failed attempt.

You lean casually against the wall beside her, arms crossed, watching her struggle with a barely concealed smirk.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she mutters without looking at you, catching the amusement in your expression from the corner of her eye.

“I wouldn’t dare,” you reply smoothly, but the teasing lilt in your voice betrays you.

Natasha sighs, shaking her head. She knows you too well to believe that. 

Then, just as you part your lips, no doubt ready to make some remark about the questionable state of the safe house, she cuts you off.

“Don’t.”

The single word carries enough warning to make you chuckle lightly, though it does little to deter the glint of amusement in your eyes.

“You really should’ve contacted me sooner, love,” you say, tilting your head as you watch her struggle with the lock a moment longer. “None of my safe houses are like this.”

As if in defiance of your words, Natasha gives the door one final, forceful shove with her shoulder. The force is enough to finally unstick the warped frame, sending the door flying open—along with Natasha, who stumbles forward with a sharp inhale of surprise. 

Before she can steady herself, a firm arm wraps around her waist, catching her mid-fall. 

You pull her back upright and against you effortlessly, holding her steady from behind before letting the movement shift into something softer—a lingering embrace as you rest your chin on her shoulder.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed your calls,” you murmur, your breath warm against the side of her head.

Your lips brush just under her ear, pressing a fleeting kiss there, light but deliberate.

Natasha exhales softly, the tension in her shoulders gradually loosening as she settles into the familiar comfort of your arms. 

For a brief moment, she allows herself to relax, to sink into the warmth of someone who knows her beyond the mission, beyond the fight.

But then, an awkward clearing of a throat shatters the moment.

Natasha stiffens instantly, instinct kicking in as she steps forward, pulling away from your embrace and pivoting toward the open doorway. 

Steve stands there, shifting slightly on his feet, a plastic bag of supplies in one hand while the other runs across the back of his neck, an awkward expression settling across his features.

“Uh…we can come back later, Nat,” he offers, tone uncertain.

Beside him, Wanda stands with her arms wrapped around herself, making no move to step forward. She isn’t as outwardly uncomfortable as Steve, but the curiosity in her eyes is evident as she glances between you and Natasha.

Before Natasha can respond, you speak first, stepping forward with your usual ease, a charming smile effortlessly finding its way onto your lips.

“That won’t be necessary,” you say smoothly, voice carrying an air of lighthearted confidence. “I’m here to help all of you, after all.”

Steve’s brows lift slightly, skepticism flickering behind his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, but you can practically hear the unsaid questions forming in his mind. Wanda’s lips twitch ever so slightly as if amused by the boldness of your declaration, though she keeps whatever she’s thinking to herself.

Still, their silence tells you what you already know: they aren’t entirely convinced.

But that’s never stopped you before.

Your smile doesn’t falter as you turn to Natasha, giving her a quick wink before adding, “We can start with moving you all someplace a little more…comfortable.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before Natasha sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose briefly before giving you a look that’s equal parts exasperation and reluctant amusement.

“Alright, let’s go to one of yours.”

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

You gesture towards different parts of the new safe house, your voice calm and efficient as you lead them through the space.

“Bedrooms are over here, each with their own bathrooms,” you say, motioning toward the respective areas before stopping at the center of the modest yet well-kept living space. 

Three neatly packed duffel bags sit on the coffee table, their contents carefully prepared. 

“And these,” you continue, patting the bags lightly, “are some fresh clothes for each of you. Your new IDs are inside.”

Natasha scans the safe house, her sharp gaze taking in every detail. She isn’t surprised at the level of quality—it’s exactly what she expects from you.

Secure, quick, and discreet. 

You never do anything halfway.

A sharp vibration cuts through the air, the muffled sound of a phone ringing.

Casually, you pull it from your pocket, giving the screen a brief glance before pressing a button to silence it.

Without another thought, you slip it back into your pocket as if the call never happened.

Natasha’s brows knit slightly, her attention lingering on you. 

You don’t leave clients waiting. Efficiency is what you pride yourself on. Quick responses and seamless transactions. 

Ignoring a call? That’s unlike you.

Before she can question it, Wanda speaks up, drawing your attention.

“Is there hot water?” she asks, curiosity evident in her tone at the severely missed luxury since being on the run.

You turn to her with an easy smile. 

“Sure is, love.”

Natasha’s brow twitches almost imperceptibly. The term of endearment directed at Wanda doesn’t go unnoticed, and though she keeps her expression neutral, her eyes flick toward you, subtly watching your interaction with the other Avenger.

You hand Wanda her duffel, and as if sensing Natasha’s gaze, you turn and meet her eyes. 

A knowing glint flickers in your expression as you offer her a small smile.

Wanda, oblivious to the silent exchange, nods in thanks before disappearing into one of the bedrooms.

Meanwhile, you step over to the far side of the room, pull out a black case, and place it on the table.

“Now for my favorite part,” you say with a smirk, unlocking the case and turning it toward Natasha. “Your equipment.”

Seeing her usual, neatly arranged weapons draws a faint smirk to Natasha’s lips. She steps forward, fingers brushing over the familiar weight of her batons, trusty firearms, and multiple taser disks.

“You always know what I like,” she murmurs, amusement lacing her tone.

“Of course,” you reply with a wink before shifting your attention to Steve, who has been sifting through his duffel with quiet curiosity.

“I’m afraid a Vibranium shield might be a little harder to come by,” you muse, watching as he inspects the items inside. “But I’m sure I can get a new protective suit for you—something more subtle for fights while on the run, Captain.”

Steve glances up, nodding slightly. “Appreciate it.”

You clap your hands together, pulling a measuring tape from your pocket with a flourish. 

“I’ll just need your measurements, love.”

Natasha’s lips twitch downward slightly, the term now directed at Steve. As you approach Steve, she catches you throwing a quick glance her way as if watching for a reaction.

Attempting to hide her expression, Natasha averts her gaze, making herself look busy as she checks over the equipment in the case.

Steve shifts awkwardly as you begin taking his measurements, lifting his arms and adjusting his stance as you direct him.

After a beat, he clears his throat. 

“So, how long have you and Nat known each other?”

You hum in thought, not looking up from your work.

“Going on three years now, I believe.”

Steve’s brows lift slightly before his gaze flickers toward Natasha, as if piecing things together. 

“And are you two…?” He trails off, the implication hanging between you.

A low chuckle slips from your lips as you shake your head lightly. 

“No, nothing like that, at least, not exclusively,” you say, your tone lighthearted, though something unreadable flickers in your gaze as you glance at Natasha. 

“Right, love?”

Natasha stills, her fingers pausing against the equipment. She hadn’t expected to be pulled into the conversation. Lifting her gaze, she holds your eyes for a moment before looking away.

“Yeah,” she mutters softly, carefully placing the weapons back in their slots. With a quiet click, she shuts the case.

Silence settles between the group, the only sound in the room coming from the rustling of fabric and the light tapping of your fingers against the tablet as you take notes.

Then, the sharp buzz of your phone vibrating against your pocket breaks the quiet.

This time, Natasha doesn’t miss the way you glance at the screen, the briefest flicker of something unreadable crossing your face before you shut the device off again.

Her arms cross over her chest as she levels you with a pointed look. 

“How much is all this costing you?”

You pause briefly before looking up at her with a smirk.

“That’s nothing you’ll need to concern yourself about.”

As you finish up and straighten, a flicker of a wince crosses your face—so brief most wouldn’t catch it.

But Natasha does.

Her sharp eyes hone in immediately. Without hesitation, she strides forward, grabbing your wrist before you realize it.

“Wha–”

She doesn’t give you the chance to protest, pulling you swiftly toward one of the rooms and shutting the door behind you.

The moment it clicks shut, she turns, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt.

“Hold on, lo—”

Natasha ignores you, lifting the fabric and confirming what she already suspected.

“You did open your stitches,” she accuses, her voice edged with irritation and concern. Her fingers hover over the square bandage at your side, red seeping through the gauze.

Before she can say anything else, your hands cup her face, tilting her chin upward so her eyes meet yours. 

A playful smile tugs at your lips as you lean in, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of her nose.

“You’re cute when you care,” you murmur, brushing your thumb against her cheek. Then, with a teasing grin, you add, “But it’s not as bad as it looks, love, honest.”

At your dismissive tone, Natasha holds your gaze, searching for something—an explanation, a reason—until she can’t help but voice her thoughts.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispers.

The unspoken words pass between you, heavy with meaning. Why are you risking yourself? Why go to such lengths? Why help her?

Your expression softens. Instead of answering with logic or reason, you simply pull her closer, resting your forehead against hers.

“Because it’s something I can do for you,” you say simply.

The sincerity in your voice makes her breath hitch.

Before she can respond, you close the distance, capturing her lips in a slow, deliberate kiss. It’s a kiss that speaks of familiarity, of understanding, of a connection beyond words.

Natasha’s hands tighten around the fabric of your jacket as she deepens the kiss, pulling you closer. A soft sound of approval rumbles from your chest, your hands sliding to rest at her waist.

Then, breathless but smirking, you pull back just enough to murmur against her lips, “Do you want to try out the hot water together?”

A faint smirk forms on Natasha’s lips.

Without a word, she grabs your wrist and tugs you toward the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind you two.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Natasha’s fingers move idly, tracing faint, absentminded patterns across your bare skin where your top has ridden up slightly.

The slow rise and fall of your chest against her keeps her grounded, your warmth settling into her like an anchor.

She watches you, curled into her arms, the soft glow of the dim light casting gentle shadows across your face.

There’s something about this moment—quiet, unguarded—that makes her reluctant to break it.

But she does. 

“Thank you,” she murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Your breathing shifts slightly, and your eyes flutter open, hazy with drowsiness as you turn your head toward her. A flicker of curiosity crosses your expression.

“For coming when I called,” Natasha continues, her voice steady but quiet. “I know it wasn’t the safest move for you.”

Her hand drifts lower, brushing lightly over the fresh bandage at your side, her fingertips ghosting over the wound with a delicate trace.

A soft chuckle rumbles in your chest. You close your eyes again, nuzzling closer, tucking your head into the crook of her neck as if you belong there.

“Anything for my favorite client,” you murmur, your breath warm against her skin.

Natasha doesn’t reply, but the way her arms tighten around you speaks enough. She presses her cheek against the top of your head, her fingers still tracing along your side, committing this rare moment of peace to memory.

A comfortable silence settles between you. The kind that feels full rather than empty, where neither of you feels the need to fill the space with words.

Then, the stillness is broken.

The muffled buzz of a phone vibrating from the pile of clothes strewn across the floor cuts through the quiet.

You exhale a deep sigh, your breath brushing against her collarbone before you reluctantly pull away.

“I should get going,” you say, sitting up and stretching your arms lightly. Your tone is casual, but Natasha doesn’t miss the flicker of hesitation in your movements. “I think I’ve left my other clients waiting long enough.”

She watches as you gather your things, a strange tightness settling in her chest. There’s something she wants to say—something that lingers on the tip of her tongue.

Don’t go. Stay a little longer.

But the words don’t come.

Instead, she hesitates, her hands clenching briefly at her sides before she exhales softly.

“I…” she starts, but then she pauses, her gaze flickering away as she struggles with what exactly she wants to say to you.

You glance up from your phone, head tilting slightly as you wait for her to finish. There’s patience in your expression but also a quiet knowing—like you already understand what she’s trying to say, even if she doesn’t say it aloud.

Finally, she settles on something simpler.

Something safer.

“It was good seeing you again.”

A small smile tugs at your lips, but there’s something else in your eyes—something unreadable. You step closer, closing the distance between you effortlessly.

Lifting her chin with a gentle touch, you lean in, pressing a slow, delicate kiss to her lips. It lingers, warm and unhurried, before you pull away just enough for your lips to barely ghost over hers.

Your usual teasing smirk makes its return as you murmur against her mouth, “Don’t leave me waiting too long for your next call…”

Another feather-light press of your lips follows—a touch so fleeting yet so certain. And then, in a quiet whisper.

“…my love.”

And just like that, you’re gone.

The room feels quieter without you in it, as if something vital has been pulled away. Natasha stays where she is for a moment before exhaling, pressing a hand against her chest.

Her heartbeat is steady.

But she can still feel the ghost of your lips, the weight of your presence lingering in the space you left behind.

~~~~~~~ ⧗ ~~~~~~~

Part 3

a/n: Thank you for reading! Hope you all have a Happy Valentine’s Day!

Taglist : @caspianalexander007

[groovy-rat-man]

Okay so i've played the Date Everything demo like.. a lot, and I wanted to share my thoughts on the characters ive met so far! Fair warning this is gonna be a long LONG post so be warned.

Also im including pictures of the characters (courtesy of the fandom wiki) and the images are fucking huge.

- - - -

Skylar Specs

She works well as a helper and tutorial guide. I really wanna know more about her because she is the personification of the MAIN MECHANIC IN THE GAME so I feel like theres gotta be something deeper, especially with the throwaway "I'm sad inside!" line that I dont think a lot of people have talked about. Also I love all the hearts in her design and how much she loves love <33

Dorian

Aro🤝Ace Solidarity, hell yeah!! But in all seriousness he's one of if not my favorite character I think. I can't wait until I can play the full game so we can be besties <3. Also I like how all the doors have slightly different Dorians. Like the front door has a more serious looking Front Dorian and the tiny door in the kitchen has a Small Dorian standing on a stool and Back Dorian is facing away from you and sounds muffled and if you talk to him during the tutorial he actually mentions that. It's all just really cool!

Phoenicia

She's really fun and I like her personality! I'm not sure if I have much more to say about her tho. Also I didn't know you weren't supposed to leave your phone plugged in over night, I've been doing that for like years. Sorry Phoenicia...

Maggie

Oh hey, that's my aunt's name. I like her whole detective shtick and how she calls you gumshoe I think it's cute.

Betty

I love her. She's big and cozy and sensual and amazing, BUT she looks SO MUCH LIKE ME. I asked my own god damn mother if we looked similar (without telling her the context of the game) and she said yes. I physically cannot look at her without thinking "this is just me if I tried to be sexy." It also makes it weird seeing people thirst for her lol.

Amir

Ohhhh Amir... My darling Amir..... God I love him, I need him, I need him so bad for reals. He makes me so giddy any time he's talking..... (Or maybe I'm just susceptible to pretty men with pretty hair complimenting me.)

Freddy Yeti

I will NOT make a Freddy Fivebears reference, I will NOT! But seriously, I love him too. I don't think it's in a romantic way yet, I'm just a sucker for a big, kind, fun person who loves keeping me fed. I think we could be buddies! (perhaps more, we'll see)

Arma

She's the first character I met that had Skylar's content warning. Let me tell you, as fellow hottie with trauma around fire she is just... relatable. I totally get it, Arma, but at least let me get you some new batteries. Please?

Wilhelmina Work

Willi I am going to be 100% honest with you, you are stressing me the hell out. I do hope she gets back on her feet tho.

THE HANKS!!!!! WOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!

I fucking love these guys! I love their energy!! I love their designs!!! I love how each of their little icons in the user interface is a different hanger!!!! I love how they all shit on Hank #3 that one time!!!!! They are my all-time favorite five-man himbo hivemind!!!!!!

Penelope

I really don't have much to say about her other than I like the googily eyes on her skirt and I really wanna know what went on when she went off with that viking treadmil guy.

Ben-Hwa

They're cool i just.. it's just... Like holy shit, right? I do love having a very sex-positive character like this, it's just wild that we were fucking on Betty at 9 in the god damn morning.

Rebel

I'm gonna be real, it took me way to long to get the "rebel ducky" pun. I really do not know how I feel about this design. I love it, I just kinda wish it was more ducky ya know? I also love how much they hate my ducking guts it's really funny. (I also like to imagine me and Amir doting on eachother in the bathroom mirror and they're just sitting on the edge of the tub yelling at us to shut the duck up, I need to draw that...)

Diana

I saw her when skimming the wiki before playing the game and I really liked her Mad Hatter sorta look (also this is probably a coincidence but Dinah was also the name of Alice's cat). I was NOT prepared for when I first talked to her like holy shit. It makes you wonder what's going on with the player character, she is YOUR diary after all.

Duncan "Dunk" Shuttlecock

I like his silly intro and his fun, cocky, sweet attitude. I also like how he's so dedicated to sports being fun for everybody and not pushing yourself. Can't get over that fuckass outfit tho.

Teddy

God I love him. Not like romantically but I love him so so much. He makes me feel safe. That story he told literally make me cry. I was all snuggled up under my weighted blanket with my laptop and earbuds crying like a bitch. It was like 1-2am when I was playing too, so it really was a bedtime story for me! And speaking of bedtime, of COURSE i moved him to the bed. I hope him and Betty get along. I like to think that they're old friends, I bet he's the little spoon.

Captain Jacques Pierrot

I know I've been saying this a lot but I love this guy. He's tiny and angy and talks funny and has pretty hair. Idk how big he's supposed to be but I've been imagining him being about the size of a medium rat. Also I didn't realize that his name was a play on Jack Sparrow until he said it out loud and it pissed me off when I realized lol. I wanna hold him in the palm of my hand and kiss his little face over and over again while he's all grumpy~~ (should I be saying that on the main blog?)

Dishy

☹ /̵͇̿̿/’̿’̿ ̿ ̿̿ ̿̿ ̿̿

The Sassy Chap

Holy shit you can fuck the credits. But seriously, I loved the quiz thingy with all the developers even tho it took me like an hour. Sassy loved it too so that was fun!

Dasha

Hhhhholy shit,, big strong kind lady with pretty Slavic accent lift me up high and teach me how flirt...... w o a g..

Daisuke Dishware

I'm gonna be real, it was late at night (both irl and in game) and I thought "screw it, I'm fucking the knives" and I fully expected to get a Big Scary Knifeplay Guy but what I got instead.... He's wonderful. Serious, dedicated, mysterious? so so so beautiful, catches me when I fall. God I adore him, I need more. Daisuke, I am SO SORRY I chipped you on accident even though I'm not entirely sure what that means. Ough,, I also love his hair, it's gorgeous I swear the two most attractive features a man can have is pretty eyes and long beautiful hair.... Also I'm only learning this now but apparently his voice actor is also named Daisuke which is really funny.

- - - -

okay that's it you can go now, luv u

[reach4thestars]

" Real men keep cool in the face of a fire Go down with the ship "

[kanyerealdaughter]

— ★ MHA MEN IN THE MOTHERLAND

characters - bakugo , deku , todoroki , kirishima , denki , sero , tenya , shinso , monoma , hawks , dabi , shigaraki , aizawa, all might , endeavor. | all around the world event! |

—————————————————————————

KATSUKI BAKUGO - walks like the land is testing him, and he welcomes the challenge. sun beating down, dust in his sandles, and still he moves like fire doesn’t fear heat. but the way he watches you? that’s the softest part of the whole damn trip.

safari reaction - mutters “ tch.” at the first elephant. but doesn’t look away. lions gets a grin from him. “ they know they’re kings. i respect that.”

secretly takes a photo of you with the giraffes. keeps it in his phone forever.

food experience - grumbles at first. then devours everything. “ spicy. i like it.” compliments the chef with a firm nod.

ends up cooking one dish himself. “ don’t say shit, but this stew’s better than what we make at home.”

cultural experience - he joins a drum circle. plays so hard the locals cheer. kids cling to him, call him random nickanme besides him telling them his name millions of times.

he pulls you aside that night. “ thanks for bringin’ me. i needed this.”

—————————————————————————

IZUKU ‘DEKU’ MIDORIYA - touches everything like it might vanish. gentle, grateful, glowing. he’s a student again here, wide-eyed and full of wonder. and when he looks at you under the stars? he swears he’s the luckiest man alive.

safari reaction - takes detailed notes. names every bird. asks a hundred questions. cries quietly when he sees a baby elephant. “ it’s so pure.”

you wipe his tears for him. he whispers, “ i’ll never forget this.”

food experience - tries very bite with reverence. “ the spices… they tell a story.” he says you look at him and his whole face is red. he jots down recipes to try back home with you. helps clean up and thanks everyone personally.

cultural experience - joins a dance with awkward energy. kids absolutely love him. gets a painted symbol on his forehead from a village elder. later tells you. “ this place… it feels like hope.”

—————————————————————————

SHOTO TODOROKI - walks like the land cools for him, the sun touches but doesn’t burn. he doesn’t say much, but his eyes drink in everything. africa strips him down to the boy he once was curious, cautious, and quietly in awe of the world… and of you.

safari reaction - stares at a cheetah for too long. “ they move like fire.” holds your hand tighter when the hyenas laugh. doesn’t say why. the sunset was so beautiful,

“ my mother would love this view.” he murmurs.

food experience - eats thoughtfully. sensitive to spice. drinks lots of milk. asks for the meanings behind dishes. thanks the cooks sincerely.

shares every bite with you. “ i want you to taste what i taste.”

cultural experience - watches children play soccer. joins in quietly. wins, then lets them win. a local braids a thread into his hair, he leaves it there. that night he says. “ i feel different here… freer.”

—————————————————————————

EIJRO KIRISHIMA - moves like the world is made for joy. every step in the red earth is a celebration. he laughs loud, hugs hard, and makes everyone feel like family. with you? he’s a volcano of warmth.

safari reaction - gasps at hippos at how big they are. climbs a lookout rock with you on his back.

“ for the view, babe!”

records when an elephant splashes in a river.

food experience - dives into everything soon he’s gonna be on the toilet praying he didn’t. “ THIS is flavor, bro!” cheers for the cook. asks to learn one dish himself. brings you the best bites like a proud caveman.

cultural experience - dances until his knees give out. kids copy all his moves. joins a woodworking session. craves a tiny lion for you.

tells you. “ this place made me stronger. in the best way.”

—————————————————————————

DENKI KAMINARI - lands like it’s spring break, but quickly tunes into the rhythm of the land. he cracks jokes, but his wonder is real. and the way he clings to your arm at sunset? he’s never been more grounded.

safari reaction - screams when a baboon jumps out. pretends it didn’t scare him. tries to get a selfie with every animal. ends up with mostly blurry shots. almost falls out of the jeep, but he still manages a perfect one of you smiling.

“ this one’s going on my wall.”

food experience - loves the grilled meats. spices hit him like lightning, he cries. “ i’m suffering, but i love it.” accidentally volunteers to help and ends up peeling over 50 onions.

cultural experience - plays tag with local kids until he collapses. tries drumming, fails still gets applause. he pulls you aside grinning and says. “ this? this is living.”

—————————————————————————

SERO HANTA - walks like the breeze carries him light, laughing, and adaptable. he greets strangers like old friends, slips into rhythm like he belongs, and somehow always ends up with kids hanging off his arms. with you, he’s even brighter.

safari reaction - dangles off the jeep for better views. “ check that giraffe’s neck!” gets chased briefly by a curious baby zebra. laughs the whole time.

“ this is wild, babe. literally.”

food experience - tries street food without hesitation. loves the grilled plantains. accidentally bites into a chili pepper, cries with pride.

“ worth it.” he wheezes, sweating.

cultural experience - gets roped into helping paint a mural at a community center. leaves his handprint in the corner. he joins a weaving circle and actually gets good at it.

“ this isn’t just cool, it’s humbling,” he says, eyes soft. “ i feel lucky.”

—————————————————————————

TENYA IIDA - walks like he’s trying to be the best guest possible. polite, respectful, deeply observant. but when he sees how alive the land is, how untamed, he lets go. just a bit. and you see the man beneath the rules.

safari reaction - names each animal like a textbook. his eyes lit up once he saw a black panther. pulls you into a shaded spot, lets himself breathe.

food experience - first asks if everything is clean.. like everything before learning proper etiquette. eats slowly, respectfully. writes a thank-you note in the local dialect. sneaks you extra fruit under the table.

cultural experience - watches a dance before joining. perfects the rhythm after three tries. kids imitate his serious posture, he laughs for once. he tells you seriously at night. “ i’m glad i came… with you.”

—————————————————————————

HITOSHI SHINSO - blends into the shade like he’s always belonged there hoodie up, hands in pockets, voice low. but when he speaks, people listen. not because he commands it, but because he respects the silence that came before.

safari reaction - watches the predators move in near silence. doesn’t flinch when a hyena comes close to the jeep. quietly murmurs. “ it’s peaceful, in a primal way.”

food experience - tries everything once, always polite. compliments the chef with sincerity.

“ it’s different.” he says, “ but its good.”

cultural experience - observes before acting. kids braid his hair while he listens to elders tell stories. leaves a handmade bracelet on a statue as thanks. “ you learn more when you’re not trying to be the loudest.”

—————————————————————————

NEITO MONOMA - walks like he’s filming a personal documentary, overdramatic, hand gestures sharp, words theatrical. but there’s sincerity in his awe, and when he quiets down, you catch him actually moved.

safari reaction - gasps at every new animal like it’s a magical creature.

“ behold! nature’s royalty, the cheetah!” trips once running from a bug. plays it off like performance art.

food experience - narrates each bite like a gourmet judge. “ the spice! the soul! the seasoning!” actually helps with dishes, humming joyfully.

cultural experience - joins in traditional dance. does the most. somehow nails it. practices greetings in the local language until perfect.

says with misty eyes. “ they treated me like i belonged.”

—————————————————————————

KEIGO ‘HAWKS’ TAKAMI - glides through space like he was born for it wide skies, wild laughter, sharp eyes on everything. he’s charming without trying, but it’s the still moments your hand in his, your laugh echoing, that make him stay quiet.

safari reaction - stands on the jeep roof with wings spread wide. “ feels like freedom.” dives to stop a hat from flying away, returns it to a kid with a wink.

watches a hawk in flight, eyes soft. “ cousin.” he jokes.

food experience - he eats quickly, noisily, happily. loves the grilled meats. flirts with the cook and gets extra servings.

“ they really cook with love here.” he grins.

cultural experience - dances with kids barefoot, feathers catching the sun. he also flying kites with the children. later whispers to you. “ i don’t want to leave.”

—————————————————————————

TOUYA ‘DABI’ TODOROKI - moves like heat mirage, real and unreal all at once. eyes half-lidded, voice dragging, but nothing escapes his notice. he doesn’t talk much to others, but he lets you lean into him like he’s solid ground.

safari reaction - stares at vultures circling above. “ guess we’re not so different.” chuckles watching a lion laze in the sun. “ that’s the life.” hold your hand tighter than usual. says nothing about it.

food experience - pokes at unfamiliar dishes but ends up liking them. like the fire-cooked stuff best. gives his food to a kid without being asked.

cultural experience - sits by the fire long after everyone else sleeps. let elders paint a symbol on his arm, doesn’t flinch.

—————————————————————————

SHIGARAKI TOMURA - doesn’t fit in, and he doesn’t try to. fingers twitch, eyes wary, always on edge. but when no one recoils, when kids smile up at him instead of running, you see something break quietly behind his scowl.

safari reaction - doesn’t like how open the plains are. “ too exposed.” but stops cold at a black panther slinking through the grass. “…beautiful.” touches a tree bark gently. he doesn’t destroy it.

food experience - eats reluctantly at first. “ it’s weird.” but takes seconds of roasted meat. quietly admits. “ tastes real.” lets you wipe his mouth clean like he’s a kid again.

cultural experience - watches kids dance with a blank stare. a local grandma calls him “ haunted but good.” he almost smiles.

“ they don’t know me..” he says later. “And they still… liked me.”

—————————————————————————

AIZAWA SHOUTA - steps like the wind might carry him off soft, careful, always watching. he’s not here to be seen, but somehow ends up respected by everyone without trying. the kids call him “sensei” before he even speaks. perhaps he just gives off the vibe.

safari reaction - lies back and watches birds with binoculars for hours. names constellations in the sky while you rest against him. “ everything here works in balance,” he murmurs. “ no need for flash.”

food experience - eats what’s given. no complaints. quiet thank yous. makes tea with locals and shares stories in exchange. “ simple is best,” he tells you, content.

cultural experience - fixes a broken wheel with kids in a dusty village. teaches a few stretches to an elder who has back pain.

“ good people.” he says. “ you can feel it in their hands.”

—————————————————————————

TOSHINORI ‘ALL MIGHT’ YAGI - carries sunshine like a second skin. his smile is softer, his voice humbler, but out here, among the people and the stories, he becomes something not larger-than-life, just purely human.

safari reaction - marvels like a child at the elephants. “ incredible strength… but so gentle.” helps lift kids into the jeep one by one. they cheer.

“ this.” he tells you, eyes bright, “ is what peace feels like.”

food experience - praises every dish. asks for seconds and thirds. mearns how to roast maize from an elder and does it wrong. laughs at himself.

“ it’s the company that makes it delicious,” he says.

cultural experience - joins in a storytelling circle, voice rich and warm. gets asked to bless a new community garden, takes it seriously. also becomes the neighborhood playing and helping with the kids.

“ this is heroism too.” he says. “ lifting lives without fists.”

—————————————————————————

ENJI ‘ENDEAVOR’ TODOROKI - walks like fire held in check rigid, intense, commanding. but in this place, where no one knows his name or shame, he lets himself breathe. and somehow, he’s quieter when holding your hand in the sun.

safari reaction - watches lions in silence. “ hm they lead through presence, not volume.” kids are somewhat scared of him first, until he helps one up from a fall. holds your waist in the front keel, steady even as the road shakes.

food experience - grills meat over fire with practiced hands. adds his own twist. accepts praise awkwardly. “ it’s… edible.” but you catch him smiling at the compliments.

cultural experience - works side by side with village builders. doesn’t say much just lifts, hammers, helps. a child draws flames on his hand with markers. he leaves it on all day.

he becomes the neighborhood father for the rest of the trip. “ they don’t care who i was.” he mutters. “ just who i am here.”

𖣂 KANYEREALDAUGHTER SPEAKS - i don’t watch mha like thatttt soo yeah..

words - 2.1k

» , ᴀ ᴋᴀɴʏᴇʀᴇᴀʟᴅᴀᴜɢʜᴛᴇʀ

copyright ©️. ᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴛɪᴏɴ . «

[me-kume]

Random SFW/NSFW headcanons w Zayne 📁

zayne x fem!reader, random short headcanons

SFW

• Zayne’s kisses are fire and ice.

Outwardly, he always seems composed and restrained—like every fiber of his body is under strict control, not a single stray thought slipping past the gates. Everything must be precise, calculated. But the moment you wrap your arms around his strong neck, fingers teasing the collar of his expensive shirt with a playful grin, that cold exterior melts away.

Zayne never lets you lead. That’s his role—to be in control. So it’s always his tongue that brushes along your lower lip first, slipping inside with slow, commanding grace. He takes his time, savoring you like it’s the first kiss of his life. And just like that, the chill turns to searing heat.

• A little secret.

You’ll probably never find out, but Zayne keeps a folder on his phone locked tighter than any vault—and it’s filled with candid photos of you. Not the flattering kind you’d proudly post online. No. These are the ones you'd beg him to delete: you, blissful and messy, covered in blue cotton candy; sprawled awkwardly on his couch, nose buried in a book; or fast asleep, face smushed into a crisp white pillow.

They’re clumsy. Real. Alive. And Zayne, more than anyone, treasures those quiet moments most.

• He’s terribly jealous, but never says a word.

You probably wouldn’t even notice. Not a single muscle twitches on his face—he’s carved from marble, a statue of calm. But he sees every glance other men dare to linger on you, and it makes the frozen blood in his veins boil.

He pretends it’s fine. And then he fucks you like he’s staking a claim, until you’re sore and bruised by morning—silent reminders of who you really belong to.

• He can’t say “I love you,” but he shows it.

Tender words don’t come easy to Zayne. But he more than makes up for it in action. There’s always a sweet snack hidden in your bag, a packet of pills tucked in his pocket on the exact day you need them.

And if you ever crave to hear those three little words—just give him time. Zayne will find the right moment.

• He loves when you touch his hair.

He plays it cool. Pretends your fingers slipping through those dark strands don’t faze him in the slightest. But the moment you do, he melts—eyes fluttering shut, head slowly lowering into your lap, allowing himself to let go and surrender.

You calm the storm inside him with nothing but a simple caress.

• His hands are always cold. And he loves touching you with them.

Especially when you’re fresh from a hot shower—warm, soft, skin flushed. Icy fingertips trace your waist, making you yelp and curse, while a rare smile tugs at his lips.

It’s childish, almost out of character. But it brings you closer. So you let it slide.

NSFW

• His control drives you insane.

Zayne is agonizingly patient. Years of buried desire boil over, reshaping your sex life into a before and after. He spends so much time between your thighs, bringing you to the brink—again and again—never letting you fall until you’re begging him for release.

• He takes you apart like a puzzle.

Inch by inch, he studies you like an anatomical atlas—lips, neck, collarbones—mapping every detail like a man obsessed. He leaves behind a constellation of bruises and bite marks, his own secret design painted across your skin, feeding his ego with every dark bloom.

• He doesn’t talk much—but those sounds…

Zayne is quiet by nature, all clipped words and cold logic. Small talk gives him a headache. But in bed... his voice becomes a low, husky rasp—raw and primal, tinged with hunger. He groans into the curve of your neck, nose buried deep as his body trembles against yours.

And when your walls tighten around him, he loses it—biting, growling against your skin, whispering hoarsely into your ear:

“More… show me how much you want me.”

• He has a weakness for oral—but mostly giving, not receiving.

Zayne has no problem spending hours between your legs, content to worship you without asking for anything in return. His focus, his stubborn precision, all turn against you in the most delicious ways.

“Just say the word,” he murmurs. “I’ll give you everything.”

And only when desperation breaks through your breathless pleas does he let go—just enough to let you drown.

• Sometimes, he lets you take control.

Not because he likes submitting—Zayne doesn’t surrender easily. But some nights, he’s tired. He needs comfort, not dominance. So you climb onto his lap with slow confidence, steady hands and soft lips guiding him somewhere gentle.

And when you ride him like that—quietly, lovingly—he forgets how to resist.

• He claims he doesn’t like “sappy affection,” but always holds you after.

You’ve known each other long enough for him to understand how vulnerable you are in the quiet afterglow.

So he doesn’t leave. He stays. Fingers tracing your spine, lips pressing into your hair, arms locking you against his chest.

And in that stillness, he makes you feel completely, utterly loved.

[lucy-literates]

I know in GTWC races there is no media pen but let’s just pretend there is.

There is a new reporter in the media pen and the first time Arthur sees her he loses his mind. He makes a beeline for her intending to be confident, suave and sexy to impress her but as soon as she asks him her first question, his mind goes blank and he ends up stuttering out an answer. Over the next few races, he keeps going to her first, even practicing some flirty lines in advance but every time he is in front of her he either goes off rambling about some aspect of racing she didn’t even ask about or ends up just saying that the car is good, the race was good and then repeating himself until he can escape.

She just assumes that he doesn’t like her, that he goes to her first to get it out the way and then never actually answers her questions properly. But then one day Lorenzo and Charles come to see Arthur race. She is walking behind them and overhears them talking about this reporter than their brother won’t shut up about. So she decides to throw in a couple of flirty lines in her next interview with Arthur and winks at him and he blushes bright red, stumbles over his words even more and then runs away.

Later, she is getting ready to leave the race track and Arthur and his brothers appear. They push him towards her telling her that he has something to say to her. When he eventually stumbles over his words enough to ask her out, she asks him what took him so long and grabs his hoodie to pull him in for a kiss with his brothers whooping and hollering in the background.

A/N: This is so cute!!! Enjoy!

Good Race, Good Car, Good God You're Pretty

The first time you see Arthur Leclerc in the media pen, he walks straight toward you like he’s been waiting all his life for this one moment.

He’s got the walk—confident, calm, like he knows what he’s doing.

Then you ask, “Arthur, how did the tyre strategy affect your mid-stint pace?”

And he… dies.

On the inside.

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then somehow blurts, “Yes. The tyres. They were… good. The car… also good. And the strategy. Was… good.”

There’s a long pause. You blink.

“…Right,” you say slowly, smiling to hide the confusion.

Arthur practically sprints away.

The next few races? Exactly the same.

Every time he shows up, it’s you he walks up to first. He even tries rehearsing lines under his breath, trying to sound effortlessly cool. But once he’s in front of you, everything short-circuits again.

Your questions are normal—about racecraft, setups, pace, how he feels post-race. His answers? Rambling nonsense or the same “yeah car was good, race was good” loop on repeat.

You start to assume the worst.

He must hate talking to you. Probably just gets it out of the way so he can move on to real questions.

You try not to take it personally.

Until Monza.

You’re walking behind a trio of familiar voices near the paddock. Two men, deep in conversation—French accents, unmistakable grins.

Lorenzo: “It’s embarrassing, honestly. He runs to her and then turns to jelly.”

Charles: “She thinks he’s not into her. He thinks he’s blowing it. I’m tempted to mic him up for the next one just for entertainment.”

You slow your steps, blinking. Wait—you?

They’re talking about you?

You duck out of sight before they can see you grinning like an idiot.

So at the next race, you decide to have a little fun.

He approaches you again—eyes flicking nervously between your face and your mic.

You smile sweetly. “Arthur, good to see you. Have you finally learned how to talk to me, or should I just ask you how good everything was again?”

His brain fries.

He lets out a laugh—nervous, shaky—and then you wink.

Wink.

He stares at you like you just set his car on fire. And then—mid-question—he stammers something unintelligible, blushes crimson, and bolts.

You try not to laugh. The cameraman definitely does.

Later that afternoon, you’re slinging your bag over your shoulder, about to leave the track, when you hear footsteps—and arguing.

“No, Arthur, go now.”

“I can’t, this is ridiculous!”

“She winked at you, bro, she wants you to!”

“Just tell her you like her, dumbass!”

You turn to see all three Leclerc brothers marching toward you.

Charles and Lorenzo are flanking Arthur like bodyguards pushing a reluctant teenager toward a dance floor. Arthur’s eyes go wide when he sees you.

“Uh—hi.”

You raise a brow, smiling. “Everything good?”

Lorenzo gives him a not-so-subtle nudge. “He has something to say.”

Arthur glares at his brother, then turns back to you—nervous, sweaty-palmed, heart-in-his-throat.

“I… uh… I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d maybe want to… go out sometime? With me. If you want. Because I… really like you. And I’ve definitely ruined every interview, and I’m sorry, but—”

You step closer, tug on the front of his hoodie with a smirk.

“What took you so long, Leclerc?”

Before he can answer, you pull him in for a kiss.

He melts into it. Warm hands at your waist. A quiet, stunned "mmf" against your lips.

Behind you, Charles and Lorenzo explode.

“FINALLY!”

“ABOUT DAMN TIME.”

Arthur pulls away, red-faced but glowing, forehead pressed to yours. “Can we, uh… keep this part off the record?”

You laugh. “Maybe. If you give me a proper interview next time.”

He grins. “No promises.”

[pucksandpower]

A Little Arson as a Treat

Logan Sargeant x protective!Reader

Summary: after news that Williams has dropped Logan mid-way through the season comes out, you decide that revenge is best served hot

Warnings: they literally set James Vowles’ house on fire

“You think they’ll be able to tell it was us?”

Logan’s voice is shaky, his eyes locked on the flickering flames dancing up the side of James Vowles’ house. The orange glow reflects in his wide eyes, making him look like a boy who just realized he’s in way over his head. His hands are buried deep in his jacket pockets, and you can see the nervous twitch of his fingers beneath the fabric.

You snort, not taking your eyes off the fire. “No way. They’ll think it was an electrical fault or something. We were careful.”

“We weren’t that careful,” he murmurs, almost to himself, biting his lip. “This is ... this is insane.”

“Maybe,” you admit, leaning a little closer to him, feeling the coolness of the night brushing against your skin in contrast to the heat radiating from the fire. “But what were we supposed to do? Just sit back and let them throw you out? Nine races left, and they think they can just-”

Logan cuts you off, his voice tight with emotion. “It’s not just the races. It’s everything. It’s like ... they’re saying I’m not good enough, that I never was.”

You turn to face him, your heart squeezing in your chest. He’s not looking at you, his eyes fixed on the fire like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “Logan, that’s bullshit, and you know it. You are good enough. They’re just too blind to see it.”

“Am I, though?” He finally meets your gaze, and you can see the doubt etched into every line of his face. “I mean, if I was, they wouldn’t be dropping me, right?”

You sigh, frustration bubbling up inside you. “This isn’t about your talent. This is about politics, money, and a bunch of old men who can’t see past their spreadsheets. You know that.”

He’s silent for a moment, just watching the flames as they start to consume the upper floor. “So, we burn down his house?”

You shrug, a small, defiant smile playing on your lips. “Sometimes you’ve got to make a statement.”

Logan shakes his head, a disbelieving laugh escaping him. “You’re insane.”

“You love me for it.”

His eyes soften, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. “Yeah. I do.”

You reach out, taking his hand in yours. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly as they curl around yours. “We’re gonna get through this, okay? You’re not done. Not even close.”

“Tell that to the team that just replaced me with a kid from F2,” he mutters, but there’s less bite in his words now, more weariness than anger.

“They’ll regret it,” you say firmly. “They’ll be watching from the back of the grid while you’re out there somewhere proving them wrong.”

“And if I don’t?” His voice is so quiet you almost don’t hear him.

“You will.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to absorb your confidence, to borrow just a little of the fire that keeps you burning so brightly. “How can you be so sure?”

“Because I know you,” you say simply, squeezing his hand. “And I know that you’re going to fight like hell to get back on the track. And when you do, they’ll all see what they lost.”

Logan takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”

“Only because I’m right.”

He laughs again, a real laugh this time, and it warms you more than the fire ever could. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievable enough to commit a little arson as a treat?” You tease, nudging him lightly.

His smile fades a little, and he looks back at the house, the flames now licking at the roof. “You really think we’re going to get away with this?”

You tilt your head, considering. “Even if we don’t, what are they going to do? Kick you off the team you’re already off of? We’ve got nothing to lose.”

“I’ve got you to lose,” he says softly, his grip on your hand tightening.

Your heart skips a beat, and you swallow hard. “You won’t lose me. Ever.”

He turns to you fully now, the fire forgotten, his eyes searching yours. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

For a moment, the world shrinks down to just the two of you, standing together in the night, hands clasped, hearts beating in time. The fire is a distant roar in the background, a symbol of the chaos that’s been following you both for weeks, but it’s nothing compared to the storm inside Logan, the one you’re trying so hard to calm.

“So,” he says, his voice a little lighter, “what’s the plan? We just walk away?”

“Pretty much,” you reply, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”

He hesitates, glancing back at the house one last time. “No ... I guess that’s all we can do.”

“Good. Because I’m starving, and I’m thinking burgers.”

Logan blinks, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “Burgers? We just committed a felony, and you want to go get burgers?”

“Don’t you?”

He stares at you, then shakes his head with a disbelieving grin. “You’re insane.”

“I’m hungry. Big difference.”

Logan chuckles, the tension in his shoulders finally easing as he lets out a long breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, squeezing your hand again. “I really do.”

You smile, pulling him away from the sight of the burning house, guiding him down the street like it’s just any other night and you’re just two people out for a walk. “Come on, there’s a place a few blocks over that makes the best burgers.”

Logan falls into step beside you, the smell of smoke fading as you put more distance between yourselves and the scene of the crime. “I’m still on a diet plan, you know. Think they’ll have something that fits?”

“Probably not,” you admit with a grin. “But I’m sure we can figure it out.”

He laughs again, a sound that makes your heart swell. “You’re seriously insane.”

“Maybe. But you love me for it.”

He shakes his head, his smile softening into something more tender. “Yeah. I do.”

As you walk together, hand in hand, you can feel the weight lifting off Logan’s shoulders. It’s not gone entirely — it won’t be, not for a long time — but for now, in this moment, it’s lighter. And that’s enough.

“So, what do we do after the burgers?” He asks, his voice casual but laced with something deeper, something that says he’s already thinking about the future, about what comes next.

“After the burgers,” you repeat, pretending to think it over. “We find a way to get you back on that track.”

Logan glances at you, surprised. “You’re not giving up, are you?”

“Never,” you say firmly. “This is just the beginning. We’re going to prove them wrong.”

He’s silent for a moment, then nods. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

“First, we get you back in a car. Then, we show them what they’re missing.”

“And how do we do that?”

You smile, squeezing his hand. “One step at a time. We’ll figure it out.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize this moment, to hold onto it for as long as he can. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Don’t be stupid. You deserve everything.”

He smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness in it, like he’s not quite sure he believes you. “I just ... I don’t want to let you down.”

“You won’t,” you say, your voice soft but certain. “You never have.”

Logan doesn’t respond, just pulls you closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you walk. The night is quiet now, the fire just a faint glow in the distance, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there’s a sense of peace between you.

“Burgers sound good,” he says after a while, his voice warm and content.

“Yeah?” You ask, looking up at him.

“Yeah. And then maybe we can figure out that plan of yours.”

You grin. “Deal.”

As you walk, the world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you, together against the odds, against the world. And in that moment, you know that no matter what happens next, you’ll face it together.

The fire is behind you, but the real battle is just beginning. And as long as you have each other, you know you can win.

[twolovelyberries]

real men keep cool in the face of a fire

[francixoxoxo]

୨ৎ Real piece a’work .✧°

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐊𝐢𝐝 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐤𝐞𝐩𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐲𝐞 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮. 𝐖𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲’𝐬 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐚 𝐝𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐛𝐞𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐲 𝐡𝐞’𝐬 𝐲𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠.

Aka you and billy yell at eachother but really can’t stay mad 😊

The day was quiet, compared to moments ago. The crack of bullets really could make birdsong sound like an angel choir.

You’re balancing on the balls of your feet, turning up your chin to let the blood dripping from your nostril smatter the grass instead of your shirt. The men were cleaning up after you, the irony wasn’t lost on nobody. You were nervously palming the iron pressed into your hand, hanging at your side, chambers emptied.

It’s like you hear the huff in the air and the stomp of his boots ‘fore he calls your name. “What the hell was that?”

“Is that rhetorical, or d’ya really want to know?” You lamely joke as Billy stops beside you. Your eyes fix on him but you keep your nose tilted to the earth as the fronds of grass catch the blood. Billy scoffs.

“You’re unbe-fuckin’-lievable.” He shakes his head, his nostrils flaring and his lip curling with the type of rage you’d never seen facing your direction. You avert your eyes. “Y’know how stupid that was ‘f you? Y’get it through yer fuckin’ skull how ballsy that back there was?”

You swallow hard. Billy wasn’t one to tell you off, but then again, he was one to tell every Regulator off. Being the closest woman to him nowadays didn’t make you anything more or anything less. “I saw him reach for his gun.”

“He wasn’t gonna shoot!” Billy barks, side-stepping so it’s a bit tougher to avoid looking at him. You stare down at the mud staining his boots.

“You weren’t lookin’ at him like I was, Billy.” You sniffle up the blood, wiping your lip on your knuckles. You’d gotten tackled to the ground after firing the first bullet, but your nose was the only injury. The way you drawl, he gets the impression that you don’t take him for more than a young ‘un throwing a tantrum.

It was toeing the line to begin with. A tense meeting twixt gangs trying to sniff the other one out, not by any means friendly, but not brave enough to be outright hostile. You guessed that you put your foot down for everybody.

Whatever. You stood by your choice.

“That was the dumbest thing you coulda done, y’know that? Y’know that you just opened up another fuckin’ problem for us!” Billy’s voice booms through the open grassland like lead ripping through the air. Not the most pleasant thing on your ears, but you’ve never been one to cry at some harsh words.

“Was gonna be a problem anyway.” You scoff, glancing up at him through your lashes. You shift on your boots, still standing funny, feeling a bit sheepish now.

You keep your head down to the earth even as your nosebleed staunches, and Billy clearly isn’t taking kindly to the way you’re avoiding him. Quickly, he grasps your chin in his hand, not hurting you, but holding your jaw firm enough for his fingers to flex. “You coulda gotten somebody killed, do y’hear me?”

Your eyes widen, taking in his visage like a gulp of air. But you don’t particularly spook, not enough to pipe down. “Yeah. Hear you,” you snip, your tone all attitude. Sure, you were brash back in there, but who was he to yell at you like a child?

“No, you don’t. You never fuckin’ do, y’never wanna just sit and listen, damnit. Never think y’might be wrong, huh?” Billy practically spits. His cheeks are a bit flushed, you amount that to the weather steadily cooling down— you can see the faint puffs his breaths manifest in.

His azure eyes are wild, so intense that you feel them physically pressing in on you. Maybe those are just the pads of his fingers. You don’t tell him to take his hand off you, though— something about it just doesn’t scare you. Something different is in the way his eyes hold you, speaking as his lips seal, shouting as his voice dies in his throat.

Your intuition is correct, as with a tick of his jaw and a flare of his nostrils, Billy’s lips crash onto yours.

It washes over you, like a dam broken. It only took you a moment to gather your head and kiss Billy back. His chapped lips move on yours with an indescribable hunger, that anger twixt you two forced into that kiss, making you feel a bit dizzy. Luckily enough his hand comes to the small of your back to hold you tight, the other keeping a strong hold on your chin. You give, you take, you back off and he chases, he lets up and you demand more. He leans down to you, but you still tilt your head up to meet him, keeping your nose nudged to his even when he leans away from you.

It’s a long silence, twixt you two. The quiet after the monsoon, it rests, it weighs heavy, and you break it with a soft huff. He replies with a quiet grunt. How long? A while. You don’t need anything more to understand, as his eyes bore into yours.

“You’re a real piece of work.” Billy mumbles, his brow furrowing sweetly. You feel suddenly inclined to reach up and smooth that crease out.

“So’re you.” You remind him. Successfully making that furrow disappear as a small, almost exasperated smile graces his lips.

he releases your face. Instead he rifles in his pocket for a handkerchief. “You coulda gotten shot in the fuckin’ head.” He takes your face back into his free hand, his voice scratching like sandpaper.

You only shrug in reply. Billy dabs at your upper lip, he speaks spoken through gritted teeth like you’re pissing him off all over again. “Y’don’t care?”

“You care that I don’t?” You retort, childish as it is. His eyes flicker up to yours. You can see the anger there, toiling in his irises like a maritime storm. But it thins like smoke rising, it sweeps sheets underneath the most earnest concern you could picture. You’re a brat, but he can’t stay angry.

He shakes his head at you, swallowing hard. It’s a whole whirlwind, facing his anger, feeling his chapped lips on yours, and now seeing water spring to his eyes. “Yeah.” Billy’s voice cracks, he looks down to swallow again and correct it. “Yeah, ‘course I care. Shit.”

You stare at him even as he averts his gaze. He cared, the son of a bitch. You put yourself in danger and he cares. He swipes at your lip a few times before crumpling the handkerchief in his fist, dropping that hand to his side and the other to the side of your neck.

“Y’cant be so impulsive.” Billy’s voice is firm and his expression is unwavering. It’s those blue eyes that give him away entirely, full of raw concern. He’s blinked away the tears ‘fore they could meet his cheeks.

“You don’t need to worry over me.” You insist, softly. You shake your head a bit, though the jog doesn’t ebb the way your mind reels. “I’m not your problem.”

Billy shakes his head, his eyes darting over your features. “Don’t act like that. Y’know y’are.” The calloused pad of his thumb drags softly along your jaw, you wonder how many times you’d imagined what this’d feel like.

“I am?” Billy simply nods, closing his eyes a brief moment. Collecting himself. You take the chance to admire the way his lashes fan against his sun-freckled cheeks.

It was a strange feeling, to realize the weight of someone else’s concern on your shoulders. To know that your injury hurt someone just the same as it did you. That someone cared enough to be upset with your recklessness for your own good, to fret over your safety. To yell when you didn’t guard yourself like he would’ve.

It’s a burden you don’t mind accepting. You press your lips. “You really mad?”

Billy lets a sigh out through his nose. Slowly, he shakes his head, his own lip pulling almost to say guess not. “Probably should be.”

You hum in soft agreement. Billy shifts his weight as he stuffs the bloodied handkerchief into his pocket, dropping his other hand from your neck. You almost mourn the comfortable weight before his fingers slot their way twixt yours. “Ain’t no thing, when we both know ya’ll get me all jumpy again in a minute.”

A smile you can’t contain takes over your face, Billy mirroring you with a lazy grin. “Watch it, Bonney.” You’re mostly joking, but his brows lift and he nods decidedly.

“Yes ma’am.”

[snowseasonmademe]

Your love runs through me like lava

word count: 4,102

warning ‼️: smut

paring: aurelien tchouameni x black female reader

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The night was warm and endless, like the heat would never break. The Arizona air pressed against the windows, thick with silence and promise—the kind of hush that came just before the sky split open. The kind of night that smelled like sand and sin.

You stood barefoot on the cool tile of the suite’s balcony, a bottle of whiskey in one hand, your other arm draped loosely over your stomach, your body wrapped in silk that clung to your skin like a whisper. Above, the stars sprawled reckless across the sky, scattered like secrets too heavy to carry. Somewhere in the distance, coyotes howled—wild things calling to wild things. You raised your glass in quiet tribute to it all. A toast to the sacred mess of it.

Inside, the suite pulsed low with mood: amber candles flickering in slow rhythm, the linen curtains breathing gently in and out with the breeze. The windows had begun to fog from the growing humidity—thick air wrapping around everything like a velvet shroud. Somewhere behind you, there was only him. Only Aurélien.

He stood in the threshold of the bedroom, still as stone, just watching. Admiring you while you admired the sky. Not watching like you were something to possess—but like you were something holy. Something divine. A celestial event.

You felt his gaze warming the space between your shoulder blades like sunlight at midnight, and when you turned, the silk slid from one shoulder. A soft smile curved your lips as your eyes met his.

“Hi, baby,” you murmured, your voice honey-slow. You lifted the glass to your lips, took a sip. The whiskey slid down like fire laced with gold.

He didn’t speak—he didn’t need to. His smile was slow, aching, worn in that beautiful way only real men wear exhaustion. Quietly, he stepped toward you, out onto the balcony, his frame tall and powerful, moving like something eternal—like he’d been here before and would be again.

He stopped just in front of you, close enough to cage you in, but not with ownership—never that. He bracketed your body between his arms, one hand gripping the railing on each side, his chest not quite touching yours. The space between you buzzed, electric.

His eyes lingered on your face. Not with hunger, but with reverence. As if you were the last good thing left on earth. You could see it in his eyes—that quiet ache. That need to be reminded of what was real. And you were real. You were here.

You bent to place the whiskey bottle at your feet, keeping the glass. The amber liquid glowed in the shadows, lit from below by the candlelight inside and the fury rising in the clouds above. The wind picked up—hot and restless—and brushed across your skin. The silk robe slipped lower. You didn’t pull it back up.

You reached for him, cupped his face in both hands, thumbs tracing the hard angles of his jaw, the soft fullness of his mouth. You just looked at him—really looked. Your eyes combed his for all the things he’d never say aloud.

Then, with no warning, you brought the glass to your lips one last time, let the burn of the whiskey linger on your tongue—and kissed him. Slow. Tongue first. You fed him smoke and surrender.

He melted under you like wax.

His hands clutched at your waist, palms hot and wide, pulling you flush against him. A sound spilled from his chest—deep, hoarse, unfiltered. His body spoke louder than words. I missed you. I need you. I can’t think without you.

Your tongues danced, teeth clashed softly. You sucked the taste of him like air. The world slipped away. The only thing real was his mouth and yours, the heat between you, the ache threatening to burst through your skin.

When he pulled back, it was barely—just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath unsteady and thick with want.

“I missed you today” he whispered, voice heavy with something unspoken.

You smiled. Teasing. Breathless. “I can tell”

Then—lightning. Sharp and sudden, it tore the sky open, throwing shadows across his face. The thunder cracked too quickly behind it, shaking the balcony floor. You yelped and ducked into his chest instinctively. His arms came around you like instinct, like gravity, like home.

“Inside mon cœur” he murmured against your temple. His voice was low, steady. A lighthouse in the storm. “Come.”

He took your hand—big and warm around yours—and led you inside. Through the gauzy curtains. Through the candlelit hush of the suite. Into the thick of the storm waiting not outside, but between your bodies. Into the unraveling.

He guided you gently to the bed, hands never once leaving your skin. His touch trailed like a vow, reverent and unbroken. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he pulled you close by the hips until you stood between his legs—barefoot, breathless, silk clinging to sweat-damp skin—close enough for his breath to warm the fabric covering your core.

Then he bowed his head to you. Pressed his face to your abdomen and exhaled like you were the only tether he had left to the earth. Like you were the altar he worshipped. His lips moved in prayer across your skin—soft, silent kisses laid upon your stomach, the tender dip of your navel, the ridges of your hips. Each one careful, holy. As if a firmer touch might break something sacred open.

Your fingers slid into his curls, threading through them gently, anchoring him there for one more breath, one more kiss. Then you bent, cupping his face in your palms, lifting his mouth to yours. You kissed him—slow and sweet. A benediction.

“I’ll be right back,” you whispered, your breath ghosting over his lips. “Stay where you are”

He let you go reluctantly, fingers grazing your thighs as you slipped from his reach. The soft click of your glass on the floor echoed faintly as you moved toward the dresser. Candlelight danced across your legs, casting ribbons of molten gold onto your skin. You straightened—then bent again. Slowly. One candle at a time, you blew them out. Each flame extinguished like a secret held between your lips.

Behind you, he watched. Watched like a starving man at the mouth of a feast. His body was still, but his hunger was not. The hem of your robe swayed with each movement, brushing over the curve of your ass. The silk clung like mist. He could see the outline of you beneath it—see that there was nothing underneath. It made his jaw clench. His hands curl. His dick throb.

You were already a vision. But now? Now you looked like something conjured. A spirit summoned from smoke and desire—shoulder bared, nipples hardened through the silk, curls wrapped in a crown of shadows. Lightning struck again outside, casting your silhouette in silver. You looked untouchable. Divine.

And still, you came back to him.

Slow. Sure. Every step intentional. Like seduction had always been your native tongue.

He reached for you, but instead of climbing onto him, you lifted one leg, resting it on the edge of the bed beside his hip. He sat up, face inches from your center. His hands found the tie of your robe but didn’t untie it. Not yet. He peeled it back like scripture—revealing, not unwrapping. The silk fell away, and there you were. Bared and glistening. Wet with want.

His breath hitched. His eyes darkened. And for a long moment, he just looked.

Worshipped.

You ran your fingers through his curls again, grounding yourself in the storm of his stare. He gripped your hips like he needed them to breathe. Then, slowly, he began his worship again.

He kissed your belly, lower this time. Then the your hip bone. Then just above where you pulsed with need—everywhere but where you wanted him most. You whimpered, soft and helpless, your fingers tightening in his hair. But he didn’t give in.

Not yet.

He savored you first. Teased you like a man who had all the time in the world to taste the night off your skin.

And then—finally—he yielded.

His tongue pressed between your folds, slow and deep, like a hymn made flesh. Your breath caught. Your knees trembled. He lifted one leg over his shoulder and held you open like an offering. And then he feasted.

His mouth moved with purpose, steady and sure. His grip anchored you as your hips bucked, chasing the rhythm of his tongue. You moaned, broken and breathless, his name spilling from your mouth like scripture. Your thighs shook. Your head tipped back. The thunder outside cracked like an echo of your heart slamming against your ribs.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. He stayed, tongue buried deep, lips locked around you, until you were trembling in his hands, right on the cusp of coming undone.

So close. So goddamn close.

But you needed more. You needed all of him.

Your fingers tugged gently at his hair. “Wait—stop” you whispered, panting. “Not yet”

He froze instantly. Lips glistening, face slick with you, his chest rising and falling like a man just pulled from the depths. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

You guided him upward, fingers curled under his chin, and kissed his mouth with a tenderness that said thank you and I’m not finished yet. Then your hands found the hem of his shirt and pulled. Slowly. Peeling it over his head and revealing the body you already knew by heart—warm brown skin stretched tight over carved muscle, his beauty made all the more holy by how he held it.

You traced him—chest to abs to the trail that led lower. Quiet. Intentional. Worship returned.

You dropped to your knees just long enough to slide his pants and briefs down his legs. He stepped out of them, fully bare now, thick and heavy, the tip flushed and leaking with need. You kissed the inside of his thigh—soft, reverent—then rose again.

And with that single movement, your robe fell.

The silk slid from your shoulders like a whisper and pooled at your feet, leaving you completely exposed in the flash of lightning that bathed the room. You stepped forward and climbed into his lap like you belonged there. Like you’d always been meant to live in that space between his breath and his heartbeat.

You straddled him. Cradled his face in your hands. And kissed him—hard.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Eternal.

Your mouths moved like you had all the time in the world to taste each other. Your tongue slid over his, slow and knowing, laced with your own nectar. You kissed him like you were the storm. And he kissed you like he was ready to drown.

His hands found your waist again, trembling now—just slightly, just enough. Like touching you had become a spiritual rejuvination.

You rolled your hips over his dick, dragging your slick folds along the length of him. Teasing. Slick sounds filled the room, soaked in want. You were so wet he could feel it drip down to his thighs.

He groaned, forehead pressed to yours. Lightning flashed again—freezing the moment in gold.

Your curls wild, nipples brushing his chest, lips parted in the breath before surrender.

He whispered against your mouth: “Take me”

And you answered with a sound that was almost a cry. Almost a prayer. Almost a yes.

It was everything.

It was raining.

Not a soft patter, but a downpour—like the heavens had finally surrendered to everything they’d been holding in.

And somehow, despite the lifetimes it felt like you’d waited… this moment arrived right on time. Divine. Destined.

Your hand slipped between your bodies, fingers curling around his dick—slick, hard, impossibly warm. You guided him through your folds, stroking him slow… letting the swollen head kiss your clit over and over.

Your moan was a tremble. “Mmm… fuck…”

Then, slowly, reverently, you sank onto him—inch by aching inch. He filled you like a prayer being answered, like a truth your body had always known.

His moan cracked open the dark—raw, guttural, ancient. It wasn’t performative. It was pure. Real.

You stilled, seated fully on him, your palms braced against the warm plane of his chest. His hands were at your hips, gripping like he was afraid you’d vanish.

“Mmm… bébé, you feel—fuck—so good. So good” he groaned, eyes squeezed shut, lips parted in awe.

But you wanted his eyes.

You cupped his jaw gently. “Look at me baby.”

And when he did—when his eyes met yours, wide and worshipful—you began to move.

Your hips rolled in slow, sensual circles, each motion sending a ripple of heat through both of you. Just enough friction. Just enough tease. Enough to make him groan your name like a prayer whispered into the storm.

Thunder echoed low, a cosmic applause. The room pulsed with the rhythmic, wet sound of your bodies joining—music only you two could make.

“Just like that… yes” he breathed, voice hoarse.

You clenched around him “Like this baby?”

Your lips brushed his, breath mingling, teasing.

He could barely form words. Just another desperate moan. Another offering of your name.

He shifted upright, back pressed to the headboard. You wrapped yourself around him—arms around his neck, body molded to his, chest to chest. His arms locked around you like a vow.

And then you rode him deeper. Slower. Letting him feel all of you, stroke for sacred stroke. Your hips moved like smoke, like you were writing scripture onto his skin.

His hands roamed in awe—over your back, down to your ass, around your waist. He touched you like you were sacred. Like every inch of you carried the secrets of life.

Then he started to thrust.

Measured. Intentional. Like an eclipse. Like gravity bending for love.

One hand fisted in your hair, the other pressing at your spine. He fucked you like he had something to prove to the gods. And you gave yourself to it—fully, fiercely.

You buried your face in his neck, your gasps spilling hot against his skin. Still, you moved with him, over him, grinding to meet each deep stroke. The friction of your clit against his abs made your head spin.

Your moans grew louder—each one an invocation. “Ahh—fuck, Aurélien—fuck me…”

And he did.

He didn’t falter. Didn’t flinch. His arms tightened around you like armor, like devotion, like he was holding your soul together as your body came undone.

The thunder cracked again—violently—just as your climax slammed into you.

It wasn’t an orgasm.

It was rapture.

Lightning blazed through the window as your body spasmed, trembling around him, breath lost to something primal and holy.

But he didn’t stop.

He fucked you through the aftershocks—slow, deep, grounding you in his body, his breath.

He was close. You felt it in the way he trembled, the way his teeth grazed your skin. Still, he didn’t let himself let go. Not yet. He needed more. Needed all of you.

His lips found your temple. Then, filthy, tender, desperate: “I fucking love you.”

You gasped it into his neck—breathless, truth-struck. “I love you.”

He pulled out slowly, and your breath caught at the sight of it—his dick glazed in your release, thick and glistening. You reached for him, hunger returning, ready to worship him with your mouth.

But he caught your wrist gently.

“Non bébé” he rasped, voice thick with lust. “I want to be inside you again. Lay on your stomach.”

You obeyed, legs trembling, body humming with need. The sheets cooled beneath your skin as you lowered yourself, and he folded a pillow under your hips—just enough to tilt you open. Offered.

You gave your ass a slow, playful wiggle.

He groaned—a sound from the base of his spine—and leaned down to kiss you there. Open-mouthed, hungry kisses across both cheeks, up your back, behind your knee. Until he was beside your ear, breath hot.

“Je t’ai attendu toute ma vie” he whispered. I’ve waited my whole life for you. (I’ve been waiting for you my whole life)

“Alors maintenant tu vas me donner chaque partie de toi.” So now, you’re going to give me every part of you. (Now you will give me every part of you)

And you did.

He pressed his full body over yours—chest flush to back, dick sliding into you again with a slick, delicious stretch that made both of you groan.

You were soaked. Surrendered. And he filled every part of you.

He laced his fingers with yours and began to move.

Slow. Heavy. Relentless.

Each thrust was a wrecking ball.

Each stroke a like battering bull.

He fucked you like a ritual—each impact bruising, perfect.

“Your ass… fuck” he moaned, accent curling every word in smoke and velvet. “Feels so fucking good.”

“Oh—my—God—please—” you gasped, voice breaking.

You clenched around him, crying out, back arching with every thrust. He was so deep, you swore he was inside your ribs, your lungs, your heart.

“Feel me bébé? he growled. “You’re all mine. I love fucking you like this.”

“Keep talking” you begged. “Please. Keep talking”

“You like how I stretch you out like this?”

“I could stay buried inside you all night. Fill you up ’til it’s dripping down your thighs.”

“Say it, bébé. Say you need me.”

“I need you” you cried. “Fuck, Aurélien—don’t stop—don’t ever stop.”

And that was it.

You screamed his name, thunder swallowing the sound. Your orgasm ripped through you, fierce and feral.

It left you raw. Glowing. Changed.

Still, he didn’t stop.

Not until he gave you all of him—every thrust, every groan, every drop.

And when he came, it was with a shudder and a moan that sounded like your name spelled in stars.

He collapsed on top of you, breath wild, heart pounding against your back.

The rain outside softened—like even the storm had found peace.

And in that silence, tangled in sweat and love and divinity… you held each other.

Whole.

Holy.

Home.

The silence settled around you both, the aftermath of the storm inside and out. Your bodies were tangled, a slick, sweaty mess of limbs and heartbeats, but there was something undeniably tender about the weight of him against you. You could feel his breath against your skin, still uneven, still with the frantic pulse of desire lingering beneath it.

He shifted slowly, lifting his weight off of you just enough to pull you into his chest, his heart beating in time with yours. His hand slid over your back, gentle, almost worshipful, as if trying to memorize every inch of you. He kissed the top of your head, his lips soft against the damp strands of your hair.

“You okay, bébé?” His voice was rough, still raw from the intensity, but it had the softest, most intimate lilt as his thumb brushed across your shoulder blade.

You nodded, your body still trembling, your muscles sore but content. You couldn’t speak for a moment, lost in the warm echo of the storm you’d just ridden together. But when you finally did, your voice was a breathless whisper.

“Yeah… I’m okay” you murmured, closing your eyes and sinking further into him, letting yourself be held. You could feel his pulse beneath his skin, steady now, calming, just as your own heartbeat slowly began to follow its rhythm.

He kissed the top of your head again, his lips trailing down to the side of your face as his fingers continued their slow caress down your spine. The softness in his touch felt like a balm to the rawness of the moment, grounding you both in the tender aftermath of everything you’d just shared.

“Come. Let’s clean up” he whispered after a long moment, the words barely audible, but with such a quiet affection that you couldn’t help but smile softly against his chest.

You both moved, slow and languid, as though the weight of your bodies felt heavier now, both exhausted from the storm and the passionate crash of it. The sheets clung to your skin, sticky with sweat and the remnants of your release. He helped you slide out from beneath him, his hands still holding onto you with a gentleness that contrasted the earlier ferocity of his touch.

You stood together, legs unsteady, your bodies still humming from the deep ache of desire and satisfaction that left you both feeling weightless, yet grounded. You were both completely soaked, still damp from the storm inside and out.

The bathroom light was dim, casting soft shadows against the cool tiles as you walked toward the shower. The sound of the rain outside had softened, leaving only the distant hum of the storm, now fading into nothingness.

He stepped into the shower first, turning on the water. The warm spray hit his body first, sending steam rising into the air, the smell of rain mixing with the soap-scented steam. He reached out for you, pulling you into the comforting heat of the water, your bodies melding together again, this time with a gentler urgency.

You let out a soft sigh as the warm water washed over you, cascading down your skin. His hands slid over your back, pushing the hair out of your face, his fingers tracing delicate paths along your shoulders as you both stood there for a moment, letting the water cleanse you both—not just of sweat, but of everything. Of the intensity. Of the passion. Of the vulnerability.

His hands slid down your arms, over the curve of your waist, and up again, pressing you closer to him, his chest to yours, his lips brushing the top of your forehead.

“You’re so beautiful” he murmured into your skin, the words a soft, loving hum. “Every inch of you…”

You closed your eyes, leaning into him as his lips found the hollow beneath your ear, kissing softly, tenderly, as though he was reminding you that this was not just lust—it was love. And every kiss was a quiet affirmation of it.

You both washed each other slowly, every touch reverent, every movement qith purpose. He lathered shampoo into your hair, his fingertips massaging your scalp with tender pressure, as if trying to erase the last remnants of tension from your body. You let yourself melt into him, the warmth of the water, the steady rhythm of his hands, and the quiet intimacy surrounding you.

When you turned to rinse the soap from your body, he followed, pressing close enough that you could feel the solid heat of his chest against your back. One hand rested on your hip, guiding you under the water, while the other traced a line down your spine, a slow, almost teasing motion.

Once you were both clean, he stepped out of the shower first, wrapping a towel around his waist before he reached for yours. You took it from him gratefully, pressing it to your skin, the soft fabric absorbing the last traces of water from your body.

He led you back to the bedroom with a quiet grace, his hand never leaving the small of your back as if grounding you both to the moment. The bed was cool now, the sheets still damp where you’d left them, but as you sank back down into it together, the warmth between you quickly returned.

He pulled the covers over both of you, curling his body around yours, his breath soft and steady against the nape of your neck. You settled into his embrace, your limbs entwined, feeling the security of his presence in a way that felt both eternal and fragile at the same time.

You nestled closer, your head resting against his chest, his arms tightening around you as if he couldn’t bear to let you go. His hand stroked your hair again, a tender motion that was more soothing than anything you’d felt all night.

“You’re not leaving me, right?” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but your fear lingering in the dark.

His answer came instantly, his lips brushing your forehead in the most perfect kiss.

“Never.” His voice was firm, full of conviction. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You let your eyes flutter closed, the steady rhythm of his breath lulling you into a calm, peaceful place. The storm outside had ceased, but the storm between you two had settled into something even more profound—an unwavering connection. Your body, exhausted but content, gave in to the soft pull of sleep, and as you drifted off, wrapped in his warmth, you knew, for the first time in what felt like forever, you were exactly where you were meant to be.

And when you woke, it would be with him, still by your side. Still together.

[lookingforariaa]

Attack On Titan: Actor AU ᝰ.ᐟ

ᯓ★ From the very first "Attack on Titan" table read, Eren Jaeger and Y/N L/N been locked in a personal war. They had hated each other, for their own personal reasons. But, now, fate (or the writers) had dealt them a cruel hand: their characters, the series' central love interests, were about to share their first intimate scene. actor!eren x actress!reader

Ensconced in the makeup chair, you flipped through the script with practiced ease. Your brow furrowed in concentration as you absorbed the scene directions and drilled the lines for today's shoot into your memory.

If 13 year old you thought it was bad enough having to share your first kiss with Eren Jaeger at the end of the season 2 finale with a bunch of camera's pointed at you, she would probably want to kill herself for this scene.

Smiles were plastered on for fans, talk show appearances, the whole nine yards. But everyone on set knew the hatred simmering beneath the surface between Eren and you. But your reasons for the animosity ran deeper than just hating him for the funsies.

You'd always bristled at entitled people like Eren Yeager. His producer father had undoubtedly greased the wheels for his leading role alongside you. He hadn't earned it like everyone in this series had, and he had gotten one of the leading roles in the series.

It wasn't fair. The rich always win.

The first table read had confirmed your worst fears. You had extended a friendly hand, introducing yourself as his love interest and the second leading role in the series.

Eren's response? A dismissive scoff and a head-to-toe sweep that spoke volumes. That self-satisfied smirk ignited a fire in your gut. People like him, who waltzed into success on silver platters, were everything you weren't. You'd clawed your way up, and his arrogance was a slap in the face to everything you'd achieve

The hatred towards Eren only intensified on the first filming day. His arrogance wasn't confined to you. He barked orders at crew members and treated his assistant like an indentured servant. Your blood pressure skyrocketed.

These were people, not props for his entitled performance.

He treated them like they weren't human.

The scene triggered a raw nerve. You knew all too well the sting of dehumanization. The humiliation. Your mother was a single parent forced into sex work to keep a roof over your head. Even if you lived in a brothel full of sex workers, you didn't ask god for anything else other than to get your mom another job.

You had watched your mom try her best to hide you from the men coming in so you wouldn't have to fall into the hands of prostitution as well. The way those men treated her - a flicker of desire followed by callous dismissal, like a discarded rag.

Like she wasn't even worthy enough to be called a human.

You had clawed your way out. Your striking features - the cascading dark blonde hair and the mesmerising hazel eyes and amazing acting skills - were your ticket to this role, a chance to give your mother a life she deserved.

Seeing Eren was like looking into a mirror of your traumatic past, seeing your mom thrashed around like an object.

Blinking back the sleep in your eyes after having drinks with Sasha the entire night, the scripts pages wavered in your hands, the words blurring at the edges.

Sasha's death still felt unreal. You'd sought solace in her company after they killed her character, clinging to the real Sasha for as long as possible.

A yawn stretched your lips into a wide, ungainly shape. The gentle hum of the hair curlers and the soft touch of the makeup brushes did little to dispel the exhaustion clinging to you like a second skin.

The last layer of blush being applied felt strangely cool against your warm cheeks. You lowered your heavy lashes as they started applying a gentle layer of mascara to your makeup as the finishing touch.

The problem with Attack On Titan was the fact that all the makeup had to look natural. But at the same time all the girls, especially you and Mikasa, had to look beautiful.

Which wasn't hard, because both of you were drop dead gorgeous. But both of you were too humble to ever admit it out loud.

You skimmed through the script one last time as the Matt, your gay best friend who mostly does your hair, brushes them out slightly to make them look more natural.

Perfect," he sighed dramatically, a playful smile on his face. "Ready for today's shoot?"

You rolled your eyes, a groan escaping your lips. "Absolutely not."

"Yeah, figured," Matt chuckled. "t's funny honestly. Do you actually have to ride his thigh? God, the writers hate you."

"Oh shut up!" You scoffed, slapping his arm with your script as you looked a laughing Matt through the mirror.

"Okay, come on, they're asking for you."

"Tell them I'll be right out."

The director barked out his final instructions, taking help from Isayama as his gaze flickering between you and Eren.

Both of you stood with arms crossed and brows furrowed, listening carefully to the director and Isayam. Eren, clad in his iconic faded green shirt and a the black jacket over it.

While you wore a white button-up strained slightly against your chest, the small black corset tied right beneath your chest emphasizing your hourglass figure beneath it.

"So, remember, Y/N you hate him in this scene, you despise him." The director emphasized, looking down at the script.

"Yeah, that's gonna be easy to act out." You scoffed, rolling your eyes.

Eren smirked, leaning down for his mouth to reach your ear. "Don't forget what scene we're filming." His breath tickled your ear. You didn't know what sent the chills down your spine-- his mouth being so close to your ear, or the fact that he was referring to how you had absolutely no control in this scene.

The director clapped his hands, snapping you and Eren out of your silent standoff. You cleared your throat, forcing your attention away from the infuriating green shirt and towards the man barking orders.

"Y/N," he said, pointing at you, "when you say, 'So you're going to kill billions of people for what?!' I want a reaction. Fling your arms wide, like you're trying to grasp the weight of those lives. Let your anger crackle in your eyes, burning into Eren as you demand an answer." You nodded.

His gaze shifted to Eren, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "Eren, when you deliver the line, 'For you,' I want hesitation. Let out a sigh that speaks volumes. Run your hand through your hair, whatever. Turn away, build the drama. Then, do a dramatic turn around back towards Y/N, unleashing that scream with every ounce of conviction you have. Got it?"

Eren nodded understandingly, pursing his lips. "Got it."

"Great! Let's get this scene rolling!" The director boomed, clapping his hands. A flurry of activity followed as the set crew started getting the prison set ready for filming, fixing any minor misplaces in it.

You and Eren stood by, the tension crackling between you like live wires. Within minutes, the set was prepped, the harsh overhead lights casting stark shadows on the fabricated brick walls. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the emotional rollercoaster about to unfold.

"Scene 27, take 1."

"Lights," The director sighed, "Cameras." He pointed, "And.. action!"

The sterile light glinted off the metal bars, casting a harsh glow on the tense scene unfolding. You stood across from Eren, your voice laced with barely contained fury

"I know what I'm doing," you spat, the words sharp as shards of ice. "But do you, Eren? Do you have any goddamn clue what you're doing?!"

Eren was positioned before a cracked mirror, avoided your gaze. His knuckles tightened around the chipped porcelain sink, the strain evident in his posture. A sigh, heavy and laced with despair, escaped his lips as he stared down at his clenched fists.

"Yeah," he muttered, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah?" you shrieked, disbelief and frustration clawing at your throat. "Because from where I'm standing, it doesn't seem like a single thought has crossed that thick skull of yours!"

Your hands flew to your hair, tugging at the strands in agitation. Frustration boiled over, and you flung your arms wide, the metal cot scraping against the wall with a jarring clang

"Eren!" you roared, your voice echoing off the cold stone walls. "You're about to make billions die at the hands of a horrifying death! And for what?!"

Eren remained silent, his back a rigid wall against your onslaught. A shaky breath escaped him, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth seemed ready to shatter. Slowly, he raised his hand, running it through his hair in a gesture of defeat. His eyes, half-lidded and shadowed, flickered towards his reflection in the mirror, a flicker of something akin to shame crossing his features.

Then, with a dramatic flourish, he spun around, his voice laced with a desperate conviction that bordered on hysteria.

"For you!" he screamed, the words echoing through the cell. But as quickly as the outburst erupted, it died down. A defeated sigh escaped his lips, and he repeated the words, this time a mere whisper, "For you..." His half lidded eyes met yours.

"Well, that's fucking stupid!" You screamed out.

"Cut!" You furrowed your eyebrows and turned your head back to the director. "Y/N! Your resolve breaks for a second, okay? You still love him deep down and when he looks at you like that your heart aches." The director says, clutching at his own heart to emphasise. "So wait for a second, show emotion, and then say the stupid line."

"Idiot." Eren muttered under his breath, loud enough for you to hear.

"Okay, got it. Everything else was fine?" You asked, ignoring his comment.

"Yeah." The director responded, "Let's take it again from Eren's line."

"Scene 27, take 2."

"Lights, camera.. action!"

Eren sighs once more, "For you.."

A tremor ran through your composure. Your eyelids fluttered shut for a brief moment, a shaky breath escaping your lips. When your eyes reopened, the anger had returned, but it felt brittle, tinged with a flicker of something else - confusion, maybe even a hint of pain. It was a fleeting glimpse, quickly masked by the familiar fury

"Well that's.. that's fucking stupid!" You stammered, trying to showcase your characters resolve breaking.

"Is it?! I think it's fucking stupid that you aren't understanding that Marley wants to take you so you can make pure royal blooded babies with my brother so they can take the founding titan easily!" Eren roared, turning back to you.

"Babies?" The word hung in the air, a foreign concept amidst the weight of Eren's plan. The anger you wielded began to crumble at the edges.

A shaky laugh escaped you, a humorless sound that echoed off the cold stone walls. "Is that it, Eren? All this so I don't sleep with your fucking brother?!"

Eren's jaw clenched tight. He ran his hands through his hair again, his voice laced with a desperate edge. "You aren't fucking getting it! They'll use you, Y/N! Turn you into a breeding machine for their twisted agenda and then kill you! This way, at least you're..." His voice trailed off, the defiance flickering for a moment.

"Atleast i'm what? Safe? You fucking sociopath! You're killing all these people for one person?!"

"Shut up."

"That's what you are.. a murderer, a psychopath!"

"Shut the fuck up." He growled, grabbing you by your neck and pushing you against the wall, choking you slightly. The camera followed both of you in kind.

You smiled, scoffing. "Or what? You'll kill me?"

He choked you harder, making you stretch your neck up as you whimpered slightly.

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

A tense silence stretched between you, punctuated only by the ragged rasp of your breath. Disgust simmered in your eyes, a mirror image of the icy loathing reflected back from Eren. The space between you crackled with unspoken hostility

He was supposed to kiss you now, but you were glad he wasn't, otherwise you might've barfed in his mouth. He looked at you with the same expression etched on his face: disgust.

"Cut!" The director yelled out and Eren rolled his eyes, sighing as he released your neck and immediately walked away from you.

The director slammed his script down, the sound echoing through the soundstage. "Alright, what's going on here? You two are supposed to be passionately making out, not glaring at each other like you're about to duel."

Eren scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe that's the point. Maybe our characters wouldn't actually kiss in this situation."

You crossed your arms, your eyes narrowing. "Oh, and why wouldn't they? Because your fragile ego can't handle kissing someone who doesn't fawn over you?"

Eren's smirk vanished, replaced by a cold stare. "Funny you should mention ego. It takes a certain level of delusion to think anyone would be interested in someone who constantly reeks of desperation."

You bristled. "Desperation? At least I earned this role on my own merit, unlike some nepo baby." You smirked. "At least I don't need a daddy with a fat wallet to buy my way into a role."

Eren's voice turned low and dangerous. "Careful. You wouldn't want to upset the golden goose who keeps this whole production afloat, would you?"

Y/N leaned forward, her voice a steely whisper. "Don't you dare pull that daddy producer stunt on me. You think your money can buy you everything? It can't buy respect, and it certainly can't buy genuine affection."

Eren's smirk faltered for a moment, his jaw clenching, much to your amusement. "Oh, touchy subject? Truth hurts, doesn't it?"

The director sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Look, can we focus? This scene is supposed to be about raw emotions, about their need for each other. Let's take it again, both of you are professionals, I know you can handle it."

"Scene 27, take 3."

"Lights, Camera... Action!"

The boy holding the movie clip snapper sighs, exhausted, even from a simple job as his. "Scene 27... take 23."

"Okay, guys, If it doesn't happen this time then we'll have to redo this tomorrow. And then we won't have time to film the scenes scheduled for tomorrow, hence the season 4 premiere will get delayed. So, just be professionals for once. You aren't kids anymore." The director sighs, putting his cap back on as he leans back in the chair.

Both you and Eren get back into place as the director yells action and Eren quickly slams you against the wall.

"Shut the fuck up."

"Or what? You'll kill me?"

He choked you harder, making you stretch your neck up as you whimpered slightly.

"I told you to shut the fuck up."

"Make me."

You and Eren looked at each other for a second and you almost thought he was going to chicken out once more, so did the director as he rolled his eyes and slid a hand across his face.

But he didn't.

Eren quickly brought his lips to yours, rough and full of all the hatred that's been simmering between both of you all this while. It was a frantic kiss, as the director had wanted. Both of you were breathless as his hand stopped choking you and went to the side of your neck and the other clutched at your waist, and your hands went to grasp at his hair.

It was a tangled mess of limbs as your heads moved together at the speed of light, begging to deepen the kiss, begging to explore every inch of each others mouth. The air crackled with unspoken desire, the kiss a whirlwind of exploring touches and desperate needy moans. 

Everything was a blur. Gasping breaths mingled with the frantic rhythm of your kiss, his tongue had even made an appearance. It surprised you, because when kissing a co-star the other doesn't use tongue to keep the kiss professional and to show the person respect.

But what would Eren Jaeger know about respect?

His hands gripped your waist, a possessive ache that mirrored your owns as one of your hands tugged at his hair and the other caressed his cheek. The kiss deepened, your heads moving together frantically, a battle fought on bruised lips and tangled tongues.

A whimper escaped your lips as Eren grabbed your hair and tilted your head backwards, the kiss turning urgent, so frantic. It felt like an eternity, a culmination of unspoken longing poured into this single, desperate moment.

Your hands twisted in his hair, pulling at it harshly on purpose, hoping it would hurt. With the groan that he let out into the kiss, you were sure it did.

Then, with a swift movement, Eren shoved his knee in between your legs, your surprised moan swallowed by the next searing kiss.

His hand shot out, gripping your throat as your heads whipped back and forth, a frantic chase for deepening the kiss. A tender moan left your lips as Eren's grip on your throat tightened, his tongue thrusting deeper. The sound of your kiss echoed in the room, into the mic, a desperate rhythm. You let out another soft, breathy moan and it was muffled into his mouth as he tried to get even closer to you.

And with the directors snap, which was your cue to start grinding on his thigh, you did just that. A soft moan escaped your lips and muffled into his mouth. "Eren." You sighed into the kiss, as you disconnected your lips and connected your forehead with his, grinding on his thigh.

Fuck. You didn't expect this to happen, especially not with Eren, but you could feel your pussy pulsate and throb with need. You just hoped he couldn't feel it.

"We shouldn't do this." You said in a soft moan as you threw your head back, giving Eren the chance to kiss down your neck.

"We shouldn't." He sighed into your neck.

"It's a bad idea." Your grinding intensified and his hand came to grab at your hips to help you, a sigh of pleasure escaping you, your nails digging into his shoulder.

"It is." You could feel his breath on your neck.

"I loathe you."

"The feelings mutual."

The air crackled as your eyes locked with Eren's. You guys locked eyes for a moment, as written in the script.

And then you leaned down as you were slightly lifted above the ground with a surge of undeniable desire. Your lips met in a frantic kiss, a tangle of emotions that both fueled and fought against your self-control. The kiss was so rushed, such a blur. Both your heads moving so frantically to fight for dominance.

It was like you were fighting to crawl into each others skin.

A strangled sound escaped your throat, a mix of surprise and something more primal. A flicker of uncertainty crossed your mind. Fuck, why were you enjoying this?

Shame threatened to choke the rising tide of sensation, but Eren's touch, a hand gently yanking at your hair, grounded you. In that moment, you were caught in a delicious storm of confusion and exhilaration.

"Cut!"

You tore yourself away from the kiss, gasping for breath. Eren mirrored your action, his chest heaving slightly. A ghost of a smile played on his lips, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. Both of you gazed at each other with longing and confusion, almost disgust and hate for themselves because deep down they know they liked it.

''Great job! I love the intensity. We'll just need to film some POV and closeup shots for the sex scenes and we're done for the day." The director smiled, praising both of you. "Let's take 5."

You started to walk away, but before you could leave, Eren grabbed your hand. "Also, by the way." You sighed and rolled your eyes.

"What?"

"I could feel that, you know."

Shit.

[soriseerakyra]

The Girl Who Plays With Moonlight

A/N: I tried to angst... i didn't succeed.

“How long do you plan to stare, Prince?”

It was a flippant greeting to your admirer—no way for a lady to greet their lord, noble or not. But you couldn’t help but be a little sly at the mouth. He had come here to watch so often after all.

“Is there a limit to how long I’m allowed to look?” You could hear the amusement in his tone.

You throw your head back with a laugh and use your fingers to beckon him closer.

“No limit, just curious. Surely a prince has better companions than one such as I?”

His sapphire glows in the moonlight as he approaches, his eye carries a light to it. “And what are you?”

“A fairy!”  you reply,  arms over your head, wind playing in your hair. If you had wings, they would have sprouted. But the moonlight on your skin is enough to convince him of your otherworldliness. There is only one hit at your deception, your skin pimples from the cold.

Perched on a rock at the edge of the lakeshore line, you are naked as the day you were born, toes dipping into the cool water beneath you. It’s a dark glass only disturbed by your lightest of movements. The image is enough to hide any evidence of your humanness.

"You must be," he replies, voice barely above a whisper. "And enchanting men, your specialty."

"Not just men."

A sly smile crosses your face.

It had taken much coaxing to get him to this state, where he could openly state his feelings.

It was hard for him during the day, tied down by obligation and combating his own feelings of resentment.

You were subdued as well. A playmate of his sister and a minor noble, you were restrained, confined, and pure.

Here, though, you were free, pure in another sense. Like the rain from a storm or fire from a dragon’s belly. A force of nature.

He stops a few feet away from where you perch, hands folded behind his back like a prince pretending not to be spellbound. But his voice betrays him.

“Do you do this often? Wait for me like a siren, bare beneath the moon.”

“Wait for you?” You start with a chuckle. “If I am a siren, then I long to be in the presence of those who birthed me. I wait for no man.”

“His smile sharpens, half-wicked, half-half reverent. “Then I must be the cursed fool who swims toward the rocks each night, knowing full well they’ll tear me open.”

And he does inch closer, but never enough to touch you, only enough to admire. He kneels by the water, the tips of his boots soaked, cloak pooling around him.

“A fool? Maybe not. More like a thief, though you take nothing.”

“If you would allow me, I would. Here in this place where all things are equal.”

“A temporary reprieve, my lord. The sun comes fast, and even a siren must obey the order of the day.”

He frowns and says nothing, but he offers you his hand and cloak.

You take it.

Tonight, the spell is broken.

And you meant to do it.

It is quiet on the walk back through the forest. He walks slowly so that your bare feet can keep up and so that the night won’t end so early.

He is by your side, your faithful companion. His fingers brushing against yours, warm where yours are freezing.

Any other night, you would have indulged. Laced your fingers with his, given him hope where there is none. But tonight, the ache in your heart has become too much, and you cannot anymore.

You pull away from him. “This isn’t real, Aemond. Eventually, your duty will compel you to leave me here. And you and I will, all we will have are memories of a pleasant dream.”

He stops walking, fist squeezing, shoulders tensing. “Even with nights like tonight, you are the only thing that feels real.

His fingers leave yours to come up and touch the delicate skin of your jaw.

You try and resist the urge to lean into the touch, but when his fingers run against your cheekbone, you close your eyes and give in.

“It’s real for you too,” He sounds innocent when he says it, happy.

It is enough to make you pull away from him, not want to have to hurt him more than is necessary.

“Do not make this harder for me, Aemond.”

His hand falls from your cheek, and the skin still burns.

You walk the remaining way in silence.

***

The sun breaks across the towers of the Red Keep with merciless clarity and judgment. There is no bathing softness to the light. No shadows for you to hide your shortcomings. It slips over stone and silk, chasing away every whisper of moonlight. The world you shared with him the night before no longer exists.

You wake alone. Not just in body, but in the hollowness of the space around you. The quiet of your chamber is deafening. Your skin still carries the weight of his touch, the scent of forest air, and his cloak. But it’s fading.

You rise. You wash. You dress as expected.

The gown is modest, high-collared. The color—an obedient shade of ivory—blurs you into the background where you belong. You braid your hair with fingers that tremble only slightly, weaving ribbons into it like a tether. You tie yourself down.

In the Queen’s solar, you pour tea and lace her bodice with fingers that know their role. You nod when spoken to. You smile without teeth. The ladies chatter around you, oblivious, laughing about courtships and embroidery.

But your thoughts are not here.

They are in the water.

With him.

You see him again in the great hall where courtiers gather in a flock. You stand in your place along the wall, still and silent.

A nervousness grips your heart.

Aemond enters beside the king. His stride was flawless. His posture is noble. His eye finds yours only for a flicker—and then it is gone.

When the King reaches the throne, he has his brother wait. Aemond is presented with a bride. A noble lady of higher rank than you.

She curtsies. The court watches.

And Aemond bows.

You feel your chest hollow, a pit forming where breath should live.

You leave before the ceremony ends.

When you reach your chamber, a single black glove rests on your pillow. Folded. Neat.

His.

***

Night comes again.

There is no bare skin exposed to the moonlight. Your heavy gown will not allow you to perch on your favorite seat. So, you wait for his anger and your devastation.

However, as the moon grows high in the sky, you wonder if the waiting is the punishment. Is the anger. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that he will not come tonight, nor any other night.

The ending of the fantasy may have been recoverable, laughed off, or dreamt away. But the duty of an engagement may have been too much for him to overcome.

You tell yourself it’s better this way.

That he made the right choice.

And that you would survive it.

The moon climbs higher, and the leaves in the grove, your chest aches. A siren’s fate, it would seem.

You would never ask him to choose between you and his duty; his devotion was one of the things you adored. But was it wrong to hope that he might choose you anyway?

And now, as you stand with your arms wrapped tightly around yourself in comfort, you let silence swallow you.

Tonight, you are not a siren.

You cannot cleanse away the hurt like a storm.

You cannot roar in fury like a dragon.

You are just a girl.

Alone.

And the moon, in her pale indifference, watches without blinking. But she does not let you go. You find yourself staring at her pale face, searching for answers she could not give.

Until you hear the squelching of wet grass. The familiar rustle of a cloak brushing low branches. You don’t turn when the noise stops. Not even when you feel the air shift, charge, and grow heavy, like the moment before a storm.

“You knew.”

His tone is not accusatory. Plain, indifferent to the answer that he already knows.

“I did.” You had heard more than simple whispers about the girls’ presentation to him.

His only comment is a “hmm.”

His voice is cold, a memory of how he was when your rendezvous first started.

When you finally speak, it is quiet, brittle.

“I thought you would not come.”

A breath. Not quite a sigh.

“I thought not to.”

You turn then, slowly, eyes meeting his. And though his face is still schooled in that royal calm, you see it—the disarray of his hair, the tension in his jaw, the fury behind his silence. Not at you. At everything.

But his eye is still tender when it is trained on you; he has still deigned to show you his sapphire.

“I refused her.”  There is a tinge of desperation in his tone.

“You refused her?”

Your heart thumps with anticipation and a strange sense of guilt.

"I gave her my silence and courtesy," he says, stepping forward. "But not my name. Not my future. That was never hers to claim."

Your eyes begin to sting with the sensation of tears, but you blink them away.

"You cannot give your heart, your name to a siren. You'll only drown."

When had he come so close?

Close enough for you to feel his breath on the apples of your cheeks. He eyes you for a moment before his gaze becomes trained on your hair.

You take the hint and are quick to undo the braid, to unbind yourself.

"Then let me drown," he says, softer now. "If it's in you, I'll go willingly."

You shake your head, lips trembling with the ghost of a smile. "You speak like a man who's never felt the weight of drowning."

His gaze does not falter. "I speak like a man who has found something worth sinking for."

The words sit between you, raw and unpolished. Not a declaration. Just the truth.

You reach out—not to hold him, not yet—but to brush your fingers lightly against his.

“I don’t want you ruined,” you whisper.

“I already am,” he replies, a breath catching at the contact. “But I’d rather be ruined with you than pristine without.”

And for a moment, you let your fingers stay there. Intertwined, uncertain, but no longer retreating.

He watches you like you’re the only star in a black sky, something both distant and vital. "Let them watch," he murmurs. "I’ll choose you again tomorrow."

It is not a promise made in shadows—it is daylight, spoken beneath the gaze of the moon, under a sky that keeps no secrets.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. Because now, you believe him.

When he steps closer, this time, you don’t pull away.

Not ever again.

[jainydoe]

Delirium

summary: She’s an angel, he’s a dog. Or, the confessions of a white tenured male.

tw: smut, mentions of death, violence

In his dreams are mausoleums. Rows sky high of those he’s trounced. Boys and girls from Schoolyard’s Past. A stranger from a conference who murmured about his adornments - Volkarin is just so … tragically nouveau riche. 

Johanna. With her hair and her laugh, laid dead with a frozen smile.

He keeps them all. Collected. Strolls along the cool, clean corridors and considers their carcasses. Malleable. Under his thumb. Under his spell, should he wish. Ripped from rest and compelled to answer any inquiry that may flit across his mind. He’s built a recent wing. Young men and women and. Taashes. Tucked neatly and filed amongst the masses. 

Then there’s her. 

For her, he’s built an atrium. A private temple where she’s kept in glass. Perpetually moonlit. Preserved. Perfected. In his dreams, he lifts the top of her enclosure open, rushes a breath across icy cheeks. Hours pass and he stares. Confesses secrets. Fears. Wants and desires. He thinks of the different ways she could die and how each would draw and quarter the soul until he’s scattered so distantly, he’d be impossible to make whole. Her, hung in a frozen suspension. Mouth agape and rigor mortis set in. His face would slot so carefully under her breasts, and he’d keep her there, midair, just to ache and sob into her ribs. Or her, burned and charred, body fruitlessly attempting to stay with him. Resisting the path to ash. He’d grip the air, magic rising the fire higher and higher, screaming into its lashings in a jealous rage. That it could consider itself worthy enough to touch her. To take her. Consume her. It takes a few weeks of knowing Rook before he’s begun desecrating the other crypts in his dreamscape. Every gentleman, lady and tramp who accost her with their gaze, with their booming want, earn a place in the Hall of the Damned. He keeps them in an area far from her tomb. The moonlight doesn’t grace their nameplates. When he imagines their spirits pleading in the dark, scared and confused, he sleeps like a babe. 

The waking hours are cruel and unusual. At home, every chapter of the day is one to celebrate. The mornings, ripe with expectation and promises. Brunches. Afternoons of discussion and lounging and napping and laughing and dinners overflown with debate and passion. He misses conversation. The type that leaves you buzzed and amped. He catches it sometimes with Bellara or Neve, but Rook leaves him itchy and ready in a way he hasn’t been since his boyhood. If she were a girl in a club and he were a boy with two drinks, he’d give her that smile that always works and kiss her hand to go the extra mile. He’d tell her he knows a spot in the Memorial Gardens and play the gentlemen who won’t offer to fuck her right away because modesty will have her gagging for it. But this is the real world and he’s pushing fifty. The closest he can get to romance is pouring her wine at the dinner table and laying on the pet names like he’s got plenty to spare. He’s started pampering himself. On days where she’d rather have the company of the boy or the other boy, he spends hours rubbing creams on himself, languidly dressing, steps out onto the balcony in his room and thinks about what she’d say if she saw him in just his dress socks, hair ungelled, five o’clock shadow shading his bone structure in that way he’s been told is haunting. He hopes the look he’d give her would haunt her. Etch itself into her memory and burrow into the marrow, to the point where she couldn’t ever feel pleasure again without thinking of his. Remembering the way he’d whisper her name before coming undone at the seams.

Tonight isn’t anything special - not in the grand scheme of things - but he lets the perfumed oil drop onto the paper-thin dip of his inner wrist, taking a deep, deep pull of the leather-booze-sweat-and-musky combo that he knows will drive her mad. He watches her in marketplaces, eyes running over the twinkling bottles of imported goods too precious to touch. Curved glass, inviting and seductive, begging to lay on flesh. She has caked blood on her chest and makes sure her steps are less heavy, presence less imposing. The salespeople offer, nonetheless, smiles wide and hands outstretched, and he feels his shoulders tighten as she wipes her hands along her armor, picks at her skin, begins the fruitless endeavor of trying to dig the last bits of dirt from under her nails. 

Sorry, I’m afraid we can’t afford anything today. 

A lie, though one she might not realize she’s telling. She’s a scrounger. A scrappy, makeshift trader. He wants to ask how she can keep affording all the sleekest, strongest armor and charming home adornments, things that make their situation less of a shit-fuck and more of a happy-accident, but he knows she’ll never tell. I’ve got to keep some secrets, she’d smile, impish and nymph-like, an invitation for him to peel off all her layers and share a secret he’s kept for this whole entire time. One that’ll keep them whispering to each other all night. In the darkest hours, he lets the mind wander to flushed lips, reddened limbs, reddened teeth from the caked blood he’s licked her clean of. She’d be disgusted and he’d be drunk, covering her in every shiny thing of his he has to offer. 

Marketplaces are a dangerous setting for him. Tempting in their quick releases. I saw this and thought of you, and I saw that and thought of you, I’m practically always thinking of you, do you think of me, how often, how deeply, how about you show me, right here, right now, before either of us have a chance to think twice. 

Wearing the oil is the little thing he allows himself, a pathetic tether to the fantasy he’s let play out. The Rook he’s created from stolen glances, lopsided conversations, dinner jokes and morning tea and midnight-solo-hand-fucks where he can ramble all the things he loves about her and it isn’t unwanted, it makes her cum - that Rook would smell the fact he’s wearing their scent, and make a point of having his sheets smell only of her for the next week. She’d be furious. She’d be deliriously in love. He should make his way to dinner, already. He’s expected. Who will ask questions no one wants to answer if Emmrich is spiraling all on his own?

“So, after all that, what did you do?”

They’re trading adventures amongst themselves, this medley of gritty, young things. Stories of near-death and past lives they’ve left behind - it helps distract from the. Well. Emmrich doesn’t share much because when you work in death long enough, you learn only the other people who work in death care to talk about it. He’d hoped Lucanis would be a shoulder to gab on. He couldn’t have been more wrong. He makes a note to visit the Necropolis soon and only realizes the table has gone silent when Rook is all cheeks ablaze and girlish hair-tucking. Her eyes dance around the table, avoiding Emmrich, entirely. He probably would, too. People who don’t contribute don’t get the benefits of worthwhile attention. A lesson he teaches his students all too well. There are too many other, more important things to fail at here, though. Oil and restriction are the two indulgences he’ll allow, he’s decided. And another glass of wine. Dalish? Huh. Good for them. 

“Well,” she continues, “there’s more than one way to convince a guard you’re better off unchained.”

Harding’s guffaw shakes the table and he almost lights a necrotic pool on her chair. Taash is slapping Rook’s back and Neve is laughing into her glass. By the time he’s back in his body, aware of the room, of his senses, Rook is the only person sitting at the table. He can picture it so clearly. Her, chained. Stretched. Arms above her and belly exposed, a deceptively innocent cross of one leg over the other. A pretty please and an I promise I’ll never commit another crime ever again, I swear. He thinks about gripping the hair at the top of her neck and asking how she can be so cavalier about life, constantly toeing the edge. When she regales the dinner table with stories of old friends, people she used to know, he’d imagine meeting them, bringing a bottle of shockingly Dalish wine, something local and real and so down-to-earth. He’d turn up the charm, make them all laugh and later that night spread her legs, his chest against her back as his fingers dipped down, tracing the edge of her underwear, asking if he’s performed to her satisfaction. It’s miserable. It’s juvenile. The fact that the thing that drives him over the edge is imagining himself as a fixture in her life. Her charming companion. Her smart and funny guy that buys her chocolates and treasures and knows that when he touches her right there, she has to shut her eyes because he’s just too much. He’s taut. He’s on edge. And it’s because he knows she’s lying. 

“Heading to bed, Emmrich?”

He smiles, rising from his chair and crossing over to the fireplace. He reaches into his breast pocket, pulling out the gold cigarette case he’s kept on deck, nowadays. Smoking used to be something he considered a young man’s game, reserved for the insanity one feels only in their twenties. He’s realised that feeling is a long-forgotten acquaintance whose not only decided they’re moving in, but that they’re marrying Emmrich and pregnant with twins - Starvation and Enslavement. It’s too late to do anything about it. The nursery’s all picked out. 

He crouches down on one knee, inching closer to the fire until the flames nearly kiss him and he can puff out a bit, igniting. “Forgive me, my dear. Forgot my lighter on my desk.” He can lie, too. For a moment like this. He knows what he looks like, sharp and wolfish and the fire paints him a dashing devil instead of a foaming beast. This little move is one of the few tricks he learned from the only other girl who invoked The Acquaintance. Come on, Volkarin, don’t be such a coward. Fucking popinjay. “That’s quite a tale you told, earlier. The one with the guard and chains.”

Her eyes are on him as he rises and leans his shoulder against the mantel, controlled and poised like a former ballerina.

“I’ve lived an exciting life, I know.” 

He grins. “Remind me, what did you say you did, exactly?”

She knows he knows. Years of training students keeps one’s finger on the pulse of casual deception. She crosses her arms and lifts her chin in the particular way she does when she wants to appear leader-like. “I blew him. And while he was seeing stars I locked him back in my cell and got away.”

He twitches. His nose burns. “Charming, as always, but I’m afraid that’s not quite what you said earlier. You said,” he uses the cigarette to point at her, “that you took him on your cot and locked him onto it. I remember for two reasons. The first,” he inhaled, “I found it puckish and creative. The second,” he exhaled, letting the smoke twirl away from them both as the tip of his thumb started tracing his mustache, “I know for a fact they don’t keep cots in those jail cells. Too comfortable. A distraction from contrition.” He looks at her shoes. Her hands. Rolls his gaze up to her eyes. “Did you really have to sleep your way to freedom, or was that just a show for our more easily entertained party members?” 

She’s enraged and embarrassed, but not too much to point out the obvious. “I don’t know, Emmrich. For a guy who remembers to bring a handkerchief to battle, I highly doubt you happened to forget your lighter on your desk.” In a flash of nerve and steel, she slaps his chest, feeling into the pocket of his vest and slipping out the matching, gold zippo. “Do you think I’m someone easily entertained?”

He looks at her nose, her chin, the bottom of her eyes, counting each lash as he counts his breaths. Lets himself smile. To relax her. To challenge her. To beg her. “I’m afraid if the likes of prison guards and roguish younglings can keep your attention,” he sighs, tossing the rest of the cigarette into the flames, watching it become engulfed, “then I couldn’t possibly attempt the conquest of your favor.” He knows what he’s just admitted. Feels it in the tips of his fingers as he wills them not to dance along his thighs or itch at his neck. Be calm. Be kind. Be careful. 

“What would that look like? If you,” she’s shivering, “If you did attempt?”

“Likely frightening.” That makes her laugh. He’d do anything to make her laugh again. But he’d really do anything to shut up that laughter, afterward. Spin it into something breathy and relentless. He wonders if this is what it feels like once your mind is lost. Thinks of cellars and bugs and the stench and rot of insanity. He’d look so perfectly appropriate in creamy cotton, pulled tight, all to keep him from the frenzied need to keep touching himself, no matter how much it hurts, because the ghost of her memory is most present when he’s wanton and weak. It’s not a bad outcome. He would gladly take the isolation of the fractured mind, shattered glass reflections all of Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

Rook, 

over the pounding loneliness he’s known all too well. 

He watches as she looks at her hands, dirt chunking from under her nails, and she smiles something light and tempting. Maybe she wasn’t lying about that guard, after all. Who wouldn’t unshackle a maiden so sweet? He doesn’t care if she’s a siren. He’ll hold his breath until he chokes. “Truth be told, my dear,” here goes nothing, “to vie for your affections, I’d probably pester you with questions, act a fool and ignore any indication you might feel the same in the hopes you’d eventually leave me to perish in peace.” It breaks his heart to watch her frown. Don’t pity him. Don’t look at him. He’s not a wilting lily, he’s a dying ember who only needs the air from her lungs to lift him back to life. He was making peace with death, before her. It’s something he’ll never forgive her for. 

She lifts a hand to his jaw, delicate and rough, thumb running under his cheekbones. “Well, if I were to be in a similar position, perhaps I’d darken your doorstep every day, lose my nerve if I catch your eye too long and fashion myself an expert lover in the hopes it’d catch your attention.” 

She wants him and he’s a makeshift dragon tamer. Scrappy. Scrounging for any hint of interest. His desire is an archdemon he’s been holding back with shoelaces. “My dear, if your intentions are sincere, I fear what may become of me.” 

A girl possessed, the blacks of her eyes blow wider as the sharp of her teeth begin glinting in the firelight. He’s choking. “You should be afraid.”

Once they’ve crossed the threshold of his door, she pushes him against the slab, lips shiny and breath shallow. Her fingers are clumsy with youth and he’s bumbling out apologies for the mess, for the cold, for anything that might make her leave. He wants to bring her by the fire, warm her up, take his time with his meal. He hears a rip in his dress shirt and considers offering a proper spanking, but before he can assume the position she declares “Get on the table.” He cocks a shoulder and tilts his head. Smiles. Mind blank. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Her strength should come as no surprise and he regrets his yelp when his thighs scrape against the stone. He’s in briefs and briefly wonders if this is where she kills him. Lets him bleed out, a martyr, her sacrificial lamb. He’d keep his eyes on her as the lights go out, glad he could finally perform to her satisfaction. When she yanks the last bits of cover off of him, the cold much more biting and mocking, he nearly crosses his legs and asks if she’d like to join him for dinner sometime. 

“Lie down and spread your legs.” He laughs. The look on her face says to shut up. 

If she’s impressed by his figure she makes no show of it, stripping herself down and, like a lightning rod, gaining electric power with every item she removes. Once she’s as bitten by the cold as he is, puckered and goose-pimpled, she steps up onto the stone, between his legs, staring down at him. His mouth waters. “Tell me you want me.”

“I want you.”

“Tell me you need me.”

“Darling-”

“Say it.”

He feels himself getting harder. “I need you.” “I’m going to kill you tonight.”

“I know.”

“And when I’m finished, you’re going to thank me for it.”

“I will.” 

She wastes no time warming him up. Her mouth is boiling on the tip of him and he angles to scrape the back of her throat if just to put her on the back foot. In response, she grips his hips, nails digging into the bone as she lowers and lowers and lowers until his toes curl and throat tightens. She’s a harlot and a harpy and his heartbeat is pounding through his head. Hands are pathetic and past conquests no match for her pretty little mouth. Her drool is dripping everywhere and he’s parched. “Let me taste you.”

“No.”

She scratches at his inner thighs, the soft little points where he’s hairless and shallow and the chills running down his scalp make him feel almost feverish. Good. He hopes he infects her. He hopes the little bit of poison that’s soon to fill her cheeks will spark delirium, binding her to him, his kiss the only antidote. Her hair is so shiny and he’s seeing stars. “Kiss me.”

She pops off and grips him like it’s a weapon. “No.” The back of his head thunks in anguish. 

“Please, I’ll do anything, I’ll say anything, please, my darling, if I could just,” With a final lick he cums, shiny and sticky on his stomach, matting his hair. She leans over him, commanding and resolute. A demon. A creature of evil. A girl who will haunt him forever. 

“Take me to dinner.”

“I will.”

“Buy me something nice, too.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll fuck you when you prove you’re better off unchained.”

“Thank you.”

That night, he dreams he’s trapped in a glass casket and she sits in the pews, smiling at him. He’s never slept better.

[dreaming-marchling]

Saturday Snippet - Bucktommy Rescue Fic

Seeing Tommy now was eye-opening, that was for sure.

It was unlikely that this was Harbor’s first call of the shift and Tommy had already been on two rope rescues, the man was in good shape but those got tiring quickly, yet Tommy looked like he was being fueled with fire right now no hint of tiredness to be seen. Paired with his complete rejection of his Captain’s order it was clear that he might have broken up with Buck but it was not because he didn’t care anymore.

It was very clear that Tommy Kinard still cared a lot.

Tommy practically glared at his Captain, voice incredulous as he threw a hand behind him to gesture towards the cliff, “Are you serious? We’ve got two-”

“Three.” Preston cut in.

That nearly got him some bared teeth but Tommy corrected himself, “Three people out on that cliff injured and not responding and you want me to have some water and take a little break?”

Athena and Bobby traded looks. That was some Buck-level thinking there.

“Those three people need precision, a well thought out plan and your best, they don’t need your racing heart.” Preston said, reaching out for Tommy’s shoulder to hold it tightly.

With Halai down in Section Two – Athena watched Captain Bardhi talking quietly into his radio, she assumed to her – and Anderson flying Hen to the hospital, the last people from Harbor Station on site were Tommy, Preston and Donato, who Athena had nearly forgotten about. She came to quietly stand just behind Preston. She was keeping it together, Donato was known for being cool under pressure, but there was clear concern on her face.

Tommy’s gaze latched onto her. “Are you happy? Real fucking vindicated? I’m a fucking coward and I regret it and he might be dead so I can never…” He stopped talking, voice going the type of wobbly that men never wanted anyone to hear.

The flash of devastation on his face made Athena want to look away out of respect. This wasn't the man Buck had so excitedly introduced her to months ago.

She didn’t though. None of them did expect Bardhi. At Athena’s side she noticed Chimney lift his hand like he was going to go in for a hug before it just dropped.

They could all clearly see that Tommy wasn’t going to accept a hug.

[awkward-walking-potato]

Tangled Hearts, Torn Leather

I hope you enjoy it @forgetmenot-bluepurple

The Xavier Institute was no stranger to strange pairs. In a mansion full of mutants, where fire met ice and metal bent to will, unusual combinations were a given. But there was one pairing that had everyone scratching their heads, students and teachers alike.

On one side of the equation was Kurt Wagner. The resident ball of sunshine, Kurt was all smiles, faith, and friendliness, with an unwavering optimism that seemed to glow as brightly as his golden eyes. He made friends easily, never once losing his warmth despite the harshness of the world.

On the other side, there was you. The leather-clad enigma with heavy boots that thudded ominously in the hallways, a perpetual scowl beneath your dark, tousled hair. You had an aura that screamed "keep your distance"—a tough exterior built from years of dealing with your own battles. Piercings glinted on your face, a spike-studded collar hugged your neck, and tattoos curled up your arms like snakes. If Kurt was a beam of sunlight, you were the thundercloud that blocked it out.

It wasn’t that you went out of your way to scare people; it was just how you carried yourself. You’d had to be tough for so long that it became second nature. But your intimidating exterior kept most people at bay. Students parted for you in the halls, teachers gave you wary glances, and even some of the X-Men looked at you with a mix of respect and caution.

So when people saw you and Kurt together, it was like watching fire try to befriend water. But it worked. Somehow, it worked.

It had started as a slow friendship—passing comments here and there, small gestures that eventually grew into something more. Kurt had been one of the few who hadn’t flinched when you walked into a room, who hadn’t made assumptions based on your appearance. He treated you the same as everyone else, maybe even kinder. And that had intrigued you, then warmed you, in a way you hadn’t expected.

Now, as you sat on the edge of one of the stone walls overlooking the mansion’s sprawling grounds, you found yourself lost in thought, the cool breeze playing with the edges of your jacket. Kurt was perched beside you, balancing easily despite the height, his tail flicking back and forth as he talked animatedly about a book he’d just finished.

You nodded along, your gaze fixed on the horizon, but a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of your lips. His excitement was infectious, even if you didn’t always share his enthusiasm for the same things.

People would be surprised to know how comfortable this felt—being here with him. But then, people didn’t know what went on behind closed doors. They didn’t see the way Kurt could get you to laugh, a real, deep laugh that made your sides hurt. They didn’t see the late-night conversations where you’d let your guard down, revealing parts of yourself you’d long hidden away. And they certainly didn’t see the way he’d reach out, unafraid, to touch your hand, your shoulder, or your cheek, soft gestures that spoke of a bond deeper than any words could.

“They’re looking at us again,” Kurt said suddenly, his golden eyes shifting toward the mansion. He had that knowing smile on his face, the one that told you he was amused by all the attention the two of you got.

“Let ‘em look,” you replied with a shrug, your voice low and rough around the edges, but there was no bite to it.

“Does it bother you?” he asked, his tone gentle as always.

“Nah,” you said, though you didn’t need to explain. He knew you didn’t care what others thought. But you cared what he thought, even if you didn’t say it outright.

Kurt shifted closer to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. “I’m glad,” he said, softer now, as if it were just the two of you in the world. “I’m glad you’re here. With me.”

That brought the smile back to your lips, fuller this time. “Me too, blue,” you murmured, the nickname rolling off your tongue easily. “You’re not so bad to hang out with.”

Kurt chuckled, a sound that always warmed you, even on the coldest days. “I’m honored,” he teased lightly, but there was something earnest in his voice.

For a while, the two of you just sat there in comfortable silence, watching the sun dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the grounds. The students were probably still whispering about you, wondering how the punker and the sweet German mutant had found themselves in each other’s company. But you didn’t care. The truth was, no one else had to understand what was between you two. It was something private, something that belonged only to the two of you.

“Hey, Kurt,” you said after a while, your tone more serious.

“Ja?” He turned to you, giving you his full attention.

“Thanks,” you said simply, your voice softer than usual. “For, y’know… everything.”

Kurt’s smile softened, his golden eyes warm with understanding. “Anytime, mein freund,” he replied. Then, after a pause, he added, “You’re important to me.”

The words were simple, but they carried weight. And you knew, in your own way, that they were true for you too.

You reached out, your hand finding his and giving it a light squeeze before pulling away, not one for too much overt sentiment. But Kurt knew. He always knew.

Together, the two of you stayed there until the sun disappeared, a dark cloud and a golden light intertwined, stronger together than apart. And as the first stars began to twinkle in the night sky, you knew that this—whatever it was—was real. It didn’t matter what others thought. It only mattered that, somehow, in the tangled mess of life, you and Kurt had found each other.

[safsunderc]

Queer (2024)

I’ve tried about a hundred times to write this in a delicate and beautiful way, but it's hard to articulate the feelings Luca Guadagnino’s Queer gave me.

I want to start off by acknowledging all the movie aspects of it. The performances, Daniel Craig first and foremost of course, I think allows the film to be as great as it is, he is the entire soul of it, and his performance as Lee is one of the most striking I’ve watched. In a similar essence to other performances I love, Drew Starkey is wonderful in this limited role; Eugene says little, but has lots on his mind, Starkey makes this so evident and, has anyone ever looked so beautiful in a role as he does playing Eugene? The costuming, hair and make-up certainly play a part, but he is simply so chic, so beautiful, so encapsulating. There’s no wonder Lee is so wrapped up in Eugene with him looking and behaving as Starkey does. 

I know I say this about every film I watch, but it was stunning, and more than that, Queer is visually striking. The bars, hotels, scenery, particularly when travelling, that just looked so otherworldly, as Luca’s films usually do (Bones and All particularly is an incredibly stunning film). Some parts with models for sets felt very reminiscent of a claymation; there’s been a lot of comparisons drawn between Space Odyssey and Queer, but Chicken Run seems more adept personally, because it looked and felt so cartoonish in some parts, so unlike the realm of the real world, as though Mexico City and Lee’s life as a queer man were not really his life. There is perhaps always a distance between what you think of yourself and the reality you are living. I always love the texture of Guadagnino films, the smell and taste of them more than look and sound, like you are within the film, more than observing. How dry the place felt, how hot it was, the cool night air, you can feel it all on your skin, close your eyes and be there in a moment. It's not a feature unique to Queer, but of Guadagnino movies generally (particularly Call Me By Your Name, which is a feast for the senses entirely).

Nowadays ‘queer’ is simply a name for a minority group who, while may face hardships, are not condemned to sad, fragile lives as they might have once been. But in this film, by Lee’s definition, ‘queer’ is by no means a good thing. Interactions with other queer men are always bad, the jewelled centipede wrapped around a young man’s neck proves it, hung like a noose - no matter how beautiful the necklace is, however, it is still a parasite. The thought crosses Lee’s mind (or bleats through like a blazing fire) that he might want payment because on what planet would someone want him and not expect a cash payment? The thoughts of self-deprecation, self-hatred and shame are a lifestyle, not weekend habit. Later scenes with Eugene reinforce this, he tries to make a move too soon after the last time, comments he is breaking the contract they’ve made up; why would anyone want him unless there were conditions? 

Another user put it as “Queer beyond sexuality, Queer as a state of mind. A state of being,” and I’ve yet to read something so accurate. Lee’s desire for Eugene is propelled by his immense loneliness, which exists due to his inability to connect, because of his shame, of the unreality of his reality. Not being able to coincide this life with the one you thought up for yourself; “I’m not queer, I’m disembodied.” Denying yourself so easy and so quick you won’t even let yourself think it, question it. “I know.” The strings of comfort you feed yourself, even if you know you enjoy it, can’t help being drawn to everything of it, but you do look away, god, how many people look away from the open door. 

The surrealist gore and unimaginable scenarios are some of the best of the film, my favourite being the morphing of bodies, the becoming of one from two. I have nothing to say really except that scene was beautiful and I have never felt so singular. I try to keep my reviews non-personal because, frankly, I don’t think it aids your point to have a whole segment about your personal experiences in there. For this film, however, it is impossible for me to not speak on the things that touched me so profoundly. 

I’m only eighteen, but I’ve always felt isolated from everyone I’ve ever met. Friendships full of paranoia, people I never really know or even like, family who never seem able to enter into my feelings of disconnect, distant parents, and never a single romantic prospect because I’m always too withdrawn, too caught up in myself that I hardly find space for others. When I do allow myself to think of others, I think so much, and I think and I imagine, I play it over and over in my head like a winding roll of film and I sit beside these people, pretend I have not imagined a thousand things, a hundred lives with them, I make no move toward them; I take no step, I speak no words, and I breathe no breath. I understand nothing except the imagined, except that which does not exist. 

For the first part of the film, Lee is the same, not even motioning toward Eugene, merely imagined touches and caresses, because he cannot face his desire for fear of scorn. He is intimate with Eugene, but the second part finds Lee still merely reaching out, hand desperately outstretched and alone, hand splayed out against the canvas of beautiful skin, ribs all in a cluster protecting the heart from damage. He wants to claw it out and take it for himself. Rather, in the third act, they cough their hearts up; everything comes out with that, and without the distance of singular hearts, the pair are merely bodies, two that can become one. There is no longer any need to reach out when the one you love lives within your skin. Lee finally has what he wants, to communicate without speaking, through touching, the effortless language of lovers, for he’s never had a lover and cannot understand how it works. For Eugene, he still cannot come to terms with his sexuality. He might sometimes enjoy it, but he’s not queer and that’s it, he is slipping from Lee once again. When they leave that jungle, everything is lost. Too afraid, too slow to catch; too much done and not enough said. They are singular once again. 

What intrigued me most though is just how beautiful the film was. Visually, yes, but emotionally, physically, in every realm; how Luca Guadagnino manages to make such immense feelings of deprivation, loneliness, desire beautiful is beyond me. Daniel Craig does a wonder of communicating the beauty of lifetime loneliness, of penetrating desire. Even the sex scenes are beautiful. This film is palpable, you can taste the sweat in your mouth, feel the mud on your skin; above all, the loneliness and desire takes hold of you, and you leave starstruck and hopelessly determined to carve out a better life for yourself. But the next morning you wake and you’re still alone. When you close your eyes you see the merging bodies of Lee and Eugene and that singular feeling is still there, and you feel so completely alone in the world.