#silver fuller

[lookbluesoup]

So Fourchenault was not super on board with Alisaie and the WoLs falling in love

He expected her to meet a nice rich Sharlayan Elezen scholar from a Good Family in their neighborhood

Not two hooligan Miqo'te from EORZEA living in a polycule

Doesn't matter they saved the world this is Highly Inappropriate one of them keeps hissing at him

He wants her to be happy

She's made up her mind

Which brings us to The Dinner

Most of the polycule and Leveilleurs are expected to attend so he can get to know them

So now there's Haurchefant, Alphinaud, Fourchenault, Ameliance, Alisaie, G’raha, Aymeric, Estinien, Nahte'to, A'mahl, Lyrha, and X'rhun Tia sitting around the table in roughly that order

Why are X'rhun and Lyrha there?

Lyrha was A'mahl's "+1." She's not in The Polycule but she's in his polycule so he figured it counted

X'rhun is Lyrha's "+1." X'rhun was not informed properly the nature of this dinner and is trying very hard to make the best of it.

Everyone else finds out about 10minutes before dinner that they're coming its a whole thing

Awkward conversation ensues. Nahte and Alphinaud and Aymeric are doing their best to keep things civil

Lyrha is doing her best to make Fourchenault's eye twitch because she's decided he needs to lighten up and he's too easy to tease

Food comes out. There's mushrooms "hidden" in the soup.

Lyrha hates mushrooms

Not realizing it's a mushroom she puts one in her mouth and takes a bite and

GAGS loudly the way cats coughing up hairballs do

Reaches into her mouth and pulls the half-chewed mushroom out

Dangles it

and drops it on the plate in front of everyone, nose wrinkled

Fourchenault stops talking to watch

Alphinaud is about to have an aneurysm

A'mahl scolds her for wasting good food and grabs her plate to eat the mushrooms himself

Including the half chewed one

Everyone at the table takes psychic damage

Lyrha makes a Remark to which he replies, and I quote,

"wHAT? my mouth has been on much worse parts of you, a little spit wont kill me"

A'mahl realizes immediately that was probably not a good thing to say at This Dinner in front of Papa Fourchenault

X'rhun Tia is about to have an aneurysm

Fourchenault is making a face like if Elrond was trying to strangle you with his mind

Alisaie launches herself across the table at A'mahl who's now at the top of her enmity list for ruining Meet-the-father-in-law-in-a-positive-not-apocalyptic-setting-so-he'll-accept-you-dinner

Anyway no Fourchenault does not like his two son-in-laws very much and Lyrha has never been re-invited to a formal dinner

[infinityvalkariel]

✧・°・。・°・。・ sailing star 2. - 2025.01.12

[blondebnuuy]

They're actively talking about the WoL as they're dancing.

[imgonnagetkilledbynutstink]

While Tim is in the army he better get some dick that isn't Hawk's cause HE DESERVES IT

[vixlenxe]

What are they doing today to prepare? Currently, it is scouting their location of choice. Naturally the shrine was eager to have the Warrior of Light's marriage at their premises, so closely following after the spring festival as well to assure their important spring duties have passed, to allow them to give near-all their attention to this event of the year. As such, the bride & groom were invite to look upon the location with their own eyes, to assure that this is indeed the place they wish to hold their nuptials.

Ivy was familiar with the architecture of the temples, having seen so many in the east, but for Haurchefant, this was the first he was seeing of the style. Bright blue eyes looked around at everything with a deep fascination & interest, it was hard to contain himself to walk slowly at the leading shine maiden guiding them. He wanted to race ahead. Ivy's arm around his kept from peeling off ahead.

"The windows here can be opened." The small shrine maiden made a sweeping gesture around the temple's hall, indicating every window was openable, if such was the couple's preference. "Of course, we will decorate the temple in the styles of your choosing. And we offer wedding rites from outside Makoto culture as well." An important thing to bring up, as it is not unknown that Ivy was a woman from the Coerthas region; thus not a native to the island & it's customs, & she could guess the handsome elezen that was the warrior's soon-to-be-husband was from the same location. "If the two of you prefer a Ishgardian nuptial rite, we are more then willing to equip ourselves to do such."

There's smiles from the pair, with nods & joint words of how lovely that would be. For all their misgivings for their homeland's faith, they still hold true to the belief of The Twelve & of The Fury blessing & protecting their union.

"We also expect a number of people wishing to be present for our union. What is the capacity number for the main hall?"

"Oh." The small maiden pressed her hands together, as if to clap, but not a sound was made from the action. "Please. Don't you worry, this is Makoto's main temple for a reason. We can have hundreds & hundreds of people in the hall, simply invite those most important to you into the temple, the rest will have to wait in the garden outside."

Both Ivy & Haurchefant shared a look. While they admired the head shrine maiden's confidence in the temple's ability to hold as many bodies as possible, she doesn't seem to understand just how many people from around the star will try to be here. It will be tourism Makoto has never ever seen before. Yet, her advice is sound. Only those of most importance to the couple should be present within the temple while they take their vows.

"Now then, shall we take a look at the forest grounds? I know that is what you are dying to see the most." It always is after all, the sakura forests are one of the true treasures of the island.

"Yes please." The two nod over excitedly, Ivy's grip on Haurche's arm tightening just slightly so. The smile the pops to the shrine maiden's face, hands fold in front of her as she takes a steady pace to lead them outside, down the hill to the flats of the forest.

Pink flushes throughout everything. The trees felt more like floating flowers as the branches they cling to are drowned out by their pastel petals. The greens of the grass mixed fluorescently with fallen petals, soon to be promised with more. The blues of the sky offered the prefect background to the dancing flowers that broke free from their branches.

The shrine maiden was speaking about... something, possibly about how far the grounds went, but neither of the couple was paying attention. Ocean & blue eyes drat around, felling deeply in love with the visual before them, & one creating the prefect vision in his head.

This setting at night, the trees filled with lanterns & fairy-lights, tables & chairs covered with fallen sakura petals & ribbons. A small clearing in the tree off from the side of the main path took his eyes as well, it spoke of a prefect spot to dance with his beloved, arm-in-arm, surround by beauty & friends who loved them.

"... Haurche...?"

The sound of his bride stirred him from his day dream, making his head turn to her, & a soft smile broke across his face.

"I'm apologizes, lumière étoiles, I was thinking & I'm afraid I got lost in my vision."

"A vision, huh?" A knowing smile breaks on Ivy's face. Haurchefant had a fantastical imagination, but she would know, he only thinks so longingly & quickly like this with things that take his interest.

"My love..." The groom takes his bride's hand into his own, a certain whimsical glow about him. "This forest... I think it is prefect. I know already what I think our reception will look like &... I long so for this vision."

To this, Ivy raises his knuckles to her lips, kissing the rough surface softly. "If this is your wish, then I'm happy to marry you here, my silver feather." It's of course, more then just because this place is what Haurchefant wants, it's what she wants too. It's hard to explain, just why the charry blossom trees call to her, it's from something deep in her soul, perhaps it is a fragment of Azem. But to marry the love of her life, under the trees that are a piece of her ancient self's creation, that is her wish.

"You are sure?"

"Of course! I love this place too, I knew I would the moment I saw the picture!"

She says nothing, allowing the Warrior of Light & her beloved have the moment, but the shrine maiden does hear this. She smiling widely. If the temple does not sell them, the sakura forest always does.

[lookbluesoup]

HAHAHA WELL CANT HAVE THEM ALL NAHTE, I guess lmaoooo

I know they're soulmates and this isn't totally unexpected but WOW talk about compatibility lmfaooo

I filled out @lookbluesoup 's card for Nahte yesterday, and wanted to make one for A'mahl too. anyone who wants to see if they can get a bingo with him is welcome to fill it out! doesn't have to be ffxiv ocs, it's open to any

blank template here if you want to make one for your ocs too

[mooncat-arts]

Haurchefant Greystone of the Silver Fuller from FFXIV Heavensward 

[mirasmirages]

Fall In Line - Eight - Team

First Previous

Contains: Mind control, whipping

Henry woke up in his bed as if nothing had happened. The medical equipment made their usual whirring and beeping noises. The doctors took their usual samples. Henry was a bit sore, but that was all.

He wasn't sure if he should ask someone what happened last night. How he got back. They probably wouldn't answer him anyway. They never did.

It felt like a dream.

He could still hear the fire alarm ringing in his ears, feel the heat of the explosion on his skin.

Someone threw his costume on the bed. Skin tight and purple, with yellow patches of reinforcement. "Mr. Duncan wants to see you in his office."

Henry had been in Mr. Duncan's office a few times before. It was where he had been given his mission last night. A security guard led him through the maze of hallways and up several flights of stairs until they were outside the white doors.

Whatever Henry had been expecting when he entered that door, it was not this.

Five costumed heroes stood in a half circle in front of Mr. Duncan's desk. The red and blue heroes from yesterday. A man in blue and dark grey, a woman dressed almost entirely in black. His stomach lurched. A woman in a silver costume with blue details, her long black hair in a ponytail.

"Finally," Mr. Duncan said. "You're here. Come."

The heroes all watched him as Henry went to stand with them in the half circle.

"We're here to debrief your mission last night," Mr. Duncan said. "But first, let me introduce you to your team."

He started with the hero closest to the desk on Henry's right.

"Red Rapid, team leader and martial arts expert, with superhuman reflexes." The man in a red costume

"Silent Spark, with electric powers." The woman in blue and white.

"Wild Rage, our shapeshifter." A woman dressed almost entirely in black, with some dark green shimmering patches.

"Silver Sharp," the first hero on Henry's left. A young woman with long, dark hair in a ponytail. Her costume was blue and pale silver, similar to Silent Spark. "Can use her force field powers to attack."

And at the end on Henry's left in a grey and blue costume, "Phantom Storm," who could fly.

Henry didn't know what to make of all this. A team of heroes? Why had he never heard anything about this before? 

(Probably because no one told him anything.)

"Now," Mr. Duncan said. "Red Rapid. Walk us through what happened last night."

"Yes, sir. Henry arrived at the scene at 0:23am. The doors were unlocked, so he had no issues getting in. A few minutes later, the fire alarm went off. Henry stayed on the first floor, punching through walls to weaken the structure before placing the explosives. There were civilians in the building, and he let them leave unharmed before coming outside to blow up the building. When Silent Spark and I arrived, he took a defensive approach, easily letting himself be pushed into a corner. Thanks to the fire alarm, the fire department arrived early and we had to get out of there fast, so Silent Spark knocked him out with no problem. As far as I know, no one saw us leave."

Mr. Duncan nodded, not looking too pleased. "Silent Spark. Your thoughts?"

"I would be interested to know how the fire alarm went off. If that hadn't happened we would have had plenty of time to finish before the fire department showed up. I can't think of any reason that happened other than if Henry himself setting it off."

Mr. Duncan turned to Henry. "Henry?"

"I did. There were people in there. I didn't want them to get hurt in the explosion."

To his left, Silver Spark scoffed.

"Did I tell you to let people out of the building?" Mr. Duncan asked.

"No, but-"

"No. And you did it anyway."

"You didn't tell me not to! And there were kids there! If they hadn't gotten out they could've been killed!"

"Henry, be quiet. Red Rapid, will you take care of this?"

"Of course, sir."

The heroes all spread out to stand along the walls of he room. Only Henry and Red Rapid stayed.

"Henry," Mr. Duncan said. "Kneel."

His knees hit the floor before he could even think about it.

Red Rapid walked behind him. "Keep your hands on the floor," he said and started undoing Henry's costume, leaving it hanging off him with his back bare.

Henry put his hands on the floor in front of his knees. They were shaking. The air was cold on his back.

"How many?" Red Rapid's voice was familiar behind him. Henry didn't want to think about it.

Mr. Duncan hummed. "Ten for the pathetic display of fighting. Fifteen for pulling the fire alarm. Fifteen for letting people out."

Forty. There was silence. Henry looked at his hands.

Behind him came a swooshing noise, and the first lash landed across his upper back. Henry's scream stuck in his throat. Mr. Duncan had told him to be quiet.

Red Rapid waited for Henry to compose himself between each lash.

No one came to Henry's defense.

Henry struggled to hold hold himself up. He lasted for twenty five lashes before his elbows gave out and he collapsed forward, his head against the soft, beige carpet on the floor.

"Henry," Mr. Duncan said. "Look at me."

Henry looked at him. He could barely see Mr. Duncan over the edge of the desk.

"Get back in position. Hands on the floor. Arms straight."

Henry did. His back was screaming with every movement.

"You will stay in this exact position until we are done." Mr. Duncan looked over Henry's shoulder. "Continue."

The last fifteen lashes came faster. There was no longer enough time for Henry to remember how to breathe between each one.

Mr. Duncan sat behind his desk and looked Henry in the eyes the whole time. There was no sympathy on his face.

Henry wasn't counting. He barely noticed when it stopped, until Mr. Duncan told him they were done and he collapsed in a heap like someone had cut his strings. His back was wet with sweat or blood. Both.

Someone knelt next to him. Henry could see the dark grey and blue of his costume.

"Let's get you back to bed," Jordan said.

[cosmicalduck]

One day, he will come Riding out of the dawn And you'll awaken to love's first kiss

Happy birthday Silver!!!! :･ﾟ✧:

[serandipity]

☄ Has someone ever admitted to being inspired by you? ⚌ Who inspires you?

- No, but I will say it’s so bizarre to see old headcanons I wrote back in the day be lifted and used by other roleplayers because I was ‘fandom popular’. I truly don’t know how I feel about it cause like that work is out of my hands now. It simply exists. There’s truly no work that’s original but imho I still feel kinda weird about it. Oh weellllll.

- who inspires me? Why @agloryofuniicorns of course. Benji is a very creative writer! I write my best with her!

[vixlenxe]

He's thinking heavily about his wife.

... Soon-to-be-wife?

... Nah, he'll stick with wife. There's souls have been wed long before their minds realized they longed for it.

[boyfiechan]

[21 Questions]

...or the one where your hot one-night stand gets trapped inside with you during a storm.

Notes: Romantic comedy brainrot meets “what if your one-night stand accidentally had boyfriend energy” vibes but dirty, I guess? Pretty much porn that pretends to have a plot. Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, penetrative sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, face riding, dry humping, dirty talk, question-based escalation, creampie. [8.1k words]

The rain is already loud when you wake up, but it’s the thunder that makes you sit up too fast—your body protesting with a dull ache and a rush of confusion and for a moment, you forget where you are, blinking against the soft light that filters through pale curtains stirred by wind. Then you remember the man lying next to you. The one with the tousled brown hair and the silver chain still clinging to his throat, half-buried beneath the white sheet he’d stolen most of in the night. Chris. His name floats up through the haze of sleep and lingering heat and half-faded memory, the syllables settling heavy in your chest and you’d meant for last night to be a clean break, something fleeting, something fun—but now it’s morning and the world outside is a mess of lightning and rising water and all exits, apparently, are blocked.

You shift carefully, pulling the sheet with you like it might shield you from the awkwardness of waking up next to someone you barely know, but Chris doesn’t look awkward at all. He looks like he belongs there, face still soft with sleep, lips parted just slightly like he’s caught in a dream he doesn’t want to leave, his hair is a disaster and his arm is slung over your pillow like he’d meant to hold you and missed. And maybe you’re still drunk on the way he’d touched you last night—like he already knew how you wanted to be handled, like he’d been reading your mind with every slow drag of his mouth over your skin, but now the tension is different, the air is heavy with the storm and something else you can’t quite name. Something not-so-temporary.

Chris groans softly when the thunder cracks again, brow creasing as he stretches, and you get a front row seat to the slow reveal of muscle and skin and that faint trail of ink on his ribs. He blinks up at you, eyes half-lidded and pretty brown in the gray light. What time is it? he asks, rough and warm and entirely too familiar for someone you just met. You shrug, reaching for your phone with fingers that are still trembling a little, not from fear, just the residual adrenaline of being alone in a house with a man who kissed you like he could rewrite your whole damn story if you let him. Does it matter? you murmur, holding up the screen. Storm’s not letting up. Roads are flooded. There’s a beat of silence, then Chris hums like it’s not the worst news he’s ever heard. Guess I’m staying for breakfast.

And it should be awkward, it should be that fumbling, clothes-on-backwards, this was fun kind of goodbye you’d practiced in your head but instead, Chris rolls out of bed like it’s his own room, scratching the back of his neck and scanning the floor for his shirt with a sleepy smirk. You got anything edible? Or are we on a strictly coffee-and-regret diet this morning? he asks, and you laugh, the sound surprising even you. There’s eggs. Maybe toast if the bread survived the humidity. You’re already pulling on one of your old t-shirts—something oversized and faded and absolutely not cute, but Chris gives you this once-over that makes you feel like you’re in silk as he follows you into the kitchen barefoot, steps quiet, and there’s still a weight to him that makes the room feel fuller somehow, like his presence bends the space around him just a little.

You move around each other clumsily at first, two strangers pretending you haven’t already seen each other naked, but it settles quickly into something easy, comfortable. You hand him a pan without thinking, and he flips it in one hand like he’s done this a hundred times. So what do you do, he asks, cracking eggs like a professional, when you’re not picking up mysterious men at bars and rescuing them from natural disasters? You shoot him a look over your shoulder, but your smile betrays you. I’m an illustrator, you admit. Freelance. Mostly book covers and concept stuff. He raises a brow, looking impressed. That explains the art on your walls. I thought you were just trying to seem deep. You bump your hip into his and he laughs—really laughs, head thrown back for a second, the sound warm enough to cut through the storm still howling outside.

Breakfast takes longer than it should, between the burnt toast and the failed attempt at pancakes and the way Chris keeps trying to juggle eggs when he thinks you’re not looking, the kitchen becomes a little world of its own—bright with laughter and low teasing and the kind of unspoken intimacy that feels like it’s been there longer than a single night. He sits at the table while you pour the coffee, fingers drumming on the wood like he can’t quite sit still. You know, he says, eyeing you over the rim of his mug, I was supposed to fly out today. Back to Seoul. Meetings, rehearsals. All that glamorous idol life crap. You glance out the window, as rain streaks down the glass in frantic patterns, wind battering the trees sideways. Storm says no, you offer, and he grins, like that’s exactly what he wanted to hear.

You end up on the couch, legs tangled under a shared blanket, the empty plates abandoned somewhere behind you. The power flickers once, twice, and then holds and at some point, Chris had ducked into the other room to make a quiet call—checking on someone, just to make sure they were safe in the storm. It shouldn’t have surprised you, but it still made something in your chest ache a little and now, as he shifts beside you, arm grazing yours, it’s quieter—the kind of quiet that feels like waiting, like choosing. He doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in, but when he looks at you it’s soft and curious and a little cautious, like he’s wondering what this could be if it wasn’t just a one-night stand and a thunderstorm, and you don’t know either. But you like the way he watches the lightning like it’s a show, the way he turns toward you with that slow smile that’s more promise than performance. You don’t know if the roads will be clear tomorrow, yu don’t know if this will last past the rain but for now, there’s warmth, and coffee, and a very content Chris beside you like he’s meant to stay.

He eats like someone who hasn’t had a real meal in days, half-sleepy and quietly appreciative, the kind of silence that says more than any compliment could. Every so often he hums, low and pleased, like even the mediocre toast is some kind of hidden delicacy. I think... he mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, this might be the best breakfast I’ve had all year. You glance at him, one brow raised. That’s a low bar. He shrugs, grinning around his coffee mug. Yeah, well, my standards are shot. I live off protein bars and takeout most days. He says it casually, like it’s a joke, but something in his eyes dims around the edges and you file that away somewhere quiet in your chest.

Then he sniffs at the mug and makes a face, setting it down with a quiet sigh. Full disclosure? I don’t even like coffee. You blink at him, mid-bite. Then why drink it? He shrugs, sheepish and a little guilty, like a kid caught faking his homework. Felt like the kind of morning where I should be holding something warm. Thought maybe it’d make me look normal. He hesitates, then adds, Tea’s not any better, by the way. Tastes like regret. You laugh and offer, There’s juice in the fridge, but he just shoots you a slow smile and leans back in his chair, eyes never leaving yours. Think I’ve had enough sweet stuff for one morning, and the line hangs there between you, light but deliberate, and when you arch a brow, he doesn’t take it back, just lifts his mug again like he didn’t say anything at all, even though you’re both still smiling into the silence.

The wind picks up again, another sharp gust rattling the windows, and the lights flicker like they’re considering betraying you. You look over your shoulder, half-expecting a blackout, but they steady as Chris catches your gaze, leaning forward on his elbows, bare forearms braced against the table. Scared? he teases, but it’s soft, more curious than mocking. Of the storm? you ask, tipping your head. Not really. I like it. Makes everything feel... slower. Like the world’s taking a breath. Chris watches you for a long moment, something thoughtful in the way his eyes trace over your face like he’s committing it to memory. That’s a nice way to put it, he murmurs. I think I forget how to slow down.

You end up back on the couch with two mugs of reheated coffee and a blanket that still smells faintly like clean laundry and the detergent your mom insists on mailing you in bulk as he lets you pick the movie, something old and a little ridiculous, more comfort than content, and by the time the opening credits roll, he’s already slid a little closer, his thigh pressed lightly against yours beneath the blanket. I haven’t watched a movie on an actual home couch in months, he admits, almost sheepish. Hotel beds don’t count. Too sterile, always feels like I’m trespassing. You look at him, really look, and for all the easy smiles and casual confidence, there’s something in the way he curls slightly inward, like he’s still waiting to be asked to leave.

So… what’s it like? you ask, tilting your head against the back cushion. Being you. Idol life. Cameras. Fans. Endless protein bars. He laughs, but it’s quieter now. It’s loud, he says after a pause. Even when it’s quiet. There’s always something. A performance, a deadline, someone waiting for you to screw up so they can clip it and post it out of context. His voice is calm, but you feel the weight of it, heavy and real between you. Don’t get me wrong. I love it. Music saved me, still does. But sometimes it feels like I forget who I am when the lights go off.

You nudge his knee with yours. And who are you right now? He glances at you, then away, like he’s not used to being seen like this—barefoot on someone else’s couch, coffee he doesn't even pretent to drink anymore in hand, weathered by rain and time and the strange intimacy of survival. Right now? he echoes, a little surprised. I’m… just Chris. I think. His mouth twitches, like he’s almost amused by the sound of his own name out loud in that context. Not Bang Chan, not leader, not hyung. Just… a guy who ate eggs in someone’s kitchen. You nod like that’s enough. Like it means more than it should. Well, you say, lifting your mug in a mock toast, cheers to Just Chris.

He bumps his mug against yours, eyes warm with something that looks a lot like gratitude as the movie plays on in the background, half-forgotten, and you both settle into the kind of silence that isn’t awkward—it’s tentative, sure, but there’s an unspoken agreement not to break the spell just yet. His arm ends up behind you on the backrest, not quite touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him, the quiet hum of presence that anchors you in place and when your shoulders brush, neither of you pulls away.

You know, he says eventually, eyes still on the screen, I didn’t expect to like you this much. You blink, caught off guard by the blunt honesty. I mean, he adds quickly, the tips of his ears slighly pink, not that I thought I wouldn’t like you. But last night… it wasn’t supposed to turn into this. He gestures vaguely, encompassing the coffee, the couch, the storm still raging outside like a protective barrier between this moment and the rest of the world. It was just supposed to be one night. A good distraction. You swallow, unsure whether to laugh or let the weight of it settle. Yeah, you say. Me too.

But the way he’s looking at you now, like you’re not just a chapter break but maybe a plot twist—it makes something shift in your chest. Something dangerous and soft and utterly unplanned. So what happens, you ask quietly, if the storm doesn’t let up? He smirks, eyes flicking toward the window before turning back to you. Guess we'll keep distracting each other, he says, and his hand finally brushes yours beneath the blanket, fingers curling slightly like a question, and you don’t hesitate when you answer. You let him.

The movie drifts on in the background—some half-forgotten rom-com playing at half volume, all overly dramatic meet-cutes and orchestral swells that feel far too on-the-nose given the weight in the air, and the storm hasn’t eased. If anything, the wind howls louder now, rattling through the eaves of the house like it’s trying to crawl inside, but you’re warm, not just because of the blanket or the coffee or the body beside you—but because something is building. Slowly, unspoken, the kind of tension that hums under the skin like an electrical current, soft but insistent, curling into the spaces between breath and glance and word.

Chris shifts beside you, his arm still draped casually along the back of the couch, but you can feel the subtle change in his posture, how he’s turned slightly more toward you, how his knee now presses firmly into yours instead of just brushing. His fingers are close enough to yours that you can feel the heat from them, the faint tremble of restraint in the way he hasn’t closed that last inch of distance as you risk a glance, and he’s already watching you—not smiling, not teasing, just looking, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing again. Like he’s debating something he already knows the answer to.

You’re kind of hard to read, you know that? you murmur, letting your voice drop just a little, the edge of a smile curling at your lips. His brow lifts, intrigued. Yeah? Most people say I’m too easy to read. His voice is quieter now too, dipping into something husky, a little rough. Too open. You tilt your head, feigning thought. No… you give people just enough to make them think they’ve got you figured out. You feel bold now, watching his expression shift—curious, then interested, then something more primal flickering just under the surface. But there’s always something you’re holding back.

He leans in a fraction, close enough that you can feel his breath ghost across your cheek, and when he speaks again it’s low and deliberate. What do you think I’m holding back? And you want to be coy, want to toss back some flirty quip and pretend like your heart isn’t beating faster with every syllable that falls from his mouth—but the air between you is too heavy now, charged with something that feels inevitable as you shift to face him more fully, knees drawn up beneath the blanket, and he mirrors you, his hand finally brushing yours beneath the fabric—just a soft drag of knuckles, but it’s enough to send a little shock up your spine.

I think you want to touch me again, you whisper, the words slipping out before you can think better of them. But you’re trying to be good. Chris huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no humor in it—just tension, tightly wound and dangerously close to snapping. Yeah, he says, voice rougher now, throat working as he swallows. I’ve been trying real hard not to. And that admission, that little crack in his carefully controlled exterior, does something to you. You shift closer, just slightly, enough that your knees press between his, enough that the blanket slips a little off your shoulder and his eyes follow the movement like he’s been starving.

But you’re not that good, are you? you tease, soft and breathy, like you’re testing the line just to see if he’ll cross it. And then his hand is on your thigh beneath the blanket—slow and deliberate, fingers curling against bare skin where your oversized t-shirt rides up, he doesn’t rush, just drags his palm upward with agonizing patience, his eyes never leaving yours. Not even close, he says, and it’s more confession than warning. You shift into his touch, lips parting on a quiet breath, and the way he looks at you now it’s like the storm has moved inside the room, all pressure and heat and the dangerous thrill of surrender.

Still, he waits. That last sliver of distance remains, his lips close but not touching, his fingers warm but not daring yet, you can see it in his eyes—the way he’s giving you the choice, the way he’s already halfway gone if you want to meet him there and something about that restraint, that aching pause, makes your skin burn. Come here, you whisper, and that’s all it takes.

He kisses you like he’s been holding it back all morning, all night, maybe longer, like he’s afraid if he doesn’t do it now, he might never get to again, his hand slides up further, anchoring at your waist, pulling you into his lap with a fluid kind of urgency that still manages to feel careful. His lips are warm, a little chapped, but he moves like he knows exactly what you need, tongue teasing at the seam of your mouth until you let him in, until the taste of him floods your senses and you forget everything else. Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he groans softly against your mouth, a sound that vibrates through your whole body.

The blanket falls away, and the storm outside rages louder but inside, the world narrows to the press of his body against yours, the slow grind of hips, the heat rising fast and thick between you like it’s trying to suffocate the space where words used to live. You don’t know where this is going, don’t know what happens after the rain. But you know how he kisses, you know the way his hand slides up the back of your shirt with reverence and hunger, how he breathes your name like a promise he hasn’t figured out how to keep yet. And right now, that’s enough.

His mouth breaks from yours with a reluctant drag, breath heavy against your cheek as his lips skim the edge of your jaw. The storm batters the world outside, wind clawing at the glass, but here, on this couch, wrapped in each other and the remnants of a morning that wasn't supposed to last, everything feels slow, thick with a new kind of tension. His hand has slipped beneath your shirt now, not urgent, but reverent, fingers tracing up your spine in slow, deliberate lines that make you shiver, thumb brushing the underside of your breast, just enough pressure to make your breath hitch, but he stops there, teasing, waiting.

You know… he murmurs against your neck, punctuating the words with a lazy kiss just below your ear, ...we barely know anything about each other. You huff a breath that could almost be a laugh, tipping your head back to give him more access. Funny time to bring that up. His teeth graze your throat, the gentlest bite, and he smirks when you gasp. Just trying to be a gentleman, he says, all faux innocence while his other hand slides up the inside of your thigh, thumb stroking slow circles where your skin is most sensitive. Maybe we should get to know each other first. You know, before we really do this.

You glance down at him, raising a brow even as your hips shift against his lap, finding the heat of him through thin layers of cotton. What, you want to play 20 Questions while you’ve got your hand up my shirt? His eyes glitter with mischief. Twenty-one. Gotta keep it spicy. You roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at your lips as you settle more fully against him, legs straddling his hips now, thighs bracketing his as the blanket slips off entirely. Fine, you say, voice a little breathless as his hands find their way to your waist, thumbs dragging slow along your ribs. But I go first. He leans back slightly, arms resting along the couch, a picture of casual sin. Hit me.

What’s your biggest red flag? you ask, grinning as you slowly grind down just enough to watch his expression falter and Chris groans, head tipping back briefly before he looks at you from beneath heavy lashes. You’re evil. You just shrug, hips rocking against him, slow and tempting. Answer the question.

He exhales a laugh that curls low in his chest, fingers tightening at your waist. Okay… red flag? His tongue flicks across his bottom lip as he thinks, and your eyes follow the motion helplessly. I work too much. Like… too much. I disappear into it sometimes. Not great for relationships. There’s honesty in it, even as he slides one hand back under your shirt, thumb grazing the curve of your breast again, still not touching you fully, just circling around it like he’s trying to drive you crazy. Your turn. You shift, barely resisting the urge to lean into his hand. Hmm… what’s your question?

Chris hums, considering. Biggest turn-on.

You tilt your head, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him twitch before you answer, Confidence. Teasing. Someone who can make me laugh and lose my mind. You roll your hips again, slow and purposeful, and he curses under his breath. Your turn, he growls, hands sliding lower now, gripping your ass as he pulls you tighter against him. Better make it a good one.

What do you think I taste like? you whisper it near his ear, just to watch him shudder. His hands still on your body, eyes snapping to yours, suddenly darker as he swallows hard, fingers digging in just a bit. You want the honest answer? he murmurs, voice low and dangerous. Obviously.

Chris leans in, lips brushing yours without kissing, like he’s tasting the air between you. Like trouble. Like something I shouldn’t get addicted to but already am. His hand drags back up your thigh, higher now, brushing between your legs over your underwear, just enough pressure to make you gasp, but still maddeningly light. Like heaven with a little hell in it.

You clench your hands in the fabric of his shirt, breath catching as he rocks up against you, heat meeting heat through frustrating layers. Fuck, you whisper, hips stuttering. That’s not fair. He smirks again. I said I was bad at being good. You dip your head to his neck, biting lightly at the skin just below his jaw as you murmur, Then stop pretending and show me just how bad you can be. But Chris just chuckles, fingers hooking under the waistband of your underwear before he stops again, teasing, waiting, torturing. Only if you answer the next one.

You groan. You’re the worst. He grins. Next question. What are you most afraid of right now?

And it’s unfair, how he can drop that kind of weight right when his fingers are slipping beneath your panties, how he can make you feel completely exposed even before he touches you properly as you blink, breathless, caught in the twist of sensation and honesty. Getting too close, you admit quietly. Wanting more than I should. He stills, his hand resting gently between your thighs now, no pressure, just presence as his gaze softens, searching your face like he’s looking for something hidden beneath all your teasing. Me too, he says. And then—finally, finally—his fingers move with purpose, and you stop thinking altogether.

His fingers move with an ease that makes you curse your own memory, like your body already remembers him, already trusts the rhythm, the pressure, the subtle curl of his touch. He’s slow with it, maddeningly so, dragging the pads of his fingers through your slick just to feel how wet you are before he even really does anything. Jesus, he murmurs, almost to himself, eyes dropping to where you’re straddled in his lap, shirt rumpled, underwear pushed aside, heat pressed tight to the bulge in his sweatpants. And you’re telling me we’re just getting to know each other? You roll your hips down against his hand and smirk. Exactly. I’m an open book, remember? But your voice catches at the end when one of his fingers slides inside you, slow, deliberate, his eyes locked on yours as you clench around him with a broken little sound you wish you could play off as cooler than it is. Chris just grins, lazy and pleased, like he’s won something. Sure you are, sweetheart.

And then he fucking pauses again.

Just holds there, buried in you up to the knuckle like he’s content to keep you right on the edge of madness as you glare at him, lips parted, already shifting your hips for friction, but his free hand comes up to steady you at the waist. Nuh-uh, he warns, teasing. You’re the one who agreed to twenty-one questions. You’re not getting out of it just because your legs are shaking. You blink at him, somewhere between aroused and outraged. Are you seriously going to edge me over a quiz game?

Chris has the audacity to laugh, pressing another finger inside you with a slow, cruel twist that makes you forget what planet you’re on for a second. That’s question twenty-two, he says, voice all wicked sweetness. But I’ll allow it. You swear under your breath, grinding down again because two can play at this game. Fine, you bite out. Truth or dare. He raises a brow, interested. We’re switching formats?

Answer it. Chris smirks, lips dragging over your jaw as he pumps his fingers in a slow rhythm that’s almost enough, but not quite. Truth. You narrow your eyes at him. Who’s your embarrassing celebrity crush?

He laughs, really laughs, breathless and boyish and warm in a way that makes your chest ache through the haze of want. Jesus, okay, he says, eyes scrunched, still slowly fucking you with the kind of patience that feels like punishment. This is going to haunt me, but… it’s the girl from Scooby-Doo. The live-action one. Velma. You blink at him. You mean Linda Cardellini? He groans. Yes. The sweater, the glasses, the sass—don’t judge me. You’re laughing too hard to speak for a second, which becomes very inconvenient when his thumb brushes against your clit in a lazy circle that makes your laugh crack into a moan. Okay, you breathe. That’s fair. Honestly? Valid.

He leans in like he’s about to kiss you, but instead he whispers, Your turn, and curls his fingers just right, making your hips jolt forward against his palm. Would you rather, he says, clearly enjoying your ruined expression, have sex in a public place and get caught, or accidentally send your mom a sext? You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a sob and a wheeze. Oh my God, what kind of demon are you? He just grins, smug. Answer carefully. You’re half-laughing, half-dying as you try to think through the haze of building pressure between your legs, his thumb not letting up for a second. Okay, okay, public sex.

Getting caught. Bold, he says, watching your face tighten when his fingers thrust a little faster. That says something about you. You gasp, breath hitching hard in your throat as you press your hips forward again, unable to stop yourself. Shut up, you gasp, helpless. You knew I wouldn’t say mom sext. You set me up.

Guilty, he murmurs, kissing along your neck now, open-mouthed and warm. Next question. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever masturbated to? You freeze against him, eyes going wide. Oh my God.

C’mon, he coaxes, mouth curved into a devilish smile. I told you about Velma. Don’t leave me hanging. You hide your face in his shoulder, but he doesn’t let up with his fingers, still moving inside you, still making you gasp even through your mortification. Fine, you groan. There was this audio clip, some guy reading from a tax fraud legal deposition with a deep voice and—don’t look at me like that. It was weirdly hot, okay?

Chris actually chokes laughing, full-body shaking, but his hand never stops, and now it’s infuriatingly good, rhythmic and deep and filthy enough that you start to lose the ability to laugh along. Oh my God, he wheezes, still grinning. That’s incredible. That’s like, top-tier trivia material. He leans in again, brushing his nose against yours, watching you with heat and fondness in equal measure. You’re insane. I think I’m obsessed with you.

You open your mouth to answer, but your words melt into a strangled moan when he presses just right and your body clenches down around him, thighs trembling on either side of his hips as he watches you unravel with greedy eyes, his mouth hovering just over yours, breath mixing with yours as your orgasm shudders through you, sharp and wet and aching. Fuck, you whisper. You're the insane one.

You’re welcome, he whispers back, then kisses you like a man who plans on earning another twenty-one answers. Your breath is still shaky, ribs rising too fast under your shirt, your thighs quivering where they’re slung over his lap, and he hasn’t even pulled his hand away yet. His fingers are still inside you, slow and wet and fucking obscene, curling lazily like he’s not done teasing your body just yet, like he wants to feel every aftershock and memorize the way your walls flutter around him, greedy and overstimulated. And the worst part if you don’t want him to stop, not even a little.

Chris watches you with that smug curve to his mouth, but there’s something darker in his eyes now, hotter, hungrier, like the teasing has started to backfire on him too. You’re so easy to mess with, he murmurs, like it’s a compliment, like he’s impressed, his free hand comes up to brush the damp hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheek with a gentleness that doesn’t match the filth of his other hand. And you still owe me another question.

You laugh, breathless, hoarse, but defiant. You’re still playing the game?

Chris grins, slow and wicked. Don’t act like you’re not into it. Come on, next one. Or I stop. His fingers shift inside you, one last teasing thrust before he slides out completely, leaving you empty and aching. You glare at him, hips twitching forward on instinct. Okay, okay. You pause, breath catching as you readjust your weight in his lap, only now realizing how hard he is beneath you, thick and straining against his sweats, twitching under the press of your soaked panties.

Your brain short-circuits a little, but you recover fast. If you could only use your mouth or your hands during sex, never both again, which would you pick? Chris whistles low, eyes flicking down to your lips like he’s imagining either option in vivid, detailed color. Cruel one, he mutters, shifting beneath you just to feel more of your heat. But I’m gonna say mouth. There’s something about making a mess of someone with just my tongue. Something about control, seems like. His hands tighten at your hips as he leans up, lips grazing yours without committing to the kiss. And I think you like being teased too much for me to give that up.

You open your mouth to argue, or moan, but he silences you with a single, filthy swipe of his thumb over your clit, barely there, just enough to remind you who’s in charge of your pulse. You grip his shoulders to steady yourself, blinking down at him like you hate how much he knows you already. My turn, he says, voice low, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your ruined underwear and he doesn’t touch, just hovers there. What’s the dirtiest thought you’ve ever had about me? You stare at him, startled. We’ve only known each other, like, twelve hours. Chris raises an eyebrow. You’ve definitely had thoughts.

You look away, cheeks flushed, your body still warm from the orgasm and the press of his cock trapped beneath you. Fine, you mutter. It’s from this morning. When you were standing in the kitchen, still sleepy, shirtless… stretching like that. He smirks, already smug. And I thought about getting on my knees, you continue, forcing the words past your throat, and just pulling your sweats down while you were mid-yawn. Making you lean back against the counter and letting me suck you off before you even woke up properly. His jaw flexes, hands gripping your hips so tight it makes you whimper. Fuck, he breathes, almost like a warning. You trying to kill me?

You smile, dragging your hips slowly against his, grinding the slick heat of your core over the length of his cock through the fabric. I dunno. You said we’re getting to know each other. He groans, deep and broken, eyes fluttering closed for a second. Okay, he says. New rule. Every time you don’t answer a question honestly, I get to put my mouth somewhere new. You blink. That’s the punishment?

Chris slides his hands up your shirt in one slow motion, finally lifting it over your head and tossing it aside. His gaze drops to your chest, hungry and reverent as he leans forward, brushing his mouth against the swell of one breast before licking a slow stripe over your nipple. It’ll feel like a punishment soon, he says, dragging his teeth gently across the skin until you arch into him. Now ask me something hard. Your voice is trembling now. What’s your biggest kink?

Chris looks up at you, mouth still warm and wet against your skin, his eyes dark with intent. Praise, he says. Control. Watching you fall apart because you want to, not because I’m forcing you. He licks again, sucks a little now, and your fingers sink into his hair like you need to anchor yourself. And right now? he murmurs, pulling back with a soft pop. Hearing you beg. That might top the list. You swallow, completely undone, grinding harder now just to feel more of him, leaking through your panties onto the front of his sweats. Next question, he says, voice wrecked now. How many orgasms do you think I could pull out of you if we stopped playing and really got started? And suddenly, you don’t feel like teasing anymore.

You can’t even remember what number you’re on, somewhere past twenty-one and deep into uncharted territory, half the questions aren’t even questions anymore, just confessions and dares passed between kisses and breathless moans, your body curled around his like you’ve forgotten it wasn’t always yours to hold. Chris still got that look in his eyes, wild and focused, like he’s reading every flicker of reaction off your face, adjusting his touch with surgical precision and the game—if it can even be called that anymore—is just another way to keep you strung out on tension, anticipation, the high of not knowing what he’ll ask or do next. Okay, he says, voice low and almost tender as he kisses your thigh, lips trailing dangerously close to where you’re soaked through and twitching. Would you rather have me use my mouth and take my time, or let you sit on my face and lose control? You laugh, wrecked, hoarse, practically vibrating with need. Is that even a real question?

Answer it, he says, lips brushing the edge of your underwear like a threat. Or I’ll pick for you. You glance down at him, his face between your thighs, his eyes bright and dark at once and something about the way he looks like he wants to be overwhelmed by you makes the answer easy. Your face, you whisper. I wanna ride your face.

He hums, low, approving, and pulls your underwear down so slowly it’s practically cruel, dragging them down your legs like he wants to savor every inch of bare skin. You’re lucky I like the sound of that, he murmurs, kissing up your inner thigh, hands gripping your hips as you shift to straddle his face, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the storm still raging outside. He settles back against the couch cushions, eyes fixed on you, and his voice is husky when he says, Don’t hold back.

And then his mouth is on you, devouring you with a hunger so intense it makes you cry out, your fingers flying to his hair for balance as your thighs tremble on either side of his head. His tongue is everywhere, licking and sucking and circling your clit with a precision that has you shaking, gasping his name before the first full minute is up. He moans into you like he can’t get enough, like the taste of you is something he’s needed all fucking day, and when you grind down harder, chasing the heat, he just grips your hips tighter and lets you.

You lose yourself in it, completely. Your head falls back, eyes fluttering shut as you rock against his mouth, every muscle in your body pulled tight with tension. Fuck, I—I can’t, you gasp, already close again, already ruined. You can, he growls against your cunt, the vibration of his voice shooting straight through your spine. You’re gonna come in my mouth, baby? I've got you. And when you do,it's shameless and desperate, thighs clamping around his head as your orgasm crashes over you, mouth open in a broken moan that echoes off the walls, raw and frantic as you ride it out against his tongue. He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until you’re whimpering, until your body slumps forward with every nerve alight and his name spilling from your lips like a prayer.

When you finally slide off his face, your legs barely work, and he’s panting beneath you, flushed, hair messy, lips glistening with you. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning like he just won the fucking lottery. Still counting the questions? he teases, voice rough and hoarse and yu laugh weakly, collapsing into his lap with your chest still heaving. I think we passed twenty-one a long time ago. Chris leans in, kissing you deep, messy, filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue before pulling back just enough to whisper, Then maybe it’s time we stop pretending it’s still a game.

It’s not a game anymore, but neither of you stops playing, even as he lifts you into his lap again, even as his hands drag across your waist and down your spine with a hunger that makes your skin burn, you’re still trading words, still throwing questions like gasoline on a fire that’s already too big to contain. What do you want me to do to you? he asks, voice low and rough as he kisses the edge of your jaw, lips dragging down your throat, chest, teeth grazing over the mark he left earlierl you breathe out something between a laugh and a whimper, fingers curling in the waistband of his sweatpants. Want you inside me. Deep. Slow. Until I can’t even remember what I was supposed to ask next.

Chris groans, like the words knock the wind out of him, and you barely get the chance to tug his pants down before he’s helping you, lifting his hips, cock springing free, thick and flushed and so hard it makes your breath catch in your throat. He wraps a hand around himself just to tease you, dragging his palm slowly along the length, the tip smearing precum across his skin, eyes locked on yours. You sure? he murmurs, voice tight with restraint. 'Cause I want you, but I’m not gonna last long if you keep looking at me like that.

You nod, almost dizzy with need, sinking your hips until the head of his cock catches at your entrance, slick and warm and perfect as you lower yourself onto him in one slow, devastating slide that punches a moan from both of you. Fuck, he hisses, head dropping back against the couch. You feel—holy shit—so tight. You clench around him on purpose, just to hear him swear again, and he thrusts up into you shallowly, hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear. Next question, you breathe, rocking your hips gently, letting him get used to the rhythm of you. If I told you to come inside me, would you?

Chris blinks at you like he can’t believe you said that, like the words physically affect him as his jaw flexes hard, and he thrusts up deeper, rougher, like you just snapped the last thread of his restraint. Don’t say that unless you mean it, he growls, voice raw. Because if you tell me to, I will. I’ll fill you up so deep you feel it for days. Your next breath stutters as he hits that spot again, as your walls flutter around him, your body already trying to pull him deeper. You’re insane, you gasp. And I might be worse.

Another question, he says, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts again, slower now but harder, making your whole body jolt with every movement. If I told you I wanted to fuck you on every surface in this house before the storm ends, what would you say?

You laugh—moan, really—your fingers digging into his shoulders for balance. I’d say you’d better start with the kitchen counter and work your way through the rooms alphabetically. He groans, the sound almost broken, and his hands slide down to your ass, guiding your hips as you bounce on his cock with slow, grinding rolls, the kind that drag every inch of him through you with a rhythm that borders on cruel. Fuck, he mutters again, kissing your shoulder, your collarbone, your mouth. I’ve never wanted anyone like this.

Maybe it’s the storm, maybe it’s the heat between your bodies or the way your souls feel too close already, but the words don’t scare you, they anchor you, drive you forward. Then show me, you whisper, lips brushing his. No more holding back.

And he doesn’t. He flips you onto your back on the couch with a roughness that makes you gasp, cock slipping free for only a second before he’s guiding himself back inside you in one hard, smooth thrust that makes your eyes roll back and he fucks you, slow, deep, rhythmic, his body pressed tight to yours as his hands roam everywhere at once. What’s the first thing you’re gonna do after this? he pants into your ear and you laugh, legs wrapped tight around his waist. Probably pass out.

Wrong answer. He pulls almost all the way out, waits for you to open your eyes again, then slams back in. Try again. Your head spins. Shower, you choke out. With you. Maybe round two against the wall if you're strong enough. Chris grins, breathless, sweat dripping from his brow as he picks up the pace. Better. He kisses you hard, messy, tongues tangling, and he swallows your next moan when he grinds in deeper, just to feel the way your body clenches around him. Your turn. Ask me something, he says. Hurry. Before I make you come so hard you forget how to speak. You’re already close again, body arching, nails dragging down his back, but you manage to gasp, What’s your favorite part of me?

He thrusts deep and stills, buried to the hilt, his cock twitching inside you, his voice shaking when he answers. Right now? This. His hand slides down between you, fingers finding your clit again, rubbing slow, tight circles. But if you mean really... he leans in, kisses the corner of your mouth, his voice going soft even as his thrusts turn sharp again. It’s the way you look at me, like I’m already yours.

And then he makes you come again, loud and trembling, your body clenching so hard around him that he groans and follows you seconds later, spilling into you with a long, broken sound that feels like surrender. You cling to each other through it, hips still twitching, mouths still searching, and somewhere between the kisses and the breathless laughter, you realize you stopped counting the questions a long time ago.

The world is soft when it settles, like the storm outside finally gave up, like the air around you folded into something warm and quiet and real. Your bodies are tangled on the couch, skin damp and flushed, still pressed together in the kind of closeness that feels more like a conversation than anything you’ve said out loud and he hasn’t moved much, still half on top of you, head buried in the crook of your neck, one arm slung heavy over your waist. His breathing is slow now, steady, like he’s trying to memorize the rhythm of your heart with his cheek against your chest as you trail your fingers lazily through his hair, feeling the way his curls cling to your skin with sweat and time, and somewhere in the mess of it, you smile.

Hey, you whisper, voice raw, your throat a little ruined from all the gasping and laughing and moaning. If you had to rank that on a scale from one to ten— Chris groans, shifting just enough to lift his head and glare at you, but the edge doesn’t stick, he’s too blissed-out for sarcasm. Don’t make me throw you over this couch and do it again just to prove a point.

You snort, brushing a kiss against his temple. So… eleven? He sighs dramatically, flopping back beside you, arm still wrapped tight around your middle as he turns his head to look at you. His eyes are soft now, still playful, still glowing with that dangerous charm, but slower, gentler. I stopped counting, he says. Somewhere around the time you said you wanted to ride my face. Everything after that was just… instinct.

You laugh, a real one, breathless and a little unhinged, your hand sliding across his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. So what happens now? you ask, and you don’t mean for it to sound so honest, but there it is, naked between you. Storm’s still going, you’re still technically trapped here. Chris glances toward the window as the rain still lashes against the glass, wind howling down the alley like it’s not done being dramatic. He hums softly. Guess we’re stuck with each other.

Tragic.

Devastating. He nudges your thigh with his knee, smirking. We could watch something. Recharge. Maybe eat something that doesn’t involve my head between your legs. You fake a groan, tossing an arm over your eyes. Boring.

Okay, fine. He laughs, twisting to kiss your bare shoulder. But only if you ask me another question. You peek at him from beneath your arm, grinning. Why are you still here? He goes still for a second, the quiet between you deepening, thick with something unspoken and his voice lowers, more serious than you expect. Because this didn’t feel like a one-night thing.

Your breath catches, soft and small but he hears it, because of course he does. You roll onto your side to face him, his arm adjusting to keep you close. Yeah, you say, quieter now, eyes searching his. It didn't. For a while, neither of you says anything as the storm rolls on outside, wind still battering the windows, but it feels far away now, like the noise can’t touch this, can’t reach whatever this bubble is you’ve both fallen into. Chris shifts, brushing hair from your face, thumb tracing your cheek with the same tenderness he used hours ago, when everything was still new and charged and uncertain.

And then he smilesl soft, a little shy. New rule, he says. Every time we see each other… we have to play twenty-one questions.

You raise an eyebrow. We suck at keeping count.

Exactly, he murmurs, kissing your forehead like a promise. That’s how I’ll know it’s working.

[vixlenxe]

The Warrior of Light stalks her way away, the sound of her footsteps eventually disappearing from his ears, & finally Ivy lets out a breath. Despite having saved saved this Star, not all it's problems are solved yet it seemed, sometimes the Warrior is still needed. But at least there's now recognized time to also be Ivy.

"Everything went as I suspect?" And once down the hall, Haurchefant is there. He knew he didn't need to worry about his bride's safety at all, but it wasn't like him to be too far if Ivy needed him. She nodded silently to him & smiled.

"We won't have to worry about him, that's for sure."

"Splendid as always, lumière étoiles." He smiled, doing his signature successful gesture. "Perhaps now we can treat this 'get away' as we wanted too."

"I wouldn't worry too much. Come on, I want some fresh air, Fuji's room had such a smell of booze, I might have a second-hand buzz."

Being let go, he took his first few breaths of freedom, like a boot lifted from his chest, so when the woman commanded the king to not appear at the wedding he rolled his eyes. Like he would step foot in that cursed affair while everyone would simply look at him like fool.

World leaders attending... all of them most likely hand-picked by that wretched woman. Let the child stand in for Makoto... all he wanted was a bottle... and his bloody door fixed.

It was punishment... to be reduced to a puppet on that child's string... to be a visual while the other handles the country's affairs. May they all rot in hell, for all he cared.

[mihanisms]

Fuck. Caleb has no idea how he ended up in this situation. The last thing he remembers is your pretty, doe-like eyes, wide with mischief, and that perverted smile curling at your plush lips, hypnotizing him.

"Trust me, baby. You’ll like it."

He’s not so sure about that now.

The ropes on his arms feel foreign—usually, it’d be you bound up, whining and pleading for more from him. But now, he’s the one spread out, wrists tugged above his head, muscles twitching under the restraints as he watches you beneath him, breath shallow. His cock stands flushed and aching between his legs, contrasting the cool, glistening metal resting against his tip.

"Relax, Caleb," you murmur, trailing your fingers down his stomach, light and teasing. "You trust me, don’t you?"

He does. God, he does. But the unfamiliar weight of hesitance is coiled tight in his gut, warring with the sharp edge of anticipation. The slick press of the instrument at his slit is so delicate, nearly innocent. His fingers flex against the bindings, jaw tightening as heat builds low in his stomach.

He swallows hard, throat drying up. "Baby, I don’t- Fuck- I-I don’t even know what I’m doing…"

"That’s okay," you purr, watching the way his body shudders. "You don’t have to. I made sure to do aaaaall my research before this. It won’t hurt….too much?"

Caleb lets out a sharp exhale, his fingers curling into fists against the restraints. His heart is hammering against his ribs, his voice rough around the edges. "Not sure that’s making me feel any better, honey." 

You only smile, tilting your head as you give the dilator the slightest push forward. His jaw clenches as the cool metal dips past the tight ring of his slit, and oh, fuck, that’s….that’s different. His hips stutter, his body caught between retreat and curiosity. His cock twitches, betraying him, and he glares down at the rod teasing the entrance of his cock like it’s personally offended him. 

You hold it still between your fingers, the gleaming silver catching the light, and Caleb watches it with wide, cautious eyes like it’s a weapon you’re driving into his heart. Catching the emotions swirling on his face, your smile turns softer, lips finding his inner thigh. “It’s thinner than you think. I’ll go slow. Just focus on what you feel, alright?”

He doesn’t answer—can’t answer, too busy trying not to flinch as you let the weight and gravity do most of the work, easing the rod in millimeter by millimeter. His cock jolts in your grip, and his hips shift instinctively like he doesn’t know whether to push away or into you.

“‘S okay?” you ask quietly.

Caleb nods quickly, his hands gripping the sheets on either side of him. “Yeah. Yeah, just…fuck, it’s cold.”

Then, the rod really begins to sink in. His jaw drops, lips parting in a half gasp, half moan as the pressure builds—it’s not pain, but it’s also not pleasure. Not yet, at least. It was more like a bizarre, alien stretch that lights up nerves he didn’t even know existed. With every slow inch, a sensation crawled up from deep within, growing fuller, heavier, and Caleb was heaving even without being touched properly.

“I- God, baby-” He breathes heavily, pupils blown wide. “Wh- What the hell is that?”

“I don’t even-” he groans again as you press just a little deeper, until the rod slips past the tightest part and settles in like it belongs there. His thighs jerk, but your grip steadies him. “S’mthing like this should hurt, right? It’s not supposed to- Ah fuck- Fuck baby, feels like it’s in my stomach.”

You grin. You have him right where you want him to be. “That’s your prostate saying hi, Colonel.”

Caleb laughs, but the noise breaks in the middle. “...Tell it to back the fuck off.”

You hum, amused, wrapping your hand around the base of his cock. “Hm. That wasn’t your safeword, was it?” you ask sweetly, giving him a slow, deliberate stroke.

He jolts. Hard.

“Hey-” His jaw tightens as the sound shifts inside him with your movement, pressing against the slick, sensitive walls of his urethra. It’s like there’s a pulse inside him now—like the pleasure is coming from within, surging outward from the center of his cock in waves.

Your hand glides up, mercilessly, expertly- overly patient. Waiting for him to surrender. His length pulses helplessly in your grip, and a fresh bead of precum pushes out around the sound, thick and shiny.

He lets out a ragged breath. “Okay, okay- I get it. New kink unlocked. Ten out of ten. We can stop now, and try this another time when I’m more prepa-”

But you don’t stop. You give him another pump, firmer this time, and watch the way he tenses, words caught in his throat. You hum again, pleased, your hand trailing up to the head of his cock. ”Still not your safeword,” you remark sarcastically, thumb circling the sensitive spot just beneath the head. Not enough to push him over. Just enough to remind him how badly he wants it despite all his hesitation and denial.

He growls. Actually growls, eyes snapping to yours. “You’re mean.”

You pout, mockingly innocent. “You said I could try anything I wanted.”

“I didn’t think you meant torturing me with a goddamn sword in my dick.”

You laugh and start moving again—but this time slower. Languid. Mean, like he complained about. The rod shifts with every stroke, pressing deeper, drawing out tight, involuntary spasms from the depths of his body. He’s gasping now, body tight like a livewire, trapped between frustration and desperate need.

“Baby-” he whines, voice breaking on his next words as his head falls back against the headboard. “Baby, it feels weird feels so so weird-”

You stop.

Caleb feels like he’s about to die.

His breath is uneven, the flush on his ears quickly spreading to his cheeks. “Baby, please, ‘m losing my fuckin’ mind-”

You squeeze enough to make him twitch again. His hips try to buck, but the restraints hold him down, and it drives him up the wall. The metal glides with his motion, brushing something deep—too deep, he thinks—and he chokes on his own moan. 

“I want you to lose your mind,” you mumble, kissing his thigh before gently sinking your teeth into his skin. “That’s the whole point.”

He’s trembling—has been, for a while, and your bite does nothing to soothe the storm of sensations traveling through his nervous system.

You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, his entire body vibrating with the struggle between wanting more and being overwhelmed. The storm inside him is palpable, and you can practically taste the need rolling off his skin.

“Caleb,” you coax, voice dripping with honeyed seduction. “Just let go. You’re already doing so well.”

He shakes his head frantically. “No, no, no- I can’t. I can’t-” The words tumble from his lips, desperate and pleading. His arms strain against the bindings, his body instinctively searching for more friction, more release. The dilator inside him throbs with every movement, and the heat in his stomach builds dangerously close to a breaking point.

Your hand moves with deliberate slowness, tracing the length of his cock while the sound nestles deep within him. He’s close. Too close. The tension builds, unbearable. “You can. You just have to let yourself feel it.”

Caleb’s breath hitches in his throat as you pick up the pace just a little, reveling in the way his body responds. Every jerk, every shudder, is a testament to your control over him.

“Please,” he gasps out, his eyes squeezed shut. “I can’t- Haah-! Please! Just wanna-”

But you hold him there, poised at the edge. You can see the desperation etched into his features, the way his body strains against the restraints as he fights for a release that feels so close yet just out of reach.

“So close.” Your thumb presses down just on the head of his cock, leisurely circling around the handle of the sounding rod. He whimpers, the sound a mixture of frustration and pleasure that has you wanting to draw out more. “So close, baby. Just a little more. You can take it.”

He arches as you drag your hand again, the combination of your motions and the metal creating a tension that has him throbbing with need. “Please!” he cries, the word spilling from his lips in a rush. “I’m begging you, just let me-”

You tighten your hold just enough to keep him on the edge, your thumb moving in a teasing rhythm that’s driving him up the wall. “But I want your eyes open, baby,” you coo softly. “Want you to see how pretty you fall apart.”

Immediately, his eyes dart open to meet yours, a mix of need and disbelief swirling within their purple depths. “You’re killing me,” he pants, voice laced with desperate longing.

“I’m not killing you. We’re just playing, baby. Finding out what makes you tick, hm?” You lean in, lips pressing a kiss to his cock as you apply a bit more pressure on the dilator.

Caleb’s body betrays him, the muscles in his thighs tightening, his cock pulsing beneath your grip. “Can’t hold it- can’tholditcan’tholditican’tican’t-”

“You’re not supposed to,” you mumble, voice muffled by the kisses you press along his length. As you drag your tongue over his entire cock, the rod shifts deep inside him simultaneously, and the combined sensations finally push him over the edge.

He comes with a keening, high-pitched sound, his torso lifting off the bed, cum spilling in thick, hot pulses around the metal, the orgasm tearing through him so deep and measured it looks like it hurts. Repeated cries of your name leave him, tremors running through his hips and legs as his cum drips down onto your fingers.

You hold him through it, feeling the heat radiating from his body and the overwhelmed shudders as he rides out the waves of pleasure. “That’s it, baby,” you murmur, caressing him gently, letting him bask in the bliss longer than he thought possible. “Just breathe.”

You slow your movements, allowing him to come down slowly, savoring the feeling of him still trembling against your touch. He collapses back onto the bed, panting hard, eyes glazed over  as he tries to process what just happened.

Caleb’s chest heaves as he lies there, boneless and completely undone. His wrists strain weakly against the restraints, more out of reflex than any real attempt to move. Sweat slicks his skin, clinging to the line of his throat, and his lashes flutter with each heavy, ragged breath.

You watch him, quietly captivated. The rise and fall of his body, the dazed look in his eyes—like he just survived something holy and horrible and gorgeous all at once. You reach up and carefully undo the bindings, careful not to jostle him too much. His arms drop with a groan, and you catch one before it hits the bed too hard, guiding it to rest along his side.

He doesn’t speak. Just breathes. Stares at the ceiling like it might have answers.

The sound still rests deep inside him, barely shifting with his post-orgasm twitches. You’re patient with him, waiting until the sharpness of his gasps fades into something slower before you finally—gently—slide the rod free. Caleb hisses, the feeling more sensitivity than pain, and his whole body shudders once more as you place the tool aside and press a soft kiss to the base of his cock.

“You,” he finally rasps, his voice hoarse. “What just…”

You giggle quietly, wiping your fingers clean before shuffling up beside him, one hand sliding across his stomach. “C’mon baby,” you whisper, lips brushing his collarbone. “Didn’t I tell you you’d like it?”

He turns his head slowly to look at you, pupils still blown wide. He looks completely wrecked—and utterly in love. “You’re insane,” he whines, laughter bubbling up despite his exhaustion. “I think you just broke me.”

You smile, brushing your fingers through his hair, heart racing at how much he’s surrendered to you. “Good. That was the idea.”

Caleb lets out a rough, shaky breath and pulls you down into him, his arms wrapping tight around your waist like you might float away if he doesn’t. “You’re evil,” he mumbles, lips brushing against your skin. “I have no idea how you roped me into that.”

You smile and nuzzle back, fingers tenderly squeezing his skin. “Because you love me. Aaaand….you didn’t safeword.”

“I was- I was this close, pipsqueak.” His protest is weak, gesturing with his thumb and forefinger apart before letting his arm flop limply over your body again. “But I couldn’t even remember it. You broke my brain. I hope you’re proud.”

Another quiet giggle escapes you and he huffs, nuzzling further into your neck like he’s trying to crawl under your skin. “I’m not moving,” he declares, the words muffled by your skin. “I deserve cuddle compensation after being pushed to my limit.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, rubbing soothing circles into his back. “But you’re not denying liking it.”

He exhales a breath that sounds suspiciously close to a contented sigh and mutters, “Greedy girl.”

But he doesn’t let go. Doesn’t even try. He just melts into you, warm and limp, clinging to you like a man whose entire soul has decided this—your arms, your breath, your heartbeat—is the safest place in the world.

[thesilicontribesman]

The Fuller Anglo-Saxon Brooch, late 9th Century CE, The British Museum, London

This large Anglo-Saxon silver brooch is of extraordinary craftsmanship and perhaps belonged to a high-ranking churchman, or even a nobleman from the court of King Alfred the Great (871-899 CE). The central part is decorated with five figures representing each of the human senses. Sight is in the centre with large bulging eyes, and he is surrounded by Touch, Taste, Smell and Hearing, who can all be identified by their actions.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Imagine…Dean Coming Back From The Dead

Pairing: Dean x reader

__________

“Hiya sweetheart.” You stared wide eyed at the man baring a striking resemblance to your boyfriend. Your very much been dead for five years boyfriend. He held up his hands, slowly stepping inside as you backed up. You dove for your side table where you kept the demon blade along with your other weapons.

The man who looked oh so much like Dean apart from the fuller beard and slightly longer hair, took a big step to the right, avoiding your attempts at stabbing him. He slid forward, knocking the knife away when you went back for more.

“Who the hell-“ He pushed on your back, skirting past you and going to your weapons. You growled, trying to cut him off when you watched him pick up the silver blade. He held it to the back of his hand, slicing it open.

“We both know I’m not a demon since I walked right over that devils trap under the hardwoods and I'm not a shifter or a leviathan or ghoul," he said, setting the blade back down. He held up his hands when you grabbed the knife again, ready to take aim. "Alberta."

Your eyes flared wide for a split second, Dean smirking.

"Hey, I'm man enough to admit the dude was hot. I did notice he had a striking resemblance to a certain...me," he teased. "Why'd you never hookup with him again?"

"How do I know it's really you?" He pursed his lips, thinking it over as he cocked his head.

"Same way I know you never made it past first base with that guy. You ran out of the motel room like it was on fire." You lowered your knife, dropping it on the ground. He stepped over close, gently grasping your chin with his thumb and forefinger. "I thought I told you to try and move on if something happened."

"I did try," you whispered, breath catching in your throat. "No one's you."

"Well, at least you being single makes this situation slightly less awkward," he said, dipping his head down low, tilting your chin up. "You still my girl?"

"I've always been her." He grinned, slowly touching his lips to yours, your hands finally gripping his jacket. He was so warm, so full of life.

You flinched away when an image of his cold, restless body came to mind.

"I'm sorry," he said when you ran a hand over your mouth, wrapping one arm around yourself.

"It's not you," you whispered, your eyes welling as you found his green ones waiting. "I buried you."

"I know you did," Dean breathed out, wiping away a stray tear that fell. "I'm here to stay...most likely."

You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head. "I can't do most likely, Dean. I can't get you back just to lose you again."

"Help me with one last job then. Jack said if I help with a case, I could come back. For real." You stared at him, Dean cupping your cheeks in his large hands. "Please. Five years was rough enough. I don't want to wait a lifetime to have forever with you."

You took a deep breath, nodding as he pulled you into a deep hug.

"Alright, tell me about the job, De."

_______________