#so i had to go in and press it down with my fingers first

[jaysng]

shaving his face | kmg

you offer to shave mingyu’s face for the first time, despite having no idea what you’re doing—and he lets you, all smiles and patience. between messy foam, playful threats, and him trying (and failing) to stay quiet, the slow morning turns soft in all the ways that matter. [wc. 1k]

PAIRING. husband!mingyu x wife!reader

GENRE. fluff

NOTE. come back after god knows how long, hoping that you enjoy this.

“okay. sit. don’t talk. don’t move.”

mingyu raised both brows as he lowered himself onto the small stool in the bathroom, the one you usually kept tucked under the sink. it wobbled slightly under his weight.

“you sure this thing’s safe?”

“well, if it breaks, that’s on you for being massive,” you muttered, grabbing the can of shaving foam and shaking it aggressively.

he smirked, adjusting the towel around his shoulders. “wow. love the support, babe.”

“just shut up,” you said, but you were smiling too.

he obeyed, lips twitching as he pressed them together dramatically and tilted his chin up. he looked ridiculous—bare-faced, sleepy-eyed, hair still damp from his shower, and way too amused for someone about to have a first-timer drag a razor across his face.

you stared at him for a second, holding the razor awkwardly. “you know i’ve never shaved anyone else before, right?”

“mm-hmm,” he hummed.

“like, i know how to shave my legs and stuff, but this is your face. your pretty face. what if i mess up?”

he opened one eye. “you won’t. i trust you.”

you groaned and leaned in to press some foam onto his jaw. “you’re so annoying. why are you always sweet when i’m trying to be mad at you?”

he smiled, lips still sealed, and made a little mmm sound to tease you.

you rolled your eyes and started carefully spreading the foam across his face, moving slowly like it was some kind of art project. the cream coated his jawline and chin easily, but then he opened his mouth slightly to speak—

“stop.”

you pointed the nozzle directly at his lips. “i’m warning you.”

he blinked, then tried to say something again, just to be difficult.

so you squirted a big blob right over his mouth.

“there,” you said proudly. “you talk too much anyway.”

his eyes widened. he made a muffled noise and reached up to wipe it, but you slapped his hand away.

“nope. hands down. let the professional work.”

he laughed through his nose, head tilted back slightly as you brought the razor closer to his face.

you moved slow at first, dragging the blade carefully across his cheek. every tiny scratchy sound made you more nervous, but mingyu didn’t even flinch. he just sat there quietly, eyes flicking up to yours every now and then, like he was studying your face more than he cared about his own.

you paused halfway through and frowned. “do i… go up or down?”

he tapped the counter behind you twice with his fingers — his way of saying ‘down.’

you nodded to yourself. “right. that makes sense. i think.”

he made another sound, like a muffled laugh, but you just wiped more foam on him to shut him up again.

“this is harder than it looks,” you said under your breath. “you have such a big face.”

he pointed to himself proudly. big face, big brain.

you rolled your eyes and kept shaving.

it took longer than you thought. he had a lot of facial hair, and you were being extra careful not to nick him. your hands were a little shaky at first, but eventually, the rhythm settled. foam, razor, wipe. again. again.

at one point, you felt his eyes on you again — really watching you this time — and you glanced at him.

“what?”

he shrugged slightly.

“you’re staring.”

he raised both brows and gestured like you’re cute, duh.

you narrowed your eyes at him. “stop being romantic. i’m holding a blade.”

he smiled through the foam. “mmph.”

finally, you finished the last section on his neck and stepped back, exhaling like you just ran a marathon.

“okay. done. don’t touch anything yet.”

he sat still, eyes curious, while you grabbed a damp cloth and gently wiped the leftover cream from his skin. the towel was warm from the water and smelled like your fabric softener. you could feel the way his skin was smooth now under it, freshly shaved and clean.

he didn’t say anything, just let you wipe his face like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“there,” you said softly. “mission complete.”

he reached up to touch his face and let out a soft, impressed, “woah.”

you blinked. “what? did i miss a spot?”

he grinned. “no. it’s good. really good.”

you looked at him suspiciously. “you’re not just saying that to make me feel better, right?”

he stood up and leaned down to kiss your forehead, hands on your waist. “nope. you actually did a great job.”

you felt yourself smiling as you leaned into his chest. “i was scared the whole time. you’re lucky i love you.”

“i know,” he said, kissing the side of your head. “i could feel the love in every terrified little stroke.”

you smacked his shoulder lightly, laughing. “shut up. go get ready. you’re gonna be late.”

“don’t wanna leave now,” he mumbled, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on top of your head. “you just pampered me. feels wrong to go.”

“mingyu.”

“okay, okay,” he sighed, finally pulling away and heading to the bedroom.

you stayed behind to clean up the mess — foam on the sink, water on the floor, the little towel you used to wipe his face. five minutes later, he came back out fully dressed, wearing that navy button-up you loved.

you paused when you saw him. “you look really good.”

he smiled and opened his arms dramatically. “because my amazing wife shaved me.”

you laughed, stepping into his hug again. “yeah, yeah. just don’t let anyone else touch that face today.”

“only you,” he said easily. “always.”

you walked him to the door and kissed him goodbye — once, then again, because he always stole a second one.

“text me when you get there,” you reminded him.

“i will.”

“and don’t skip lunch just ‘cause you’re busy.”

“i won’t.”

you watched him leave, the front door clicking shut behind him, and let out a breath.

quiet mornings like this were your favorite — where nothing big happened, but everything still felt soft and full. shaving cream in your hair, mingyu being annoying in the best way, your little apartment filled with sleepy laughter.

this was marriage.

this was love.

this was yours.

do not copy or repost my work // @ jaysng

[stellewriites]

sweet kisses in my embrace

cw: noncon, non-penetrative sex, alcohol, messyyyy

it was only the third time you’d been out with johnny after meeting him online and you were pretty drunk.

you hadn’t meant to drink so much, but he’d brought so many cans of sweet tasting gin & tonic you’d not realised just exactly how much you’d had to drink while sat in the back of his truck, star gazing in the middle of nowhere, away from the city.

not your brightest move.

“anyone ever tell you how gorgeous y’are, hen?”

you covered your mouth with a clumsy hand as you giggled, flushed happily and tipsy as you turned to look at him laid beside you in the bed of the truck.

“so stunning,” he continued and leant up on one elbow to hover over you. he cupped your neck and jaw in his large palm and urged you to tilt up slightly to meet his hungry kiss.

he was oppressive from the start, coaxing your mouth open wide enough to fit his tongue in beside yours, moaning and panting even as you tried to shift in his hold to catch your breath at the heavy and sudden onslaught. and though he didn’t gentle you into a romantic kiss like you’d imagined after your first date, and instead bullied his way between your thighs as he bit and sucked at your lips, his actions weren’t mean; just rabid and yearning.

“christ on the cross, yer gon’ kill me,” he huffed, finally giving you a moment to catch your breath. he pressed your foreheads together as he settled his hips close to yours.

swallowing thickly, you pushed uncertainly against his shoulders. “uhm, johnny, can we— could we slow down a little?” he hitched up the bottom of your dress before you’d even finished the hesitant question and you squealed as your legs were bared to the cold evening air, flashing the ravenous man above you up to your hips. “johnny!”

you could feel the thick sewn seam of his jeans press against your vulva beneath the thin cotton of your panties as he rested his hips heavily against yours. you wiggled, pushing clumsily at him with alcohol-weak hands as an uncomfortable heat mixed with the gin in your stomach when he ducked down to kiss you again.

“promise i won’t touch ye,” he whispered into your mouth hoarsely. “won’t go no further yet. ‘s no’ proper, ah know.”

his hips shifted against yours; a jerky, unsubtle grind, and he whimpered when you tried to buck him off, your feet skittering for traction on the blanketed truck bed.

"still in mah jeans 'n' you’ve already got me close," he confessed under his breath with a bashful giggle, sucking on your neck when you turned your face away from his sloppy tongue.

“johnny,” you panted. “stop—”

“keep sayin’ mah name, hen, c’mon,” he huffed and leant into you further, his heavy shoulder pinning you in place as he used his hands to unbutton his jeans and shift them to just below his arse.

the outline of his hard cock was unmistakable now and you cringed at the hot press of it against your centre. with the way he had you pressed flat, his face hovering close, you couldn’t look down to see the growing wet patch on his boxers where the tip of his cock was leaking profusely.

“johnn— uhngg!”

you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the moan he’d forced from you, his thrusts heavy and pointed.

he grinned and muscled what few centimetres he could get closer between your thighs, hitching one of your legs higher over his hip before letting his hand drift up to your tits. he squeezed meanly, his fingers pinching the perked nipple underneath the thin material while he watched for your body’s reaction dazedly. the way your skin prickled, the hitch in your breaths that pushed your breast further into his clever fingers… the sharp insistent pain took away from the buzzing pleasure of his cock nudging against your clit, but only slightly.

johnny’s forehead pressed to the sweaty skin of your shoulder where the strap of your dress had slipped so he could gaze down at your chest and between your legs while keeping you in place.

you slapped his hand away from your breast with a wince and he dropped it down to his cock and slipped it out of the fly. when you yanked at his hair viciously to try and move him, thinking you’d gained ground, he gave a pleasured hiss and rested up on his elbow, just enough for you to have space to look down and unexpectedly catch sight of his cock weeping over your panties.

your grip grew weak and he rested a broad hand over your lower abdomen to pin you still as he sat up to get a better angle to rub his cock against the admittedly dampening gusset of your underwear.

when you only jerked in his hold, your arms growing laxer by the minute as they pushed against his chest and slipping down to hold his biceps, he moved the hand lower. it rested over your pubic mound and he hooked his thumb over his cock to keep it lined up perfectly as he thrust his hips forward into yours, guiding it to slip over your pussy and nudge at your clit until you started moaning again.

he dropped down to kiss you, holding your mouth open as he soaked up your bitten back noises greedily and swapped them for his own brazen groans.

“want to cum? hm?” he asked with hazy eyes. “want me tae make ye cum, hen?”

he didn’t give you time to answer before his hand was cupping your heat and he chuckled breathlessly at the sticky wetness that had began to soak through the thin cotton barrier.

one finger pushed at your opening, stopped only by the taut stretch of your knickers and he hissed, his hips jerking against the crease of your thigh and groin. encouraged by your evident arousal, he slipped his hand beneath your panties and rubbed his thumb a touch too hard and too fast against your bundle of nerves.

you gasped and your hips jumped up against his hand as you felt your core tighten and your legs shake beside his hips in anticipation.

“johnny,” you whined, and gripped tight onto his shirt. your hips rolled against the thick pad of his thumb and you clenched your eyes closed as your orgasm rolled through you.

johnny’s fingers twitched against your labia, barely holding on to his earlier promise as he felt the flood of wet warmth soak from your opening against his fingertips. he pushed his forehead roughly against yours as you sighed and pulled his hand out of your underwear to grip his cock tight. he ignored your whimpers from the loss of his hand to lazily hump against, no longer able to ride the waves of your distancing orgasm.

he tugged on his cock roughly, angrily, as he panted and moaned against your cheek, the skin becoming warm and wet.

he came quickly with a rabid groan. a half growl that had you shivering beneath him and he aimed his spend to land on top of your drenched panties, to soak with your own pleasure.

he slapped his sensitive cockhead against your clit before dragging it down to push against the soppen gusset and your clenching hole hidden behind the translucent material.

he coaxed out the last of his cum with a firm hand and groaned lewdly at the sight of you beneath him, flushed sweetly, sweaty in the pits, and rumpled beyond measure. he knew his own cheeks were ruddy with exertion.

he slipped his cock back into the confines of his boxers and pulled his jeans back up without closing them. he patted your hip, two solid smacks of his palm, and left your dress hiked up.

“fucking hell, hen,” he huffed as he slumped to the side of you. “so glad we came out here tonight.”

you stared up at the stars without blinking and shivered at the breeze of cold air.

[notiddygothgf]

i.

★ pairings: dante (netflix dmc) x fem reader

★ summary: After a messy breakup with Dante and a year of silence, you've rebuilt your life from the ground up. Now, Dante's back, and one thing is clear — he's determined to make you his.

★ ❝ It's been exactly 365 since I've seen your face ❞

★ c.w.:dante being a little shit, suggestive content. not beta'd, reuploading bc it got taken down?

★ a/n:HIIIIIIIII!!!! okay so i put out a poll asking about how y'all would feel if i posted a dante fic, and omg. so many of you replied. so now here go ahead and take this shit!! damn!!! jk i want him so bad so yk i had to rush to get this done LMFAOOAOA. enjoy besties! if you're from around here, you know the drill. if not, please leave lots of comments, i love the spam and your praise gives me motivation to update quicker!!

★ w.c: 10k

pretty ; chapter index

YOU AND DANTE had a messy breakup. Contrary to how it may have seemed at the time of “The Argument” (as you had begun calling it), there was nothing sudden about it. It didn’t detonate like some sort of time bomb, but disintegrated rather slowly – like water trickling through the cracks in the cement, soft and patient, until one day everything just caved in.

It didn’t always feel that way.

When you had first met Dante, it was… effortless. (Some of which was the rose colored glasses’ doing, you were sure). He was cute as hell, first of all. He was funny, too. He had no problems laughing you right out of your panties on the first date, and… well, practically every night after that. He looked at you like you were everything to him – like a dream come true, like he couldn’t believe someone like you would actually have chosen him. You got along famously.

For a while, things stayed that way. Six months, in fact. Things were good. Simple. You’d wake up to his arms around you, his voice in your ear, calling you names that only sounded pretty falling from his lips – princess, babydoll, sweetheart. His stupid jokes – the ones that always used to make you crack a tired grin. He used to make time.

But, somewhere along the way, his job started taking more and more of him. Late nights began to bleed into early mornings. You’d wait up for him with leftovers gone cold and shows paused halfway through. At first, he apologized. Said he hated missing out on time with you. But then the apologies stopped, and so did the explanations. You’d go days without hearing from him. Sometimes weeks. You’d text—hey, you okay?, can you call when you're free?—and the replies would trickle in too late or not at all.

You tried to be understanding. People get busy, right? Life gets in the way. You told yourself that a strong relationship should be able to weather a few quiet days. But it was more than just quiet. It was absence. It was like he was slipping through your fingers and pretending he wasn’t.

And when you did talk, it was always surface-level. You’d try to tell him how it made you feel—how the silence scared you, how you felt like you were in this alone—and he’d get defensive. He’d say, “I’m doing my best,” or “You know how much pressure I’m under right now.” And you’d bite your tongue. You didn’t want to add to the weight on his shoulders. But the resentment kept building. You weren’t asking for the world. Just a check-in. A sign that he still remembered how to love you when things got hard.

The miscommunications started small. A forgotten anniversary dinner. A vague answer when you asked if he’d be home. But they stacked up like dominoes, one after the other, until the smallest push sent everything toppling. You both stopped speaking the same language. You’d say, “I miss you,” and he’d hear, “You’re not good enough.” He’d say, “I’m tired,” and you’d hear, “You don’t matter.”

Then came the argument. The big one. The one that split the foundation.

You were setting the table when he buzzed the apartment door.

It was 10:18 PM.

You stared at the intercom for a second before pressing the button to let him in. No words. No "I'm here" or "Sorry I'm late." Just the click of the door unlocking and silence.

You opened the door before he could knock. Dante stepped in looking like hell—literal hell. Blood on his sleeve, eyes sunken from lack of sleep, hair damp like he’d tried to rinse off whatever mess he’d walked through before coming to you. He smelled like copper and smoke and exhaustion.

Still, your heart lifted for a beat just seeing him. Stupid, soft reflex.

“Hey,” you said.

He nodded. “Hey.”

You stepped aside and let him in. He didn’t kiss you. Didn’t touch you. Just dropped his duffel by the door like he was clocking out of something. The sight of him like this—tired, distant, barely standing—it tugged at something in your chest.

“I made dinner,” you said, a little too hopeful. “It’s probably cold by now, but—”

“I’m not hungry,” he cut in, already moving toward the couch.

You stood in the kitchen for a second, hands still resting on the back of one of the chairs. Watching him. He sat with a grunt, elbows on knees, head in his hands like gravity was pressing harder than usual. You knew that posture. It meant don’t ask questions. Don’t start anything. Just let him sit in the silence.

But tonight… you couldn’t.

It had been a week. A week without him. A week of one-word texts, unanswered calls, and too many nights alone, replaying old conversations in your head trying to figure out when exactly he started slipping through your fingers.

“I waited,” you said softly. “I thought you were coming at eight.”

He didn’t look at you. “Got held up.”

You waited. Hoped for more. An apology. An explanation. Something that showed he realized this mattered.

Nothing.

You took a slow breath. “Dante… you can’t keep doing this.”

That made him lift his head, eyes hazy with irritation. “Doing what?”

“This,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Ghosting me for a week. Showing up in the middle of the night like it’s nothing. Acting like I’m just supposed to—what? Pretend we’re fine?”

His jaw tensed. “I’ve been working.”

“I know,” you said, voice sharper than you meant. “I know you’ve been working. Risking your life. I get it. But I can’t keep pretending like I don’t care when you disappear. I can’t keep sitting alone in this apartment wondering if you’re alive.”

He blinked, like the words didn’t land right. Or like he didn’t want them to.

“You think I enjoy this?” he muttered. “You think I like being stuck in some sewer for three days bleeding out while some freak tries to tear me apart?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“You have no idea what it’s like out there.”

“No,” you snapped, stepping forward. “But I know what it’s like in here. Waiting. Checking my phone every five minutes. Making excuses for you. Pretending this doesn’t hurt because I’m scared if I say the wrong thing, you’ll just disappear again.”

He stood then, sudden and sharp. “You think I want to be like this?”

“I think you don’t know how to let people in,” you said, quieter now. “And I think I’ve been trying so damn hard to hold onto something that doesn’t want to be held.”

He stared at you, breathing hard, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t cook for someone who wasn’t going to show up,” you said.

The room went still.

He looked away first. Scrubbed a hand down his face. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

Your voice cracked on that last word, and he looked at you again—really looked this time. And for a second, something in him softened. Like he saw the version of you that wasn’t angry or nagging or dramatic. Just hurting.

But he didn’t reach for you.

Didn’t say I’m sorry.

Didn’t say I missed you.

Just ran a hand through his hair and said, “Maybe this isn’t working.”

Not working?

Not working?

“You can’t be serious,” You huffed out a bitter laugh. Dante reached for you. You swatted him away. “You… We’ve been together for six months. What the fuck do you mean “Maybe this isn’t working”?”

He stood before you with his arms crossed, white hair still disheveled from his day, eyes narrowed, jaw ticked. “I mean that this…” He answered, gesturing to the space between you and him. “Isn’t working out. I don’t think– I can’t…” He swallowed, “I can’t be the man you need me to be. Not right now.”

“You’re gonna give up on us? Just like that?” You continued, still, with tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. Then, you stepped forward, raising a hand to reach out for him, “I love you, Dante. You’re not gonna fight for us?”

“This isn’t love,” He spoke, tone final, but the slightest trembling breath beneath his words betrayed his true feelings. His fingers slipped into his hair, trembling as they carded through his white locks and tugged at his roots. “Look at you– you don’t even see the problem. You shouldn’t have to worry about whether or not your boyfriend is gonna come back alive. You shouldn’t have to put your whole life on hold for me. You still have the whole world to see. I don’t want to have to live a double life anymore.”

“Then let me in!” You hissed back. Your arms were crossed, too. “Do you think I like feeling as if I don’t know the man I love? I could take some of the burden off your shoulders, Dante, if you just–”

“Enough,” Dante sucked his teeth. “I don’t want you wasting your life away worrying over me,” After a lengthy pause, he continued, “All we ever do is fight and fight and fight– I can’t do this anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore, not with you. You’d be much happier without me.”

He was probably right.

“Oh, fuck you,” you shouted, your voice cracking with fury, but even then, it wasn’t enough to hide the way your heart was shattering inside your chest. When your eyes finally met his, you knew he felt the heat of it—anger and hurt and betrayal, all coiled together like fire licking at his skin.

“You’re not going to decide what’s best for me.”

“Yes, I am,” he snapped, cold and absolute.

You took a step forward, trembling, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might break. “You don’t know what’s good for my well-being,” you bit back, chest heaving. “You don’t even know what’s good for your well-being.”

That hit him. You saw it in the way his lips pressed into a thin line, how his teeth caught the inside of his cheek like he was chewing on the guilt. Then he said the words that broke you:

“You could be so much happier without me.”

And just like that, everything inside you stopped.

Something in your gaze must’ve shifted then—something that startled even him. Because the anger didn’t burn quite as bright anymore. The fire was still there, but it flickered lower, smothered by something glassy, something wet clinging to your lashes. It was hurt. Real hurt. Deep, bone-deep heartbreak that swelled until your chest couldn’t contain it.

“Baby…” he sighed, and for the first time, his voice wasn’t sharp. His shoulders dropped like the weight of his decision had finally started to crush him. “I’m sorry. You know I love you. I just… I can’t live with myself knowing that one day I might not come back to you.”

You didn’t say it back.

Not this time.

Even if you wanted to. Even if your love for him still pulsed through every inch of your body, even if it begged for a reason to stay—how could you keep loving someone who was walking away from you like this?

Your lips parted, dry and trembling. You licked them slowly, like maybe the right words would come if you just gave them time. But all you could manage, hoarse and raw, was: “Take your shit…” You swallowed hard. God, it hurt. It hurt worse than anything he could’ve done. “And go.”

He froze.

“What?” he asked, stunned, like he hadn’t expected you to mean it. Like he thought you’d plead. Cry. Kiss him one more time just to remember what it felt like. Like you’d make it easier for him to leave you.

But you didn’t.

“I said…” You looked up at him, every inch of you on fire, your arms folded so tight across your chest they ached. You could feel yourself shaking—fists clenched, breath shallow. “Take your shit… and get the fuck out of my apartment.”

And you meant it.

Even if it destroyed you.

You saw the pain in his eyes then. The flicker of disbelief. The way his entire world seemed to crumble at your feet. Two years. Two whole years. Twenty-four months of laughter, late nights, shared secrets, and silent apologies. A thousand soft I love yous whispered between sheets. A thousand more unspoken.

Was he second-guessing it now? Did he finally realize what he was throwing away?

YOU

|  Guys we’re going out tn.

When you reached the bar, it was still early. There were a few people here, but not too many. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses provided the background noise that you desperately craved.

You grabbed a seat at the bar and ordered a whiskey, the burn in your throat just sharp enough to make you feel something—anything, really. It felt like you were drinking to forget, and the first sip seemed to help, dulling the edges of the ache, if only for a moment.

Your friends noticed you as soon as they walked in. They must have heard the difference in your voice when you answered their text. They could tell something was off, but they didn’t press. Not immediately.

The first drink turned into another. And another. You weren’t trying to get drunk; you were just trying to escape. To lose yourself in the clinking of ice cubes, in the low hum of the bar, in something that wasn’t him. But as the minutes passed, the alcohol didn’t do much to stop your thoughts from spiraling back to him.

You thought about the night before. The argument. His face, so conflicted, yet resolute. The way he walked away without even a second glance, as if he knew the decision he was making was the right one. How could he be so sure? How could he leave you like that?

“Another?” one of your friends asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. She was smiling, but there was a glimmer of concern in her eyes.

You didn’t even think about it before nodding. “Yeah,” you said, a forced smile on your lips. "Just one more."

You didn’t want to talk about Dante. Not yet. You didn’t want to explain to anyone why you felt like the world had been yanked out from under you. But it didn’t matter. Your friends could see it in your eyes. They didn’t need you to say a word.

No, a year ago, your life changed.

So, you can imagine how it felt to walk home from a day spent at the grocery store, bags tucked beneath your arms, and see him standing there.

Dante.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him, and you were doing just fine. Really. A little grocery shopping to get your mind off the usual stuff, a bag of chips here, some pasta there. You didn’t need Dante in your life anymore, and if you were being honest, you were doing better without him. You had a boyfriend now, someone who didn’t make you question your sanity. Things were... uncomplicated.

That was until you turned the corner and saw him.

Dante. Standing there across the street, looking like he’d just stepped out of a scene from some movie you hadn’t signed up for. There he was, all messy hair and that familiar red coat, like he didn’t have a care in the world. You froze for a second, staring at him as if your eyes were playing tricks. Was he actually here? In your world, in your life, right now?

Of course he was. Why wouldn’t he be? The universe had a sick sense of humor.

You immediately felt that familiar wave of annoyance—was it even annoyance? Maybe it was exhaustion, or some mix of both. You adjusted the grocery bags under your arms and took a deep breath. You were doing just fine. He was not about to mess with your day.

But Dante, being Dante, didn’t just stand there. No, he was coming toward you now, his long stride eating up the space between you with an unsettling familiarity.

Great, you thought, shifting the weight of your bags to one side as if they were the only thing that mattered right now. But in truth, you were already calculating the best possible escape route. The crosswalk? Too far. The alley to your left? Maybe, but the sidewalk was too narrow. Okay, girl. Focus.

You picked up the pace, shifting into a power walk as though your life depended on it. Sure, you looked a little ridiculous, but it was a small price to pay for a little peace and quiet. You weren’t looking back. Not now.

Behind you, you could hear Dante’s footsteps closing in, his voice trailing after you, “Hey, wait up!”

But you didn’t wait up. No way.

You’d moved on. You had a boyfriend now, someone who would never make you feel like a damn emotional rollercoaster. Someone who didn’t show up after a year of radio silence with that same unreadable stare, acting like nothing happened. No, Dante. No thank you.

Still, you could hear his footsteps, gaining on you. It was like an unspoken challenge. You had to admit, he wasn’t slow. But neither were you. You adjusted the bags once again—damn, this was turning into a workout—and picked up the pace.

You weren’t going to make it easy for him. You weren’t even going to acknowledge the way your heart still remembered his presence, the way it beat a little faster the closer he got. You weren't going to let yourself get sucked back into that mess.

His voice was closer now. “Come on, just—”

A sigh. You were really doing this, weren’t you?

A glance over your shoulder, just a quick flick of the eyes to see how much ground he’d covered, and what do you know? He was right behind you now, practically breathing down your neck. “I’m just trying to catch up, alright?”

Catch up? You weren’t sure whether to laugh or groan at that. This wasn’t a race, Dante, and you didn’t need a personal trainer chasing you down the sidewalk. You could already feel the annoying tightness in your chest. The one that had always been there whenever he was around, the one that reminded you of how difficult it had been to move on in the first place.

He was getting too close for comfort now, and you could already tell this wasn’t going to end well if you kept this pace. So, against every instinct telling you to keep walking, you slowed down just enough for him to catch up. You didn’t want to, but here he was, breathing like he’d run a marathon just to get you to stop. And for what? So he could talk?

He stopped beside you, his eyes searching your face with that all-too-familiar intensity. His chest heaved slightly, probably from the exertion, but you’d be damned if you showed any signs of weakness.

For a second, he just stood there, catching his breath. You, on the other hand, kept your eyes straight ahead, acting like you hadn’t just sprinted for your life.

“Alright, listen,” he said, voice softer now, “I know I messed up. But can we at least—”

You didn’t even look at him as you interrupted, the words spilling out before you could stop them. “I can’t. I have to go.”

And that was that. You didn’t need to say anything else. You couldn’t afford to.

You were done.

That night, you stood in front of the bathroom mirror, hair tied up into a neat little bonnet. The faucet was running – lukewarm water trickling out – but you weren’t washing up. No, you were standing there, letting the water drip down your eyes, your cheeks, your neck. You were staring at your tired reflection.

You should’ve been washing away the exhaustion of the day, but instead, you just let it fall over you, droplets slipping down your face, down your chest, almost as if you were trying to wash away the past.

But you couldn’t. No matter how much water hit your skin, how much you scrubbed away at your tired reflection, you couldn’t erase him. Dante. He was there, in the back of your mind, in the way your pulse quickened when you saw him again, after all this time. It had been a year, and yet, when you looked at him across the street, the world seemed to stop for a moment. It was like stepping back into a dream.

You hadn’t realized how much of your heart you’d given to him, how much of yourself you’d let him take. And then, nothing. No texts, no calls, no explanation. Just silence, stretching on for months, the gap between you two growing wider, until you started to convince yourself that maybe that was for the best. Maybe you were better off without him, your life finally starting to take shape without the constant ache of waiting for him to come back, to acknowledge the mess he left behind.

Cupping your hands beneath the faucet, you splashed some more water onto your face. God, I need therapy.

But, being that your current rent situation didn’t exactly permit a visit to the psychologist at the moment, you threw your favorite fuzzy robe over your satin cami and shorts, popping your feet into your beat up pink slippers. You shuffled right over to your bedroom and plopped down onto the bed, limbs falling uselessly to the mattress.

Kill me, you thought.

That wasn’t viable, though. So, instead, you reached into your nightstand (past the vibrator you had bought eight months ago during the worst part of your dry streak) and pulled out a sheet mask. Biting into the package, you opened it and pulled the slimy thing out. The serum melted into your skin as you laid it over your face, leaning your head back against the pillows and relaxing for the first time in what felt like ages.

Your head was blissfully empty. There were no thoughts of men with precarious jobs and swords and… devilishly handsome faces. No, it was just you. You and your favorite pajamas and your favorite skincare routine.

You flicked the TV on. You didn’t have to change it back to your favorite channel. No, that was the glory of having a shitty little apartment in the city to yourself. It was on the same channel you left off on – your favorite drama.

The characters buzzed to life. You set the remote down and watched.

The characters on screen started a new conflict, one that you knew would keep you hooked for the next hour. You sank deeper into the couch, letting the familiar warmth of your apartment wash over you. Everything was quiet. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only comes when you're truly alone.

Then, the sound came. A soft knock at the window outside your room, followed by a long, drawn-out silence. Your heart skipped, the peace broken. You froze, eyes still locked on the TV, the characters' voices fading into the background as your mind reeled. It was too late for anyone to be outside. Too late for anything normal to be happening. Another knock, louder this time. A rhythmic tap that sent a shiver down your spine. You slowly turned your head toward the window, your pulse quickening.

Oh, God, you thought. I’m going to die.

Still, because you couldn’t exactly ignore the sound, you slid out of your warm, comfortable bed and into your slippers once more. Then, hesitating every single step of the way, you snuck into the living room, glancing around in search of the source of the sound.

Another knock. This one louder. You held your breath, hand hovering just above the blinds. It was coming from outside. No one else came to your apartment at this hour. You knew who it had to be.

You glanced down.

There, crouched on the balcony just below your window, was Dante. His face was half-lit by the streetlights, a little smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he waved at you. As if it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn’t disappeared for an entire year. Like you hadn’t spent every sleepless night wondering if he was dead or alive, missing his presence as if your heart had been torn in half.

The audacity of it. There he was, grinning like nothing had changed. His hair was messy, his eyes gleaming with that same mischievous spark that used to drive you crazy. The same spark that made your chest ache, even now.

“He cannot be serious,” you muttered, voice barely above a whisper, but he caught it, his grin widening.

You could almost feel his eyes on you, waiting, daring you to say something. But you couldn’t. What could you even say?

All you could do was crack the window open.

“Sorry,” He huffed out a laugh. A familiar one. One you… kinda missed, actually. “I tried calling, but I think you blocked my number.”

“I got a new phone,” You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose and squeezing your eyes shut as if that would make this situation any better – as if you would open your eyes and he wouldn’t be here.

But he was. 

“What the fuck are you even doing here– I mean– the balcony, Dante, really?” You threw your hands out, eyes full of exasperation. “You could have knocked at the door like a normal person.”

“Would you have answered?” He asked. “If you knew it was me?”

“Probably not,” You replied honestly. “I should leave you out here to freeze to death.”

“Oh, right, about that,” He laughed, rubbing the back of his head abashedly. The entire encounter was so absurd that a part of you firmly believed you were dreaming. “I found out I’m, like… half demon. Crazy, right? So I don’t think I would freeze to death. Demon stamina, or whatever.”

Demon stamina. You thought. Right. Definitely awake right now.

Still, that would certainly explain his… endurance.

“Okay…” You had many, many questions, but that was the only thing you could muster, “Should I be… scared?”

What the fuck is going on?

In all honesty, if he told you that the world was ending tomorrow, you wouldn’t be surprised.

“Nah,” He waved your concerns away with the back of his hand. “I’d never hurt you. Except for… well, when I broke up with you. That’s why I came here, actually. Sorry about that. I’ve done some reflection and I…” Suddenly appearing rather nervous, he trailed off, “I fucked up. I was a real asshole to you back then. God, this is hard.”

Your arms dropped to your sides as you stared at him, completely dumbfounded. “You’re… ridiculous.”

“I know,” Dante said, hands up like he was surrendering. “But hear me out—”

“No, no. You don’t get to just Spider-Man your way onto my balcony, confess your demon heritage, and then act like this is normal,” you said, pointing to him like you were trying to make sense of a hallucination. “You broke up with me out of nowhere. Then you vanished. For a year, Dante. Not a word. Not even a shitty text.”

“I didn’t have a phone,” he replied, offended. “I was on a mission. I was in Hell.”

You snorted. “Oh, please.”

He blinked at you. Then, very seriously, he hissed out, “No, I was literally in Hell. For a year. You can’t imagine what that was like for me.”

“Oh my god.” You pressed your fingers to your temples. “You’re insane. Hell? Really?”

“I’m not making it up! You think I wanted to ghost you for twelve months?”

“Well, you kind of did. You broke up with me, remember?” You crossed your arms. “Said I should forget you. That I should move on.”

A pregnant pause.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” he muttered.

“Well, congrats. I moved on. I did the whole crying on the bathroom floor thing, I got a therapist, I drank my sorrows away, I bought this plant—” You gestured wildly at the lonely fern in the corner. “His name is Rico. And he’s thriving. Without you.”

Rico was not, in fact, thriving. He was an exotic plant. One you had purchased on impulse at a farmer’s market that you definitely should have researched prior. He wasn’t doing too well cooped up inside of your apartment in New York City. Who would?

Dante crouched down, tilting his head, squinting at Rico. “Looks a little dehydrated.”

You glared. “So do you. What do you even want, Dante?”

His mouth opened, then closed. He looked down for a second, suddenly quiet. “I want a do-over.”

You stared at him.

“I didn’t have much control over the whole… trapped-in-hell thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck again, “but I wasn’t happy with how we ended things. I could’ve been better to you. I kept rehearsing what I’d say to you if I ever saw you again, but I wasn’t expecting it to actually happen.”

He’s not being serious

… Is he?

One look at him, and you knew he was.

You let out a long, flat breath. “We can’t.”

“Why?”

You raised your brows. “Because we can’t,” you said again, quieter this time. And this time, it hurt.

“Why?” He asked, as if you hadn’t made yourself perfectly clear. “I’ve changed, honest. The past year I spent without you, I realized how good you were to me. How I took you for granted – I don’t wanna let you go. I don’t wanna make the same mistake twice.”

Aw, you thought, That’s… kinda sweet, actually.

No. Stop that.

Instead, you propped your hand up on your hip, “Does that mean you won’t be here on my balcony ever again?”

He paused, pursed his lips. “Okay, maybe I would,” He finally admitted. “But if you would let me in–”

You cut him off right then and there, rolling your eyes. “I can’t, Dante. I have a fucking boyfriend.”

That hit its mark.

His mouth opened, then closed again. The silence that followed made you uncomfortable in a way only Dante could manage—equal parts awkward and guilty. He looked down at the floor of the balcony like maybe it had some hidden message for him.

“Oh…” he murmured. “Oh. You… You really moved on.”

“Something like that.” You shrugged, trying not to sound as tired as you felt. “That’s what happens when you disappear for a year. Life goes on.”

“Not for me,” he muttered, lips curling downward into a pout that would’ve been funny if it didn’t come attached to so much damn history. “Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest.” Then he added, almost too fast, like it slipped out before he could filter it, “I could probably fuck you better, too—”

He probably could. Honestly, your current sex life with your current boyfriend wasn’t the greatest. Still, he was consistent. He didn’t leave you hanging for nights in a row, wondering if he would come home. Not to mention the fact that, when you were with Dante, well…

You had some of the loveliest orgasms you had ever had. On the bed, on the floor, on the kitchen counter. The kind of orgasm you hadn’t achieved once since he had left. Not with your vibrator, and certainly not with your new boyfriend.

Your stare could’ve burned through glass. “I have to be up early tomorrow.”

He had the decency to look vaguely ashamed, but not enough to shut up. “Did you come here just to ask for a do-over?” you asked, already backing toward the window.

“No,” he said, and then paused. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe.”

You almost respected his commitment. Almost.

You didn’t respond right away, just stared at him— hair as white as starlight, red leather coat, sword still strapped to his back, ridiculous expression like he genuinely thought charm could undo the year-long hole he’d left in your life. The silence made him fidget, scuffing the toe of his boot against the concrete.

“What do I have to do to convince you?”

You sighed. You really sighed this time, long and from the chest, because there was no point in even pretending this wasn’t exhausting.

“Goodnight, Dante,” you said.

Then… you shut the window.

The next day came with no promises of peace.

You were behind the counter at the diner, hair tied back, apron smudged with flour, oil, and maybe a little bit of your sanity. The coffee machine hissed in protest as you filled another mug for a trucker in the corner booth. Your feet hurt. Your head hurt. But at least it was a different kind of ache than the one Dante stirred up last night.

And then, like the universe had a personal vendetta against your emotional wellbeing, the bell above the door jingled.

You didn’t have to look up.

You felt him walk in—like some twisted sixth sense. The air shifted, and you could practically smell the cologne he always wore, something smoky and leather-soft. A second later, a voice followed.

“Damn. This place got a lot prettier since I was last here.”

You looked up anyway. Because of course you did.

There he was. Dante. Leaning casually against the host stand, all devil-may-care charm and a ridiculous leather jacket that made him look like he belonged anywhere but this greasy spoon diner. His eyes found you immediately.

You blinked slowly, then turned back to the coffee pot. “I swear to God,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m gonna lose my mind.”

He strolled right up to the counter, pulling up a stool like he hadn’t trespassed on your balcony twelve hours ago. Like he hadn’t cracked open an old wound and kissed the air with apologies.

“You look good in that apron,” he said, grinning.

You didn’t bother looking at him this time. “You look like someone who doesn’t tip well.”

“I tip amazing,” he argued. “Just like I–”

“Do me a favor and don’t finish that sentence,” you warned, grabbing a towel and wiping down a clean patch of counter for the hundredth time. “Have you always been this petulant or is it something in the air?”

“I’m a lot of things,” he said, shrugging innocently. “I’m a man of many talents. Want me to prove it? I’ve got time.”

Oh my god.

You finally turned to face him. “Do you not have demons to fight or… hell dimensions to get trapped in again?”

He laughed. “You remembered.”

You deadpanned, “How could I forget? It’s not every day your ex disappears into Hell without a cell phone.”

Dante lifted his hands like he was surrendering. “Okay, yeah, that’s fair. But look—I just thought we could talk. Maybe over some waffles? Syrup fixes a lot.”

You were already shaking your head. “No. Nope. I’m not doing this with you. Not here.”

“I’ll be good,” he said, drawing an imaginary halo over his head with his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a scout,” you replied flatly.

“And you were never this mean to me,” he said with mock hurt.

“You were never this annoying. Go piss off somewhere. You had no problems leaving me alone for a year,” you shot back. Then you waved down one of your coworkers—a sweet girl named Lila with a bright smile and no idea what kind of emotional tornado she was about to serve.

“Hey, Lila?” you called. “Can you take counter stool three for me?”

She blinked. “Uh, sure. You okay?”

“Peachy,” you said, handing her a menu. “He’s all yours.”

Dante blinked as Lila approached with her notepad, looking confused and a little betrayed. “Wait, seriously?”

You leaned over the counter slightly, voice low. “You want waffles? Order them. You want closure? Write a poem.”

And then you walked away. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. The ache in your chest was enough to tell you exactly what kind of expression he wore.

The living room was dark, lit only by the bluish haze of the TV screen flashing between killstreaks and loading screens. Your boyfriend was sunk deep into the couch, legs wide, controller gripped like a lifeline. He hadn’t looked at you in over twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his game, spewing half-hearted trash talk at some twelve-year-old with better aim and a louder mic.

You shifted beside him, stretching a little, brushing your leg against his. Nothing. So you leaned over, nuzzling your nose lightly against his neck, just beneath his jaw.

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice soft and sweet. You let your fingers slide down his chest, slow and teasing. “Want to take a little break?”

He flinched—not from desire, but because someone on screen shot him. Again.

“Babe, not now,” he mumbled, eyes glued to the game. “I’m in ranked.”

You pulled back a bit, blinking, mouth falling open in disbelief. “Seriously?”

He didn’t look at you. Just kept clicking buttons, dead focused on the screen. “Yeah, just like… fifteen more minutes. Can you make dinner or something?”

You stared at him, chest hollowing out in quiet, stunned offense. You’d offered him your body. He asked for food.

There was a moment of silence. Your hand dropped from his chest.

You sat back against the cushion, a little colder now, teeth pressing into your bottom lip. And that was when Dante’s voice—his voice—echoed in your head from the night before.

“Fuck that guy. I could treat you way better, honest. I could probably fuck you better, too—”

You closed your eyes briefly, scoffing under your breath. God, he was ridiculous. And yet…

You pushed yourself off the couch wordlessly, heading to the kitchen without a sound.

Behind you, your boyfriend called out, “You’re the best, babe!”

You didn’t answer. Not with words. Just slammed the fridge door a little harder than necessary.

And in the back of your mind, Dante's voice lingered like a splinter.

You turned the stove on, lips pressed into a thin, tired line. Maybe later you’d lie down and try to remember what it felt like to be romanced by someone who didn’t treat Call of Duty like a second girlfriend.

One incredibly sexless night later, you took the evening to decompress. That is, you lit up some candles, had a few slices of the pie you’d kept in your fridge for days just like this one, and blocked off an hour for the sole purpose of masturbation. 

What? You needed it.

The apartment was warm, dimly lit, perfectly still. You’d even put your phone on Do Not Disturb, because tonight was about you. Your fingers itched with anticipation as you laid out your night like a ritual: the robe slipping lower on your shoulder, the cool sheets turned down, your favorite toy already waiting on the nightstand like a promise.

God. You needed this. You were wound tight. Between work, the complete lack of passion from the man you were dating, and that absolutely deranged balcony visit from Dante… you were more than pent up. You were practically vibrating with unmet desire.

You let out a long, dramatic exhale, sinking down into your mattress with the kind of grace usually reserved for tragic heroines. Just you, a flickering candle, and the fantasy of literally anyone but your boyfriend.

You reached for the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Knock, knock.

Your hand froze.

You stared at the ceiling. Maybe it was a neighbor. Maybe someone had the wrong door.

Knock, knock. Louder this time. Three slow raps, followed by silence.

You sat up slowly, groaning into the air. Then, begrudgingly, you stuffed your vibrator back into the drawer, kicking your feet over the edge of the bed and walking into the living room. It was dark, of course, so you flicked on a light. When you stared into the peephole of your front door, it took all of the strength you had to not bang your head against the door.

It was Dante. Again. No leather jacket this time, just a black hoodie, hands jammed into the pockets of his sweatpants.

You blinked, then groaned into the back of your hand.

Another knock, like he heard you. And then, muffled through the wood, his voice.

“I can hear you in there. Demon hearing, remember?” He brought his head up to the peephole, staring right back at you. “I know it’s late, Just… let me talk to you? For just a second? Please?”

You pulled the door open.

Dante stood there in the dim hallway light, hair windswept, hands in his pockets like he’d been pacing outside for a while, working up the nerve. His gaze moved over your face with a kind of stunned reverence, like he hadn’t really believed he’d see you again.

“Hey, princess,” he said.

There it was. That nickname. The one you hadn’t heard in a year.

You stepped aside without a word. He walked in like the place still remembered him. Or maybe you did.

The door clicked shut behind you.

You didn’t speak. You leaned against the wall, arms crossed tight over your chest, watching him watch the room like it had changed without him. It had. You had. But he still looked at you like he saw the girl you were a year ago. That girl who let him ruin her, and smiled while doing it.

“I couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice low. “I tried.”

“Did you?” You answered.

“Okay, not really,” He looked at you again, more serious now. “I keep thinking about you. All the time. You’re in my head constantly, like—fuck—I’ll be walking down the street and I’ll see something and just need to tell you about it.”

You laughed. Just once. It came out bitter and exhausted. “Keep it to yourself.”

“I missed talking to you about anything,” he said. “Everything.”

You shook your head, pushing off the wall, pacing just a little—like if you kept moving, you wouldn’t fall for this again. “You don’t get to come back after vanishing for a year and say shit like that.”

“I know. I know I don’t,” he said quickly, stepping toward you. “But I can’t pretend anymore. I’ve been trying to act like– like I’m not completely in love with you still, and it’s killing me.”

Your breath caught.

After all of this time?

His hands reached for yours before you could stop him. You let him take them.

Okay… what the fuck is going on?

“You deserve someone who sees you. Someone who treats you like you matter every second of the day,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t take you for granted. I could be that. I want to be that.”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out. Because you’d heard those words before, from people who never meant them. From the person you’d curled up beside just last night, feeling more alone than ever. And yet here Dante was, saying all the right things—but he hadn’t even asked. He didn’t know.

He didn’t know how long it had been since someone had touched you like they meant it.

Your voice came out hoarse. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I know exactly what I’m saying,” he whispered. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “I think about you when I’m trying to sleep. I think about your laugh. Your stupid, shitty taste in TV. Your coffee order. The movies you like. I want that back. I want you back.”

You yanked your hands away, jaw tight.

He’s got a lot of fucking nerve.

“Don’t do this,” you said. “Don’t show up and say these things and make me feel like this again. You don’t even know what you left behind.”

He looked at you, eyes open and raw. “Then tell me. Let me make it right.”

“Go away, Dante.” you snapped.

Silence fell between you like a slammed door. You turned your back to him, trying to catch your breath.

Then he stepped in behind you.

Not touching, not quite—but close enough that you felt the heat of him. Close enough that your body remembered every inch of him like a phantom limb. 

“Hey,” he murmured. “I know I fucked up. Can you be… like, not so mad? Just for two seconds?”

His hand slid to your hip, turning you gently toward him. You let him, still trembling, still so full of everything you never got to say.

“I’ve been in love with you this whole time,” he whispered. “And I’m so fucking sorry.”

The words were genuine. Genuine enough that you felt the tears begin to prickle at your eyes all over again – emotional at the mere thought of him, because truthfully?

You missed him, too. You just didn’t want to admit it. You missed the late nights and later mornings. You missed waking up next to him, hearing him talk about his crazy adventures as a demon hunter. You missed his kisses, the smell of him, his everything.

And, God, the sex… The sex was great.

He was taller than you. Always had been. But in that moment, it felt impossible not to notice how much he towered over you—how his shadow swallowed yours, how the air itself seemed to dip around him. You didn’t want to look up at him, but you did.

You stood frozen, breath shallow, pulse racing in your throat. You didn’t want this. You shouldn’t want this. But here you were, locked in place, every part of you screaming to walk away, and every part of you still craving the comfort of his touch.

“Please…” You whispered, trying to fight the overwhelming tide of emotion. “Please, Dante. Just go.”

His expression softened, like he hadn’t expected that—like he was expecting something more. You felt his fingers on your waist now, and they were warm, pressing gently into your skin. There was no escape now. You weren’t sure you wanted to run anymore, not when it felt like your body was already betraying you.

“I shouldn’t be here, I know,” he said, his voice quieter now. The distance between you seemed to vanish with each word. “But I couldn’t stay away. I tried to forget about you, I tried so damn hard, but I couldn’t. I don’t want to.”

You swallowed hard, shaking your head. “Don’t, Dante. I can’t… I can’t do this.”

His eyes searched yours, the guilt and longing mixing together in a way that made your heart ache. He was close now, so close that you could feel his breath against your skin. You knew what was coming, but you didn’t stop him. Not yet.

“I know I fucked up,” he whispered again, more softly this time. “But I love you. I never stopped. And I can’t keep pretending I don’t. I just—I can’t be without you.”

And then, without waiting for another word, he leaned in.

His lips touched yours, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to pull away. But you didn’t. You didn’t stop him. For that moment, for that brief, heart-stopping moment, you let yourself fall back into the pull of him. Your hands found their way to his chest, clutching at his jacket like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

God, I missed this.

You melted against him, a wave of relief crashing over you as his kiss deepened, more urgent, more desperate. His tongue swept across your bottom lip, and you responded without thinking, your body moving instinctively against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hand sliding to your neck, the other pressing you closer.

You kissed him back like you were starving, like you had been dying for this. And for a moment, it was like nothing else mattered—like the last year of silence, the hurt, the betrayal, all of it faded away in the heat of his mouth on yours.

But then, just as quickly as the warmth had started, it turned cold.

You pulled away, gasping for air. Your chest heaved with the sudden rush of emotion. You couldn’t do this. Not again. Not after everything. Your hands shook as you pushed against his chest, creating just enough space to break the connection.

“No,” you said, your voice breaking as you stepped back, wiping at your eyes. “No. I can’t do this. I won’t.”

He blinked at you, stunned, his face pale, but he didn’t move. His eyes were full of confusion, pain, and something darker that you didn’t want to see.

“I can’t,” you repeated, voice steadying with every word. You took another step back, hand reaching for the door. “We can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

There it was.

“I’m sorry, Dante,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. “I really am.”

He stared at you for a long moment, and for the briefest second, you saw a flicker of something in his eyes – something devastating.

But then, he nodded. The motion was slow, almost resigned, and he took a step back. Without another word, he turned and walked toward the door. As he passed you, he stopped for a moment, his gaze lingering on you one last time.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

And then, he was gone.

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening.

You were sitting on the couch, the faint sounds of your boyfriend’s video game drifting from the other room, mingling with the hum of the refrigerator. You hated that noise—hated the sound of him so effortlessly immersed in a world that wasn’t yours, that didn’t care about the growing tension between the two of you. You tried to focus on the TV, tried to let the sitcom's canned laughter drown out the gnawing discomfort in your stomach. But it wasn’t working. You couldn’t stop thinking about what Dante had said.

I could treat you so much better.

Those words. God, they kept coming back to you. You didn’t want them to. You didn’t want to feel them pushing into every corner of your mind, making you question everything you thought you knew. But they did. And you were alone with those thoughts now. Alone with your insecurities that you usually kept locked away.

You huffed, pulling the blanket tighter around you as if it could protect you from the storm of doubt forming in your chest. You shouldn’t be thinking about him—about Dante. You should be thinking about how your boyfriend had been in and out of your life, barely there, barely present, always distracted. But the longer you sat there, the more it seemed like it was all just a reflection of the way you felt inside: disconnected, hollowed out, drifting.

And then, as if fate was timing it just perfectly, he left his phone on the counter.

Your breath caught, the phone staring at you like a challenge, like an invitation. You told yourself you wouldn’t. You promised you wouldn’t invade his privacy like this. But your fingers itched to touch it, to confirm the sinking feeling in your stomach that something—someone—wasn't right.

You pushed yourself off the couch, the decision feeling both slow and inevitable as you walked toward the kitchen. The phone sat innocently on the counter, waiting. You took a breath, a shaky, hesitant inhale. You could walk away. You could pretend you didn’t see it.

But you didn’t.

You picked it up, unlocking it with a simple swipe. Your heart hammered in your chest, adrenaline kicking in as if you were about to do something reckless. The phone screen lit up with messages from some unnamed number. And when you saw the first message, your throat tightened.

"I miss you so much. When can I see you again?"

It hit you hard. Like a punch to the gut. You hadn’t even had time to react before your eyes were scanning the next message, then the next, your stomach sinking deeper and deeper with every word.

“Last night was incredible. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

A sharp, painful gasp escaped you before you could stop it. You clutched the phone tighter, staring at the words, and then—bam—it all crashed into you. You hadn’t been wrong. You hadn’t been imagining the distance, the emotional coldness that had settled between you and your boyfriend. There it was, in black and white—proof of his betrayal.

You felt like you were drowning, suffocating under the weight of it all. This wasn’t just about the messages. It was about everything. About the endless late nights when he came home late from “work,” about the weekends when he’d disappear into his own world, leaving you to figure out where you fit into it. And now this—this confirmation that the man you had been with for so long wasn’t who you thought he was.

You could almost hear Dante’s voice again in your head. I could treat you so much better. The words felt like salt in a wound you hadn’t even realized you had, their presence almost suffocating in the quiet of your kitchen. Were you settling? Were you really going to let this happen? Let yourself get swallowed by someone who couldn’t even give you the decency of respect?

You exhaled sharply, your pulse quickening as the next message flashed on the screen.

“I can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

Babe.

The word made you sick, twisting your stomach into knots. You didn’t know why it bothered you so much—maybe because it wasn’t meant for you. Maybe because it was meant for someone else. Someone who got his attention, who got his time, his affection. It wasn’t you. You were just the woman he settled for, the one who wasn’t good enough for the effort.

The room felt too small, the air too thick, and you suddenly hated everything about this moment. The phone in your hand, the pit in your stomach, the way you had let things go on for this long. You could feel the tears start to prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back. You weren’t going to cry over this. You weren’t going to let him have that power over you.

But just as quickly, the rush of hurt was replaced by something else—a sharp anger that burned through you like fire. You weren’t going to keep doing this. You weren’t going to keep letting him make you feel small. You weren’t going to keep standing by, pretending that nothing was wrong when everything was falling apart around you.

You weren’t going to be the backup. The woman who stayed even though she knew she deserved more.

The sound of footsteps from the other room snapped you out of your thoughts, and you shoved the phone down onto the counter, just as your boyfriend entered the kitchen. His voice was casual, too casual, as if nothing had changed.

“Hey, babe. You alright?” He asked, glancing over at you.

You didn’t respond right away. You just stared at him, your chest tight with all the words you didn’t want to say, the emotions you didn’t know how to handle.

You couldn’t take it anymore. The raw anger, the aching disappointment—it was all building up inside you, suffocating you. You stood there in the kitchen, phone still in your hand, his lies echoing in your mind. Every text, every word, had become a blade, slicing through your trust, through your relationship. And now, standing face-to-face with him, it all came to a boiling point.

You couldn’t help it.

You walked up to him, eyes burning with fury, and before he could even open his mouth to explain himself, your hand shot out. The slap echoed through the small apartment, sharp and loud, breaking the tense silence between you.

His head jerked to the side from the impact. He didn’t even seem surprised. But you could see the flicker of guilt in his eyes. Too late for that.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Your voice trembled with rage as the words spilled out. “You think I wouldn’t find out? You think I’m some kind of idiot, just sitting here while you lie to my face?”

He reached up, touching his cheek, and for a moment, he looked almost confused. “What the hell are you talking abou–”

“No.” You cut him off, stepping back, trying to breathe, to stop the angry tears from spilling over. “Don’t even try. I’ve been here, okay? I’ve been here, giving you everything, and this is how you repay me?”

You could feel the walls around you closing in. The kitchen—the place where you had made so many meals together, laughed together, fought together—it suddenly felt suffocating. This wasn’t your home anymore. It wasn’t the place you thought it was.

“I trusted you,” you spat, your voice cracking. “I trusted you, and you went behind my back. All this time, you were texting her—her—while I was sitting here, wondering what the hell was wrong with me.”

His eyes widened, but then he scoffed, trying to brush it off. “Come on, it’s not like that. She’s just—”

“Don’t!” You interrupted again, shaking your head, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. “I don’t want to hear it. I don’t care what excuses you’ve got. I don’t want to hear how you’re ‘sorry’ and how ‘it wasn’t like that’ because it was. I saw the texts. I saw everything.”

There was a cold silence, the weight of your words hanging heavily between you. He was quiet now, eyes downcast, as if he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he had no idea how to fix it—because there was no fixing it. Not this time.

“Do you even care?” You whispered, feeling the heartbreak seep into your bones. “Do you even care that you’ve been hurting me this whole time?”

He opened his mouth to say something, but you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He was trying to form the right words, trying to make it sound like he cared, like he had some kind of reason, but it was too late for that.

“No,” you said softly, shaking your head. “I’m done.”

He froze. For the first time in what felt like ages, there was an almost desperate look in his eyes. “Wait—what? You can’t—”

“Don’t try to stop me.” You took a deep breath, the anger dissipating just enough to feel the weight of the pain. “I’m not staying here. I’m not going to keep putting myself through this. I’m done.”

His face fell. You could see the regret in his eyes, but you didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t. Not after everything. Not after what you’d just found out.

You turned your back on him, heading for the bedroom to grab your things. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. You could feel the tension in the air, but you refused to acknowledge it. Not anymore. You were done.

You grabbed your bag—your jacket, your wallet, your keys—and made your way toward the door. Every step felt heavy, like you were walking away from something you had invested so much of yourself into, and yet, there was a strange sense of relief settling in your chest. You were leaving behind a lie, a hollow version of something you had once wanted to be real. 

You were leaving him.

“Wait,” he called out, his voice strained. “Please, don’t go. We can fix this. We can talk—”

But you didn’t listen. You opened the door, stepping out into the hallway, and closed it behind you. The sound of it was final. You didn’t want to hear his excuses anymore. You didn’t want to be with someone who could betray you like this.

Still, weak thing that you were, you began to cry.

“I got a new phone. Same number,” he said, his voice raw. “You know who to call if you change your mind.”

As you walked down the hallway, your phone felt heavy in your pocket. You didn’t want to look at it. 

But then, your fingers moved of their own accord, slipping the phone out of your pocket.

And there it was: Dante’s old number.

The one you’d saved with the naive hope that he might have called. You hadn’t thought about it in a while. You hadn’t dared to reach out to him—hadn’t dared to even look at his name on your phone. But now, standing there in the hallway, your heart pounding, your chest tight from everything you’d just left behind, you thought about what he’d said to you.

I could treat you better. 

I’ve always been in love with you.

A cold shiver ran down your spine at the thought. You could still hear his voice in your head, still feel the weight of his words.

Your thumb hovered over the screen, uncertainty swirling inside you. You didn’t know why you were doing this. You didn’t know what you hoped to get from it, but you couldn’t shake the pull. You wanted—needed—someone who saw you. Someone who cared.

So, in a moment of weakness, you typed the words.

YOU: I need you.

You hit send before you could second-guess yourself. The words felt foreign, too raw, too vulnerable, but you couldn’t take them back now.

a/n: ok so whenn i say this is gonna be short... i MEAN IT THIS TIME LOL..... maybe. anyway! part two is almost done, so comment what you thought, let me know what you'd like to see, what you loved, etc! until next time, my loves x not sure why this got deleted? but ok

I obviously do not own csm or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

also: come find me on my wattpad if u wanna interact more!

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wanna join the taglist? | pretty ; chapter index

[starsforxavi]

just a little competition ⁘ xavier

·······•✦ description: The parameters are simple: — No touching in erogenous zones. — No loud noises (moans, grunts, etc.) — The loser is the first one to give in.

If Xavier wins, you must put away all your Lumiere merch, but if you win, Xavier has to wear your Lumiere outfit during sex.

Xavier is determined not to lose.

·······•✦ pairing: xavier x afab!reader ·······•✦ word count: 6.1k ·······•✦ genre: smut, porn with plot, fluff ·······•✦ general tags: Established Relationship, Fluff, Smut, Xavier Myth, Teasing, Competition, Can't Give In, Xavier is holding back, Massage, Making Out, Lingerie, Dirty Talk, Trying to get the other to break, Cosplay, Xavier in a Lumiere cosplay, Jealousy, Cunnilingus, Orgasm Edging, POV Second Person, No use of y/n, Penis In Vagina Sex, Vaginal Sex, Marking, Clothed Sex, The Lumiere outfit stays ON, Creampie, Second Round?

·······•✦ posted on: ao3

“Are you sure you want to play, princess?” Xavier’s eyebrow is raised, and his chin is resting on his palm as he stares at you with wide, unblinking eyes. “You know that you can never resist my touch…” 

“I think I can resist just fine.” The calmness with which he speaks ignites a fire within you, and you’re determined to finally see the crack in his armor. “It’s you that I’m worried about.” 

His soft giggle wraps around you. It’s not taunting, but rather teasing, knowing that the feeling is mutual as you both seek to see the other give in and surrender control. One way or the other, it would be a hard match, but the stakes were high, and neither of you wanted to lose.

“Well, with a reward so great,” his voice borders on amused, “I know I have to win.” 

Rolling your eyes, you cross your arms over your chest. “Then, should we start the game?” You ask, tilting your head in question. 

“Sure, we can start.” He shrugs. 

Immediately, you turn around, looking over your shoulder. “I just have to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” 

Before he can say anything, you leave him alone in the kitchen, his eyes following your movements. Long strides bring you to the bathroom, where you quickly change into your first weapon of the game. The sheer fabric sits pretty on your torso, showing off the lace bra and panties that accentuate your body. 

It’s just a nightgown; you’re ready to reason as you step out into the hall, seeing the peek of his bicep on the armrest of the couch. His fingers tap against the fabric, a slow rhythm as if he were anticipating what you had in store for him. 

“Oh, a surprise?” He seems genuinely taken aback, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as you stride toward him. It isn’t until you’re standing right in front of him, staring down at his big blue eyes, that you feel his hands graze the outside of your thighs. 

Just one touch is electrifying, but you’re not one to give in easily. 

His palms dance from the sides of your knees to just under the skirt of your nightgown. “Hm,” he hums, his eyes stuck on your body. “Is this all for me, princess?” 

“Yep.” You pop the ‘p.’ “All for you, baby.” 

Bending down, you notice the way his gaze moves to your cleavage, and your hands cup his cheeks. “I’m clothed, aren’t I?” After your words, you kiss his forehead, then his cheek. Cupping the back of his neck, you pressed open-mouthed kisses to his jaw. 

“Princess…” There is already strain in his voice, his fingers gripping at your thighs as if you were his lifeline. Kneading at the flesh, he allows you to kiss along his neck because he has to… He’s not losing. “You’re going to have to try harder.” He’s so relaxed despite the hitch in his breath as you suck a mark into the pale skin of his shoulder.

He feels the smile on your lips. The way your fingers card through his hair, holding him still as if he could move away, already has him aching in his pants. But he’s not giving in that easily. 

“I’ll try harder.” Standing up, you gesture to the couch. “Lie down on your chest.” 

Xavier sighs, his normally so nonchalant attitude giving way to a red flush on his cheeks and neck. The shirt he’s wearing isn’t particularly tight, so as he obeys your request, you immediately slip your hands under the fabric, your fingers massaging the tight muscles of his back. 

“Ah –” he swallows the groan, knowing that even the slightest increase in noise would cause him to lose the game. For a brief moment, he contemplates just saying game be damned, but then he thinks about him… His alter ego, whom you just seem to be so infatuated with. He couldn’t let Lumiere win. 

“What was that?” You grin, your thumbs digging into his lower back, right where his most sensitive spots are. Besides his cock and neck, his back seems to be a trigger for him that always gets him to be putty under your fingertips. 

“Nothing at – all.” His sentence is cut up, the lump in his throat growing as you straddle his thighs. 

Intense pleasure follows every one of your movements, and Xavier buries his face in the cushion of the couch. If he can just muffle his noises, force his breathing to a bare minimum, he can last. 

But you notice, your lips curling into a smirk as you tug his head up by his hair. Your lips brush against his earlobe. “Come on, baby.” Your teeth nip at his skin, eliciting a gasp from your boyfriend. “I wanna hear you. Hear how good I’m making you feel.”

“No.” He says simply, denying himself the outright pleasure of telling you how amazing your hands feel on his back, your fingers through his hair. He’s denying himself the simple admission of how much more he needs, giving in to your little game and losing. 

No. Not going to happen.

“I won’t tell you how much of a good girl you are for me.” Your heart begins to race, and just like you know how to get him to fold, he knows exactly the same. With your hand moving down his neck, tracing the curve of his spine, he continues. “Or how much I wish I were turned around so you could grind onto my lap.” 

Deep red colors your cheeks, and you sit up, your hands still gripping his waist. Your thumbs slowly stroke his skin, as if contemplating what to do next. No matter what, though, you’re determined to watch him lose. The realization in his face when he slips up, his eyes wide and lips parted. You crave it, and you’ll do whatever it takes. 

“Then I won’t tell you how I touched myself last night.” His whole body goes rigid, and he takes slow breaths to calm down. You’re lying, but he was gone on a mission last night, so he has no way of knowing. “How I imagined your hands on me as I buried two fingers in my pussy.” 

“I’m sure my fingers weren’t enough, were they?” He says it so casually, like you aren’t just talking about you fucking yourself on your fingers. “I bet you whined so loud for my cock, because nothing can compare.” 

The words send a shiver down your spine, but you swallow and shake it off. It’s just some words, you think. Yet, even thinking about having to get yourself off without him raises your body temperature just a bit. 

“I actually think I should get a dildo for when you’re away.” As you talk, your hands rub along his back, finding the tense muscles and working them out. Small sighs leave him, but he makes sure to zip up when he feels a wanton grunt or groan of defeat ready to leave his parted lips. “I’ll even name it Lumiere.” 

Xavier pauses, his fists clenching just enough for you to notice. Slowly, very slowly, you’re chipping away at his resolve, but it would take more to finally see him crack under the weight of your challenges. 

He’s quick. Lightning fast when he shifts out of your grip, sitting up on the couch with cheeks a deep red and eyebrows furrowed. You think, for a very brief moment, that he’s going to give in that easily, but it’s replaced by a quiet yelp when he reaches over, hands planting on your waist, and brings you to sit in his lap. 

You’re careful not to sit directly on him, because that would mean breaking the rules, but your ass rests right on his thighs. They tense under your weight, and you chew on your bottom lip at the slight friction of your panties on your growing arousal. 

“Careful, Xavier…” You coo, smirking at him. “That area is off limits.” 

“Oh, I know.” His large hands cup your hips, grip tight and nearly bruising as he takes in the full view of your outfit. He was too preoccupied with the rules, making sure he definitely didn’t break them and lose to that man… “Just want to look at you when you talk about him again.” 

“Lumiere?” Your voice is saccharine sweet, taunting him into a reaction, yet he remains as still as a statue. “I think that’s a much more moanable name than Xavier.” 

Your hip bones are under assault by his thumbs, pressing into them in a way that bubbles a whimper in your throat. He’s silent, letting your statement sink in before putting on the facade of indifference. 

“I think you sound really pretty when you moan my name.” It’s almost as if a robot is saying it, almost devoid of emotion. But you know him too well. His sentence is cut up by a gulp, nearly imperceptible if your hands weren’t sitting on his biceps and you weren’t so in tune with his reactions. “Especially with your face down in the pillow... All muffled but still loud enough for the neighbors to know who’s making you cum so hard.” 

The way he says it brings back memories, and you can almost feel his hand kneading the flesh of your ass as his pelvis slapped against the backs of your thighs. The sheets were irreparably ruined, with spit, tears and cum staining nearly every inch. That night was electric, and you almost find yourself leaning closer to connect your lips. 

But you’re not giving in. No. You are going to see him cave. If anything, you determined just to see him lose. Yes, winning would be great. But more than anything, you want to see him snap. 

“I disagree.” Your hands move up and down his arms, feeling the way his muscles flex under your digits. He’s so hot, you think. Everything about him is attractive, but it’s the quiet confidence that is seemingly affected by anything you say to him that litters your skin with goosebumps. “I’m going to moan Lumiere’s name when you lose.” 

His eyebrows set in a hard line, lips curling into a frown. Even the thought makes his chest tighten, eyes hardening just enough that you shiver slightly. There’s a depth in his gaze that tells you he’s almost there, fighting between wanting to show you how much better he is than Lumiere and the knowledge that if he wins, all of your godforsaken merch goes away from his sight. 

Out of sight, out of mind…

His Adam’s apple bobs, and he shakes his head. “I’m not going to lose, princess.” The tone of his voice lowers. One of his hands traces your spine over the sheer nightgown. “You don’t know how sexy you are right now.” 

A new approach. Interesting, but you’re confident you can –

“Even in my dreams, I think about fucking you dumb.” It’s said as a whisper, and you freeze in his lap, your grip dropping to the sides of his torso. He leans forward, just enough so you can feel the breeze of his breath as he keeps going. “Watching you drool on the sheets, and only hearing my name from those pretty lips.” 

His eyes lock onto your lips, and heat rises. The tension between you is pulled taut, threatening to snap. But almost as soon as he stops talking, you cup his jaw. With an aura of dominance, you tilt his head up, your thumb ghosting over his Adam’s apple.

“I think next time we fuck,” your lewd words shoot straight to his cock, the deep dark color of your eyes piercing right through him as his cheeks burn. “We should film it.” 

Xavier’s heart nearly stops, and you see the wheels turning in his head. Lumiere, Lumiere, Lumiere… He repeats over and over, his jealousy still iron clad in not giving in, but he sees the soft color of your lips, knowing that all he has to do is close the short distance.

“Then,” you continue, “we can watch it back together, and I can jerk you off while you watch me get filled to the brim with your cum.” A soft brush of your nose against his, your fingers gripping onto his shoulders. “I know how much you love filling me up, right?” 

He lets out a huff of breath, closing his eyes as you scratch the nape of his neck, your grip switching to his hair. Something about the mental image, the feeling of your hands on him, the warmth of your skin through the sheer fabric. 

Xavier snaps. 

His lips are crashing onto yours before you can figure out what happened. Puzzle pieces finally finding their right match, the way he can tilt his head and find the perfect angle to engulf your entire being with him. 

He tugs you closer, your hips sitting right on top of his, and you feel his hard bulge underneath you. Throbbing and needy, he plants his palms on your bare skin under your nightgown, his deep breaths being swallowed by your mouth when he traces your bottom lip with his tongue. 

Of course, you let him in, but not before pulling back with a smirk. 

“I – win.” You pant, unable to get the words out before he holds onto the nape of your neck, bringing you back to him. 

“F – uck,” is all he can manage, the overwhelming ache in his chest knowing he lost, he let himself get out of control, is still there, but when he hears your gentle whimpers and feels your touch surrounding him, he couldn’t care less. 

Your chuckle is swallowed by him, his tongue tracing the edge of your teeth. Every atom of your body shudders when he growls, your hair threaded through his digits in an attempt to just get you to stay still. 

Hands cup his jaw, your heart racing in elation, but also a deep-seated need at seeing him so desperate for you. So much so that he gave up the victory just to kiss you. But he’s always been like that. He just didn’t show it. Deep down, he craved you with every fiber of his being, but his usual gentle and calming nature overrode any feral actions on his end.

All his thoughts stop as you kiss him with even more fervor. Like it’s taking everything in you just to pull away with a gasp, too caught up in each other to even worry about the breath leaving your lungs in short gasps. 

With eyes locked, you feel the desire flooding in him, his fingers thread through your hair, slender digits twisting through the locks in a tight enough grip to keep you right where he wants you, but not hurt you. His thumb brushes the shell of your ear, and a moment of softness passes between you before he nuzzles the tip of his nose with yours. 

“You know just how to push my buttons, huh?” His deep voice vibrates through his chest, and in the close proximity, you can hear the mix of desperation and frustration that he lost. It’s a foreign sight, seeing him so worked up that his blue irises darken into an incoming storm on the horizon. 

Xavier is distracted, mostly by the haze in your eyes, or even the slight curve of a smirk that you wear so prettily. But a small part is also focused on the tip of your tongue as it darts out to wet your lower lip. He knows he’s so far gone in your essence, craving every part of you, that he doesn’t care about the inevitable of wearing that god-forsaken outfit during any intimate moment you wish. 

“Mhm,” the grin you have is cocky, almost as if you are proud of the fact that you have him wrapped around your finger, ready to give in at just a bit of teasing. “But you love it.” 

He rolls his eyes, but the smile on his face betrays his feelings. Of course, he loves it. Nothing is hotter than seeing you reduce him to a mess, even though he can turn it at the drop of a hat. 

You like to think you always have the upper hand, but Xavier always comes out on top. His grip muses your hair, the other sliding along your waist as he bucks his hips up. It’s a languid motion, and in a single breath, he connects your lips once more. 

Your tongues naturally find each other, twisting and turning in a slow dance. There’s no rush. Xavier can take his time exploring you while feeling every muscle in your thigh twitch. Every sense is full of him, and for a moment, you can barely discern where you end and he begins. 

But that’s part of the fun. 

Grunts of pleasure echo in your mouth, and you respond with whimpers of your own. It’s your own language of just noises that you can decipher with ease from how well you know your boyfriend. In turn, he can tell by the hitch in your whimper, the way you press even further into him, and your hands move in a line from his chest to his neck, that you feel the same way as him. 

A hint of slow adoration paired with an intense need to show you how much he loves you. 

You know.

He sits back just enough to speak, not wanting his lips to be far from your own but needing the space to get his thoughts out. “Princess,” he groans, kissing you quickly as if he can’t get enough, “you don’t know what you do to me.” 

A giggle escapes you, and your eyes are focused on the drunk flush of his cheeks and the haze of darkness in his gaze. “Oh, I know.” You hum, your fingers interlocking behind his neck. “Or at least, I think I know.” 

“No,” Xavier shakes his head, his hair moving along with it. “You don’t know.” He sucks in a breath, suddenly not even able to breathe properly in your presence. The competition isn’t even in his mind; all he can focus on is you, you, you. “I will never get enough of you.” 

“Hm,” another hum, and your smirk morphs to a gentle smile. “I can say the same thing, Xavi.” 

“But,” your eyebrows raise, the rich color of your eyes giving way to a bright joy. “You lost the game.” Xavier frowns, but you keep going. “So you know what that means.” 

“Don’t say it.” 

“I need to get my Lumiere costume out of the closet.” Your fingers wrap around his wrist, and in a swift movement, you wiggle out of his grasp and pull him in the direction of your shared bedroom. 

His eyes are trained on your hips, the sway being all too enticing that he has to have you back in his grasp. Arms wrap around your waist, and his chest meets your back before you can even make it to the threshold of your room. 

Labored breaths drift along your neck, fully exposed by the thin straps of your sheer nightgown. A low groan comes from him, and his hips grind against the swell of your ass just to make sure you know how hard he is. You know. You’ve known since the moment you moved to sit on his thighs. The strain in the fabric of his sweatpants is hard to miss, and it’s even harder when he guides you back against him, pinning you up against the wall. 

“Xavier.” You groan as the flat of his palm rests on your lower abdomen. He’s so warm, and you want so badly to indulge, but this is supposed to be a punishment. He lost. “We need to get to the bedroom.” 

“We’ll get there… eventually.” His warm lips dance across your shoulder, and he nearly growls out the words as he continues the slow grinding. 

Your voice hums with disapproval, and he lets you go with a huff when you pull a little harder at his wrists. He would never trap you if you didn’t want it, but god, is it impossible to resist the way you turn and drag him further toward the room. 

It isn’t until you’re standing in front of your side of the closet, digging into the corner and whipping out the outfit in a flash of white and blue, that Xavier sighs. As if his nightmare is finally becoming a reality, he slumps against the edge of the bed, his eyes hazing over with an innocence you’ve seen before when he pretends not to know something. 

“Wait,” he says softly, his eyelashes framing his pretty blue eyes as he blinks, “I really lost…”

“Mhm,” you nod, holding it out for him to weakly grab onto the handle of the hanger. “If I remember correctly, you kissed me first. Thus, you lost the competition.” A proud smile curls at your lips as he stands, walking toward the bathroom with a dejected hang of his head. 

“Fine, fine.” He huffs as he walks, the door closing with a click. 

It doesn’t take long for him to emerge from the bathroom once more, his cheeks flushed beneath the beautiful mask on the top half of his face. It’s obvious that he hates it, his hands playing with the light blue lapel that crosses over a sharp silver chest. But there’s also a bit of depth in his walk when he sees the way your thighs clench together.

The shoulders are filled out so well, maybe a bit too well, that you force yourself to take a breath and admire that he’s actually doing this for you. Yes, he lost. And yes, this is his punishment. But if he truly didn’t want to do it, he didn’t have to. 

“Enjoying the view?” He sulks, standing at the edge of the bed and staring down at your frame. The sheer nightgown still sits on your skin, and he can see the rise and fall of your chest. “I think you are, princess.” 

“Of course I am.” You playfully roll your eyes, reaching a hand up toward him to pull him down. The raised bumps of his mask darken the shadows over his blue eyes, painting them like an ocean with rising tides, ready to drown you in the surf. “My hot boyfriend is wearing my other hot boyfriend’s outfit?” 

You can’t see it, but his eyebrows crease together. He sets his hands on your waist, kneading your sides softly as he is rendered to silence for a moment. Something swims deep in his vision, and it’s impossible to put your finger on.

“Since I already lost, does that mean I can touch you now?” The deep timbre of his voice catches you off guard, but it’s quickly replaced by a rising flush across your chest. Under the soft purple sheer, your thighs threaten to clench around his hips, and your nipples harden behind the cups of your bra. 

“Yeah–”

All other words are cut off by his lips meeting yours. It’s a bruising kiss that is all passion, with the usual undertone of intimacy that Xavier shows in all of his actions. With his tongue tracing your bottom lip, his hands push up the edge of your nightgown, exposing the expanse of your stomach and up over your bra-clad breasts. 

His grunts echo in your mouth, swallowed by the back of your throat, and you respond with a whimper of your own. It’s desperate, just like the way he palms the cups of your bra and his hips slowly grind down onto the wet patch of your panties. 

Only when he presses open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and to the long line of your neck do you hear his voice. “Mine,” he hums, the tip of his mask dragging across your skin. “All mine.” 

The possessive words strike a chord, forcing groans and whimpers to fall from your parted lips. When paired with the slow grinding of his bulging pants to your rapidly soaking panties… It’s heaven on earth. 

But you still want the chance to tease him, so as he tugs off your nightgown, you pull him down for another kiss. Your palm cups the bulge in his pants, and as you sit back against the pillow, you meet his desperate expression with a smirk. 

“You’re so hard, Lumiere.” 

The name sets him off, his eyes widening just enough for you to notice as well as the vice-like grip on your waist. Fingers wrap around your wrist, wrenching your touch away from him and placing a kiss to the inside of your wrist. 

His eyes are dark, a hunger in them unlike any other as he slowly kisses up your arm. Without taking his gaze off of you, his lips worship your body as if you didn’t just say his name, as if he's reminding you that he is Xavier, even though he’s wearing that stupid outfit. 

“Do you want to try that again?” One of his eyebrows shifts up, his mouth next to your ear as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of your panties. A simple and swift tug and the undergarmet is cast aside to the floor, his thumb rubbing along your folds while he sucks a mark into the side of your neck.

“Xav–” His name is cut off with a whimper, the pleasurable pain coursing through you from both his light caress of your clit and the sting of his mark in your skin. 

“Good girl.” He whispers, reaching around with his other hand and expertly unclasping your bra. After so many times of practice on you, it comes to him with measured ease. 

When he settles between your thighs, his hands holding onto the flesh in an attempt to stop you from closing them around his head, he speaks again, his voice calm yet full of intense desire. “Who is it that’s marking you right now, princess?” A loud noise echoes as he sucks a light mark into your thigh. 

“Is it Lumiere?” Even the name rolling off his tongue is tinged with jealousy and annoyance, but also a hint of tease, his teeth nipping right below where you really need him. 

A shake of your head answers him, but it’s not satisfactory. “No, no.” Xavier tuts his tongue, a light kiss being placed on the hood of your clit. “I want words, princess.” His thumbs part your folds, exposing the fluttering ring of muscle. “Who is marking you?”

Once he sucks another mark into the inside of your other thigh, you catch your breath. “You.” You gasp, your fingers threading through his hair as he licks a stripe from your entrance to your already throbbing clit. “F – fuck… You, Xavier.” Your words are stuttered between gasps, fingers tightening in his hair and despite the bottom half of his face being obscured by your pussy, you can see the smile that forms. 

“That’s right.” His lips wrap around your bundle of nerves, sucking harshly and listening to the sharp moan of his name that slips from your lips. “It’s me, princess.” The whisper fans out over your dripping pussy. “I want you to look at these marks and know it’s me that made them, not Lumiere.”

As he delves back into your heat, the silver adornments of the mask are the only thing you can see, along with the striking blue of his eyes that refuse to leave yours. His tongue dips inside, tasting your essence while his nose tickles your pulsing clit. After having done this so many times, he knows exactly what to do and how to prolong your pleasure. 

“Ah!” You moan, your hips bucking up against his face, grinding down and taking just what you want. His name falls from your lips, and it’s exactly what he wants to hear as heat rushes through your entire body. It’s addicting to hear each sound of his name, and he thinks that there can’t be anything prettier than your hooded eyes and soft cheeks that watch him like a hawk. 

Maybe the second prettiest thing, compared to the way your eyes widen, and a desperate whimper comes as he sits back up on his knees. Just as quickly as the coil is pulling taut, your body responding in turn to his mouth with just as much need as always, it’s released without any satisfaction. 

Xavier’s hands card through your hair to hold you in place as he kisses you with even more fervor. You can taste your essence on his tongue, and the ruined orgasm pulses through you, only adding to your heightened senses. 

He doesn’t often just stop, especially not when he’s face deep in your pussy, but with the jealousy swimming in his eyes and the grip on your hair and hip, he’s delving into another part of himself. It’s a part that is a bit more intense, a bit more overwhelming, but it’s interesting to play into that side of him.

The soft groans are pressed to your lips, and it takes him a moment to pull away. His wrist is caught by your hand, and you pout up at him with a sadistic smirk that causes his cock to twitch in his pants. 

“Keep it on.” You say, knowing it was still his punishment, and also finding him extremely hot dressed in that outfit. “Please?” 

Xavier smirks, his eyes blinking slowly behind the mask, before his fingers pop the button of his pants, pushing both that and his briefs down enough for his length to spring out. The tip is an angry red, skin pulled taut as the blood pumps straight down. A drop of precum drips from his slit onto your mound. The weight of his arousal rests right on your abdomen, reminding you just how deep he’s going to go. 

“Only because you asked nicely.” His hand steadies himself, the other gripping onto the inside of your thigh to keep you spread for him. Loud squelching comes from below, and he taps the tip of his cock onto onto the wetness of your folds. “And you look so beautiful underneath me.” 

The head of his cock slips inside, and you bite at your bottom lip with each inch that stretches you out. It isn’t painful, especially after having had him inside you too many times to count. It’s like he’s moulded you to his shape, always able to accommodate him and his length until he’s nestled right up against your most sensitive spot. 

“Good girl.” He soothes, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, and then your neck. “Taking me so well.” 

The first few thrusts are slow, and you can feel the slick accumulating both beneath you and onto the fabric of his pants. Your legs wrap around him, tempting him to move just a bit faster, if the whimpered “faster” isn’t enough to give him the hint. 

As he picks up the pace, all you can focus on is the grunts and groans of the man above you paired with the drag of his cock along your walls. You can feel every pulsing vein, every inch of his thickness that doesn’t stretch you out too much, but it’s the perfect girth to tighten the coil inside you. 

“Xavier – fu– so good.” You pant, your hands wrapping around his neck and pulling him up to connect your lips once again. It’s hot, and barely even a kiss. It’s just a clash of mouths and a swallowing of noises as the clapping of his balls on your ass overtake any words you could utter. 

“Mhm,” he hums, one of his hands palming your breast while the other expertly finds your bundle of nerves. It wrenches a whine that borders on a scream at the sharp increase in white hot pleasure thrumming through your veins. 

His thumb flicks across your nipple, sending shockwaves across every inch of your skin, filling the expanse with goosebumps. The pebbled nub hardens even more, and all three sensations combined feel like you’re drowning in lava. It’s pulsing and throbbing, yet you can’t get enough. 

“Fu–ck… Princess.” He breathes out, his thumb quickening its touch on your clit. It’s a push and pull. With each time he is flush against your pelvis, his digit adds just a bit more pressure, alternating from slow strokes to quick presses in quick succession to the pistoning of his length inside your heat. 

“God… Oh – my god. Xavier–” Everything seems heightened, and as the silver of his mask glitters in the light of your lamp, you see the part of Xavier in his eyes. He’s feral, but he also makes sure that he doesn’t grip you too hard, nor does he abuse your cervix with his length.

“Keep going, princess.” Xavier grunts, the silver hair falling just above the edge of his mask. Some of it sticks to his forehead, but his hands are full, so he let’s the sweat soak him, dripping down the side of his face as he fucks into you with reckless abandon. “Say my – fuck – name again.” 

“Xavier–” his name comes in whimpers. It’s uttered over and over, as the coil inside you is pulled impossibly tighter in your lower abdomen. It’s said like you’re praying, begging for something that you know he will give you. 

Xavier grunts again, his lips finding yours in small kisses that add to the intense passion in the moment. He tries to speak, but the words are lost with each time you clench around him. You’re so tight, strangling him with each sheath of his length inside you, but he will never get enough. 

Heat settles on your skin, and your fingers tug at the hair on the nape of his neck. A soft moan comes from him, and as the backs of your feet rest on his lower back, he slows his thrusts down into a deep grinding. 

You can feel all of him, every tantalizing inch of pleasure that rockets through you. The only thing you can manage is his name, but he loves it by the way his cock twitches inside you with each whimper. 

What pushes you over the edge is when the hand on your breast drags down your front, his palm pushing down on your lower abdomen so he can feel the outline of his cockhead through your stomach. He’s always loved doing that because it sends shudders of intensity through both of you. 

“Fu–Xavier!” His name is screamed to the heavens, face buried in his shoulder as your high washes over you in white hot waves. It’s like you’re drowning, the breath being stolen from your lungs, and your heart beating so quickly that it threatens to erupt out of your chest. 

Xavier utters your name in a grunt as he feels you reach your peak. The thrusts slow, still grinding deep and dragging out your pleasure into one of ebbing overstimulation. It isn’t until the very end of your orgasm that you feel him twitch inside you. 

Spurts of cum drench your walls, and Xavier holds you still as he fills you up with every last drop he has. He never wants to waste anything, wanting to stay deep inside you for hours after if you let him.

Silence sits between you as Xavier looks you in the eyes. Both of you are breathing heavy, warm air mixing between you as sweat soaks into the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. 

“Xavier.” You start, brushing his silver hair back from his forehead before taking the mask off. His cheekbones are painted pink, and you bring him down for a gentle kiss. “That was amazing. Thank you.” 

“Well, I lost.” He says simply, nose nuzzling against yours as he traces circles into your waist with his thumb. 

“But you didn’t have to.” 

“Do you…” He stops for a moment, teeth tugging at his bottom lip. “Do you really like him more than me?” 

For a moment, you think it’s silly that he’s so jealous of himself, but then you realize that it’s his persona. Sure, it’s him, but it’s also a different aspect of his personality. No, you don’t like Lumiere more. So you shake your head.

“Of course not.” You kiss him again, cupping his jaw and caressing the side of his neck. “I like Lumiere, but I love Xavier.” 

The tips of his ears deepen an even darker red as he chuckles, kissing you once more as if he couldn’t get enough. He really can’t. He could kiss you for eternity and never get tired of it. 

“Good.” He nods, his eyes trailing down your body until he lands on the place you’re still so intimately connected. Arousal courses through him, and he slowly resumes the grind of his hips against you. 

“Can I take this off then and go another round?” 

© starsforxavi

[mwphisto]

LaDs Men and Some of Their Kinks

Includes: Xavier, Rafayel, Zayne, Sylus, and Caleb x implied female reader (separate of course)

Warning, this post includes: somnophila, dacryphilia, brat taming, scent kink, squirting, masturbation, master/pet play, spitting, cockwarming, and more.

A/N: I finished all of my work for university! Now I just have a final presentation next week (which I already did), and then I'll have earned my bachelor's degree! Now I can do some celebratory smutty writing to get back into the swing of things :)

Xavier

Somnophilia is high up there on Xavier's list, but not because he wants to use your body while you sleep. No, Xavier wants you to use him while he is somewhere far off in dreamland. He really wants to wake up to you with his cock down your throat. Even better? He's positive he'd cum on the spot if he woke up to you riding him.

Mutual Masturbation could send Xavier into a frenzy. He loves watching you pleasure yourself, especially when your eyes are glued to the way his fist pumps up and down his length. But he can never truly handle it for long, losing his composure before either of you can make yourselves cum. You're just too cute for him to resist.

Outdoor sex is right up Xavi's alley, though it really should count as he loves fucking you on his balcony. Xavier is quite accustomed to falling asleep in the cozy paradise he has put together on his balcony. Which means, it's also well equipped for him to fuck you stupid. Maybe it's the thrill of someone hearing, perhaps even seeing, or maybe his need to make sure everyone knows you are his (looking at you, Charlie). Regardless, he's rather fond of making you his.

Rafayel

Master / Pet had started off as a joke, almost an inside joke between the two of you after Ebb day had passed. Then, slowly, the joking terms of "pet" and "master" made their way into your intimacy. It didn't matter who donned what role; it just depended on the mood and perhaps even the situation that led both of you to the bed.

Squirting, Rafayel is utterly addicted to it. The first time he got you to cum that intensely, he ended up cumming himself. The lemurian isn't satisfied anymore if he doesn't end up soaked in your juices. He'll go as far as to ensure you are well hydrated before making any moves. This man has done his research, and so far it hasn't failed him.

You're his real-life canvas. Rafayel was shocked that you agreed the first time he asked the question. You had shamelessly stripped for him, nothing but a pair of panties clinging to your ass and hips. Your skin was his canvas, and the gentle, cool strokes of the paintbrush had goosebumps erupting across your arms. He didn't think it was possible to fall more in love with you than he already was, nor did he think it was possible to crave you as badly as he did when he dragged the paint-slick brush over the swell of your tits.

Zayne

Brat-taming just comes naturally for Zayne. Lucky for him, being a brat just happens to be second nature for you. Cool, calm, collected Zayne being pushed to his limits over and over again until he finally cracks. It's the outcome you've been craving from your stoic lover. And once you got it - ass cheeks bruised and your entire lower half being so sore that you're limping - you find that you're utterly addicted. Good thing your lover is on the same page.

Quickies in public spaces are a guilty pleasure. Everyone always expects Zayne to be so good, to follow the rules. Stepping out of line is far more addictive than being the goody two-shoes he's been his whole life. Having you half undressed, speared on his cock while your back is pressed into his desk? Your tits bouncing as you ride him in the front seat of his sports car? Fingering you while you sit beside each other in a dimly lit and crowded restaurant? He's on cloud nine.

Recording your little escapades had been the outcome at the end of the spiral. A spiral you started one evening as you bounced yourself stupid on Zayne's cock, the legs of the couch creaking under your efforts. You were being bratty, and he hadn't quite crossed the threshold yet to feel comfortable putting you in your place. Testing your limits, you had reached for your phone and began taking pictures of you and him as you ground down on his dick. Faces flushed and eyes glossy, Zayne still had those selfies on his phone, under a special album only he could see.

Sylus

Dacryphilia caught Sylus by surprise. He didn't realize how badly it would turn him on until you were choking on his cock with fat streams of tears flowing down your cheeks. You looked like such a mess, so utterly destroyed and he hadn't even gotten into that sweet pussy yet. Bless him, he came before he could warn you, too entranced by your sobbing face and mouth full of his dick to speak.

Cockwarming you has been Sylus' favorite activity besides getting to love you so thoroughly it left you breathless. He wants to be close to you, as close as his body could get and as close as you'd allow. Even on nights when you two haven't made love, he'll ask you rather shyly if he can slip it in. Much to his pleasure, you always let him, especially since you know he sleeps much better when he gets to hold you close... inside and out for that matter.

Sex toys are not off limits for Sylus, honestly, he quite enjoys them. He's well aware of his capabilities and, in turn, he is well aware of his limitations. He can finger fuck you until you're crying, sure. But shoving a vibrating dildo in that pretty little cunt is far more amusing to him. He gets off on having the control, watching your entire body tremble from vibrations so intense that nothing he could do himself would ever get close to replicating. His trick is that you don't get any access to the toys he uses on you. They are his use only, taken out just to drive you mad before he gives you what he really wants. You genuinely have no idea where your lover hides them afterwards.

Caleb

Spitting but not in a way you'd think. Caleb wants you to spit in his mouth, on his dick, use it as extra lubricant. Doesn't mean Caleb will deny you if you ask him to spit on or in you, but god does he crave the feeling of your saliva coating his tongue. He wants to devour you whole, in any way he can, spit included.

Power play is right up his alley. As long as you are consenting, Caleb will go to whatever extreme you desire. It could be as simple as using "yes, sir" or "yes, ma'am" or as complicated as full-on BDSM with safe words and real leather, cuffs, gags, and paddles. Whatever you're willing to give him to fulfill the fantasies, the colonel is willing to accept, and never once will he complain.

A big ole scent kink, he can't help it, you just smell so utterly addicting, it drives him insane. Your shampoo, your body wash, your perfume, your sweat, your arousal. You name it, if it's something on or from you, Caleb will probably love it. You didn't realize it started with your worn panties, ones he stole from the hamper after you would hop in the shower. Caleb was a pervert for it, and he knew it damn well, but it didn't stop him from fucking his fist while inhaling the heady scent of your dirty panties.

[trampleddoves]

s.r. blurb 2

contents: fem!reader, free use kink, some dirty talk, MDNI

You defy anatomical and biological accuracy; Spencer is sure of it. 

When you’d first brought up the idea and had this conversation, you had promised you would be ready for him to use at any time. He merely nodded in response, unbelieving, though it didn’t matter if you weren’t. He enjoys taking his time to work you up as well, adores watching your clit swell under his fingers while your folds grow slick with arousal. 

So he’d hummed, and agreed, carrying that thought with him—that when the time comes to take you, he’d inevitably have to play with you in order to get you ready for his cock.

Oh how utterly wrong he had been. 

He doesn’t even bother to check nowadays. Simply would give you a quick kiss on your neck while his hands tug your panties to the side, cock already hard and twitching as he nudges it against your folds. Swollen and wet. Always so wet. It doesn’t seem to matter what you were doing—on  your laptop for work, doing the dishes, watching TV—you somehow are still slick and ready to take him in every instance he’s interrupted you. He assumed the most mundane tasks would turn you off, therefore making him work a little harder, but no, dear God, he’d cup your mound and find that you’ve soaked through your panties.

Anatomical improbability. He tells you this once, while he has you bouncing on his cock while you edit papers on your laptop. 

You had laughed and shook your head, “No, just fucking horny for my boyfriend.”

And so he’s stopped feeling guilty for his need, and instead relished on this fact—that his bright, stunning girlfriend wants him so much that he can just take you whenever he wants, and you’ll be ready for it.

Today is no exception.

“God, baby, always so needy for me, huh?” he mumbles as he nudges your legs apart. You’re laying on your stomach, reading a book on postcolonial linguistics and it might be the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Paired with those tiny lounge shorts that hug your ass, the crotch area already sporting a small, wet patch, it’s no wonder he’s feeling antsy. He tugs the fabric down your thighs, hissing when he sees you’re not wearing any underwear. “Oh, so you’re just begging to be used.”

You hum, looking over your shoulder with a coy smirk, before continuing with your book. He leans in, heavy on your back, pressing you into the couch cushions as he rubs his cock against your cunt, collecting your slick, before thrusting in. Balls deep in one go, your cunt swallows him so easily. He’s groaning into your neck as he starts a steady rhythm, hands clutching handfuls of your hips.

“Tell me what that book is about,” he says, nipping at your shoulder.

“It’s - ah - a contemporary reading on - fuck, right there - Homi Bhabha’s concept of hybridity.” you reply, barely able to get the full sentence out as he starts fucking your faster.

“Yeah?” he grins, loving that you’re coherent enough to respond. As much as he loves reducing you to a babbling mess, this is just as stirring, knowing you can match him intellectually, “How’re you finding it?”

“Very stimulating.”

The double meaning is not lost on him. He grins and thrusts harder, relishing in the way your cunt squeezes around him when he hits that sweet, spongy spot deep within, “Is that so? Think you can finish this chapter before I make you cum?”

You giggle. Back arching as his pace begins to get rough. “I’m always up for a challenge.”

[moonstruckme]

hi mae!!!! i was wondering if you could write any marauder x reader where it's the readers first time and during she begins to not enjoy it as its kinda painful for her and wants to stop, and the marauder of your choosing is just very lovely and reassuring about her not wanting to continue. i love all your writing!!! xoxo

Love you, thanks for requesting <3

cw: mature content mdni, afab reader, implied inexperienced/virgin reader

James Potter x fem!reader ♡ 825 words

You keep James close. There’s safety in his embrace, in the gentle press of his lips against yours, and you crave that solace right now. You hold his face in your hands, making sure he doesn’t retreat far enough to see your face or to leave you here by yourself. 

You want a partner, not a witness. 

“You feel so good,” he says, voice dropped about two octaves since you got him out of his clothes in the dimming light of his bedroom. “So perfect, angel.” 

You keep your hips still and kiss up at him half desperately. 

James groans. “Oh, god. You’re so perfect. How’s that feel?” 

Your kisses turn breathier, your tight chest not taking in quite enough air. You let him cup your breast in a loving hand. 

“Angel? Talk to me, m’love.” 

You don’t feel confident you have the breath to speak. You don’t know why you can’t just do this.

The next exhale you send out pushes James away. 

“Stop,” you say, voice already breaking. 

To James’ credit, he follows your instructions immediately. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“I’m sorry, I want to stop.” 

“Okay. Okay, lovely.” You cover your face with your hands as James sits up. The slight movement of him inside you isn’t enough to hurt, but the feeling makes you tighten anxiously anyway. You hear him hiss. “I’m just going to pull out, alright?” 

It’s a funny sensation when he does, loneliness and relief both at once. You try not to make a sound as tears turn your skin slippery beneath your fingers. 

“What’s the matter?” James’ tone is gentle, devastated in a way you think he’s trying to hide but can’t. “Does it hurt?” 

“No,” you choke out. 

Impossibly, his voice quiets further. “Did it hurt?” 

A tiny sob jostles its way out of you. You nod without moving your hands. 

“Oh, sweetheart.” James sounds gutted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

“What’re you sorry for? Hey, can I touch you? Is that alright? You can say no.” 

There was never any doubt in your mind that you could, but you wouldn’t want to. You nod again, and in an instant James’ warm hands are soothing up your sides. The loneliness dissipates. 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do it,” you say, still unwilling to move your hands. “It didn’t hurt that badly, I just—I freaked out.” 

“Angel.” James sounds like he might be chiding you, if he could bring himself to do it. He takes your hands, and as it turns out, you’re perfectly willing to have them moved by him. His gentle touch has your face coming out of hiding, bearing witness to his crushed expression. 

“Please don’t apologize,” he begs. “I don’t want to hurt you at all. I definitely don’t want to scare you.” 

“I know that.” Your voice is frail. “It wasn’t your fault.” 

James’ brows hook. “I think I probably had some role,” he says, dropping a tender kiss to your cheek. “Does it still hurt?” 

“No.” 

“Would you tell me if it did? You won’t hurt my feelings.” 

He’s absolutely lying, but you’re telling the truth. “It doesn’t, James. It barely even hurt when it happened.” 

Your boyfriend makes a soft, sad sound. “Still.” He places a kiss next to your nose like he’s planning to soothe you inch by inch. “Do you think you might be bleeding?” You’re unsure. “Can I check?” 

You hum your consent, albeit somewhat nervously. James kisses you in thanks. He reaches a hand down between your legs, bringing it back up to find only the sort of wetness you both intended. He wipes it off on his own leg, kissing you again. Kissing, kissing, kissing. 

“We can try again,” you start to say. “Maybe not today, but—” 

He shushes you. “We don’t have to, lovely. I mean, if you want, of course we can give it another go, but don’t feel like you have to.” 

You feel a sort of shrinking in your chest. A quiet, vicious insecurity darkens your thoughts. “You don’t want to?” 

James’ eyebrows jump. “Do you?” 

“I…” 

“Sweetheart.” He rubs your hip, brown-eyed gaze soft. “You said you got freaked out, right? I mean, it’s understandable, I would have too, but when I have a bad experience with something I usually want a bit of a break before going at it again. Don’t you want a breather?” 

“Oh.” Your voice quiets. “I don’t…I’m not sure.” 

“That’s okay,” he says. “Take your time, lovely, I’ll be here. You just have to say the word, yeah?” 

Your reply is a low hum. You finally muster the courage to go to him. You sit up to put your arms around James’ shoulders, your warm chests pressing together. He envelops you without hesitation. 

“It wasn’t a completely bad experience,” you mumble into his skin. 

You can practically feel the bloom of his smile as he presses it into your forehead.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nineteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, teeth-rotting fluff, mentions of minor ptsd, the "do you want kids" talk, therapy, sexual content.

Notes — The queen of fluff strikes again. They're so in love it hurts. Enjoy this intermission from the angst before we get to Spa.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

2021 (Hungary)

Max was having headaches.

Not debilitating, not anything he would admit needed painkillers. But Amelia noticed the way he squinted at the sim screen, how he blinked a little too often under the harsh lights, how he’d logged fewer hours this week than he had since he was seventeen.

She didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t want to push him.

But it gnawed at her, heavy and sour at the pit of her stomach.

Because she knew Max. Knew how he worked. If he thought for even a second that she might tell Christian or Helmut or, God forbid, the FIA, he'd lock it down even tighter, wrap himself up in barbed wire and throw away the key. Anything to stay in the car. Anything to win. 

Still, it scared her. The idea that maybe the crash had done more damage than he was willing to admit. That maybe he was hiding it from her, from everyone, in order to be given the all clear to keep racing. 

She leaned against the doorway to the RBR sim room one evening, arms crossed tight over her chest, watching him fight through another lap. He was good at pretending, but she saw the way his hand came up to the back of his neck when he thought no one was looking, how he massaged the side of his head, quick and angry like he could force the ache away. 

Her fingers twitched at her side. She wanted to walk over. Put a hand on his shoulder. Make him stop. But she didn't.

Instead, she just said, quiet but steady, "Don’t be stupid, Max."

He flicked his eyes toward her, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

She already knew what he’d decided. And she already knew it would break her heart trying to change his mind.

— 

Amelia sat at the kitchen island, watching her mom buzz around the kitchen, throwing together something that vaguely resembled a pasta salad. She scrunched her nose at the sight of it, half-finished, but already tragic, and fought the urge to say something. She hadn’t been lying to Lando over a year ago, standing in her garage, when she’d told him her mom was really only capable of cooking one thing successfully. And there was definitely no chicken in sight.

Her iPad was open in front of her, specs from the latest floor upgrade zoomed in on the screen, but she wasn’t really looking at them. Not properly. She was too focused on the strange, unsettled feeling curling in her stomach.

This was her first time at home for weeks, maybe even over a month, and she’d missed it, she had. She really had.

But something felt… different. Off, in a way she couldn’t quite pin down.

“I think I should get my own place,” she said eventually, voice quiet but certain.

Her mom spun around, salad tong still in hand, blinking fast.  “You— you don’t want to live at home anymore?”

Amelia shrugged, trying to find the right words. “No, it’s not that. It’s not that I don’t like it here. It’s just…” She trailed off for a second, chewing the inside of her cheek. “I feel like a nomad. I’m living out of hotels most of the time. And when I am in England, I’m split between here, Glastonbury with Lando, and Milton Keynes at Max’s flat. I have all these different places that feel half-mine. But nowhere that’s actually mine, you know?”

Her mom set the salad tongs down carefully, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. She didn’t look angry.

Amelia pressed on, rushing a little now in case she’d somehow managed to made her mom sad. “I still love it here. I do. But it feels like… like my childhood home, you know? Not my current home.”

There was a small beat of quiet. Then her mom gave a soft, bittersweet smile. “That’s what’s supposed to happen, honey. You’re supposed to outgrow home. I’m glad you feel ready.”

Amelia relaxed a little, shoulders unclenching. Then her mom added, almost too casually, “Will you and Lando get a place together?”

Amelia blinked. “What? No— I mean—” She stopped herself, brain scrambling to catch up. “I hadn’t even thought of that. I just meant me. Like… by myself.”

Her mom laughed, warm and a little amused. “Well, think about it. You practically live with him already, in hotel rooms, but still… it counts.”

Amelia frowned, thinking it through like it was a math problem. “Oh. Yeah. That would… probably make more sense, wouldn’t it?” She mumbled. “I don’t particularly think I’d want to live alone, anyway. And I have gotten used to all of his stuff taking up my space—“ 

Her mom just smiled again, all knowing and fond, and went back to massacring the pasta salad.

— 

Amelia smiled to herself and kept her head down, pencil scratching steadily across the paper in her lap. The rumble of the jet engine faded into white noise; background to the way her hand moved without much thought, the way it always did when her brain was chewing on something bigger than her.

Lando, sprawled out lazily in the aisle across from her, leaned over, curious. “What are you drawing, baby?”

Immediately, Amelia tilted the sketchbook away from him, tucking it protectively against her chest. Her ears burned hot. “Uh. Nothing. I mean—obviously something, but I don’t want to tell you.”

He stared at her for a long second, like he was trying to decode her, eyes narrowing slightly in that way that meant he wasn’t sure whether to push or leave it alone. Then he grinned, easy and warm. “Alright. Keep your secrets.”

He leaned back, stretching his legs out. 

Amelia ducked her head again, heart thudding faster than she wanted it to.

She wasn’t lying. She just… wasn’t ready to admit it out loud yet. Not to him, not to herself.

In the sketchpad, dozens of early concepts sprawled across the page; lines and curves and arrows scribbled in shorthand. A McLaren.

Not just any McLaren, either.

One capable of winning championships.

Lightweight rear end. Aerodynamic front wing for better rotation. A reimagined floor, designed with efficiency and flexibility in mind for whatever the regulation changes might throw their way in the next couple of years.

It was stupid, probably.

She didn’t work for McLaren. Never had, in any official capacity. 

She was still Red Bull’s weapon — heralded by the press as Max’s saviour. Mini Newey. A hundred nicknames but never just her own, never just Amelia Brown.

But the ideas had crawled into her head after Silverstone and refused to leave. It had started with a little idle thought (If I could build him a car good enough to fight Max…) and now here she was. 

She chewed on her pencil, staring at the half-formed shape of the nose, and tried not to think too hard about what it meant that she couldn’t bring herself to focus on anything else. 

— 

They stopped in Belgium before ultimately traveling to Hungary. Lando had family there. Cousins, some distant and some much closer. They’d be too busy to do anything of the sort during the actual Belgium race week, so it was nice to be able to fit them in.

They visited a few over the course of the week; fleeting hellos, shared meals over chipped plates and loud, overlapping conversations. It was nice. Overwhelming, a little, but nice.

Lando introduced her to all of his relatives with a beaming smile and a dozen proud praises—"This is Amelia—yeah, my Amelia"—and she offered polite hellos, dodging kisses on cheeks and handshakes as politely as possible and then doing her best to keep up with the small talk when it was asked of her.

It was a little exhausting, mentally. The swirl of laughter, jokes she didn’t quite catch the punchline of, but Lando never pushed her too far. Never nudged her into the centre of things. He let her stay where she was comfortable, sometimes sliding his hand across her lower back when it got too much, or catching her eye from across a room with a soft, wordless smile.

Mostly, she ended up perched on the carpet with the kids, knees tucked under her, a tiny smile playing on her lips as she held up a toy car and explained, far too seriously, the engine type and manufacturer history. The toddlers listened with wide eyes, clutching their sticky-fingered toys and nodding solemnly as if they understood.

Later, in the car, as they drove back toward their hotel under the pale blue of evening, Amelia sat curled up in the passenger seat, hair pulled over one shoulder, a big blue stain on her blouse that was the product of finger-painting gone wrong. 

Lando was quiet, his hand resting loosely on the steering wheel, the other tugging her knuckles gently onto his thigh. "You were really good with them," he said eventually, voice soft enough that she almost thought she'd imagined it.

She made a face. “Kids are easy. All you have to do is keep talking and occasionally shove something colourful at them.”

He laughed under his breath. A minute passed.

Then, casual, like he was asking if she wanted to stop for food, he asked, "Do you want kids?"

Amelia blinked, turning her head to stare at him in the half-light. "I— we don’t even live together," she said, blunt and a little incredulous.

Lando’s mouth twitched, like he was trying not to smile. "Well, we can change that."

She stared at him for a long second, watching the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. Like he wasn’t nervous. Like he meant it.

"Did you talk to my mom?" she asked suddenly.

He shot her a quick, confused glance. "What? No—why? Did you already—? I mean—"

“Okay. I would like to live with you," she said, cutting him off neatly.

For a second, he just blinked at her. And then he was smiling, wide and ridiculous, so big it looked like it physically hurt to contain it.

She giggled, reaching over to nudge his arm. "Stop making that face. You're going to scare the other drivers."

"I'm happy," he argued, grin stretching impossibly wider. "Let me be happy."

She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her mouth gave her away. She settled back against her seat, watching the trees whip past the window, her heart full and a little chaotic.

"Who gets the bigger closet?" she asked after a beat.

He laughed, a low, warm sound. "You do. Obviously. I’ll just shove my stuff in a corner somewhere."

She nodded. “I do need a lot of closet room. I have two-hundred pairs of shoes.” A few seconds passed in comfortable silence before she tilted her head, thinking. "Where would we live?"

He didn’t miss a beat. "Monaco." 

She wrinkled her nose, instinctively. "That's... a big change."

He glanced over, softer now, like he already knew she'd need a minute with the idea. "Just think about it, baby," he said. "Makes sense for me. Makes sense for you. No taxes. Close to Max if you stay with Red Bull. Close to everything else if you don't."

She chewed on her bottom lip, the weight of it settling on her. A new country. A new chapter. A real home; with him.

He smiled again, smaller this time but just as sure. "We could make it our home."

Amelia nodded slowly, feeling her brain already spinning into overdrive. "I need to make a list. Pros and cons. Things we’ll want in the apartment. Maybe a balcony?"

Lando just grinned, reaching over to squeeze her thigh. "Anything you want, baby."

— 

“Do you think I’d be a good mom?”

Max froze mid-step, nearly tripping over his own feet. His eyes went wide, panic flashing across his face. “You—fuck, are you pregnant?”

His alarm might’ve had something to do with the fact that she was halfway under his car, only her legs and a shock of messy hair visible as she fiddled with a stubborn screw.

Amelia blinked, glancing up at him from beneath the chassis. “No. I’m just wondering.”

Max let out a breath so heavy it was basically a groan, dragging a hand down his face like he needed to physically wipe the terror off. “Fuck, don't do that to me, zusje. I nearly had a heart attack.”

She wriggled out from under the car, wiping her greasy hands on a rag as she sat back on her heels. “I wasn’t trying to scare you. I’m being serious.”

Max crouched down beside her, arms draped loosely over his knees, studying her with a little more care now. “Okay... why are you thinking about that?” he asked, voice softer.

Amelia shrugged. “I was just thinking—if it ever happened, would I be good at it?”

Max’s face relaxed. “You’d be a great mother.”

She tilted her head, skeptical. “You’re just saying that because it’s what you’re supposed to say.”

He snorted. “No, I'm saying it because it’s true. You love very intensely, you’re honest even when it’s not easy, and you are protective and strong. That's exactly what children need from a parent.”

Amelia chewed on her lip. “Pregnancy is scary. Completely out of my control. Everything, anything, could go wrong.”

Max’s expression shifted, softening. “That’s not something you need to worry about yet.”

She hesitated, then said, almost too quietly, “I think Lando would be a good dad. And I want to give that to him. One day.”

Max nodded. “Then you will. When you’re ready, of course.”

Amelia pursed her lips, staring off to the side. “We... I think we’re going to move in together. Soon. Lando mentioned Monaco.”

Max immediately brightened. “Good! I’m there already. We could be neighbours.”

She blinked, absorbing that new piece of information, slotting it neatly into the mental checklist she was already building. “Oh. Are there any available apartments in your building?”

Max huffed a small laugh, like he hadn’t expected her to take his suggestion seriously. “I’m sure there are.”

She nodded firmly, already halfway down the rabbit hole of logistics. “Okay. That would be efficient.” 

Max smiled at her, patient, fond. “I’m sure that you will find the perfect place, zusje. Don’t worry.”

Amelia nodded again, more to herself this time. 

— 

“We’re not living in Max’s building,” Lando said.

Amelia, perched cross-legged on the bed in his drivers room, immediately pouted. “Why not? It would make life so much simpler, Lan.”

He let out a short laugh, setting his phone down. “Look, I love Max, alright? But living that close to him would be... proper weird.”

Amelia tilted her head, frowning like he was speaking another language. “Why?”

Lando scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Imagine it. Every time we argue, he’s knocking on the door two minutes later—sticking up for you, making me feel like a right dickhead.”

She cracked a tiny smile but stayed stubborn. “But it would be efficient. And Max could help us fix things if something breaks.”

“Baby,” Lando said, laughing, “if something breaks, I’ll fix it. Or we’ll call someone. A professional. Not Max with a wrench and a YouTube tutorial.”

He reached over, tugging her socked foot into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I was thinking somewhere quieter anyway,” he added, softer now. “Away from the main city. Somewhere you can go on your little daily walks without bumping into tourists every five seconds.”

She perked up immediately. “My walks are important for my brain.”

“I know.” He smiled, running his thumb over her ankle. “I even asked Charles where he grew up. There are places, baby; small, quiet. Still close enough if we need to get into town. He said the air’s cleaner too.”

Amelia tapped her fingers against her knee, thoughtful. “Cleaner air is good. Better for respiratory health.”

Lando chuckled and tugged her closer until she half-fell into his side with a tiny yelp. “Exactly. So let’s find somewhere ours, yeah?”

She tucked her head under his chin, breathing him in. “Okay. But if Max gets upset, you have to deal with it.”

Lando grinned against her hair. “I can handle a grumpy Verstappen.”

— 

They were curled up in their hotel room, watching the latest episode of Grill the Grid the night before qualifying.

Amelia sat between Lando’s legs, her back pressed against his chest. He had her squished close, big hands sprawled comfortably across her stomach, pressing just enough to ground her, to help her breathe a little easier.

It’d been a rough day for Max, and the stress had bled into her too. Finally being still, finally letting herself relax, felt like a blessing.

She fiddled absently with her golf ball, thumb tracing lazy circles over the surface, half-listening, until the first trivia question came up.

Without hesitation, she rattled off the answer.

By the third question, Lando was laughing, reaching for the remote to pause the video after each one. “Alright, genius,” he teased, chin nudging the top of her head. “You get first go. Beat all of us.”

She answered every time without missing a beat.

He kept pausing, and she kept getting them all right, and after a while Lando wasn’t even pretending to be surprised anymore. He just squeezed her a little tighter and said, “Smarty pants.” 

Amelia smiled, small and shy but real.

Lando pressed a kiss into her hair. “I should start taking you to pub quizzes. I’d make a fortune.” 

She rolled her eyes at him, but she didn’t pull away.

— 

She felt... clingy.

Sitting next to Lando in hospitality, she stared at him, hands itching, burning to reach out, to grab him and never let go.

It had started yesterday. A coil of anxiety tightening in her stomach, left over from Silverstone. Aftershocks, she supposed.

She’d googled it, of course. Trauma responses. Hyper-vigilance. Perfectly normal, the internet said.

She didn’t feel normal.

She kissed Lando goodbye before qualifying, smiling as best she could, and ignored the way her hands trembled when she pulled away. She didn’t look back, even though everything inside her screamed to.

If it were up to her, none of them would be taking part in the weekends running. 

Not Lando. Not Max. Not Fernando. Not anyone.

She caught herself before the spiral could dig deeper, bracing one palm against the wall of the motorhome and forcing a deep breath.

She couldn’t live like this. Couldn’t let one crash, no matter how terrifying, poison the thing she loved. The thing they all loved.

But reason didn’t quiet the fear.

It didn't steady her hands as she watched Lando climb into his cockpit on the livestream.

It didn’t stop her from hugging Max tighter than usual, long enough that he gave her a puzzled little look before he was called away.

Even GP noticed. He kept glancing over, subtle but persistent. “You okay?” he asked, at least a dozen times throughout the session.

Every time, Amelia just nodded without looking at him, glued to the data, clinging to logic, to numbers, to anything she could control.

It helped. A little.

— 

Lando out-qualified Daniel by a mile.

He was cocky and proud, chest puffed out as he peeled her dress off later that night, caught between frantic and careful.

His mouth was hot against her neck, pulling soft, desperate sounds from her lips, her back arching into him. Then his hand tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to tilt her head back, forcing her to meet his gaze.

He was smirking. Full of adrenaline. Hungry. “You think I deserve a reward for my performance?”

Amelia blinked up at him, sweet and soft and unbearably hot. “Anything you want, Lan.”

— 

The next morning, she clung to him, legs tangled with his, her hands wrapped tightly around his wrists. Holding him, having him, needing him close. The warmth of his body against hers felt like the only thing that was grounding her.

He kissed her nose, then her forehead, her cheeks, and chin, finally landing on her lips. The slow, deliberate kiss deepened, but she pulled away just enough to speak.

“I think I need to talk to somebody. A therapist, probably.”

Lando froze, his fingers still brushing against her skin, a soft hesitation in his touch. “You’re... Fuck, I knew something was up. I could feel it, but I didn’t know for sure.”

She gave him a steady, matter-of-fact look, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "Yeah, that’s because I hid it from you. Didn’t want you to worry."

His face softened, and the guilt crept in. “You should’ve told me, Amelia.”

She shrugged, her stomach twisting under the weight of his gaze. “I didn’t want you distracted…”

"Don’t be stupid." His words were sharp, but they didn’t make her flinch. His hand found the back of her neck, pulling her gently against him. “You tell me when you’re having a shit time, okay?”

She sighed, pressing her forehead to his. “Sorry.”

His fingers slid through her hair, his voice steady but soft. "No more hiding it. Right?"

She nodded, barely, but it was enough.

“We’ll find someone good for you to talk to,” he said after a beat, his hand moving to stroke her hair.

She rubbed the tip of her nose against his collarbone affectionately. “Okay.”

— 

She popped her head into Fernando’s garage, offering him a soft smile. He came over, gave her a quick squeeze, and gestured proudly to his helmet. “Pretty, huh?”

She nodded, indulging him with a grin. “I like it. How are things going with Esteban?”

Fernando sighed. “Ah. He is… complicated. A good driver, but a terrible teammate. He does not see how both things can be true at once.”

She glanced over at Esteban’s side of the garage. “He’s passionate.”

Fernando nodded thoughtfully. “He is. That will be his greatest strength—and his greatest weakness.” He kissed her cheek and shooed her off. “Go, go, before Verstappen finds you here and threatens to keep you chained to his garage.”

She hugged him again, leaning in just close enough to murmur, “Adjust your ride height. Two centimetres higher.”

Before he could say anything, she gave him a sly smile and disappeared down the paddock.

— 

She sat next to Checo in the strategy meeting, slouched low in her chair, sneaking cursory glances at him every time he slid his phone under the table toward her. They were playing chess; badly, if she was honest, but that was half the fun.

Checo would make a move, tilt the screen toward her, and wait, barely suppressing a smug grin. She'd frown, tap out a counter, and slide it back without a word.

No one else seemed to notice. Or if they did, they didn’t care.

Checo was a lot of fun. Easygoing. Quick to laugh. And, as it turned out, a little reckless with his queen.

Amelia pinned him in three moves flat.

Checo huffed under his breath, shaking his head at her. She just shrugged, eyes back on the screen at the front of the room like nothing had happened at all.

— 

It was raining. Not hard, not anymore, but enough to slick the track and raise every hair on the back of Amelia’s neck.

She stood, stiff-backed, arms folded across her chest in the Red Bull garage, the whole world around her muffled and distant. She could hear the shrill whine of the engines as the formation lap wrapped, but it was like she was underwater. Distant. Fading.

Max was P3. Lando was P6. Fernando was lurking, dangerous as always. The Mercedes were ahead, unpredictable on a damp track.

Amelia flexed her fingers, breathing deep and slow. 

The lights blinked above the front of the grid, one, two, three, four, five, and before she could even brace herself, the race started.

Chaos.

Immediate, all-consuming chaos.

Bottas missed his braking point into Turn 1 and plowed into Lando. She didn’t even see it happen, only saw Lando’s car snap sideways, broken, ruined, like a toy in the rain.

She flinched so hard she almost dropped her iPad.

And then Max—Max—

She watched it in horror, too slow to look away, as Max’s Red Bull got collected in the chain reaction, bodywork flying, his car crumpling along the side-pod.

Her knees buckled; she caught herself with a hand on the pitwall.

Someone shouted. Someone else was already running to grab spare front wings. Alarms buzzed in her headset, engineers yelling over one another.

“Max has heavy damage,” GP was saying into her ear through the comms device, voice low and tight. “We’re evaluating. Standby.”

Her hands trembled.

The cars crawled through the carnage, half the grid limping back toward the pitlane. She stared at Max’s car as it crept past, side torn open like a wounded animal, sparks flying out the bottom.

“Still going,” she heard someone say. "He's still going."

Somehow, Max was dragging the car around. Somehow, Lando had pulled off track without getting hit again.

The red flag was thrown. Race temporarily suspended.

Amelia let out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding and pressed her forehead against the wall. Cold metal, cold air, cold panic.

She felt a hand squeeze her shoulder — once, solid and grounding. Probably an engineer who hadn’t been briefed, but they were lucky, their touch felt good, and didn’t make her want to tear off her skin. 

She nodded, to herself, to anyone watching her, making sure she was good. 

Didn't trust herself to speak yet.

— 

Lando was out.

Too much damage. Retired on lap two.

Max was luckier. He kept going, dragging a half-broken chassis to the finish line, scraping whatever points he could.

Esteban won. His first victory.

Amelia watched from the back of Lando’s garage as the Frenchman stepped onto the top step of the podium, soaking in the moment.

Lando’s arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close.

She didn’t need him to say anything — she could feel it. The bitter edge of jealousy under his skin, the tight set of his jaw.

“It’ll come,” she muttered, more promise than reassurance, her mind flicking to her sketchbook, to the concepts she hadn't shown anyone yet — the ones that could take him all the way. 

The chassis she’d created with two particular drivers in mind. 

Lando squeezed her tighter.

— 

Summer break came just when she needed it.

She and Lando flew back to Monaco with Max, crashing in his guest room while they started apartment hunting.

Well… Lando did most of the hard work. Talking to estate agents, putting out feelers.

Amelia kept herself busy playing with Jimmy and Sassy, who decided almost immediately that she was their new favorite human.

She didn't mind. The cats were easy company, curling up on her lap or following her around the flat as Lando scrolled through listings and Max grumbled about all the overpriced places in the area.

It felt good, normal, even, to slow down. To just exist for a little while, tucked away in the hazy warmth of a Monegasque summer, surrounded by people (and animals) who loved her.

— 

They fell in love with the first place they viewed.

If Amelia believed in fate, she might have called it that.

Lando stood back and watched as she wandered through the apartment; past the galley kitchen, onto the balcony, big enough for a table, a chair, maybe even a canopy swing if she wanted.

Two bedrooms, three bathrooms. A master suite and a double. A massive living room, an even bigger office.

She could already see it: herself at a big desk, sketching new concepts as sunlight poured through the wall of windows.

She found Lando in the kitchen, deep in conversation with the property agent.

When he glanced up, she was already beaming at him.

— 

They spent two weeks of summer break, the rare stretch when neither of them had to be working full-time, Lando free from training camps, Amelia unchained from the factory, tucked away in the South of France.

It felt like stepping into another life. Long mornings spent tangled up in crisp hotel sheets, slow breakfasts on sun-drenched balconies overlooking sleepy coastal towns. They rented a little convertible and drove with no real destination, winding through golden hills and lavender fields, the radio humming low between them.

Amelia wore tiny sundresses and braided her hair, and Lando kept finding excuses to kiss her bare shoulders. They swam in cold, clear water until their fingers wrinkled, then collapsed on the beach, salt still clinging to their skin. 

At night, they fell into bed full of good food and exhausted. 

It wasn’t some extravagant, carefully curated holiday. It was just… easy. 

And somewhere between the lazy afternoons and the late-night kisses, Amelia stared at him and thought, “I could spend the rest of my life with you.” 

— 

The evening was warm, a soft breeze rustling the leaves around them. Lando had set up a speaker on the patio, the faint sound of acoustic guitar playing in the background, but they weren’t paying much attention to the music. Amelia was sitting on the edge of a chair, arms loosely draped over her knees, looking out at the stars above. Lando was sitting on the stone steps, watching her.

“So, how was it?” He asked. 

Amelia smiled faintly, but her eyes were tired. “It was… fine,” she started, kicking the edge of the chair with her foot, watching the dust float up into the air. “A bit awkward, but that’s probably normal. Online therapy, you know?” She rolled her eyes, but there was a lightness to her tone, as if she was still trying to find the right words. “It felt like… trying to untangle a knot in my brain, but someone else was holding the other end.”

Lando nodded thoughtfully, shifting on the stairs so he was facing her more. “I get that. Did she—” He paused, checking her expression, making sure she was okay. “Did she help at all?”

Amelia shrugged, a soft exhale escaping her. “Not yet. I mean, we talked about a lot of stuff. Things I didn’t realise were connected, you know? I think it’ll take a few sessions for it to click. It’s hard to explain. But I felt… heard, I guess. Which is something.”

Lando nodded again, his gaze softening. “Proud of you, baby.” He looked over at the empty space beside him. “Come here.”

She raised an eyebrow but stood up, moving to join him. As she sat beside him on the steps, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re really good at this whole comfort thing.”

Lando chuckled, sliding an arm around her waist. “I try my best.” After a beat, he stood up, holding out a hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

Amelia looked at him, surprised, but the quiet night seemed to make everything feel a little more possible. She took his hand with a grin. “We’re really doing this?”

Lando smiled, tugging her to her feet. “Why not? It’s a slow song.”

The music played on, soft and gentle, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just moved together, swaying under the dim glow of the patio lights, with the sound of the wind and distant waves in the background. Amelia closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the moment settle into her chest, her heart still thudding, but in a different way now.

“You know, you’ve been pretty great,” she murmured after a while, her hand resting against his chest. “With everything.”

Lando’s smile was barely visible in the dark, but she felt it in the way he pulled her just a little closer. “Always.”

She closed her eyes.

Always sounded pretty good.

NEXT CHAPTER

[dcxdpdabbles]

I love love all your writings!!

I like your depictions of John Constantine.

I'd like to see you write the sad trenchcoat persona as just that a persona in the same fashion as how Brucie Wayne is a persona.

Maybe he's been the de-aged Danny/Dannies father for years and is an actual functional adult. The sad trenchcoat is just used to keep people from calling on him to frequently because he's a dad and has dad-like things to do.

He could help tim with the time stream thing, like 'oh, yeah that does look like Bruce. Alright kid pack a bag we're going in the time stream I know a guy. No Nightwing I'm not joking this looks like solid proof'.

Maybe Bruce has a oh shit he's actually competent and could kill me, that's hot moment. (Kids I have found your other father, help me get him home)

"I would love to offer more of my time to waste on monitor duty, but I have a previous engagement. A particular fit lady needs help getting her dress on the floor. The cloth always gets stuck on her horns. " John leers, wagging his eyebrows at the grimaces his words cause.

He takes a puff of his cigarette, inhaling the smoke like a drowning man. He never smokes at home, not with Danny's sensitive lungs or Dani's general disgust at smoking, so he only had the chance when called away on missions.

Plus, Danny was trying out for ballet soon, and he wasn't going to ruin his son's chances of being a star because of his own poor habits.

It helped that the rest of the heroes believed he was consistently pumping nicotine into his system. Rather irresponsible for the hero to publicly commit frowned-upon activities - at least in the States. Back home, no one cared that much.

It didn't matter that the Justice League was a global team; the main hard hitters and founders were nearly all American, and they tended to uphold those social expectations, either subconsciously or not.

One more reason why they shouldn't bother John, he can't have him smoking at a big awards ceremony or seen going through an entire pack of cigarettes mid-fight. Oh no.

John Constantine was one of the best magic users of this universe, but he was a last resort. There were plenty of other magic users like Zatanna, Dr. Fate, Zatara, or even Etrigan that came to mind first.

John was likely too busy drowning his misery in bottles or the arms of any willing partner. That's what they all thought.

Or more importantly than what he wanted them to think.

"Well, this has been a time." He announces, snapping his fingers to open a portal to his house. "But I have to run. My lady needs a knowledgeable hand to help her-"

"Enough," Batman growls. Though he has complete control over his emotions, John can tell he's irritated by the meaningless detail. He smirks as the hero waves a hand, "Just go."

He offers the rest of the meeting room a cheeky two-finger salute as he struts out, letting the portal close behind him so his trench coat flares dramatically. It's a nice view, he's sure, but it's also unnecessarily showy, and he is sure at least three pairs of eyes are rolling at his exit.

A chuckle escapes his mouth, straightening from his slouch to properly stand straight and bend it far enough to pop. Goodness, his act always leaves him with a sore upper back; maybe he shouldn't hunch over so much, even if he was playing the part of a no-good punk.

John only had a few seconds to shiver at his own thoughts- he was a punk. A real one! He was in a band!- before he heard the tell-tell sign of a rapidly approaching double set of footsteps echo down the hall. He scrambles to fling his lit cigarette into a water portal, chucking the pack for double security, while summoning a random suitcase from thin air.

All that's left is his rather eye-catching coat, a little too worn down and old to work well with his well-put-together outfit underneath. Without it, John has a clean, pressed white shirt, a respectful tie, and a pair of slacks that make more than one head turn as he walks.

All in all, he looks like the office businessman his worthless father always wanted to be.

John throws off his coat over a chair at the same time the door is thrown open with a pair of excited yells. "Welcome home, Dad!"

A grin stretched across his face before he could think about it, feeling his heart swell at the sight of them, as he knelt down, arms open wide. Two tiny bodies slam into him without a second of hesitation, nearly knocking John backwards.

He lets out a soft grunt as Dani's arms attempt to wrap around his left arm and right shoulder. She clashes against Danny, who's trying to bury himself into John's right side, little face squished against one of John's pecs, like a bunny burrowing into the snow.

"Hello, my little lambs!" He gushes, squeezing the kids close. "How was your day with the House of Mystery? Did you two behave?"

"They were angels," Black Orchid confirms, gliding into the room at a much slower pace. They had their regular, impassive expression on their faces, but John could tell that Orchid was happy with the kids by the way they gently tapped the tops of the children's black hair.

"Dad! Dad! Now that you're home, can we please go get my new ballet shoes?" Danny begs, bouncing on his toes.

For a moment, John doesn't see his son, but rather his own blue eyes staring up at his father, when he was also five, begging to join Lily, the next-door neighbor, in beginners' ballet class.

His father had beaten him nearly to death for wanting such a girly interest. It was the last time they spoke about it. It was also the last time John ever bothered asking to start new hobbies.

"Dad! Dad! Can I do Karate?" Dani asks then, snapping John from his memories better left buried, as she presses her check against her brother's in an attempt to get John's attention. "I want to break a board with my fist!"

He gives the children another squeeze, laughing at the squeals he gets. "Of course you can do karate, little lamb. We're going to get your brother his shoes, and then I'll find a gym that offers the classes at the same time."

"I already provided that service." Orchid cuts in, holding a flyer for Flying Graysons' gym, founded and run by the eldest Wayne in Gotham. "I took the liberty of signing Danny up for a class with Casnadra Wayne, and Dani will join Duke Thomas's class. It starts in a week."

"Plenty of time to go get them everything they need and a new book series for our bedtime stories," John announces, loosening his arms so his children can cheer and bounce up and down in excitement. His knee is starting to cramp up, but he ignores it so he can hold his kids.

It's moments like these, so small and mundane, that John is grateful he thought of his persona. When he first learned how to use the magic he was gifted, he always made himself available for any crisis.

This was before the Justice League days, so anyone who sought him out was familiar with the occult world. He adored helping, and he built an incredible amount of skill and knowledge in magic, but soon John was facing disaster after disaster, dragging his exhausted body from one place to another.

Those who came searching for him never cared. They wanted John to jump at the drop of a hat. He tried for years to always be ready, always be willing, but years of isolation and desperate battles tried him to the core.

Then he took in Danny and Dani, finding the pair of babies in a basket at the feet of the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep. He had gone to investigate the legends of the famous King Pariah Dark, only to find what he assumed were originally sacrifices, well and truly alive.

Their names were attached to their feet with a letter written by a Jazz Fenton begging the two to grow and live well. She had died to save them. In her honor, John kept their names.

Daniel "Danny" Fenton and Danielle "Dani" Fenton. He often wondered what Jazz had been to the kids, with their identical last names. It is a question he will never get the answer to.

They could have been no older than five months, but when they opened their eyes and reached up for him, John realized he no longer wanted to be the go-to man of magic.

He wanted to be their father.

To discourage people from calling him away from his children, John created his persona of a man barely honorable enough to join a team. Over the five years of his raising his kids, his reputation plummeted until only Batman called to him unless absolutely necessary.

It was a breath of fresh air. John had fought for too long and too hard. He was retired now, just like his band days, the days when John would speed off to save the world were behind him. He only stepped in if a friend asked for a favor.

He had other priorities now.

The best part? The Justice League would never know that.

"Dad!" Dani screamed into his ear, making him grimace.

"Inside voice, darling."

"Sorry." She twirls her fingers, a nervous habit she picked up from John, before brightening up "I'm just super excited. Orichad said Mr. Bruce Wayne will be at the gym! Do you think he'll sign my Wayne Space shirt?"

Ah, yes, the man who was funding some space program or another. He only knew about this because his twins adored anything to do with space travel, as if though he couldn't just teleport them to a different planet.

"I'm sure he will, darling."

[mintyys-blog]

HOW TO GIVE HEAD 101 | jason todd x reader

DC COMICS MASTERLIST | WARNINGS: blowjobs (male receiving oral sex), sexual themes.

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

MINORS DNI

You and Jason lounged lazily on the couch, half-watching a movie, half just basking in each other’s company. You two had been friends forever — the kind of effortless bond built from late nights, too many shared secrets, and just enough mutual bad decisions to trust each other with anything.

You were playing with the hem of your hoodie, mind racing, heart hammering a little faster than you liked. Finally, you blurted out, “There’s this guy I like.”

Jason turned his head lazily toward you, one eyebrow quirked. “Oh yeah? What’s he like?”

You shrugged, a little embarrassed. “He’s… experienced. Like, really experienced.” You avoided Jason’s eyes, choosing instead to pick at a loose thread. “And we’ve been talking, a lot. It’s getting… flirty.”

Jason smirked knowingly, but said nothing.

You swallowed. “The thing is… he really likes—” you lowered your voice, like the apartment walls had suddenly become sentient, “—blow jobs. Like, a lot. And I’m not… super confident about that kind of thing.”

Jason’s expression stayed easy, but there was a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. You pressed on, cheeks burning.

“I just… I don’t wanna disappoint him, you know?” You fiddled harder with your sleeve. Then, almost too quietly to hear, you added, “So… I was kinda thinking… maybe…”

You turned your head slowly toward Jason, giving him your best wide-eyed, innocent look.

He stared at you blankly for a long beat. Then, deadpan: “Are you asking to suck my dick for experience to impress another guy?”

You grimaced, embarrassed, but forced yourself to nod. “Well… when you say it like that—”

Jason huffed a short laugh, tossing his head back against the couch. Then he looked at you again, more serious this time, something a little more careful in his gaze. “Go ahead,” he said, voice low, a smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes widened. “Really?”

A grin broke out on your face — you couldn’t even help it — excitement and nerves mixing together in a way that made you buzz. “Yeah,” Jason shrugged, casual, but you could tell he was fighting a real smile. “I wouldn’t mind teaching you. First step, you already got down: sound excited — not like it’s a chore.”

You nodded quickly, trying to tamp down the giddy flutter in your chest. “Should I, uh… take notes or something?”

Jason let out a low chuckle and leaned back, spreading his arms across the back of the couch, legs parted just enough to be cocky without trying. “Nah, baby,” he said smoothly, “you’ll have to learn from some hands-on training.”

Your heart thudded so hard you were sure he could hear it. Hands-on training. With Jason. This night was about to get a lot more interesting.

You shifted nervously onto the floor, settling between Jason’s spread legs, your knees pressing into the carpet. You looked up at him, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nerves twisting in your stomach.

Jason rested his arms lazily on the couch behind him, watching you with that same amused, half-lidded look. His voice was calm when he spoke, almost soothing.

“Alright, first thing you gotta understand…” he started, letting his legs spread a little wider, making room for you. “A blow job isn’t just about your mouth. It’s about enthusiasm. Pressure. Rhythm. How much you’re into it.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. Your hands rested awkwardly on your thighs, waiting for him to tell you what to do.

He smiled faintly, noticing. “Relax, babe. You’re not gonna hurt me.” He leaned forward slightly. “Start by using your hands first. Tease me a little. Get me hard. It’s not a race.”

You nodded again, hands a little shaky as you reached up and started fumbling with his belt. Jason chuckled low in his throat, reaching down to help you, fingers brushing yours as he undid it and let his jeans hang loose.

“Here.” His voice had dropped a little. “Go slow. Just… touch me. Light at first.”

You swallowed and slipped your hand inside his boxers, fingers grazing against warm skin. Jason sucked in a breath through his teeth, but didn’t rush you.

“Good… now, see, the first few seconds?” he said, tone lazy like he was explaining a game. “It’s about building it up. Light touches, kisses. Make it feel like you’re teasing the hell out of me before you even get serious.”

You blinked up at him again. “Kisses?”

“Yeah.” Jason smirked. “Like you’d kiss someone you really wanted. Start slow. Right at the tip.”

Your face burned hotter, but you leaned in, lips brushing just barely over him. Jason’s breath hitched — barely, but enough that you caught it — and your confidence grew just a little.

“There you go…” he murmured. “See? Already getting the idea.”

You placed another soft kiss, then another, feeling him twitch a little in your hand. Your mouth moved gently over him, just like he said.

Jason leaned his head back against the couch, watching you through half-closed eyes. His voice stayed calm, but rougher now.

“Now… flatten your tongue. Lick up the underside real slow. That spot’s sensitive as hell.”

You obeyed, sliding your tongue along the underside like he said, feeling him grow harder against your hand. His hand twitched like he wanted to touch you, to guide you, but he kept it at the back of the couch, letting you figure it out.

A low groan rumbled from his chest. “Fuck… you’re a quick learner, babe.”

You smiled a little against him, feeling bold now. Jason’s hips shifted just slightly forward, encouraging without saying a word.

“Now… open your mouth. Take just the tip in. Easy,” he coached, voice low and gravelly. “Don’t rush. Use your tongue while you’re sucking, swirl it a little.”

You did as he asked, easing him into your mouth, feeling the weight of him on your tongue. You swirled like he said, cheeks hollowing a little as you sucked carefully, listening to every sound he made, every little twitch of his body.

Jason groaned again, this time not bothering to hide it. His hand finally slid off the back of the couch, fingers brushing lightly through your hair.

“Shit… you’re gonna kill him if you do it like this,” he muttered, his voice thick with lust. “You’re already better than half the girls I’ve been with.”

You pulled back slightly, a little shy at the praise, and Jason laughed breathlessly, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek.

“Don’t stop now, baby,” he murmured. “Lesson’s just getting started.”

You swallowed and leaned back in, lips wrapping around him again, feeling a thrill at how Jason’s body tensed beneath you. His hand stayed light in your hair, barely guiding — just a reassuring presence.

“Good girl…” he rasped, the words slipping out before he could catch them. You flushed at the praise, heart thudding harder.

Jason gave a low chuckle at your reaction, voice rough but still patient.

“Alright. Now use your hand too. Grip the base — yeah, like that. Twist your wrist a little while you move your mouth. Not too tight, just enough to keep the pressure steady.”

You tried it, sliding your hand along the length of him while your mouth worked the tip, feeling him throb under your touch. His breath caught, fingers flexing slightly in your hair.

“Shit, babe, yeah…” he muttered, letting his eyes close for a second before forcing them open again. He wanted to watch you — needed to.

You hollowed your cheeks a little more, moving your mouth and hand together like he said. Jason let out a low, broken groan, hips twitching slightly.

“You’re killing me here, you know that?” he gritted out, voice hoarse. “The way you’re looking up at me, all eager and pretty… fuck.”

You whimpered a little around him, and Jason cursed again under his breath. His thumb brushed your jaw, gently wiping a bit of spit away.

“Alright, next part,” he said, clearing his throat like he needed to get control back. His hand tightened slightly in your hair, but not enough to hurt — just enough to make you focus.

“Breathe through your nose. Try to take me deeper, a little at a time. You don’t have to force it — just let your throat open. If it gets too much, pull back. No shame in it.”

You nodded, determined, and slowly eased your mouth lower. Jason sucked in a sharp breath, the sound raw in the quiet room. You felt him bump the back of your throat and instinctively gagged a little, pulling back immediately.

Jason chuckled low, rubbing your scalp gently.

“That’s normal. Took me a while to get a girl to even try that.” His voice was warm, almost proud. “You’re doing better than you think.”

You tried again, taking him slower, relaxing your throat just like he said. This time you managed to take him a little deeper without gagging right away. Jason’s hips shifted again, this time clearly fighting the urge to thrust deeper into your mouth.

“Jesus, Y/N…” he groaned. His hand gripped your hair more firmly, guiding your pace now — a slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, that’s it. Nice and slow. Let me feel your mouth, your tongue, all of it…” His voice was rough, almost shaking.

You felt yourself getting warm all over, your own thighs pressing together as you listened to him fall apart above you. It was addicting — the power of it, the trust he gave you, the way he praised you like you were already the best he’d ever had.

Jason’s breathing was ragged now, a deep flush creeping up his throat.

“Start stroking with your hand at the same time, baby. Mouth and hand together.” His instructions were getting choppier, like it was getting harder for him to think straight.

You followed, hand twisting at the base while you bobbed your head in slow, steady movements, feeling him twitch and pulse inside your mouth.

“F-fuck…” Jason hissed. “If you do that to the guy you like, he’s gonna fall in love on the spot.”

You smiled a little around him, pride blooming in your chest.

Jason’s other hand gripped the couch cushion like he needed to anchor himself, hips twitching again, almost involuntarily.

“You wanna really drive a guy crazy?” he gritted out. “Look up at him while you’re doing it. Let him see how much you love it.”

You glanced up through your lashes, cheeks flushed, mouth full of him — and Jason’s head dropped back against the couch with a broken growl.

“Goddamn it, Y/N…” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re too good at this.”

Jason’s breathing was ragged now, every muscle in his body drawn tight. His hand was firm in your hair, but not harsh — grounding you there, keeping you moving at the pace he wanted.

You kept your eyes locked on his, cheeks hollowed around him, hand sliding up and down the base just like he taught you.

“Fuck… Y/N,” he groaned again, head tipping back, veins standing out along his throat. “You’re gonna make me lose it if you keep looking at me like that…”

Your stomach fluttered at the broken edge in his voice. It didn’t sound like he was coaching anymore. It sounded real — desperate.

His fingers tightened just a little more, forcing your mouth to take him a little deeper with each slow thrust of his hips.

“Little more, baby,” he muttered, voice rough and coaxing. “Open your throat, breathe through your nose, yeah? You can do it.”

You nodded as much as you could, letting him guide your rhythm — his hips rocking up slowly into your mouth, pulling back just enough not to overwhelm you. Every slow thrust made your throat burn a little more, but the raw sounds coming out of him made you want to keep going.

Jason’s hand left the couch and grabbed your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth where spit was starting to drip down your chin.

“So fuckin’ pretty like this,” he growled under his breath. “Such a good girl… letting me teach you.”

Your thighs squeezed together instinctively at the praise. You were supposed to be learning for another guy — but right now, all you could think about was Jason, the way he sounded, the way he looked at you like he wanted to tear you apart and worship you at the same time.

“Move your hand a little faster,” he ordered, voice dark, strained. “Keep your mouth tight around me, fuck—”

You obeyed, hollowing your cheeks again, and Jason let out a broken, guttural moan that sounded like he was barely holding himself together.

“Fuck, Y/N… if you don’t stop, I’m gonna—” He cut himself off, jaw clenching.

You whimpered a little around him, swirling your tongue just like he taught you, determined to see it through. The tension in him snapped — his hips jerked up once, hard, and his grip tightened on your hair as he spilled into your mouth with a strangled groan.

You gasped around him, swallowing instinctively because you didn’t know what else to do — Jason’s whole body was shaking, his head dropped back against the couch, chest heaving.

For a second, the only sound was his ragged breathing, the hum of the city outside the window.

Finally, Jason looked down at you — pupils blown wide, cheeks flushed, chest still rising and falling fast.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, a slow grin curling his lips. “You’re dangerous, baby girl.”

You wiped your mouth shyly, heart hammering, unsure what to say. Part of you still couldn’t believe you actually did that.

Jason reached out, tugging you gently up by the arms until you were straddling his lap, his jeans pushed halfway down his hips. He tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, his touch unexpectedly soft.

“You still wanna impress that other guy?” he asked, voice low, thumb stroking your jaw.

You blinked at him, mouth parting slightly.

“I…” you hesitated. Your heart twisted, because the way he was looking at you now — like you were the only girl in the world — made you forget why you wanted to impress anyone else to begin with.

Jason chuckled quietly, pressing his forehead lightly against yours.

“Thought so,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips. “You don’t need anyone else, Y/N. Not when you already got me.”

Jason’s hand was just sliding up your thigh, his mouth brushing along your neck, when you stiffened slightly beneath him. He immediately pulled back, concern flashing across his face. “What’s wrong, doll?” he asked, voice low and careful.

You pressed a hand against his chest, chewing your bottom lip anxiously. “Jay… don’t get me wrong— I do like you, you’re amazing. But… I also really like this other guy, and…”

Jason leaned back the second you said it, smiling a little, though you could see the flash of disappointment he tried to hide.

“It’s okay, doll,” he said easily, lifting you gently off his lap and setting you next to him on the couch. “I get it.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow, hugging it against your chest, guilt washing over you. “I’m sorry if I led you on—” you started, but Jason just laughed, shaking his head.

“You didn’t lead me on. Trust me,” he said, voice warm and teasing. “And anyway, it’s fine. I’m not gonna get butt hurt just because you like some other guy.” He gave you a playful nudge with his shoulder. “Say… what’s his name?”

You brightened immediately, eager to tell him. “Oh! His name is Dick Grayson!”

Jason had just taken a sip of his beer — and immediately choked, spraying it across the room. You panicked, rushing to his side and thumping his back. “Jason! Oh my god, are you okay??” you cried, worried as he coughed and tried to wave you off.

He nodded, clearing his throat with a rough laugh. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine,” he said, voice hoarse. Then he smirked at you — a sly, almost wicked little look.

You didn’t catch it. You were too busy fretting over him. Jason reached out, ruffling your hair affectionately, and said, “Don’t worry, doll. Just do what you did tonight, and he’ll love it.”

You smiled wide, relief and excitement lighting up your whole face. “Thanks, Jason.”

He leaned back against the couch, tossing an arm around your shoulders in an easy, protective way. “Anytime, sweetheart,” he murmured, still grinning to himself — because you had no idea Dick Grayson was Jason’s older, adoptive brother. And Jason? He couldn’t wait to see how that was gonna play out.

Later that night, after you left — practically skipping with excitement about your crush — Jason was still stretched out on the couch, grinning at the ceiling like a man who just watched fate set a bomb and walk away whistling.

He grabbed his phone off the coffee table, thumbing through his contacts until he found the one labeled:

“Asshole #1”

He smirked and typed quickly:

Jason:

bro… we gotta talk.

it’s about you. and it’s hilarious.

He barely had time to set the phone down before it buzzed angrily.

Dick:

?? what did i do now?

i’m literally just eating cereal rn wtf

Jason barked out a short laugh and leaned back, picturing the look on Dick’s face when he found out who had been practicing just for him tonight.

He tapped another reply:

Jason:

nothing yet. just… be nice when a pretty little thing gets brave enough to flirt with you soon.

she’s special. don’t be a dick, dick.

There was a pause. Then:

Dick:

???

who the hell are you talking about???

JASON ANSWER ME

Jason laughed so hard he nearly dropped the phone. He thought about telling him the full truth — that you, sweet, bright-eyed you, had just spent the evening on your knees for him practicing — but he decided to let it simmer a little longer.

Wouldn’t hurt to make Grayson sweat.

He threw his phone onto the couch and muttered to himself with a grin, “Man… this is gonna be good.” And for the first time in a long time, Jason Todd felt like he had something to look forward to.

It all happened faster than you thought it would.

One minute, you were sitting next to Dick Grayson at a Titans gathering, both of you laughing over something stupid. The next, you were alone together in his room, your heart hammering so loud you could barely hear yourself think.

When you dropped to your knees in front of him — cheeks burning, nerves twisting in your gut — he barely had time to react before your hands were on his belt.

“Y/N—” he started, but the second your mouth wrapped around him, all coherent thought seemed to leave his brain.

He hissed through his teeth, one hand flying to the back of your head automatically — but not pushing, just gripping at your hair like he needed something to hold onto.

“Shit, sweetheart,” he groaned, voice cracking, hips jerking slightly against your mouth. You took him deep, hollowing your cheeks exactly how Jason had taught you, keeping your hand at the base and twisting gently as you moved — slow, purposeful, confident.

Dick almost blacked out.

It wasn’t just good — it was skilled. Way too skilled for someone who, from what he remembered, had said she was “still learning.”

He forced his eyes open, looking down at you — and that’s when the first little seed of suspicion planted itself.

Something about the way you worked him over — the way you squeezed at the base, the way you bobbed your head in rhythm, your tongue teasing just right at the tip — it wasn’t just natural talent. It was training.

You finally pulled off, blinking up at him innocently, a little bit of spit trailing down your chin.

He sucked in a ragged breath, trying to get a grip on himself. “Holy shit, Y/N,” he muttered, wiping his thumb gently across your lips. “That was— I mean, where did you learn to do that?”

You flushed, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand shyly. “I mean… I practiced? Once. Before tonight.” You smiled nervously. “I told you I didn’t have a lot of experience… but I wanted to impress you, so…”

Dick’s brows furrowed slightly. “Practiced… with who?” he asked, trying to sound casual — but his voice cracked halfway through.

You shrugged, fidgeting. “Oh— um. Just… my friend Jason helped me.”

Silence. Utter, horrified silence. Dick’s whole face froze — eyes wide, mouth slightly open — like his soul physically left his body for a moment.

“Jason,” he repeated, voice tight.

“Yeah,” you nodded brightly, oblivious to the internal meltdown happening inside him. “He’s really good at explaining stuff. Super patient.”

Dick scrubbed a hand down his face, groaning. “Oh my god,” he muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t mad — not really. He couldn’t be. You didn’t know the full story — you didn’t realize you had literally just given him a blowjob with Jason Todd’s signature techniques. Techniques Dick had, unfortunately, recognized mid-orgasm.

He exhaled sharply, still trying to wrap his head around it.

“Okay,” he said, voice strangled but still kind. He reached down, pulling you into his lap carefully. “Okay. We’re gonna… just… move past that for now.”

You smiled shyly and snuggled against his chest, thinking he was embarrassed because he liked it so much.

Later that night, Dick was stalking down the hall like a man possessed, trying to find Jason. His face was flushed, his hair a mess, and he looked like he’d just been run over by a truck.

(Which, in a way, he kind of had.)

He found Jason exactly where he expected — in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, sipping a beer like he had all the time in the world.

Jason clocked him immediately, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Well, well, well,” Jason drawled, setting his beer down and crossing his arms. “Look who survived his special tutoring session.”

Dick stopped a few feet away, running a hand down his face in pure agony. “You’re a dick, you know that?” he groaned.

Jason barked out a laugh. “Me? I’m the dick?” He pointed at himself, grinning ear to ear. “I’m not the one who got the full Jason Todd patented blowjob experience without even asking.”

Dick made a strangled sound in his throat, visibly dying inside. “You taught her,” he hissed under his breath, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one else was nearby. “You taught her how to— to—”

“—to suck your soul out through your dick?” Jason finished helpfully, smiling so wide it should’ve been illegal. “You’re welcome.”

Dick was halfway between throttling him and bursting into laughter. “Dude, she’s so innocent,” he said, flailing his hands helplessly. “She has no idea— she just— trusted you!”

Jason shrugged, completely unbothered. “Hey, I was a perfect gentleman about it.” He took another sip of his beer, smirking behind the bottle. “She asked for help. I provided a public service.”

Dick pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, groaning. “This is so messed up.”

Jason clapped him on the shoulder, nearly sending him stumbling forward.

“Look at it this way, Big Brother—” Jason said with a teasing grin. “At least you got the rewards without doing any of the work.”

Dick glared at him murderously — but he didn’t argue. Because— God help him… Jason wasn’t wrong.

You padded into the kitchen, still floating on a little high from earlier, only to freeze in the doorway. There stood Jason, casually leaning against the counter — and Dick Grayson, standing stiff as a board like he was caught hiding a dead body.

You blinked, shocked. “Jay! Hi—uh, what are you doing at the Tower?”

Before you could spiral into awkwardness, Jason’s grin stretched wider. He pushed off the counter and pulled you into an easy hug, ruffling your hair affectionately.

Dick just stood there behind him, looking like he was silently begging the universe to strike him dead.

Jason hugged you tight, smirking directly at Dick over your shoulder. “Oh, you know,” Jason said casually, voice dripping with amusement. “Just visiting family.”

You pulled away, frowning slightly. “Family? I thought you said you were adopted?”

Jason chuckled, like he was just remembering a silly little thing he forgot to mention. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck like it was no big deal. “Well, funny thing… turns out I kinda forgot to tell you—Dick and I are brothers.”

You stared at him. Then at Dick. Then back at him. The realization hit you like a brick wall. Your face drained of color. Your jaw dropped. “Oh… oh no,” you breathed, stepping back in horror.

Jason just beamed, the most evil, smug, entertained older brother you could ever imagine. Dick, on the other hand, looked like he was about two seconds away from throwing himself out the window.

You covered your mouth, mortified. “I gave head to your—your—!!” you squeaked, unable to even finish the sentence.

Jason patted your head like you were a confused puppy. “Relax, dollface,” he said, winking shamelessly. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Actually…” He cocked his head at Dick with a shit-eating grin. “You made my brother a very happy man tonight.”

“JASON!” Dick barked, red-faced, but Jason was already moving toward the door, laughing under his breath.

Before he left the kitchen, he turned back, tossed you a wink so quick Dick didn’t catch it — and said, “Good job, sweetheart. Proud of you.”

And with that, he disappeared down the hallway, whistling innocently.

You stood there frozen, absolutely mortified. Dick dragged a hand down his face, groaning like his soul had physically left his body.

“Well,” you mumbled, cheeks burning hotter than the sun, “at least now I know why it felt like he was weirdly good at teaching…” Dick just let out a helpless little noise of pain, looking at you like he had no idea whether to laugh or cry.

Later that night, Dick lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling like a man at war with his soul. He had been tossing and turning for an hour, replaying every agonizing second from earlier — your mortified face, Jason’s shit-eating grin, the way Jason had said “proud of you” like he was handing out a damn scouting badge—

His phone buzzed on the nightstand. He groaned, rolling over to check it, praying it wasn’t who he thought it was. It was.

Jason Todd:

Hey big bro.

How’s my favorite little student?

Dick glared at the screen, feeling his blood pressure spike.

Before he could even respond, another text came in:

Jason Todd:

Did she use the twist?

Be honest.

Dick threw the phone onto the bed like it had personally insulted him, running both hands through his hair. “damn it, Jason,” he muttered, pacing the room.

The phone buzzed again.

Jason Todd:

You can thank me later.

Or name your first kid after me.

Your call.

Dick actually let out a strangled, painful laugh — half from genuine amusement, half from the soul-crushing secondhand embarrassment that was now his permanent companion.

He snatched the phone back up, thumbs flying across the screen.

Dick Grayson:

I’m going to kill you.

Slowly.

A second later:

Jason Todd:

You’re welcome.

<3

Dick groaned again, collapsing face-first onto the mattress. This was his life now.

[hyperfixiation-station]

Behind Enemy Lines Pt.2

CW: Detailed description of wounds and torture, talk of derealization, disassociation, medical inaccuracies Summary: You were a friendly medic, captured years ago and held prisoner, forced to do do the bidding of your captors. Years later, a man by the name of Ghost is dragged in and changes the trajectory of your life A/N: I had severe ADHD, and i am unmedicated rn, and it makes it really hard to work on things unless I get the hyperfocused drive for it, so I'm sorry I'm so bad at making the other parts to my fics. Know that I will never abandon them. it just might take me a while. ALSO I CAN'T FIND THE SAME GIF I USED FOR THE LAST ONE IM SO SAD and also this is shorter than the last one idea playlist part 1 thanks to @haven247 for being my beta

“I'm a medic, please I don't know anything!” wrists strapped, metal on metal, ears ringing

“Stop please I-” touching, pulling, biting

“Im just a medic pl-” it hurts it hurts stop it please

“I don't know anything!” I'm innocent in this

“Please!” just let me die

“Stop it, please!” hurts hurts hurts

God just let me go

Humans are a funny thing. They crave life and living, no matter how awful the circumstance. You thought a lot about the apocalypse shows you used to binge watch, though about how they all fought to survive, even when it would have been better to die. You never really understood them until now. How someone could lose everything, be betrayed and hurt again and again and still want to live. And yet here you are.

Maybe hope if foolish. You'd lost hope for a long time, or at least you'd thought you'd had. But as the soldiers came crashing into your prison, as they held you at gunpoint as you tried to save their friend, you could feel her crawling out of the dark recesses of your heart. Her light was flickering, but there.

Stepping outside almost sends you into shock. The sights, the sounds the smells, everything just came rushing at you like a freight train. For so long you'd been floating in some half-aware state, the world around you muted and dull, and to have it crash back in like this was startling, to say the least. You would have fallen if not for the dark-skinned soldier holding your arm in a vice-like grip.

You can hear gunfire and screaming, so loud it almost made your ears hurt. Smell the smoke and the burning rubber. Feel the wind in your tangled hair and the blood slicking your hands. The blood. It is hot and slippery, coating your hands and soaking into your ratty t-shirt. You can hear Ghost's rattling, wet breaths, smell the metallic scent of his blood, feel the way his meat, his muscles and fat, brushed against your hand as you kept him from bleeding out, can feel his organs pressing against your fingers with each shuddering breath he takes.

Oddly enough, these sensation help ground you. They were things you knew, feeling you had grown accustomed to since your first day in med school.

You reach a helicopter, the rotors already spinning. Its a bit of a struggle to get in while making sure you don't let go of Ghost, but you manage. The soldiers carrying him place him on a row of seats, and you kneel down next to his body, hand still firmly holding gauze in place.

It wasn't doing much good, but it's not like you could tell anyone.

"Help him." The soldier with the mustache orders the moment you're in the air. He thrusts a med-kit at you, and the dark-skinned soldier opens it for you, showing you the contents.

They don't give you much to work with. Some gauze, a needle and thread, bandages, and a lighter. Rudimentary supplies. But hey, you've done more with less. Probably.

Your free hand drifts to the lighter, a distant memory of a soldier and a gunshot wound in a similar area flashing through your mind. It's not quite the same, more than just an artery nicked this time, but cauterization is all you can really do.

You grab the lighter, flicking it on and holding to his body. a hand closes like vice around your wrist, yanking your hand away.

"What the 'ell are ye doin'" A man with a Scottish accent practically snarls at you. You whine in response, tugging your arm uselessly.

"Soap." The mustache man says sharply, "Let 'em work."

"Sir-"

"Let them go." Your wrist drops, and you fumble with the lighter before holding the fame to Ghost's skin. You watch in sick fascination as his skin bubbles and burns, the fat and muscles shrinking away under the flame, the blood vessels sealing precariously as the heat sears them shut.

You don't know what effects this will have on his organs, if he'll be able to function the same way again. But you have to keep him alive. You look at his pale face, watch the way his chest shudders with every breath.

God you hope he makes it.

~line break~

They don't let you was before throwing you in a cell. Okay, maybe they didn't throw you, but regardless, you were still cuffed to a table with Ghost's blood crusted to your skin. It was gross. And cruel. They had stripped you away the second you reached the infirmary, not letting you see what was going to happen to your patient.

The door swings open and you flinch, looking up at the soldier that comes in with eyes. Its the man from the helicopter. Soap, you think his name is.

"Yer lucky the medics sayd he'll live." He says, his voice distinctly Scottish. He stalks towards you, sitting on the table on your left side.

" 've been instructed tae question ye, but first we ha'e tae git a look at yer face." He reaches for your mask, tugging it off your ear. All he succeeds in doing is pulling your head forward.

The mask is secured behind your head with a metal clasp, and could only be opened with a specific key, ensuring you couldn't take it off. You had tried, at first, to pull the stitches out, and this was the solution. You can't pull out stiches if you can't touch your mouth.

Soaps brow furrows, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. HE grimaces as he touches your hair, finally just pulling a knife out of his pocket. You tense automatically, squirming away as he brings it closer to you.

"Oh for fu- hold still!" He grasps your head, sliding the knife through the cloth by your ear. The mask falls away, leaving your face exposed

"Lets see what we're-" He freezes, the knife dropping to the floor with a clatter as he sees the mess that is your face. Your lips are sewn together, and the skin of your cheeks is red and raw from the tape that holds your feedign tube on.

"Oh shit." the blood drains from his face, his hand fumbling for the comm unit on his vest.

"Cap? Yeah, we've got a problem."

A/N: Okay, i'm not sure I like the second half, but here it is! Part 3 will have more Ghost/medic interaction :) tags: I definitely didn't get them all, I'm sorry there was just so many of you @smile6890 @cricricorner @unclearblur @redzluvvesage @just-a-harmless-potato-05  @vesna-the-spring @princess312 @norsehorseofcourse-blog @bonniperinktrance @soggywafflezz  @littlebunie @sirbonesly @havoc973 @mommymilkers0526 @thegreyjoyed @pinkiliciousgunp0int @poopoobuttsy @darcellethedreamer @kamote-kuneho @z-wantstowrite @i-ate-ur-fries @fakeguysarehot @shitrandom @yunho-leeknow @idontreallyexistyet 

[wild-jackalope]

summary :: virgin sex with your sinister boyfriend, Mark!

warning :: rough, virgin sex, p in v woo, fem reader, relationship is def fucked up, 'I can fix him', sex hurting, missionary, not my usual smut so lmk if its any good, smut w/ no plot, fucking u will make me stronger!! - sinister Mark, dub-con (?)

note :: inspired by stuff written by @slutla love that b, go read her stuff

He hadn't knocked—he never really did. You just looked up and saw him. Floating in the centre of your room like it was his.

"Mark?" His name slipped out soft and gasped, a flicker of fear in your throat. The feeling settled in your stomach when the black and yellow registered.

That look on his face—you knew it. The specific knot in his brow, the strained frown. It wasn't tender sincerity, it never was.

I'm about to feel you up like you're my personal doll. The look said.

It had become your role, unspoken but absolute: be there.

Take him in. Soothe the ache in his skull with your soft body. Let him bury everything he didn’t know how to say beneath your bruising skin.

He moved without a word, kneeled at the edge of your bed, and pushed your legs apart. His mouth met yours with intent and a surprising reverence.

You tried to soak it up as much as possible, tasting the crumbs of love through his lips. Kisses like that made it all worth it—to you at least.

It was a needed reminder that Mark loved you.

His tongue swiped across the cavern between your lips, a claim.

Affection had crept in over time. Mark had never known kind love, Nolan was a cruel father who only offered praise when shown incredible power and his Mum had passed at such a young age he likely didn't hold any memories of her cuddles. You knew that well, it being a piercing reminder that kept you tethered to him.

Mark didn't care for casual touches, curt kisses or cuddles at night.

The feeling of you opening your lips to let him in and letting loose a moan which you couldn't hold back was what he preferred.

"Fuckin' missed you," he murmured, his guttural words vibrating onto your lips.

Mark shed the tight fabric of his mask, tossing it across your floor.

He stared down at you with dark eyes shaded by frantic hair, jaw tight and face littered with a light flush alongside red cuts.

"Mark..." you frowned, taking his face in your hands.

He took your wrists, holding them with a pressure that made it hard to move your fingers. "I'm fine."

He hated words. He preferred to hear you sob.

He returned to the feverish exploration of your mouth, releasing you only after guiding your hands to his hair. Clear in what he wanted: your touch.

Your fingers dipped through his messy hair, nails running along his scalp in long, gentle rakes. They trailed down his neck and across his shoulders. A tremble passed.

"God," he grunted, closing the minuscule space between you to have you compressed to the place where he longed for you the most.

Hungry fingers devoured you, sliding under your shirt and chasing the desire to feel your flushed flesh.

Then one had dipped lower, between your legs.

His palm cupped your heat, holding you there and feeding off your startled reaction. This was new territory. You were familiar with the feeling of his hand palming the fat of your breasts, or the squeeze of his hand against your thighs until he left bruises in his wake.

But his middle finger pressing into the indent of your clothed sex was entirely new, and it made you shrink beneath him.

"This your first time?" He asked, no hints of affection lacing his question only something territorial and dog-like.

"Yeah," you nodded once and swallowed thickly.

Your eyes peered down without thinking, catching on the obvious bump over the base of his suit, demanding to be freed of the trapping fabric.

A grin grew across his face, both satisfied and threatening. "Cool."

He let the pressure of his palm sink in further into your heat, his other hand pressed into your ribs and keeping you still against the plush bed.

"You gonna let me?" He asked, too casually.

"Do—do you want to?" the way you considered him was so sickeningly sweet. He puffed an amused exhale.

"I wanna hear you say it."

He didn't care for consent, he wanted devotion.

You nodded, slow and dizzy. "Yes, I want to have sex with you."

His lips fell to yours with a crashing passion again, his tongue already fighting to explore yours.

"Marhk—" his name muffled in your mouth, enunciation taken by his hasty exploration of your spit-soaked cavern. You weren't sure if he was too taken up in the lust of it all, or if he did hear and just didn't care.

You attempted to recline your head back, but Mark only followed you until you were wedged between him and the bed. Then, you took his burly shoulders in your hands and pushed against him.

He stilled, annoyed.

"What."

"I love you." You said, offering a weak but certain smile.

He kissed you harder, like a punishment for your empty words. "I know," he muttered, "that's why you'll take it."

His fingers slid under your pants and underwear, finally dragging along your bare slit. The first direct touch made you jerk, a helpless cry punched out of your throat.

"That's right," he exhaled, a breathy chuckle in his chest, "I wanna feel how much you love me."

He teased you for a moment longer—circling, dripping, spreading—until he decided it wasn't torturous enough. His fingers hooked around your bottoms, yanking them down your thighs in one strong pull.

You barely had time to breathe before he was stripping himself too, dragging his tight suit down to his waist, the shade of his cape no longer shielding your body. You closed your legs, unwilling to bear the naked humiliation.

But it didn't matter, because Mark pried your legs open with casual strength, like your legs were made up of nothing but thin bone.

Between the open space of your legs, you caught a glimpse of him—already hard, already glossy with pre.

He coated his tip in your slick and your body jolted in reaction. Which only had Mark forcing you further into the bed in an attempt to keep you still.

Then—without a breath of warning—he pushed inside.

He'd only glided against your insides halfway before you constricted at the sudden, alien pressure.

"Mark!"

But he continued, slowly, surely, concealing his thickness inside you. “Shit, that’s too much for you?” He asked, pressing his thumb to your clit.

It was. He could feel it in the violent tremble of your insides, and the way blood soared through your veins with how quickly your heart pumped. Your body was fighting him, but you weren't going to stop him.

You forced down the ball building up your throat with a swallow. "No, I'm okay," you assured.

His thumb began moving against your clit, drawing slow, deliberate circles. The only sign of softness.

"Don't lie to me," he muttered, "does it hurt?"

"Y-Yes."

The admission, the way you look up at him with something fragile in your eyes jolted his dick, and it throbbed against your constrictive insides.

It caressed something broken in him, something that made him press deeper into you. He leaned over you like a shadow and kissed you again, muffling your gasp as he started to move.

The first thrust felt like agony, his length forcing itself inside you and slowly sliding out before stuffing you again. Each rut of his hips jolted your body, but his hand kept you firm against the mattress.

You cried out, every blow to your insides shooting a stinging pain across your abdomen that followed with a quick aftertaste of pleasure.

His lips crushed yours, devouring every gasp and whimper. He kissed with teeth, with tongue, with the kind of force that sent your head spinning. His tongue grazed against your lower lip, before he sucked on the tender skin, leaving a bite sharp enough to leak hot blood, which he smoothed over with a slow, filthy lick.

You couldn't even try to keep up with him.

No one else could take him, not Cecil, not the guardians, not even his father, but you could—like this. Flushed and abused below him.

You could take the bruises, the nasty words, because you loved him. You loved him. It satisfied something deep and cruel inside him.

"Fuuuck." His head dipped to your shoulder, his lips still sweet with your metallic blood. "Let me go faster," he groaned, the words quavering against your shoulder.

"Okay," you nodded, squeezing your eyes shut in preparation.

"Yeah? Can I?" He asked—but it wasn't really a question, just a sweetly dressed demand to hear you say you wanted him to wreck you.

Each thrust that drilled into you after was a broken reminder that you were his, a reassurance that your body would remember him long after he'd pulled out and disappeared into the sky.

The previous pace had teetered near too much and now, with the quick smacks of skin and the way Mark's tip surged against your nerves had reached an overstimulating point, the pain and pleasure forced you too quickly over the waves of your climax.

Mark felt it—the full body shake and the throbbing tightness of your insides. The way you clenched around him in rhythmic waves.

Your nails clawed his shoulders, leaving desperate, white lines. Your eyes welled with shining tears and they escaped you in burning streams.

Mark skipped a thrust, only for a heartbeat to let you overwhelm his senses. Though he'd never say it aloud, Mark thought you looked beautiful.

When he threw his hips into you again, your next orgasm followed quick and hot behind your first.

This time, the sucking of your inside threw him over the edge, too.

You felt a new warmth pool inside you, sucked in by the twitching of Mark's dick. He groaned through clenched teeth, milked of his climax far too soon.

He pushed into you as deep as he could go, one final time, forcing his cum to dribble out of your stuffed sex. It had been tinted a light pink, mixed with specks of your blood.

You could hardly feel the tension that first strained your insides, just a numbing buzz left in the wake of Mark's quick thrusts.

He didn't speak, but his hand, rough and warm lifted you from its bruising entrapment of your body. You gasped, a space in your lungs that you hadn't known was stolen by the pressure filled again.

"Breathe," he muttered.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing.

He only stared at you, eyes dark and feral. As if daring you to say you loved him.

You took his cheek with a shaky breath and pressed a weak kiss to his lips, raw and filled with sincerity. It was confession enough.

[pankowcrumbs]

Blurred Lines X Pedro Pascal

MasterList

Word count: 6.8K

Sex implied in a movie scene but no actual smut.

Plot: You and Pedro are romantic love interests in a new movie but there is a 25 year aged gap and it gets complicated when the feelings are becoming real underneath the characters.

There’s always a strange rhythm to film sets. Long stretches of waiting around, interspersed with bursts of concentrated magic. I’d learnt that quickly, although this set Falling Slow was different. Maybe it was the subject matter, maybe it was the man I was working opposite. Or maybe it was both.

The film was a sweeping, slow-burn romance between a young academic and her older, world-weary professor. Forbidden, scandalous, but written with nuance and aching tenderness. And, yes, it was about a large age gap. Just like us.

I was twenty-five. Pedro was fifty.

On paper, it should’ve been awkward. But Pedro had this way about him all warm smiles, self-deprecating humour, and inappropriate dad jokes that made the whole cast and crew instantly at ease. He was like the sun on set. Infectious. Easy. Except when it came to scenes with me. Because when the cameras rolled, he changed. He became something else entirely. Something... intense. Something that curled low in my belly.

And today, we were filming that scene. The one everyone had been whispering about for weeks. The sex scene.

It was a closed set. Just Pedro, me, the director, the sound guy, and Elodie, our lovely but terrifyingly precise intimacy coordinator. We’d choreographed it all beforehand where my hands would go, when to kiss, how long to linger down to the second. Every move mapped like a dance. Modesty garments in place. No actual sex. All smoke and mirrors.

But even with all the prep, I could feel the tension humming under my skin the moment I stepped onto the set a dimly lit bedroom dressed with crumpled linen sheets, soft golden light, and a half-empty bottle of red wine on the nightstand.

Pedro was already there, shirt unbuttoned, lounging against the headboard, eyes flicking up when he saw me. He smiled warm and reassuring but there was something unreadable beneath it. Like he knew the weight of what we were about to do. Like he felt it too.

"You good, cariño?" he asked softly as I sat on the edge of the bed.

I nodded, smiling back. “Just thinking I might’ve had one less coffee if I’d known I’d be straddling you today.”

He chuckled, low and warm. “I’m flattered. I didn’t even have to buy you dinner first.”

Elodie raised a brow. “Alright, Pascal. Save the charm for the camera.”

We all laughed, and the tension eased just a little.

After a final rundown of the choreography, we got into position. I climbed onto the bed, straddling Pedro, knees on either side of his hips. He was warm beneath me. Solid. I could feel the slow, steady rhythm of his breathing under my palms as I pressed them lightly to his chest.

“Scene twenty-two, take one,” came the director’s voice.

The clapper snapped.

And then the world narrowed.

In the scene, my character was supposed to kiss him first shy at first, then hungry. So I did. I leaned in, my lips brushing his gently, then deeper, letting it linger. Pedro kissed me back not as himself, but as Henry, his mouth soft but full of restraint, like he was holding back years of want.

Our movements followed the choreography: my hands sliding up his chest, his fingers trailing down my sides, my hips rolling ever so slightly.

But somewhere, somewhere between the scripted kisses and the unspoken glances, something shifted.

His hands gripped my waist a little firmer. My fingers tangled in his hair, not because the script said so, but because I wanted to. And then just barely I felt it.

The faintest shift beneath me.

A subtle, growing pressure against my inner thigh.

Pedro stilled for the briefest second. A breath caught in his throat. And then he kissed me again slower this time, deeper. Less scripted. More real.

I should’ve pulled back. I knew I should. But I didn’t.

The lines blurred.

Heat rose in my cheeks, pooling low in my stomach as I rocked against him again, instinctively, almost imperceptibly. And this time, the pressure was unmistakable. He was getting hard.

I didn’t look away. Neither did he.

His pupils were blown, lips parted, chest rising faster than it had a minute ago. I could feel his fingers flexing where they held me not guiding me, not moving me, just feeling me.

“Cut,” the director called, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.

I jumped slightly, pulling back, blinking as if I’d just surfaced from underwater.

Pedro cleared his throat, giving me a small, apologetic smile. “Sorry. Got a bit... carried away.”

The intimacy coordinator stepped in immediately, her voice gentle. “That was great work. Let’s just take five. Everyone okay?”

I nodded quickly, slipping off Pedro’s lap and wrapping the robe around myself, suddenly hyperaware of every inch of skin.

Pedro stayed sitting on the bed, running a hand through his hair, then glancing at me with a crooked grin. “If I say I’m too old for this shit, do I sound appropriately flustered or just creepy?”

I laughed, breathless, still flushed. “Bit of both, honestly.”

He chuckled, then sobered, his eyes searching mine. “Hey. You alright?”

I met his gaze. There was no sleaze in it. No arrogance. Just genuine concern. And maybe a flicker of something else.

“I’m fine,” I said softly. “It was... intense. But I’m okay.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were incredible, by the way. I mean that. Professional. Committed. Very distracting.”

I raised a brow. “Distracting?”

He smirked, that familiar playful spark back in his eyes. “In the best possible way.”

We stood there for a beat, just looking at each other, and I wondered if he felt it too that slow pull. That blurred edge between fiction and something else entirely.

Then Elodie called us back.

The rest of the takes went by in a haze. We stuck to the choreography, reined it in, kept it clean. But the charge lingered. Like the air after lightning.

When we finally wrapped for the day, Pedro caught me just as I was leaving the trailer.

“Hey,” he said, voice low. “Walk with me?”

I nodded, tugging my coat tighter around me as we stepped into the cool evening air. The sky was bruised with twilight, the last of the crew packing up around us.

We walked in silence for a while, side by side, shoulders brushing. Then he stopped.

“Today was...” He trailed off, frowning at the gravel beneath his boots. “I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“You didn’t,” I said quickly. “Not at all. If anything... I don’t know. I felt safe. Even when it got a bit... blurry.”

He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah. Blurry’s a good word.”

Another pause.

Then: “You’re not just good at this, Y/N. You’re magnetic. I’ve worked with so many people, and you” he broke off, exhaling. “You’re dangerous.”

I smiled, unsure whether to laugh or cry. “So are you.”

He chuckled, the sound warm but laced with something heavier. “We’ve got more scenes like that coming up.”

“I know.”

“And we’ll keep it professional. Of course.”

“Of course.”

But neither of us moved. Neither of us turned away.

The next morning, set felt quieter than usual.

Not in the literal sense there were still cables being dragged across floors, PAs shouting about coffee orders, the wardrobe trailer buzzing with life. But there was a hush in the way people looked at us. Or maybe I was imagining that.

Maybe it was just the way he looked at me.

Pedro had always been good at eye contact playful, expressive, sincere. But today? He barely held mine for longer than a second. A quick glance. A smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. A soft “morning, cariño” that sounded more distant than usual.

And I understood. God, I understood.

Because the moment I’d gotten back to my flat last night, I’d played the scene over and over in my head the way his hands had felt on my waist, how his breathing had changed beneath me, the weight of his body and the way our kisses had slowed, deepened, blurred.

It had been just a scene. Technically. But we both knew it wasn’t just a scene.

Today’s call sheet had us shooting a quieter moment our characters sharing wine in the kitchen, stealing kisses in between bites of takeout. Innocent. Sweet. No sex. No straddling. Still, my heart had already begun its steady, traitorous drumbeat the moment I saw his name next to mine.

I was perched on the counter, wrapped in a faded jumper that wardrobe insisted made me look “young and lovesick”, when Pedro walked onto set.

He looked... tired. Not in the usual way actors did. This was something heavier. Like sleep hadn’t come easy. Like he’d been wrestling with something all night. His jaw was tight, his eyes shadowed.

But still, he smiled. Softly.

“You alright?” I asked, voice barely above a whisper as the crew adjusted lights around us.

He nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just... head’s full. Long night.”

Before I could ask more, the director called for quiet, and we rolled straight into the scene.

We were mid-take when Pedro, in character, leaned against the counter beside me, close but not touching. I offered him a chip from our fake takeout box, and his fingers brushed mine when he took it. He didn’t pull away right away. Neither did I.

Our eyes met. The silence stretched.

It wasn’t scripted.

“Cut,” the director called gently. “That was nice. Really natural. Let’s reset and go again.”

Pedro stepped away immediately, exhaling through his nose, like he’d just run a mile. I could feel the shift in him something coiled and tense, barely held together.

After the take, he hovered near me, hands shoved in his pockets. Then finally as the crew fiddled with lights and lens changes he stepped closer, voice low.

“Can I talk to you?” he murmured, eyes still not quite meeting mine.

I nodded, following him off-set to a quiet corner behind a lighting rig. The hum of activity faded, and suddenly it was just us. And the air between us felt impossibly thick.

He ran a hand through his hair, took a breath, and finally looked at me really looked at me.

“Listen,” he started, voice rough. “I need to say something, and I hope to God I don’t make this weird, but I can’t keep pretending nothing’s happening.”

My pulse spiked. “Pedro”

“I’m not going to cross a line,” he said quickly, firmly. “That’s not what this is. But yesterday… you felt it too, didn’t you?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. I did.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, like hearing it out loud confirmed some terrible truth. When he opened them again, they were filled with guilt and ache and something so tender it made my throat tighten.

“You’re twenty-five,” he said softly. “You’re brilliant and talented and beautiful and kind. And I am exactly double your age. I’ve been doing this for twenty years longer than you. I’m more famous. I have more power. That’s... that’s not a dynamic I want to mess with.”

I nodded slowly, my heart cracking open. “I know. I’ve thought about all of that too. People would talk. They’d assume the worst. I’ve already seen what they say when any young actress is seen next to an older man. They’d crucify you.”

His jaw flexed. “It’s not about them. It’s about you. I don’t ever want you to wonder if I respected you. If I saw you as just a... a pretty face or a fantasy. Because I don’t. You’re so much more than that.”

I blinked back sudden tears, overwhelmed by the gentleness in his voice.

“I don’t think you’re creepy,” I whispered. “Not even for a second. You’re not that guy.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’m not crossing internal lines,” he murmured, looking down. “Because I wake up thinking about you. And then I come to set and try to be professional, and then we’re kissing, and suddenly it’s not acting anymore, and I hate how easy it is to forget where the fiction ends.”

A silence fell between us. Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

Finally, I said, “So what do we do?”

He looked up, eyes heavy. “We be smart. We finish this film. We keep it clean. We don’t give anyone a reason to whisper.”

“And after that?” I asked, my voice barely audible.

He hesitated.

“If you still feel the same when the dust settles... I’ll ask you to dinner. Properly. Not as a co-star. Just as me.”

My heart flipped, twisted, bloomed.

“I think I’d say yes,” I whispered.

He smiled small, tired, but real. “That scares the shit out of me.”

I laughed quietly, because it did the same to me.

We stayed there for a minute longer just two people suspended in that blurry space between right and wrong, between reality and longing. Then someone called for us, and the moment shattered.

Back to work. Back to the act.

The set is quiet, save for the sound of the camera rolling and the soft direction from the crew. The kitchen set is warmly lit, almost intimate, and it’s just the two of us in the frame. My heart races, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the scene we’re about to film or the electric tension between us. The weight of our confessions earlier still hangs in the air, unacknowledged yet palpable.

The director calls for a pause as the crew resets a light. I catch my breath, watching Pedro lean against the counter, his expression unreadable. He looks good in this scene his dark hair a little tousled, his shirt slightly undone at the collar. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, something I’ve never seen before. I know he’s feeling it too the same heat, the same unrelenting pull.

"Ready when you are," he says, his voice low, warm, almost inviting.

I swallow hard, nodding as the director signals for us to reset. My body feels light and heavy all at once. This scene it’s supposed to be a simple kiss. Nothing more. But the way Pedro looks at me makes it feel like everything else has faded away. The crew, the cameras, the world outside of this kitchen they don’t exist. It’s just him, and it’s just me.

We’re called into position, and my stomach flutters as Pedro moves closer. His hand brushes against my waist as he adjusts his position, and I feel it all the way down to my toes. It’s a light touch, but it carries an electricity I can’t ignore. This is the moment where everything we’ve been dancing around comes to a head.

The director calls out, “Action,” and I look up at Pedro, my breath catching in my throat. His eyes soften, his lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes not completely. I feel my chest tighten, my heartbeat accelerating.

Then, we kiss. It’s slow at first, tender, like we’re still testing the waters. But there’s something else now, something different that wasn’t there before. The kiss deepens, and I can feel his hands on my back, pulling me closer. He’s no longer just my co-star he’s the man I’ve been trying to keep my distance from, and now he’s here, wrapped up in my arms, his lips on mine.

And for a moment, everything blurs. The scene, the cameras, even the crew they’re all nothing compared to the heat I feel building between us. It’s as if we can’t stop ourselves anymore, as if the line between acting and reality is fading.

“Cut,” the director calls. But it’s not a relief. It feels like a premature end to something we both want to continue. I pull back slightly, our lips just a breath apart, and I see it in his eyes desire, conflict, the same storm I feel swirling inside me.

“Sorry,” I murmur, stepping back to give us both space. I’m not sorry for the kiss, not exactly. But I am sorry for the mess this is going to cause. “That was…”

“I know,” Pedro interrupts softly. His voice is low, almost a whisper. “It’s getting harder to pretend, isn’t it?”

I nod, unable to speak. I’ve been trying to ignore it, trying to convince myself it’s just the job, that the attraction is all part of the performance. But this? This is something different. Something real. And that makes everything so much more complicated.

The director seems to notice the shift, and he smiles approvingly. “That was perfect. We got what we needed. Let’s take a break, everyone.” The crew begins to pack up, but I can’t shake the tension in the air. It lingers, thick and palpable.

Pedro stays where he is, watching me carefully. I don’t know what he’s thinking, but I can see the internal battle on his face. He knows this is all so wrong so forbidden but the chemistry between us doesn’t lie. He’s feeling it too.

The lights are blinding, and the cameras flash relentlessly as we make our way down the red carpet. The press tour for our film is in full swing, and I can feel the tension building inside me. Pedro walks beside me, as always with that calm, collected presence of his, but I know he’s feeling the weight of the questions just as much as I am.

“Y/N, Pedro! Over here!” A reporter calls out. They wave their hands, trying to catch our attention. We both smile, the practiced, polished smiles we’ve been wearing all day.

“Your on-screen chemistry has everyone talking,” another reporter chimes in. “What’s the secret to that incredible dynamic?”

Pedro chuckles lightly beside me, his arm casually brushing against mine as we pose for a photo. "I guess we just have a lot of fun with it," he says with his usual charm. "But, honestly, the whole thing is a team effort. It’s about trust, right?”

I nod, glancing over at him. There’s something almost too knowing in his eyes, but the smile on his face says it all. “Exactly. It’s all about trust and respect. We’re both in it together, and that’s what makes everything flow so naturally.”

Another reporter jumps in with a question that makes my heart skip a beat. “So, there’s been a lot of talk about the age gap between you two. How did that affect your dynamic, both on and off screen?”

I feel Pedro’s hand subtly brush against the small of my back as I step forward to answer. It’s almost imperceptible, but the touch still sends a wave of heat rushing through me.

“Well, I’ll say this,” I begin, keeping my voice steady, even though I’m aware of the weight of every word. “Pedro was always incredibly respectful, both in the work and outside of it. He’s very aware of the power he holds in this situation, and he made sure that I never felt pressured or uncomfortable in any way. It’s something that’s really important to me, especially with the age difference.”

Pedro turns toward me then, his smile warm, but there’s a flicker in his eyes that tells me he’s not quite as unaffected by all this as he’s trying to seem. “Yeah, it’s not lost on me that I have a certain... position, you know?” His gaze shifts, and I see the sincerity in his eyes. “But it’s all about making sure that everyone feels safe and respected. That’s the priority.”

The reporters are eating this up, their cameras clicking nonstop as we both speak. They want more, but they’re not going to get anything out of us that feels too revealing.

“I think we’ve both been really aware of the situation,” I continue, glancing back at Pedro to make sure we’re on the same page. He gives me a small nod, clearly in agreement. “We’ve worked together as equals, and that’s what makes the chemistry on screen feel so natural. It’s a partnership.”

Another reporter presses further. “So, with that in mind, do you think the age gap affected the way you approached the romantic scenes?”

Pedro gives a soft laugh, his hand running through his hair. “I don’t think it’s something we dwelled on. We’ve been doing this for a long time, both of us, and we know how to keep things professional. Of course, there’s always a certain level of vulnerability in those scenes, but you can’t let the circumstances get in the way of what you’re trying to achieve artistically.”

“Exactly,” I agree, trying to keep things light but feeling the tension in my chest as the press continues to ask about the dynamics between us. “We had an amazing team around us, especially the intimacy coordinator. Everything was choreographed with such care. So, honestly, it just made the process feel safe. And that’s key to making the chemistry believable.”

One reporter, seemingly a little more daring, steps forward and lowers their voice. “There’s obviously so much palpable chemistry between you two are you ever worried about people reading into it too much? I mean, you’re clearly very comfortable with each other. And let’s face it, the age gap is something that has a lot of people talking.”

I see Pedro stiffen beside me, his jaw tightening just slightly. He’s trying to keep his composure, but I can feel his internal conflict. I know what he’s thinking: This is a line we’re toeing, and if we’re not careful, it could all unravel.

“Well,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation, “Pedro and I have worked incredibly hard to develop this connection. It’s all been about creating a space where we both felt comfortable, respected, and safe. And yes, the chemistry is definitely there, but we’re also very aware of how people can interpret things. We have a responsibility to each other, as actors, to make sure we’re always in sync.”

Pedro’s eyes flick to mine then, something unspoken passing between us. He smiles again, but this time there’s a sadness in it, like he knows that the truth is always just beneath the surface, and yet we can’t allow ourselves to fully acknowledge it.

“Y/N is an amazing actress,” he says, turning to me. “She makes it so easy to get lost in the scene. But the most important thing is that we always communicate. Always make sure the other person is comfortable. And I think that’s what made the whole process work.”

I smile at him, feeling my heart swell a little. I’ve praised him countless times today, and I know he’s doing the same for me. The interviews, the questions they’re all just a front, a way to avoid saying what’s really on our minds.

But the truth is, we’re both terrified. Not of the chemistry or the age gap but of what it means if we were to ever let this connection spill over into something real. It’s not just the press, or the fans, or anyone else watching us that’s the problem. It’s that neither of us wants to cross that line. Not yet, at least. Not in a way that can’t be undone.

As we move on to the next round of questions, we’re both exhausted, but the answers keep coming, just as rehearsed, just as careful. Every word a mask for the real truth, the one we can’t say aloud.

I think Pedro feels it too the tension, the pull. But he’s always been good at keeping a straight face, keeping his emotions close. And for now, that’s what I’ll do too.

Because as much as we might want to, we can’t allow ourselves to fall too far into this. Not yet. Not when the consequences would be so much greater than the fleeting thrill of what we feel in this moment.

One month after the movie’s release the buzz still hasn’t died down.

Even with the press tour wrapped and the red carpets rolled away, the film has taken on a life of its own living, breathing, and growing in whispers and headlines, most of them no longer about the movie itself.

They're about us.

Pedro and I have been texting constantly. At first, it was innocent. A few “saw this meme, made me think of you” or “did you see that fan edit?” But slowly quietly it shifted. The texts got longer, deeper. Little confessions snuck in. “I couldn’t sleep, so I was thinking about that night we wrapped filming...” or “Do you ever replay our kitchen scene in your head?”

Now it’s every day. Every night. Sometimes I fall asleep with my phone in my hand, mid-conversation with him, and wake up to a sleepy reply at 3 a.m.

We’re not dating. We haven’t said that out loud. But we’re something.

Something complicated.

Something neither of us can define, because we’re both too scared to say the words.

So we start small.

A coffee run. Somewhere tucked away in a quiet part of the city. We wear sunglasses and hats and keep our heads down. But people notice. Of course they do. The blurry photos hit Twitter before we even finish our cappuccinos.

The headlines follow within the hour:

“Pedro Pascal & Y/N Seen Grabbing Coffee Post-Press Tour: Just Friends or Something More?”

Our publicists are fast. The statement goes out before the afternoon:

“Pedro and Y/N have remained close friends since working on the film. They’re simply catching up and celebrating the success of their project.”

And maybe that’s true. Maybe we are just catching up.

But then it happens again. Another coffee. Then brunch. Then dinner with a group, but we still leave together.

The press might be playing along, but the fans?

They know better.

And they’re relentless.

It’s a rainy Thursday night when we finally cave and just let ourselves be still for once. Pedro’s place is warm and quiet, a world away from the noise. We’re on his couch, legs tangled beneath a throw blanket, my head on his chest. He smells like cedarwood and clean laundry, and his heartbeat is soft beneath my cheek.

He’s reading a book. I’m scrolling.

Bad combo.

“Oh my god,” I say, half-laughing, half-horrified. “Listen to this one: ‘Y’all, they’re not just friends. Look at the way he looks at her during interviews. That’s a man down BAD.’”

Pedro lets out a low chuckle, still not looking up from his book. “They’re observant, I’ll give them that.”

I keep scrolling, barely blinking. “This one says: ‘They think they’re being subtle, but the tension is screaming. Pedro blinked eleven times when she said his name.’”

That gets a real laugh from him. “Okay, that’s impressive. Eleven?”

“I’m serious! I think there’s a spreadsheet. These people are invested.”

I scroll again, my stomach sinking a little now. “Here we go... ‘Let’s not forget the age gap. I don’t care how good the chemistry is it’s inappropriate.’”

I feel Pedro tense slightly beneath me, just for a second.

I try to laugh it off. “Some people are really loud on the internet.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then, gently, he reaches down and takes the phone from my hand, placing it on the coffee table.

“Hey,” he says softly. I glance up at him. “You don’t need to read that stuff.”

I bite my lip. “I know. I just... it’s hard to ignore. It’s like they’re waiting for us to mess up. Like we’re already doing something wrong, even though we’re not even...”

“Even though we’re not even saying what this is?” he finishes for me.

I nod.

He sighs, his hand finding mine under the blanket. His fingers are warm, steady. “People are always going to find a reason to tear something down. Especially something that doesn’t fit their version of what’s acceptable or normal.”

He pauses, then adds, “But this you and me this is real. Whatever it is, however it started... I’m not playing pretend anymore.”

My breath catches.

“I think about you constantly,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Even when I’m trying not to. And I’ve tried, believe me. I’ve run every reason through my head for why this shouldn’t happen. The age gap. The public eye. The press. But none of it matters when I’m with you.”

I blink, tears suddenly pricking the corners of my eyes. “Pedro...”

He reaches up, brushing his thumb along my cheek. “You’re smart, and kind, and brilliant at what you do. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. And I’m here. I’m real. And I’m... I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hang between us, so soft and certain, I swear the world goes still.

I sit up slightly, just enough to look at him properly. He’s nervous I can see it in the way he swallows hard, waiting for me to respond.

So I kiss him.

It’s slow, sweet, careful like we’re finally stepping into something we’ve both wanted for months. His hand cradles the back of my neck, anchoring me. When we pull apart, his forehead rests against mine.

“I’m scared,” I whisper.

“Me too,” he admits. “But I’m more scared of not trying.”

We don’t say anything after that. We just settle back onto the couch, wrapped in each other, the rain still tapping gently against the windows.

And for once, there’s no press. No fans. No judgment.

Just us.

Three Months Post-Release we went on a holiday together to Amalfi Coast, Italy

What started as a “casual friends getaway” to Italy Pedro’s idea, after months of carefully planned dinners and movie nights behind drawn blinds turns into the headline of every entertainment outlet before our second gelato cone has even started to melt.

The pictures hit the internet first.

Pedro and I on a yacht, sun spilling across our skin, his hand around my waist as I laugh at something he whispered against my shoulder.

Then one of him pressing a kiss to my temple, his sunglasses pushed up into his curls, his fingers twined with mine.

Another of us walking along a cobblestone street in Positano, clearly mid-conversation, clearly not aware of the lens trained on us from a balcony above.

And the one that makes every news outlet spiral: us in a quiet candlelit restaurant, sitting side by side instead of across the table, my head tipped against his shoulder, his hand resting gently on my thigh, both of us smiling like there’s no one else in the world.

By the time we’re back in the hotel that night, our phones are buzzing nonstop.

Pedro scrolls through a few headlines and hands me his phone, half-laughing, half-terrified.

“Pedro Pascal, 50, and Co-Star Y/N, 25, Spark Romance Rumors With Intimate Italian Getaway”

“Too Close to Call It Platonic: Inside the Blossoming Off-Screen Relationship Fans Saw Coming”

“From On-Screen Chemistry to Real-Life Romance? Internet Reacts to Viral Yacht Kiss”

I let out a shaky breath. “Well. Subtle isn’t our strong suit, is it?”

He laughs, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me into his chest. “We weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“No,” I say softly. “We weren’t. But they’re going to have opinions.”

Pedro is quiet for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead. “Let them. As long as we’re clear, and respectful, and... honest.”

We are. So we act fast.

The joint statement goes out the next morning:

“After the completion of our recent project together, we found ourselves growing close in a way neither of us anticipated. With mutual respect, open communication, and the support of those closest to us, we are exploring this relationship with full awareness of the scrutiny that may come with it. We want to be transparent in saying that our dynamic developed after the film wrapped and was not present during production. The age difference has been part of many conversations between us privately, and we’ve approached this connection with care, mutual consent, and a shared understanding of the power dynamics involved. Thank you for allowing us the space to navigate this thoughtfully and respectfully.”

It’s careful. It's honest. It’s us.

Still, the world explodes.

Some are skeptical. Some are cruel. But the overwhelming majority especially fans support it. The same people who tracked every blink in press interviews now stitch together fan edits of our vacation photos, pairing them with dreamy music and captions like “this wasn’t acting, it was real all along.”

There are comment threads filled with speculation:

“You can tell how much care Pedro has for her. Look at the way he moves with her protective, not possessive.”

“Y/N always looks so comfortable around him. Like she knows he’s a safe place.”

And others more direct:

“I don’t care about the age gap, I care about how happy they look. Let them live.”

We do our best to stay grounded. For every sweet photo that gets posted, there are five blurry ones taken through restaurant windows or behind shrubs. I learn to ignore the flash of phones in the corners of cafés. Pedro tightens his hold on my hand when the paparazzi try to corner us leaving a small museum.

There’s one day hot, bright, filled with salt air and sun where we walk through a market in Ravello and split an ice cream cone because mine melted too fast. A fan catches it on video and uploads it with the caption: “They’re so in love it’s ridiculous.”

I want to argue. I want to say “we’re just figuring it out.” That we haven’t put a label on it, that we still talk more than we kiss, that some nights I stay up wondering if we’re really allowed to feel this way.

But then I look at Pedro.

The way he always lets me answer first in interviews, never interrupting. The way he sits just a little closer in photos, but never too close. The way he constantly checks in with soft glances and quiet, whispered questions: Are you okay? Are you overwhelmed? Do you want to go home?

And I know.

I’m allowed to feel this way. We both are.

The car door opens.

And for a split second, I hesitate. Not because I’m nervous about the flashing lights or the ocean of voices waiting to shout my name but because this time, I’m not walking this carpet alone.

I step out anyway, smoothing my hand over the satin of my dress as the warm Los Angeles evening hits my skin. The moment I reach back, his fingers find mine. No searching. No fumbling.

Just instinct.

Pedro’s hand is warm and steady as he steps out beside me, his other hand gently brushing the inside of my wrist in a quiet, grounding gesture. I glance at him, just for a moment. He’s smiling already soft, familiar, like this is just any other day between us. Not the moment the entire world has been waiting for.

Click. Flash. Clickclickclick.

The sound is deafening. But I keep my shoulders back and my chin high, hand wrapped in his.

We walk together down the carpet. Not arm-in-arm. Not anything too deliberate. Just two people... tethered.

And when the reporters catch on really catch on it becomes a blur. Questions shouted. Cameras flashing faster. One voice yells, “Is this official now?” and Pedro just lets out that low, breathy laugh of his. The one that says I’m not telling you everything, but I’m definitely not denying it either.

I feel his hand give mine a squeeze. I don’t look at him. If I do, I’ll melt into this feeling too much. And I need to stay composed professional. It’s what we agreed on. Even if we’re both failing miserably at hiding how giddy this feels.

We’re ushered toward one of the bigger outlets. I recognise the host. We’ve talked to her before back when all of this was just about the movie.

Now? She’s grinning like she’s sitting on a goldmine.

“Y/N, Pedro so good to see you together tonight!” she beams, and I can’t help it I smile too. Because despite the nerves and the constant beat of my heart trying to break through my ribs… I am happy.

“Lovely to see you again,” I say, my voice steady even though my hand is still clutching Pedro’s like a lifeline.

She dives right in. Of course she does. The Italy photos, the yacht kiss, the “mysterious gelato date.” I nearly roll my eyes but Pedro’s already laughing beside me, and it makes me laugh too.

He leans over, mutters, “Told you the yacht would haunt us,” and I elbow him gently.

Then the interviewer shifts. Her smile softens. Her tone goes from playful to genuinely curious.

“In all seriousness… you’ve both released such a thoughtful statement about your relationship. But people want to know what’s it really been like navigating something so personal, so publicly?”

Pedro lets me speak first. He always does.

I take a breath.

“It’s been… a process. But one we’ve been really intentional about,” I say slowly, making sure I mean every word. “We care about each other deeply, and we knew that if we were going to share any of this with the world, it had to be on our terms. Carefully. Gently. With respect.”

I feel Pedro’s hand brush the small of my back, and it steadies me.

“There were so many conversations,” I continue. “About power, about timing, about agency. Pedro’s been incredibly aware of his position throughout all of this. He’s never once made me feel pressured. He’s always made sure I felt safe and heard.”

She turns to him then, and he smiles at me before answering.

“She said everything I wanted to say,” he replies. “But I’ll just add that… being older, I was conscious from the start that I didn’t want to create any imbalance. I didn’t want to cross a line or risk anything we’ve built, professionally or personally. I just… wanted to honour her. And this.”

God. The way he says that.

Honour me.

I think it’s that moment that hits the crowd. Because the interviewer visibly softens. The air around us shifts. And suddenly, it’s not a story anymore. Not a scandal or a headline or a photo op.

It’s love.

Raw and warm and kind.

When the interview ends, we walk the rest of the carpet like it’s nothing. Like we haven’t just publicly opened a door we’ve been peeking through for months.

But I know what’s waiting online already. The screen grabs. The tweets. The shipping hashtags.

And for once, I don’t care. Because when we’re finally alone in the car again Pedro lacing his fingers through mine with a breathless little, “Well, that went alright” I don’t feel scared.

I feel seen. And protected. And quietly, fully adored.

The moment the hotel room door clicks shut behind us, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since the car ride over.

Pedro doesn’t say anything at first. He just slips off his jacket and tosses it gently over the back of the armchair, his fingers already moving to unbutton his shirt, just the top few buttons. Casual. Comfortable.

Safe.

I kick off my heels with a quiet groan and lean against the wall for a second, still in my dress, makeup still flawless under the dim golden light of the suite. It’s quiet here. No flashing lights, no crowd. Just muted city sounds through the window and the soft hum of air conditioning.

“Do you want to take it off?” Pedro asks gently, nodding toward my dress.

I smirk. “Smooth.”

He laughs and holds up both hands. “I meant the dress, because you’ve been yanking at the zipper all night.”

I sigh dramatically and spin around. “Then help me, smooth talker.”

His fingers are warm and steady as he finds the zipper and drags it down, slow and careful. It’s nothing we haven’t done before, on set or off but tonight, it feels different. Not charged. Just… soft. Unspoken.

When I step out of the dress, I leave it draped over the back of the couch and tug one of his oversized T-shirts from the open suitcase on the chair. He watches me pull it over my head with the tiniest smile.

“Was that mine?”

“Possession is nine-tenths of the law,” I mutter, sinking onto the bed.

Pedro walks over, tugging the throw blanket from the foot of the bed, and wraps it around us both as he sinks down beside me. His arm slips easily around my shoulders, and I tuck into his side like muscle memory.

Everything feels quieter here. Like the world left us alone, just for tonight.

“You were amazing,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to my hair.

“You said that already.”

“I’ll say it again tomorrow too.”

I turn to face him slightly, my cheek pressed to his chest. “Do you think it was okay? What we said? How it came across?”

He hums thoughtfully, fingers tracing lazy shapes on my arm. “I think it was honest. And that’s the best we can do.”

I nod, letting the silence settle again.

For a few minutes, we just lie there. The weight of the evening slowly peeling away from our shoulders. The heels. The suits. The expectation.

“You know what I keep thinking about?” I whisper eventually.

Pedro tilts his head, brushing his lips against my forehead. “Tell me.”

“That first day we met. The chemistry test. When I walked in and you were so calm. And I was shaking so hard I couldn’t hold my water bottle.”

He smiles into my hair. “You hid it well.”

I pull back just enough to see his face, the tired lines near his eyes, the softness there now that he doesn’t have to perform. “And now here we are. Sharing a hotel bed, still kind of pretending it’s all professional.”

He chuckles. “I think we’re way past professional.”

His hand comes up, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and he looks at me like I’m the only person on the planet.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmurs. “About falling. About being here, being real.”

My chest tightens. In a good way. In a how-is-this-my-life kind of way.

“I know,” I whisper. “I believe you.”

We kiss then. Soft and slow. No cameras. No stage directions. Just his lips and mine and the quiet hum of something real threading between us.

And when we fall asleep tangled up in each other, wrapped in the blanket and the safety of everything we’ve built, I let myself believe this might just be the beginning of something that finally, beautifully, isn’t pretending at all.

[stillwatervoid]

Do you have any Mark headcanons? If yes please share :)

Heeey! So, I’m not sure if there’s a specific ‘right’ way to do headcanons, but here’s my take on it:

Mark Grayson is basically a "friends to lovers" kind of character. It doesn’t matter if you’re childhood friends, met at school by chance, or bonded on the field as heroes (if reader has powers)—if you’re friends, he’s eventually going to fall for you.

The thing is, he doesn’t even realize it at first. He’s just used to feeling light and warm and happy around you. That’s just how it is. That’s just how you two are. The feelings are there, shimmering quietly beneath the surface, but he’s either too oblivious to notice or actively ignoring them—thinking it’s easier to let them sit there, harmless, until they magically fade away.

Except they don’t go away, and every brush of your fingers, every quiet laugh, every lingering look leaves him spiraling—his heart stumbling, his thoughts a mess, his words tripping over themselves. And eventually, after weeks of denial, of pretending he’s content to remain just friends, Mark finally admits to himself that his feelings go far deeper than that.

And oh, he’s so down bad.

When Mark Grayson falls, he falls hard—and once he stops ignoring it, he’s not subtle about it either. He’s suddenly offering to carry your stuff, always walking close beside you in the hallways, casually throwing his arm around your shoulders while you’re talking, sliding his hand around your waist when you’re chatting with someone else—little touches that linger just long enough to mean something.

Just enough for you to start noticing.

Just enough for you to start returning the favor.

Mark nearly faceplants into the pavement when you kiss his cheek goodbye after school for the first time.

“What—what was that for?” he stammers, mouth dry, cheeks flaming red like he’s about to combust on the spot.

You huff a laugh, clearly enjoying how flustered he is.

“It’s payback,” you say, a teasing glint in your eyes. You’re thinking of all the times he got a little too close, held you just a bit too tight, gently nudged you when someone else had your attention—like he couldn’t stand not being the one you were looking at. Like he needed to remind you exactly where you belonged. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Grayson.”

That shuts him up real quick—but it leaves him reeling. And absolutely ready to make his next move.

Mark Grayson kisses like he’s starving.

Yup, that’s right. I’ll say it here and I’ll scream it in every piece I write.

Mark Grayson 🗣️kisses you 🗣️like he’s 🗣️ starving 🗣️ 🗣️

When he finally confesses, when he finally admits what’s been building inside him, and you—oh thank god—you return his feelings, the kiss that follows is desperate, hungry, and filled with everything he’s been holding back for so long.

His hands are shaky and unsteady, but it’s clear he’s been waiting for this moment longer than you realized. Every inch of him buzzes where he touches you, like he can’t contain it anymore. His lips seek yours with an urgency that takes your breath away, his hands trembling as they pull you closer, pressing you into him as if he’s terrified he's dreaming or something.

And despite all his nervous, jittery energy, Mark devours you.

He makes all kinds of sounds when he kisses—groans, sighs, low hums that vibrate against your mouth. His tongue searches, teeth nip, and the wet, messy sounds filling the room would absolutely make you blush if anyone else ever got the chance to hear them.

Mark kisses you like he’s thirsty. Like he’s hungry. Like you’re the last bit of air left on Earth.

And sometimes, yeah, you genuinely have to stop him before you black out.

“Mark—mmh—Mark, I need—” you mumble, half-laughing, breathless, trapped between his arms and the mess of his bed. “I need to breathe, babe. I’m not—mmh—I can’t hold my breath like you.”

Yeah, he needs a daily reminder that you’re just human and your lungs can’t handle what his Viltrumite ones can. Mark can hold his breath for hours if he needs to. And if you could too? He’d be kissing you until your lips went purple, until they were swollen and bruised and completely wrecked.

And let’s be honest—he’s not the only one starving.

You kiss him back like you’ve been waiting just as long.

Like you’ve been hungry too.

Mark Grayson takes you flying wherever you want, whenever you want.

Just being able to call you his boyfriend, to say your relationship is official, isn’t enough for him. Not even close. Mark can’t help but go above and beyond to prove—over and over—that he loves you every single day. Because as much as he tries, his hero life always pulls him away. He’s constantly injured, constantly exhausted, constantly needed somewhere else. And it’s not like you hold that against him. When you said yes to dating Mark Grayson, you also said yes to dating Invincible—and you’re not backing out now.

Still, he hates when plans get canceled, when hangouts have to be rescheduled, when he finally climbs through your window only to find you already asleep, waiting for him until you couldn’t keep your eyes open anymore. So he does what he can to make it up to you, to make it unforgetable.

When he can make time, he takes you to places you’ve only ever seen in movies. In under six months, you’ve visited half the globe. Breakfast in Italy, lunch in Egypt, dinner in Seoul. Mark makes a habit of picking you up, arms sliding around your waist, and asking, “What do you fancy eating today?” like it’s the most casual thing in the world.

And when you spot a cool place online, you don’t even have to finish the sentence.

“Hey, Mark, there’s this new themed café in Japan. You think we could—”

“Yes,” he answers before you can even finish, already lifting off the ground with you scooped in his arms. “Let’s go right now.”

You barely have time to grab your jacket.

That’s how he is with you—immediate, eager, shamelessly in love.

If you want something, Mark is already three steps ahead trying to give it to you.

Flying with him becomes your new normal—not just for spontaneous getaways or international dates, but for the quiet moments too. Sometimes, when you're hunched over your desk, buried in homework or stress, he just shows up at your window, a soft tap against the glass, and before you know it, he’s convincing you to join him in the sky for a quiet moment alone. Mark treasures these moments more than anything. Just the two of you, alone above the city, with only the stars as company. Your head resting against his, temple pressed to his, as the world below fades into nothingness.

Because while Mark may not always have the time to give you during the day—between his duties as Invincible, the injuries, the endless missions—he has enough to give you at night. And he hopes that these quiet, stolen moments under the stars will somehow make up for all the things he can’t be there for.

[godjustkys]

oh my god dude you're gonna LOVE newt hes so insanely cute.. thinking abt childhood best friends to lovers with him and learning how to navigate a relationship and then sex... both reader and newt nervously stumbling over eachother in bed trying to figure out what feels good for eachother.. getting to fuck him nice and slow while he tries not to ramble and bring up random creature-related stuff he thinks of.. kissing his freckles and checking in every 2 seconds because!!! hes so!!! ANYWAYS i feel you probably get it by now but have fun watching the movies.. they're so fire

SYPNOSIS: gentle (clumsy) sex with your nerdy boyfriend

CHARACTER: male reader x newt scamander

NOTE: for the life of me, i swear i couldn’t figure out how the fuck to write reader awkward. I TRIED.

p.s. requests are always open!!

WC: 1.3k

WARNING: both reader and newt are awkward as hell,, soft, gentle sex,, worried!reader,, fingering,, spit as lube,,

you had known newt scamander since the two of you were small boys sneaking dragon-scale beetle wings into potions class and pretending you weren’t secretly terrified of boggarts. hogwarts had come and gone, and though most people drifted apart, you and newt never did. maybe it was the way he talked about creatures like they were people. or maybe it was the way he looked at you like you were one of a kind.

even after the war, after the travels and letters and long silences that weren’t really silence at all.. you found your way back to each other.

you had known him forever. but kissing him for the first time on a rainy tuesday, both of you shivering in soaked coats and awkward laughter, that was new. Being in love with him — that was new.

newt’s back hit the mattress with a soft whumph, curls haloed around his head, lips pink and already kiss-bruised. his vest had been tossed somewhere in the corner, his shirt hanging open, and chest rising and falling like he’d just sprinted through a storm. you slowly kissed down his jaw, his throat, his collarbone; pausing at every freckle like you had all the time in the world to learn him by heart. “i feel like my mind’s going to split in half,” he whispered, voice thin and wavering. “I keep thinking about— about— bloody mooncalves and whether this is normal for—” you smiled against his chest. “you can talk about mooncalves later.” newt let out a helpless sort of laugh that turned into a shaky gasp when your hand slid down his chest, fingers grazing the trail of hair below his navel. his thighs tensed, and you paused again, looking up to meet his eyes. “you, uh, okay?”

“yes- yes, mhm.” he got out, blinking excessively as he stared at you. it didn’t take long for you to strip him, and yourself, so now here he laid beneath you, in all his glory. when you finally touched newt, fully, his hips jerked like he’d been struck with lightning, head tipping back into the pillow. he was already so hard, leaking at the tip, and the warmth of your hand coaxing him into a slow rhythm had him trembling. your name spilled from his lips and for the first time ever, you felt like your name was holy. the way he sounded lit a fire within you, and he just kept spurring you on, feeding that flame. you stroked him slowly, lazily, still unsure if he liked it, but it was just enough to keep him gasping, flushed and twitching under you. “feel good?” you muttered softly, a small bit of anxiety washing over you as you waited for the answer. “uh-huh, uh-huh—” newt rambled out, his fingers clenching in the sheets. then you decided to experiment, pressing your thumb to the slit of his cock, and he made a sound that was practically a whimper, one hand flying to cover his mouth.

“you’re— ah— very good at that,” he breathed. you let out a small, appreciative chuckle, kissing the crease where his hip met thigh. “you make it.. easy.” by the time you slicked your fingers, newt was so worked up he was trembling, continuing to grab at the sheets like he was about to fall off the edge of the world. easing a finger in, he gasped soundlessly, thighs tensing. he felt as if the silence was stifling, so his eyes darted to the side. “i’ve uhm- read a few things,” he muttered, ears going red. “some diagrams. diagrams are very helpful.” you smiled, nuzzling under his jaw. “i’d rather explore the subject.. hands-on.” he made a sound, half laugh, half gasp when your lips pressed to the soft spot under his ear. “oh..” newt just muttered, staring at the ceiling wide eyed. you started thrusting your finger in and out, slowly, letting him adjust. he did his best to keep his breath even, focusing so hard that he almost started dissociating.

when you eased another finger in to prep him properly (you didn’t really know what you were doing, you were too worried), he made a panicked little noise like he had just startled a hippogriff. you curled your fingers, experimentally once again, watching newt’s face intently. “OH— I— I— fuck,” he squeaked, voice cracking. “merlin, don’t stop— please— i’ll name a niffler after you—” your eyes lit up at his tone. so that felt good. curling your fingers again, newt mewled helplessly, arching his back when you added a third one. “oh bugger,” he gasped. “it’s a bit- bit strange— like, ah, being filled..? i don’t think that makes any sense, i’m sorry—”

after a bit more prepping, you slowly lined the tip of your cock to newt’s hole. you didn’t push in, just looked at him. “you- you’re ready, right? you sure you’re okay?” you asked softly, fingers just brushing against the inside of his wrist. he nodded quickly, a little too fast. “yes— yes, I just— er— this is rather uncharted territory for me.” you smiled softly in response, keeping your composure. “for me too.” when you pressed in and pushed your cock half way in, newt was writhing, and rambling. “did you know— uhm, some nifflers purr when you stroke just under their ears?” he said, breath hitching when you kissed the spot below his jaw. “i’ll make sure to keep that in mind.” you breathed out, sinking in the rest of the way, both of you gasping like you were coming apart at the seams.

he was so tight, his gummy walls sucking you in, clenching around you tightly, his breath catching in his throat, mouth open but silent. you froze. “okay?” you asked, barely holding on. “mhm,” he hummed lowly, face scrunched up. “just— slow..” you kissed his lips as you started to move, keeping the rhythm unhurried, every thrust deep and smooth. newt clung to you, legs wrapped around your waist, hips shifting to meet you every time you sank back into him. and god, he felt so good. every little gasp, every moan, every time he said your name like he couldn’t believe this was real. you kissed along his jaw, whispered how good he felt, how beautiful he looked like this. you kept rolling your hips, slow and deep, dragging yourself out and pressing back in again until newt was shaking, his words tumbling out in a mess of half-formed thoughts. “this is— better than mating dances— those are very involved, some creatures take hours to— ah..— don’t laugh, I’m trying to stay— haah!— intellectual about— oh bloody hell, right there..” you captured his lips in a sloppy yet tender kiss, your thrusts steady, slow, filling him again and again until all he could do was gasp and moan, fingers digging into your back. he huffed softly, chest heaving, clearly trying not to preen. “suppose some creatures present similarly when breeding... fire-crabs, for example, often arch their backs and— nghhgg!—” newt cut himself off. at first you thought something was wrong. “newt? too much?” you murmured softly. “there— hell- again, again.” he urged you in a desperate tone, clutching you closer. your cock prodded at his prostate again and he was blissed out. a couple moments later of that same deep, steady rhythm, he came untouched, crying out your name, his cock spilling between your stomachs, body clenching so tightly around you that it dragged your orgasm out of you too — deep, hot, spilling inside him as you groaned his name into his mouth. you collapsed over him, panting, bodies slick with sweat, completely tangled. “that was—” he began, voice hoarse. “astounding,” you finished for him, brushing sweaty curls off his forehead.

“i.. was going to say impossibly filthy, but yes. that too.”

© godjustkys ©

[xazse]

HEYY GOING FERAL OVER LOSER GOJO❤❤❤❤❤❤ can you write more loser gojo pookie? Where reader is like ignoring him cuz she needs to focus on her studies and didn't have time for toru to give him that sweet relief and when he can't take it anymore he comes to her whiny and all needy. So reader stops her studying and rides gojo out?? And he's a total mess underneath, moaning, whimpering, and him digging his nails on readers back and reader is like disgusted and starts to regret riding him but keeps riding him anyways?? Lol idk. Just loser toru makes me go feral.

(Feel free to ignore this z!❤ ily n ur writings especially loser toru you inspire me to also write smut but i suck at writing lol and fear that if I do it would be so shitty n I don't want ppl to judge me lol. I love you, take care of urself z!

♡´･ᴗ･`♡)

(P.s. I'm actually obsessed with ur writings 😍)

More loser!gojo x female!reader

Notes: I know you submitted this awhile ago but omg this was tew hot to let go, thank you for your sweet words I love that you love my writing.

Don’t be afraid to start writing I was as well but I simply threw something out and it got love and that made me want to continue writing, you might not get a lot of love the first few posts but eventually you’ll have dedicated fans who’ll love anything you post!!

Annoying… that’s all that filters through your head as Satoru rambles about whatever the hell he’s been talking about for the past hour, you zoned out the minute Digimon came out of his mouth and that was within the first minute!

Everytime you attempted to let him know that you had a pretty big test coming up and needed the silence and solitude he would promptly shut up for a good ten minutes then start up his motor mouth, how was someone who was top of all his classes not pick up on simple social cues!?! It drove you insane when he did things like this.

Drowning out his voice was nearly impossible with the loud boom that came from his vocal cords when he’d get excited about a certain something. Regardless you know Suguru is too busy to keep him occupied so you’re the next best thing. You press your pen to your paper and focus… focus and even more focusing.

But Satoru is needy, extremely needy.

He doesn’t like being ignored so he does his next tactic by being in your space, he pulls up a stool next to you and hovers over your shoulder, leaning down to look at what you were writing, he even goes as far as to correct a mistake you had made during his endless torture of a mouth.

You’re about to light him on fire but notice his fingers trailing lightly up and down your side, fingers sticking and popping your tank-top, he’s obviously not even looking at the paper anymore but instead down at the flimsy material you call coverage, oh…

You hadn’t even realized how long it had been since that last time you had sex with Toru, he looks so lost with those hazy blue eyes that require attention, he’s probably been touching his poor cock just off pure flashbacks, you feel bad for the man: but not really, you’re curious as to how long it’ll take him to finally break and ask you.

You wanted to play and mess with him for a little longer but not even five minutes pass before he’s guiding your hand to his erect cock, it doesn’t take much to get him aroused so you’d bet he’s been like this for a while. He leans his head down to rest in the crook of your neck, hiding his reddened face.

“You’ve been… ignoring me.” He whispers more to himself than you, the way he drags it out makes it come out as desperation on his tongue.

“I’ve been busy Toru, you know that.” You bring yourself to your feet, sliding your chair into your desk and making your way to the bed. His eyes follow your figure and they land on you roughly patting the bed prompting him to slip in front of you, seated nice and pretty.

“Well? Take it off, all of it.” Snapping at him gets him to start undoing his belt but of course he’s clumsy and unorganized so it takes him a while.

He’s completely nude and sitting at the top of your bed, relaxing against your lush fluffy pillows. His cock hasn’t calmed down at all, still an angry red crying for your soft hands around it, you give him the gift of jerking him a few times, his sensitive dick reacting quickly along with his body thrusting forward.

Within a few seconds precum has started leaking and pooling inbetween your fingers, it’s gross really. You’re thinking about just getting him off, washing your hands and going back to your studies but something sinister grows in your belly, it’s been a while since you’ve had some so why not jump at this opportunity.

First before you even think of connecting with Satoru for the first time in a while you have him beg for it, beg for your cunt around his nasty cock. Just the pathetic excuse of a man he is, the pleas roll off his tongue with ease, he starts cruising low on his tongue, even telling you how much he loves you and how pretty you are.

You think you’ve collected enough of his juices, the loud squelches every drag of his cock is more than enough proof.

Riding his cock is an entirely different story, he’s sat up, face drowned in your chest as he cries out even more pleas.

“Feel’s so goodd” he slurs out as best as he can but the clench of your pussy doesn’t help at all, it’s wet and obscene the way your juices mix with his, a nasty concoction being made. You bury your fingers in his hair pulling him out of your chest every now and then to stare at his ruined snotty face, he’s crying just like the baby he is. The things your pussy does to him make him not himself, the way your walls fit so snuggly around him, or the way you press your hips against his drives him mad.

You bounce on his cock purely without his help, his stamina clearly not being all there he’s practically being used as a sex toy, and you make sure to tell him that, that’s all he is to you, something for your pussy to get off with. Of course he nods along and confirms everything that comes out your mouth, yes he’s a disgusting loser, yes he doesn’t deserve pussy this good, and yes he’ll buy you whatever bag is trending right now.

His sharp untrimmed nails dig into your back, Satoru is so clearly a bitch in heat, what kind of man is the one leaving marks in the woman’s back?

You’re not able to think about the nails not when you feel something leaking down your chest: his drool, you’re about to get off him and leave him high and dry but the way he whines for you, cries out your name has you second guessing.

So you continue riding and chasing your own high, he can cum as many times as he wants but you aren’t through yet, not even when hes flopping on the bed, spent and exhausted are you stopping, you chase that spark that sits and festers up.