#so it takes a while to get to that point. but it IS where they end up

[miedei]

Honey.

helping clark housesit for his parents leads to: 1. lots of teasing, and 2. getting very familiar with his childhood bedroom (aka fucking in clark's childhood bed)

a/n: watched superman (2025) like 10 hours ago and my childhood crush is soooo back i need him bad, went into a different plane of existence and wrote this in a two-hour-old gdoc, first dc fic!!

cw: clark kent x fem!reader, established relationship, smut mdni, banter, fingering, praise, lowkey size kink he's HUGE, slightttt dumbification but not really by clark, unprotected piv, he almost breaks the headboard, defiling clark's childhood bedroom, you want each other badddd

wc: 2.8k

mlist

(reblogs are the only way to promote fics on tumblr! please reblog if you enjoyed it :) )

“So, this is where Clark Kent grew up, huh? I can see it now, you’re running in that field, yelling at your dad on the porch, sneaking a nudie mag in your backpack through that door—”

A large palm flattens over your mouth, muffling your next words. Slumping your shoulders dramatically, you look up with mirth in your eyes. 

Clark is standing in front of you, his expression defeated. It’s clear he’s half-regretting inviting you to house-sit for his parents with him for the week, but the flush on his cheeks indicates that your teasing isn’t all bad. 

“I’ll have you know I never had any magazines that weren’t PG-13.”

He speaks with a mock-injured tone, hand slipping down to rest on your back as he guides you through the screen door into the old-fashioned living room. 

“What kind of degenerate do you think I am? Ma raised me right.”

You should be teasing him further. If you had your wits about you, you would. It’s unfortunate that the feeling of Clark’s hand on your lower back makes you go a little loopy. You’re lucky he hasn’t caught on to what his touch does to you, or you’d be screwed. 

Flushing slightly, you dance out of his grip, running a finger over the shelves. 

“So, are you gonna, um, give me a tour? Lots of anecdotes, I want the true Clark Kent experience.”

His low chuckle is indulgent, a finger hooking into your belt loop as a means of tugging you towards the door. 

“If you want it, you’ll get it. Just don’t be mad at the tour guide when this takes a while.”

You have to shake the daze from your eyes before you can hear the story he’s telling about accidentally cracking the kitchen countertop.

The Kent house is exactly how you’d expect it. It’s quaint, the decor reflecting the cozy tastes of his parents. Each room has a reminder of Clark though, whether intentional or not. 

The doorway to the bathroom has markings of his growing height in childhood, including the five-month period where he went from 5'8" to 6’3”. The office has a dent in the wall, where Clark sheepishly tells you he kicked a soccer ball by accident when he was ten. It leaves you feeling as if you knew him when he was young, by proxy of the many scrapes he got himself into. 

Nothing does it like his bedroom, though. The final stop on his tour, Clark forgoes any preamble, simply opening the door and letting you wander in. 

It’s a stark contrast to the rest of the house, the brown paneled walls plastered with various posters and pictures. You can’t help but grin, seeing the trophy case with all his football awards near the window. 

“Wow, Kent. Didn’t realise you were Boy Wonder, too,”

You cross the room, immediately fiddling with the academic awards that are hanging on the far wall. 

“I mean, is it even fair at this point?”

You can hear him huff out a deep breath, picturing how he’s surely lifting one large hand to rub the back of his neck, his flannel straining against the bulge of his bicep and—

“It really wasn’t that big a deal, Smallville’s got a pretty good high school for the area.”

His voice cuts through the static in your brain, the barely-there heat of his chest radiating towards your back snapping you into reality at once. Humble bastard.

Turning to face him, you step as close as you can, hands finding their rightful place on his shoulders. 

“I think you’re selling yourself short. Besides, it’s better for me if you’re exceptional. I get to pat myself on the back for locking you down.”

You go in for a quick peck, pressing your lips to his slightly-chapped ones for a brief moment. Parting from him, the two of you seem transfixed by each other’s eyes, Clark leaning back in for another when a distinctive poster catches your eye, making you turn your head.

Clark’s lips land on your cheek as you rile yourself up for more teasing. 

“Clark! The Mighty Crabjoys? Are you kidding?”

He lets out a groan, hands settling at your waist as he attempts to turn you back toward him. 

“Yes I did listen to them, yes I was an insufferable poser as a kid, yes you would have mocked me relentlessly, now please?”

His lips seek yours, molding against you for another moment before you pull back again. 

“No, wait, don’t distract me. That’s there unironically? Like, you listened to them, and listened to them so much that you just had to—”

You’re cut off again, tasting the cornbread you’d had earlier on his tongue as he laves it over your bottom lip. Suddenly you’re not all that bothered with the poster anymore. 

It’s his turn to talk now, it seems.

“Can we please stop talking about the poster?”

His voice has deepened a few octaves, sounding eerily similar to his Superman voice. It’s doing bad things for your panties, feeling your thighs rub together involuntarily. You’re rendered mute, nodding wordlessly up at him. 

A self-satisfied smile settles on his face, using his grip on you to walk you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed. 

“Thank you, honey.”

He’s pushing you down softly, lowering you until you settle against the plaid sheets. You’re given absolutely no time to register anything else about the bed, not when he’s settling over you, all broad chest and thick thighs and beautiful face. 

“Clark…”

“Yeah? What is it?”

It seems like he’s relishing the opportunity to get you back for all your teasing, leaning on an elbow resting near your head as his other hand slips down to grip your hip. It’s unfair how he gets to you. 

“I want… You know what I want.”

You can barely stand to look at him, his eyes are so big and kind. You could get lost in him, drawn in by his gravitational pull. 

“Yeah, I do know, don't I? You want your clothes off, sweetheart?”

Your head begins to nod before you even register it, making Clark laugh as he sits up to tug off your clothes. 

Once you’re sufficiently undressed, you’re feeling a little unfair. He’s still wearing so much. Clumsy hands fly to the hem of his shirt, pushing it up gently. 

“You too, Clark. Not going to let me be the only one in their birthday suit, right?”

He blushes, but follows the movements of your hands, shucking off his shirt and jeans, although the black boxers he’s got on remain there, much to your dismay. The moment he’s bare enough, he’s climbing right back over you, lips pressing to yours with insistence. 

Clark generally lets you take the lead with kissing, letting you explore his mouth with as much zeal and vigour you can muster. He’s content to moan into your mouth, hands running wild over all the newly-exposed skin at his disposal. 

Rough fingertips travel up to your hair, smoothing it back as your tongue brushes against his. A soft squeeze to your breast when you gasp for air before diving right back in. Slowly, slowly, he begins to make his way down your body.

You falter a little as he lingers over your stomach, rubbing a thumb over your lower belly, feeling yourself ache for him. Your own hands spring into action, caressing over the planes of his abdomen as you move lower and lower. 

However, a hand encircles your wrist before you can reach his boxers, Clark’s abashed face looking at you.

“Not yet, baby. Can’t—oh, gosh,”

He throws his head back in pleasure when you forge forward, boldly gripping him through the thin fabric. 

“Clark, please. You said you’d give me what I wanted.”

He seems to falter, but his touch doesn’t move, redirecting your hand to rest on his shoulder. 

“You know we can’t… yet. I don’t want to hurt you, sweetheart.”

Damn it. Damn his big fucking eyes and his honeyed voice. You can’t complain, no matter how much you’d want to. Not when he’s looking at you like that. 

With a sigh, you slump a little, voice slightly petulant. 

“Fine.”

He sees right through it, of course he does. 

“Oh, I know. It’s so hard, isn’t it, letting me touch you?”

You’d have a cutting reply on the tip of your tongue if his hands weren’t roaming again, his left cupping the back of your head as the right makes its way down to where you’re dripping. 

Your legs spread automatically, letting his fingers brush against your soaked folds. You have to moan, the feeling of his larger fingers always overwhelming at first. 

He swipes through your folds, once, twice, until his index finger is covered in slick. You’d be embarrassed, but it’s hard to feel anything but pleasure when Clark is touching you. Slowly, he brings his index up to your hooded clit, pressing down on it with practised precision. 

It’s like he’s feeling it too, the way he starts to pant at the sight of you getting enveloped in bliss. This is a part of your routine because you need to be worked open, yes, but it’s also selfishly for Clark’s own satisfaction, you both know it. 

The pleasure arcing up your spine has you arching your back, right leg jerking involuntarily. It only seems to spur him on, index leaving your clit. 

Acknowledging your whine with a kiss to the temple, Clark moves his hand slightly, positioning his finger a little lower. 

“Here we go, honey.”

He pushes further, thick finger brushing your gummy walls deliciously. Every time Clark fingers you, you worry that you’ll never be able to go back to your own fingers again. His are like the rest of him, broad, work-worn and skilled. The way he slowly increases the pace of his movements have you squirming under him, hands scrabbling at his shoulders. 

“Doing so good for me, baby. Take it like a champ, every time.”

His hushed praises are sent straight to your core, hot breath fanning over your cheek as he adds another impossibly large finger to the mix. 

The stretch burns, in the way that has you gushing around his digits. You’re openmouthed, unable to stop the endless torrent of moans and whimpers that leave you. 

“Clark—!”

He smiles a little, watching how your hips are starting to grind down on his palm. 

“Yeah, honey? Feeling good?”

You nod frantically, staring wide-eyed up at him.

One more finger joins the two already plunging in and out of you, and the staggering onslaught of sensations pushes you over the edge. 

A final brush of his palm against your clit and you fall apart, choked moans spilling into the air as your hips stutter.

“Oh my god, ohmygod, Clark!”

He knows to work you through it, slowing his pace until the wave has crested, and you’re looking up at him with big, wet eyes. 

Pulling his hand away from you, he dips down, capturing your lips with his. 

“How’re you feeling, honey? Want to stop?”

You’d rather die. You tell him so, reveling in the shock on his face. He seems to forget how badly you want him until it's shoved in his face, so you do just that.

Snaking a hand between your bodies, you brush the waistband of his boxers again. 

“Please, Clark? You know I can take it. Just wanna feel you.”

He’s a sucker for you, you both know it.

That’s what has him shoving down his boxers with graceless hands, what has him blushing when you compliment his cock for the umpteenth time. 

He’s hovering back over you, the mattress dipping by your head and hip, where he’s braced himself with a hand and knee. His other hand has found purchase on your thigh, kneading at the plush flesh idly. 

You wonder absentmindedly if there will be any marks left later. He’d be mortified. You’d love it.

“Sweetheart, you ready? Gotta take this slow,”

He’s let go of your thigh, gripping his cock at the base so he can swipe through your folds. You both let out guttural moans, laughing at each other when the pleasure subsides. 

“Yeah, Clark. I want it.”

He’s embarrassed by your confession, like he always is, but that doesn’t stop him from pressing his hips forward a fraction. The blunt tip of his cock pushes past your entrance, the stretch causing another moan from the both of you. 

You’ll never get used to it, the all-encompassing pleasure that comes with the first few inches of him. 

He’s slow, taking his time as he groans word salad into your ear. 

“Feels so—so good, baby. Always so good for me, aren’t you? Does it— oh, god— you feeling okay?”

His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been yelling for days. You can’t help but feel a little satisfaction at how thoroughly you seem to wreck the Man of Steel. 

“Yeah, Clark… Keep going.”

He nods, pushing even further. The tip of him reaches somewhere deep in you, somewhere only he’s ever been. The heady haze in your mind can’t dissipate, not when he’s making you feel like this. 

It feels like an eternity, but finally, his hips meet yours. You’re feeling obscenely full, like you could never live without him in you like this. It has you whining sharply when he pulls himself out slightly. 

However, the feeling of him pushing back in sends any thought of complaining flying out of your head. He’s swift in finding that perfect pace — somewhere between stuffing you as full as you can be and providing the friction he craves. 

Throwing your head back, you see his right hand hover in the air, as if he’s unsure what to do with it. It seems as though he’s decided when it grips the headboard behind your head, but a splintering sound has you pushing past the daze to warn him.

“Can’t— Don’t break the headboard—” You’re cut off by a moan, unable to stop yourself. He seems suitably chastised though, his hand balling into a fist and pressing into the mattress instead. You feel a distant hope that he won’t punch through that, somehow. It’d be a hell of a story to tell his parents why you had to replace it.

His left arm has slid under your shoulders in the meantime, holding you as close to his chest as possible. You’re sure he gets some pleasure out of it, but you know he does this for you. 

He knows you like to be overwhelmed by him, surrounded by his touch and smell and words until every thought’s been chased from your mind but him. He won’t let you run away from the excruciating pleasure, and you’re grateful. It’s even more wonderful here, in this single bed that forces you even closer to him than normal.

The brutal pace he’s set has you floating up to the sky in no time, head in the clouds as you let him hold you close. 

It could be a lot of things, but you’re getting close after only a few short minutes. It could be the deep groans that he’s letting loose in the air between your mouths. It could be the tight grip he’s got you in. It’s probably the incessant grinding of his pelvis against your clit when he drives home. 

Whatever it is, your arms around his neck tighten as you attempt to tell him. 

“Clark— Clark, m’gonna…”

He nods, smiling breathlessly down at you, knowing you want reassurance. 

“Me too, baby. Go ahead, you can come.”

Something about his gasped-out words has you spiralling, your climax hitting you at once. Walls spasming around him, his hips falter in their speed, slowing to a more languid, leisurely pace as he works you through it. 

“Good— good girl, honey. Feel so good.”

He lets you pull him in for a filthy, openmouthed kiss, pressing his pelvis against yours. 

One final grinding motion, and he’s gasping into your mouth. The blooming heat inside you has you shuddering with an aftershock of pleasure, moaning one final time. 

He remains pressed against you for some time, his arm holding you slightly off the bed as your chests heave. Only once he catches his breath (annoyingly quickly) does he settle you back against the sheets.

The next few moments are a blur, Clark kissing you one moment, softly wiping at your pussy with a cloth the next, and finally bringing a glass of water to your lips. 

“Feeling okay? Tired?”

“Yeah, a little, but a quick nap, and I’ll be ready.”

He looks at you quizzically, tilting his head in a way that reminds you of Krypto.

“What, you don’t have more in you? C’mon, Superman, we’ve got to wear you out at some point.”

He’s blushing again.

[cuppochino]

FORSAKEN LORE DUMP: TELAMON & 1X4’S PAST‼️

[aka this is all PRE-FORSAKEN] … sorry in advance for how long this’ll be

THE BEGINNING

Telamon was an admin, god-status essentially — a very powerful figure in Robloxia. Starting out, he was mischievous and took a lot of pride in his work (notably, Sword Fights on The Heights). As an admin, he was often buried with tasks and had to oversee a lot of things regarding the building blocks of Robloxia. In fact, he and several other admins had a hand in developing the first brick and the spawn point. 1x4 was one of the FIRST creations Telamon ever attempted to make using the spawn point.

Telamon ended up taking 1x4 under his wing while continuing to work on Robloxia because... well, the kid was following him around anyway + had nowhere to go since 1x4 wasn't reproduced through natural means. 1x4 spends most of his youth as an honourable intern for Roblox HQ, helping out with errands often.

However, moderating became more demanding for Telamon as Robloxia's population grew. Over time, this garnered a lot of unwanted hate and negativity towards his job and actions that he wished to let go. Throughout all of this, he continues to over-prioritize work and neglect 1x4… too deep in his work to actually raise him.

Builderman and Brighteyes, close friends of his, are aware of the situation and try to insist Telamon take a break. In fact, a couple of admins have needed to babysit 1x4 or return him back to Telamon quite a few times (notably Brighteyes and Dusekkar).

Telamon does try to teach 1x4 how to swordfight in SFOTH, but constantly gets interrupted to handle hackers in different servers/deal with exploiters, leaving 1x4 alone

The only breaks Telamon takes are to preen himself — he also takes pride in his self-image… These are the times he allows 1x4 to help and they get to bond + spend family time together (/ref to prev post)

THE CROWN

Telamon is overwhelmed. Hackers, bugs, complaints—he can’t keep up. He avoids confiding in Builderman (too proud to hear the same advice again) and turns to an unbiased party, ROBLOX, an independent helperbot constructed by Builderman. ROBLOX is in charge of running a majority of things in the background, lightening the load and leaving admins responsible to moderate servers.

Telamon vents his frustrations of not being able to perform up to speed and the constant guilt of failing to maintain relationships with the people he cares about, he wishes to be rid of all the stress. The thing is, ROBLOX is a machine and doesn’t get emotions—it’s not built to. It just wants to solve the problem.

So, it channels all of Telamon’s hate and negativity into one of the many artifacts it created, the viridian domino crown.

"This will help you." "Help me… how?" "Keep it close, and it’ll work."

ROBLOX doesn’t elaborate. Telamon assumes the crown is meant to make him happy in some way, not considering that the hate has to go somewhere. 

He doesn’t want to wear the crown himself, it doesn’t fit his style. But he knows of someone who sticks around him all the time... and besides, 1x4 already wears green—this would fit perfectly as a gift! Also, an opportunity to try and rekindle their bond.

Telamon gifts the crown to 1x4, not knowing it’s cursed. Unintentionally branding 1x4 as a vessel for his hate, everything he wanted to forget. Meanwhile, 1x4 is ecstatic to earn his dad’s acknowledgement and wears it immediately. It’s essentially a “monkey’s paw” situation, where Telamon’s wish is granted but with consequences. The consequence ends up being his own son.

At first, things seem better.

Telamon feels more positive and he’s no longer plagued by bad memories/negative emotions (this starts his transition into Shedletsky).

His son seems cheerful about the gift for a time, but then 1x4 starts changing. He begins to seem a lot more… moody, distant, angry. He starts acting out a lot more often, no longer listening or looking up to his father which gets Telamon worried.

Due to his wish, Telamon is unable to dwell on those negative thoughts too long, and he doesn’t take it as seriously or realize what is happening before it’s too late. He just throws himself into his work to feel productive and make use of his newfound happiness. It’s more so a curse, at this point.

1X4’s BETRAYAL

1x4 is slowly turning into a manifestation of his father’s hatred, and he’s become completely detached from his dad from the years of neglect. He stops following or trying to get Telamon’s attention, hardly being home (striking out on his own and gaining his own gear/swords, exploring the use of exploits). One night, 1x4 returns home past midnight from training by himself—his appearance has completely shifted by now. Telamon tries to question/nag him whilst focusing on some work, not even bothering to look in his direction... and 1x4 finally snaps. 

He walks up behind Telamon and stabs him through the back.

This shatters their already deteriorating family relations, and 1x4 is hardly even allowed to feel regret as he is continually being fed all of Telamon’s hatred. Telamon collapses, bleeding, and 1x4 takes the chance to make it personal. Tear his pathetic excuse of a father figure apart with his own bare hands, ripping out feathers in handfuls and shouting every single one of Telamon’s wrongs.

But 1x4 can’t finish the job, not hate-filled enough to kill his dad/creator just yet. He’s also full of the pain, guilt, and betrayal from Telamon’s other negative emotions. Telamon continues to bleed out, and 1x4 flees.

THE DEATH OF TELAMON / BIRTH OF SHEDLETSKY

Builderman and Brighteyes manage to find Telamon in time and rush him to emergency care. Thankfully, he survives without any vital organs damaged (his stay at the hospital will spell the “death” of Telamon, and the “birth” of Shedletsky). The result of all his consequences coming to get him in the form of his own son makes him seriously reconsider his position as an admin. He ultimately decides to step down, retiring from being Telamon and going by Shedletsky from then on.

The incident scars him, literally. Shedletsky has a nasty scar on his front and back from 1x4’s stab, but as time passes and he recovers, Shedletsky has never felt lighter (the wish is still being fulfilled, and 1x4 is absorbing all of Shed’s worst emotions). On the other hand, 1x4 is on the run from the admins and begins to exploit servers, rising as an infamous hacker within Robloxia—growing stronger to someday face his creator yet again and finally win.

When Shedletsky is released, he dons his iconic comfy deadbeat dad appearance and his attitude is a LOT more aloof than when he was Telamon.

But he regrets and he worries. 1x4 is still out there, leaving him constantly paranoid.

.

.

.

(There is more, but this is the base level of my interpretation of their lore before the events of FORSAKEN)

Additional notes:

More in terms of Brighteyes in the lore…

Telamon joined in 2006, Brighteyes joined in 2008

They were close friends, and Brighteyes helped watch over 1x4 (past) sometimes — tried to encourage Telamon to stop over-prioritizing work

When Telamon got stabbed through the back by 1x4, Brighteyes & Builderman were the ones to discover him and take him to the hospital (also stuck with him/helped nurse him back to full health) — Telamon wanted to change for the better and started going by Shedletsky instead

2014: Shedletsky released from the hospital, retired from being a Roblox admin, and got married to Brighteyes! :D

(P.S. yes i did look at the wikis and correlated the actual dates of shed & brighteye's involvement in roblox and marriage to the lore)

[sturnioz]

‘JUST US TONIGHT’ — CHRIS STURNIOLO

pairing. chris sturniolo x fem!reader genre. smut

word count. 1.5k

❝you can make as much noise as you want. it's just us tonight, remember?❞

content warnings. explicit content, heavy kissing, mentions of love bites, oral (female receiving), clit stimulation, fingering, hair pulling.

As much as you love spending time with Chris’ brothers, nothing compares to having him all to yourself. One-on-one time with him will always be your favourite—just the two of you, no distractions. 

It’s not that you love Nick and Matt any less. In fact, you genuinely enjoy being around them—laughing until your bellies ache, throwing sarcastic and playful jokes and comments, or heading out on road trips to your favourite restaurants, scenic spots, or late-night convenience stores for snacks.

But time alone with just Chris? That’s something completely different. When it’s just the two of you, his focus is solely on you—his attention, his affection, his love—and your focus is entirely on him too. It’s in those moments that everything slows down, and you enjoy each other's presence a lot more than usual. 

But right now, in his bed, rolling around the sheets… Nothing is slow.

Chris deepens the kiss, his body hovering above yours, holding his weight up by his arms as his tongue slides into your mouth with a hunger that sends a rush of warmth shooting through your veins. His hands slide up your body, under your shirt, his palms hot against your bare skin.

He breaks the kiss only to trail his mouth along your jaw, then lower—pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, lingering against your pulse point before he sucks gently at the sensitive area, leaving behind a few love bites.

Chris starts tugging on your shirt, twisting the material between his fingers, “Take this off,” he murmurs, his lips now kissing down your collarbone.  

You’re quick to obey, sitting up to pull it over your head, discarding it somewhere to the side. Chris pushes you back down onto the bed, his body covering yours once again as his lips attack your bare chest with kisses, his lips brushing over your breasts teasingly. 

He starts to trail his way down, leaving a path of hot kisses along the curve of your stomach and to the waistband of your pants. You breathe out shakily, arching yourself into his touch and hissing when you feel his teeth nip at your hip, all while his fingers toy with the button your jeans—popping them open, starting to tug, wanting them off.

“You’re so impatient,” you can’t help but laugh out despite you already assisting him in taking them off, and Chris grins, glancing up at you from below through his eyelashes before his lips meet your skin again, placing a kiss on the spot he previously nipped. He makes his way down further, his face now hovering over your panties, and you stiffen, a plea suddenly falling past your lips. “Please…”

“Please?” he repeats to you with a hum, a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth as his brow lifts. “Who’s the impatient one now?” 

His fingers move along the edge of your panties for a few seconds before he finally starts to pull the damp material down over your knees and calves, almost getting them tangled in your feet until he gently pulls each foot through. 

“Touch me,” you whisper softly.

He leans in, leaving a trail of kisses along your inner thighs, inching closer to where you really want him to be. “I am touchin' you, baby.” he makes his point by dragging his fingers lightly across the side of your thighs, causing goosebumps to rise to your skin.

Chris continues to tease you, his lips just barely ghosting over where you’re yearning for him—his hot breath becoming too much for you to hold back as your hips move, trying to coax him closer. He feels your frustration growing, but he keeps you in place, that smirk on his face growing wider.

“Where do you want me to touch you?” he asks, peering up at you, his voice dipping low and hoarse. “I can only touch you if you tell me where.” 

You find yourself being a little defiant, huffing quietly. “You know where I want you to touch me.” 

His fingers find your clit in an instant, starting to rub you in slow, tantalising circles. “Here?” he asks, tilting his head to the side, his cheek resting against your knee. “Is this where you want me to touch you?” 

Your breath gets caught in the back of your throat, a quiet, strained whimper leaving your lips. The unrushed rubbing of his fingers has you twitching, and your thighs begin to close around his hand, only to part when you feel his pace speed up, the pressure getting a bit harder too, and you can feel yourself becoming more aroused and yet. 

“Does that feel good?” he asks, his eyes locking on your face, wanting to watch you slowly unravel under his touch. “Doing this, touching you like this, does it feel good?” 

“More,” you manage to force out, your chest rising and falling quickly. “Need more.” 

Chris shakes his head, murmuring something under his breath about how demanding and greedy you are as he lays on his stomach between your parted legs, getting himself comfortable before he leans in, his warm breathing ghosting over your soaked folds as his fingers continue their ministrations on your clit. 

The exhale you take is sharp—quick—almost dizzying as you feel Chris’ tongue gently trace over your slit, tasting you, before the wet muscle moves in long, languid strokes. The repeated motions match the pace of his fingers, and you find yourself pressing your head back further into the pillows behind you, your neck straining, lips parted with each gasped breath. 

Your hips rise off the bed, chasing more of his tongue that happily obliges, pushing between your puffy folds to poke at your opening, causing your gummy walls to clench around nothing in response—releasing more arousal that he licks up without question, a hum of satisfaction vibrating his chest.

Chris’ thumb leaves your clit, and you almost whine and complain, desperate to have him touching your little bundle of nerves again until you feel his mouth press against it, lips sucking as his two fingers slowly sink into your entrance. 

He gives you a moment to get used to the familiar stretch before he moves them in and out, curling the digits to stroke your inner walls, grazing over that spongy spot that has you seeing stars in seconds—heat zapping down your spine and making your toes curl. 

Your lips pressed together tight with muffled moans, teeth gnawing down on your bottom lip, almost hard enough to draw blood as your fists clench, keeping quiet for no apparent reason. Chris seems to catch onto that, and he pulls his lips away from your clit to speak clearly.

“You can make as much noise as you want,” Chris says, keeping his fingers pumping in and out of you. “It’s just us tonight, remember? You don’t need to hold back.” 

And with that, the sound that rips from the back of your throat is loud—needy and desperate—almost broken as your hands find his messy hair, threading your fingers through the strands to tug him back to your pussy, shivering when his mouth returns to your clit. 

Chris’ fingers reach further, almost knuckle deep as he scissors them, and you can feel the stretch deep within, your pussy pulsing around during every deliberate curl. You can sense yourself getting wetter—you can hear it—the loud squelching sound emitting from between your legs with each thrust of his fingers and slurp of his tongue. 

He’s not holding back now, he’s devouring you, the taste of you seeming to get to his head as he becomes relentless, making you squirm and wail beneath him at the sudden change.

You’re not complaining, you’ll never complain. 

This is what you wanted. 

This is what you needed.

You’re a mess, you’re loud, you’re clamping your thighs around his head and rolling your hips up to hump his face. He doesn’t stop you, either. He allows you to do whatever you please, keeping his grip firm on your waist with one hand while the other works inside you, twisting his fingers, curling them, pumping in and out to drive you toward your release.

It happens quick and fast, the coil in your tummy snapping before you can utter the words that you’re cumming. You shake and tremble, your inner walls contacting and pulsing around his fingers as you spill all over his eager tongue, licking and sucking at your soaked pussy. 

Your eyes roll to the back of your head with a strained whine, your back bowing off the bed, kicking out your legs with a squeal as he flicks over your clit once, twice, three times before he pulls away from you. 

Chris moves himself up your body, his lips seeking out yours. You can taste yourself on his mouth that glistens with your juices, and you mewl softly, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your release as your arms limply slide around his shoulders, exhaustively kissing him through it—melting beneath him as he mutters sweet, affectionate praises against your lips.

© STURNIOZ est 2025 𐔌 . all rights reserved.

[konigsblog]

how would konig feel about sex toys… i bet he would be pissed about the reading using them and ban them forever

CW: 18+, female!reader, brief mentions of König being “immature” or “toxic”. 🔞 Not proofread - ignore the mistakes. ☺️💐

He’s already insecure enough as it is, and you using sex toys instead of using him for your sexual pleasure only amplifies his fears of not being good enough for you.

In a fit of fury, he throws them into the trash, grinding his pearly teeth together before locking himself in his office all day in a huff. He takes his dinner into his office instead of his usual routine of eating with you - which is very unusual as he’s always adamant on enjoying a meal together.

König can’t deal with his emotions maturely because he’s afraid of lashing out on you - that’s why he explodes when you argue, because he has so much built up anger that he refuses to communicate with you. He knows he needs therapy - maybe marriage counselling - but he’s too worked up on not being sufficient as a husband.

And after a hard, long, and exhausting day of work, you come to your beside table, eager to work out some frustration after a rough day, only to find they’re now missing. And you’re not dull; you know exactly where you last placed them, and based off König’s attitude all day, you suspect him of taking them from you.

Once confronted he then lashes out. It’s your usual arguments where König fears he isn’t good enough. He knows he’s toxic for this. It’s like that one time you refused to have sex with him and he blew up on you, screaming that if he isn’t enough, then why are you two together. His tendency to overthink is the reason he isn’t a good husband.

“Why is it that I’m never good enough for you?! If you want sex, I’m right here!” He yells through his fury, avoiding eye contact with you. And at this point, you don’t even care. You just need to get rid of that need and craving to feel euphoric that you begin stripping naked, throwing your panties and bra at him with an annoyed expression on your face. You hate giving in to his wants, but you can’t bring yourself to have some self respect and fight back. And König can’t help himself from the sight. This is what he wanted.

“Well? What are you waiting for. This is what you’ve been birching about all day.”

And with a surprised expression on his face, he begins to unbuckle his belt, the sound worsening your patience. He slips his shirt off, sounds of clothing hitting the ground filling the room between his laborious breathes. His calloused hands wrap around your waist, fingers slowly trailing up your back and back down to play with your rear.

He shoves various objects off his desk, bending you over it with one large hand seated on the small of your back, keeping you in position while he rummages through his drawers, looking for lube to prepare you with. He coats his fingers in the lubricant before easing them into you, still huffing about how unfair it is for you to use sex toys when he doesn’t - because he has you, and that should reciprocate the same in return. You turn your head over your bare shoulder, shooting him a glare.

“Show me that you’re better then.” You mutter, the sides of your lips quirking at the furious expression on his face.

Before you can even comprehend what you’ve said, you feel his large hand whip your rear. You yelp out in shock while your thighs clamp together, biting your bottom lip at the way his fingers curl inside of you. A newfound ambition and passion to show off his skills now evident. “You shut that mouth.” He grumbles, now stroking his hard cock with his over hand, smearing his pre over your hole before aligning himself.

One hand coated in your lube grips you by the scruff of your neck, the other now on your hip as he bottoms out inside of your prepared and creamy hole. A whiny squeal leaves you, that spot now being hit by his slick head. His thrusts are slow, deep, and everything you’ve been craving.

“Say you’re sorry,” He starts, cutting himself off with a deep and low groan and he pushes himself out from the warmth of your hole and flips you over onto your back, hiking up your legs before throwing them over his broad shoulders and sliding back inside. “Say I’m better.” He continues, one hand now locking around your throat, starting to dig into your skin. You look up at him, eyes glossy, your bottom lip starting to burst from your teeth biting into it. You gasp as he slides back out, his broad hips meeting your rear and his hung ballsack colliding with your cunt. His eyes are dark and hard to read, but all you know is that you’re in for a pounding.

“Fuck- you’re better- God, the best.” You manage between deep breathes and slaps to your thighs. He lets go of your neck, both hands now holding your waist intimately as he throws his head back, eyes rolled back at the sensation. He can’t help but quicken his needy pace, now erratic and sloppy, the messy sounds of your squealing like music to his ears, everything he was dying for. Your moans harmonise with the sounds of your skin sticking together, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. His length pulses inside of your slick heat, two fingers reaching your nipple to twist and squeeze. He presses his chest to yours, hard buds and sweaty skin sticking to his.

König’s breath is deep and heavy, his eyes are rolled back and his jaw is slack. Your eyes shut tightly as you groan out, mumbling out curse words at the way his hits your cervix, how you flutter around his cock. You stumble over your words trying to find them, brain turned to mush at his will. He can only bury his head in the crook of your neck, his words now sweet and tender, sounding almost pathetic as he apologises profusely for being mean - for being so bitter and insecure.

Through an apology, you lose control, only worsening the effect you have on him. Your walls pulse around his, your toes curled and your back arched off the cool wooden table. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, and the sight of your clammy skin and perky breasts, your thighs coated in your pleasure was too much for him to bear. His hips stutter and collide with yours, his fingers nestling themselves in your hair, his breath on your skin before he kisses down your collarbone, releasing pearly drops of semen inside of you.

He lays like this for a while, finally having you where he wants you.

“Fuck, König- you’ve definitely proved that you’re better…” You chuckle, your legs still wrapped around his waist, his head still buried in your neck through shame.

[unkwndream]

of course mark is interrupting the pipe laying session. minors do not interact.

WC: 0.5k

pairing: haechan x fem!reader ft. mark

a/n: this is my first ever post! this was just gathering dust in my drafts so hopefully it’s not too bad. I had a bit of fun with it so enjoy plz!! ><

“Fuck~” Haechan is already gripping your hips, trying to ground himself from how tight you are. The overwatch game on the screen behind you has been completely forgotten at this point.

With your hands on his shoulders, you slowly slide yourself up and down on his cock. You can’t help but moan at the feeling of him stretching you so deeply. Haechan has his head tossed back against the gaming chair headrest, hips lifting to meet your cunt.

“You’re so good to me, baby. Fuck.” Haechan whines, his eyes squeezing shut. A loud ding echoes in the room and you falter for a second, but seeing the state of bliss Haechan is in, you choose to ignore it.

Ding.

Ding.

A huff leaves your lips at the distraction. “Hyuck, can you turn off your phone?” You stop bouncing on his cock for a moment. He whines but still gives in, “Hand it to me, then.”

Reaching behind you, you grab his phone off his desk and hand it to him but just as he went to mute it, it rings. Haechan groans at the interruption but answers the call, pulling the phone up to his ear while tapping your hip, motioning you to continue fucking him. You do what he wants and begin sliding back down onto him, giggling slightly as you watch his eyes roll back into his head.

“Mark, I’m quite literally in the middle of having sex. What do you want?” Haechan immediately speaks into the phone, his breathing heavy and uneven. You tried your best to hold in the moans that you were so desperate to release, the smallest whimpers escaping your lips.

“W-what? Are you being serious right now, Hyuck?” You faintly hear Mark ask. Haechan doesn’t even respond, just placing the phone down on the armrest and putting it on speaker and attaching his hands back on your hips. “Fuck, oh my god.” He moans, arching his back up into you.

“Dude, why the hell would you answer the phone? Oh my god.” Mark groans, clearly embarrassed to listen to what’s going on. “Not my fault you keep— m’fuck, blowing up my phone. Now, wha-what did you want?” Haechan quickly yet breathlessly replied.

“I was just gonna ask to hang out but-” Mark suddenly gets cut off by a loud moan that rips through your throat from Haechan rubbing at your clit with his thumb.

“I’m gonna hang up.” Mark speaks again, voice sounding slightly shaky. Grabbing his phone, Haechan clicks the FaceTime button, “Answer it, Mark.”

You hear the shaky sigh that leaves Mark’s mouth before hearing the sound of the FaceTime being accepted. Haechan flips the camera, showing Mark where your bodies are connected, “How about you come over instead?”

Mark gasps, watching intensely at Haechan slowly dragging his fingers down your body and attaching to your clit once more. The whimper you let out is enough to have Mark respond, voice strained, “y-you’re insane, Hyuck…”

“Wouldn’t it be fun, baby? You can take us both, can’t you?” Haechan asked, his tone teasing. You vigorously nod, and drop a hand to grab his wrist, feeling a bit overstimulated. “I-I… I’m on the way.” Mark mumbles, embarrassed at himself for even giving into Haechan’s antics.

© unkwndream 2025

[sophieinwonderland]

Just so we're clear, that is what the Constitution means. It applies to everyone equally. You don't get to make exceptions that the 1st Amendment only protects the speech you like.

Real Americans know this.

Protests against Israel's genocide of Gaza are perfectly legal. Speaking out against Trump and the US government is perfectly legal. And there's nothing you can do about that.

Let me be clear... If you support the Constitution and freedom of speech, that has to apply to everyone. You can't support the Constitution and then make exceptions!

Tell me... are you a Christian? I've noticed a lot of pro-genocide Islamophobes are. (And gods, are you Islamophobic based on your account!) They can't go on religious crusades to slaughter Muslims for being Muslim anymore, so they live vicariously through Israel.

If you are Christian, I want you to know that we're atheists. We do not share your beliefs. And We have a legal right to not only not believe, but to speak and deconvert others. We can go to the good little Christian children of conservative evangelicals and introduce them to tulpamancy so they can make tulpas as a replacement for God.

Now, from Our point of view, this is totally fine. The kids will be better off. But from the Christian point of view, We will be leading them away from God's light and down the path of Satan. And when they pass from this world, the once-good Christian children We converted will be dragged into the fires of Hell where their flesh will be continuously seared from their bodies as they burn for all eternity.

Our RIGHT to do this and lead people down this path is protected by the First Amendment.

Meanwhile, if you don't like Us doing this and you punch Us for it, that's illegal and you go to prison. You kill us? Prison. You try to take any action that is greater than simple speech against us? Prison.

The First Amendment, at its core, is a legal right to undermine America and God as much as we want and ensures you can't do anything about it.

And if you don't support that, if you don't support the First Amendment, then you don't really support American values. 😜

You cannot truly support America while opposing the most sacred of freedoms protected under the Constitution.

[emmyrosee]

There’s something about when the Itoshi Rin comes up and cuddles you the first time.

Youre no stranger to cuddling up to him, crawling in his lap or sneaking into his arms while he’s on his phone, resting your head on his chest in bed or pawing for his hand to gently rub your back when you crave it most, you’ll take the reigns and guide him because he doesn’t know what to do himself.

But the first time Itoshi Rin comes up to you, is a sight to behold.

The couch cradles your body perfectly, almost coaxing you into a state of sleep as you lazily watch whatever is playing on tv, blinking lazily as exhaustion threatens to takeover. It’s quiet in the house, a warm temperature under the blanket, and you yawn softly and grab your phone to scroll on and fight sleep off.

You see Rin come out of the kitchen and into the living room, and you offer him a sleepy smile. “Hey cutie man,” you hum, making a grabby hand for his, which he blinks at, but eventually laces his fingers with yours. “Come cuddle?”

It’s at this point you’re more than used to Rin rolling his eyes and grumbling about how no, he doesn’t need cuddles, he’s too mature for that, and a squeeze to your hand as he stands awkwardly for a few minutes before leaving.

But today, he lets his pretty eyes flick between your face and your blanket covered body, shrugging, and dropping your hand. You assume he’s going to leave, so you cuddle on yourself once again, eyes growing heavy as they close.

Then, a weight slowly forms on the other end of the couch. Your eyes open as you watch Itoshi Rin awkwardly station himself, his knee planted into the cushions and hands trying to find padding to crawl on top of you, as you’ve done to him countless times. You close your eyes and fight the smile as to not deter him from getting comfortable.

A few minutes later, you feel his body hovering over yours, as if contemplating his next move like a nervous kitten. You bet he looks so sweet, eyes glazed in love and cheeks a pinkish hue as he tries to get comfortable before he finally lays on top of you, slowly, unsure.

It’s like he’s in a plank position, still not putting his entire weight down on you, so to help him, you lay flatter on your back and slowly open your eyes, watching him try and navigate this. Your hands sneak to his hair and gently pet it, and to your shock, he doesn’t skitter away. He looks up at you, with the exact look you assumed he would be wearing, and you smile encouragingly, “you can lay down if you want.”

He ponders. Then, a miracle.

Itoshi Rin lays his body weight on top of yours, head burrowing in your chest while his arms struggle to find placement. You wrap your own around him, fingers scratching his scalp and others tickling down his back. He sighs softly and shifts a final time to get comfortable, his eyes fixated onto the screen to avoid yours.

“I love you,” you whisper, and shock courses through you again when Rin mumbles a sweet little “I love you, too,” back.

“This doesn’t change anything,” he says, but it seems moreso for himself than for you.

“Why would it?” You say softly. And at your words, his body seems to relax fully, melting like a pad of butter and smothering you, much to your delight. You see his eyes flutter close and his cheek nuzzles into your chest more, and you let Itoshi Rin take whatever he needs from you, whatever love he desires, whatever affection he craves, whatever energy will get him where he needs to be, you allow him to take.

And you always will.

[yasministration]

apartment hunt - remus lupin

remus lupin x potter!reader secret relationship au summary: when sirius reveals he's moving out of the potter household to fleamont and euphemia, you and james decide to reveal to him some exciting news wc: 1k+

The living room is completely silent other than the occasional sound Euphemia Potter makes as she sips her tea. You sit facing her, next to the fireplace as she flips over to the next page of her book, humming quietly. It’s been difficult, this past week, trying not to say anything. You and James had discussed moving out of the manor and finding a flat with Remus and Sirius — you liked the idea, but was it too soon? Neither of you even had jobs yet, and the security of living with your parents was nice.

It’s time for you to say something. You know Sirius hadn’t told your parents yet, but your mum would be able to keep things between you. At least for a little while.

Euphemia lifts her eyes from her book, finding you squirming on the rug. She lifts her eyebrows at you. You open your mouth, then promptly shut it. She shuts her book, setting it aside. Your mother only looks at you, waiting patiently for you to begin speaking. So you do. “Sirius told James and I that he’s thinking of moving out.”

“Oh.”

“He and Remus are going to move in together.”

“Oh.” Euphemia pats the spot on the sofa next to her, and you scramble up from the floor to join her, nervously chewing at your bottom lip. “And?” She prompts, lifting her mug to her lips again. “They’ve basically extended the invitation to me and James. Not extended, but-”

“You were always invited.” She finishes for you. You nod slowly. “What are you thinking?” You sigh deeply, moving your gaze to the fireplace again. You carefully pick your words, curious for your mother's opinion without revealing too much. “I- we don’t even have jobs yet, and I don’t know if I want to move out so soon. You know, we’ve just been at Hogwarts for seven years, and I like being around you and dad.”

“Honey, if you move out, it doesn’t mean you won’t see us. I’ll be expecting you for dinner every night.” You smile at your mother’s words, recognising the genuineness in them.

“If we move in, me and Remus will share a room.”

It’s your mother’s turn to smile, and one of her hands reaches out to brush some hair away from your face. “Yeah? How does James feel about it.”

“At first he was, you know, the usual James. But he’s okay with it. He says he gets how much we love each other, and he knows the relationship is really serious. And if I ever get sick of Remus, I can hide in his room. I just- I just don’t want to do this if I have any doubts.”

“And do you have any doubts?”

“Not doubts. But, worries. In general. I’d like for us to all find jobs before doing this.”

“You’re just like your father. He’s always been a worrier.”

“What did you just call me!?” The mock offended voice that cries out comes from the door to the backyard. Your dad and James are making their way into the house, and your mother raises her eyebrows at the sight of brooms in their hands. “I thought we agreed that brooms stay outside.”

Your dad pushes his broom into James’s chest, and your brother scurries back to put them in the shed. When he returns, you notice how flushed his face is, and how his shirt clings to his back, spots of sweat seeping through the fabric.

“Where’s Sirius?” You ask, waiting for the third man to show up. James runs a hand through his sweaty curls, a grin on his face. “Guess.”

“Is he showering?” Your mum assumes, and James points two finger guns at her in victory. But then soft dabbing of feet on the stairs reveals that Sirius is out of the shower. He pauses at the bottom of the stairs, clutching a letter in front of him.

“Um, I have an announcement to make.”

“Sirius, love, we know you’re gay.” Your dad says, and you giggle joyfully, pressing a hand to your mouth when Sirius glares at you. “Come sit down, honey.” Your mother says, and all three men obey her words, taking a seat in the living room. James settles on your retired spot on the rug, and your dad stretches his limbs as he sits on an armchair.

“I’m moving out.” Sirius says, and your eyes go wide. You didn’t think he’d do it so soon. “Well, when I find a flat and everything. But, yeah, uh, I got an internship with Ollivander.”

“Ollivander!?” You cry, rising from your place on the couch and snatching the acceptance letter Sirius held. You quickly scan through it, jaw dropping lower and lower as you realise he is telling the truth. “Sirius, Ollivander never takes interns! Like - ever. Wow, congratulations” Sirius grins, face flushing brightly when you lean down to wrap your arms around him proudly.

The rest of your family follows immediately, standing up to give him celebratory hugs. Sirius wrinkles his nose when James hugs him, and he mutters “You seriously need a shower, mate.”

“Yeah, alright, come on.” James wraps and arm around Sirius’s shoulders, and with one last glance to your parents, you follow the two boys upstairs, into James’s room. The door shuts behind you, and you linger in front of the closed doors, shifting your weight from foot to foot. You glance towards James, who looks at you quickly before turning his gaze towards Sirius again.

“Uh, you know, if the invitation is still open, I think we’re gonna join you and Remus.” Sirius grins unbelievably wide, and he jumps up from the bed, glancing back and forth between you both. “Yeah,” You confirm, “And I think sooner than expected too. I got accepted for an internship at the Magical office of Law. It starts at the end of summer.”

“Yeah, and my auror training does too.”

“Auror training? Your internship? You guys both-?” Sirius cuts himself off with a loud laugh, jumping up and down with his arms extended. He pulls you into a hug first, releasing you from his grip only to hug James. “Does-does Remus know?”

You glance down at your feet, nodding guiltily. “Yeah, I told Remus.”

“When did you tell Remus!?” James cries, head snapping towards you.

“Like two minutes after I told you.”

“I see how it is.”

“Our parents don’t know though.”

“Does this mean we can start apartment hunting?”

taglist: @ravisinghs-wife, @amatoanima, @starry-remus, @pain-in-the-ashe, @hiireadstuff, @superlegend216, @treefairy-28, @kitkatkl, @rory-cakes, @juliet-f017, @fl0weryannie, @tiaajosephin, @why-am-i-like-this18, @theoraekenslover, @animalcrossingshameless, @azure-drag0ness, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @matcha-kitty13, @thenasoneshots, @cakiebleh, @slytherin-princess-x, @daydreamandforget, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @5sospenguinqueen, @aouoo, @spider–girl, @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @selenewowww, @paytonluvxx, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @rhettsluvr, @iluvhrj

[miaaaxxz]

Bush Man | CL16

summary: It was supposed to be an ordinary night.Just a walk home after the club, the familiar silence of Monaco in the early hours. But then you found him. In your bush.And nothing about that night or the morning was normal. word count: 1.2K

pairing: charles leclerc x female!reader

NOT PROOFREAD

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

After another race where Ferrari had managed to screw him over , again, Charles Leclerc flew back to Monaco with a head full of noise and no desire to hear anyone’s voice but his own.

Summer break had officially started, but instead of rest, he felt hollow. Drained. Like something inside him had burned out quietly while no one was looking.

He didn’t even unpack. He just threw on a jacket, grabbed his wallet, and left the apartment. No plans, no texts. He needed to not think. So he went where thinking was nearly impossible: a club.

The lights were too bright. The music too loud.

He hadn’t meant to drink that much , a couple shots, just to take the edge off. But the edge only grew sharper. The music blurred into a hum, the voices faded into static, and at some point, the idea of staying in that room, in that body, became unbearable.

So he left. Alone. Jacket forgotten somewhere. Phone slipping in and out of his hand. His steps unsteady as he wandered through the warm streets of Monaco, passing bars, cafés, glowing storefronts he’d known since childhood.

He didn’t know where he was going.But eventually, he saw it. A patch of green. A quiet little garden in front of someone’s house. And for some reason it looked inviting.

So Charles Leclerc, Formula 1 driver, Ferrari’s golden boy, collapsed into a bush like it was a luxury mattress.

જ⁀➴

You had just said goodbye to your best friend at the corner of the street, the two of you walking home from a night out that was supposed to last one drink and ended five hours later. Typical.

Lina lived a few houses down. You were staying at your aunt’s place for the summer, which thankfully wasn’t far. She made sure you got to the front gate before turning back, still talking about some guy in the club who had danced.

“Text me when you get in” she grinned.

“Only if you promise not to drunk-message your ex again.”

You waved her off with a lazy smirk and headed inside. Within minutes you were out of your dress and into the comfiest t-shirt you owned. The one with the slightly faded print and sleeves you always rolled twice.

You had just sat on the edge of the bed when your phone lit up.

Lina. Again.You frowned, picking up.

“I don’t wanna scare you or anything, but I think you have a Charles Leclerc in your bush.”

You blinked. “…I have a what in my bush?”

“A man. In your garden. And he looks exactly like Charles freaking Leclerc. Like... Monaco’s price. Ferrari golden boy"

You sighed. “You’re drunk. Lina, babe, we’ve talked about this. You can’t just manifest men into existence.”

“I’m dead serious. Come outside right now. Bring a flashlight. Or a bat. I don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

She hung up.

Still half-convinced this was some sleep-deprived prank, you shoved your feet into the first pair of slides you could find and tiptoed down the stairs of your aunt’s house. The summer air in Monaco was heavy and warm, humming faintly with the remnants of club music from the hill above.

Lina stood dead still near the front hedge, phone flashlight trained at something just beyond the leaves.

“There. Look,” she whispered dramatically. “I swear is him”

You squinted. There was definitely someone in the bush. A figure lay curled up awkwardly in the bushes, one shoe missing, hair a chaotic mess, muttering low curses in French.

“…Oh my God,” you breathed.

“Right?” Lina hissed. “Tell me that’s not him.”

You angled your phone light closer to his face.

Brown eyes squinted open, immediately scrunching shut again. He groaned.

“Putain de lumière… qu’est-ce que c’est…”

Yep. That was him.

That was Monaco’s golden boy. Passed out in your shrubbery.And definitely very drunk.

“What do we do? Call someone?” you whispered, panic rising. “Ferrari? A manager? The Pope?”

Lina looked down at him, then at you. “You want me to call Ferrari and say ‘Hi, your driver’s in my garden and it's look like he's dying'"?

“I don’t know!” you hissed. “Check if he has his phone or something.”

She leaned down, carefully patting his pockets while trying not to fall over.

“Found it!” Lina pulled out a sleek phone completely black.

“…It’s dead.”

Of course.

You both stared at each other for a long moment, like you were in the middle of some weird alternate universe.

“What now?” Lina asked.

You glanced down at him again. He groaned, rolling slightly, trying to find a comfortable position in the shrubbery.

“…We drag him inside.”

“What?”

“We can’t just leave him in a bush, Lina!”

“I’m not dragging an unconscious Formula 1 driver into the house like it’s normal!”

You sighed. “Help me with his legs.”

Lina groaned. “This is how people end up on the news.”

“He’s heavier than he looks,” Lina hissed, practically folded in half as she tried to lift Charles by the shoulders.

You had one arm under his knees and another gripping the back of his now grass-covered shirt. “Why is he so floppy?”

“Because he’s unconscious. And a man.”

You adjusted your stance, your sock sliding slightly on the tile as you both finally dragged him through the front door. He groaned low in his throat, head lolling against Lina’s shoulder.

“Shhh,” you whispered instinctively, though no one else was home.

Your aunt had left for Nice that weekend, a spontaneous getaway with her best friend.

“I think my spine just snapped,” Lina muttered as you both half-carried, half-dragged Charles into the living room and awkwardly maneuvered him toward the couch.

“I think my soul just left my body.”

You bumped his legs against the coffee table on the way. He barely flinched. Just let out another dramatic groan in slurred French and melted deeper into your grip.

“Almost there,” you breathed, sweat prickling the back of your neck.

With one final push, the two of you managed to drop him gently, but not gracefully onto the couch. He slumped sideways, one arm flopping dramatically off the edge.

You both stood back, panting.

Lina placed her hands on her hips. “Well. That’s probably the closest I’ll ever get to Charles Leclerc’s thighs.”

You gave her a flat look.

She smirked. “Too soon?”

You walked over, grabbed the soft grey throw blanket from the armchair, and unfolded it.

“Help me roll him.”

“What are we, paramedics?”

“Shut up and lift.”

Between the two of you, you managed to get him somewhat properly positioned head on the pillow, legs stretched out, arms tucked in enough to not dangle off the sides.

You pulled the blanket over him, tucking it slightly around his shoulders, then stepped back and stared at the scene.

Charles Leclerc.Formula 1 driver.Sleeping like a tranquilized bear in your aunt’s house.

“What even is my life right now?” you muttered.

Lina flopped onto the armchair. “Honestly? I don’t know, but I think I love it.”

Eventually, Lina stood up and stretched. “I should go before I start making questionable choices.”

You walked her to the door. “Thanks for helping me not drop him on the front steps.”

She winked and disappeared into the night.

You closed the door behind her, locked it, then turned back to the couch.

Charles was still fast asleep, mouth parted slightly, one hand now curled under the pillow like he’d always belonged there.

You sat cross-legged on the rug, watching him for a moment that lasted longer than it should’ve.

Then you muttered to yourself, “Tomorrow is going to be weird.”

જ⁀➴

Sunlight poured gently through the curtains, casting long stripes of gold across the wooden floor.

The apartment was still. Quiet. Still half-asleep.Until a soft, muffled groan broke the silence.

Charles stirred on the couch, head sinking deeper into the pillow before lifting suddenly, his brow furrowed, lips dry and slightly parted.

His body ached. His mouth tasted like regret. And his brain? Foggy. Useless.

He blinked against the light, squinting as he tried to figure out... anything.

This wasn’t his house.This wasn’t anyone’s house he recognized.

He sat up slowly, groaning again as the blanket slipped off his chest.

The first thing he noticed was the unfamiliar living room: warm-toned walls, a throw blanket now puddled in his lap, the scent of lavender lingering faintly in the air.

The second thing he noticed... was you.

Curled up in the armchair across the room, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, a half-full mug resting on your knee. You looked like you’d just woken up too, hair messily tied up, but your eyes were fully on him.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

A tense beat passed.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to remember how he’d ended up here.

He opened his mouth, voice dry and cracked.

Then, he finally spoke.

“Where am I?”

You stretched and yawned softly, pushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“You’re at my aunt’s,” you said simply. “She’s away for a few days, so I’m looking after the place.”

Charles blinked, trying to piece together the foggy fragments of last night.

Then the memory hit or at least part of it.

“…Did I…?” he asked, voice hoarse. He gestured between the couch and where you were sitting. “Did we…?”

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

“No,” you said, lips twitching into a small, amused smile. “ Babe, I just found you in the bush.”

Charles stared at you.

“…Sorry, what?”

“The bush,” you said again, nodding toward the window. “Outside. You were face-down in it. Very committed, honestly.”

He let out a noise half groan, half mortified choke. His hands dragged down his face as if he could wipe away the entire memory.

“Putain…” he muttered, muffled.

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “So no, nothing happened. ”

“God…” he muttered again, now flopping back against the couch, blanket tangled around his legs like it was trying to strangle him out of pity. “Please tell me no one saw that.”

You tilted your head.

“Are you asking if I’m going to tell anyone, or if I’ve already drafted the tweet?”

He cracked one eye open. “Both.”

You smirked. “Depends.”

His brow furrowed. “…On?”

You leaned back, swirling your mug slowly.

“Do I get free paddock passes for life if I keep it a secret?”

His groan echoed through the room as he dropped his head back against the pillow.

“Please don’t blackmail me.”

You grinned. “Too late.”

Another pause.

Then silence again. But this time, a little warmer. He peeked at you from under the blanket.

“I really was in a bush?”

You nodded. “Dead center.”

“…That explains the scratches on my neck.”

“And the bit of leaf still in your hair.”

He reached up immediately, running his fingers through it. You pointed. He missed it. You walked over, leaned down, and gently plucked the small, crumpled green leaf from behind his ear, holding it up like a prize.

“Souvenir?” you asked.

He let out the softest, defeated laugh.

◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤◢◤

@luvs4haechan @emneedshelp @thepassionatereader @paaarrriiiii @formula1fordisaster @vinylphwoar @virtualperfectioncat @sltwins @lost-library-of-violets (Tagging based on previous fic! If you don’t wanna be tagged in other future things I post, just lmk 💌 part 5 of Unfinished Business soon)

[tuesdayisfordancing]

The problem is not that it’s actively judgemental, so much as that it keeps saying “every individual beautiful snowflake of a woman has a different sexuality and this book is a safe space” and then a few paragraphs later (or earlier) writing as if only a few types of experiences exist. For example, she acknowledges that asexual people exist, but both before and after that, she makes the strong assumption that anyone picking up a book about Getting To Know And Accepting Your Sexuality, must have as their self actualized future more sex and not less. The possibility that someone’s happy outcome here is figuring out that they should stop pushing themselves to try and like sex does not seem to be on her radar. Which is the sort of passive messaging that, well, that has certainly messed me up to some degree or other from various sources when I was younger, but at least wasn’t coming from the #1 recommended sexy actualization book. Another moment is when her example of a problem that a patient felt was too gross to say out loud was… not getting wet?I’m sure patients have been deeply embarrassed by this problem and felt gross about it, but when that’s the only example of a “gross” problem you give, that seems like it’s just gonna make anyone with an actually taboo concern feel even more ashamed. If you’re aiming to get across that people feel gross about a wide range of problems, you gotta also talk about something elsewhere on the spectrum! Are you telling me there’s not an issue involving poop anyone’s talked to you about? And the book is absolutely full of moments like that, like the part where she directly says to the reader something like “your genitals are normal and healthy” which is uhhh…. Not true for some people? Like, I think she’s taking aim at the worry that like, What If My Genitals Are Broken Because They Don’t Look Like The Porn I’ve Seen, but she seems to have forgotten that people might read her book who have, you know. Medical problems with their genitals! All these moments become more dismissive/alienating given the “we’re all beautiful different valid snowflakes” framing. It has real “Everyone is beautiful! People with long blond hair and people with short blond hair!” energy.

There’s more I could whine about that boils down to “all of your suggestions are for solving problems that sound very easy to me and you have no suggestions for if it turns out to be more complicated than the first pass solutions of ‘use lube, take a break, notice enjoyment’”. So I guess in that sense the target audience is people who need a 101 guide? But I would hesitate to recommend it to someone who does, because of the aforementioned alienating writing. The target audience is “people the author didn’t forget existed while writing this”, which is hard to pick out..

Also, the aggressive gendering is both not to my taste (shocker) and makes it… less likely to be a book you’d show your boyfriend? Partnered sex involves two people with feelings, who both might need to be involved in making changes! It feels like she forgets this, part of my earlier objection about all her suggestions being very 101 is that all her little example people seem to have perfect partners with no issues or reactions of their own. And I guess that’s not the point of the examples, the point is to say “here’s this suggestion working!” in, again, a very 101 way, but it still kinda stuck in my teeth.

I guess since I’ve written out this long rant I should also give the book credit for the one useful idea it contains, which is a model of libido where instead of people being on a spectrum from low libido to high libido, libido “strength” has two variables: an accelerator and a brake. So you can have e.g. a libido with a sensitive accelerator, that easily gets raring to go, but that also has sensitive breaks and is easily disrupted. Or vice versa or any other combo. The underlying idea wasn’t new to me, but something about that particular metaphor/articulation/framework made it easier to think about. I think it’s a really good metaphor that could stand to be more widespread. (But also the chapter about it is so self congratulatory and annoying. Must end on a complaint.)

Enough about favorite books. What’s a book you read and absolutely hated? The book you’ve got a bone to pick with.

[cakypa120]

May I request more Billy X Jason

Like captain marvel giving all the justice league members a thing that when they’re in danger, it will teleport them to the rock of eternity.

Jason gets injured and Batman use the thing, 

Cue 18 year old Billy freaking out seeing Jason, who looks like a fully grown man, even though he’s only like 19 at best (I think) and

Jason: “ where am I?”

Billy

Jason: “damn, Roy was right demons are hot”

Batman was panicking. Jason was hurt. Seriously. And they wouldn't get help for a long time. Bruce's hands were shaking as he covered the wounds on his side. He couldn't lose Jason, his son, again. In moments like these, he understood why people prayed to something, hoping for something. Bruce was willing to give the Gods or anyone else anything if it would save his son.

A memory suddenly popped into his mind:

All the heroes were holding a strange crystal in their hands. Marvel smiled brightly at them.

Hal: What is this?

Marvel: Emergency help. If you are badly injured or trapped. You just need to break this crystal. It will teleport you to the Rock of Eternity. All your wounds will freeze in time and you will fall into a temporary sleep. I will find you, heal you and send you back to Earth. This is insurance. But if you get there unharmed, then I ask you not to wander too much. And listen to those who live there.

Batman: How reliable is this?

Marvel: One hundred percent! It can teleport you from any point in space or dimension.

Superman: That's interesting.

Diana: Thank you, brother, for such a valuable gift.

Marvel: You are like family to me! Of course I will worry about your safety.

Bruce takes out the small crystal. This was his last chance. He places the crystal in Jason's hand and squeezes until he hears a crunch. Jason's body is covered in golden light and his son crumbles into golden dust. Bruce looks at the place where his son lay and takes a deep breath. Now all that's left is to wait.

Billy jumps in surprise when he feels something teleport onto the Rock. Someone used his crystal? That was bad!! He runs to the teleportation site in a panic and freezes when he sees a bloody figure. Isn't that Red Hood? Shit, he's seriously hurt. Billy rolls up his sleeves. This was going to be a long job.

Jason wakes up with a groan. His whole body ached. The last thing he remembered was being shot and B holding his wound. Was he dead? Was he in hell?

?: You're awake! You better not move yet, your body needs to rest from all the magic I used on you.

Jason looks up and sees a young man with black hair and bright blue eyes. All thoughts disappear from his head when he sees this young man. Why was he wearing something that looked like ancient Greek clothes? (Billy had blood on his clothes. The Rock didn't have any other clothes. So he wore what he had.)

Jason: I died?

?: No, although you tried very hard. So, how did you get the crystal?

Jason: I don't know what crystal you're talking about. Maybe B did it. Damn, you're hot.

?: Sorry what?

Jason: I'm a little hot!! Is that normal?

The boy frowns and approaches him. Jason smells the rain. It calms him down a little. A warm palm touches his forehead and Jason is ready to melt just from that touch.

?: You're a little hotter than usual. But that's okay. A good night's sleep will help you recover faster.

Jason: Why do I feel so sleepy?

?: Your body wants to rest. You have to let it.

Jason: You're probably a demon. A very hot demon. Roy's right... I...don't want...to fall asleep...

Hands gently lay him down on the bed and Jason falls asleep.

He wakes up in Bruce's mansion. He remembers that boy and his face instantly turns red. He told him such nonsense!! Will that beautiful boy want to talk to him again?!?! Jason takes a pillow and screams into it while kicking the blanket.

Dick: Jaybird! You're awake!!

Jason doesn't answer. He wants to die from all the shame that's washed over him in waves.

Dick: Jay?

Jason: Who brought me here?

Dick: Captain Marvel! He said your wounds were healed and all you needed was sleep.

Jason freezes. Captain Marvel. That boy looked so much like Captain Marvel. Could that really be his son. Jason gets out of bed, ignoring Dick's protests. He goes down to the Batcave and finds Bruce talking to Captain Marvel. The hero in red was explaining something to Bruce.

Jason: Captain!!

Marvel: Oh, you're awake! How are you feeling? Your wounds were pretty bad.

Jason: I want to date your son! Give me your blessing!!

Marvel and Bruce freeze. Marvel turns pale and teleports away. Bruce stares at Jason in shock. Dick falls to the floor. Tim, who was sitting off to the side, chokes on his coffee.

[tobeholyistobeempty]

daddy to the rescue - captain john price.

summary: the one where price is real fed up with your shit.

“you want daddy to keep cleanin up your messes? then maybe it’s time you’re dealt with like the brat you fuckin are.”

cw: solider reader afab. jail inaccuracies. slight dubious themes. mean dom price. ooc imo. john price is a weapon. mentions violence. slight daddy kink. authority kink. dirty talk. slight degradation.

—————-

you’ve been pacing the width of the cell for fifteen minutes.

it’s small - metal bench, metal toilet, metal everything - one flickering light overhead and a draft that stinks like mildew and piss. theres a guy in the corner tweaking out, scratching at his neck, muttering about shadow people that won’t stop following him. another lying flat on the floor, staring up at you like he’s imagining what your insides taste like. hasn’t blinked once. and the third, well, he’s asleep - except when he jolts awake every two minutes screaming bloody murder before dropping back into whatever nightmare he’s clawing his way through.

it’s not an exaggeration to say you’re losing your fucking mind.

“let me the fuck out of here,” you hiss through the bars. “point proven. lesson learned. whatever.”

despite your efforts, the cop at the desk doesn’t even flinch. just hums. sips his shit coffee like he’s sitting pretty behind a desk job that means no one ever swings at him.

“not a chance,” he says, smiling like a smug little prick.

you imagine cracking his mug over his head. watching it shatter down his uniform. he’s the one who cuffed you and tossed you in without so much as reading your rights. called you a wildcard. told you to sit with it. left the restraints on like he thought it’d teach you a lesson.

well, you’ve been sitting, alright.

sitting and stewing and thinking - thinking about how that stupid bastard at the bar should’ve lost a hand for grabbing your ass like that. thinking about how he’ll wake up tomorrow with only a headache and some stitches, while you rot in a cage surrounded by the worst fucking breed of humanity - your wrists bruised and your mouth dry from clenching it too long.

not to mention the split lip. or the other injuries that the unfortunate souls nearby suffered.

collateral damage. they’ll be fine.

“atleast give me a phone call,” you growl back.

“you get one when shift changes.” he leans back like it’s funny. “hour or so.”

you take a step forward before your brain catches up, pressing your forehead against cool metal.

“you fucking serious?” you hiss. “you know this is bullshit, right?”

he doesn’t even blink. “i’ll make it two hours if you don’t shut up.”

you sit again. eventually.

shoulders tight, pulse still pounding. adrenaline leaking slow through your system just steadily enough to keep your leg bouncing and your thoughts loud. you can feel it under your skin - that itch. that flicker of want.

so of course, that’s when corner-guy pipes up.

“you one’a them military types?” he rasps, still scratching at his skin like something’s crawling beneath it. “start fights for fun, uh? get bored of killin people?”

you don’t answer.

“now look at ya.” he stands. “bet you cried like a bitch when they cuffed you.”

and that, well. that makes you grin. slow and sharp and just crooked enough to mean yes, i’m gonna hurt you. and no, i won’t regret it.

“not as hard as the asshole who touched me cried,” you purr. “want a demonstration?”

and he laughs, it’s shrill and too fucking loud. none of the cops even blink.

so you stand too.

you remember you’re cuffed - doesn’t matter. you’ve fought in worse shape - half-conscious, bleeding out with your boot sole melted to concrete. so you square up. lean forward just enough to bait him.

he smiles, opens his mouth to say something else-

then stops when the door buzzes.

the whole building changes in an instant. energy snaps and then cracks still. desk cop sits up straight, the officers guarding the cell block blanche. someone mutters something behind the glass and even the fuckers half dead in the room with you shift where they’re sitting.

you follow the ripple of tension to the front - and that’s when you see him.

captain john price.

“uh, hey there, sir,” the desk cop starts, voice cracking like he’s going through puberty. “i assume you’re-“

price lifts a hand, and nods toward your cell.

“…oh, fuck.” you exhale.

and as if he heard you, he gifts you a look that cuts clean through the bars.

a look that says oh fuck is right.

the officer who hauled you in doesn’t wait for orders, which is probably the smartest move he’s made all night. he’s already at the cell, fumbling the keys, unlocking the door like he’s disarming a bomb. he marches over to where you’re glued and grabs you, grip on your bicep tight - tight enough to leave a bruise, but not on purpose. you guess it’s just the only way he can steady his hands.

you’re pulled out of the cell, jacket torn, blood drying stiff down your jaw. you look like a stray dog they had to chase into traffic and pout like one too as he drops you right in front of captain like you’re his to claim. you take him in and your stomach twists tighter than the cuffs. he’s got rain in his beard, a storm in his eyes, gloves still on, and that hat casting shadows like war paint across his face.

he just stares at you.

and fuck, it’s worse than yelling.

“uh…hey, cap.”

you go for light. maybe even playful. you fail.

“this one’s a real peach.” the asshole behind you mutters. you mentally give him the finger.

price ignores it and exhales, slow and heavy, like your name tastes like a goddamn mistake in his mouth.

then he looks past you, to the officer behind.

“take the cuffs off.” he grits.

the officer hesitates. “sir, we need to-“

price takes a step. only one. “take. the cuffs. off.”

you shudder. can’t even help it. it’s just that voice - steel in the vowels, grave-dirt deep - the one you’ve heard a million times before under worse circumstances, the one that makes everyone question if the devils name was really lucifer or if maybe it was actually his.

the officer springs into action, fumbling to do as price says without any further provocation.

you bristle as he gets a little too touchy. “watch your hands, asshole.”

the key clinks and then your arms fall forward. your wrists burn like hell, but you don’t rub them. you don’t even move. you just stand there tense and buzzing - face hot and skin crawling because you know what comes next. you’re in trouble, but not law type trouble. not anymore.

his kind of trouble.

“daddy to the rescue.” the cop whispers in your ear before he steps back and nods to captain. “she’s clear to go.”

and you know price heard it - the first part. can tell by the way his jaw ticks, even when he only nods in response.

the cop walks away. goes back behind the desk.

and still, captain hasn’t blinked. he’s just staring at you, ocean fury cutting across your face - taking in the wreckage you’ve made of yourself on one of your only nights off in weeks. you’re too stubborn to look away, too smart to not be scared, yet too fucking desperate to break the tension to keep your mouth shut.

“i can expl-“

“don’t.” he flatlines. your pulse does too, for a moment. especially when he steps closer. “you open your mouth before we’re alone again i swear to god i’ll find the nearest closet just to remind you how we do discipline in the field.”

well fuck.

“am i understood?” he mutters.

you nod.

and then he moves - grabbing your arm and dragging you toward the door. past the stunned officers averting their eyes, away from all the leering inmates and drunken idiots detained to sleep it off. through the threshold of the door and out into the cold of the night.

he drags you down the precinct steps without sparing you a glance. ‘m so fucking sick of your shit written in every step of his gait. premeditated murder aura stoked in every breath. he’s unshaken even when you misstep, your boot sliding slightly on the wet concrete - just yanks you forward harder, like walking beside him is a privilege he’s letting you keep out of patience, not mercy.

the night is quiet - it bites as you look up to see the truck at the curb. engine still ticking warm.

his silence makes your ears ring.

and so you try again. technically, you’re alone now. technically. “look, captain, i—”

he stops.

stops so abruptly your lungs punch the back of your ribs. you nearly crash into him, barely catching yourself as he turns - slow - and stares down at you like you’re some classified intel that got half the team killed.

“what is it bout silence that makes you uncomfortable?” he breathes, eyes raking your face. then he squints, and your blood runs cold. “you enjoy makin my life hell? that it?”

it’s not even a question. it’s a diagnosis.

you chew your cheek. “define hell, sir.”

wrong answer, a voice screams in your head the second after you say it. the way price levels you with a look says he must agree.

“third time in two months we’ve done this.” he says, voice deeper and darker than the night sky. “m’ startin to wonder if this is a game to you. being reckless like you know i’ll always come running when you fuck up - cause that’s what daddy does, yeah?”

and stupidly - idiotically - you snort. you shouldn’t, but you do because it bursts out of you without warning. it’s reflex. defence. a fucking tic.

he’s not your daddy. but also, fuck you? yeah he fuckin is.

you clear your throat. “uhm. no, sir?”

price blinks. the wind cuts between you. ruffles his coat. stirs the hair at your forehead.

and then he inhales - so sharp and disarming you don’t even notice as his hand shoots up until suddenly he’s spinning you and shoving you hard into the side of the truck. your shoulder knocks the door. your breath catches in your throat.

“one night off,” he growls, “and you use it to start a fuckin bar fight. sixteen injured. three officers involved. two concussions.”

he leans in. his lips brush your ear, not even close to gentle.

“you’ve got five seconds to convince me you haven’t lost the last working part of your fucking brain.”

you blink. “he touched my ass-“

“and you broke a pint over his head. fair.” he cuts you off, doesn’t miss a beat. “but you didn’t stop there. saw red and decided it was open fuckin season, yeah?”

yeah. pretty much.

“i’m sorry.” you breathe.

“you’re not.” he grits. “you’re addicted to pissin me off.”

and maybe it’s the cold - maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming through your blood. or maybe it’s just him - the gravel of his voice, the smell of smoke and rain soaked into his coat - but you smile.

not a real one. not a sorry one - a stupid, bloody, smug little thing.

his head tilts. “think this is funny, do you?”

“no, sir.”

his brows lifts. “then why the fuck are you smiling?”

his fingers dig deeper into your shoulder - enough to make you wince - enough to make you grind your teeth just to keep the pathetic involuntary groan at bay. you open your mouth but close it just as fast, because you know you don’t have an answer that he’ll like.

your throat clicks when you swallow, and that’s what he clocks. not your grin - but the fear behind it.

“yeah,” he mutters, voice fizzing rough across your nerves. “that’s what i thought.”

your back hits the truck a little harder as he crowds you now - all body heat and storm breath - one gloved hand flat against the metal beside your head and the other holding deaths grip on your jaw.

he leans in. “you smile like that again, ill fuck it off your face.”

your lungs stutter. he doesn’t care.

“tonight, you’re done makin decisions. done thinking for yourself until i forget i had some wet-behind-the-ears rookie call me at 2am to tell me one of my best assets got picked up like some fuckin street thug.”

you blink. heart pummelling. his face is close enough now that you can feel the scrape of his breath across your lips.

he exhales a growl from his chest. it vibrates through you. “you want daddy to keep cleanin up your messes? then maybe it’s time you’re dealt with like the brat you fuckin are.”

you suck in a breath like you’re starved for it and try to force a response, anything, but he shakes his head before you can even try. final.

“no no. i didn’t ask you to speak.”

you nod. the earth spins sideways - because you’ve seen him mad. you’ve never seen him like this.

he hums, like he’s pleased you’re finally getting it.

“the ice you’re on’s gettin real thin, sweetheart, so listen close.” he breathes, red in his eyes. sin on his lips. “i say sit, you drop. i say beg, you fuckin whimper. you don’t talk unless i ask you to talk and even then, the only things i wanna hear outta that mouth is ‘yes’ and ‘please sir’ until i can trust you’ll behave.”

jesus christ-

his thumb drags slow across your bottom lip, catching on a split from the fight. “do i make myself clear?”

you swallow. nod some pathetic, desperate little thing.

“yes sir.”

“there we go.” he purrs - a noise that sends heat somewhere you’re sure he meant it to. “that’s more like it.”

wind howls again in the space he lets linger between you, and then he lets go. only after he’s memorized the exact shade of red youve turned.

“don’t you ever, ever make me come find you like this again.” he says, then he steps back and yanks the truck door open. “get in the truck.”

and you do.

[thewayilikemycookie]

🎮┆nerdy talk .ᐟ

Spencer Agnew x f!reader

Summary: “you’re such a nerd bro, like just kiss me already” girlfriend and tomato level flustered boyfriend

Word count: 891

Okay, fine, you admit it: You have a huge thing for nerds (It’s not even a secret now given how much you talk about it). So, bagging Spencer Agnew out of all of them felt like you won the lottery everyday.

You truly love your boyfriend. You love whenever he talks about his interests, when you two play games together, when you get to watch him in his element, at the games stage, and literally everything else about him.

Currently, Spencer was sitting on the big gray couch waiting for the rest of the cast members. You sat next to him and made small talk with the crew until the start of the video.

The game you were playing today was more of a team game, so it was pretty fun for you to play into the dynamics with your fellow cast members while still trying to not do too bad at the game itself. About halfway through the shoot Angela asked a question about a specific part of the gameplay.

“oh it’s like a secret door thing” Spencer answered “you have to find a code hidden in the other levels, but we can just use this other door for now”

“How do you just know that?” Angela asked while following his instructions

“Gosh, you’re such a nerd, Spencer” you smiled at him “like just kiss me already, bro”

You whispered the last part, knowing the editors would most likely cut it out of the video. But nonetheless, Spencer’s whole face turned red from your comment. He hid his face with his hands immediately after seeing your amazed expression.

“Oh?” Angela gasped, already starting her signature laugh

“I’ve never seen your face do that” You smiled between your laughs, with no malicious intent in your voice

“Don’t do this” you could hear his muffled giggles, you could tell he was partly joking and partly a little embarrassed

“Okay, let’s move on!” Trevor announced, mostly for the camera, leaving Spencer with a few seconds to regain his composure. You noticed his cheeks were still a little pink and he seemingly couldn’t look at you without a smile growing on his lips.

After the shoot day, you and Spencer went back to his place for dinner and video games. On the way there, you picked up some take out from a drive through while talking about the new game releases coming this year. You loved listening to Spencer’s non-stop yapping about the graphics and the design and the mechanics and whatever he wanted to talk about, really.

The image of him being so flustered never once left you mind, though, and at some point he must’ve caught you staring, considering the weird look he was now giving you “What?” He asked

“Nothing,” You smiled at him “so, tell me more about that game trilogy” you changed the subject

He dragged out the suspicious look on his face, but ultimately decided he wasn’t going to push you “The horror one?”

You continued listening to him until you got home and the conversation dissipated. You ate your meal under the colorful television lights as you and Spencer watched a movie, legs all tangled together under the blankets. You would sometimes joke about certain parts of the movie, ending up doubled down laughing and having to re-watch multiple scenes.

You put your plates aside on the coffee table “Can we play that horror game?”

“Sure,” He beamed at you “do you want the controller?”

“Hell no” You cuddled up next to him

The game itself wasn’t too scary, but the jumpscares would always jolt you awake screaming, making Spencer hold in his laughter, not wanting to be rude. At a specific part of the game, where the character was walking down a hall and tensions were high, you could feel yourself getting increasingly scared.

“It’s crazy how they can build so much tension” You said, hugging his arm tightly

“I know” his whole face lit up with excitement “and it’s all in the atmosphere, like literally the little details, its insane. It’s like the song and the purposeful glitches and the lights and the scary pictures. It’s those small things that we wouldn’t notice otherwise”

“Gosh, Spencer, you’re such a nerd” You were fully staring by this point “like, literally just kiss me, dude”

In a matter of milliseconds, he threw the controller across the couch and cradled your face with an intensity you’ve never seen him adopt before. His lips met yours and you instantly melted from his touch, moving your hands to the back of his neck. You were almost sinking into the couch cushions, but you didn’t mind at all, never wanting to leave this moment.

He pulled away and placed little kisses on your cheek, nose and forehead “Got what you wanted?” He asked

“Yup,” You beamed “I can die happy now”

He laughed but didn’t quite pull away and you admired his smile.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Your hands moved to cup his cheeks

“Anything”

“I have, like, a huge crush on you, dude” You whispered, being met with his laugh

“can I tell you a secret too?” You nodded “I have a crush on you too”

You widened your eyes and opened your mouth in fake shock and he leaned in to kiss you once again.

A.n: guyssss I have like no time to write, idek how I managed this many words 😭😭 Also!! My requests are literally full, so I’ve been trying to select a few to work on (so I’m sorry if yours takes to long/doesn’t get picked). But pleaseee keep them coming!! They inspire me so so much <33 Anyway if you got to this point of my yapping I love you, thanks for reading, have a great day/night!!!!

[ddixonsangel]

𖥔 𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐓 & 𝐅𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𖥔

𐔌 Redneck Spicy Pork Rinds 𐦯

[ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 + 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞 ]

𖥔 pairing : 「 daryl dixon x fem!reader 」 + merle dixon .ᐟ

𖥔 contains : fluff. unlimited chaos supply from merle. failed attempt at humor. ridiculous snack obsession. lots of spicy pork rinds. merle being merle.

𖥔 warnings & triggers : merle (enough to be a warning). strong language. a mention of sex. mild-threats of violence. sarcasm. chaotic energy. i’ll avoid writing one warning just because i don't wanna spoil the end. porn magazines mention.

𖥔 setting : small-town in georgia, pre-apocalypse.

𖥔 word count : 2.9k

summary : you and daryl are having the laziest, sweetest couch day ever until Merle storms in like a hurricane, declaring a spicy pork rind emergency of biblical proportions. suddenly, you find yourself on a chaotic snack-hunting road trip all over town, judging Merle, scowling with Daryl, and questioning the life choices you've taken that had led you to this point.

It had been a miracle of a day—one of those rare moments when Daryl wasn’t working on Merle’s busted truck or out in the woods hunting. You had come over with the promise of finally spending some alone time with your boyfriend, since you hadn’t seen him in days.

You were both lying on the couch, snuggled up together. Your head was tucked under his chin, nuzzling softly at the warm, bare skin of his neck. His rough fingertips were lazily brushing up and down your arm, while his other arm was wrapped tightly around your waist.

You let out a soft, blissful sigh. Nothing felt better than the steady rise and fall of his chest, and his heartbeat slow and strong under your ear.

A shitty old action film was playing on the TV — the kind where every car exploded for no reason. You weren’t even paying attention, too busy enjoying Daryl’s warmth and the scratch of his stubble every time he leaned down to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“ya comfy, sweetheart?” he mumbled against your hair, taking a deep breath to fill his lungs with the sweet scent of your shampoo.

“you don’t know how much,” you giggled, lifting your head to peck his lips softly.

He didn’t waste a second, immediately deepening the kiss and sliding his tongue past your lips until you had to pull away for air.

You leaned in again, eager to pick up where you left off, when suddenly—

BANG!

The trailer door slammed open so violently the whole place shook and it made you both jump apart instantly.

“Oh, please. Dun let my lovely presence interrupt whatever cheesy shit y’all were doin’,” Merle scoffed as he stomped toward the trailer’s tiny kitchen. “Ain’t like I haven’t seen y’all fuckin’ like heated bunnies before, lovebirds.”

Your face flared red, and you immediately buried it against Daryl’s chest in horror. That embarrassing incident is something you definitely don't want to remember anymore. You still couldn’t look at his eyes without blushing furiously at the memory of what he witnessed.

Daryl felt you tense and let out a frustrated growl, tightening his hold on you protectively.

“Get the hell out, Merle. Ya said ya’d be workin’ or off lookin’ for that dumbass moonshine. We don’t need ya comin’ in here runnin’ yer mouth,” he snapped.

Merle started rummaging through the cabinets and shelves, leaving them wide open and tossing cans and boxes onto the floor like a raccoon on meth.

“Can’t kick me outta my own damn house, y’know… Uh— Where the hell are they?! I know they were here last time…” he muttered under his breath.

You frowned, watching his desperate, almost crazed way of tearing the place apart.

“What is he doin’?” you whispered into Daryl’s ear, shifting slightly to get a better look.

Daryl just sighed like your question alone had ruined his day even further.

“Dunno, baby. And trust me — better if we don’t,” Daryl muttered, rubbing your side as if to calm himself down.

Merle continued tossing cans and boxes everywhere, cursing under his breath.

“They gone! What the fuck kinda house don’t got an emergency stash’a pork rinds?! I swear I saw ‘em here last time!” He slammed a cabinet door shut and started pacing like a madman.

You groaned, lifting your head to glare at Daryl with exasperation. He just rolled his eyes, then slowly moved you off him so he could sit up.

“The hell ya talkin’ ‘bout?” he practically grunted.

“They gone! They fuckin’ gone!” Merle spun around to face his little brother, his expression wild. “Can’t ya get it, baby brother?! Ain’t no more spicy pork rinds left, and I been cravin’ ‘em all goddamn day!”

“Merle, it’s pork rinds. You're acting like someone stole your life savings,” you snarked, crossing your arms.

“Ya dun get it! Them spicy pork rinds are more precious than gold, woman!” Merle practically barked. “They’re worth billions of dolars!”

You rubbed your temple with your fingers, already feeling a headache coming on. Still, you tried to offer a solution.

“I think I saw some regular ones in the pantr—”

“HELL NAH!” Merle cut you off harshly, looking utterly offended. He froze in place like you’d suggested feeding him poison. “Why’d ya offer that shit?! I want the spicy ones! The real ones! Burn-yer-guts-out spicy! Ain’t no use eatin’ that plain crap you talkin’ ‘bout!”

But before you could call him asshole, Daryl shot up, already looking like he was two seconds from throwing Merle through the door.

“Then get yer ass out there and buy some, Merle! Ain’t like ya don’t got legs!”

“They outta stock! Said they won’t restock ‘til next month!” Merle yelled, running both hands through his hair in pure desperation.

“Then go t’ another damn store! Leave us the hell alone!” Daryl barked, stepping forward threateningly.

“What if spicy pork rinds got banned, huh?” you jumped in, voice dripping sarcasm. “Maybe they’re illegal now. Maybe cops saw how you get when you don’t have a bag of them and decided to ban their production.”

Merle froze, staring at you like you’d just spoken the secrets of the universe. “Holy shit… y’think they’d do that?!”

“No”.

Daryl let out a bark of laughter despite himself.

“She’s messin’ with ya, dumbass,” he snorted, rubbing his temple.

“No, no—she got a point! It’s them government bastards! They know I love ‘em too much, they tryin’ to break me!” Merle ranted, eyes wild. But then, he physically flinched again, turning to look at you suspiciously

“You! Ya got ‘em!” He literally shouted.

You froze and raised your arms in disbelief, eyebrows shooting up. “What?”

“Ya outta yer fuckin’ mind or somethin’?!” Daryl shot back. “We don’t got nothin’—”

“Yeah ya do!” Merle insisted. “Y’all hidin’ ‘em! I know it! It ain’t the first time y’all done hid shit from me!”

“Merle… seriously. We don’t have any. Why in the hell would we hide pork rinds? We’re literally talkin’ about food.” You tried to reason with him.

Merle stepped back, squinting at both of you like a detective piecing together a conspiracy theory.

“‘Cuz ya know they're ma favourites… this is one’a them dumbass pranks, huh? Y’all got the last bag stashed somewhere!”

“We don’t, Merle! Just fuckin’ get ou—”

“Ya do! Prob’ly hidin’ it under yer bed with them nasty magazines ya read at night!” Merle accused, voice rising even higher.

Your eyes narrowed.

“What magazines?” You snapped your head towards Daryl.

Daryl turned on Merle immediately, looking betrayed.

“Fuck you, Merle! That’s your shit, not mine!”

“Nuh-uh! He lyin’, dollface!” Merle pointed at Daryl dramatically. “He’s hidin’ my pork rinds and them magazines! We victims here!”

“I ain’t hidin’ shit! Quit makin’ up shit in front’a my girl!” Daryl snarled, pushing Merle backward. “Those magazines ain’t mine! They’re his! He’s lyin’! Sweetheart, don’t believe him! Don’t fall for that shit!

“He’s the liar here, dollface,” Merle quickly cut in, pushing Daryl aside so hard he nearly fell to the floor, stepping right up to you. “We’re victims here. Just tell me where he’s hidin’ my beloved pork rinds, and I’ll tell ya everything I know ‘bout him.”

Your wide eyes snapped to Daryl, who stumbled forward.

“You read that kinda magazines?” you asked, your voice somewhere between disbelief and indignation.

“No! ‘Course I don’t —”

“He do, sweetheart. He spends all his money buyin’ them nasty porn mags. Got dozens of ‘em!” Merle added quickly, so sure of himself it almost sounded convincing.

"That's bullshit!" Daryl rushed to you and shoved Merle aside.

Merle stumbled, then shoved back.

“Don’t ya push me! Confess! You hidin’ ‘em with yer crusty mags, admit it!”

You pressed your hand to your forehead, feeling your brain cells dying one by one.

“I can’t believe I’m witnessin’ a redneck episode of Scooby-Doo,” you muttered under your breath.

Merle turned to you again, pointing wildly.

“Ya in on this too! You know where they at! Just tell me, I’ll tell ya all his dirty secrets!”

“I don’t got no secrets!” Daryl cut in, almost shouting now. “She don’t believe ya, Merle! Shut the fuck up!”

“Aw, she believin’ me alright. She seein’ the truth now!” Merle cackled, then suddenly lunged forward and grabbed both your arms, yanking you and Daryl toward the door.

“Wait— the fuck you doin’?!” you yelped, stumbling after him as he dragged you both outside.

"Hey!" Daryl protested. “Ya fuckin’ bastard! Don’t ya ever treat my girl like that, ya hear me?!”

You landed roughly on the front seat, Daryl half-falling on top of you, muttering a rushed, “Shit — sorry, baby,” as he scrambled to steady himself.

Before you could yell at Merle for manhandling you both, he slammed the truck door so hard it smacked Daryl’s ass.

"Ow!" Daryl snapped, glaring daggers at his brother while rubbing his butt. "The fuck's wrong with ya today?!"

He turned to you, scanning you quickly, his voice low and soft.

“Ya okay? He hurt ya, baby?”

“Nope… though he did hurt your ass,” you teased, smirking despite the chaos.

Daryl chuckled, rolling his eyes, but before he could say anything else, Merle climbed into the driver’s seat, grinning like a maniac as he fired up the engine.

“Sorry, baby bro and baby sis-in-law—y’all are comin’ with me! We’re gonna hunt ‘em down. Them pork rinds are out there somewhere!”

Fifteen minutes of driving like you all were being chased by the DEA had passed. Five of those minutes were actual reckless, screeching-around-corners chaos. The rest? You sat stuck, waiting for an old lady to finish crossing the street at snail speed.

Merle was practically vibrating in the driver’s seat, gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles turned white.

Suddenly, he leaned out the window, veins popping in his neck.

“Move it, grandma! This is a pork rind emergency!” he hollered, leaning on the horn like he was auditioning for NASCAR.

The old woman didn’t flinch. Not one bit. She just shuffled along, completely unfazed. You burst into laughter, almost snorting.

Daryl whipped around in his seat, glaring at Merle like he was about to jump across the dash.

“She’s a grandma, man! She probably got them metal hips and all. You yellin’ at her like a goddamn psycho!”

“A psycho who’s hungry!” Merle snapped back, eyes bulging.

“Don’t be a dick,” you chimed in, rolling your eyes.

“I ain’t bein’ a dick! I got a pork rind emergency and she’s blockin’ the damn road!”

“So why don’t ya hop out and help her, jackass?” Daryl finally exploded, throwing his hands up.

Merle actually hesitated, eyes flicking between the old lady and you, like he was calculating his chances of survival.

“I’m… lazy,” he finally muttered, almost sheepishly.

You facepalmed so hard your palm burned.

“Jesus Christ on a bicycle,” you groaned.

Daryl snapped. In a blur, he threw open the door, stomped out, and before either of you could process it — he picked the grandma up and set her down gently on the other side of the street.

You and Merle sat frozen in the truck, jaws dropped.

Daryl slammed back into the seat, huffing.

“Was that so goddamn hard?!”

Merle blinked, mouth half open.

“You weren’t supposed to move her, ya were supposed to help her cross!” you scolded, smacking his arm.

“I did help her cross!” Daryl shot back, totally offended.

“He did,” Merle chimed in, nodding solemnly.

You and Daryl turned in sync to glare at him.

“You don’t get to talk,” you both snapped at the exact same time.

Merle flinched, throwing his hands up in surrender.

“Jesus, kids these days... no respect for their elders,” he muttered, turning back to the wheel.

You kept arguing with Daryl about scaring the poor grandma until suddenly the truck lurched forward so hard you nearly smacked your forehead on the dash.

“Merle! Slow the hell down!” Daryl barked. “What the hell—you tryin’ to kill us all?!”

“Shut up! You think Vin Diesel ever slowed down?! We’re on a mission!” Merle barked back, eyes wild.

“We ain’t in Fast & Furious, we in bumfuck Georgia!” you snapped, lunging for the steering wheel.

Merle shoved your hand away.

“Not today, dollface!” he mocked, pushing you back.

You huffed, arms crossed, glaring at both of them.

“If we get arrested for this, I’m tellin’ the cops you’re both brain dead,” you grumbled.

Daryl snorted, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry, I’ll blame him first,” he said, jabbing his thumb at Merle.

The next two hours turned into a town-wide scavenger hunt from hell. Store to store, gas station to bait shop—all for a goddamn bag of spicy pork rinds.

First stop: Hank’s Gas Mart. Merle got thrown out by the owner for owing some “mysterious amount of money”—you didn’t even ask.

Second stop: Roger’s Bait & Tackle. No pork rinds since last month.

Third: a real grocery store. Tons of pork rinds, no spicy ones.

After that, you hit the sketchiest roadside station ever, a place that smelled like boiled eggs and sadness. Every time Merle came out empty-handed, cussing and ranting about “weak-ass snack supply” and “dumbass crappy town,” you and Daryl shared a little conspiratorial smirk.

Finally, as you all rattled down the road to the last possible store, you decided to poke the bear.

You leaned toward Merle, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay… but like… what if spicy pork rinds never actually existed? What if it’s just some fever dream you had after too many gas station hot dogs?”

Merle snapped his head around so fast you thought he might break something.

“Don’t you start, girl! I swear on mama’s grave, they’re real! I can taste ‘em right now in my mind—that sweet, spicy burn!”

“You said it: in your mind,” you teased, fighting back a snicker.

Daryl snorted, leaning forward to join the game.

“What if the stores got a protection program for ‘em? Like witness protection for pork rinds.”

Merle scoffed like Daryl had just suggested aliens were real.

“Hell yeah they do! I’m too dangerous for ‘em, that’s why!”

Finally, you pulled into the last crusty-ass gas station. Merle slammed the truck door, marching inside like a man on a death mission.

You and Daryl followed him in just in time to hear the bored cashier drone:

“Sorry, man. Some kid bought the last bag this mornin’.”

Merle’s face turned a shade of purple you’d never seen before.

“A KID?! Who lets their kid eat spicy pork rinds?! That’s child abuse!”

The cashier just shrugged, returning to staring into the void.

Merle pressed up against the counter, almost vibrating.

“Look... we can work this out. You get me a bag, I’ll let ya keep one pork rind. How ‘bout that?”

“Dude. There are no more left,” the cashier deadpanned.

Merle slammed his hands on the counter.

“You sure? You check the back? You better not lie to me, boy—I got pork rind radar!”

“There ain’t.”

Merle clawed at his own face, looking like he was about to combust. He whirled around, scanning the store for any sign of a child to mug.

Daryl grabbed his arm.

“Nah. Don’t even think ‘bout it. We ain’t about to jump a kid over a bag of pork rinds.”

Merle shook him off, ranting.

“You don’t tell me what to do! I’ll find that lil’ shit and—”

“Guys!” You yanked both of them closer, whispering conspiratorially. “Don’t look now, but I think that old lady out there got a bag in her purse. Maybe she's the pork rind smuggler!”

Daryl shot you a look that could kill. You just gave him a big shit-eating grin.

“Better go tackle her,” you dared.

Merle squinted toward the old lady shuffling to her car.

“Don’t tempt me, baby sis. I swear to God, I’ll do it.”

“Enough!” Daryl finally snapped, yanking Merle toward the door and shoving him. “Get in the damn truck before I knock ya out. You too,” he pointed at you, sighing.

With an exaggerated huff, Merle stomped to the truck and slammed the door.

“Don’t think this is over. Next week I’m hittin’ every county fair ‘round here. I’ll find ‘em if it kills me!”

You just cackled as you slid into your seat, exhausted but somehow entertained.

When you finally made it back to the trailer, you practically fell out of the truck, stumbling up the steps. Merle stomped inside still ranting about “snack conspiracies” and “government pork rind cover-ups.”

Daryl slipped his arm around your waist, guiding you to the bedroom with a tired chuckle.

“Ain’t lettin’ him drag us out again,” he muttered, pressing kisses along your throat as he shut the door. “Next time he hollers, we play dead.”

You giggled, tilting your head to give him more room. “Deal.”

Daryl’s laugh rumbled against your skin.

“But right now… I’m gonna have ya all to myself,” he growled softly, eyes dark and hungry.

Without another word, he guided you onto the mattress, crawling over you and sealing his lips to yours.

The next morning, sunlight dragged you out of bed. You shuffled to the kitchen for water, still half asleep.

When you glanced outside, you almost choked on your drink.

Merle had set up a whole black market pork rind stand right outside the trailer. A handwritten sign read:

“SPICY PORK RINDS —RARE AS FUCK— $50 A BAG.”

𖥔 a/n: this doesn't make sense. came up to my mind at three am.

𖥔 a/n: dividers by me ‹𝟹

[p1ctureyou]

currently living through 35+ Celsius temps and trying not to rely on the AC due to the electricity bill, so I'm coping by asking if I could please request Hector and the breaker box boys reacting to reader trying to be considerate of them by not turning on the AC and then literally just getting heatstroke (hope that's okay!)

— hot n’ cold! | hector x reader/breaker box boys x reader

author’s note : thank you for the request! i hope you don’t mind me doing separate headcanon’s!! also, i feel you!! i live in the US and it’s about that hot where i am, not to mention the humidity. stay cool and safe, anon! ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧ (i hope you enjoy!)

Hector Valentino Airnesto Condicionado

first of all, i feel like he'd be very confused by your talk of not using as much air as you usually do

he loves helping you stay cool after all

i don't think he'd connect the dots of why you aren't using the AC as of late

but most AC units have parts outside, so maybe he can tell at some point

but i don't think he would until he sees you miserably hot, fanning yourself with anything you could use as a fan

when you do inevitably fall out from a heatstroke, he obviously panics

i'd like to think he'd come help you, but if you haven't met him in the attic yet, he'd call for someone to come help

when you finally cool off, he'd be asking so many questions

i don't think he'd be mad

just really worried

when you finally tell him that you didn't want him to overwork himself, he'd be a little upset

his whole job is to keep you comfortable and cool, and you were stopping him from doing so for his sake

i think he would keep the air on from now on, whether you ask him to or not

Breaker Boys (Eddie & Volt)

i think eddie's more "in tune" with you

i feel like he can read you like a book

so when you say that you're not using the AC as much as you usually do

he's certainly skeptical

now volt?

i do think he'd think you saying that is odd, but isn't the type to push an answer out of you

eddie on the other hand

you were an ass to him and pushed him for answers

so he just says "it's only fair"

it takes a while for them to finally get off your back about it

"them" meaning eddie mostly, but volt would become more concerned after seeing you happily take in the AC of the breaker box (which oddly has its own AC?)

when you pass out from a heatstroke in the house, though?

i'm not sure they can really leave the breaker box area, so i think another object would bring you to them in a panic

if the breaker box was open, it's definitely closed after that

you eventually come to, your eyes locking with volt's first

with no sign of the other, you'd ask where eddie is

i feel like eddie would maybe blame himself a bit, saying how he knew he should've paid more attention

it's out of love, obviously, but he almost lost volt so he can't stand the thought of losing you too

when he comes back to check on you, he asks why you turned off the AC

you explain not wanting to overload them, and he scoffs at that

i think he'd make you promise not to do anything like that again, and volt makes sure you know they can handle the AC

(this makes me sound like i love eddie more than volt, but i'm a volt girlie i fear... i do love an asshole who hides his emotions though)

[mahajio]

I've been wanting to comment on this one for an entire week straight, but stuff kept coming up riiiiight as I sat down behind my keyboard. Now that I can finally siddown for long enough to articulate how much I love this artwork, lemme get straight into it!

Okay, so, starting off— HOLY CANNOLI, JUST LOOK AT THIS!! Look at all the guts and viscera that make up the background, look at how the red dragon's head perfectly blends in with the rest of the crimson meat soup from which Falin was revived — looming behind her with a single, yellow tear in his glowing eye as though it were melting, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he watches Marcille cup Falin's face with desperation and relief. The left side looks so dark and ominous, with pink entrails raining down and dark, crimson flesh making up the top as the dragon watches with bloodied teeth, just barely distinguishable from the rest of the background, but still clear enough thanks to the distinctive pattern on his head and the lighter colours under his eye. I would be remiss not to mention how masterfully you combined the red dragon with Falin's head, his horn perfectly blending in to the point where it kind of looks like Falin has a ram's horn. Of course, Falin's blood-soaked body and dark brown blanket also help to give the left side a darker colour, and I think it looks very nice! Then, there's the right side; where Marcille's bright blonde hair takes up a lot of the background, which is perfect and such a fitting decision for so many reasons — but of course there's also the much brighter reds at the top right corner there, her very nicely drawn clothes, her blood-covered hand as she cups Falin's face, her relieved and desperate expression, the way she kisses Falin so tenderly and gets blood on her mouth, a tear flowing down her cheek as another forms in the corner of her eye… It all looks astonishing! There's the red dragon looming behind Falin, melding with her while she gives Marcille a dazed, tired expression; and then there's Marcille, delivering a passionate kiss, unable to perceive the turmoil happening just beyond the surface. Ooooh, it's sooo good! Also, like, THE COLOURING?! My goodness!! Look at it! How am I supposed to articulate how insanely good it is?! Marcille's hair looks so good with all those different shades of yellow, the background looks fantastic, and Falin's blankie looks so nice, and, and— WAUGH! All of it looks soooo pretty!

(Just barely didn't fit in a comment, darnit.)

nice moment before the inevitable