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enhaflixer · 1 day ago

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Touché - DATING YOU TO DISTRACT YOU BUT GETS DISTRACTED FIRST

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

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

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

But you're not anxious. Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room stills. This is closer than usual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ethan glances over. "What do you mean?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You sound abusive."

"You know what I mean."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"A guy, yes. You? No."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you—I've only done eight!"

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

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

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

You don't have a quick response for that.

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

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

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

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

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

"Kind of," you admit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How did you know I like mushroom ravioli?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Distracting me."

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

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

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

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

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

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

"Just now. I dabble in drawing."

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?" you finally ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"When?" you hear yourself asking instead.

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

"I have to work on my—"

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

You find yourself nodding. "Okay. Friday."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What else would it be about?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I need to finish these notes before—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meet me in the kitchen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I've been thinking."

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

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

You blink, surprised. "Official?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Psychological warfare."

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

"Building trust to maximize future distractions."

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

"Commitment to the mission."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he does touch you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he’s so loud.

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

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

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

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

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

Jake fucking breaks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake chokes.

“Ngh— oh my fucking god—”

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

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

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

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

And then he slams inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake fucking loses it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His silence confirms it all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What changed your mind?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For once, he’s not rushing.

This time is slower, more deliberate.

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

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

Then—finally—he sinks into you.

And it’s so fucking much.

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

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

Still nothing.

So you smack him.

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

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

The moment his eyes finally meet yours, something shifts.

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

And then—his gaze drops.

Straight to your tits.

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

You smack him again.

“Jake!”

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

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

He exhales sharply. And this time, he listens.

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

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

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

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

Fuck, it’s so much worse.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jake— ohhh my god—”

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

And you do.

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

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

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

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

The coil snaps.

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

“Ohhh fuuuuck—”

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

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

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

Then—Jake huffs a breathless laugh.

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

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

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

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

And this time—he does.

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

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

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

Jake's eyes widen. "You knew?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I didn't think—"

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

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

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

"That was to remind me of my enemy—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I am not—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

fin.

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

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illbegottenfaith · 2 days ago

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the one where you scold theo for dozing off

a/n - was inspired by this post + a tiktok I saw where this girl was talking about how her boyfriend games till like 3 am with his friends but nods off at like 9 pm with her and all the comments were like girl he's so relaxed w you cuz of how much he loves you and it was all just soooo cute 😭😭 anyways enjoyyy :))

tropes/warnings - flufffff, eepy theo, established relationship, cuddling idk

word count - 830

taglist - @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @iamheretoread1234

"Teddy."

"Teddy?"

"Theodore."

One hard shove to his sternum later, Theo's eyes flew open.

"'M up - "

You gave him the stink eye as he coughed sporadically, choking on his saliva. You sniffed disapprovingly.

"Honestly, Teddy. I didn't bring you here to nap."

Theo glanced around incredulously. The two of you were sitting on a picnic blanket on the side of a grassy knoll on the other side of the Great Lake. After indulging in some chocolate-covered berries, a sleepy, hazy kind of quiet had descended on the hill in that late afternoon sun. In short, it was a perfectly comfortable setting for napping.

He winced, rubbing at his sternum. "Oh, c'mon. You feed me these - these fuckass strawberries - "

"Don't talk about my strawberries that way!"

" - then you lie me down and expect me to stay awake? It's warm out, cara. I sleep warm. You know I sleep warm."

Scoffing, you lie down next to him, muttering darkly under your breath. Still, you can't resist running your fingers through his hair, gently raking at his scalp. It's an addicting thing, watching the tense parts of his face relax, watching that crease between his eyebrows disappear. Some of your earlier anger dissipates.

“You are so easy,” you tease, fingers still carding through his hair.

“Only for you, amor,” he murmurs, voice low and knowing.

Your face burns. “Merlin, shut up.”

Chuckling, he stretched his arms over his head before letting them fall lazily back down, one draping across your back. He tugged you against him, his warmth seeping into you.

"How is it that you can stay up till 3 am with your friends, but ten minutes with me and you're out like a light?" you mused. You pull your fingers away from his scalp.

"Am I that boring, Theo? Do I put you to sleep?"

Theo huffed a quiet laugh, his fingers ghosting over your shoulder before settling there, warm and grounding. His other hand found the curve of your waist, pulling you just a fraction closer.

"Obviously," he murmured, voice still thick with drowsiness. "You drone on and on - "

A sharp pinch to his ribs cut him off, making him suck in a breath through his teeth. "Fuck - alright, alright." His grip tightened, holding you in place before you could enact further vengeance. "You don't put me to sleep."

Theo's half-lidded eyes fluttered shut again, his breathing evening out. His fingers resumed their slow tracing along your arm, dragging lazy patterns that sent shivers up your spine. As your own eyelids grew heavier, your eyes drifted over the lake’s glimmering surface.

"Actually," you murmured after a beat, pressing your cheek against his chest, "this is quite nice."

Theo made a show of pretending to shove you off.

"I see how it is," he grumbled as you laughed. "When you want to doze, it's perfectly fine, but Merlin forbid I"—he poorly stifled a yawn, blinking blearily—"get a little shut-eye."

You scoffed. "This is different. Even logistically speaking, how am I supposed to drag you back to the castle? You sleep through anything, Nott."

Theo grunted. "And you sleep through absolutely nothing."

You smiled lazily against his chest, knowing exactly what he meant. Many a night, he'd creep into your dorm, taking great pains to quietly shuck off his jacket and shoes, only for you to stir the second the mattress dipped. He’d scowl at you in the dim moonlight as you blinked at him sleepily, voice hushed but teasing as he slipped under the covers beside you. Every single time, he’d scold you for staying up, telling you in that firm, low voice of his to go to sleep, as if he hadn't been the one showing up at your bedside to begin with.

"Maybe you should try staying up with me for once," you said idly.

Theo snorted. "You'd make me watch those god-awful Muggle films."

"You love my god-awful Muggle films."

He hummed, neither confirming nor denying. You tilted your head to look at him, absentmindedly running your fingers through his hair again.

"I just wish you'd save some of that energy with the boys for me."

Theo sighed, long and slow.

"Can’t help it," he mumbled into your hair, fingers ghosting over your arm. "You’re so...warm. And soft. And you smell - " he dropped his head to the hollow of your neck as he inhaled, holding you close even as you squirmed in his ticklish hold, "- like that. Like...home. Like love."

You could sense him dropping off again in the way his words slurred and his voice quieted. He was probably too drowsy to even know what he was saying. For a moment, all was silent except for the rustling that came with the occasional gentle breeze. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, the warmth of him pressing into your side.

Maybe you should shove him awake again. But then again…

You nestled closer to him, your own eyes drooping shut.

Maybe not.

#this might be a little niche to say but i dont want to hear shit about how strawberries arent berries!!! its in the fucking name!!!!!!!#anyways hehe #theo nott #theo nott x reader #theodore nott #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott x y/n #theodore nott x you #theodore nott fluff

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woso-dreamzzz · 1 day ago

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Travel Day IV

Keira Walsh x Kid!Reader

Summary: You get a bit confused with your family

"Do you only have a mummy?" One of the girls in your new class asks.

You frown as you think.

This new school is different. You wanted to go to the same school as Liefje but there weren't any spots available so you're at this one. It's closer to home as well which is easier for your mums.

"I have Mummy," You tell the girl as you reach for the blue crayon," And a Mum..." You think for a moment. "And kind of a Daddy."

The girl nods a few times as she sprays glitter glue all over her picture of a unicorn. "I have a mummy, a step-mummy and a daddy too."

"I don't have a step-mummy," You say decisively," Just Mummy, Mum and kind of Daddy."

Clearly the girl doesn't understand and you don't really feel like explaining it so you don't.

You just go about your day.

You even forget about the conversation entirely as Keira picks you up from school and takes you back to her house.

Dinner with Keira is easy like always just like bath time and bedtime where she reads you your special story about a little girl footballer being better than all of the boys on her team before tucking you.

She dresses you like usual the next day in your uniform and snaps an obligatory picture to send to Lucy once she's dropped you off.

You're both early like you normally are and mill around while you wait for the gates to open.

"Oh, Keira," Another one of the mummies says as she sidles up close and strikes up a conversation.

If Lucy were here, she'd let you run off with some of the other kids and play by the bike shed but Keira's always been a bit more cautious about you.

She likes you to stick to her side so you don't get up to mischief so that's where you stay, swinging your joint hands around as you kick a little rock.

"You put in so much effort getting her to places on time," The other mum continues though you've mostly tuned her out in favour of watching some of the older kids drive their new bikes straight into the shed. "It's such a shame that you don't get any help."

Keira frowns, holding your hand a little tighter. "What do you mean? I have help. Lucy-"

"I meant from her father," The woman cuts her off quickly," It's such a shame that he's never around."

Keira tugs on your hand a little bit until you're pressed up against her leg and she lets go of your hand to lightly run her fingers through your hair.

"She doesn't have a father," Keira says stiffly, drawing you as close as she possible can," It's just me and Lucy."

"Oh." The woman's mouth shuts with an audible click. "But I thought...Mia said that y/n talked about her daddy."

"She doesn't have a daddy," Keira says and you frown at that.

Ordinarily, you would argue about it but the way Keira's holding you makes you stay silent.

This is clearly an adult conversation.

It's short and snappy and Keira guides you away before kneeling down in front of you.

Her voice is soft as she speaks. "What's this about a daddy, huh? You know you don't have a daddy."

"I do," You insist," I do!"

"Peanut, baby, you don't. You have me and Mum. Remember? No daddy."

"Mum is my Daddy!"

"What?"

"We were learning about families," You say as Keira draws you close so you can rest your head against her," And the teacher said about how mummies are the ones that carry the babies. You carried me. I know because there's pictures. And daddies are the ones that look after the mummies what that happens. So Mum must be my Daddy because she looked after you."

"Y/n..."

"And Mum likes being Daddy! She says so!"

Keira closes her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath as she tries to keep a lid on her thoughts. "Families don't always need a daddy," She says softly," A family can be two mummies and a little girl."

"Are you sure? My teacher didn't say that."

"Well that's what our family is like and that's what Liefje's family's like. I don't think having two mummies makes it any less a family, alright? You don't need to have a daddy for our family to be right."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Okay, Mummy."

The gates open to let the kids into the playground but Keira keeps you close to her side for a few minutes longer, sucking up the affection and your hug until she finally sets you off.

Your words about Lucy being your daddy play on her mind as she drives to training. It's the thing that's in the forefront of her thoughts the moment she sees Lucy's face.

"Has our daughter told you that she thinks you're her daddy?"

It's not the best thing she's ever led with but Keira can't help herself.

"What?"

"Our daughter. She's under the impression that you are her father."

For a moment, Lucy looks floored - a shocked look on her face and eyes wide. But then, as Keira should have expected, Lucy grins.

"She thinks I'm her daddy?"

"Don't start."

Lucy's grin only widens. "A daddy? This is great!"

"I'm already regretting telling you."

"Do you think the dad will let me into their groupchat now?"

#woso x reader #keira walsh x reader #keira walsh #woso community #woso imagine #woso fanfics #woso

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ivycopper · 7 hours ago

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I think you're fundamentally misunderstanding the premise of this convo. My point is not "let yourself want good things". My point is abt the language we use as ppl who already want Good Things (tm).

So all I did was stress that we need to please please please not act words like "alternate universe" or, as some ppl other than did, "utopia" when talking abt things that exist in some places of the world. And I didn't blame OP, bc I get it. I really do.

I told you why that's important. And I hold myself to that standard. Like for example, until last yr, changing your gender marker required a costly court case and a number of deeply humiliating examinations and several psychologist's reports in my country. And there seemed to be no change in sight, so I was very tempted to talk abt it as if it's not attainable. But I didn't, bc Ik the less we believe it can happen over here, the more likely it is to get scrapped again elsewhere. I mean, you guys know first hand how quickly it can happen. (And I fucking wish I could offer my fellow trans ppl from the US more than my sympathy.)

Ik you care, how could you not! I don't doubt for a second so many of you fight hard for progress. I'm solely talking abt changing our rhetoric surrounding the topic, shifting it away from the irrealis. In online spaces, all we have is our words.

I'm not passing judgement on OP or any of the commenters. There's no moral failure here, oc there isn't.

What I don't understand is why you're opposed to making this point on here? Discourse abt activist rhetoric only makes sense in activist spaces. That's where it belongs.

I didn't call you a prick - you did. I only concurred, mirroring your tone. I'm sure that if you hold your horses a bit and try to understand where I'm coming from, you're probably a cool person I agree with on many levels.

It's funny to me that you seem to assume I don't fight for these things irl. I do. In fact, I'm becoming a teacher bc I want to work directly with disadvantaged students. I do charity work with kids. I'm baffled where that assumption comes from and how it relates to my initial reply. Bc, as I said: We have got free access to education here, so Idek what I would be calling my local representatives abt? And I obviously can't call your local representatives? (Btw, "local representatives" are not a thing with this kind of topic here. Germany is a highly bureaucratic country, and the education system in particular is extremely intransparent, which is partly why I'll have to go into teaching to have any sort of influence on things, however miniscule. Things move a lot faster over where you are, for better or worse. That was a bit of US defaultism there, but that's an aside, and I'm not mad abt that.)

Alternate universe where I literally just to go to school forever (for free) so I can just learn about art and literature and history and languages for 100 years. No job skills. No credit requirements. No student loans. Just learning.

#education #anti capitalism

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kenmaspuddinghair · 1 day ago

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Honorably discharged partially disabled Simon part 7

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6

It's been about a week since you and Simon decided to adopt the retired military dog, named Riley because Soap wouldn't give him to you until you and Simon accepted the name, and you couldn't be happier. You had originally agreed to the dog with the hopes that it would make Simon happier, and Riley did make him happier but also helped in so many other ways. Simon had learned that all he had to do was say an object and signal for Riley to get it, and Riley would fetch it and return it to Simon. If Riley didn't know what Simon wanted, Simon would point and Riley would go point his snout at everything till Simon said yes. Apparently this also works for you, Riley would go find you before gently using his mouth to grab your hand dragging you all the way to Simon, and when you asked Simon what was so important he had to send Riley to get you, his response was “jus’ wanna kiss ya”

Something you had been struggle with Simon was how much he works out, yes its good for him but he can't do as much as he used to, it puts way to much strain on his body. he still tries, which means everytime he goes work out you have to follow him, and you are no way in his level, almost passing out every time he almost always carries you back. Thankfully Riley can tell when Simon's body is getting weaker and Riley will just stop and refuse to go any farther insisting they turn around and head home. So every morning after breakfast Simon takes Riley on his run, allowing Riley to enjoy the outside while making sure Simon doesnt over exert himself, and on good days they do the whole thing again in the evening.

But the absolute best way Riley helps is stopping Simon from falling. Riley’s previous owner must have also had some kind of mobility issues, because this isn't a military taught action. Riley was able to tell right before Simon's leg was going to tense up, he would repeatedly nudge Simon's leg and then start barking until Simon sat down, even if Simon had to sit on the floor. He is also always somehow under Simon right when Simon drops something, always grabbing it and handing it back without a command.

All in all, Riley has been a wonderful addition to your home, and it took much less time for Riley and Simon to become close, it's only been a week and you find Simon napping on the sofa with Riley putting pressure on Simon's leg. Simon’s still getting used to the name and the new addition to the house but you see the way Simon lights up when he's with Riley. Riley is just like the final puzzle piece, you and Simon's routine just seemed to click after Riley arrived, you now have a plan for the bad days.

On the bad days you run Simon a cold bath, with bubbles because you find it hilarious to see such a large man in a bathtub full of bubbles, and your laughing brightens his mood. Sometimes you'll join him in the bath, placing gentle kisses everywhere that aren't covered with bubbles, and doing your best to massage his shoulders. After that, no matter what time of day you pull Simon under the covers for some very needed cuddles and a nap. You even have routines for when you first wake up and right before you go to bed, first thing in the morning is you putting on Simon's leg wrap, giving his leg a soft kiss before getting some breakfast for all three of you. Before bed Simon takes Riley out for a quick walk about 5-10 minutes it helps them both sleep, you remove his leg wrap before giving his whole body a massage. Honestly you're surprised how tense he gets everyday, then he pulls you into the bed for a hopefully good night of sleep. Now of course not every night is it easy to sleep, but thankfully Simon hasn't had a terrible night like the last one.

tags- @piconico17 @just-lilita @madsdawson @silversfavfics @enfppuff @solazoro @sirbonesly @roastyyytoastyyy @the-disaster-in-waiting @lonjitas @squishytap @gays6968 @sunndust @dreamland08 @sweetpeakarolinaaa @marcysbear @alfiestreacle @bxm-2121@goldyghoul @itsanemu0101 @wolverineswaifu @crempuffie @ohdrey89 @cucurucho-amargo @avalkyrieofparis @castellomargot @cmbghost @strawberrygato @blueladys-world @goodsoup19 @pinkylouise @creepzeyecandy @tessakate @identity2212 @callmytherapistplease-blog @witchblossoms @carolb111 @iiriam @berryjuicyy @bmtillerbabe @stoned-anime-babe @junitries @harrysthiccthighss @lucienofthelakes @urmomsgirlfriend1 @rexythebitch @milanriol @cryingpages @ultimate-simp-10

This ones a little shorter because I honestly don't know what to do. I want at least two more chapters one where Simons planning and actually asking you to marry him and one at the wedding (i just want to write about Price to walk Simon down the aisle and for Riley to be the flower dog) but they've only been dating for like 2 weeks, so uhm any ideas or things you wanna read?

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon x reader #ghost x reader #medic!reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost fluff #simon ghost x you

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dcxdpdabbles · 10 hours ago

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If you have the time I would love an update on Passion for Fashion or on Mr Flavor your an amazing writer love your fics ❤️❤️

Danny wakes to another new mattress, this time accompanied by a machine beeping and another change of outfits. His back and left ribs have a dull ache, but otherwise, he feels fine.

He lays on the bed for a few minutes, noting the difference between the one Oscar had him sleep on and the kind in the cheap motel. It wasn't as firm as the ones in the motel, but it wasn't anywhere near as luxurious and soft as the one Oscar gifted his fairies. This was somewhere in between, which meant Danny was now in someone else's hands.

Cracking open his eyelids as thinly as possible, he carefully glances around, trying to discover what happened after passing out. Danny is pleasantly surprised to find himself in a hospital room with no one around. Not even a ghost.

It gives him enough courage to carefully examine his body. Phantom's healing factor may not be at full capacity, but it seems faster than a normal human's. He pats himself down, wincing in certain areas, but eventually, he deems it well enough to escape.

Without hesitation, Danny reaches up and snaps off the wires connecting him to various machines. He ignores the alarms that go off and the sound of rapid footsteps in the hallways while he limbs towards the window.

He can tell it's sturdy enough not to open for a regular human. Usually, that wouldn't have been a problem, but Phantom's powers were laying doormat, so he does the next best thing. He picks a chair and flings it as hard as possible at the window.

The door to his room is burst open by medical staff just as the chair bounces off the glass and lands with a thump. Danny stares at it for a few seconds. "Ah. I thought that would have at least put a crack in it."

"You're safe!" one of the nurses tells him, hands held up, palms facing Danny in an obvious sign of trying to earn his trust. "You're in Gotham Hospital. You were rescued a week ago and have been receiving treatment while locked in a coma."

Danny squints at her. "I'm pretty sure I wasn't rescued. I broke out myself."

Some medical staff shift uncomfortably on their feet before the same nurse steps closer, words even, soft and gentle, "You were fearless. You should be proud of-"

"Did they delete the footage of my secret formula?" Danny cuts her off, tilting his head. The question stops the woman short, looking unsure how to respond as the rest of the medical staff watch the exchange with pursed lips.

"I'm not sure-"

"Meh." Danny sighs, rolling his neck. He taps his fingers against his chin, considering the consequences of someone finding those videos.

On one hand, Danny will lose his main source of income, but on the other, it won't mean much. Cream sodas were the only drink in this world, but eventually, someone was bound to make the discovery.

It's not like he legally has a right to it, either. Danny hadn't applied for a patent for his soda, and he can't copyright a recipe. Really, the only thing he had going for him was his trademark that one guy who messed up his motel room got him, but even then, if the recipe thief changed the bottle designs, what was he to do?

Danny couldn't afford a house, much less a lawyer, with the money he earned from Mr. Flavor's Soda. He'll just have to keep moving and find out how to call back Phantom.

Rolling his neck to the other side, he flinches as it stiffens up, returning him to the present. Then, he notices the medical staff is slowly creeping closer, shifting in like they are alligators about to pounce on a meal.

Eyeing them and the open door—thankfully one of the big sliding doors, which meant the exit was so much wider—Danny gets an idea. He acts unaware of what they are doing, making sure to plant a ball of his feet to give him good leverage. He needs to push off as quickly as possible.

He places his thumb right under it while his pointer finger lays carefully under his lips. In a quick jerk to the side, Danny forces his neck to crack, using his hand as a turner. The sound that echoes through the room sounds like pasta being crunched. "I guess it's not too important. Not when I'm a ghost."

The lead nurse inhaled deeply before blowing a slow breath. "Why don't we get you back into bed? We need to check you over."

"I'm fine."

"We-"

"When can I leave?"

"That's-"

"Have you ever tasted a rainbow?"

"What-"

"It tastes like sugar and reality warping." The smile that stretches across his face is the same one he made at Sam while under Ember's love spell. It's the most innocent but eager expression he can make, which used to get him out of trouble back home.

In Gotham, it made everyone uneasy. The staff even stepped away from him instinctively, looking far more alarmed than when Danny popped his neck, and a few of them had flinched at the sound.

His smile stretched more. "Would you like to taste the rainbow?"

"I-um-that is." The woman spluttered, glancing around at her coworkers like she was sending S.O.S alarms with her eyes alone. "Why don't we-"

Danny rushed at her, laughter bubbling up in his chest as she scrambled back. One of the male nurses shot forward, intending to meet Danny halfway- his movement suggested some form of training. Military?- but that plan quickly derailed when Danny flipped himself over him.

His body flared with pain that he ignored in favor of dancing out of reach from the multiple hands that tried to grab hold of him. One of them managed to snag his hospital gown, but Danny had no problem thrashing about until it slid off- thank the mighty Ancients that he was wearing some boxers.

He had to slide before the legs of a nurse and flip over another before he could break into the hallway. The hallway was long and narrow, but it didn't seem connected to any visible exit. Danny had only a few split seconds to choose left or right before he went with his gut and twisted towards the right.

He was born right-handed, and before teaching himself to be ambidextrous, his right never let him down. He raced down it as fast as his aching body could take him, which was pretty good, seeing that he was outpacing a group of grown adults.

That male nurse was gaining, though. Danny could hear his footsteps approaching, and the man shouting, "Stop!" as he got uncomfortable near his back.

He will be able to reach Danny in a few seconds, especially since the aches in his body are rapidly turning into pain, slowing him down.

Another problem he didn't consider was the people in the hallway who- like idiots, really- didn't leap out of Danny's way. They just stood there gawking as they zoomed past them. He had to push a woman in cartoon theme scrubs into the wall, shouting an apology as he rounded the corner.

The new area he found himself in had more hospital employees who turned to see the commotion, but all Danny saw was the glass stairs leading downstairs to a seating area. There were groups of people that craned their necks up, visitors' passes tapped to their shirts. A woman speaks into a walkie-talkie, and suddenly, there are blaring alarms throughout the building.

Danny can identify a lockdown when he sees one. Without wasting a second, Danny runs at the railing and leaps.

A scream from one of the onlookers as he slams against the floor below, having the misfortune of landing on a low coffee table. It breaks under his hold, which is only an insult to injury, as he groans. The pain has now flared up to levels he hasn't felt in a long time as Phantom, but his ghostly side still refuses to show its head.

He is half considering lying there and allowing them to capture him when a burst of familiar ice encases his body. The medical staff that had surrounded his crumbled form leaped away with shouts of "Meta!".

Danny raised his hand and stared at the layer of ice in wonderment. His breathing came out in fast-paced huffs as he tried desperately to catch his breath. The ice numbs most of the pain, and it is like all his senses snap into place.

He leaps to his feet, laughing joyously as the rest of the people press themselves into the walls, trying to crawl away from him. Danny doesn't care because he feels like Phantom.

He feels like himself again! He wills his body to be unchained from gravity, throwing himself forward, ready to take flight and finally escape—only to land in a heap on the ground, the ice wrapping around his chest like a suit of armor cracking.

"Oh, come on!" He whines, pushing himself up. He flickers his eyes around the room, landing on a mirror at the desk where a young woman wearing a uniform is frozen in fright. Without a word, he snatches it up and checks his reflection.

It seemed that his ice had changed shape, going from a clutter of ice into a knockoff version of the Ghost Peeler—without the helmet—and his eyes were green, but that's it. He had no snow-white hair, no glowing fractures, and not even his eyes looked inhuman; they just looked like he was born with them.

If anything, it was like Danny was cosplaying.

He gently places the mirror back on the counter, takes a deep breath through his nose, and spins around. He walks right out of the hospital- he had to smash the glass with his ice-covered hand- without a hint of emotion on his face.

They all let him go, which Danny is thankful for since he makes it out of the parking lot before he screams of utter frustration, aggressively flinging his arms around and stomping his foot.

After a minute of throwing a very public, very loud temper tantrum, Danny allows the ice to melt off his body, leaving him dripping and only wearing boxers as he scurries away. He ignores all the looks thrown his way, grumbling under his breath about that stupid tribe that got him into this whole mess until he finally spots someone he knows.

It's one of those kids who initially gave him his name. His very first customer, in fact, was standing on his toes and picking into a shop, pressed against the glass display.

Danny walked right up behind him, clearing his throat. "Hey, do you know what part of Gotham we're in?"

" I wasn't doing anything!" The boy spins around defensively only to have his eyes wide dramatically when he takes in Danny's state. He wonders if it's the fact he's covered in some nasty bruises, in his underwear, or dripping wet from the neck below despite no rain that causes such an expression. "What in the world happen to you!?"

"Got kidnapped. Escaped. Got run over and survived. Got hospitalized. Escaped again," Danny lists, smiling his innocent smile again, hoping it will make the kid ask fewer questions. It does the job as the boy looks rightfully horrified. "Where are we?"

"Uptown Gotham," The boy stammers, shaking slightly.

"How far away is that from Old Gotham or Crime Alley?"

"Um, about four blocks that way is Old Gotham. Crime Alley is pretty far."

Danny knows that. He'd gone to Old Gotham for a while to speak to some of the ghosts- and of course, none of these buildings were haunted because that was just his luck. "Thanks. See you around!"

He strolls away, feeling some of his anger calm now that he knows where to go. After a few blocks, he sang his soda theme song again, tapping the beat into the sidewalk with his bare feet. At the entrance of Old Gotham, he even found a donation bin for people to drop off clothes, which he happily helps himself to.

It looks like the seventies threw up in here—or someone cleaned out a long overdue closet—but Danny eventually found a pair of bell-bottom flower-printed jeans that fit and a large fake fur coat he could throw onto himself. The shirts smelled weird and were too small for him, but he found a purple velvet feathered hat that he thought would distract him from being topless.

After placing it on his head, Danny started scatting his theme song, feeling oddly peppy. Now that he was no longer frustrated, he realized how good it was that his ice had appeared.

Sure, his eyes weren't glowing, but the fact they changed let him know he was this close to being Phantom again. He just had to be a little more patient.

He could do that.

#dcxdpdabbles #dcxdp crossover #Mr. Flavor #Part 5 #Danny made such a scene #He's doing the smile in my icon #Danny walking down the street like a 70s pimp and scatting #After having a mini break down #The hostpial staff were unprepared for unstable meta #He may have....made his rep a little bad

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wordsofwhimsy · 3 days ago

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𝘚𝘏𝘈𝘛𝘛𝘌𝘙𝘌𝘋 𝘈𝘍𝘍𝘌𝘊𝘛𝘐𝘖𝘕𝘚 - 𝘗𝘈𝘙𝘛 𝘛𝘞𝘖

Pairing: Mohawk!Mark x Reader | Sinister!Mark x Reader

Warnings: none

a/n: i definitely planned to do more with this chapter but when i tell you this dialogue fried my brain 🫠 poor reader doesn’t even show up. i really do love all the variants tho they’re so fun. more reader x mark interactions in the next one - promise 🤞

→ 𝙋𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙊𝙣𝙚 ←

It had been a very long and slow process of rebuilding public image for all the Variant Marks. Understandably so, when considering the storm cloud of chaos and destruction they’d originally drifted in on all those months ago. But even with that in mind, things had seemingly gone from bad to worse for the poor citizens of Earth. Every day there was numerous reports of villains across the globe; albeit mostly weak, but enough to keep the lower level heroes more than occupied.

And it was in this light that the population was collectively getting over – possibly even forgetting – the heinous acts committed by the gaggle of Invincibles. Which lead that very group to where they stood today, circled in the Guardians of the Globe HQ with Cecil and this worlds’ Invincible heading the pack. Cecil had just given a rundown on the plan, designating each variant to a certain part of the planet.

As was to be expected the conversation wasn’t without its hiccups – namely the lensless Invincible who seemed to have a snarky quip or challenging statement for everything Cecil said. And typically, the edgiest of all the Marks – the one with the most daring hairstyle – would be right along side him. Those two had come to be the closest out of the group, not to anyone’s surprise.

But today, the usually rebellious Mark felt more rigid, his charcoal eyes more or less remaining focused on the variant who dawned the black and yellow suit. This tension wasn’t lost on Cecil, but in all honesty the man was tired – exhausted, to be exact – and as long as nothing was coming to blows he couldn’t be bothered to speak on it.

This universes Mark, however, wasn’t quite as lenient with what he would let stand when it came to his variants. Just the sight of them still put a bad taste in his mouth. “This isn't going to work if we all try to take on everything. We need to split things up. I’ll start by taking North America—it's the biggest responsibility and I’m the original, after all.” S.Mark grinned at this, rolling his head back and to the side as he eyed his mirror image.

“You think you're the "original," huh? That's cute. I’ve seen how this plays out. Trust me, the real work happens in places where the action's happening. I'll take the major cities in Europe. Less of the “nice guy” heroing, more actual power. Maybe the United States can be your playground while I actually get results.” The Mark who proudly still wore his Viltrumite uniform responded back coldly,

“Don’t kid yourself. You act like this is about being nice or having fun. This is about survival. I’ll take the more dangerous territories. Africa and the Middle East. The kind of places where the people really need someone with... teeth.” The variant who kept his face hidden behind his black mask now spoke up, his tone laced with seriousness and sincerity.

“We’re all focused on the wrong thing. People need more than just saving from disasters and villains. They need better systems, cleaner energy, more food. I’m taking responsibility for Asia and the Pacific Islands. I’ll focus on sustainable practices and infrastructure. Trust me, I’m the only one here who knows how to actually help the world.” The lensless Invincible interjected sharply at this.

“Hold up. You're seriously telling me you're going to sit around handing out kale smoothies while the Earth burns? You’re wild for that.” He tried to exchange a look with M.Mark, but his stare was still fixed on S.Mark. Uncaring of this lack of reaction, however, he continued, “I’ll take South America, handle some of the hot spots there. I’m more than capable of cleaning up after the messes you’re all too soft to handle.”

The Invincible who wore no mask, and seemed to be the most oddly polite of the group, spoke up. “Everyone’s talking about big territories, but no one’s thinking about the real problem: people. We need to work on the long-term emotional damage. I’ll take all the places suffering the most from war and famine. We can’t just punch our way through everything.” The main universe’s Mark sighed, running a hand over his face.

“Look,” he started, giving each of his variants a steady gaze to make sure they were all truly engaged in what he was saying. “I get that we all have our strengths, but we need a unified plan here! Are we focusing on taking out threats or building a better world? We can’t do both if we’re all going in different directions!”

“You think that by holding hands and singing kumbaya, the world will be saved? You all sound ridiculous. I’m not here to be everyone's friend. The world needs a heavy hand, not a weakling’s hope.” Of course this response would come from S.Mark, his arms folded tightly over his chest.

“You’re missing the point,” retorted the full masked Invincible. “It’s not just about taking down the bad guys or fixing the infrastructure. It’s about healing. You can’t just come in with brute force, you’ve got to help people rebuild from the inside. Have you considered what your violence does to the people you’re "saving"?”

Lensless Mark rolled his eyes, his body hunched forward slightly in a dramatic show of annoyance. “We are rebuilding, but first we need to deal with the fun—I-I mean bigger issues! South America is crawling with dangerous factions. If we don’t stop them, all the rebuilding in the world won’t matter.”

For the first time that morning the Invincible who replicated Omni-Man spoke, his voice somehow simultaneously stern and soft. “You’re all missing the bigger picture. Even if we defeat the bad guys, there’s always someone stronger and more dangerous waiting around the corner. We need to be training to make sure we’re all at out our peak and ready, for whatever that might be.”

The original Invincible sighed, holding his hands up as if in admission. “Okay, okay! Fine! We’re not getting anywhere like this. Let’s just agree that we all have important parts to play.” He paused a beat, and surprisingly no one had anything to say. For a second Mark thought he could smile just from the sheer relief of feeling like they were finally more or less on the same page. He continued,

“So you’ll take the long-term stuff,” He gestured towards the full-masked Invincible. “But remember you still need to keep the bad guys off the streets.” He moved his attention to S.Mark. “You can handle Europe—keep it under control, but don’t go too far.” A part of him anticipated a challenge but by some grace of god none came. Moving on, he looked to the lensless Mark. “You’ll go to Africa, but don’t burn the place to the ground.” An excited smile lit up the variants face, clearly pleased with this decision.

Main Mark looked now to his maskless counterpart. “You can take care of Asia, maybe put some focus on the emotional fallout. And you—” he turned next to his wanna-be-dad variant. “You can take South America while you—” his gaze moved to the Viltrumite loyalist. “Can handle Central America.” His stare finally landed on M.Mark. “That leaves you with North America.”

“And what about you?” Lensless Mark asked, head cocked slightly to the side in childish curiosity.

“I’m going to work on the smaller nations and islands, but really I’ll be making sure you idiots stay on task.” He took the time to once again meet the stare of all his variants, just daring one of them to challenge his directive. Miraculously, no one did.

“I’ve gotta say kid, I’m impressed,” Cecil stated, speaking for the first time in awhile. “Spoken like a true leader.” Mark shot him an irritated look, knowing full well he was still lingering on the idea of him becoming the new leader for the Guardians of the Globe. Not missing a beat, Cecil continued by addressing the group. “I don’t think I need to remind any of you, but in case I do: I recommend you all keep in mind the wastelands we saved you from. And then remember it’s nothing for us to send you back.” The energy of the room fell serious, all of the variants suddenly stiffening in discomfort or anger.

After letting his words sit with them for a moment, Cecil turned to Donald who was stood near the entryway. “Is everything ready?”

“Yes sir,” Donald answered promptly. Cecil nodded, turning his back on the group before lifting his hand almost dismissively in the air.

“Let’s do some good today,” he finished dryly before all the variants teleported in a blink to their designated areas. When the room was at last cleared of everyone outside of himself, the original Mark, and Donald, Cecil let out an exhausted sigh.

It had been a painfully long day, and it wasn’t even noon.

→ Part Three ←

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible fanfic #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #invincible show #mark graryson fanfic #sinister mark #mohawk mark #maskless mark #full mask mark #omni mark #viltrumite mark #no goggles mark #lensless mark #whatever you want to call that one #variant mark grayson #variant invinicble

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sixeyesonathiel · 2 days ago

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pairing – gojo x oblivious!reader

a/n : short drabble based on this ask :3 , i am always humbling reader in my fics so let's make him grovel here to make it fair :3

7:42 AM.

the little bell above your diner's door chimes, and like clockwork, he's here.

the morning sun slants through the wide glass windows, casting long golden streaks across the checkered floor. the scent of fresh bread lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hum of an old jukebox playing some soft, jazzy tune. satoru gojo steps in like he owns the place—like he owns every space he walks into—moving with that effortless arrogance of a man who’s never been told ‘no’ and actually believed it.

his sunglasses dangle from the collar of his crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled up just enough to tease at lean forearms, veins faintly visible beneath his skin. there's a playful ruffle in his snowy hair, like he just ran a careless hand through it, and the slight crook of his lips makes it very clear he’s in one of his moods. outside, the world is still waking up, but here, in this tiny corner of the city, satoru gojo is already in full swing.

but the real kicker? the grin. that goddamn grin, lazy and lopsided, as if he already knows he's won a game you didn't even know you were playing. it's the kind of smile that should come with a warning label—dangerous, reckless, prone to making your stomach flip if you’re not careful.

you shoot him a bright smile, already reaching for his usual. “morning, satoru! long night?”

he leans against the counter, the wood creaking under his weight, eyes locked onto yours with the kind of intensity that should set something on fire. “awful. i spent hours thinking about something. couldn't sleep a wink.”

your brows furrow slightly, fingers wrapping around a tall glass as you place his usual drink in front of him. “oh no! work stuff?”

he takes a slow sip of his chocolate malt milkshake—extra whipped cream, just the way he likes it—his lips curving around the straw in an infuriatingly slow manner. his gaze never wavers. “you stuff, actually.”

you gasp, absolutely touched. “satoru! that's so sweet! i had no idea you liked my cooking that much.”

his fingers tighten ever so slightly around the cold glass. a lesser man would fold right then and there, but satoru gojo? delusional.

he chuckles, low and smooth, tilting his head as his voice drops to that slow, deliberate drawl. “i do like your food, but i was thinking more about the woman behind the counter. the one with the cute apron and the even cuter smile.”

your eyes light up, and for a second—just one, fleeting second—his heart leaps. this is it. she finally—

“oh my god, you mean—mika?! yeah, she’s great! she only works the afternoon shift, though. i can give you her number if you want?”

satoru's soul ascends. and it's not in the good way.

“no,” he says, voice tight, and it takes everything in him not to cry-laugh into his milkshake. “i meant you, sweetheart.”

your lips part slightly, like the thought has never even occurred to you. "me?"

“you,” he repeats, a little more desperate now, like a man clinging to a lifeline in stormy waters. “c’mon, don’t tell me you’ve never noticed how much i like you.”

you blink once. then twice. then— “aw, satoru!” you beam, placing a warm hand over his much larger one, your fingers barely covering the span of his knuckles. “i like you too!”

his breath hitches.

“you're such a great friend!”

the moment stretches, hangs in the air like a thread about to snap. satoru doesn’t blink. doesn’t breathe. somewhere in the distance, a car honks, a cup clatters, life moves on.

but then you squeeze his hand—soft, warm, devastatingly innocent—and flash him a smile so radiant he nearly forgets the last ten seconds ever happened.

“here! on the house today,” you say, sliding a small plate of fluffy cream puffs toward him. the golden shells glisten under the morning light, filled to the brim with silky vanilla custard and dusted with a light sprinkle of powdered sugar. “something sweet for someone just as sweet!”

…he’s never been more in love in his entire life.

#gojo satoru #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #jjk x reader #reader insert #gojo fluff #satoru gojo fluff #satoru gojo x you #jjk drabbles

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eeuni · 2 days ago

Text

deserved ᮫࣭﹆ֹ b.e

fluff & iheart radio awards btw guys i haven't written anything in a long time so sorry if it's horrible

you could spend all afternoon writing about what your girlfriend's last album had done emotionally to everyone, but you'd never be able to finish. from the moment they told you that you would be able to present her with the award for album of the year, you could do nothing but try to keep your mouth shut and not say a word to billie.

you wrote your words to present to her in an old notebook, which you knew billie wouldn't see. it took you an entire night; it was so difficult to put all that majesty into simple words.

on the day of the ceremony you wore a simple black dress, with a chain elegantly decorating your neck. your girlfriend, on the other hand, wore the complete opposite, baggy and comfortable clothing, yet she wore a small suit to sing.

"you're going to do fantastic!" you exclaimed to her, excited to hear her sing wildflower.

billie's performance was fantastic, it was a true demonstration that no matter if she took home an award or not, nothing would change the fact that this woman touched souls deeply. she kissed your lips, standing on her tiptoes as she left the stage and you grabbed her hand to run off and get to her dressing room.

"how can you run in heels!?" she raised her voice so you could hear her, you both laughed.

"i have superpowers, baby."

you joked. you and billie entered the dressing room, quickly changing billie's clothes as they paused and named other winners. you two left the room kissing, returning to the event. you two sat next to maggie, patrick, claudia, and finneas. the table was filled with compliments for billie and finneas, emphasizing how talented they were. a member of the event staff came to you; it was your turn to speak.

"wait, babe! where are you going?" your girlfriend asked quickly, almost standing to follow you.

"i'll be right back, bils. stay here." you smiled reassuringly.

billie let go of your hand and you walked backstage. there were only two minutes left until you came out and announced the winner of album of the year.

"okay, go." said a robust man, guiding you to the stage.

you stood there, the lights came on, and you noticed billie's surprised look. you smiled with foreknowledge. the applause rose when they saw your recognized figure.

"f'me hit me hard and soft is more than just an album. is the album of the year, the one of the best created in the entired history of music. it moves you like nothing else ever done, it resonates in your soul and helps you heal it. it's a work of art that doesn't usually receive the praise it deserves because there are no words to describe the wonderful majesty it offers, it is ineffable."

everyone listens to your words, some people nodding, others with their hands on their chest, eyes full of tears and smiles of confirmation.

but billie's eyes were glued to your body, listening to every word you said. the words traveled through her veins, reaching her heart and piercing her soul. her eyes became teary. her lips pouted, turning to look at finneas and holding his hand.

"and i have the good luck to know the two people who made this album possible. a talented young man who adds color to everything he touches, finneas." everyone applauded once more. "and also to the most perfectly real and human soul, the most beautiful girl in the world billie eilish."

billie's trembling hands made her let go of finneas's hands, biting her lip to keep her tears from falling.

"thank you for making our album of the year: hit me hard and soft."

now they stood up from their seats, the award in their hands, and thousands of people cheering all over the place. they came to the stage, still not believing what was happening. finneas was the first to hug you, whispering a small "thank you."

now your girlfriend, whimpering a little at your kind words, hugged you by the waist, burying her head in your chest, jumping with excitement.

"you made me cry like a fucking bitch." you both laughed. "i love you, mama."

"i love you more, love." it was the last thing you said to billie, now in front of the microphone and with eyes full of tears, she thanked all the people who were in the process of making the album along with finneas.

you stood to the side of the stage, admiring how beautiful billie looked, as always, and you couldn't wipe the smile off your face.

"and you!" she turned around, looking at you with a smile. "you're like fucking amazing, you're beautiful, and i can't believe i'm with you—it's like, whoa. you know?"

the whole place laughed at billie's nervousness, her cheeks red and her words escaping her lips.

"okay, sorry. i love you. i love you all, bye!"

she came back to your side, hugging you very excited. finneas joined in the hug, and the three of you happily walked off the stage.

after a few moments and when you were all in your places at the table, everyone was congratulating billie, but she kept a hand on yours, squeezing it whenever she needed to relax. on the way home, in her car, she couldn't help but look at you when the traffic light turned red.

"did you really write all that for me and finn?" her voice was soft, almost unwilling to get her hopes up.

she turned to look at you once more, placing her hand on your lap, looking at you with those eyes that expressed love and gratitude.

"yes, of course baby." you responded instantly.

"you're so gorgeous, my girl." she kissed your shoulder.

"yours." you whispered.

and the traffic light was now green.

#billie eilish #happier than ever #⊹ ⋆꒰ఎ ♡ ໒꒱ ⋆ﾟ⊹#billie stan #billie eilish icons #billie ellish lyrics #billie eilish fanfiction #billie and you #billie eilish imagine #billie x reader #billie eilish smut #fluff #wlw #lesbian

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rose-writes-for-march · 1 day ago

Text

March for More: Not so Markless After All

MASTERPOST

For as long as Bruce could remember, he'd never had a soulmate. There were no loops or twisting vines inked on skin, no murmur in the back of his head, or a timer on his wrist. By all evidence found, he was alone.

It wasn't anything too tragic. The Markless is a small but welcoming community, dedicated to spreading awareness that not everyone needed or wanted such a bond and Bruce liked being a part of it. However, he couldn't shake the disappointment even with the rationalization that a soulmate would only complicate his nighttime activities.

Which is why, in the middle of a meeting to prepare for the council with the King of another realm, Batman was shocked to see a red string on his finger. It hadn't been there a moment ago when he was talking to Superman, appearing in the moment he'd turned to address Flash, then solidifying as he caught sight of it.

He knew, okay, that the red string was rare. That of all the bonds one could have, a red string was equally the luckiest and unluckiest bond to have. Because if you weren't close—approximately 50 miles at most—then you can't see it. You could go your entire life thinking you're Markless then all of a sudden your soulmate takes a vacation or a road trip. Like Bruce did.

Except, Bruce is in space. In space, where no one knows about or can get to without having prior authorization. So who the hell is his soulmate and why are they getting closer.

In the time it took Batman to find the direction of the string, the rest of the room had gone tense at the Dark Knights' sudden intensity. So, when a body casually floats through the walls of the Watchtower, the heroes are all prepared to fight.

"Ah— oops, didn't mean to spook ya'll!" A midwestern voice accompanied by an undertone of whispering that Batman can't make out calls from the body. A man, with white hair floating like clouds and a face pale like snow with only startling Lazarus green eyes to accentuate. Batman is intrigued, wary, and uneasy all at once.

"Who are you?" He calls out, eyes avoiding the red he knows is there. The man startles, eyes shooting across the room to find Batman, then stills. Oh, he hadn't noticed, then.

There's a long stretch of silence before a laugh falls from the mans lips—don't look at them, don't—as he removes himself from the wall. "Oh, this is hilarious," the man calls out, "I can't believe this is why Clockwork wanted me to hear you guys out, that fucker."

He shakes himself off and now that he's standing— floating upright, Batman can see the man wears an outfit of black and white, a bodysuit that looks eerily like a hazmat with a black cape overtop. The cape, as it flairs out behind the man, reveals a void of black that is splattered in the expanse of swirling stars and galaxies.

"I'm Phantom, King of the Infinite Realms and all that jazz. And you, poor unfortunate soul, are stuck with me it seems."

It sounded like a threat to Batman's hard-wired brain, but in the King's sickly green eyes was a sense of trepidation. The council had been planned with much of the same feeling—like the King didn't know if he could trust the word of humans from a world that was actively hunting and experimenting on his kind.

Bruce, in some strange way, thought it reminded him of his kids. Of Dick, who had lost his parents and home, and had found a place with Bruce to heal. Of Jason, who was so bright and so good, but couldn't find what he needed with Bruce. Of Tim, hardworking and desperate to save anyone he could, no matter what. Of Damian, angry and confused that Bruce wanted him to be a kid for once.

"Hm." Batman can feel the smile on his face, can feel the stares of his confused comrades, but that doesn't matter. King Phantom is another in a long line of people that need Batman's help—what right does he have to walk away now.

#my march for more #fanfiction challenge #writing challenge #danny phantom #batman #dcxdp #dp x dc #spirit halloween

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ducksido · 2 days ago

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Hai! Could I write a Idia x reader where the tsums are still here and reader is too busy fanning over idia’s tsum to pay attention to him (they’re absolutely doing it on purpose just to get a reaction out of him)

Like idia sulking in a corner that his lover, his one and only prefers a stuffed plushie version of him more mean while reader is just cuddling Idia tsum while fake sleeping

(I frikn love the tsums)

Idia huddled in the farthest, darkest corner of his room, his flame-like hair dimmed to a sulky blue as he pulled his hood further over his head. His golden eyes peeked out, narrowed in pure betrayal at the sight before him.

His beloved—his one and only, the one person who actually tolerated his introverted, shut-in self—was currently lying on his bed, snuggling his Tsum, whispering the sweetest praises to it as if it were some kind of divine being.

"Awwww, Idia Tsum, you're just the cutest little thing! So soft, so squishy! Look at your tiny little face—omg, you're even pouting! So grumpy, so adorable! I could just cuddle you forever~"

Idia Tsum, the smug little menace, wiggled ever so slightly in your embrace, its tiny, expressionless face somehow radiating absolute victory. If it could talk, Idia just knew it would be saying, “Heh, take that, loser.”

Idia scowled. "I-It's just a plushie! It’s not even alive! Why are you acting like it’s some kind of ultimate-tier, SSR event-exclusive limited edition!?"

You didn't respond.

Instead, you let out a soft hum of contentment, nuzzling the tiny plush closer. Then, just to be extra dramatic, you sighed deeply and mumbled, "Mmm… Idia Tsum is so cozy… I think I’ll just take a nap like this…" before relaxing completely, pretending to fall asleep.

Idia twitched.

You were doing this on purpose.

There was no way you actually preferred that tiny stuffed impostor over the real deal. Right? Right?!

"...Tch," Idia huffed, pulling his knees to his chest. "Fine. Whatever. Not like I care or anything…"

Silence.

More silence.

Then, a soft shuffle.

A moment later, you cracked open one eye just in time to see a very reluctant Idia slowly—very slowly—inch his way toward you. His eyes flickered to you, then to the Tsum, then back to you. He fidgeted with the hem of his hoodie before finally blurting out in a small, sulky voice, "...My turn."

You grinned, but kept up the act. "Mmm…? What was that? I'm asleep…" you mumbled, hugging the Tsum even tighter.

Idia let out a strangled whimper. This was torture.

"...Y-you can cuddle me instead… I-I mean, i-if you want," he muttered, his entire body practically combusting in embarrassment.

Now that was the reaction you were waiting for. Smiling triumphantly, you finally turned toward him and opened your arms. "Come here, you big baby."

Idia hesitated for only half a second before all but throwing himself into your arms, hiding his burning face against your shoulder. The Tsum, unceremoniously squished between you both, let out a tiny squeak in protest, but neither of you paid it any mind.

For all his sulking, Idia definitely didn't complain when you started stroking his hair instead of the Tsum’s.

(Though, if the little plushie started mysteriously appearing in increasingly inconvenient places to interrupt cuddle time, well… that was just a coincidence. Obviously.)

#twst x reader #twst #twst wonderland #twst yuu #idia x yuu #twst idia #twisted wonderland idia #idia shroud #idia x reader #idia x you

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venusentranced · 3 days ago

Note

I've been having a few thoughts of sub!heeseung who had been watching way too many edits of himself and thoughts ENGENE'S thoughts about him being a Dom so when he comes home he starts bossing reader around and telling her to stop showing him attitude or he'll f*ck it out of her/him.

But! On text reader promised Heeseung he could hit, but they change their mind and makes him ride her/his thigh but poor guy wants the strap/dick (or you can change it into Heeseung just wanting to be in the coochie for female.)

I actually do prefer female for this thought but you can choose.

˖˙⟡ heeseung needs an attitude adjustment after he lets edits of himself go to his head. ⟢ warnings: established relationship! sub!idol!heeseung x f!dom!reader - attempted dom!heeseung but he fails miserably, heeseung is a little bratty but it's just desperation, thigh riding, dirty talk, degradation & praise, brief masturbation, some groping, hand job at the end, mommy is used like twice, heeseung is generally unlike himself for a bit but we do it for the plot! i think that's everything? word count: approx. 1.6k ‧₊˚ ┊i've got serious writers block right now so if this lackluster or kind of bad i'm very sorry (╥﹏╥) please feel free to critique it or to resubmit your request if you don't like it. i didn't proofread

the night rapidly approaches a close, the apartment is clean and the moon is full, the only thing missing now is your boyfriend. heeseung has practice late into the evening these days, preparation for a new comeback as well as festival season has him scattered about, spring was always such a busy time for your lover.

the door opens and closes rather loudly, "heeseung?" you call out at the abrupt sound. "i'm home, come help me." initially you're confused by the way he's speaking, it's almost as if he's angry but he didn't mention anything and you certainly hadn't done something. your approach to the entryway seems to be too slow, soon he's demanding that you move faster. "hurry up!" your confusion soon devolves into frustration. "what is the problem?" you question, there's nothing to indicate he needs your help at all, he's not hurt or burdened by a bunch of items—he's just standing there. "do you need help undressing?" there wasn't malice, spite, or even angry to your question, it was common for you to help him get dressed and undressed but something about the exasperated tone just sets him off. "watch your attitude." he retorts; your face drops, arms instinctively crossing your chest and you give him an irritated look. "what attitude?" heeseung's shoes slide off and he takes a few small steps towards you, "do you need me to fuck it out of you? yeah, i bet that's your problem, you need me to fuck back into your place." never in the duration of your relationship has heeseung behaved in such a manner, never did you think he'd completely lose his mind. "i know you're not speaking to me like that." his new demeanor falters a little bit but he picks the act right back up. "like what?" you take a silent breath, "you want to talk to me like you're in charge? you want to act like it's you who fucks me into place?" the beginning of your interrogation has the boy straightening out his posture and sealing his lips tight. "you asked me earlier today, no, not asked, begged me, to fuck you. "mommy today's been long when i come home will you make me feel better?" "please help me i need you." now you want to act like this? what's gotten into you?" his mouth opens and closes a few times but nothing comes out. "oh! now you've got nothing to say?" he looks down at his feet, folding his hands in front of him. "i just saw... these edits engene make and i thought i'd try it." the muttering that borders on whispering is not helping his case but you will give him a pass on the account that it's his first time acting out like this. "we've been together too long for you to start acting like a little slut because you saw an edit of yourself." your voice is comforting despite your language, you pick up his face and look him in the eye. "never pull that with me again."

the night carries on like normal, your nightly routine goes smoothly, he showers and when he's done he crawls into bed with you. his body slots itself next to you, his head resting on your chest and you begin to run your fingers through his hair. there's comfortable silence while you're trying to fall asleep until heeseung calls out your name quietly, "yes, baby?" his eyelashes flutter against your skin before he looks up at you, nervously licking his lips. "will you help me still?" his voice is tiny but it's met with you laughing dryly at him. "after that stunt you pulled, you think you deserve that?" your response isn't exactly harsh because your tone of voice is playful and teasing, heeseung shakes his head no anyway. "but i'll be good, i promise." he answers, you hum to him while you think about whether you should bother with his antics again tonight or not. "mommy, please, i'll be good, i'll do everything you say." you look down at him and his big eyes are staring right up at you, brimming with tears. he's so pathetic, "you're so pathetic." but you really can't say no to him, you tap his shoulder for him to move, freeing yourself from the blanket and sitting up; an oversized t-shirt and a lack of pants has proven once again to be useful. you pat your thigh without a word and he looks at you cluelessly. "you're certainly not getting inside me after your little outburst, use my thigh or don't get off." it takes no time at all for heeseung to rid himself of his shorts and boxers, timidly straddling your leg like he's never done it before. you push his hips down and begin to gently guide them back and forth, his hands take hold of your shoulders to make sure he's steady before he starts to move on his own. small whines tumble out of his mouth as he makes poor attempts at getting himself off. "come on, baby, you can do better than that. spit on it, make it wet." your words so slow and falsely encouraged make him whimper, bring his palm to his mouth and spitting into it, he spreads his spit around his dick with a soft moan. he buries his face in your neck and picks his movement back up, his hips rising and falling in slow, deliberate motions to rub himself against your bare thigh. there's a small beat of silence and hesitation while he considers if he should try to get you to help him further, ultimately deciding to bring his hands up to your chest to grope you through your shirt. "did i say you could touch me?" you tease but he only whines in response, his hands getting harsher as he moves them around in his hands, squeezing and grinding at the same time. "please, fuck me." he murmurs, continuing to hump your leg that's grown wet between his spit and precum. "no, you don't deserve it. be a good boy and fuck yourself." heeseung mewls at your rejection, kissing your neck to try and convince you to say yes. "god, you are such a slut!" your words egg him on further, spitting back in his hand to wet his dick further and then resuming his desperate groping of your body. "look at you, you're trying so hard to make me fuck you and you're failing at it, how can you be bad at being a whore?" there's a shock of realization with your teasing, he could be trying harder, now he has to try harder. he leans back to face you, taking one of his hands off your body to use it to jerk himself off inside. a loud moan running away from him as his hand starts to move itself across his dick. "it feels so good..." he trails off, "yeah? but you know i do it better." reminding him that he never makes himself feel as good as you makes him frustrated. "but you won't- ah- you won't help me." his voice just sounds pathetic. "no, you're jerking yourself off when i never told you that you could. why would i help you when you can't follow simple directions?" heeseung lets go of himself and leans back into your shoulder, groaning in frustration at your refusal to change your mind, his eyes are full of tears and all he wants is quick release but you won't give it to him. his hips pick back up with a small grunt.

a few minutes pass without another incident, he's putting in all the work he can muster and pouring out whines and quiet moans like a broken faucet. "there's my good boy," your praise gives heeseung more drive to get himself off, he loved when you were mean to him but nothing was better than when you praise him. "you're my good boy, right, heeseung?" he nods into your neck, he's run out of words from his tiredness. "so hard and needy just for me, right?" he mutters out a "yes" and presses himself harder against you. "gonna make yourself cum on my thigh? make a big mess?" release felt like it was miles away from him when you started but the more you talk the closer he seems to be getting. your hand sneaks up his thigh and wraps around his shaft, he gasps at the sudden contact followed by a broken moan when you start stroking him. "see what happens when you're a good boy?" your hand feels like magic, he's convinced it's never felt his good before. "i'll be good." he whispers, grinding into your hand, he's drooling onto you since his mouth is hanging open and you stifle a laugh at his last ditch effort to make you finish it for him. he twitches slightly, presses his chest flush to yours as he teeters on the edge. "gonna cum!" he announces, you slowly remove your hand and press him back into your skin. "make yourself cum, be good." if heeseung wasn't delirious he'd probably complain, instead he does exact as you say, riding your thigh as fast as he could before he abruptly stopped; he gasps, grabbing your shirt and starts panting like a dog. a warm wet spot seeps through your shirt and a larger one develops on your thigh, you run your fingers through his hair to soothe him through his orgasm. your lips paint a thousand tiny kisses across his face as you whisper to him about how well he did.

#sub!idol #sub!enhypen #sub enhypen #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen x reader #sub heeseung #sub!heeseung #heeseung hard thoughts #heeseung x reader #heeseung smut #heeseung hard hours

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krokusplays · 1 day ago

Text

A Rising Dawn - Chapter 2

Mydei X (female) Reader

Fic Rating: Mature (will change for a later chapter)

Chapter Length: 4.2k

Fic Status: Ongoing

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Falling in Love, Learning to Trust, Sweet, Wholesome, almost no angst, no use of y/n, smut in a later chapter, set before the events of 3.0

Author’s Notes: The fic will probably end up being 30k-40k words long rather than 20k-30k. I'm currently drafting chapter 5 and we're at 19k words already and there will most likely be around 9 chapters altogether with similar lengths to this one. Anyway, I'm so glad you're all enjoying it so far. I hope you will enjoy this one as well <3

Previous chapter

AO3 Link

Summary: In the Holy City, daily life remained the same for the citizens despite the threat of the Black Tide lurking beyond the city’s borders.

But sometimes, a brief encounter can bring about a new dawn for its residents. Chrysos Heirs and regular citizens alike.

Even more so when the Golden Thread has tied your fates together a long time ago.

You did show up.

Frankly, you’ve had all the intentions from the beginning. You never denied requests from the kids in this city.

Looking after these kids, playing with them, listening to their stories - a lot of “I saw a nymph today! I’m sure of it!” and “Lord Phainon is so cool!” - and telling them what little you knew about specific topics filled your heart with a joy and purpose you haven’t found in this city before.

Though, the boy’s request to train… it brought a sense of concern with it that you didn’t know how to handle. It stuck with you all the way to the training grounds after work.

They were just little kids. They should be kept away from weapons and fighting as much as possible and not be encouraged to seek it out.

So you opted to come along. For the children’s sake.

And for their safety.

You sat on the small wall surrounding the training ground and placed the small basket of fruits Demetria gave you after work next to you.

The training was already in full swing when you arrived, work didn’t allow you to leave earlier with all these customers today. Laughter and exclamations of awe filled the air and you took in the scene in front of you.

There was a third kid, a boy you’ve never seen before, but the other two knew him. They were… engaged in what could only be described as a fierce battle against each other with their grins and twinkling eyes and the wooden toy swords in their hands.

Lord Mydei - the fact that he was here to begin with was daunting - stood next to them and watched them train.

The Chrysos Heir’s presence was… impossible to ignore.

He carried an air with him that spoke of respect - or was it intimidation - and might. It overshadowed almost everything else whenever he approached the store - yet it would never stop you from being polite to him like you were to any other customer.

Seeing him around kids like this felt… odd. He seemed like the kind of guy one found on the battlefield, as if all these rumors whispered in the streets how he was a Kremnoan - full of bloodlust and madness like the Strife Titan - had a truthful core to them.

You knew what he was capable of. You remembered.

The scene in front of you did not match that impression.

Lord Mydei walked around the kids, gave instructions, praised them for everything they did, showed them how to move their hands, their feet, told them to slow down and take a break - during which the kids came running up to you full of excitement telling you about their achievements as if you didn’t see any of it.

He was incredibly patient and encouraging with them and your chest constricted at the sight.

How you wished you would’ve received the same kind of encouragement during your own childhood. Even when you came of age. Maybe even some training for yourself so that you wouldn’t have to be so dependent on others.

That faceless soldier appeared before your eyes again. The darkness - thick and consuming - creeping up behind him as he risked life and limb to free you from those cold iron chains before it swallowed him up, left nothing behind but an empty shell-

You shook your head and focused on the sight in front of you instead, observed how the kids giggled and exclaimed their victories loudly, how they pretended to be heroes with their swords…

It was then that you realized… This was fun.

The kids were enjoying themselves just as much as when they were playing hide and seek, they laughed and put all their energy into everything Lord Mydei asked them to do. They wanted to impress him and the way they beamed with glee and pride when the Chrysos Heir recognized and praised their efforts made your heart swell inside your chest.

You sighed as you sat on the small wall surrounding the little training ground near Okhema’s theater.

Now you felt kinda silly for your worries.

You knew Lord Mydei was a warrior but you should’ve expected or at least assumed that he wouldn’t risk children coming to harm.

You looked down and your gaze fell onto the basket with the fruits. You took a deep breath. Lord Mydei had no idea about your thoughts and assumptions and yet, you couldn’t help but think that an apology was in order nonetheless.

———————

He found himself training the kids a couple of days later again. They had encountered him near Marmoreal Palace this time when he had intended to go home after spending some time in the baths.

He told them to meet him here the next day under the condition their parents were alright with it.

There were four Kremnoan kids here today. Even though only two had asked him yesterday.

Now he observed how the two pairs exchanged blows, giggling and calling out how they would become mighty warriors one day and fight alongside Mydei one day. It did make him smile.

“Oh big sis is here!” the girl exclaimed, her attention entirely turned away from the sparring match against the boy, and Mydei caught the boy’s sword as he swung it before it could collide with the girl’s head by accident. Wooden or not, a kid’s head was not meant to stop swords.

Only then did Mydei look up as you arrived at the training grounds. Your basket in your hands as you took a seat on the low wall.

“Did you ask her to come here?” Mydei asked the kids. They nodded.

“Yeah, we saw her on our way here at the store.”

Mydei nodded but didn’t comment on it further. You placed a small basket on the wall and sat down next to it in front of the tree and bushes behind you. You haven’t paid much attention to anything else yet. While your expression remained calm, he spotted an unease - stress - in the way you brushed your hair behind your ear, dusted off your dress and took a deep breath that moved your entire body as you finally sat down.

You rushed over here. Not a single part of your body hid that notion.

He couldn’t linger on it and it didn’t concern him either, but there was no obligation for you to join this little training - playing - session. The kids would’ve managed.

He turned to the kids again.

“Now listen, young warriors of Kremnos, heed my words. Never lose sight of your opponents and never allow anything to distract you from the fight. If you want to fight alongside the warriors of Kremnos, never forget this.”

It did the trick. It always did.

Raised voice. His words an order.

The kids turned to him with their eyes almost glowing in pride and awe, their stances rigid as they tried to copy the stances they’ve seen among grown-ups when they received a command from their superior.

They continued their training, but eventually Mydei noticed the exhaustion in them. They began to sweat, they breathed faster than before and they couldn’t raise their swords as high as before.

When Mydei asked if they wanted to call it quits they vehemently denied and began pushing themselves again. Tenacious. Virtuous.

But still, unnecessary.

“Even warriors of Kremnos take breaks. If you have strength left we will continue afterwards,” he told them and the kids saluted. Amusing.

An instant later and they ran towards you, calls of your name on their lips. You greeted them with equal enthusiasm, but remained seated on the wall. Chatter filled the air as all the kids tried to talk to you at once and you attempted to keep up with it all. Mydei’s lips twitched upwards. Boundaries existed for a reason. Apparently you have not established those yet with them.

Or perhaps, did not want to?

Why was he pondering this?

You reached for the boxes in your basket and when you opened them he saw slices of fruits and vegetables you sold at the store, neatly cut and prepared for the kids. Did you purchase those yourself? Were they a gift of Demetria’s?

The kids jumped at them, eagerly eating them while they continued to talk to you. At least those kids ate healthy food. Good.

One of the boys turned to him, a slice of watermelon in his hands and half the juice on his face, and waved him over. How bold.

However, Mydei obliged.

"Hello, Lord Mydei,” you greeted him when he approached. You glimpsed up at him but then your eyes shifted and fell onto your basket. He didn’t think you saw him nod in response.

You reached into the basket, fingers slow - hesitant - before pulling out a small ceramic bottle. The simple color and shape suggested it to be a cheap one, common, probably your own and not from the store. You held it in your hands as if contemplating, the kids forgotten for a moment.

But then you held it in his direction.

“I… This is for you,” you said, a tinge of nervousness in your voice that you either didn’t succeed or didn’t try to hide.

Mydei tilted his head. “There was no need for that.”

You averted your gaze for a moment. “Please, it’s nothing big, just… take it as an apology.”

He took the bottle without questioning it further, though he did not blindly take a sip of whatever was inside. There was more you wanted to say but the hint of unease - you almost seemed embarrassed - and the kids still being around you kept you from saying more.

An apology, huh? For what? Your initial reaction to him? Or something else he wasn’t even aware of? It seemed confusing to him but he had no interest in flustering you even more.

He pulled the cork of the bottle and took a sip. The moment the drink filled his mouth he paused, briefly, unlikely you even caught his own hesitation now.

Pomegranate juice.

Fresh. Self-made. Not store-bought. Delicious. Missed the milk, though, but you couldn’t possibly know about this preference of his.

This… surprised him. But when he threw a look at your hands, clasped together in your lap and he caught a hint of the familiar red color under your fingernails, even though he caught a drift of citrus from your hair when the breeze picked it up at this short distance.

That meant you’ve taken a bath this morning and prepared the juice yourself afterwards. And after how hectic you’ve seemed before, he assumed you must’ve prepared it in a hurry in-between finishing work and coming here. Dedicated. Not necessary, definitely, but appreciated nonetheless.

“Thank you,” he said and he couldn’t help but think how that smile you threw him softened your face in a different manner than the expressions he’s caught on you before.

He still did not know what you were apologizing for.

“Brother Mydei, can we keep going?”

“Ready your weapons and practice the motions I taught you. I will test your efforts shortly,” he replied with the same commanding tone he used on them before and he listened - amused - how the kids replied with “yes, Lord Mydei” before running back to pick up their swords again.

It left you and him alone. Somewhat.

But it gave him all the time and opportunity he needed to ask a question.

“Why are you doing all of this for them?” He didn’t need to specify that he was talking about the kids. Dedicating her free time to them, rushing yourself to bring them - and him now apparently - freshly cut fruits…

Your eyes widened for a moment. Surprise written all over your features for the duration of a heartbreak until your expression softened again, though there was no smile.

“Most of them got no one else. And the ones that do are still grateful for friends,” you said and looked past him towards the kids where they were giggling and laughing behind him.

“Is it your responsibility?” he asked.

“Is it yours?” you countered nodding towards the training ground where the kids practiced their sword moves again, though the small smile on your face and the gentle curve of your brows showed you didn’t take any offense to it.

You were right nonetheless.

Still…

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me. It doesn’t concern me.”

“It’s fine. I suppose I know what it’s like to not have anyone look out for you or make sure you’re happy. I can’t stay away when I know I can change something.”

Noble. Impressive. But an impossible task to ever fulfill. For every happy kid there will be another, alone, hurt, suffering. The rock will roll down again no matter how high you push it up the mountain.

There was more you wanted to say but as your voice drifted off you kept the words inside. And he didn’t push it.

He looked at the bottle still in his hands.

And took another gulp of it.

———————

Usually people avoided their workplace on their days off. But when it was the place with the best fruits and vegetables it was difficult to do so. You figured it would be a much less pleasant errand if you didn’t enjoy your work so much.

Demetria has always been so kind to you.

She started asking questions one day, polite and curious, after she witnessed you at the store with a small group of kids, buying fruits for them. Eventually, she offered you this job at the store and it’s been so much more fulfilling than being a cleaner at the baths.

Work was work, but the crowds of people at the bath was uncomfortable at best and frightening at worst.

You still waited in line at the store when the calls of your name made you jump with how sudden they appeared behind you.

The group of children you usually hung out with at Kephale Plaza ran up with wide eyes as if something had scared them. No smiles, no giggling, no joyful look on their faces. Your stomach dropped.

People on the streets looked at the kids, how upset and anxious they were but paid them little mind when they saw you gathering around you - an adult.

You stepped aside, out of the line to deal with whatever happened.

And something did happen.

“Calm down, everyone,” you said as they all started talking and blabbering at once, “what’s wrong?”

“Linos is gone!” a girl exclaimed, her cheeks flushed from how nervous she was.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?” you asked, though the way your stomach churned at the thought, you didn’t expect the answer to be the boy getting lost in Okhema’s streets. These kids basically lived on these streets, they knew them better than you did.

“He… He left town!” another boy replied. “He said he’s gonna fight the Black Tide an-and become a hero!” The boy stuttered with how upset and worried he was.

You stared at him with wide eyes and felt your heart drop. You knew Linos. The young boy with the brown curls and blue eyes always roamed the streets with a wooden sword in his hands, proclaiming loudly and with enviable enthusiasm that he would help Lord Phainon deliver Amphoreus from the Black Tide eventually.

Antics you usually encouraged and found amusing, they made the boy happy. Even more so when he catches a glimpse - or even better, the attention - of his idol.

But this… Kids overestimated themselves, naturally and not their fault, but the children knew how dangerous it was outside of the city. No one else ever ventured off on their own.

You swallowed. Something needed to be done. You needed to find him. Fast. You looked at the kids.

“I’m gonna look for him. Maybe I can find him before he goes too far away. Listen, you have to find the guards and tell them about it too, okay? Can you do that?”

A choir of “yes” and “of course” answered you and you nodded before turning around. You trusted them, you had to. Going to the guards yourself now would only waste valuable time. At this moment, you still had a reasonable chance to find the kid before he entered the truly dangerous areas outside of Okhema.

As you rushed down the street leading out of the city your heart pounded in your chest and not only because of all the running you’ve already done.

You couldn’t fight.

You didn’t have a weapon, knew even less how to use one. As you grew up, no one deemed it necessary for you to learn how to fight, their plans for you have always been different, and now as an adult you never pursued it either.

The regret gnawed at you now.

Didn’t matter. You had to find the boy. Maybe you got lucky or maybe the guards were already close on your heels.

The ruins of the outskirts of Okhema looked like a village that has been lost to time for centuries. Crumbled stone, broken structures, and remnants of once magnificent architecture stretched over the hilly area in front of you, while the faint smell of rust and ashes lingered in the air around you.

Kephale remained visible in the sky but his light didn’t reach here anymore. The rays of light kissed the ground on the edge of the ruins but made it seem as if it was too scared to press forwards.

You disdained the dark so much. It only brought images - memories - with it that you wished you could seal away for good. Darkness crawling towards you from the distance like a wave, shadows emerging from it, you locked in place, unable to free yourself, that nameless soldier with his ragged breath breaking your chains…

Goosebumps appeared on your skin as you shook your head. Not now. You had to find the boy.

You made your way through the ruins, climbing over the remnants of pillars and statues until a cry made you pause dead in your tracks. You looked around frantically, eyes shifting over the area until you caught the movements of a Titankin in the distance.

Rational thought left your mind. Despite the cold shiver running down your spine and the sinking feeling in your stomach you ran.

You shouldn’t. You had no weapon, no skills, but that cry has been that of a child and there was no way there was more than one kid around here. And even if there was, you couldn’t possibly ignore it.

And the maddened Titankin has already found the kid too.

You rushed around a corner and paused when you realized just how close the Titankin now was. It walked to the side, its powerful steps echoed off the ruins around you as it dragged its stone body towards its destination. And for a moment you found yourself frozen in place, your chest heaving from your ragged breathing - from anxiety or physical strain, you couldn’t tell anymore.

But then a whimper broke through the sounds of the Titankin’s heavy steps and the numbness in your mind.

Your head whipped around and your eyes widened.

The familiar head of brown curls stood out among the ruins of white and grey-colored structures like a Dromas in a crowd of people.

The little boy cowered in front of the remains of a wall, his sobbing and whimpers echoing off the stone around him and yet, alerting the Titankin to his presence.

Your gaze shifted between the boy and the Titankin. It kept stepping closer, its greatsword in hands, ready to…

You didn’t waste another second. With your heart racing and your mind wiped blank you rushed towards the boy. He looked up at you out with a tear-stricken expression as you crouched down next to him, and the realization you were here - someone who tried to help - barely settled in those big, wide eyes.

The approaching danger didn’t let you even utter a single word to Linos.

A whirl of wind and the sound of moving stone and you caught in the corners of your eyes how the Titankin raised its weapon. Nothing you could do. Nothing. You couldn’t pull away, couldn’t dodge with the wall in your back and the terrifying range of this giant sword.

The despair never managed to settle into your heart, just resignation, but you couldn’t possibly have left the boy here when the Titankin approached just to save your own skin. You pulled the kid into your arms, tried to shield him from the attack - despite knowing how utterly futile it would be - and squeezed your eyes shut.

The sound of stone breaking reached your ears and a gust of wind brushed over your body and yet, the pain never came.

Instead, a flash of bright colors crossed your visions and blood-red crystals wafted through the air when you dared to open your eyes again, before the maddened Titankin crumbled to dust.

Guards flooded the ruins but your eyes were focused on the Chrysos Heir in front of you.

You looked up at him, at the way he stood in front of you and the boy like a wall - a shield - and images flashed through your mind.

For a moment you were back on that island, darkness creeping in, the Black Tide swallowing anything in its path and the Chrysos Heir fighting back every enemy emerging from the shadows until you were safe.

He didn’t remember. It’s been so long but in that instance, it felt like you were back in that exact time and place.

And still, despite the relief and gratitude, your heart twisted painfully at the realization that you had to be saved. Again.

You have been just as helpless and defenseless as the little boy, just as much dependent on the strength of others as children were.

It hurt. And made you feel so pathetic.

You didn’t want to be a burden to anyone, didn’t want others to risk their lives saving you. Not again.

But then… What could you do?

Your eyes fell onto the remains of the red crystals on the ground, some crumbled into dust just like that Titankin, some still retained their shape. You had no idea what they were. Lord Mydei’s weapon of some sort but still…

You picked one up from the ground. The small crystal felt warm in your palm though it cooled quickly.

You put the crystal into the folds of the fabric around your waist keeping your dress in place.

Why you took it with you, you weren’t sure. Because of its ties to Lord Mydei? As a reminder that he came to your rescue a second time in your life? Or a reminder that you were incapable of protecting yourself?

An answer evaded you.

You followed the guards back into the city, the little boy’s sobbing mingled with the sounds of stone crumbling behind you where the Chrysos Heir eliminated the maddened Titankin in the area.

You grabbed and squeezed the boy’s hand when he began to tremble from the tears that refused to stop.

———————

Putting a hole into the crystal without shattering it proved to be more difficult than you had anticipated. You pretty much scratched a hole into it with a sewing needle and while it took forever and unfortunately, cracked a little around the hole, it worked. Pulling a band through it, you wore it around your neck like a charm, hiding the crystal beneath your dress.

You still couldn’t tell what it was. It looked pretty, but given where and when they appeared - out of thin air too apparently - you doubted the cause of them was equally as pretty.

And as you walked through the streets of Okhema a few days later - and of rest as Demetria has told you to stay home for a while to relax, even if it made you feel even worse about how helpless you truly were - a fire burned in your eyes that hasn’t been found within you for a very long time.

You found Lord Mydei near Marmoreal Palace by the foot of the stairs, though you didn’t approach him until the people that were with him left and he was about to leave himself.

A deep breath and you walked up to him. He did wait as he noticed you and you were grateful for it. It led you to believe that what you were about to do had some foundation to work off of.

“Lord Mydei,” you greeted him. He nodded in response.

“How have you been faring?” he asked and the question took you by surprise. Your eyes widened for a moment. “I take it you haven’t been injured during that incident a few days ago?”

You shook your head, though his concern stirred something within you. Something that was equally touched as bruised because it just drove home once more how dependent you were on others.

Didn’t matter. It was the reason you came here.

To remedy this. Finally.

“I’ve been fine, thank you,” you said genuinely and with a smile on your face. He seemed content with that answer and the little upwards tug of his lips made your heart flutter in your chest.

If you’ve learned one thing about him after seeing him with the kids multiple times it was that he was so much more approachable than most people - than you - thought.

“Something you need?” he asked and you looked into his eyes, burning and glowing like a fire - no, like the sun at dawn. Beautiful.

You nodded, looked at the ground for a moment before catching his eyes once more.

“Please teach me how to fight.”

#hsr #honkai star rail #mydei #mydei x reader #mydei x you #my fic

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neptunsx · 14 hours ago

Text

𝐄𝐍𝐇𝐀 - kinks

୨ৎ Heeseung

Dominance & Bondage - Heeseung gives off major dom energy, but in a way that’s slow, intense, and calculated. He’d love teasing and edging, making you beg before giving you what you want.

He'd love tying you up just to see your helpless and needy reactions, desperately trying to touch him or push him away when his teasing gets too much.

He’d suck on your clit while rubbing your nipple with his thumb. He would chuckle at you struggling against the handcuffs, needing to grab his hair.

When he is taking you in doggy, your face is pressed on the pillow, your hands handcuffed behind your back. And Heeseung is not helping. His hips are away from you, his tip making slight contact with your hole. He needs to see how bad you want it and beg for it.

"Tell me how much you want it, and maybe I'll think about it."

୨ৎ Jay

Praise & Degradation - Jay would worship you, touch you everywhere, look at your pretty face when your eyes roll back from the pleasure, compliment you, but he'd also enjoy making you squirm under his words—switching between sweet praises and rough teasing.

He’d love dirty talk and a little bit of rough handling—gripping your jaw to make you look at him when he is balls deep in you and telling you how good your tight pussy is taking him.

"You're so perfect for me…you fucking bitch"

୨ৎ Jake

Service Dom & Overstimulation - Jake loves to please—his main goal would be making you feel absolutely ruined by the end.

But he is also getting pleasure by pleasuring you. He is eating you out like a starving puppy. Not only to make you feel good and cum, but because he is addicted, he LOVES it.

He has a high sex drive so he fucks you once a day, about 2-3 rounds. And during those rounds, he is roughly ramming his dick in you, moaning in your ear like a needy bitch.

He seems sweet on the surface, but he is the kind to keep going even when you're begging for a break—because he loves seeing you lose control. You feel too good for him to stop, leading to overstimulation.

"One more, baby. You can give me one more, right?"

୨ৎ Sunghoon

Power Play & Control - Sunghoon is quiet but intense—the type to pin you down and make you take it exactly how he wants.

He’d love lingering touches, slow teasing, and making you wait for him to finally give in, while you are begging.

He is into spanking, choking, hair pulling. Just subtle dominance, enjoying the control he has over you. You'd be a whining, empty minded mess, taking whatever he gives you. You'd cry out whimpers from the stinging feeling on your ass and the need to feel him inside you.

When he eventually gives in, he is not going easy, he is ruining your insides.

"Shut up, i know you like it."

୨ৎ Jungwon

Edging & Obedience Training - Jungwon is a little tease. He loves stopping right when you are about to cum. He chuckles deeply at your needy complaints and moans. If you get too mad about it he stops completely to teach you that you should be grateful and obedient, and he jerks off in front of you to take care of his boner and piss you off.

That's why he'd probably enjoy obedience training, teasing punishments, and making you ask nicely for what you want.

"Good. Just like that. That’s my girl."

୨ৎ Sunoo

Brat Tamer & Teasing - Sunoo has a bratty side, but I actually see him as a brat tamer—the type to playfully let you challenge him just to put you in your place.

He’d love overpowering you in the most teasing way possible—getting you riled up, only to slow things down on purpose.

You thought you had control over him, you were confident in your actions until he pinned you down and started touching your pussy. When he felt your wetness, he stopped, making you whimper.

"Oh? Were you that desperate already? Cute."

୨ৎ Ni-ki

Power Struggles & Rough Play - Ni-ki has mischievous, cocky energy, meaning he’d love power struggles and playful resistance—pushing boundaries until you force him to submission (or he flips the script).

He’d be into biting/scratching, hair-pulling, and playful aggression, just to see how far things can go.

Both of you are fighting for dominance, one moment he is making your legs shake and another you are making him cum on his abs untouched.

"Think you can handle me? Let’s see about that."

#enhypen #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hard thoughts #enhypen reactions #enhypen scenarios #enhypen sunghoon #enhypen jake #enhypen smut #enhypen heeseung #enhypen jay #enhypen niki #enhypen sunoo #enhypen jungwon #enhypen x reader #enhypen x you #enhypen x female reader

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helliloveit · 23 hours ago

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Living Room Flow

This was kind of a disaster, longer than i thought it would be, but i like it. I don’t know if Frank is mean mean in here, but whatever this is i live for it. Feedback is always welcomed, kisses. English is not my native tongue.

Frank Castle x f!reader

Warnings: mdni, +18, Mean!Frank (half) he softens as the writing progresses, brat!reader, cop!reader, situationship, spanking, cursing (Frank is a sailor), smut with a plot(?, angst, rough, not a full happy ending.

W.c: 3.2k

Summary: It’s been a complicated day, you are not the best version of yourself, Frank isn’t patient with you this time. You don’t complain even if your feelings get in the way.

You hear the roaring of his truck outside the house and that made you jump over your seat in the couch. Yes, you had a dense afternoon, everything felt suffocating, your job that, thankfully you got out of early today left you with a bunch of tasks you even didn’t know how to start with. The fun thing is that every single friday is like this, and every single time of these Frank went even more bossy than he already is.

He is not your boyfriend, no, there is no love in the way you treat each other, you let him toss around your papers files as long as he offers you some protection, a deal.

Yet, you can’t deny he is sort of endearing, since you have nice amount of time knowing each other, besides the rare ‘friendship’ you had built, he stealthily made his way inside your life, your actions and your decisions in order to: “Ya needa be wise in this, anything you do wrong its a fuckin’ rope around ya neck.” Or whatever he says. Doesn’t matter how many times you roll your eyes, he’s right, being a detective in this city is not merely safe or fair.

Is not fair when you have to read and read and whatever conclusions you get with are rejected because there’s not enough proofs, even if you explained every detail thoroughly, a week of work, all destroyed in front of your face, and that’s exactly what happened to you today.

Something worth adding is that recently he drove his way into your desires too, you don’t even remember when it got to a breaking point, the only thing you know is that Frank carved his name with flames on the skin of your abdomen, he left you like a puzzle’s abandoned piece and you're sure you'll never find a half that fits you like he does. You are screwed. So much more when you realize his sex drive its lower than your willings to work, and that’s bold statement.

That’s also the reason of your bitterness, let’s be clear, you are not sweet, even less with Frank, that man has a sharp tongue, and he does use it. But today, you got to admit you were insufferable. So much that Frank better left the hustle for later, he could handle your back handed remarks, your disdainful looks too, but don’t you dare pushing him or swatting at him for tell you what is right.

The spare key jingles, then he enters the warm illuminated living room as you watch him from your place accommodated on the maroon sofa, the atmosphere grows heavier by seconds, the scowl of his face looks deeper and his movements determined, the creak of the wooden floor under his boots combined with the rumbling of the tv are playing an extra number on your anxiety.

— “You got the files, do you?” His harsh voice vibrates through the upholstered walls then your ears.

— “Yeah, they are in the kitchen aisle.” Your response comes out dry.

He looks back at you confused, where he’s standing he can clearly see the kitchen aisle… empty.

On Frank’s side, if he says he’s not upset with you, that’s pure bullshit. Already lost 5 of his seven patience bars trying to work along with you. And the way you inhale deeply and stand up from the cushions to stamp the documents where they are supposed to be, he already lost two more.

He leaves his jacket on the rack besides the entrance and walks down the little curve to the marbled surface. He exhales stressed when he finishes to read all the titles and none of them are the ones he needed.

—“Sweetheart… i know you are pressed but,” he raises the papers, kind of excusing himself, even if he’s tired of your attitude he doesn’t want to make you sicker.

—“These are not the ones i asked for.” And he attached to his very submissive tone.

That didn’t had any effect on you though, you went back, snatched the goddamn sheets out of his hands, checked for the right name and threw the new folder over the aisle again.

—“Let me know if you want me to read ‘em for you too.” You rumbled annoyed as you turned around to go away.

Hollow silence fills the space.

—“Hah, you little fuck. You stop right there.” It didn’t came out loud, if you wasn’t so attentive at his reaction you wouldn’t have noticed. You look back disgusted, who does he think he is to command you like that? You scoff and keep your tracks and that’s when he raises his voice.

—“I said stop right there, y’ didn’t hear me?” It was too much for you, you weren’t exactly obedient but for whatever reason you froze not so far from where you turned your back at him. You hear him walk, his heavy steps reaching you, suddenly your head feels heated, you love the thrill, and he always knows how to deliver it perfectly.

—“The fuck is wrong with you now, huh?” He lowers his head to get to your eye level. “That attitude is gonna get you places.” He slowly says as his arms rest behind your sides, grasping the cold aisle behind you, one of his hands moved to your face, fixing your jaw in his direction, dwarfing it in his pretty big extension.

—“Think you can blame your pent up frustration on me.” He nods slowly, analyzing every feature in you, something he’s pretty good at.

—“Let go.” You cling to the last bit of rebellion left in your body, lift your chin and slap his hand away with a curse, he backs up, chuckling. Oh, he’s amused. And you’re not sure if he likes the challenge or simply is hilarious to him to witness how deep into the trouble you are getting.

Your breath is growing faster and everything but steady, your hands cold, all of it provoked by the way he’s glaring at you, if you didn’t know him the way you do, you were sure he would be plotting your murder. Frank is one to intimidate people but that’s not quite what is happening to you now, you hate when he hovers over you and slightly tilts his head, even more when he is almost smirking thinking he has you wrapped around his finger.

And maybe he’s right because you kiss him.

Is not the first time it happens anyways, you fist the fabric of his henley, giving a fuck if it’s ruined by the time he needs to get home, you’re pouring every emotion in it and he knows, he pleases you, he lets you climb and tangle around him, press your torso at his firm one, yes, but he is not satisfied, not with the way you had treated him the whole day.

When you take a break he slightly pushes you back from your neck, your hands travel down his chest by the distance.

— “What is it now?” You ask hazy.

—“What it is now? Baby are you aware of the way you had talk to me?” You frown, of course you had been such an ass today but, he can’t deny you a good shake off, right?

—“But-” you start to display your best puppy eyes, he doesn’t let you finish though, you are looking at his own dark gaze until the clink of his belt draws you away from your trance.

—“Nah nothing sweet. Turn around.” The way he plays the the piece of leather off has you pretty distracted.

—“We can talk it over Frank.” He clearly hears the desperation in your voice, whether he wants to calm it is another matter.

—“Oh, we can talk it over now? That’s new.” His hand spins your shoulder until your back is a few inches away his chest, pushes your blade until you feel the cool surface breeze your nipples through the thin fabric of your old tank top.

At this point the anticipation have you teary eyed, you look back at his frame, it is so broad, he is so heavy in his presence it makes your back get goosebumps, even more so when he lifts up the hem of your top to look at it, he made it clear a few times, he loves your back, specifically how it arches when he caresses at your skin with his rusty palms.

The soft interlude ain’t last long.

Both of his hands tugs at the waistband of your sweatpants, so fast the panties get trapped in the motion, leaving you bare, he spreads your cheeks revealing your glistening parts for him to drool at them, he’s dying to bury his mouth in it but he won’t be nice, even if it gets to him more than it gets to you. He clicks his tongue.

—“I don’t think you get a release tonight, too bad for you.” He caresses your slit from start to finish, eliciting a shudder from you.

—“Frank please it’ll be good next time, make me feel good please, i swear.” You rise enough for his stubble to tickle at your temple, you wish you could melt in his body, all you need is a little bit of love and correction, also him to give you what you want.

It aches, he aches, doesn’t like to tell no to his pretty girl.

He hesitates for a few seconds, he needs you too, he feels it burn inside his core. Sadly, He’s a man known for his resilience.

—“Don’t wanna hear a single whine from your lips from now on.” He groans with wet lips in your ear, you’d have clenched your already soaked pussy if he hasn’t pulled your hips back and made you bend over again.

Suddenly you feel his fingers pressing the back of your neck against the gelid material you are lying on. Before you can protest a gasp leave your lips when instead of the leather of his belt a hand lands harshly on your ass, loud and painful.

He always preferred the traditional way.

—“Count five of those for me.” And it’s the shame to be so easily dominated. Subdued not only to his but your own body, you crave him.

—”Fuck you.” You try to wriggle his grip out uselessly, tears already streaming down your cheeks, you are always so brave it plays against you.

You yelp when your hair is pulled by his thick fingers, your neck sting at the forced flexion, and he hovers down to the shell of your ear again, squeezing your body under his, that’s when you notice his hard bulge against your messed folds, he’s as bad as you.

—“You can’t help yourself, can you? Why don’t you count ten instead, it’ll help you ease.” He surprises you with another hard spank.

By the time he has 5, you are sweating, biting your lips so your neighbors don’t have to deal with the consequences of your bitchy behavior too.

—“Ten.” You count anticipating the rough slap, but nothing comes, you look back timidly over your shoulder. He feels his cock twitch at your helpless face. Wet and colored cheeks, those eyes, god, you look like you haven’t been the most prolific brat for the past eight hours, almost like he is punishing you for your mere existence.

Tender strokes covers your manhandled cheek.

—“I think we can leave it like that. It’s been enough for you.”

Oh no, you don’t want to stop, you desperately look for his hand and grab it, leading its travel all over the side of your torso to your tit, you coax a squeeze out of his hand pressing over it. Your eyes enough of a message, a silent plead. His own mind liquid with lust.

—“Such a needy girl.” Frank lowers his head to merge in a tender kiss, your whole body is throbbing, the wet sounds of the smooch traveling right down your clit. You swear he reads it through you cause his point and middle fingers came down to indulge you, everything feels impossibly hotter, if hell has a nice place, this should be it.

The kiss doesn’t stop, and when it does Frank is all over your face, painting it with wet kisses and sweet praises you know you don’t deserve. He keeps rubbing it slowly until he decides it’s enough not for you but him and takes off your sweatpants that, at this point, where further down your shins.

He unbuttoned his pants earlier, predicting the big bother they would turn out, it wasn’t very useful after all, he tugged down the elastic of his boxer along his jeans, you glance down his girth, the tip coated in a wet deep pink.

—“Open up for me baby, would you?” You nod eagerly but he does it for you, rising one of your legs up to his shoulder since you are on your side, he slides part of his forearm down your other knee, guiding it to rest around his hip.

His entrance not so complicated since your wet and slippery like that, the soft sting making you back up a little but he holds you steady, a palm anchored between the crease made of your abdomen and thigh, doesn’t waste his time, coating his thumb in your slick to circle on your swollen bud with the right pressure to make you squeal.

He recognizes when it’s too much for you, eyebrows scrunched and incoherent whimpers, even more now that you are bouncing so much by the force of every thrust he gives you.

He hits that spot over and over, it is so intense you feel the need to grasp onto something but there’s nothing to hold onto, you’re high, sweaty, head lulling until you fix on him, he’s concentrated, grunting over the way you make him feel, burying his fingers in the soft of your skin, and he’s drunk, glaring at you though hooded eyes, god, you’re close, you feel it like a effervescent pill, pushing its bubbles to the surface.

You’re are good at recognize when it’s to much for him too, the disorganized rubs over your clit make you clench on him repeatedly, you would laugh at his efforts to hold together if you weren’t so down bad yourself. His red cheeks, his red chest too, that vein he has on the left of his neck which seemed even more noticeable when was close.

—“Coating me so freaking good baby just keep it like that.” It came out hushed, and you don’t really know if it was the surprise or the shame at his words that shoved you straight into a catastrophic fall beyond the border, but you came, and you came hard, like an implosion, constricted inside of you, throat wrapped on itself.

He did the same, the pulses of your walls swallowed him, and let’s be honest, there was no more bearing left inside of him. His last thrusts came along with loud pants, leaving all his seed in your insides.

Soft strokes of his thumb on your belly were the stimuli which dragged you out of the cloud nine bliss. His head resting near the creek of your neck, his warm breaths over your skin sweet-talking you to doze off.

Your hand found a nice place on his head to scratch, his hair not long enough to tangle but to hide your fingers.

—“Hey, message from earth to the space, are you alright? Do you copy?” Following that, you feel the low rumble of his chest, at least he wasn’t that ‘mad’.

—“Yeah, i’m near the moon now, over.” A chaste kiss is left on your cheek as he raises himself from you. You blush.

—“Agh Frank, that was so corny.” You fake annoyance, the little pull of the corners of your mouth sells you out.

He disappears into the darkness of your hallway. You take the break to get up from the rigid marble table, realizing how much you needed that. After a satisfying stretch, you take your panties off the floor putting them back on you, and serve two glasses of water.

As you engulf your own, you hear him come back stepping more than needed in your leaving room, he drinks the glass you left for him and you turn around to see. You know you shouldn’t feel puzzled by it but you really thought he would stay the night.

Jacket on and his disheveled hair gone, you find yourself astonished by the way the rough angles of his face seemed to soften in such private moments, specially now that his features casted drastic shadows, evoked the looks of a skull, so severe, so stern, is like nothing happened.

You lay your back on the chilly plastic of your fridge, glass is still in hand.

—“Hey, you know you don’t need to leave? It’s pretty late and cold outside, i know you give a fuck about risky so i’m im not bringing that up.” You taunt him, he’s flipping through those goddamn papers again. Finally, he finds what he was searching for. He folds them and buries them in his pocket.

—“Work needs to be done.” And he’s using that cold edge to his voice. It shrinks your heart, but it doesn’t matter, what you feel, it doesn’t.

—“Yeah, whatever,” you do a brief pause, noticing the fidgeting of his fingers, he’s always anxious, despite knowing each other for so long, you can’t entirely read him the way you’d like.

—“I’ll close the door for you.”

—“I have keys y-”

—“Yes Frank i know you do, i gave ‘em to you, c’mon.” You walk down the main door again, the breeze of the night wrapping your bare legs which he is covering with his frame.

—“Take care Frank, i don’t want to stitch your ass together for the hundredth time.” It is a constant struggle, every time he goes away you live it as if it were the last time, it could be both death or the bitter realization that perhaps you weren’t as useful to him, not as relevant as you think you are, both reasons could take him away from you, although you never had him in first place.

You meet his eyes, he was already looking at you, he is pondering something, gears turning in that head of his.

—“Don’t worry about that,” Suddenly he wraps an arm around your waist, hugging you close enough to peck you on the forehead.

—“Y’know you ain’t needa worry ‘bout me.” He caresses the small of your back, you wish he was easier to convince, at this point, and with a lot of persuasion, he’d be happily sleeping on your bed.

You find yourself hugging him tighter, inhaling the scent of his clothes until you let go, your eyes shimmer with something raw, a fresh cut of your vulnerability, he’s aware, he kisses you on the lips, useless like a band-aid on a broken bone. There is no more he can do, regardless. Once you close the door, you are left with the frigid air lingering in your living room.

It’s not that late for a few tears and a couple of wine glasses.

#frank castle #frank castle x reader #dark frank castle #the punisher #jon bernthal x reader #mean!frank castle #frank castle smut #frank castle angst

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