#thank you for being here. for being in this space with me

[cheftsunoda]

Hi! I just want to say I love your writing! Very much! And I was wondering if you could write one about where reader is Lando or Oscar's baby sister (18) and he's very protective of her and she's secretly dating Ollie and he goes full on big brother mode.

mclaren protection program — ob87

ollie bearman x !norris reader

lando norris x !sister reader

smau + blurbs

being lando’s little sister came with strict rules — no dating drivers, no sneaking around, and definitely no dating drivers while sneaking around. too bad you broke all three. for four months, she’s been secretly dating ollie bearman. lando is clueless. oscar suspects everything. and the rest of the grid? still thinks she’s just mclaren’s innocent little princess. keeping the secret was easy — until it wasn’t. that’s what happens when you’re in the mclaren protection program.

fc: lily rowland

(a/n) : hiiii love!! thank you so much. i hope you enjoy 💋💋

also sorry for the spacing at the end. i had too much fun and made this too long so tumblr did not allow anymore blocks

—

ynnorris

liked by magui_corceiro, lando, oscarpiastri and 2,700,500 others.

ynnorris : girls trip that lando decided to invite himself on

tagged : lando and magui_corceiro

—

view 175,002 other comments.

lando : i just came to check in on you guys and make sure everything was okay…

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : we literally have security for that

↳ lando : i don’t trust them to take care of you. or anyone for that matter. it could’ve been worse. i almost brought oscar

↳ ynnorris : next time send oscar by himself.

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ ynnorris : or better yet, don’t send anyone next time and let me live my life 😍😍😍

↳ lando : never. you are just a baby.

↳ ynnorris : oml OUT of my comments

magui_corceiro : next time we both need to shut off find my friends and just disappear 😇 but i had so much fun! love you queridaaaaa

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : yeahh we do🙂‍↔️but soooo fun with you my baby. love you more💌

liked by magui_corceiro

↳ lando : see that’s what we aren’t gonna do

↳ ynnorris : 🍅🍅🍅

alexandrasaintmleux : belle fille😻

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : that is all you my angel

liked by alexandrasaintmleux

georgerussell63 : lando…no offense but how are you going to protect them? no one is scared of a smiley british man and you also lack all survival skills and instincts

liked by ynnorris

↳ lando : whose side are you even on here russell???

↳ georgerussell63 : yn’s

liked by ynnorris

oscarpiastri : Glad to see Mclaren Protection Program is still alive and well.

↳ ynnorris : osccccc make him stopppp

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : sadly i cannot, we are all protective in different ways. lando is very obvious about it and i just stand behind you and glare at anyone that looks at you. i protect from a distance.

↳ ynnorris : i prefer your way even though you always scare men away from me

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri : that is the whole point little norris

↳ ynnorris : guyssss im 19 now. let me liveeee

↳ lando : 19 is a baby in my eyes. just a little muppet

↳ oscarpiastri : I trust you, yn. I do not trust men, they are all disgusting.

↳ username00 : this is so cute omg i cant

carmenmmundt : pretty pretty girl ❤️

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : carms🥹 imy

liked by carmenmmundt

username1 : does this prove the magui/lando theories??

↳ username7 : wouldn’t be too sure about it. yn and magui have both done many shoots for alo together, could just simply be friends hanging out

—

You are blissfully unaware that your entire life is about to implode. The sun is low in the sky, casting a honey-gold glow across the resort pool, the water shimmering like glass. You’re stretched out on your lounger in a bikini and Lando’s technically-stolen bucket hat, sipping something cold and citrusy while Magui is next to you in oversized sunglasses, legs crossed and judgment fully activated.

“I swear,” she says, adjusting her towel and lowering her shades, “if you smile at your phone one more time like that, I’m going to push you into the pool.”

You don’t even try to stop the grin tugging at your lips. “I’m not even doing anything.”

“You’re texting your secret boyfriend.”

You snort. “You don’t know that.”

Magui raises an eyebrow. “YN, you literally giggled when his contact name popped up. Like, audibly. Who giggles at a name? You’re in love.”

You roll your eyes, trying to fight the smile, but fail miserably. “Fine. Maybe I am.”

“I knew it.” She turns toward you, fully invested. “Okay, spill. How bad is it? Like, ‘I miss him after five hours’ bad or ‘I wrote his name in my notes app with little hearts’ bad?”

“…Second one.”

Magui throws her head back in horror. “You’re a lost cause.”

Your voice is soft, honest, almost dreamy as you say, “Fine, I’ll say it. I think I’m actually in love, Magui.”

She lifts her sunglasses and gives you a look of pure disbelief. “Actually in love?”

You nod, cheeks burning. “Like, properly. I’m done for, can’t think straight, smile every time he texts kind of love.”

Magui groans into her drink. “Oh no. You’re so doomed. Lando’s going to kill you.”

You laugh. “He’s not even in the country.”

And that’s when the universe decides to ruin your life.

“Interesting.”

A familiar voice cuts through the air like a brick through glass. Your entire body goes cold. You turn so slowly, dread washing over you like a tidal wave — and there he is.

Lando.

Standing there in board shorts and a backwards cap, holding a drink and looking way too amused for someone who should be on the other side of the planet.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you shriek, clutching your towel like it’s a shield.

He lifts his drink. “Surprise. Thought I’d crash your little girls trip.”

Magui nearly drops her glass. “You said you were in Monaco!”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “flights exist. Also, you left your hoodie in my flat and I got suspicious. Turns out my sister is sneaky as hell.”

You blink. “You tracked me down over a hoodie?!”

“I have your location, genius.”

Magui mouths “I’m so sorry” behind him.

Lando crosses his arms. “So. You’re in love?”

You freeze. Your heart lurches. “What?”

“You just told Magui,” he says casually. “I walked up right in the middle of your whole confession. Thought I was interrupting some gossip, not a rom com.”

You open and close your mouth. “That could’ve been about anyone. A book. A movie.”

“You said he texts you and makes you smile.”

You want to die.

Magui chimes in helpfully, “Could be a fictional character!”

You glare at her.

Lando narrows his eyes. “You’re hiding something.”

You scramble. “I’m not!”

He stares at you, then huffs a breath and backs off — for now. “Fine. But you’re being weird. Just… don’t do anything dumb, okay?”

He walks away toward the bar, muttering something about needing tequila and a nap. As soon as he’s gone, you collapse onto your lounger, clutching your face.

“He didn’t hear Ollie’s name,” Magui whispers.

You nod, whisper-screaming, “But he knows I’m in love! That’s bad enough!”

“He’s gonna turn into a bloodhound.”

You groan. “This trip was supposed to be peaceful.”

Magui hands you your drink. “You better text your secret boyfriend and warn him. Code red.”

—

The sun has dipped below the horizon, painting the Abu Dhabi skyline in hues of peach and lavender. You’re curled up in the oversized armchair by the window, hair wrapped in a towel, legs tucked beneath you, skin still warm from the sun and the chaos of earlier.

Your phone screen glows with Ollie’s face — he’s fresh out of the sim room, damp curls flattened under a cap, hoodie halfway zipped, and that smile already softening every bone in your body.

“You survived?” he teases, voice low and sweet. “Magui said you were one panic attack away from throwing yourself into the pool.”

“She’s dramatic,” you murmur, grinning. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You told her you were in love. Lando heard you say it.”

You cover your face with one hand. “Okay… fine, it was that bad.”

He laughs — low and fond — and you swear your heart somersaults.

“I’m serious, Ollie. He showed up out of nowhere. We didn’t even know he was in the same country.”

“Well, now I’m scared,” Ollie says, mock-serious. “What if he finds out and I have to leave F1 just to stay alive?”

“You’re not helping,” you whisper, giggling into your hand. “He already gave me the ‘don’t do anything dumb’ speech, which means he knows something is up. He’s circling. Like a vulture in swim trunks.”

Ollie smiles, eyes flicking across the screen like he’s memorizing every detail of you.

“I’ll keep my head down,” he says gently. “But for the record… I’d still risk it.”

Your cheeks flush. You’re about to reply — something sappy, something stupid — when the door to your suite clicks open. You freeze. You immediately twist the phone screen away from the door, just as Lando strolls in like he owns the place, mid-scroll on his own phone.

“You left your charger in the cabana,” he says casually, not even looking up.

You fumble with your screen. “Oh, uh—thanks.”

Ollie is still on the call, and you panic, scrambling to hit end. His face disappears mid-laugh. Your phone drops into your lap. Too late. Lando pauses. His eyes narrow, and now he is looking at you.

“Were you just on the phone?” he asks, slow, suspicious.

You force a smile. “Nope.”

“Really?” he tilts his head. “Because I’m very sure I heard you laughing like someone was flirting with you.”

“I laugh at you sometimes,” you offer weakly.

“Not like that.”

You sit there, heart pounding, towel slipping from your hair. Lando squints at you for a second longer, like he’s scanning your soul. Then, with a little nod, he turns and walks to the minibar. “You’re hiding something.”

“No I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m literally just in my suite.”

“With freshly wet hair, flushed cheeks, and that ‘I just hung up on a boy I like’ face.”

You blink. “That’s not a real face.”

“It is on you.”

He grabs a soda and cracks it open, then stares at you over the can.

“I’ll figure it out, you know.”

You cross your arms. “There’s nothing to figure out.”

Lando smirks, but it’s not angry — it’s something more dangerous: amused. Curious. Calculating.

“Right,” he says. “Sure.”

He turns and leaves the room. And now you’re alone, phone still warm in your lap, and your heart racing because you know that boy is putting pieces together. Fast.

—

You’re already on edge when you sit down. The Abu Dhabi sun is warm but not brutal yet, the hotel’s rooftop terrace breezy and quiet — but none of that matters, because Lando is sitting across from you with his sunglasses pushed up on his head, a croissant in one hand and his interrogation eyes locked on you like a laser sight. Magui is seated between you both, playing neutral Switzerland, pretending her yogurt parfait is more interesting than the slow death happening at the table.

“You’re awfully quiet this morning,” Lando says, sipping his espresso with annoying calm.

“I’m enjoying the peace,” you say sweetly. “Which would be easier if someone wasn’t staring at me like I’m a suspect on Criminal Minds.”

He smirks. “I’m just watching you squirm. It’s very entertaining.”

Magui coughs, awkward. You narrow your eyes. “I’m not squirming.”

“Really?” He leans forward. “Because ever since I showed up, you’ve been weird. You hang up mystery phone calls, deflect every question I ask, and now you’re sweating.”

“I’m just hot!” you snap.

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Mmm. From love, or guilt?”

You gape. “You’re so dramatic.”

Magui mutters into her parfait, “She’s not denying it though.”

You turn on her. “Magui!”

“I’m sorry! I panic under pressure!” she whisper yells.

Lando claps once, smug. “Thank you, Magui. Finally someone with a conscience.”

You groan and reach for your juice.

“I don’t know who you think you’re in love with,” Lando continues, “but I will find out. You know I will.”

You throw your napkin in his face.

“Oh, you’re mad now? Cute,” he says, catching it mid-air. “I wonder if your other brother knows anything about this.”

You blink. “Don’t.”

But it’s too late. Lando already has his phone out. He’s calling Oscar. Magui gasps.

“You wouldn’t,” you whisper.

He smiles. “Watch me.”

He hits speaker. It rings. Once. Twice.

Oscar groans as he answers the phone. “Mate, it’s 6 a.m. in Monaco. Someone better be dying.”

Lando smirks to himself. “Hey, quick question. You know anything about YN being in love?”

Oscar instantly wakes up.’ “WHAT?!”

You slap a hand over your face. Oscar sighs loudly. “With WHO? What happened? Is she okay?”

“YES I’M OKAY,” you yell across the table.

“Why does she sound defensive? Is it someone on the grid? Tell me it’s not someone on the grid.”

Lando shrugs to himself. “She won’t tell me anything. But she hung up a call suspiciously fast last night and started blushing.”

Oscar thinks for a second and then questions, “Was it Ollie?”

Your head snaps up. “WHAT?!”

Magui chokes on her parfait. Lando glances up at you quickly. “Wait, WHAT?!”

You leap across the table and slap Lando’s phone off speaker just in time. “He was JOKING!” you say way too loud. “Oscar jokes like that all the time! Classic Oscar!”

Lando stares at you. “Why was Ollie his first guess?”

You stare back. “Because Oscar is weird. And wrong. So wrong. Very, very wrong.”

You are sweating. Magui looks like she wants to melt into her seat. Lando doesn’t say anything. He just slowly picks up his coffee and takes a sip like he’s storing everything away for later. And when Oscar texts you three seconds later —

who is it. swear to god i will find him myself.

—you know this nightmare is only beginning.

—

You’re exhausted. Not just physically — though the hours of sun, sand, and your brother’s relentless investigation certainly didn’t help — but emotionally, too. Keeping a secret this big, this special, from the people you love is harder than you ever expected. And despite the laughter and the lounging, the poolside mocktails and Magui’s dramatic gossiping, the truth is— you missed him.

You missed Ollie. You unlock your apartment door and push it open with a sigh, expecting the usual stillness, maybe your throw blanket half-slid off the couch or your suitcase left in the hallway. But instead—

The lights are on. Warm, low, golden lighting. The scent of something delicious drifts from the kitchen. A familiar hoodie is draped over the back of the dining chair. Music hums softly through the room — something old and gentle, maybe Frank Sinatra or Ella Fitzgerald — and then.

“Hi, angel.”

You freeze in the doorway. Ollie steps out from the kitchen, dish towel slung over one shoulder, curls damp from a recent shower, smile so soft it nearly knocks the breath out of you.

In one hand, he’s holding a bouquet — white tulips, your favorite. In the other, he’s gesturing toward the table, where two plates are already set and candles flicker beside a bowl of pasta.

You blink, stunned. “You’re—here?”

He grins. “I couldn’t wait.”

You don’t even think. You run to him. He laughs as you crash into his chest, arms wrapping tightly around your waist, flowers still clutched awkwardly behind your back as he kisses the top of your head.

You breathe him in — that comforting scent that was just distinctly Ollie. Your heart finally settles in your chest.

“I missed you,” you mumble into his hoodie.

“I missed you more,” he whispers, kissing your temple.

You tilt your head up and he leans in immediately, kissing you like he’s been waiting all week — slow and deep and sweet, like there’s nothing else in the world except the two of you and the soft music playing behind you.

When you finally pull back, your cheeks hurt from smiling.

“You made dinner?” you ask, eyeing the pasta with awe and suspicion.

“Attempted dinner,” he corrects. “Let’s just say Kimi’s mum talked me through 90% of it over FaceTime and I nearly set off the smoke alarm. But I didn’t. So… success.”

You giggle, brushing your thumb over his cheek. “It smells amazing. And the flowers—”

“You’ve been through it this week,” he says, serious now. “I figured you deserved something nice. And something normal.”

Your chest aches with how much you love him. He grabs your hand and pulls you toward the table, but not before kissing your knuckles like a cheesy old movie. You both sit, and he pours you water like he’s been rehearsing this all day.

Halfway through dinner, you’re mid-laugh about Magui accidentally texting Lando a shirtless selfie meant for her situationship when Ollie suddenly reaches across the table and laces your fingers with his. You blink at him.

“What?”

He shrugs, smiling softly. “Just needed to touch you again. Make sure you’re real.”

You squeeze his hand. “I’m real. And yours.”

His cheeks flush pink. “I still can’t believe it sometimes.”

You press your foot against his under the table. “You’re literally the best thing I’ve ever kept a secret.”

He grins. “Yeah? Even better than the time you ‘borrowed’ Lando’s credit card and bought a Dyson Hairdryer?”

You raise a brow. “Especially better than that.”

When dinner’s finished, he insists on doing the dishes while you sit on the counter with your legs swinging, stealing kisses every few minutes. Eventually, he pulls you off the counter and into his arms again, this time guiding you to the couch and wrapping you up in a blanket like he has no plans of ever letting you go.

You fall asleep curled into his side, his hand tangled in your hair, the scent of tulips and tomato sauce still lingering in the air.

And for the first time in days, you feel at home.

—

ynnorris added a post to her story!

seen by lando, oscarpiastri, olliebearman & 2,705,003 others.

lando : wtf is this. WHO IS THE BAE

↳ lando : where are you

↳ lando : on my way!

↳ ynnorris : this is quite literally a paid sponsor post - why r u tweaking

↳ lando : i am going to the restaurant and paying the waitress to tell me all she knows

↳ ynnorris : ok detective. have fun x

↳ lando : why is ur location off?

↳ lando : yn;(

↳ ynnorris : lol

magui_corceiro : tão lindaaaaa 😍

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : thank u ma love but can u pls distract lando with your boobs again? he is being annoying.

liked by magui_corceiro

↳ magui_corceiro : lmao sorry babe - he already left. he was mumbling something about killing someone

↳ ynnorris : oh jfc this man

↳ ynnorris : i CANNOT even breath without him

↳ magui_corceiro : he just loves you. so much. its annoying the way he shows it but he is genuine.

lando : oscar and i r on the way

↳ lando : didn't turn off his location hehe

—

You’re sitting across from Ollie at a tiny round table tucked into the corner of your favorite café — all exposed brick, flower boxes in the windows, and exactly the kind of hidden gem where you can pretend you’re not dating a fellow F1 driver in total secrecy.

The two of you are mid-laugh over something stupid — probably Ollie butchering your coffee order in a fake posh accent — when your food arrives. You add your sponsored post to your story before digging in. Aesthetic. Harmless. Vague. You even remember to crop out his sleeve.

And you turned off your location for Lando. But not Oscar.

You find this out approximately six minutes later, when Ollie’s halfway through his eggs and you see Oscar’s name pop up on your screen. Your stomach plummets.

“Oh no.”

Ollie freezes, fork mid air. “What?”

You answer the phone. “Hi.”

Oscar’s voice is far too casual. “Hey, YN. Just out of curiosity… where exactly are you right now?”

You blink. “Home?”

There’s a pause. And then, in the background—

“IS SHE LYING?”  That’s Lando.

Oscar clears his throat. “Funny. Because I can literally see your live location. At a café. 10 minutes away from home.”

You hang up.

“OH MY GOD,” you whisper scream, jumping up so fast your chair scrapes the tile. “They’re coming.”

Ollie chokes on his coffee. “Who?!”

“My brother. And Oscar.”

He bolts upright. “HOW?! I thought you said you turned off sharing!”

“For Lando! I forgot Oscar still has it! Oh my god, oh my god, I’m gonna throw up—”

You spin in circles, full panic mode.

“Hide,” you hiss.

Ollie blinks. “Where?!”

“I don’t know! Bathroom?! Tuck your limbs, be compact!”

He doesn’t even argue — just grabs his plate, shoves the croissant in his mouth like a criminal, and sprints toward the back, disappearing into the bathroom just as the café bell rings—Ding. You freeze.

“Hi.” Lando. Sunglasses, hoodie, chaos in his eyes.

Oscar’s behind him, arms crossed, face neutral but clearly buzzing with big brother mode.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Lando says, sauntering toward you like he hasn’t just hunted you down like a bloodhound. “Thought you said you were home.”

“I was,” you say quickly. “But then I got hungry.”

Oscar squints at your table. “You ordered two lattes?”

“I’m growing,” you blurt.

Lando snorts and gestures to the empty chair across from you. “Mind if we join?”

You panic. “Actually yes. I’m waiting for a friend.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up. “Magui?”

“Yep,” you lie.

“Funny, I just left hers,” Lando says, pulling out his phone. 

You blink. “Other Magui.”

Oscar leans over the table, eyes narrowing. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why are you sweating again?”

“It’s hot..again.” 

Lando suddenly turns to the waitress, who is just trying to refill the sugar jar. “Hey, random question. Who was my sister sitting with earlier?”

Your soul leaves your body.

The waitress pauses. “Um…”

“Tall?” Oscar asks. “Blonde?”

You kick him under the table. “Are you interrogating the staff now?!”

The poor waitress stares between all of you. “I… I think she was alone?”

You flash her the most grateful look of your life.

“See?” you say, smiling sweetly. “Alone.”

Lando doesn’t buy it. He stands up suddenly. “I’m checking the bathroom.”

“YOU’RE WHAT?!” you shriek, grabbing his sleeve.

Oscar raises both eyebrows. “Why would you stop him if you weren’t hiding someone?”

You flail. “Because it’s weird! What if someone’s in there peeing?!”

“I hope someone’s in there peeing,” Lando says, already walking.

You run after him. “Lando, do not—”

But just as he reaches for the bathroom door, it opens. And out walks an elderly man. You nearly cry with relief.

“Oh,” Lando says, disappointed. “Thought I had you.”

You flip him off behind your back. He shrugs and walks back to the table. “You’re being sketchy as hell, YN.”

“I’m being harassed,” you mutter, sinking into your seat as they finally sit down and start stealing bites of your breakfast.

And then, under the table, your phone buzzes.

please don’t let them kill me.

You smile into your cup.

“Everything okay?” Oscar asks.

You nod. “Perfect.”

—

Across the table, Lando and Oscar are finishing your pancakes like they paid for it, still occasionally side eyeing you like you’re one blink away from cracking under pressure.

“Anyway,” Lando says, licking syrupoff his thumb, “we’re heading to sim. Try not to start a secret relationship while we’re gone.”

“I’ll do my best,” you reply flatly.

Oscar leans in. “If it is someone on the grid… he better be ready to fight me and God.”

You blink. “Okay.”

They both stand, adjusting sunglasses like undercover agents. You smile sweetly. Too sweet. The kind of smile that says please leave before I scream.

“Text me later,” Lando says, pointing at you.

“Be normal,” you reply.

They finally, finally head for the door. You count to ten in your head.

One.

You keep your expression blank.

Two.

Oscar glances back. You pretend to stir your cold coffee.

Three. Four.

Door closes behind them.

Five. Six. Seven.

You stand, head on a swivel, checking for any return.

Eight. Nine. Ten.

You speed walk to the back.

“Babe?” you whisper, tapping gently on the bathroom door like you're defusing a bomb. “They’re gone.”

The door cracks open. Ollie peeks out, cautious.

“Swear?”

“I watched them leave. I waited. I counted.”

He slowly emerges, looking like a hostage who’s been hiding in a bunker. “That was the most terrifying thirty minutes of my life.”

“I aged six years,” you whisper, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the back hallway. “We’re going out the side exit.”

He follows you quietly, his curls slightly messy from running his hands through them, and his hoodie tucked up over his head like he's avoiding paparazzi. You open the alleyway door, peek outside, and the coast is clear. You both walk fast — not quite a run, not quite casual — like two people absolutely doing something suspicious.

When you’re finally around the corner, behind a row of parked scooters, you collapse against a brick wall and burst out laughing.

Ollie bends forward, hands on his knees. “I swear Lando sniffed the air when he walked in. Like he could smell guilt.”

“He tried to interrogate the waitress,” you say, wheezing. “Oscar kept guessing names like he was hosting a live game show.”

Ollie groans, rubbing his eyes. “I was ready to climb out the bathroom window and flee to Monaco.”

You step toward him, arms wrapping around his waist, and bury your face in his hoodie. He immediately pulls you close, chin resting on your head.

“You were so brave,” you murmur into his chest, laughing softly.

“I was a hero,” he replies dramatically. “Someone should’ve given me a medal in there.”

“I’ll give you a kiss instead.”

He doesn’t hesitate — he tilts your chin up and kisses you gently, slowly, like he missed the feel of your lips during the entire harrowing café drama. His hands stay firm on your waist, grounding you as your heart finally settles again.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, smiling.

He smiles back. “You’re the one who posted the breakfast photo.”

You gasp. “Are you blaming me?”

“I’m just saying,” he says, laughing as you swat at his chest, “your boyfriend might have survived longer if his girlfriend wasn’t so chronically online.”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop smiling.

“Come on,” you say, grabbing his hand. “Your place. We’re locking the door and ignoring everyone for the next twelve hours.”

He squeezes your hand. “Best plan I’ve heard all day.”

—

The drive had started off normal enough — Lando behind the wheel of his matte black Urus, sunglasses on, music low, Monaco’s streets breezing past in sharp curves and shiny yachts. Oscar was in the passenger seat, sipping an overpriced iced coffee and talking about literally nothing. Until they hit the residential bend up in La Rousse. And that’s when they saw it.

Your car.

A McLaren 750S, papaya orange, obnoxiously clean — parked in front of a sleek glass apartment building tucked between a bougie wine bar and a tiny yoga studio.

Oscar pointed like he’d spotted a wild animal. “Wait. That’s her car.”

Lando glanced over, barely needing a second. “That’s definitely her car.”

Oscar leaned forward, squinting. “She said she was going to lunch at the harbor. This is not lunch at the harbor.”

Lando frowned. “Is she… seeing someone who lives here?”

Oscar’s head whipped around. “Do we know anyone who lives here?”

“I don’t know, Oscar. Monaco is small. Could be anyone.”

“Could be someone terrible.”

They stared at the building. Lando shifted into park.

Oscar looked at him, alarmed. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” Lando said, already unbuckling his seatbelt. “She’s being shady. This is my little sister. And she’s lying about where she is.”

Oscar followed, both of them marching across the cobbled street toward the front entrance like a couple of underqualified spies in overpriced sneakers. They reached the glass door and immediately ran into… a problem.

The intercom.

Oscar jabbed the call button. “Just press the most expensive sounding name.”

Lando smacked his hand away. “You don’t press things when you don’t know who lives here. That’s literally how you get arrested.”

“Then what’s the plan?”

“Wait until someone leaves and sneak in,” Lando said, peering through the lobby window like a raccoon. “That’s how she got in, probably.”

Oscar tilted his head. “You think she’s sneaking around?”

“I think she’s being suspicious as hell, and I’m gonna get to the bottom of it.”

Meanwhile, up on the fifth floor, you're curled up with a throw blanket, your legs over Ollie’s lap as he lazily braids a strand of your hair. It’s the first time you’ve truly relaxed since you got back from the girls trip. Until you hear it. Muffled, echoing from the street.

“YN!”

You freeze.

You and Ollie both look up, alarmed.

“No,” you whisper.

He sets your hair down slowly. “Was that—?”

You leap off the couch and race to the balcony, throw open the doors— And there they are.

Lando and Oscar. Standing like two overzealous detectives outside Ollie’s building, both looking up at balconies and pointing at cars like this is some heist movie.

Oscar cups his hands and yells again. “YN! We KNOW you’re in there!”

Lando starts pacing. “Come down and explain why your car is parked here!”

You lean over the railing, completely unbothered.

“Hi boys,” you say sweetly. “Are we playing Where’s Waldo but for my love life?”

Lando shields his eyes and glares. “WHY are you here?”

“I live here now,” you lie smoothly. “Decided to become a mysterious heiress.”

Oscar shook his head. “We don’t know anyone who lives in that building!”

You sip from your water glass dramatically. “Maybe I’ve made new friends. You two are awfully invested.”

Lando turns to Oscar. “We’re getting in.”

Oscar knocks on the door again. “Maybe if I say it’s an emergency—”

The front desk security guy appears, looking visibly tired. “You two again?”

“We need to speak to someone in 5B,” Lando says.

“We can’t give out resident info.”

Oscar points. “But that’s our sister’s car—”

“Still not my problem.”

You watch this unfold from your balcony like a queen surveying her court.

Ollie peeks from behind the curtain. “Are they really trying to break in?”

“Yep.”

“Should I hide again?”

“No,” you say, grabbing your water glass. “I’ve got a better idea.”

You step to the edge of the balcony.

“Hey, Lando!” you yell sweetly.

He looks up. “What?”

You smile. “You’re looking a little dehydrated!”

And you dump the water. Splash. It lands squarely on his hoodie and half his head. Oscar screams laughing.

Lando yells, “YOU ABSOLUTE MUPPET!”

You blow him a kiss and disappear inside, shutting the door behind you.

Ollie collapses on the couch, dying laughing. “They’re gonna murder me.”

You throw yourself down next to him. “They don’t even know it’s you yet.”

He pauses. “Do you think they’ll guess?”

You grin, climbing into his lap. “Not before I hit them with the actual glass next.”

—

ynnorris

liked by lando, oscarpiastri, kimi.antonelli and 3,001,008 others.

ynnorris : ◡̈ dump dump dump ◡̈ also shoutout to @/diesel for always dressing me!

—

view 201,110 other comments.

lando : well

↳ lando : he has arms, brown hair and a...ferrari

↳ lando : none of which he will have once i am done with him

magui_corceiro : girl you are GLOWINGGG

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : it's because of you know whooooo

liked by magui_corceiro

↳ lando : WAIT MAGUI YOU KNOW???

↳ lando : gasp. betrayal.

↳ magui_corceiro : bros before hoes srry

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : ilysfm mags

lando : whose baby is that???? is it yours??? oh my god. im sick to my stomach.

↳ ynnorris : lando. have i looked pregnant the last 9 months?

↳ lando : no but i saw you eat pickles with takis yesterday

↳ ynnorris : ive done that for years im just gross

↳ lando : that baby knows something i don't

↳ ynnorris : yes the infant is smarter than you. well aware.

↳ lando : WAIT. does he have kids???? how old is this fucker???

↳ ynnorris : lando. hush. im two seconds away from blocking you. or calling mum.

↳ lando : ok.

diesel : we LOVE you pretty girl

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : love you all even more!!

franciscagomes : call the wag group rn. we all have questions

liked by ynnorris

↳ ynnorris : anything for my ladies

↳ lando : KIKA. MY FRIEND. PLS RECORD THE CONVERSATION.

↳ franciscagomes : bros before hoes srry

oscarpiastri : ferrari? arthur. i swear to god. the things i will do to you.

↳ arthur_leclerc : surprisingly not me. good luck man. half of monaco has ferrari's.

liked by ynnorris

username00 : half the comment section being lando talking to himself is taking me out.

liked by ynnorris

—

The Bearmans’ house smells like fresh-baked bread and a hint of rose from the garden. You’re barefoot in the grass, sipping lemonade, laughter echoing around the yard as the sun dips just a little lower behind the tall trees. It’s warm in the way only June afternoons can be — not too hot, just sun-kissed and soft, like the kind of day you want to bottle up and live in forever.

Ollie’s little sister, Amalie, is painting your nails a bright coral shade on the back patio. She’s concentrating so hard her tongue is sticking out, and you’re trying not to giggle because her hands are surprisingly steady.

“You’d make a killer glam team,” you say.

Amalie beams. “I already told Ollie I want to do makeup models one day.”

From a few feet away, you hear Thomas — Ollie’s younger brother — shout “heads up!” just before he launches a soccer ball across the garden to their dad. Chaos. Pure, happy chaos.

But the world slows down when Ollie walks out of the house, cradling his cousin’s newborn in his arms. You’ve never seen him like this.

He’s so gentle. Careful. Like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever held — which she might be. The way he looks down at her with soft eyes, how he adjusts the blanket on her little chest, how he sways back and forth without even realizing it. Your heart does something dangerous.

“She loves him,” Ollie’s mum whispers beside you, having appeared with a tray of snacks like all mums do. “He’s always been good with babies. Even when he was little, he’d hold Amalie like she was made of glass.”

You nod slowly, unable to look away from him. The baby coos. Ollie smiles — all pink cheeks and affection — and then, like he can feel your gaze, he looks up and catches your eyes.

“Want to hold her?” he asks.

You hesitate. “I might drop her.”

“You won’t.” He’s already walking over. 

“She’s tiny,” you murmur.

“She’s perfect,” he says, softly, as he passes her to you.

You settle into the chair, heart in your throat, arms curved just right, and suddenly — she’s there. A little pink face. Sleepy eyes. A tuft of fuzzy hair and a lemon-print onesie. She sighs once and then melts against your chest, like you were made to hold her.

You blink, overwhelmed. “Oh my god.”

Ollie crouches in front of you, watching you with this look — soft, proud, like he’s seeing something sacred.

“She likes you,” he murmurs.

“She snuggled,” you whisper. “Ollie, she snuggled me.”

He laughs under his breath. “That’s usually a good sign.”

You glance up at him, the warmth of the baby against your heart, and you swear the moment stretches. Like time pauses for just the two of you.

“She’s so small,” you say, voice barely above a breath.

“You’re holding her like you’ve done it a thousand times.”

And you feel it — not just the weight of the baby in your arms, but something heavier in your chest. The kind of love that sneaks up on you quietly, builds over months and moments until it breaks the dam. You look at Ollie again, and he’s still staring. Like you’ve just said his name without saying anything at all. Later, when you’re lying on the couch inside, baby-free, curled up next to him with a blanket over your knees, Ollie kisses the top of your head and whispers,

“I think I fell a little more in love with you today.”

You smile, sleepy and full. “Me too.”

—

The second you pull up in Ollie’s Ferrari, you already regret it. Not because it isn’t fun — it is. The car purrs beneath your fingertips, the sun reflects off its deep metallic red like a spotlight, and people turn their heads when you park it like you own half the street. But because your brother and…other brother are already outside the café. And they see everything. Oscar squints the moment you parallel park. Lando does a full body pivot like a sniffer dog. And by the time you’ve stepped out, their jaws are already halfway on the pavement.

“Since when do you drive a Ferrari?” Lando asks, arms crossed.

You shrug, locking the car. “Borrowed it.”

Oscar walks a slow, suspicious circle around the car like it’s a crime scene. “From who?”

You smile, innocent. “A friend.”

Lando points at you. “You don’t have friends with cars like this.”

“I do now.”

He mutters something under his breath, then crouches in front of the grille like he’s about to get a reading off the VIN number. Oscar checks the back.

You blink. “Are you serious right now?”

“Very,” Lando says, pressing a hand to the hood. “Still warm.”

“I just drove it here, sherlock.”

He ignores you and turns to Oscar. “This isn’t a rental.”

Oscar nods solemnly. “This is definitely someone’s personal car. That color isn’t even in the stock range. This is custom paint.”

You walk past them into the restaurant. “Okay, Sherlocks. You two enjoy your Top Gear moment.”

Inside, the hostess leads you to your table. Through the floor to ceiling glass, you watch Lando and Oscar continue their ridiculous investigation. Oscar checks the side mirrors. Lando opens his Notes app like he’s logging evidence.

You text Ollie under the table.

ur car is being interrogated.

what did he say.

oscar just wiped a fingerprint off the bumper and looked disappointed it wasn’t a match.

they’re unwell.

they’re obsessed with me.

i don’t blame them.

You smile and sip your drink, just as Lando finally enters, sunglasses now pushed up into his hair.

He sits down, leans across the table, and says with total seriousness.

“You’re hiding something.”

Oscar sits beside him, arms folded. “And we’re going to find out what it is.”

You lean back in your seat, unbothered. “You guys do know you’re not in a Netflix documentary, right?”

They don’t blink. You smile sweetly. “Hope you like the carbon fiber seats. They’re heated.”

They both groan at once.

—

ynnorris

liked by lando, olliebearman, oscarpiastri and 3,709,002 others.

ynnorris : beach bummin

(comments r off until lando and oscar learn to behave)

—

The sun is warm on your skin, the sand soft beneath your towel, and Ollie is lying next to you, arm lazily thrown over your waist, both of you half-asleep under a wide straw umbrella. Your phone buzzes against your thigh, and you grin at the likes rolling in on your Instagram post. Back in Monaco, however, peace is not the vibe.

Lando’s lying on his couch, one sock on, one sock missing, a half-eaten sandwich on the coffee table, and a look of absolute suspicion on his face. The moment your story popped up, he froze mid-bite. He stares at it again now, zooming in and out like it’ll suddenly reveal a reflection of the man holding your hand. Next to him, Oscar is half asleep, scrolling TikTok. He only glances up when Lando mutters-

“She’s on a beach. Somewhere tropical. And that arm isn’t hers.”

Oscar peers at the screen. “Yeah, no. That’s 100% male forearm. Good tan too.”

Lando groans and slaps his phone down. “She turned her location off for me, Oscar.”

Oscar shrugs. “She didn’t for me.”

Lando’s head whips around. “What?!”

Oscar scrolls casually. “Says she’s in Ibiza.”

Lando stands up like he’s just been personally betrayed by the island of Ibiza. “Who the hell is she in Ibiza with?!”

Oscar hums. “Could be anyone. Could be a friend.”

“A friend with coconut water and veiny forearms? Yeah, okay.”

Lando paces.

Oscar adds, “She’s posting suspiciously curated content. This isn’t an accident.”

Lando stops. “There’s only one person who might know.”

Oscar’s brow lifts. “You’re not gonna—”

“Oh, I am.”

—

Magui opens the door in an oversized tee, holding a smoothie bowl and looking halfway through a Real Housewives binge.

Lando barges in. “Where is she?”

“Hello to you too,” Magui deadpans, shutting the door behind him. “Can I help you, detective Norris?”

He turns his phone toward her, showing your story. “Do you see this? Do you see the coconut? The hand? The shoulder vein?”

Magui takes the phone, sighs, and walks into the kitchen. “I’m not doing this today.”

Oscar appears behind Lando with a quiet “Hey,” and grabs a spoon from her counter like he lives there.

Magui points at them both. “You two need a hobby. And no, I’m not telling you where she is.”

“She’s in Ibiza,” Lando growls. “With a man.”

Oscar squints at the photo again. “He has nice wrists.”

Lando smacks his shoulder.

Magui leans against the counter, bored. “You’re acting like she’s being kidnapped. She’s on holiday. During her break. Living her best life.”

“With who?” Lando repeats, clearly unraveling.

Magui smiles slowly. “Let’s just say he treats her right. Brings her flowers. Drives a Ferrari.”

Oscar gasps. “It’s someone we know.”

Lando looks like he’s about to pass out.

Magui grabs the remote. “Maybe if you two stopped acting like overprotective sitcom dads, she’d actually tell you things.”

Lando stares at the TV. Oscar leans over the couch, mouth full of granola. “I think I’m gonna solve this before him.”

Lando glares. “Over my dead body.”

—

You’re sitting poolside, legs in the water, a mocktail in your hand, and your boyfriend’s head resting comfortably in your lap. Ollie’s got on sunglasses and a backwards cap, sun-warm and sleepy as you run your fingers through his curls and talk about absolutely nothing. The playlist you made together is playing softly in the background, your towel smells like coconut, and you haven’t worn real shoes in three days. Life is perfect. Until Ollie tenses. And sits up slowly.

You blink. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer — just stares out across the resort terrace like he’s seen a ghost. You follow his gaze. And there they are. Lando. And Oscar.

Wearing disguises that don’t work, sunglasses, baseball caps, and matching white linen shirts like they’re auditioning for a DJ set at a beach club. They’re lurking behind a fake palm tree near the juice bar, whispering and peeking over the shrubbery like two middle-aged tourists in a soap opera. You blink again.

“Oh my god.”

Ollie looks at you in horror. “Do we run?”

You sip your drink calmly. “No. We act natural.”

“Define natural,” he whispers as you pull your sunglasses on.

“Hot. Unbothered. Maybe a little smug.”

Ollie adjusts his hat. “So just you, then.”

You grin. Meanwhile, across the patio, Lando is practically vibrating with tension.

“That’s him. That’s his hair,” he hisses to Oscar.

Oscar nods gravely. “Same jawline. Definitely Bearman. I knew it.”

“I can’t believe she’s dating Ollie.” Lando sounds genuinely wounded. “She went for the baby driver?!”

“He’s not even legally old enough to rent a car in some countries,” Oscar mutters.

“I knew that arm in the story was familiar,” Lando groans. “I knew it.”

Oscar’s eyes narrow. “They’re… touching.”

“They’re cuddling.” Lando grips the fake tree like it insulted him. “Oh my god. I’m gonna pass out.”

“Stay strong,” Oscar whispers. “We’re already here. We finish the mission.”

Lando squares his shoulders like he’s going into war.

“Let’s go confront them.”

You look up from your drink just in time to see Lando and Oscar marching toward you with the energy of two men who haven’t thought this through even slightly.

Ollie mutters under his breath. “Should I pretend I don’t speak English?”

Lando points the moment he gets close. “YOU!”

You smile brightly. “Me?”

Oscar looks at Ollie like he just kicked his dog. “So it is you.”

Ollie raises his hands. “Hi.”

“How long?” Lando demands, arms crossed, dramatic as ever. “How long has this been happening?”

You feign innocence. “Define ‘this’?”

“The hand-holding. The pool-side spooning. The vacationing.”

Ollie opens his mouth, closes it, then says gently, “About… five months?”

Lando gasps like he’s just been stabbed.

“FIVE?!”

Oscar turns to you. “You told me you were going to get lunch. That was three months ago.”

Lando paces. “Oh my god. We interrogated the car.”

You sip your drink calmly. “Yeah, that was super embarrassing for you both.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Oscar asks, voice only slightly hurt now. “We’re your brothers.”

“Because you’re my brothers,” you say, motioning toward their matching shirts. “And look at you. You flew to Ibiza to catch me like I’m running a smuggling ring.”

“Honestly,” Ollie mumbles, “this went way better than I thought it would.”

Lando stops pacing. “You thought this went well? I want to fight you. Right now. In the pool.”

You grab Ollie’s arm protectively. “Absolutely not.”

Oscar sighs and flops onto the lounger beside you. “Well… now that it’s out there… I guess I can stop cyberstalking every hand in your photos.”

Lando mutters, “I need a drink. Or five.”

You nudge Ollie. “Should we buy them smoothies as a peace offering?”

Ollie smiles weakly. “Will they spit in them?”

“Almost definitely.”

—

olliebearman

liked by ynnorris, lando, kimi.antonelli and 5,007,005 others.

olliebearman : since her brother and her...oscar...flew all the way to ibiza to bust us. happy hard launc

tagged : ynnorris

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—

[spikedfearn]

Heavy Lies The Crown

Chapter II

Sir Jimmy Crystal x fem!reader

summary: Decades after the Rage Virus devastated the UK, the infected have thinned but the world remains lawless and brutal. You’ve been surviving on your own until you’re captured by patrols from a notorious compound hidden in the Scottish Highlands: Eden. Its soldiers are strange—clad in random mismatched tracksuits, long blonde hair hanging tangled and wild like heathen halos, each armed with beautifully maintained bows. Silent. Precise. Unsmiling.

And then there’s their leader. Sir Jimmy Crystal. A gold-chained, tiara-wearing, crushed velvet zip-up psycho with a God complex thicker than his drawl. He doesn’t want to kill you. He intends to keep you.

wc: 11.2k

a/n: wasn’t expecting the Jimmy fic to get so much hate, but honestly? It just made me wanna make him extra gross and grimy. So here you go—extra unhinged, extra filthy, and extra long 😘!! big thanks to Liz @fuckoffbard for beta reading, you're the backbone of the Jack O'Connell fandom on tumblr!!

warnings: dark!romance, dead dove: do not eat, post-apocalyptic setting, cult dynamics, abduction, captivity, forced proximity, authoritarian/power dynamics, God complex, psychological manipulation, ritualistic obedience, choking, breath play, breeding kink, p in v, creampie, cumplay, spit kink, overstimulation, corruption arc, sexual tension, graphic violence, intimidation, d/s dynamics, forced bathing, worship themes, verbal degradation, possessive behavior, cult themes, brainwashing, forced religious imagery, indoctrination, twisted morality, stockholm syndrome, dubcon, escape attempt, childhood trauma, trauma bonding, power imbalance, manipulative affection, non-traditional grooming

likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated please enjoy!!

Fic Masterlist/Main Masterlist

Chapter II: My King, Glory Onto Thee

The first thing you notice is the warmth.

A hearth burning low. The crackle of wood being eaten slowly by flame. The sting of moss and woodsmoke curling deep into your nose. You draw a breath before you open your eyes, and when you do, the world swims slowly into focus.

You’re in a room that doesn’t match the ruins you passed through the night before. Not the crumbling chapel. Not the moss-slick corridors. This space feels kept. Not grand, not orderly, but loved in its own strange way—every surface cluttered with relics of a long-dead world.

The walls are patched stone, lined with warped shelves and crooked cabinets. Upon them, a trove of forgotten toys rests like sacred idols. A Power Rangers action figure, scuffed and chipped but still standing proud. A Teletubbies lamp—long extinguished—grinning its eerie smile from a shadowed corner. A Barney the Dinosaur plush, faintly torn and patched with thread, resting beside a Digimon figurine with its tail snapped off. A Pokemon lunchbox, its paint faded but still hopeful, tucked between a stack of brittle comic books and a metal tin adorned with neon spaceships.

The floor is layered with faded rugs and long-stitched pelts, old and threadbare but softened by time. The air hums faintly with dust and dried flowers. The ceiling beams are adorned with ropes and dried herbs that twist like old vines. Against one wall rests a long, low pallet—not a bed, not a cot, but a nest of patched blankets and animal hides. The one you’ve just woken upon.

You shift, brushing a hand across the threads. The room doesn’t just hold you. It keeps you.

The sound of movement draws your attention sharply. The door creaks open.

Two figures slip inside. The same two that had stood witness as Sir Jimmy Crystal announced your name the night before. The same hands that tightened the rope around your wrists now bear a chipped bowl and a tin cup. One is wearing a red Adidas tracksuit patched with old flannel, the other blue Nike replaced by crude stitching, both made of nylon fabric. Their long blonde hair hangs in tangles down their backs.

They don’t scowl. They don’t sneer. They bow their heads as they cross the threshold, brushing their hands to their chests before looking at you. Not like a prisoner anymore. Not like a thing. But like someone. Someone special.

Holy.

“Petal,” the one in red breathes, voice soft-boiled out of childlike awe. Not ‘you.’ Not ‘her.’

“He said you’d be awake soon.”

The other gestures to the tin cup, setting it down beside you. The water is lukewarm, faintly smelling of boiled metal and woodsmoke.

“We’re to bathe you,” she adds quietly, brushing long strands of hair from her own sharp, too-thin face. “To make you clean. As He commanded.”

Through the open door, the hallway beyond is faintly illuminated by a guttering lamp. The walls out there bear the same strange, shrine-like clutter: a shelf lined with broken action figures and figurines, torn comic book pages plastered like holy scripture, a long-abandoned Game Boy wedged between chipped jars. The air hums with old memories and fresh obedience.

Here, surrounded by relics of a boyhood long ago lost, by threads and scraps of a world gone quiet, you understand:

This room doesn’t just belong to Him.

It’s a piece of the man he used to be, pressed and dried between the pages of decay—a relic. A treasure. A warning.

And, as the two draw closer, reaching for your hands, brushing hair from your face with practiced care, you can only wonder:

What will Eden ask of its newest seedling?

What will He make of its newest flower?

But when one of them gestures for you to rise, to disrobe, to walk with them to the wash basin—something in you snaps. You draw yourself up sharply and fix them both with a stare that burns.

“I can wash myself,” you bite, “if He’s so desperate for obedience, maybe He needs a bath first.”

They hesitate. Just long enough for you to register the shock that blazes across their faces, making the room seem suddenly too quiet.

The two women glance at each other—quick, sharp. Not afraid of you, precisely, but wary of making a wrong move. They wait until you stand, taking your sweet time, brushing the dust from your grimy attire. Not like one of theirs. Not like some feral thing to be scrubbed and collared. But like someone making a statement with every breath.

Then one of them gestures, slow and cautious, toward a long, shallow basin set upon a low table in the corner. The water within is faintly steaming, laced with dried petals and faint traces of moss. It doesn’t smell like any luxury you remember from before. The world doesn’t have luxuries anymore. But it’s clean. Careful. An offering.

“He said you were to be bathed,” the woman whispers, voice soft as freshly fallen snow, “to be made clean. We’ll help if you need it.”

You draw closer, the pads of your fingers skimming across the surface of the water. The warmth bleeds into your skin—sudden and soothing. The petals shift under your hand. The faint crackle of dried moss reminds you of the earth itself. The air here is thick. Not like the cold mist of the woods, but like a room that knows it has a purpose.

Behind you, the second woman shifts the door shut, the sound swallowing itself quickly. The room narrows to this moment: you and the two women, bathed in faint lamp glow. You don’t ask for help. You don’t need help. Not anymore.

With slow, deliberate precision, you shrug free of the threadbare shirt that has felt like a second skin. The air tightens. The two women glance down instantly, the threads of their tracksuits shifting as if some celestial weight rests upon their shoulders. Not because you’ve exposed skin. Not because you’ve undressed. But because you chose it.

Willingly.

In a place where obedience is enforced, where silence is holy, choice is an alien concept.

One of them exhales sharply as you step into the shallow basin. The water embraces your legs, rising higher as you sink to your knees. The petals shift, brushing your skin like ghostly fingers. The other woman kneels beside the basin, hand hovering over the surface of the water, unable to touch until granted permission.

“He said you were special,” she murmurs, voice low. “That you weren’t like the rest of us.”

You flinch, just a little, not because you disagree, but because of the terror in how she says them. Not suspicion. Not disdain.

Reverence.

The other woman returns with a cloth—torn from a long-ago bed sheet, worn smooth. You don’t ask for it, don’t accept it. You raise a hand sharply, brushing wet tendrils of hair from your neck, reaching for the cloth. The woman freezes, then bows her head and hands it to you.

You wash yourself.

Each stroke of the cloth is deliberate, every bead of water on your skin illuminated in the faint glow. The room doesn’t breathe until you’ve rinsed your arms, your throat, your hands. Until the threads of dried moss and petals cling to your knees. Until the air tastes of alga and charcoal.

Beads of water cling to your skin, cutting lazy wet trails from your shoulders down the length of your back. The room holds its breath, silent and careful.

Then, from the doorway—a soft sound.

Footsteps.

Not quiet, but not loud either. Leisurely. Certain. Purposeful.

You feel the shift before you see him, the subtle tightening of the two women, their posture rigid with nervous reverence. Neither lifts their eyes from the stone floor as the footsteps approach, then stop. Right there. At the threshold.

He doesn’t speak immediately, doesn’t announce himself. He simply fills the doorway with his presence, radiating all the authority of a leader. It spills through the space, trickling along your spine, making every nerve tense.

You don’t turn to look. You don’t have to. You can feel his gaze on your back—intense, patient, deeply amused.

The silence thickens, stretching, becoming uncomfortable. Until finally, his voice fills the quiet, velvet and whiskey-soft.

“Petal. Ye look good like that. Clean suits ye.”

He steps fully into the room then, black sneakers scuffing lightly against worn stone, closing the distance one easy, slow step at a time. He carries the scent of smoke and something faintly sweet, old wood and dried herbs clinging to him like a shroud. He pauses, eyes flicking briefly to the two women posted on either side of the door. He nods once, short and sharp.

They stand instantly. Quietly. Without argument, without hesitation. They exit the room like ghosts, door whispering shut behind them.

And then it’s just you and him.

Jimmy shifts his weight, leaning back against a cluttered shelf crowded with those childish relics, arms folded casually across his chest. You can hear the scrape of fabric, the gentle tap of a ring against wood.

“Had a chance tae settle in, have ye?”

His tone is conversational, almost playful—but there’s something buried beneath it, a quiet warning that runs like wire through silk.

You glance over your shoulder, deliberately slow. Defiant. Careful. You don’t speak. Not yet.

He grins when your eyes meet his, that charismatic, unsettling smile sliding across his face—warm, boyish, deeply unsettling in its innocence.

He shifts closer, pausing to pluck something from the shelf—a small, faded Pokémon figurine, its paint chipped, its eyes hollow. He turns it slowly between his fingers, gaze fixed on it, momentarily childlike.

“Funny, innit? How things from before…” he trails off, rubbing a thumb over the worn plastic. “We still cling to ‘em, don’t we? Like they’re special. Precious. Even after they’ve broken.”

His eyes flicker back to yours—sharp, intense, strangely vulnerable beneath the twisted humor.

“But even broken things have their place, Petal. Don’t they?”

Your chest tightens. You don’t answer—not immediately. Instead, you lift your chin just slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

He chuckles softly at your quiet defiance, setting the figurine carefully back onto the shelf.

“Ah, quiet today, aren’t ye?” He shakes his head slightly, hair falling messily across his eyes. “Gotta say, I’m surprised. Thought ye’d be mouthin’ off again by now. Guess the water washed away more than just dirt, huh?”

That does it. You narrow your eyes, feeling the words sharpen on your tongue. You know better than to bait him, but something in you can’t resist. Can’t help testing the wire between you, feeling how much pressure it takes before it snaps.

“Maybe I just didn’t have anything to say to a grown man playing with his toys.”

His eyebrows lift, slow and deliberate. Not anger—interest. Delight.

“Oh,” he breathes, soft and dangerously amused. “There ye are.”

He pushes off the shelf, slowly stepping toward you, the worn soles of his shoes echoing softly against the floor. His eyes never leave yours, locked in, hungry with a child’s selfish need to own, to possess, to conquer. He stops close—too close, the heat of him pressing against the cool, damp air around you.

“I was worried I’d lost ye already. Thought I’d have tae work harder tae coax that bratty wee tongue out.”

His voice drops lower, nearly a whisper now.

“But we’ve plenty o’ time for that, don’t we, Petal?”

He’s still standing so close—close enough that you can feel the heat of him radiating into your chilled skin. Close enough that each breath feels like borrowed air. His eyes roam deliberately, openly, tracing the droplets that linger across your collarbone, sliding down your throat and pooling at your chest before your body disappears beneath the water.

Slowly, he reaches out.

You stiffen instinctively, but his fingertips just brush your shoulder—featherlight, tracing the path of water droplets downward. It’s barely a touch, but it ignites something low and dangerous in your blood.

“Look at ye, Petal,” he murmurs, voice rich and low as honey poured over gravel. “All sharp edges and attitude, thinkin’ ye’re safe as long as ye bite.”

His hand trails lower, thumb catching a droplet just above your collarbone. Your breath catches, your heart hammering traitorously in your chest. You tilt your chin up, defiant even as heat floods beneath your skin.

He notices. Of course he does.

“There she is,” he whispers, voice thickening with amusement, his thumb brushing slowly along your collarbone. “I knew ye couldn’t stay hidden long. It’s alright tae want tae fight me. Makes it sweeter when ye give in.”

Your teeth grit, words spilling out before you can bite them back. “And if I don’t?”

His grin broadens, darker now, a shadow creeping across the corners of his eyes. He leans closer, lips hovering just near your ear.

“Ye think it matters what ye say, love?” he whispers, voice velvet-edged with warning. “In here, what matters is who owns the room. And we both know it ain’t ye.”

He draws back slowly, gaze locked on yours, fingers curling just enough to make his touch possessive. A shiver ripples down your spine, betraying you.

“I might be king round here,” he continues, softer now, gaze heavy with something dark and patient, “but I’m still just a man beneath the crown. A man with needs, Petal.”

He dips his head, his voice dropping even lower, rougher, the heat of his breath grazing your cheek.

“And my patience is wearin’ thin.”

Your heart thuds painfully in your chest. The air between you thickens, electric and raw, your breathing uneven, heavy. You feel the space narrowing, closing tighter around you both.

He pulls back just enough to see your face, studying you, savoring your silent defiance.

“How long do ye think I’ll hold back, hm?” he murmurs, lips curving slowly. “Ye’ve got fire in ye, Petal, but keep burnin’ too hot and I’ll have tae snuff it out. And believe me, sweet thing…”

His thumb slowly drags over your lower lip, parting it slightly, eyes darkening when your breath trembles against his touch.

“When I do, ye’ll thank me for it.”

He drops his hand slowly, leaving your lips cold in the absence of his heat, stepping back just enough to let you breathe again. But the room still pulses with the threat, the promise, the dark, tangled desire beneath his warning.

He smiles again, boyish and warm and utterly terrifying in how deeply you already feel yourself falling into it.

“So watch that pretty mouth,” he says, voice sliding back into a mock-innocent lilt. “Or next time, I won’t be askin’ so nicely.”

The water laps gently at your shoulders, lukewarm now, liquid tendrils slowly pruning your flesh. It offers no protection—not from him, not from his gaze that slips effortlessly over you, unapologetic and hungry. You feel exposed, vulnerable beneath that stare, but something inside you refuses to back down.

Jimmy tilts his head slightly, gaze never wavering from yours, a slow smirk spreading across his mouth

“Awful quiet now, Petal,” he murmurs softly, deliberately. "Did I manage tae tame that sharp tongue already? I expected better.”

He kneels slowly beside the basin, his presence crowding you, leaning closer until he's nearly breathing your air. You can see every tiny detail now—the tangled blonde strands of hair that fall over his forehead, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the hint of boyish mischief that makes him as dangerously charming as he is unsettling.

But you refuse to wilt beneath it like a flower that's given up.

Instead, you glare up at him, raising your chin defiantly, your words steeped in venom. “Maybe I’m just waiting to see if you're brave enough to actually do something about it.”

His smile sharpens, something hot and bright glittering behind his eyes like fire under ice.

“Oh, brave enough?” He chuckles softly, low and rich, cocking his head in amusement, his breath ghosting across your cheek. “Careful what ye ask for, love.”

He reaches out slowly, fingers tracing over the surface of the water, deliberately close to where your skin hides beneath it, yet never quite touching—teasing you, testing you, daring you to move away first.

“Ye think ye're strong enough tae handle me?” he whispers, dangerously close now, voice heavy with implication. “Because once I start, Petal, I won’t be stoppin’ just because ye ask nicely.”

You feel your heartbeat quicken, betraying you again, as your pulse races against your skin. Your breath catches, voice sharpened with defiance.

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

Jimmy's lips twitch upward again, his gaze dark and possessive. He leans closer, eyes locked with yours, every word a deliberate caress against your ear.

“No. It’s supposed tae warn ye.”

Without warning, his hand dips beneath the surface, catching your jaw firmly—not harsh, but commanding, thumb brushing against your lower lip with quiet intent. Your pulse jumps at his touch, your breathing uneven and shallow, betraying a heat you want desperately to deny.

“That defiant wee mouth of yours is askin' tae be disciplined,” he whispers, close enough to feel his hot breath fan across your side profile, his voice coarse and possessive. “I’m tryin’ tae be patient, Petal. I’m tryin’ tae give ye a chance tae be good for me. But ye keep testin’ me, and soon I’m not gonna hold back.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough for you to see the raw hunger in his eyes, the thin thread of control fraying dangerously.

“I’ll take ye apart, piece by piece,” he murmurs, low and rough-edged with promise. “And trust me, ye'll love every fuckin’ minute of it.”

His calloused thumb drags slowly across your lip again, gaze heavy and unblinking, daring you—begging you—to provoke him just a little further.

And despite yourself, you feel the urge to do exactly that.

You hate the way your breath trembles.

Hate that the heat lingering on your lips is his. Hate that he looks at you like he already knows you’ll break—that you’ll thank him for it. That you’ll beg.

So you speak. Not because it’s smart. Not because it’s safe. But because it’s you.

“You talk a lot for someone who says he doesn’t ask nicely.”

Your voice isn’t as strong as you want it to be. It wavers. It cracks. But the words come out anyway—sharp and proud, as if your spine hasn’t started to shake beneath the surface.

For one perfect moment, there’s nothing.

Just stillness.

Then the air snaps like a struck match.

He moves—fast.

His hand grips your wrist, hard enough to startle but not enough to bruise. The water splashes as he pulls you upright, the warmth cascading off your skin in quick, shivering rivulets. You stumble forward out of instinct, out of balance—and suddenly his body is flush with yours.

His chest, warm and solid, pins you back against the edge of the basin. The crushed velvet texture of his deep purple tracksuit presses to your skin, the soaked fabric clinging where you’re still dripping. His other hand braces beside your head on the stone wall, caging you in.

You can feel the tension in him, taut like a wire stretched too far.

“That’s the trouble with mouths like yours,” he breathes, his forehead hovering near yours, not touching—but close. “They never know when tae stop.”

Your pulse slams in your throat. The stone is cool at your back, but his presence is scorching—full-body heat, as if every part of him is coiled with restraint he’s barely holding onto.

“Think you’ve got me on some leash, do ye?” he murmurs, voice thick, edged with something feral. “Think just ‘cause I’ve waited this long, I’ll keep waitin’?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not with the air knocked clean from your lungs.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face, taking in your parted lips, the flicker in your eyes, the twitch of your jaw as you try not to flinch.

“That’s what I like about ye, Petal,” he says, softer now, almost reverent. “That fight in ye. But don’t mistake my patience for mercy. Not in Eden. Not with me.”

Your breath comes shallow. His body still hasn’t moved. You can feel his heartbeat now—pounding in time with yours.

“Ye think this is about breakin’ ye?” he murmurs. “It’s not. It’s about proving you belong here. That ye were made for it.”

His voice is low, dangerous, and laced with something that sounds almost tender—if tenderness could be twisted, distorted, fed on worship and want.

Then he shifts, leaning closer, mouth beside your ear now.

“But keep mouthing off like that, love…” A soft chuckle. “And I’ll have tae do somethin’ about it.”

He doesn’t kiss you.

He just lingers—letting you feel the threat of it, the inevitability of it, hanging there like a promise too heavy to hold.

Then, finally, he steps back.

The cold hits you like a slap, your wet skin suddenly bare again without the heat of him. He lets your wrist go last—slowly, deliberately, fingers dragging away like a man not finished, just… pausing.

“Dry off,” he says, voice cool again, distant. “Then we’ll talk about that mouth.”

And with that, he turns and leaves—door swinging shut behind him like the closing of a trap.

The door shuts with a finality that echoes.

Not loud. Not slamming. But loud enough. Enough to leave its shape pressed into the walls of the room like a bruise.

You don’t move for a long time.

The water clings to your skin in thin, shivering trails. Your heart drums like it’s trying to claw its way up your throat. The place where his hand had closed around your wrist still tingles, phantom-like. Not pain. Not pleasure. Just presence.

You should be angry.

You are angry. The burn in your chest confirms it. Fury, sharp and bitter, swirls with something else—something you don’t want to name. Not heat. Not hunger.

Something worse: curiosity.

Your fingers curl around the edge of the basin, nails biting stone. You breathe through your nose, hard. Once. Twice.

You dress with shaking hands—snatching up the fabric laid out for you, something soft and far too clean for a place like this. As if someone knew you’d belong here before you ever did.

And just as you knot the thin cloth at your waist, the door creaks open again.

It’s not Jimmy.

Two of his flock—Jimmy Ink and Jimmima, you think you overhead before, though you’re not sure who’s who—stand in the doorway. Same long, matted blond hair. In their frayed, mismatched tracksuits, Same sun-dazed, glassy-eyed calm.

And, up close, you can see the red, puckered scar tissue of an inverted cross that had long since been carved into the flesh of their foreheads.

Their gazes flicker differently when they look at you.

Not curious.

Reverent.

Like you're no longer just a stranger plucked from the woods.

Like you're something claimed.

Neither of them speaks. They don’t need to. One simply gestures, head bowed. The other carries something in their arms: a towel, neatly folded, and a small object cradled carefully in their palms.

A plush rabbit.

Old. Patchy. Once white, now yellowed with age. One button eye missing.

Childhood.

Your stomach turns.

“He said you were to be shown your place,” one of them murmurs, voice hushed like they’re in a church mid-sermon.

The towel is offered to you, and without waiting for a response, they guide you from the room.

The path is narrow. Winding. The walls of Eden are damp in places, lined with ivy that’s been permitted to grow wild and tangled, like the hair of its people. There’s no hum of electricity. No modern sound at all. Just dripping water, footsteps on stone, the rustle of branches far above.

Until the air changes again. Warmer. Close.

They lead you to a door. Carved crudely but sturdy. You notice marks seared into the wood like runes—a sunburst of some kind. Radiating lines. A crown. An inverted cross. Seven x’s.

They open it for you.

The scent hits first.

Not rot. Not damp. Not the sweat and woodsmoke that saturate the rest of Eden.

This room smells of plastic. Dust. Paperbacks. Old glue. Something sweet and artificial—nostalgia embalmed.

It’s his room.

Or no—not quite. His sanctum. His retreat.

Toys line the shelves. Plastic bins overflow with battered VHS tapes. Piles of old teen magazines curl on the floor near a bunk fitted with a faded Blue’s Clues comforter. A cracked CRT television sits proudly on a table like an altar, surrounded by sticker-covered remotes and tamagotchis with dead screens.

You step inside before you realize what you’re doing.

“This is where He keeps His most precious things,” the girl says, almost dreamily.

“You’ll sleep here now,” the other adds.

There's a stretch of unsettling silence, both of them blinking at you once—twice, before they shut the door behind you.

And for the first time since arriving in Eden, you’re alone—but not free.

Not even close.

You quietly slip out of Jimmy’s sanctum not long after being left alone, the heat of being half-bathed and half-dressed clinging to your skin. You step into the corridor, bare feet pressing against cold, uneven stone, and the air embraces you—a far cry from the overwhelming warmth of his room.

The hallway is empty, silent, but the walls hum with something old: echoes of laughter too long gone, of toys peeled open, hearts carved out and replaced by faith. You move forward, tracing your fingers along rough-hewn stone, each dip and crack a story of survival, ritual, decay.

The hallway opens to the central courtyard—but even before you fully emerge, you’re hit by its effect: seven figures moving in choreographed harmony. Not dozens. Not a mob. Just seven. Seven who belong to Eden.

They’re working: carrying water, stacking wood, sharpening arrows. Their bows lean against the courtyard’s mossy bench, waiting. Their tracksuits? Clashing. Electric—neon orange next to forest green, blood red next to midnight blue. Loud in this drab world.

Their hair—shoulder-length gold, tangled and greasy, stuck to their necks and backs with sweat. Their skin sun-worn, marked with scars and theology—scratches forming crosses on necks, wrists, even the backs of hands.

They work in eerie silence—or quiet so deep it hums in your bones.

Then—

Jimmy steps into the courtyard.

They all still immediately. Heads bow. Knees bend. The air slackens as though the world itself tips toward him.

He advances, tracksuit hanging open over his chest scars, chestnut-blond hair over his shoulders, eyes sharp as cracked glass. He breathes in once and the courtyard leans forward with him.

“Mornin’, me beautiful bastards,” he sings out, voice warm and brittle like aged whiskey. “D’you pray this mornin’, or think I’m sleepin’ in, eh?”

Their voices ring collectively:

“Sir Jimmy.”

“Sir!”

“Blessed be!”

Their tone is worshipful—shook off mundane life, baptized in his godhood.

He twirls on dusty stone, raising arms wide—as if the world is made of nothing but his command.

Your throat tightens. You step back, weaving along the shadow of a broken pillar. You know they’ll obey. All seven of them. You also know the intimacy here is exclusive—and you’re watching a private performance.

You shift, cloth clinging to damp skin. Your stomach clenches when they approach: one of them glances, steps forward to interrupt—bows—but another stops them with a single sharp noise. The seven freeze again. Even their bowls of water suspended in mid-air.

Jimmy’s eyes sweep the courtyard, hunting. When they land on you—quiet in the shadows—something changes. Not his voice. Not his posture. Something softer, hungrier.

He inclines his head.

And they all part instinctively, like reeds in water.

“There she is,” he announces quietly, pacing toward you in three light strides. “My bloom in the wild, eh?”

Your heart hammers. The sun cuts lines across your damp pants, lines cutting you into pieces—and he loves every one.

None of them speak. Not even Jimmy.

The silence curdles. Heavy and ardent. Their gazes crawl over you—no lust, no violence, just…awe. Pure and raw and enduring, like they’ve been starving for a myth and you’ve stepped right out of it.

You shift your weight. You don’t dare break the tension, but you don’t want to hold it either. It feels like you’re inside something ritualistic—some old pageant you were never meant to see, let alone star in.

Around you, Eden breathes in muted ritual: a carved stone basin hewn into the courtyard’s perimeter, stained with moss and dark rituals; bows and quivers hung at precise intervals along weathered pillars like offerings on an altar; a circle of smooth river stones at the courtyard's center where the cult often gathers for silent communion at sunrise—praying in silence before daybreak, and giving thanks in whispers to Jimmy’s name.

The cultists don’t blink. They don’t look away. They don’t whisper. But something changes in them. A new current. Where before they looked through you, now they see something in you. A shape that belongs. A prophecy confirmed.

And Jimmy?

He walks past them like parting a curtain.

You don’t move, but he moves around you, slow and casual, like he’s testing the air between you. The heat of his body hovers inches from yours. His presence is a weight against your spine, and you feel the power in his posture: unholy and absolute. He stops behind you, close enough to whisper soured warmth into your ear.

“They’re not used tae change,” he says softly, just for you. “Not unless I say so.”

His tone drips with quiet triumph. You can practically feel the cult shifting behind you, the air distorted by devotion.

“Ye’ll get used tae the starin’. Or ye won’t. Won’t matter.”

You can hear the grin in his voice. You don’t hear apology.

Then, still behind you, voice dropped low enough it barely cuts the air:

“Petal suits ye, I think.”

He trails his fingers down the column of your throat—barely—but enough to burn.

“Ye’re soft around the edges. Not so soft in the middle.”

His words rasp across your skin like a blade. The intention is erotic, possessive, menacing.

“But even the thickest of blooms can be pressed flat.”

There’s a wetness in your mouth—fear, desire, adrenaline. The word “pressed” tastes like warning and promise.

“If someone wanted tae keep 'em.”

The words hang there, sharp and cloying as heat and honey. Your breath catches. Behind you, you sense the cultists waiting like wolves suppressed by a leash only he holds.

You don’t dare turn. Not with the flock still watching like statues—blond hair catching the morning's chill light, bows slung across backs like extensions of their bodies. Their faces are blank, worshiping in an almost mechanical devotion.

You’re no longer prey. You’re purpose.

He laughs quietly once, and it rings hollow and shattered.

“So when ye’re ready tae kneel…remember who taught ye the posture.”

He back steps, not breaking contact but ending it. The loss of his warmth feels like falling.

But he doesn’t leave.

Instead he steps into the center of the courtyard, and the cultist archers follow him, forming a semi-circle around you, wreathed in morning mist. The stone altar lies between.

He lifts his voice, not to shout but to preach gospel.

“Watch closely, me beautiful bastards…”

And the edges of the gathering tilt forward as he begins—words rumbling under his breath, drawing in the cult. He’s speaking about you, about her destiny, about the seed he’s chosen. You stand there as the heart of an impromptu ritual, the world narrowing to him and the seven believers leaning into his voice.

Jimmy's voice resonates across the crumbled ruins of the clearing, weaving through the morning haze. Each syllable hangs, delivered with uncanny precision—the cadence of a preacher, the magnetism of a high-wire showman.

“Wundrous—ain’t it? A single bloom pushin’ through cracked stone,” he says, his tone light until it lands like a hammer. "Petal is a miracle, aye? A spark o’ life in Eden’s wrecked creation."

He sweeps his arm toward you, fingers spread wide as though presenting the sun itself. The cultists lean forward ever so slightly, bows held loosely at their sides, eyes locked on his every movement. They drink him in the way parched lips taste water.

“Did ye come from the wild, filthy world beyond our gates?” he murmurs, stepping forward. His trainers crush the morning dew, the gentle hiss and crunch echoing like a heartbeat. “Did ye crawl through ash and corpse and cold just tae find this?”

He pauses, scanning each face. The cultists are every bit his choir—bright eyes, drawn skin, the type of devotion that's loud in the silence. He lets it swell, hold steady, then resumes, voice richer now:

“Because that’s what Eden is, my sweet Petal,” he breathes, and the word sweet fills the courtyard like warm honey. “A shelter made by hands cracked with grief. A cradle built outta crucifixion.”

He leans close, stepping past you so his chest brushes yours, voice smooth yet blistering like whisky over firewood.

“And ye—“ His gaze drops to your chest, then lifts, unwavering. “Ye carry something within ye.” He breathes out, slow, deliberate. “Potential.”

You feel the quiet thrum under his words—like the air itself vibrates, ready to burst.

"A seed,” he whispers. “Not just o’ flesh. O’ hope. O’ dominion. O’ a world remade. And that’s why they follow me.”

The cultists shift at the word hope, an almost imperceptible exhale. A silent murmur of consent, reverence, fear.

"Aye, they followed me when I stood in empty ruins. When I spoke of the world we’d wrested from plague and horror.” He raises his voice, rich and cracking all at once. “And now—now—they follow her.”

He steps back. The courtyard smells of damp wood, moss, sweat—blended with his cologne: rosewater, stale whisky, ash.

"Look at them,” he says, nodding at the cultists. “Blinded by purpose. They bow for me, but they breathe for you. Because you are what comes next.”

His voice becomes intimate, low. So soft you hear the scrape of leather where his breastbone meets his tracksuit.

"Imagine this,” he urges, eyes burning in the mist. “A child not of plague. But of paradise. Born here, in Eden. With a father—” He glances at you— “—who farms devotion as carefully as soil, who tills the land with conviction, who gathers the faithful and raises them like trees.”

You taste copper fear on your tongue. His words aren't just praise—they're promise.

"I built this kingdom one sword, one prayer, one body at a time,” he whispers, stepping close again. You feel the shudder in your bones, as though something beneath the earth recognized itself. “And now…you will bear the first fruit.”

The words echo like a pulse, making the quiet seem loud.

He holds your gaze then, alone—though he’s surrounded by seven souls, all wide-eyed, faces pale in the morning glow. You’re at the center of something terrifying, sacred, and utterly intoxicating.

He finally releases you from his stare, opening his arms—an invitation, a declaration, a warning.

“Raise your eyes with me,” he commands gently, and the cultists raise their heads in unison. “Look at what destiny has offered us.”

They watch you. They watch him. And you realize: this sermon isn’t just words.

It’s construction.

A ritual built from desire and power, forging a bond you can’t unfeel.

And Eden trembles with it.

Jimmy’s voice rises and falls, a hypnotic wave that pulses through Eden’s silent courtyard. The morning mist glistens around you and the cultists, sounding like breathing. His gaze never shifts—he’s entirely focused on you, only you, as if no one else exists in this sacred moment.

“Picture it,” he begins, voice low and deliberate, yet tethered to a spark of manic fever. “Your womb—my crucible. Our blood the water that bathes this garden anew.”

You feel the cultists lean in, as though the air itself has condensed, forming a hushed audience to a revelation. Their bows drop into their grips like promises unspoken, hands tensed, waiting.

Jimmy steps closer, his breath brushing your collarbone.

“We’ll plant seeds not just in soil, but in flesh. We’ll carve out a lineage o’ Eden’s bairns, born o’ passion and promise, raised on devotion and steel.”

The words settle into your bones; you can almost see the flicker of unborn life taking root inside you. Part of you recoils—this is monstrous. And yet you find yourself swallowing, moved by the pulsing conviction in his tone.

He glances at the cult with a lordly smile.

“They’re ready,” he says with absolute certainty. “Ready to follow your bairns as they’ll follow ye.” He returns his gaze to you—hungry, demanding. “And ye, Petal…will be the mither o’ this resurrection.”

Your breath hitches. It’s like standing beneath a waterfall of power—relentless, overwhelming, impossible to resist.

Jimmy lifts his chin, chest swelling as though he’s already stepped into his throne.

“I’m no longer just Jimmy Crystal,” he continues, voice rising with cold exaltation. “I’m the flame that ignites Eden’s rebirth. The architect o’ our new covenant.”

He raises one arm, palm open to the sky. The cultists mirror him, hands lifted in solemn unity.

“And ye,” he says, voice like fire, like the crack of dawn after endless night, “ye're the catalyst.”

Then he pauses.

A weighty moment.

Every breath tastes like sacrament.

You find yourself nodding—softly, unconsciously. You are drawn in. You are buying into it, even as your mind screams to run.

“I can't stay,” you murmur, voice trembling but clear. “This…this is too much.”

His gift is patience. He tilts his head slightly, steps closer—closer than you’ve ever let him.

“Aye, ye cannot stay,” he agrees, tone gentle as a vice. “Not when this garden needs plantin’.”

Pain. Excitement. Fear. Heat.

You inhale sharply, mouth going dry.

His hand hovers at the small of your back. The cultists stand still, witnessing the exchange but frozen in silent obedience.

“But ye will stay,” he says, voice as tender as a threat. “Not because I keep ye here.”

He lets the words hang. Then:

“Because ye’ll want tae.”

He leans forward, brushing his lips against your ear as though kissing a sin.

“Because Eden needs ye. Because I need ye.”

Your knees buckle, but he catches you, anchoring you to the courtyard stone. A spark of dizzy devotion rises in your chest.

The cultists echo his sentiment with a soft, singular murmur—“Amen.” It’s barely audible, but enough.

You’re too far gone now.

Caught in his sermon, in his fervor, in the promise of becoming something both holy and damned. The courtyard spins with electric devotion.

His voice lowers again, a dark lullaby.

“So stay,” he breathes. “Stay with me in Eden’s breakin’. Stay and grow what only we can birth.”

The mist curls around your ankles, hiding your tears—tears of something you barely recognize. Something between surrender and conviction.

Jimmy’s breath settles into a slow rhythm as the final echoes of his voice drift across the courtyard. His eyes remain locked on yours, offering devotion and dominion in equal measure. Around you, the mist curls and settles, as if Eden itself is breathing—you, the epicenter of its pulse.

He lifts a finger to his lips, a silent command that hushes the cultists. One by one, they lower their bowed heads, hands unclenching from their bows, posture easing but never truly relaxing. They’re anchored in worship, unable to simply walk away.

Jimmy steps closer, hand extending toward you—not in salvation, but in signing a contract no one sane would sign under this sky.

Instead of speaking, he places his palm over your heart, the fabric of his tracksuit warm and tight against your chest. A tremor passes through you. The world narrows to his touch, his gaze, his vow—yet he keeps that final note of tension alive.

He leans forward, voice hushed yet fierce:

“By this moment, you’re bound to Eden. To me. But damn me…I’ll hold you to it.”

He brushes his lips to your forehead, a soft and sacred seal. An obsession swaddled in devotion. A betrayal wrapped in devotion. Your knees threaten to buckle, but he steadies you—silent and immovable.

He steps back, the gravity lifted, yet still heavy in the air. Eyes never lowering, he inclines his head once. The cultists rise as one and fall into formation, bows back on shoulders, ritual complete. They disperse in perfect symmetry, leaving you and him in the echoing hush.

For a moment, nothing moves but his chest—rising, falling, storming with unspoken promise. Then he turns, voice void of warmth but brimming with ownership:

“Come.”

He leads you across the courtyard—slowly, deliberately. His grip is suggesting, guiding. His eyes are unwavering: a beacon and a warning.

You follow because something in your chest—a mix of fear, yearning, dread—won’t let you do anything else. You’re caught, spinning—but not yet still.

The seven cultists melt into Eden’s edges, returning to their daily worship. But now, you carry the memory of Jimmy’s reclaimed sermon, his seal, his kiss—a wound and a mark you’ll never wash away.

As you cross the threshold back into his sanctum, you lean into the wall, bare shoulder pressing against cold stone. Behind you, the door shuts with quiet finality.

You are alone. But moved.

You are bound. But not broken.

Yet.

You stand in the dim glow of Jimmy’s sanctum, every breath rattling between conditioned compliance and primal fear. The sanctity of his relics—tattered VHS tapes, faded childhood plushies, inverted crosses—presses in too tight, like a coffin you didn't ask for.

Your heart pounds. Your palms sweat. You taste cold metal on your tongue. This isn’t tenderness. It's poisoning.

Memories flicker—his sermon, the kiss upon your forehead, the stretching hush as seven marked bodies watched you be claimed. It wasn’t devotion. It was possession.

You step back, pressing your shoulder against the stone wall beneath the crooked coat hook. Your gaze flicks to the door as if praying for escape.

A whisper inside you rising—urgent, insistent:

Get out. Now.

This place was built by a broken god. His rituals are chains spun of charm and terror. And you…you’re supposed to be the seed.

The incubator.

You ball your fingers, nails biting into your palms until they bleed. That burst of pain clears your mind.

You tiptoe toward the door, careful not to disturb the dusty relics scattered across wooden shelves: a broken Game Boy with chipped cartoon buttons, a child's drawing pinned beneath a cracked frame, a lone Teletubby plush—the purple Tinky Winky—perched on a dresser like an accusation.

Each relic mocks you.

You slip your hand to the latch. It gives. Because Eden isn’t built of steel.

Just ritual. Just false worship.

The corridor beyond yawns into darkness. You don’t hesitate.

A single step into the hallway. Shadows swallow you. Your damp clothes cling, dragging. But you're moving—one foot, then the next, tense and determined.

A noise jumps from behind—wood creaking, breath soft on stone. Your heart stutters. You whirl, pressed against the rough wall, knife-edge panic cutting through the haze.

But it's just a single track-suited cultist rounding the corner—wrenching muddy-blond hair away from their face, eyes blank.

They don’t betray you. Instead, they stop.

You hold your breath.

They gape for a moment—then step aside. The faintest nod. Almost reverent. Then they turn away, leaving you to the corridor that stretches beyond Eden’s heart.

No chase. No command. Just silence.

Your fingers tremble at the door latch. One final breath. You lift the latch.

You slip from the sanctum like a shadow dislodged from the wall—silent, shaken, desperate. The air outside his room tastes colder, more real. The scent of mildew and old stone clings to every breath, grounding you. Each step feels like breaking glass underfoot, too loud, too obvious—but still, you move. You don’t know the layout of Eden, not really, but something primal propels you forward.

Your pulse is a roar in your ears. Each footstep is measured, careful, a prayer under your breath: Not yet. Not yet.

Behind you, the hush of distant chanting glimmers—half-remembered prayers spilled into morning mist. You don't stop. You can’t.

Pass by a toppled shelf, scattered VHS tapes underfoot. You step around them, boots thickening with dust. A snapped doll arm curls in your path, and you pause—heart rattling—then push on.

At the junction, you hesitate. Two directions. The left path slopes downward, lined with rusted iron bars—cells, maybe, or storage. The ceiling drips cold water in rhythmic plinks. The right path climbs toward dim daylight, pale beams cutting through cobwebbed arches.

You move toward light, urgency lending grace to your limbs.

A breeze tickles your damp hair as you push the next door. It resists, hinges groaning like a protest, then gives. You burst through into the ruins beyond—a half-collapsed hall once grand, now claimed by sky. Vines strangle stone, and damp air tastes like wild freedom.

Your stomach lurches with hope.

You sprint, more instinct than plan. Each breath screams. Heart rattles ribs like a drum of panic.

Ahead: an arched doorway opening into sunlit debris—broken benches, fallen statues, a shattered stained-glass window where primordial light filters through shards of color.

You’re almost there.

Vines tug at your shirt as you duck through the lintel. The scent of summer outside—wildflowers, dead leaves, fresh rain—hits your lungs. Freedom buzzes across your skin.

But Eden stalks.

A distant thunk: soles on stone.

Another.

Another.

You break into a sprint across rubble, feet pounding cracked marble, vines tangling in your ankles. You hear your breath, like glass breaking.

Then:

A hand clamps over your mouth, fingers digging in, scent of firewood and coarse earth pressing against your spine.

Steel at your back—a bow? A spear? Doesn’t matter. You twist with all you’ve got, muscles screaming.

Enough to see him:

Sir Jimmy Crystal. Tracksuit damp with mist, his face smooth but fierce, eyes blazing with uncanny devotion. He smirks.

He doesn’t need to speak.

He holds you like an answer.

Your palms scrape stone as he guides you back, every crack and echo mocking the triumph you felt.

He pins you flat against a collapsed statue, vines scraping your arms as he presses his weight behind you. His breath is hot, his presence absolute.

One thick hand knots into the back of your shirt, twisting the fabric until it bites your ribs, the other clamping around your wrist, grinding bone to bone. You twist, you shove at him, thrash like a caged thing—but it doesn’t matter. Jimmy’s stronger. Broader. Hungrier.

You spit—hot and defiant, slicking his cheek, warm and wet, and yet he moans like you kissed him. Low and guttural, like something feral caught between pleasure and violence.

The moonlight dances across the carved altar behind him—stone cold and bathed in silver, the centerpiece of this sanctified hell he’s dragged you into. And you? You're no longer walking. You're being hauled.

He throws open the heavy wooden door to the sanctum like it’s nothing. It groans against its hinges, spilling in warm amber candlelight, and the stench of smoke, old incense, sweat, and something feral. The room feels alive, like it's holding its breath for what comes next.

“Aye,” he growls, dragging you over the threshold, “ye had yer chance tae repent, Petal. Now ye’ll bleed faith.”

You stumble, crash to your knees. The floor bruises you instantly, but Jimmy’s already behind you, a fist curling into your hair and yanking your head back so hard your throat arches for him. He crouches low beside you, licking your spit off his cheek, his grin grotesque and glowing in the lowlight.

“Ye taste like defiance,” he breathes into your ear. “Sweet, stupid defiance. But ye’ll be beggin’ tae taste me before this night’s done.”

You try to jerk away—he only laughs, full-bellied and victorious. Then you’re lifted again. Thrown.

Your back hits something flat and cold. The altar. Stone or marble, it doesn't matter. It steals the breath from your lungs as he pins you there with one hand spread across your chest, not even flinching when you claw at his wrist. His coat peels off in one movement, tossed somewhere behind him. He straddles you fully clothed, bearing down, dirty from the day’s sweat, smoke staining the collar of his shirt. You catch the scent of blood—not yours—and it’s on his skin like cologne.

"Been patient," he mutters, biting the words into your neck. “Waited, starved, listened tae yer preachin’, yer threats, yer screams. But this? This is mine now.”

You open your mouth to scream—his palm slams over it.

“Shhh,” he breathes, dragging his face close to yours, his forehead resting against yours. “I’ll make ye cry soon enough, pet. Screamin’s sacred, remember?”

With one hand, he wrenches your legs apart, his thigh wedging between them with obscene ease. He grinds forward, not even bothering to unfasten his belt yet, just letting you feel the weight of his cock against you through the cloth. Hard. Thick. Twitching.

“You feel that?” he hisses, voice dark with glee. “That’s a sermon, Petal. That’s holy.”

He spits directly into your mouth with a practiced snap of his tongue, slick and filthy, watching your eyes go wide as you choke and sputter. He grins down at you with sick satisfaction, rubbing his spit into your tongue with two fingers.

“Swalla it,” he says. “Show me ye can behave like a proper wee Eve. Go on, now. Tha’s a good lass…”

You do. You don’t know why—whether it’s fear or something darker—but you do.

Jimmy makes a noise that sounds like praise.

“Fuckin’ precious,” he says thickly. “Gonna breed the rebellion right outta ye.”

And then he pulls the knot loose on the drawstring holding his trackies up. You feel it first—hot, already leaking, heavy against your inner thigh. He palms his cock and groans at the contact, eyes fluttering shut like he's touching the divine. When they open again, they're locked on you.

“Ye’re gonna take every fuckin’ inch, lass,” he says. “Every. Inch. And when I fill ye, when I spill inside that wee, tight, wicked cunt, ye’ll thank me.”

He pushes your track pants down past your hips with rough, unsteady hands, breathing harder now, feverish, until the fabric pools around your ankles. His fingers curl between your thighs, dragging through your folds.

"Shite," he whispers, aroused and earnest. "Already wet. Oh, Petal...ye were made for this."

He lines up. One hand fists in your hair again, forcing you to watch his face as he begins to press in—thick, unrelenting. It’s stretching, burning, brutal.

And he just grins as you cry out, lips curling back to bare teeth.

“That’s it,” he pants, driving deeper. “Cry fer me, Petal. Let th’ angels hear.”

The sound he makes as he bottoms out is obscene. A guttural, low, trembling moan that rolls straight from his chest like thunder cracking through stained glass. His cock is buried so deep inside you, you feel it in your lungs—stuffed full, your cunt stretched open around his filthy, leaking length, already pulsing with the promise of what he plans to leave inside you.

“Fuckin’—Christ, yer tight,” he growls into your throat, hips flush to yours, not moving, just throbbing. “Like a virgin altar, aye? Like ye were carvin’ yerself out fer me. Say it. Say ye were waitin’ fer me tae come ruin this wee cunt.”

You shake your head—because you weren’t. Because you aren’t. But your mouth opens anyway, and all that comes out is a gasp that melts into a moan as he starts to move.

Not gentle. Not slow.

Jimmy fucks like a man possessed.

His hips snap back and slam forward, the sound of skin-on-skin violent, loud enough to bounce off the carved walls of the sanctum. He grunts every time he drives into you, grinding deep like he’s trying to knock the fight out of you one brutal thrust at a time.

Your back arches hard against the stone as he slams into your cervix again and again, his pace merciless, his cock hitting places you didn’t know existed, splitting you open and making a mess of your insides.

“Aye, there she is—clenchin’ on me like she needs it. Like her filthy little hole knows what it’s for.” He leans over you, his sweat dripping onto your chest, mouth dragging against your jaw. “Ye were starvin’ for this, weren’t ye, pet? Wanted tae act so holy, so pure. But look at ye now.”

He rears back, spits down between your bodies, watches it land where you’re joined—stringy and slick, glistening as it coats your pussy lips and makes everything louder, wetter.

Then he spits again, this time straight into your open mouth just as you're panting out a plea you didn't mean to say.

“Swalla,” he orders, grinning like the devil in a cathedral. “It’s communion, Eve. Holy water right from the source.”

He thrusts harder. Faster. You’re being fucked, not made love to—bred, taken, used. Your thighs tremble around his waist, your fingers scrape at the stone for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing. Nothing except Jimmy. Jimmy and the altar. Jimmy and his cock, pistoning into you with purpose.

Your cunt squelches lewdly with every slap of his hips, a symphony of filth and friction and possession. And fuck, he loves it.

“That sound,” he pants, voice thick and ragged. “Listen tae it. That’s yer body beggin’ me tae fill it. Soaked, stretchin’, flutterin’ round me like a fuckin’ halo. But yer no angel, are ye, wee thing?”

He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes open, his stare blown-wide and wild.

“No. Yer a sinner. My sinner. My Eve. And I’ll fuckin’ ruin ye fer anyone else.”

He slams in so deep you see stars. Your legs jerk—your body trying to run even though it’s already too late.

“Where d’ye think yer gonna go?” he snarls, voice cracked and raw with ecstasy. “I’m inside ye, lass. Deep enough tae leave a mark. Every time ye close yer legs from now on, ye’ll feel me leakin’ outta ye. That’s my fuckin’ prayer.”

Then his voice drops low, almost reverent.

“I’m gonna fill ye up, pretty thing. I’m gonna fuck ye so deep yer womb won’t dare reject me. I’ll breed ye full. Again. And again. And again. Til ye’re heavy with my sacrament. Til ye glow with me.”

Your cunt tightens involuntarily around him and he feels it.

“Ohhh, aye,” he hisses, bucking even harder now, fucking through your resistance like he’s conquering land. “There she fuckin’ is. Squeezin’ on me like she wants it. Like her body’s acceptin’ the gospel. That’s my good wee girl.”

Your climax blindsides you—rips through your spine and into your fingertips. It shatters you. Your cry rips out from your throat raw and hoarse, and Jimmy howls like something ancient and holy just bared itself before him.

“Fuuuuuck—ye’re milkin’ me, Eve. Ye want it, aye? Want yer belly heavy with my sin?”

He fucks through your orgasm, driving through your spasming walls until he can’t hold it back anymore. He slams in one last time, his cock buried so deep it feels like it’ll never come out—and then he spills.

Hot. Endless. Violent.

He moans, breathless and broken, rutting through the creampie like he’s trying to breed it in deeper, the warmth of it thick between your thighs, leaking down onto the altar as he rocks against you.

“There,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, sweat dripping into your hair. “Took it all. So fuckin’ good for me. Yer mine now. Marked. Claimed.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until he licks the tear off your cheek.

It’s hot in the sanctum now—too hot. Your legs are trembling, your whole body humming from the aftershocks, and your cunt? Raw, used, filled. You feel it leaking already, thick and warm and wrong, smeared between your thighs and pooling under your ass on the altar stone. Sticky. Sacred. A baptism you never asked for.

Jimmy’s still inside you. Still hard. Still twitching like his cock isn’t satisfied yet, like he’s waiting for another wave. He huffs out a slow, shuddering breath as he shifts his hips forward in a lazy thrust, grinding the base of his cock deeper—too deep—and watching your face as you flinch.

“Still flutterin’ round me, Petal,” he murmurs, voice soaked with pride. “So greedy. So fuckin’ needy. One load’s not enough for a hungry little hole like this, is it?”

He pulls out slow. Deliberately. Your walls cling, trying to keep him, and when he finally slips free, it’s wet and filthy—his cum oozing out in long, viscous strands, streaking your thighs, the altar, and the floor beneath.

Jimmy moans at the sight.

“Look at that,” he pants, eyes black with lust. “Wasted. Precious fuckin’ seed drippin’ out like yer tryin’ tae defy me again.”

You’re too dazed to move. He grabs your thighs—spreads them wider—and spits right onto your exposed cunt. Then again. Each glob warm, messy, coating your slit with his saliva until it’s glistening with a mixture of spit and cum and sweat and whatever dignity you had left.

“Don’t ye dare let it go tae waste.”

He pushes two thick fingers into you with no warning, shoving his cum back inside. You gasp, buck, instinctively trying to close your legs, but he’s stronger. Always stronger.

“Shhh, shhh. Gotta make sure it takes,” he croons like it’s tenderness. Like this is love. His fingers curl inside you, slow and cruel, making you feel every inch. “Gotta keep it in, aye? Let it take root.”

You squirm. He leans down and licks your breast—filthy, wet, teeth grazing your nipple—and groans like a starving man.

“Ye’ll carry me,” he whispers. “Ye’ll grow with me inside ye. My seed. My heir. My Eve.”

He presses another kiss to your thigh. Another to your navel. And then—mouth hovering just above your still-pulsing cunt—he spits again, slow and thick, watching it mix with the rest.

“Yer no virgin sacrifice now,” he mutters. “Yer mine. Bred. Blessed.”

Your body jerks as he gives one final pump with his fingers, and that’s when you realize—

He’s still hard.

You blink up at him, dazed, hoarse, your voice a scrape across your throat: “Jimmy…”

He smirks. His hand comes up to stroke his cock—coated in both your slick and his spend, still flushed and angry and aching.

“Thought we were done?” he says, soft and cruel. “Oh no, lass. No, no.”

He climbs back over you. The tip of his cock notches at your abused entrance again, already slipping back inside with ease. Slick with the mess he made of you.

“We keep goin’,” he breathes into your hair. “We go til it takes. Til I’ve fucked the rebellion right outta ye. Til yer beggin’ me tae give ye more."

And then he starts again—slow, deep, grinding thrusts that punch the air from your lungs, making you whimper, your body too overstimulated to bear it but too ruined to stop.

“Ye’ll take every fuckin’ drop,” he growls, “and ye’ll thank me for the honor.”

Your body shakes beneath him. Every inch of you raw and humming, fucked beyond what you thought was possible, already stretched open and leaking, your cunt too swollen, too sore—but it doesn’t matter. Not to Jimmy. Not to the beast bearing down on you like you’re still fresh and untouched.

He’s sliding back in, slow now, cruel in the way he presses inch after inch into the mess he made. There’s no resistance—just slick, ruined heat—and still, you gasp like he’s splitting you apart all over again.

“Tha’s it,” he groans, rolling his hips once he bottoms out, keeping his cock deep, grinding against your cervix like he owns it. “Just like that, pet. Yer wee cunt was made tae be fucked twice over. Look at ye—still open for me.”

You try to turn your head, to look away, but he grabs your jaw and makes you meet his eyes.

“No hidin’ now,” he murmurs, voice low, almost gentle—almost. “Want tae see the moment ye break, Petal. Want tae watch ye shatter.”

Then he moves.

Slow. Deep. Each thrust deliberate, dragging the head of his cock against your overstimulated walls until your thighs shake and your breath comes in hitched sobs. You’re too sensitive, too raw, but he doesn’t care. If anything, he’s savoring it—this second round meant to punish, to claim, to seal the desecration.

“Shhh,” he croons, his body heavy and hot above you, his breath fogging against your cheek. “Ye can take it. Ye will take it. Yer body knows me now. It wants this.”

You whimper, your hands fluttering against his chest, pushing weakly—but Jimmy just catches your wrists and pins them above your head, locking them there with one hand while the other snakes between your bodies and grabs your thigh, hiking it up over his hip to fuck you deeper.

“There we are,” he mutters, almost lovingly. “Open wide for me, lass. Let the holy spirit in.”

He spits on your mouth again. It drips down your cheek this time, and he groans like he’s watching something divine. His hand shifts from your thigh to your belly, pressing down—hard—so you feel every thrust even more.

“Feel that?” he growls. “That’s me settin’ up camp inside ye. That’s me claimin’ what’s mine. My cock in yer cunt, my cum in yer womb, my fuckin’ name etched into yer spine.”

You arch up and scream when he hits a tender spot, your body locking up—overwhelmed, overstimulated, broken. Your cunt spasms around him, and he feels it, groans deep and primal as your walls milk him for more.

“Ohh fuck—yes, yes, fuckin’ yes, there she is,” he pants, slamming into you now, pace picking up, rougher, faster, like the slow torture was just a prelude. “That’s what I wanted, pet. Wanted tae hear ye break. Wanted tae feel this wicked little pussy beg me without words.”

You’re crying again—pleasure and pain and pressure spiraling into something helpless and filthy. You can’t stop clenching around him, your body greedy even when your mind is gone.

And he loves it. Drinks it down like wine at a sacrament.

“Ye’ll remember this every fuckin’ time ye walk,” he snarls. “Ye’ll feel me leakin’ down yer thighs and know yer nothin’ but mine. A vessel. A holy hole.”

He starts to shake—his pace desperate, his cock twitching—and you know he’s close. His moans turn to groans, then to growls, animalistic and unhinged.

“Gonna fill ye again,” he hisses, teeth dragging against your throat. “Gonna fuckin’ breed ye full, Petal. Til yer belly swells. Til they all know who owns ye.”

And when he cums, it’s even more than before.

A violent, endless spill that chokes a moan from his chest and a cry from your lips as he grinds into you, trying to bury it deeper, trying to fuck his seed into your womb and seal it there.

His cock throbs inside you as he ruts through the aftershocks, his breath catching in stutters, his forehead pressed to yours.

“Took it all,” he whispers, dazed and reverent. “So fuckin’ good fer me. That’s my girl. My Eve.”

His hand finds your thigh again and rubs small, gentle circles—tender, even as you're shaking beneath him, used, ruined, full of his cum and too wrecked to speak.

“You did so good, pet,” he murmurs, kissing your temple with a reverence that shouldn’t feel soft—but it does. “Yer gonna make me a God, y'know that?”

Your body doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You’re limp on the altar, splayed and trembling, sweat cooling sticky against your chest, your thighs sticky with everything—his spit, your slick, his cum, leaking out of you slow and thick and obscene. Your pulse flutters in your throat. Your nipples ache. Your cunt twitches around the phantom of him.

And Jimmy is still there. Still over you, half-draped, his cock softening but glistening with the slick sheen of everything he just put inside you. His hand strokes down your belly, worshipful, thumb rubbing in slow circles like he’s blessing it.

“Gonna grow round with me, pet,” he murmurs, voice rough but warm. “Ye don’t even fuckin’ know it yet, but yer already carryin’ me. Felt it when ye came round me—took me. Held me. Yer wee womb’s just waitin’.”

He sounds in awe of it. Of you. Like you’re not a girl he just fucked raw on an altar—but something sacred. Something chosen.

Then he shifts.

Sits back on his heels between your legs and grabs the base of his softening cock—still filthy, still dripping. You twitch as you watch him. You want to look away. You can’t.

“Ye made a right mess,” he mutters, smiling like it’s your greatest accomplishment. “Look at that. My cock’s still soaked in ye.”

He strokes himself lazily. Then he points the tip at your mouth.

“Clean it,” he says softly. No malice. No command barked with cruelty—just an invitation. A test. A reward.

When you don’t move fast enough, he leans forward and taps the head against your bottom lip. Smears his mess there. You flinch—and that’s all the opening he needs.

His fingers slip into your hair, grip your scalp, and he presses forward until the weeping crown of his cock breaches your mouth.

“There she is,” he purrs. “Open nice ‘n wide now. Ye took it in yer cunt like a blessed thing—ye’ll suck it like a devout one.”

You gag a little when he pushes in deeper, but he’s not even trying to fuck your throat. Not yet. He’s just feeding it to you, inch by inch, making you taste yourself and him, watching the filth coat your tongue.

“Tha’s right,” he breathes. “Good wee mouth on ye. Meant tae worship, weren’t ye? Not just made tae take cock—made tae honor it. Keep suckin’.”

You swirl your tongue around the head, and he groans, his hips twitching forward once, twice. Then he pulls out with a pop and slaps the tip across your cheek.

“Fuckin’ angelic,” he mutters, looking at you like you’ve been crowned.

Then his hand goes back to your belly, pressing gently.

“Ye’ll swell,” he says dreamily. “Ye’ll show. And when ye do, I’ll fuck ye every day of it. Keep ye full. Keep ye obedient.”

His palm spreads across the soft plane of your stomach, smearing the sweat, rubbing it in slow.

“Yer not yers anymore, Petal,” he says, quiet now. “Ye’re mine. My vessel. My church. My fuckin’ salvation."

He leans in, pressing a kiss to your navel. Another to your cunt—just a filthy brush of his tongue, like he’s sealing you. Then up to your sternum. Your throat. Your lips.

His breath is warm. Heavy. Honest in its delusion.

“We’ll do this again soon,” he whispers. “Won’t stop ‘til yer swollen and shinin’.”

And then—he gathers you.

Lifts you from the altar like you’re weightless, your limbs slack, your mind fogged, and carries you back into the depths of his sanctum. Not a prison, now—a cradle. A shrine. He tucks you beneath furs that smell like smoke and cedar and sex, and he curls around you like a wolf protecting its mate.

One hand on your belly. Always on your belly.

Murmuring prayers in the dark.

[xxsyluslittlecrowxx]

Hi Eve! Congrats on 500!!! Requesting 3 or 19 for Sylus out of your prompt list pleasseeeee :3 (whichever hasn't been taken yet or compels you more!!)

the portrait standoff.

[ sylus x reader ]

you bring home a massive portrait of mephisto dressed like a victorian lord. he says absolutely not. you argue. he argues harder. but when you’re breathless, grinning, toe-to-toe—he shuts you up the only way he knows how.

ABOUT | 2k words. fluff. comedic bickering. ridiculous decor war. unhinged you. deadpan Sylus. victorian crow portrait as the final boss.

TAGS | slice of life. domestic comedy. heated bickering. ridiculous art. soft resolution. shared space shenanigans.

NOTE : this is part of the celebrate 500 followers event! want to pick a prompt? [press here]. thank you for being part of this space, and for reading and enjoying these stories.

a special thank you to Em—you are an incredible support. your reviews and thoughtful tags always make me feel like you catch every single word. every time i see a note from you, i can’t help but smile. thank you for making this space brighter. 🖤

YOU CRADLE IT...like it’s something sacred. Or fragile. Or both. The frame alone stands nearly as tall as you, all ornate gold swirls and faux age spots—exactly the kind of thing that would send an antiques appraiser into cardiac arrest. Your arms burn from hauling it up the stairs, but it’s fine. Worth it. You adjust your grip on the heavy wood, nudge your hip against the apartment door, and—through sheer willpower and a heroic amount of desperation—manage to shove it open.

The silence inside is the deliberate kind, the kind that usually means Sylus is somewhere nearby, reading reports or silently passing judgment on the world. The apartment smells like him: coffee, soap, something clean and sharp. For one triumphant heartbeat, you let yourself imagine him appearing in the doorway, his eyes lighting up as he takes in your prize, immediately recognizing your impeccable taste. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll say, Brilliant choice. Let’s hang it right now.

You step inside, and there he is—leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, glass of water in hand. His eyes lift. His brow furrows. The glass stalls halfway to his lips.

Silence expands, taut and unyielding. His gaze drops to the painting. Mephisto, rendered in full baroque absurdity, stares back—powdered wig, crimson suit, monocle glinting with imperious challenge.

Sylus’s voice, when it comes, is low and almost painfully measured. “What is that.”

Not what’s this—but what is that. As if you’ve brought home a live crocodile. Or a bomb.

You smile, bright and unwavering. “It’s art.”

His jaw tightens, so subtle it would be easy to miss. But you don’t.

Because this isn’t just about a painting. It’s about the wall. The space. Your space. And you’ve just fired the first shot.

You set the painting down with care, propping it against the couch so Mephisto’s beady eyes can cast judgment over the entire apartment. Straightening, you brush your hands together like you’ve just accomplished something heroic.

“It’s going right here,” you announce, sweeping your arm toward the blank wall above the sofa with a flourish. “The perfect spot. He’ll inspire conversation.”

Sylus’s gaze slides from your beaming face to the portrait, then back again. His expression is neutral in the way a thundercloud looks neutral before it splits open. “Conversation?” His tone is so flat it’s practically a miracle of composure. “You mean emergency evacuations.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. “Excuse me?”

“People will run screaming.” He sets his glass on the counter with a deliberate clink. “They’ll think we’re… unwell. Or possessed.”

You resist the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you plant your hands on your hips. “It’s called personality. You can’t get that from mass-produced canvas prints of sad grey flowers.”

His brow lifts, a quiet challenge. “And you think this”—he gestures at Mephisto’s regal, faintly sinister face—“is the cure? The antidote to bland décor?”

You glance at the painting. Mephisto’s tiny monocle gleams beneath the overhead light like it’s daring you to falter. “Absolutely.”

He exhales, long and quiet, a sound that says he’s searching every corner of his mind for patience. “You know there are other ways to make this place feel like home,” he says, voice almost soft. Almost.

Something in you stutters at that word—home—but you shove it down, refusing to break now. “Yes,” you counter, “but none of them involve a crow with a better wardrobe than either of us.”

His lips twitch, the tiniest betrayal of amusement. “He looks like he’s plotting to bankrupt a small European nation.”

“He looks dignified,” you argue, already picturing him above the couch as the centerpiece of every future conversation. “And for the record, he’ll keep us on our toes.”

He steps closer, boots silent on the floor. The distance shrinks, heat crackling in the charged air. “On our toes,” he repeats, eyes locked on yours. “That’s what you’re going with.”

You nod, chin high. “On. Our. Toes.”

A beat of silence stretches, taut as a bowstring. His gaze flickers to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. “This is absurd,” he murmurs, voice softened just enough for you to hear it.

Your heart hammers, but you refuse to retreat. “You’d rather hang nothing? A blank void of beige? Is that what you want our place to say about us?”

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to see right through you. “Our place,” he echoes, voice low but no longer cold.

Your cheeks burn at the slip. “Yes,” you whisper, but your resolve holds firm. “Our place.”

You start mentally drafting wedding invitations for yourself and the painting, just in case he throws you out. It would be a tasteful ceremony. Small guest list. Possibly catered by that bakery down the street.

He drags a hand down his face like he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. “You’re impossible,” he mutters.

“And yet you’re still here,” you shoot back, unable to stop the breathless grin from curling across your lips.

His eyes don’t leave yours. The grin softens there, lingering at the corners of your mouth, but suddenly it feels too bright, too loud in the hush that follows. He’s looking at you like he sees past the joke. Past the grin. Past Mephisto, in his ridiculous powdered wig and that monocle you’re beginning to have second thoughts about yourself.

Sylus doesn’t speak. He just watches you, gaze steady and unflinching, and you feel the weight of it—the unsaid things crowding the space between you, heavier than the ornate frame at your feet. The apartment still feels new. The paint clings faintly in the corners. The furniture is functional, mostly his. The walls are blank. Except now there’s this painting. This one piece of you.

You’re the first to look away, eyes dropping to the floor because it’s easier than meeting his when your heart is pounding like this. Your voice emerges quieter, almost hesitant. “It’s just… it’s ours now, you know? This place. I wanted something that made it feel like that.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, too bare, too raw, leaving you exposed.

Sylus shifts, as if on the verge of speaking, then doesn’t. His arms fold across his chest—not defensively, but like he’s bracing himself, as if letting go might cause something inside him to splinter. His gaze drops to the painting, and for the first time, there’s no humor there. Only something softer. A flicker of understanding. Maybe even regret.

“I know.” His voice is low, quiet as confession. “I know what this is about.”

You risk a glance up. He looks tired somehow—not in body, but like this is harder for him than you’d ever meant it to be.

“I’m not trying to take over,” you say, words tumbling out in a rush, awkward and earnest. “I just—I wanted something here that felt like both of us.”

His jaw tightens, working silently. His fingers tap once against his arm, then fall still. The silence between you doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels tentative. Careful. Like you’re both afraid that moving too fast might shatter something delicate and irreplaceable.

A beat passes. Then another. And just like that, the quiet shatters.

You straighten, spine snapping taut with new determination. “I’m hanging it.” The words burst out sharper than you intend. You step forward, finger stabbing the air at the spot above the couch. “There.”

Sylus’s eyes flash, dark and unyielding. He closes the space until his chest almost brushes yours, his own finger jabbing at the same blank wall—just an inch lower. “Here.”

“No.” Your pulse spikes. You lean in, toes nearly bumping his boots. “Higher.”

“Lower,” he growls, voice dropping rough.

You match his volume, cheeks flushing hot. “Higher.”

“Lower.”

His breath ghosts across your cheek, hot and ragged, pulling the world tighter around you. His hand falls from his chest, brushing your wrist, the contact electric—zinging through your veins, leaving your skin humming.

Your heart pounds so hard it’s dizzying. “I swear, Sylus, if you don’t let me—”

He cuts in, voice low, clipped, dangerous. “You’ll what, kitten?”

Your hand rises between you, finger still pointing defiantly. His hand lifts at the same time, colliding with yours. Fingers tangle, awkward but desperate, neither of you willing to yield. You twist, he shifts, stepping forward again, boots nudging yours aside. Your breath catches on a sharp inhale.

Somewhere in the apartment, Mephisto’s painted eyes glower in silent, absurd judgment.

The air thickens, heavy with heat and the weight of unspoken words. Dialogue spills out fast, overlapping, raw edges smoothed by the sharp, breathless current between you.

“I’m not letting it go there—”

“I’m not letting it go there—”

“You’re impossible—”

“You’re stubborn—”

His hand flexes around yours, grip tightening like letting go would be more dangerous than holding on. Your shoulders tense. His gaze drops to your mouth; yours flick to his lips. For one suspended moment, everything falls silent except for your breaths—quick, shallow, shared.

You can feel it—something cracking open between you. Balance tipping. A heartbeat teetering on the brink of something reckless, something that could change everything.

It happens all at once, like a rubber band snapping. Your laugh bubbles up first—high, breathless, a little ridiculous—spilling into the quiet like a dropped glass shattering across tile. His breath catches, and then he’s laughing too, low and ragged, each chuckle vibrating through his chest.

The tension unspools in a single, dizzying rush, leaving you almost swaying. His thumb brushes over your knuckles, warm and careful, the touch a quiet question. You don’t know who leans in first—and it doesn’t matter. His mouth catches yours mid-laugh, cutting your next word short. The kiss is messy, clumsy, perfect—lips parting on a soft, startled gasp.

His hands glide up your arms, fingers curling against your shoulders. Heat blooms wherever he touches, radiating out until your knees feel loose and your bones light. His stubble scrapes your cheek, leaving a prickling trail that makes you shiver. There’s the faint taste of coffee on his tongue, rich and familiar, and the air thickens around you like time has gone syrupy, stretching slow and sweet.

You pull back just enough to drag in a breath. His eyes are hooded, lashes low, mouth pink and swollen. A laugh, small and disbelieving, ghosts across his lips. He tips his forehead against yours, the space between you pulsing with something tender and a little wild.

“I hate that painting,” he whispers, voice rough at the edges.

“I know,” you breathe, chest rising against his. “But you love me.”

He exhales a sound that’s almost a groan, mouth finding yours again—softer this time, unhurried, like he’s sealing a promise he hasn’t found words for yet.

When you finally break apart, he stays close, thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone. His eyes flick to the absurd portrait leaning against the couch. Mephisto’s painted face looks even smugger in the low light, monocle glinting like he knows he’s won.

A slow grin curves your lips. “You realize Mephisto is going to strut around like royalty when he sees himself immortalized in velvet and lace, right?”

Sylus’s eyes narrow a fraction, but his mouth tugs with reluctant amusement. “He’ll be insufferable,” he mutters. “You’re giving a mechanical bird an ego complex.”

You laugh, softer now, as his hand settles at the small of your back, grounding you. His chest rumbles with quiet agreement. The ridiculous painting stands silent witness—its ornate frame catching the glow of the kitchen light, Mephisto’s haughty gaze presiding over your tangled forms.

Sylus leans in again, his mouth finding yours with a steadier purpose this time, the kind that makes your knees buckle and your back bump gently against the couch. His hands cradle your face, thumbs sweeping along your jaw as he deepens the kiss, slow and sure, like there’s nowhere else either of you needs to be.

You breathe his name, soft and questioning—“Sylus?”

He hushes you with another kiss, lips warm and certain. “We’ve got time,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough with quiet affection. “Plenty of time before we have to hang that monstrosity.”

And just like that, the apartment feels different. Yours. His. Ours. A place where even the most ridiculous things can belong.

thank you for reading, and happy 500 followers!

[darlingdream1010]

A lot of people play with the idea of the Justice League summoning Danny as a ghost/ghost king/ghost prince, thinking he’s Pariah Dark. That’s all fun and good, and the guilty pleasure of reading their surprise is always fun, but surely they wouldn’t be so outdated about it?

Danny’s friend is Tucker—a tech geek—who’s to say he won’t hook his friend up with a phone line for Intergalactic Kingly (technically Princely, but King sounds better) Duties? In fact, why wait for the Justice League to call him? It’s not like they know the Realms have got a new system yet, and Danny ought to give them some free help the first few times, just to clear a bit of the old bad air between them.

Let’s say a few of the members have got them selves in a bind with a certain ancient artifact that’s cursed with ectoplasm. All it takes is one confused question—

“Wait, the things cursed with whatsit now?” Captain Marvel asked, leaning close to try and get a better look.

Zatanna held up a hand, warning him away. “Ectoplasm. Don’t get close, we’re certain it’s got similarities to Lazarus water, but we don’t fully understand it.”

He frowned, holding the artifact farther away from himself. “That doesn’t bode well for me.”

Zatanna sighed. “Let me call John over, I think we need to summon—“

And with that, the requirement of “Ectoplasm” and “Summon” being spoken was fulfilled, and the landline phone rang.

Naturally, they were a bit confused at first, as they distinctly remembered not having a landline phone on their station in the middle of space. However, never fear, because all it takes is a healthy bit of communication and customer service.

“Hi! You wanted to summon something to deal with ectoplasm?” A cheery voice said when Zatanna picked up the phone.

“Ye—“

“Fantastic! I’ll be there in a jiffy,” the voice said. They seemed almost at a desperate level of enthusiasm, as if they were relieved someone needed them.

Captain Marvel glanced between the ancient sword his hands were glued to and the phone. “Did they say they were coming here?”

“I did!” A voice announced, surprising both of them. They both immediately took defensive positions, fully launching attacks at Danny—

“And just like that, I was there to help! See?” Danny said jovially, swiping away a stray bit of blood from when the two had attacked him. “Easy and fast, without the hassle of a ritual!” Danny finished his pitch just in time for the sword to let out an ominous roar as it unstuck itself from Captain Marvel’s hands.

“You’ve made this worse!” Zatanna accused, lunging for the sword.

“Wait! I’m not done!” Danny cried, waving his hands for her to not approach.

The sword immediately locked onto her, glowing green and launching itself toward her. Danny just managed to grab onto it and turn them both intangible, passing right through the magician.

He glared at the sword. “You’re not making me look good right now,” he whispered. The sword shook in his hands agitatedly, swaying its point toward Zatanna. “No,” Danny scolded. “Bad dog. Go back to the Zone, now.”

The sassy sword whacked him in the forehead. Danny stuck his tongue out at it. The sword glowed a bright, iridescent green before disappearing completely.

He sagged. “Oh thank the Ancients.”

Dusting off his hands, he turned back to the other two and smiled. “So? Five stars? Four stars? I’ll take a three-point-five…”

With no response, Danny’s face drooped, black eyebrows furrowing. “Shit…that bad?”

Captain Marvel shared a glance with Zatanna and scratched his neck sheepishly. “We…probably won’t be needing your help again, dude. We’ll just get the Ghost King. Um, thanks though…”

The lady looked even less friendly. Her expression read: “we don’t know you, don’t show up uninvited.”

Danny sighed, opened a portal, and—after sparing them one final, sorrowful glance because he couldn’t help it—stepped back into the Ghost Zone.

The familiar sight of Long Now greeted him. Clockwork was there to meet him, offering him a cup of tea.

“While I am not experienced in such endeavors, I have heard many humans also experience a rough first day on the job,” he said.

Danny groaned, shedding his human form. “You know what? Screw this ‘revamp the summoning’ thing. Next time, I’ll just let them summon me, thinking they’ll get Pariah.”

Clockwork smiled, a mysterious knowing glint in his eyes. “Now wouldn’t that be a funny idea?”

[kaivenom]

Can you write one piece dilfs playing 7 minutes in heaven with reader, please?

I love your one piece scenarios, hope you'll continue

OP Dilfs playing 7 minutes in heaven

Characters: Doflamingo, Mihawk, Crocodile, Smoker, Shanks

A/N: how could you possibly end up playing this game with these mature men? nobody knows, but here you are.

Masterlist

Dracule Mihawk

His expression didn't change when you both got selected.

He entered the closet like nothing happened.

But also, didn't move, not even an inch.

Thanks to the darkness, you didn't saw his almost flustered face and a little hint of nervous sweat running thru his neck.

"And... how was your day going?" you were surprised, he was trying to make conversation.

"Good, better now."

"How can it be better if we are both..." his mind started to click "ohhhh"

"We don't have to do anything if..."

"I rather prefer taking you out on dinner or something." he was finally a little calmer.

Donquixote Doflamingo

Big mistake, he is a pain in the ass and also very big.

He had a hard time getting inside of the closet.

To the point that the only good way for you both to be there is was for you to sit on him.

Of course, you didn't want to sit on his lap so you did it on his knees.

"The view is not so bad from down here." you rapidly went to close your legs and pull down your skirt.

"Pervert." he then separated a little his knees, trying to make you fall "and idiot."

"And your king, you should be pleased to be here with me."

"No." and then he managed to move his knees and drop you on his lap and chest.

"Auch, my dick." he grabed your hands and pulled you up a little.

"You were the one moving." you kissed his nose, just to make him mad.

Sr. Crocodile

Another problem, like Doflamingo, he is big.

But he is smaller so he was able to stand up.

The thing is that you were on the height of his dick, more or less.

And he was doing the best he could, not to make it violent for you.

"Ummm, Sir Crocodile..."

"Don't say anything." he tried to sound serious, but he was frustated that any moment you could feel his 'excitement'.

"I was going to say that if you left your hook outside, we could have a little more space."

"Maybe you are right." you on your side, also tried to calm yourself cause you are feeling all the radiating warmth of his body.

"And... how is bussiness?" that made him realize you were uncomfortable, cause you never ask that.

"I don't know how could I look at your face after this." you grabbed his hand and kissed him.

"Maybe with a blush and a kiss?"

Smoker

Nervous, really nervous.

From the time someone propossed the game, from the time he sat down and when you were both finally selected.

When you both entered the place he decided to turn his back on you.

But still he was dying of nervousness and you were a little dissapointed.

"You know, I expected this to be a little more fun" you said, catching his attention. "when people do this kinds of things, they tend to be more... proactive."

"Yeah?" he was starting to get the thought that you wanted him to move.

"Yeah, I don't mean have sex, but ... we can still have fun." and then, a small flow of smoke started carresing the skin of your thights and breasts.

"Something like this?" you smiled.

Akagami Shanks

He was a little drunk so he was being noisy.

He even hugged you when the bottle landed on yourself.

He grabbed you and went to the closet without shame.

When the door closed, both of you were still close, really close.

"I am really excited to be here, with you." he was almost comical.

"I can see that... you are being really touchy." you said laughing a little.

"You don't want me too" his mood dropped to the ground.

"I do," you grabbed his hands to put them around your shoulders.

He started laughing like a teenager and started peppering kisses on your cheeks.

"Yeah." he put his hands up in a sign of victory but ended up hurting his fingers with the closet's ceiling.

[laurfilijames]

Die Fun

Pairing: Jax Teller x female reader

Words: 1.4K

Warnings: Rated E, 18+. Drinking, smoking, making out, dry humping.

Summary: A spontaneous ride out to the coast is the break you know Jax is in need of where he's able to let go, allowing him to indulge in loving hard, living fast and staying fun.

A/N: I was listening to one of my favourite songs and thought of this little idea that seemed to suit Jax and had to write it. This is dedicated to all the wonderful people here who have encouraged me to continue sharing and loving my work. Thank you 💗

---

“Let's get outta here,” you suggested in a sultry whisper, a playful smile tugging up your full lips that had just pulled away from his.

Jax couldn't help but return it, feeling his heart do a small flip in his chest as you hovered over him, your low-cut top putting your cleavage on display.

“Where?”

You shrugged, moving from between his spread legs, your hands pressing off his chest that made the leather of his kutte creak.

“Anywhere. It doesn't matter.”

You loved being on his bike just as much as he did, and he couldn't deny you that thrill whenever you requested it, craving the feel of your body hugging tight against the back of his and how your hands always danced across his stomach.

He stood from the couch he was slumped in when you reached for his hand, eager to follow you wherever, his other one landing on your hip as he watched you bite your lower lip to try to hide your grin as you started walking toward the door.

“Are we runnin’ away, darlin’?” he asked, the words coming out in a soft chuckle.

You looked over your shoulder at him, your eyes alight with vigor and lust that screamed of a freedom he was desperate for, and when you spoke, your words were calling him like a siren.

“If that's what you want.”

He rode until he couldn't stand not having you in his arms any longer, the way his hand rested on your thigh as much as possible not nearly enough to satisfy him, catching himself digging his fingers into the torn denim covering your leg as his need to have you became unbearable.

The coast was now in sight, and the salty air filled his lungs each time he took a deep breath in, the two hour ride to get here simultaneously feeling like an eternity and no time at all.

Jax rolled into a lookout spot, the view of the ocean clear as day from the space he parked his Dyna in, the surrounding trees creating a little seclusion that would be perfect for watching the sun sink down on the horizon.

You dismounted first, your hands gripping his shoulders for stability as you swung your leg over, and Jax caught your smile as he looked behind him.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, unfastening the strap of your helmet where you shook out your hair, and before he had the opportunity to ask where you were going, you skipped off across the road toward a little corner store.

Jax removed his own helmet and sat for a minute, feeling the vibrations of the bike start to shake away from his hands now that everything was still.

He closed his eyes, relishing in the calm, the realization that he needed to get away from the stress of the club and the bullshit that came with the everyday of being VP hitting him now that he had the opportunity to breathe.

He must’ve sat there for longer than he intended, lost in the serenity of nothingness, the sudden feel of your hand smoothing over his back and up to his neck startling him.

“You okay?”

“Hmm, yeah,” he smiled, angling his face up to you where you leaned down to kiss him, both of your smiles fading as the push and pull of your mouths intensified.

With a sigh, you reluctantly pulled away, the temptation to never stop overwhelming you.

“What’d you get?” Jax asked, nodding at the bag in your hand, his brows scrunching together.

You held up what was obviously a bottle of booze wrapped up in a brown, paper bag and shook it in a teasing way, taking a step back away from the bike in hopes he would follow.

“You’ll have to come see!”

You walked backwards for a few steps with a bright grin on your gorgeous face, your eyes full of mischief and a promise of making him forget everything he needed to, and Jax followed eagerly, his draw to you like a magnet.

You sat there for hours, alternating sharing sips from a cheap bottle of red wine that somehow tasted better than it should, the last of the blazing orange that burnt the sky fading into a deep indigo.

Jax had you between his legs where you both faced the sea, his arms enveloping you completely in fear you were getting cold, your head resting in the space between his neck and collarbone.

Your fingers trailed up and down his forearm, his tattoo exposed by the sleeve of his hoodie, the sensation of that and the slight buzz from the wine feeling like complete bliss.

The breeze came in waves, mimicking the swell of the tide, and when Jax closed his eyes he could hear it before it blew toward you, the rustling of the leaves nearby giving him a few seconds notice before it hit his face, dancing in his hair harshly at first and then softer as it passed.

He took a deep inhale, nestling his face in your hair as he did, and pressed a kiss on your head when he exhaled.

“This is perfect, darlin’,” he purred, his voice loose but raspy, the evidence of his last cigarette hanging on it.

“I think so, too,” you agreed, shifting out of the cage of his arms and legs to face him.

You straddled his lap, holding his face in your hands where you admired how the colour of his eyes rivaled the water that crashed against the cliff below you.

The lines that flanked his mouth etched deeper as he smiled, your fingers tracing their permanent tracks, and you realized there wasn’t one part of him that didn’t mesmerize you as his long, golden lashes fluttered on his tanned skin when he closed his eyes.

Your lips captured his, stealing his breath that blew into your mouth with a chuckle, your body arching toward his to seek more of him.

His warmth transferred onto you, surrounding you along with his scent of lingering tobacco and faded cologne, the sharp taste of wine off his tongue making you more intoxicated than when you drank it yourself.

Jax delved deeper into your mouth, desperate and needy as he gripped your waist, pulling you closer where he guided you to rock against his stiff cock that strained in his jeans.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, his lips still brushing yours.

You raked your hands through his hair, the pull making him moan and tip his head back slightly, and you couldn’t resist the thick column of his neck, your lips kissing and sucking his smooth skin.

A low groan that turned into a dark chuckle rumbled through him, his fingers tickling your side to force you to stop even though he really didn’t want you to.

You squirmed and unlatched yourself from his neck, satisfied to see a burgundy mark stain his porcelain skin even in the growing darkness, and took a steadying breath as you adjusted your hips on his.

Trying to ignore how his cock felt pressing up against your soaked and aching cunt, you reached beside you for the bottle, bringing it to his lips where he accepted the offer and let you pour what was left into his mouth.

He laughed as some spilled out, and you quickly licked his chin clean, the scruff of his beard on your tongue a strange combination of soft and prickly.

“You tryin’ to take advantage of me or somethin’?”

The bottle fell from your hand, the clink of it on the ground lost as you brought your face closer to his, your noses brushing each other as you shared a breath, the tension continuing to grow between you.

“Maybe…”

His hands slid under your shirt, smoothing up your back as he crashed his mouth into yours, his cock throbbing with the thought of filling your tight, wet pussy and fucking you until you screamed.

Breathless, you peeled away, your chest heaving with restraint.

“So, what now, Teller?”

He smirked, his eyebrows raising on his forehead. “I thought this was your idea.”

Your giggle turned into a whine when he lifted his hips up against you, the friction on your cunt too much to bear, trying to think through the haze in your mind driven by lust and alcohol but fully aware you wouldn’t be able to drive back home.

“How much cash do you have on you?” you asked, your voice strained with want.

“Enough for a sleazy motel and another bottle,” he drawled, grabbing your ass roughly. “Come on, gorgeous, let’s go blow it all.”

---

Taglist:

@dailydragon08 @thedreadandthefugitivemind @glassgulls @littlenosoul @maggotzombie

@rmwarn90 @paintlavillered @stealfromthedevil @kmc1989 @justreblogginfics

@spaghettificationandpretzels @whatever-lmaoo @steviebbboi @charethcutestory02 @daryldixonpls

@puffins-muffins

[anghraine]

#i kept this in drafts for a long time thinking i would write some clever comment here#but obviously not now#anyway it's just really! good! to read#because this whole reading of kirk as a strongly masculine character keeps me stuck#like did you guys even watch this show?#and while i now understand better where all this kirk drift came from it's honestly such a lousy story#this is probably one of the most notable misinterpretations of the character /for the worse/ over time (via @betty-fran)

Thank you very much!

Easily one of the biggest surprises for me, when I marathoned the whole show, was what I affectionately think of as the "Captain Gender" scenes scattered throughout it. The fluidity of Kirk's navigation of gender performance in TOS, him being either unconcerned or aggressively deliberate about leaning into feminine conventions when it's either useful or he simply feels like it, is so fun and refreshing after so much modern media that feels like... at best, toothless corporate queernorm that is fundamentally reactionary about gender in a way that TOS couldn't have really imagined even while navigating the iron grip of what could be nationally syndicated in 1966 and their own assumptions.

I especially enjoy that it's one thing if Kirk chooses to adopt a more conventionally masculine role for this or that situation—but if he's pressured into taking on a restrictively gendered role, he's going to be a lot more uncomfortable being cornered into being Charlie's father figure than Nomad's mother figure. Even at his most masculine, that's never all or most of what he is, or how he seems to really even understand gender as a person.

It's not even that his way of understanding/engaging with gender is perfect or anything; it's very true to how he feels, but not by any means for everyone. But I do find the contrast between his theatrical performativity vs the alternative but inflexible supreme masculinity of Spock and the comfortable familiarity of McCoy's just really fascinating—and extremely surprising from their reputations, especially Kirk's.

But even fan spaces that dislike Kirk Drift tend to have a strong preference for binding him tightly to masculinity even beyond what Spock and McCoy get. Some is no doubt influenced by the movies, which work to masculinize him (as the original "Kirk Drift" article pointed out, iirc!), but it was definitely a shock to have so much of a sense of not just the awful pop culture take on him but also even the friendlier, not at all dudebro fannish takes that define him so overwhelmingly with masculinity, and then to watch even sketchy episodes like "Who Mourns for Adonais?" and realize this is the character they're talking about:

So I just discovered a cool conversation that spun off from one of my tag monologues on a gifset—I'd seen the initial tag peer review, but hadn't realized they'd gone further than that until @ladytharen tagged me. Yet again I didn't want to pester the original gifmaker too much, so I decided to respond separately to the part I found especially interesting.

For context, these were my original tags on the "This little thing? Just something I slipped on :)" Kirk captivity scene from "Tomorrow is Yesterday":

#captain gender strikes again! #i appreciate the read on this scene as 'captain kirk is a queer guy flirting with random 20th cent dudes holding him captive. bicon' #but personally my read is 'captain kirk is a queer guy deliberately leaning into effeminacy to fuck with hypermasc douchebros #from the very era in which the show was made irl. bicon' #it's definitely flirty but it is an aggressively feminine-coded flirtiness that's going to triply bother these kinds of guys #ngl i feel like kirk enjoys fucking with gender norms in all directions just because of who he is as a person (his true gender: diva) #but it's extra fun when it lets him troll ultra-military assholes neurotic about their own masculinity who are trying to intimidate HIM #(these guys aren't his type at all - christopher is much more that - but as usual that's not the point of the flirtation #k/s is nerd4nerd but also troll4troll)

I was really intrigued by this response from @mycroftrh, and thinking about it again on this inauguration of Pride month.

#yeah#in a certain context queerness and effeminacy are power#these are also unfortunately often the same contexts where queerness can get you hate crimed#but if you’re gonna be beat up/killed anyway…#you might as well make the homophobes maximally uncomfortable first

Yep, exactly. You can absolutely see the moment when he decides on exactly which side of his personality he's going to use for maximum effect on these gender policing, homophobic, ultra-military, paranoid bigots from the 60s:

I do think it's interesting that the full scene includes not only Kirk's bisexual chaos gremlin diva genderfuckery (enrichment for him!) but moments of fear and defiance:

He doesn't drop the flamboyance until he wants to, though. And the framing, lighting, angles etc only serve to emphasize their attempts to loom even more over him, aggressively get into his space, gesture right at his face to unsettle him, and his refusal to be intimidated by these fundamentally pathetic responses that are by no means free from real danger, just silly and contemptible nevertheless. It's not that he's too disdainful or amused at his own hijinks to understand how easily this could go very wrong. He simply has no respect for these men and enjoys leveraging their own hang-ups against them.

His eye make-up is also more than usually noticeable in the close-ups in this scene—even compared to other scenes in the same episode—which seems maybe not unrelated!

I think it's also worth pointing out that, TOS make-up aside, Kirk's navigation of gender performance in the original series is ... let's say, idiosyncratic. Most of the 23rd-century male characters are far more inflexible and singular about what gendered roles they're willing or able to inhabit. Kirk specifically is very deliberately fluid and versatile and theatrical about a lot of things, very much including gender performance and sexuality.

[squishy-goblin]

I'm officially letting everyone know that I’m stepping back from full time content creation.

I want to start by saying thank you for the support. Every like, share, purchase, and moment of true support has meant a lot to me. These experiences has been more than just making content; it’s been an act of self-love for me. Through it, I’ve learned to see myself with softer eyes, to appreciate my body in ways I never imagined.

If you had asked me a few years ago whether I thought my body would be the thing that gave me a platform, a voice, and a following of over 10,000 people, I would have laughed in disbelief. And yet, here I am, still amazed and in awe of the love I’ve received. Being worshipped, celebrated, and adored through my work has been one of the most powerful and healing experiences of my life. For that, I’ll always be grateful.

That said, it’s time for me to prioritize my mental health, which creating content really jeopardizes. There are good times which I'm so grateful for, but there are times that my self-worth is completely destroyed by certain individuals making me feel less than human. While my relationship with my body has blossomed, my emotional and mental well-being has suffered. And as someone who already walks a delicate line with mental health, I need to take a step back to care for myself in a deeper way.

✨️My OnlyFans will remain up, but updates will be rare. Maybe something new every few months. I’ll still accept custom requests, but only for very high paying commissions so I can make a quality of video that I want to be associated with.

✨ My Tumblr will stay active but I'll be considerably less provocative, it's still my cozy corner of the internet.

✨ And my Discord server isn't going anywhere. It’s not just a “fan space,” it’s become a circle of friends.

Thank you for seeing me.

Thank you for holding space for my art, my body.

[the-toxic-tarot-reader]

Hey Sexies, Sex Life Pick A Pile Reading 18+

Divider credits - @cafekitsune

So this is sexual life read, I know you can already see so many goddamn paragraphs in front of you, but trust me its just me holding space for you guys, cause I know triggers and I want you all to take your time before grabbing all your eggs in the basket. Be patient and remain calm as this reading is not meant for everyone.

To all my queer babies, I am straight person, please hold some space for me, this read is open to imagination, add fingering, anal, toys wherever you like. Consider this as your own personal space.

Also just a little request and heads up, this reading came into fruition because of not just me but your energy as well. Thank you for coming here, and bringing your energy, just want to say that do not direct your sexual energies in my direction. Its your energy, you can use this reading to spruce up your imagination, but be mindful of directing it towards me. I have heard and experienced many cases of evil eye, toxic tarot readers and energy harvesters already. I just need you to be mindful of where you direct your sexual energy to.

Minors Do Not Interact, and seriously I am very serious about this, your impressionable minds really shouldn't be reading this.

If you are in an abusive relationship currently, please do not engage with my reading today.

The series of pile reading can contain a lot of talk about rough play and bdsm. This can be triggering for some and also highly manipulative for others especially if you are someone obsessed with Divine Feminine or Divine Masculine, I don't want you to tolerate some sort of sexual advances that can be highly abusive to you, yet you make-believe yourself through this read that abuse masked as love is what a divine partner would do to you. Also this is no double standard against all such people who believe in those things, but this is a reading about sex life not your typical future spouse reading, so do not come here with a rope of expectation of one person only, its a sex life read so there can be many people.

Also for people who know and understand their sexual style, but had only one person as their past relationship who ended up being abusive to you, the people channeled here aren't them, they can be your future partners or you yourself, but if it does feels like them, I would like you to take a break and hold some space for yourself, and understand what state of mind you are in right now, if you still feel like your sexual preference is something that's actively controlled by this abusive person in your mind's reality, then please pause and take a break from this read.

And for others who didn't have any past abusive partners yes specific people did came through, but they can be referred to more than one person. Also this read is meant to be an appreciation of your sexual nature than what people expect of you, be very mindful of the difference between labelling and resonating. This reading is not meant to justify abuse done by degenerates, so be very mindful of that.

How does your eating style affect people?

Pile 1 -----> Pile 2

Pile 3------> Pile 4

Pile 1

You make them question, who they are, what their type actually is, cause whatever you and your type is, it is something they didn't know they wanted it until you came into their life. Their dick/pussy wants to tell them how much they like it, but their heart and minds, can't seem to agree. But the greed, the instant heat once they see you, they go feral, they hate you but that's what they like about it, you make them go crazy and wanna fuck you like bonkers, hooters if anything else. They wanna fuck you so hard that they make themselves surge or trick you in their dungeon through kindness just to fuck you rough. I heard "fallen grace". they wanna make you fall from grace, you can be an angel to everyone on the outside, but they want to taint, make addicted to their cock/pussy sex. They could be gossipers, would crave to taste your mouth and every word you say, they would tattle tales on you, confide in you in silence. Would never accept the pull and their lust for you, but want to fuck you so hard right now. If they could keep fucking till the night ends, they will. They fall for you so abruptly.

"You make me wanna do you more"

Your eating style is the one they do when you fight, rough, evasive, sending pleasures and thrills down the throat kind. They want to rough fuck your face every single time you get angry at them. Their dick/ pussy wants you growling at them. Don't get me wrong, if you need any help or don't have a place to stay, they are more than likely to take you in their humble abode but with their own agenda in mind and you know what that is. They want you to shower in front of them, N-A-K-E-D. All clothes lying on floor. Sitting on their dining table, with you and all of you in front of them, they wanna savor it, eat it cause its so divine. "Ah ha! So Divine". They are swimming in pleasure.

Your tongues is a gateway to Divine, the power source, that's what they feel for you. You re-energise them, give them back this energy they never felt in all those years of their life. You are their light. Ever since you left them, they are wondering where is all my energy gone, not realizing it was you re-energizing their energy.

"

My heart's on the line

We've got an audience

I'm running, I'm running I'm running, I'm running

You're the moon and I'm the tide"

Liam Miller's Love and Devotion

Seems you ran back to them after some break up or chaos and immediately the friction is sensed, you both are embroiled in an argument, the heat takes over, nothing can stop this anymore..... this breakup sex is all you need. I see them sitting on one legged rotating chair, a sofa or couch or even a seat in theatre, you block their view, sit on or in front of their face while they are watching something important, block their view, now they are pissed and blast, fucking starts, it doesn't matter if everyone in the theatre is looking, you are pounding or getting pounded on by them, and they won't stop till you cum or make them cum......

Some of you embody that slender eyed Jennifer Wingett beauty, so seductive, so sexy, yet so graceful, men want to make you fall from that grace, to see that inner baddie within you. They love you in your sarees if you own any. A lot of songs came through from this person, you or they could be pianist, singer, musician. Dang there are weird stepsister concept roleplay you or they could be into. You will always be their muse, no matter what you say. It gives me a lot of cat energy, Ashlesha, Dhanishtha, Purva Bhadrapada and Punarvasu could be significant. This could traced back if you knew your birth time. Cow yoni, Uttara Phalguni and Uttara Bhadrapada could be significant. I am getting all the Uttara nakshatra, including Uttara Ashadha, I feel like you guys are result oriented people.

And maybe they like that about you, that you start what you finish no matter how much they try to hold back ecspecially when they are holding back their cum.

"I have heard, I have heard this too many times, you are just so beautiful and whimsical, you bring me the daylight, I'm afraid of your love and devotion, I'm afraid for your love, Take heaven and back to hell"

This is Liam Miller's song but I kind of changed it to express their feelings. This is what's happening with them, they push and pull with your energy. You are someone so out of their league that they can't even define it. Its something else, they are not the type to feel this way about anyone, but you are such a charming suave, they are vehement over you, in a competitive way. They have never seen someone sway or completely outshine them the way you do. So they are charmed and alarmed by you at the same time. Now someone's name could be Bai Lu and also Bai Lu is a stunning actress from China. Just like her, your work ethic is incomparable and you stand out not only as a beauty but your work as well. They could be so jealous, obsessive yet smitten by you all at the same time. "You did something to them", they are so tragically in love with you . They described you as HOT, whimsical, studious and re-energizing at the same time. You have this young Maiden's energy, always curious, like a butterfly, flying from one poppy flower to another. Now poppy flower has opium in it, so I feel like your taste or addictions change rapidly. They desire to be one of them. All your ex's might want you so bad, yet cannot openly say it, its cause you choose them, they want to be chosen by you. And that's why there's this vehemency being directed at you. People can try to be forceful with you at times only satisfy their ego and themselves only to realize, you won't even choose them. Your skills outshine their talents so you power play your way up the top to keep egoistic fools from dimming your light by outsmarting them.

You are really playful and casual with your energy as well and people either hate it or love it, but something about someone like you who feels so much pressure from people around you for seeming so intimidating 🙄to them, not that you actually are, this energy of casualness adds its charm to you. You make it look so simple and easy when its a lot of work. People see this and underestimate your power and then get played by their ego, hurt themselves and then take their anger out on you which isn't fair to you. And sometimes it reflects on your sexual life as well where the ones who treat you right (not the abusive ones) find you so elusive and playful to the point that they may replace or try to find someone like you to blow them down there, cause insecurity gets them, their fear of you leaving them, makes them want to find the same joy you used to give through someone else so they can pretend to their hearts that they never lost you. Your seduction is something else, people would literally want to be seduced by you

I think your mere presence in people's life fills them up with energy, after you decide to walk away, they feel and understand the loss of you in your absence. Also I saw a disturbing presence when I came back to end the rest of your reading. It was a zombie like figure, trying to stop my work. Be careful of sucking dead people with no emotions or understanding of orgasm or intimacy who may try to belittle your human experiences. Plus I couldn't pull my cards in this energy, literally feels like your tricks to do the sexual things you do are being hidden away, to protect your energy or to restrict you, idk.

Its like all the cards came face down. I guess they don't want you to know how your eating style affects them..... they feel ashamed of being left by you and honestly that's their insecurity, all we can do is hold space for such people, that's it.

Literally your energy is so flighty, that people might try to stop your work, eat your brain, use your impatience against you to keep you looping or make you repeat the same task one hundred times just to keep you circling around them. Be careful of making risky or bad deals with people who don't like you and want to see you grow old running around a cubicle. Your energy is super movement and growth oriented and people might feel ashamed and bullied to get distracted by you and your energy, unable to let you go, while you are already moving on. For one they deeply crave you despite trying to hide their shame cause some of them despise your move-on energy as well.

Songs : SZA - BIG BOY

Pile 2

I am immediately channeled "Be humble, sit down be humble". You make them weak on their knees, they cannot sit, walk, stand or get up after getting fucked or oral by you. You weaken them. They need every single part of you, eyes, thighs, body or mind, everything sitting on them or inside them (if its a women). They want you, just now, then, 2 days ago, yesterday in between conversations with their friends. If I say they want you every single day within them, or them in you, I won't be lying. Though they have matured from that phase, they still want you. New Woman by Lisa coming through. They wanted to hug you while sneakily sliding your cock or pussy in them so bad, I'm sure they would do it to you. I am hearing a disappointed "That's a phase, I'm sure", but I think and feel that this is short sighted view on your or their part (maybe they are trying to convince themselves) but they are not sure how convincing you, your essence, heart, body and mind is to their mind. Cause I'm getting that if they had a basement, they would very likely kidnap you and keep you there, they would do it. Its giving wind you down concept to me. The ending scene of "Hidden Face" the Korean version comes to mind, where a women is trapped in what seems like a bdsm dungeon to pleasure the other women's needs. They would do witchcraft on your internal organs if necessary just to lock you in (extremely weird now) . They are so so obsessed with you. They would like their soul to be drawn within you and your sacred space.

The heart that you hold for them though is everything they have ever cherished, as you let them do whatever they like, love them regardless of who they are, they will want to come back and rekindle this love relationship with you, if its an ex . If its an already existing relationship, they are someone who can't wait to lay their eyes on you, head rest on you, or simply fuck you every single morning while looking in the eye before going back to work. I'm getting bareback fucks while you are sleeping to wake you up cause they love you so much, and they want to keep fucking you day and night, early morning to night. I am hearing "they insist, its a request so please comply with/within me", before you say yes or no to their sweet request they are already within you, talk about sex starved but I think they are starved for you. I think they are constantly trying to request you to let them fuck you, but maybe you try to evade their request or fail to complete your tasks to materialize this request especially when they are craving you all day and all night long. They are trying so hard to evade your questions just to jump in right next to you and....... you girl, you are avoiding, maybe you fear you will pass out, after having taken all of their requests.

It just feels like sex triggers some self love and self hate in you and your intution often gets kicked in a back burner , oh wait I just realized, you were the one coming with this be humble energy, this other energy that often gets humbled so often in the relationship and is fleeing is also you. So maybe you lose a lot chunk of confidence in playing submissive roles in sex plays. So maybe there's some identity crisis going here, maybe its you who is not able to see or understand your own highly divine energy, you kinda fumble it, and make a mess cause you are so rooted to believing that you are the fumbled one, that (you.... strangely enough you don't see, how badly you fumbled with this one right here. ) Ok let me explain what happened right there, you mistake your partners as people who are messing with you or fumbling you, when its you who hasn't accepted the sexual side that comes out of you, and then you blame your partners for bringing that side out of you. Now I am getting the message that while fumbling with your own energy, you mistook them as some sort of perpetuator for bringing this side within you.

Cause they are strong, smart, sought after by many people out there and everything that you ever looked for. I also think you are kind of trapped in your head and aren't able to feel your own confident and dominant side despite having it all within you, I think you are trapped in this submissive receiving connoisseur energy, which isn't bad in it of itself, but it kinda makes you feel emasculated or no fun, did you get what I mean. Its because you aren't participating in the sexual act itself but just getting accepted too get used by somebody. I just feel like you aren't actually receiving anything because you aren't asking for it, you are just taking what is being given to you and then this person comes, gives you what you asked for and you are left speechless..... cause they brought out YOU. I think its the fact that this person is so much like you in their confident side in so many ways that you not being able to resist or say no to them and the familiarity plus love they bring into the relationship feels like binding to you which you feel is directed towards you by them, which in turn makes you feel like they are manipulating you when its all you in your head. You know how some tarot readers and weird Christians say that "The enemy doesn't want me to succeed" type shit when its them who didn't prepare, plan or show up when its time for them to do so. They just want to shift the blame to others, that is exactly what has happened to you, you love them, but are dead scared of the commitment or the idea of following through the next steps of "falling in love". You shift the blame onto them, for loving you, overthinking that they were manipulating, scheming or plotting something behind your back. Babe, you just can't handle the sweetness, (only applicable for healthy relationships of course)

You may end up confusing your own submissiveness with you being unsafe, rather than understanding that your willingness to submit is not you being manipulated but you feeling safe. Feeling safe could feel alarming to you guys. This seems like a trigger mechanism, but they like and love it whenever you deep throat and choke on their dick, and then start crying, I think they won't like to force you, but your vulnerability, your emotions is something they wanted to see for long.

I think they love it when you kiss their lips after choking on their cock like that. They love the taste of your lips covered in their juices. I think given how you give into their demands like that, they would like to choke you every single day, but since this is towing to your energy, and if you haven't recovered from your past traumas, they might remind you of some brutality in your past, (for some people they could have suffered childhood abuse in a church or temple or mosque, or some holy place by some priest, that specifically came through in here.) but I think something about their energy, make you rewrite this traumatic sexual history as a loving memory of being consensually choked by your partner. They replace shit memories with love.

Also this is what I mean when I said you fumble your divine energy yourself, and mistake it for this person fumbling you for this divine energy which might be true, but this person isn't betraying you or liking your sexual energy over you, but they like and love you for you, its just you really didn't even know who you really are, and this energy of yours is so good at receiving and knows of her worth to ask for what she deserves rather than being used by everyone, they truly see you for who you are, a beautiful serpent is how they would define you. Too humble, finishes last, always loves them despite anything or everything, they have started loving themselves through you. But I think you still keep telling yourself that this gentle not so warrior like soul isn't you, cause you don't trust that instinct. You are so honed into your warrior like energy due to your survival mechanism, you kinda think that gentle soft person inside is the fake bitch you often pretend to be to appear promising individual in front of others, but in reality your inner self is just as kind, forgiving, humble and loving as that, you just don't seem to realize it, cause you never got to live like yourself, since you were constantly kept in survival mode environments. That's why this pile is getting too long, cause you are too wrapped up in your self doubt

And they think you also know less about yourself, sometimes lesser than they do. I am also getting that you choke them while kissing, they are screaming and gasping for breath in my channeling. "Girl you left me breathless". Maybe for some of you lilith or sun or, mars in leo or scorpio placement or venus or atmakarka in 12th or 8th house They don't know you much but you don't know yourself either, but you don't even see, maybe even despise seeing your own divine energy, which makes you someone who plays hide and seek with themselves and run away at the sight whatever you think your inner divine energy is like, which I think seems like someone very unproductive, lazy, fake bitch to many of you, due to the nuanced layer of other people's opinion. I think more people who have loved you wish you were gentler to yourself, you aren't seeing yourself rightly my love, that's why while starting this read, their energy clashed and came similar to yours, because you tend to take shape and copy people's energy bully yourself into letting their thoughts shape your inner value and worth. You are a very gentle person, rahu in 12th or 4th house, rahu in chitra nakshatra, gemini in 12th house. Gemini, Libra, Pisces and Rahu are energies that try to copy others and emulate them to transmute that energy for themselves. So you really lose a sense of yourself, while picking up their energy which continues to love you for you and start conflicting with that energy of love, thinking they love you for another alter ego or personality which you think isn't even the real you but its the gentleness they fall for, the one which you dismiss, disregard, and throw away ruthlessly. This is a necessary change they would like to see within you, and they personally would like you to see and cherish this part within yourself

Gosh what changes would you like to see within yourself now that you see the world within yourself collapse? How would you love you, not them, you, not them but you? Read that again. What is it that you want to do for yourself? Read that again to enjoy yourself, as many times as you like. You are not bad for having desires, if reading my post is getting you off, just do it. But make sure to direct that energy to yourself while appreciating how dang true this is to your energy and how much you love it for its experience. I'm just a writer, not a sexual energy harvester, so let me let you know that I'm so thankful and honored for this energy, thank you so much. But if this is getting you off, just say I love me to yourself. Don't direct all that energy towards me(your tarot reader). All right then, Blessings be. Goodbye

Channeled Song : Lauren Aquilina - King

My humble advice give an ear to this song

Pile 3

First of all you all are so good holding conversations. Next you are sensitive and can sense people's needs and take care of them, ( especially at night 😈), your person wants to come through so bad, their laugh or jokes could remind you of youtuber Tanmay Bhatt. Dolly Bindra coming through as well. I feel you guys are so fun and eclectic to be around. You guys are definitely people on the chubbier side. First things first, you guys are sooooooo good, like the way your energy was so straight forward and good to me for no reason. You are soo organized and well prepared, you help people stay organized and give them solid advice if anything else. You guys could be very intuitive, Thank you for interacting with my energy🙏, happy to help the way you do (intuitively)!

I'm already getting a miss perfectionist tendency from you, argumentative when things aren't written in succinct manner, Very mindful, Very demure, Very Virgo, Very Libra energy coming through. Like I do by cover by Jay Park coming through...

First of all they are happy with you, if that's one of your complaints and bigger doubts in this relationship (cause seems like some of you are currently in one, ) yes it is arguably one of the happiest relationships to them no matter how much you guys argue or go home without each other sometimes (not tryna gaslight you, but if someone abusive is leaving you all alone to fend for yourself this is not your reading, I am talking about two people giving each other space not ghost treatments,) , its always love in this relationship, however someone in this relationship maybe be busy and failing to return calls. {Okay that specifically wanted to come through for someone here}

Dang, chubby or not, you all are my big butt ladies and gentlemen, (the name Peter could be significant) they love it when you wear those pink color corsets or blouse, take it how it resonates, and let them grab you by your hair and let them keep their dicks down your throat choking you while you cry from it, while your sweet angel face makeup and mascara washes down your face. They love clicking your pictures in front of mirror while your butt and back faces the mirror and they are deep down your face. They love flashing you off. Biggest marry me signs are ("your tongue" is what I heard them say) your after care rituals, like you love your partners and give them this beautiful clean job, maybe you use very different yet useful techniques to get them off, and ("AAAAAAAAH", the sigh of relief) its so refreshing and amazing at the same time. Armpit jobs could be a thing. I'm getting a very youthful or lolita face but an energy of bold, mature and confident women. I'm also getting a lot of Magenta and different shades of pink. I'm getting Sigrid, a European singer who sang the song Mirror. Also give me someone with appearance of with Nana Osaki's with Nana Komatsu's vibe profile from anime NANA. You are so full of life!!. New Orleans could be significant.

Dreamy, dreamlike, your ways of eating them out and sucking them dirty makes them so horny even if its in their dreams, it makes them so hornyyyyyy. Like girl what are you doing to them? Its invasion of dreams, if there was a dream police, they could have got you handcuffed on their couch for this crime, and you know to do what to you again and again. COWGIRLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Oh man girl you invade their thoughts keeeping them stuck in their workplace, not able to move from their chair cause they go blank or your thoughts distracts them maybe mid-meeting people catch them daydreaming about you, the day passes, work doesn't finishes cause they were still casually daydreaming about you. Girl you could have been or are there workplace employee and I heard that you keep their work hanging. They def want to take you backstairs and fuck your guts in the back room. "I think they call this love" is coming through, all they dream about is your eyes, all they long for is your touch.......

Sheesh girl and you are a keeper. You are worth it, you are their luck, their charm. I feel like people feel dominated by you without you even trying to dominate them, they want you to be their mommy, if you are a daddy they would want you to breed them just by the lick of that tongue. Its soooooo good. I'm also kind of getting that you are such a daddy material, people will want to marry just after having rounds with you, not realising you were just dating around. I feel like people are far more serious about marrying you than you would even give thought to.

Okay this specific pile has different message for both men and women, For men, your partners want you to dominate them, not only do you dominate them well, they think you are a golden opportunity to have sex with. They adore you, and value this cas(ex)ual friendship with love. You are such a giver to them. Maybe you guys have stack of sugar babies to choose from. Not objectifying your partners here, you just like to spend luxuries on them. "You are fetch" - mean girls

Man you are such a catch! They feel like you are onto marrying them just because you spend cash on them. Damn! you have such an affect on them, you treat them like no one has ever treated them before, Your lovers may have a tendency to dogpile over you, lets just say part of it is also because of the way you eat, its not just your money. You make your partners go crazy over you. Damn!!!!! And they don't even realize that that's just your dating style not you being serious enough to get married to them

For women, your partners melt over you, they feel like they are melting on your tongue, every bloody damn single time, you are so soft, so gentle, yet so motherly, people wanna give up their everything and melt in your softness. They love getting that mommy domination by you. You are worth everything their money, their favours, your partners want you to shower so much love on them, like they love it when you invest your time, energy and love on them. "Can you please keep giving them more?" Girl everybody is mental over you!

Now take that man energy as your masculine side and women energy as your feminine side cause I'm getting that you are invading dreams for people who would like to spend their money on you and you make the people who you spend your fortune on a fucking nutcase! like people think you are an invasion regardless. Some might feel so locked in your thoughts, they may feel like hiding from you, cause your thoughts drain their energyy or kinda keep them stuck everywhere in life. Its as if these people could blame you for invading their privacy, when all you did was look at them from an end of the street or a corner of the room. Sheeeshhhhh!!!!!

Listen whoever you guys are, give me some tips if you chose this pile.

Yikes, though you need to be careful, some people might get depressed and feel like they can't have any better in their life, and might get so sad of the rest of the options in front of them. Like you usher a huge change into people's lives, its as if they want to change themselves to be better and worthy of you or sometimes in some cases I feel like they don't see any end to this misery of being rejected by you, so some succumb to suicide? Dang! wtf, sheeesh!!!! That's a lot coming through.....

I had a girl in my hostel who was often plagued by the thoughts of causing someone's suicide just because her boyfriend rejected a girl and chose her, the girl ended up doing suicide, cause the guy rejected her. This could be the case for some of you, be careful out there, never blame yourself for someone deciding to do something wrong over their own incapability to handle the rejection. It was so scary, the situation scared the fuck out of anyone who heard of the start of their love story. I also had a cousin whose lover threatened to kill himself if she ever broke up with him. She was so scared of her own boyfriend. My god! be careful of crazyysss.

I heard, "You are the cure, You are the pain", dang pile 3, that's a scary level of jumpscare of a channeled words coming through from the trail of broken hearts that you have left behind. Honestly its somewhat scary.

Oh now I know why I took such a long break from you and your pile. Your type of pile is scarily beautiful. Idk if there are any other words to describe that. Like I was getting so much headache from the start of this pile. I think you get a headache from the affect you have on other people ! My oh my! I confess, I too once had a huge obsession with a guy, and man the way I was scared to death of being rejected and refused by him. Though I never explicitly told him of this obsession of mine, he got to know about it, and once he saw all that I had been hiding, I had to change to be a better person to give myself all that validation to myself his mere presence would do to me, cause my ego was so hurt, knowing someone as powerful as me could feel like she was on her knees just because of some random dude's stare (how much someone was giving to me without giving much effort to it.) Like all the breadcrumbs were more than enough for me, I secretly wanted more, but I never told him, he gave me more (let's just say he gave me good loving, but I wasn't comfortable with it cause I was in a state of lack myself), I got scared and ran away. Starved myself from him, his kindness and healing energy not realising it was all that minimum he gave me that got me obsessed with his kindness and then realised that it was something I had to give to myself. I was starving myself of my own love, cause I was so normalised to lack.

Dang!!!! Trust me I had to take a whole lot of years of adulting to get over him, and I still kinda struggle with his thoughts cause Iam still so out of touch with myself.

Trust me, people go through a transformation after meeting you. Maybe you guys are 8th house stelliums, I had a 8h synastry with this dude. I am the house person. I think you have had people who secretly want to be you, just because they don't see or value themselves, they end up seeing all their value in you or through emulating you. Also I am seeing that you guys can have a habit of uglifying yourself, cause when you have stalkers this strong, oh god, creepos can't leave unless you make them, but sorry that doesn't works, even if you try to be ugly, it doesn't work. People will always remain obsessed with you regardless. I'm sorry to be the bearer of the creep alert news, but you will have to accept it, I understand its a curse that comes with someone like you, but this is the reality. Some of these unhealed individuals will forever remain your creepy stalkers. Sorry.....

Lots of words like Paparazzi, zombie chasing meme, their rampant memories, Them making rampant and crazy rage run behind YOU , AAAAAAAAAAAH, RUUUUUUUNNNNN,

Another one of your affect is, people know and are aware of the truth you bring, they are aware that they need to heal, and that they lost you in a competition of lovers who were competing for your love. Its as if their minds know the truth yet they are in so much denial, its cause, they haven't started working on themselves yet, so once they start doing inner work to see themselves and provide themselves for what they really want, they will be able to detach their feelings for you, as they will be able to provide that blissful feeling for and to themselves on their own without your help. People who haven't come to this realisation might literally do give up anything for you, their home, parents, betray any rule, system, or government, kill for you type of themes coming through here. Dang!!!!

Also you are hella mysterious, like there can be some manipulative tendencies to you, like you are good at hiding your hands while playing the game, so you know exactly what is it that people are starving for from you in a relationship. So suppose you want something, you will stop giving morning kisses to your lover, till they bring you what you want. You leave them begging for more.....

Whew! Aren't you taking too much space! Sorry the pile below you is pretty shy when it comes to dirty talking, so they are tryna escape, and they are telling me to give you more info. Sorry pile 3, don't wanna bore you with so many paragraphs, gotta confront pile 4. Both of your piles are very mysterious yet deeply private about your sex lives, so some of you might have felt drawn towards pile 4. I'm also hearing that pile 4 don't want to confront themselves and their sexual energy so they fled to this pile to feel better about themselves. Sorry for taking so much space. Thank you for holding space for pile 4 and letting people hide under your dominant aura (Sun exalted, Sun Nakshatras, and Leo coming through) , but I am sorry, its time to confront pile 4, I mean get Pile 4 to FUCK or get FUCKED , so thank you so much pile 3, I'll be signing off your energy.

Thank you for you time Goodbye

Channeled song : Yung Kai - Blue and Mad Tsai - Boys Beware

Pile 4

Ok you guys are soooooo shy, damn! like don't you wanna date somebody. What is this relationship abstinence for? I am just saying don't overdo it, if its something you would like to change in future, otherwise you can stay in your comfort zone. I am also getting some of you have given up on love already cause life has been so disheartening. I think the affect that you have on people for now is your hardness towards them in love as a subjective matter. I am also getting some of you started off relationships as minors and were abused a lot during those years. Sorry if this happened to you. Being closed off to feeling vulnerable with others/ or going into a relationship might seem like a distant dream to you now. I am so sorry for this experience. Hope you are doing well

Megan Trainor's Dear future husband is coming through. People who have been entranced by you and got affected were like "Take me on a date, I deserve it babe, don't forget the flowers, every anniversary, cause if you treat me right, I'll be the perfect wife, buying groceries, buy-buying groceries". For women, I think people feel this pull towards you like you are the perfect wife once they get to know you better and wanna take you out on so many dates.

You know, I couldn't do this read for a while, like the only card I could pull was 7 of cups in reverse and then the energy just changed, like I felt this weird headache for no reason. Idk. But just as the reading says what your energy is like, 7 of cups in reverse is practical vibes. You are very practical when it comes to your sex life and dating. Nevertheless the practicality of dating scares you to the point and extreme you can't describe as you are afraid of letting people get to know the real you, as you have a fear that they will make you beg for them, their love and affection on your knees . I also heard scream, so there can be some masochistic affection patterns that you don't want to repeat. Be careful, take it how it resonates, but I think they could make you desperate and leave you screaming for more affection which is why you try to mask cause you guys are painfully shy and sensitive to people hurting you.

Also the fact that I had to mention which cards I pulled out which I never did in any of the other piles kind of tells me that you guys are fact based. Idk Kama Sutra, book text to bed vibes coming through. Like you guys could be the type to buy books on how to give blowjobs and apply them in real life, and the rest is history. I think you are very experimentative in bed, kinky and stuff, but always trying to do things and learn your partner and their preferences rather than learning your own, I'm also getting that you are fast learner as well. But idk, why but like I got this energy of assumptions, its as if you assume that the people you engage with are using you, rather than deeply entwining themselves into you. The star card and judgement came in reverse, so I can say that this is an energy not feeling deeply understood but more of a energy that assumes everyone around them is here to waste their time/ or just use sex and their body as a coping mechanism from the stresses of life. This type of assumption based thinking could be due to you trying harder to understand others to please than understanding yourself, leading to friction and conflict between you and your partner.

Though there's so much dedication in learning something new about sex/connecting with people even while trying out what you learnt in those books but it feels harder when applied to people in real life as you assume people nowadays don't like to stay to be known, seen or recognized for their vulnerability, and sex has become more of a way to seek validation or attention, so you may feel as if intimacy and depth of connection that is usually experienced by people during sex is lacking, so maybe the expectations of getting the same bookish hot, steamy, sexy romance are lost. Now I am not attempting to call your desires to be bookish , but it kinda feels like you were set up for disappointment, also this issue could also be due to you not wanting to change yourself to suit other people's need, not realizing that you actually feel more comfortable pretending to be someone else than letting people see the real you, so you kinda blame people for expecting you to change yourself when all they want is to change your habit of closing off yourself.

So you kinda assume that people don't really like the real you when you don't allow people to see you for who you really are but instead pretend to be someone else to get to know them better and then assume that they want to change the entirety of you when all they really want is for you to open up once they find out that you were pretending to be someone else in front of them the whole damn time. So when you finally find the one, who calls you out on your pretense and is still good towards you and wants to still fall in love with you, you drive them away for its hurts your ego to be seen, and their interest in you to fall into you feels scary to you despite knowing those feelings might be genuine, cause you are scared that once they get to know the real you, they might leave.

But also I want to call you out on this, with peace and love, Stop checking and fact basing everything about sex (also stop checking your phone so much ) and just enjoy sex the way it is. Its like you often and always question and base your sexual knowledge on hard facts, instead just go and do the act! Someone's age here could be 31 or they were born on the 31st.

Just fuck and go with the flow... why you breaking my flow and so resistant and frigid to change and confrontation (trust me that can be your partner coming through for some of you). Its like feeling your own emotions is such a big deal to yall. It sorta gets me real angry how you all want to refer the book for everything, even want me to refer to tarot card meanings, my god, just do the first thing that comes in your mind. Please stop being so overly rational.

Life doesn't always works that way. And I can already channel you pulling a "Seriously?" in disbelief because you are unaware and spirit literally wants to knock some sense into y'all or "Please don't scold me anymore" despite being aware of this and still choosing to ignore it and acting as if I am being irrational, but sometimes life doesn't makes sense and it doesn't have to make sense. You don't need to get rational, logical answers outta everything, stop being a pesky brat, seriously. I know and understand you are the types who don't want accept life just as it is cause you are scared of losing your passion and drive for life but daddy/mommy look, you can't just rebel without a strategy in your head, and accepting the situation doesn't mean allowing the environment to do whatever it pleases with us, it means understanding that the more you stay like the same person you were yesterday, life will keep feeling hard to you, life will keep hardening you so you ought to stop getting pissed at life being hard and calmly face it and plan a strategy to fix it. Now that's what healing and accepting life looks, it does not mean settle for less. It means making more despite what life not going your way.

You guys might be a Sugar Daddy/Mommy archetype. Some of you could be into fairies or ethereal stuff or dreamt of flying high in sky/ UFO's/ Aliens/ Extraterrestrial Life/future aeronautical/aerospace engineers, or just people trying to build levitating or floating cars using electromagnetic repulsion with built in magnets in cars or roads, or astronauts or engineers and data collectors of NASA, data miners all of these professions coming.

Yes Healing just means something as small as not getting pissed when your co worker messes up and calmly feeling the feeling of disappointment and moving on and making new plan by not giving into anger and frustration as that is a waste of time, and calmly getting work done saves time. I am also getting that you are a very time bound person (even in sex). I am also feeling like I am the one getting triggered despite handing out this advice, so I'm sorry. But this feels like genuine anger like IDK why you guys give me this chill pill slow motion vibes, this reminds me of my soul tribe. Like these are the same issues I go through at times....

Your eating style can feel inexperienced but also a bit forceful, its like sex doesn't flow in your life, it is structured, very air and earth sign energy as opposed to water sign energy coming through. Ok it seems like you or your partners could feel like they will have to force themselves onto you for you experience the pain, they love the noises, moans and sexy faces you make when you sit on them, they want to steal you like that. The moment I adjusted my energy to see you in your light, I was finally able to see how the cards meant to say you are complete within yourself, yet you feel so incomplete because of other people's words and feelings about the way they would like to release or express their feelings. Maybe because your previous partners were a bit of masochists and loved to give you pain, you kinda feel like you deserve it? which by the way includes unjust services ,ambushing someone against their will, abuse, beating and turning you into a coward incapable of being independent on your own. Which is messed up, stop being in this energy and practice safer rough sex with cool people not abusive idiots.

Like there are 2 things that are coming through, first its very symbolic how you all are pile 4, cause you embody this essence to leave people completely satisfied yet you feel so unworthy within yourself in your lower mindset state, you feel this constant need to be more refined in a sexual manner, (its like your perfectionist tendencies are killing the vibe of raw, wild and unrefined sex) that your own mindset of not being good enough is killing your own pleasure. I am also seeing this bullying energy of feeling shame in yourself. Please report these bully of yours, I hope you have already done that before engaging with my reads

You know what I am getting pile 4, you might have meandered around pile 3, but this energy is so different, like I also feel like you guys could have went as far as to exchange destinies or places with pile 1 or pile 3 to feel enough within yourself, cause these 2 piles were the only ones who weren't coaxed by me, pile 2 also had to learn somethings about themselves, but seems like you don't want to be the pile that wants to learn about their own sexual preferences or love options anymore, you have kind of accepted the abuse, this world has given to you, which is so sad. I'm really very sorry that you had to go through this. But there are better things in life, and maybe right now you are in a break, but there's always something better to look for. You just haven't seen it yet.

Its like you were in this energy of "I know I am doing it right" , didn't listen to your partner's suggestions, turned them off, they left you and then met someone abusive who at least didn't reject you but tore you to pieces and shattered you but because this abusive person stays with you, at least this loyalty (that's secretly boosting your ego) is what you now call LOVE. See that's what's blocking my energy right now. I am also getting you guys could be Filipina or from Fiji or Phillipines.

See even if you feel you are doing it right, I feel like you don't even know or understand what you are doing right, there's this lingering energy of getting assaulted as a child, I feel like you don't know or understand what you like or prefer in sex cause instead of trying to be satisfied, you are so full focused on trying to please others and seeking validation and overthinking that your smexual style leaves people unsatisfied because of which you go towards abusive people who groom you more into thinking like baby or a stunted adult so that you can give up the last of your autonomy to access your own sexual pleasure. Only because you don't want to accept the fact that you leave some people unsatisfied, your ego makes you go towards people who stunt your thinking capabilities, wow "Dumb ways to die" coming through. You thinking is a sign of life in humans, once you stop thinking, it means you are dead. So you kinda go to metaphorically go towards groomers and people who can groom and stunt your liberal thinking abilities to that of a 7 year old. See this is one of the bad patterns that people who go through child SA go through. And I am bold enough to state it as it is. Now whether this is your story or not, it is for you to decide. Be aware of your patterns.

I heard sexual pleasure granted by divine. I think you have a lot of problem accepting the kind of body and sexual pleasure the divine has granted you an access to, this might sound really cultish, but be careful on how you interpret my words

" Your sexual pleasure is the pleasure universe has given you indiscriminately so that you can access what it feels like to get high, it isn't bad to feel high at times (in fact its good) but overdoing it, letting other people control your highs and make you submissive by constantly invading your boundaries to control the way you reach that high is disgustingly evil" That's one of the reasons why infantilization of adults and any type of grooming, even if it is grooming of adults, its considered bad.

That's what I'm getting, your ego of seeking a loyal partner who wouldn't leave you makes you stay in abusive relationships, where people try to control your sexual pleasure and the way you feel it, you endure this abuse to keep such people around, cause you love them but you don't realize that they won't love you, they just do it to feel a sense of control over you, because you give them that feeling. Yet you do this and endured this abuse on your body to keep them around as it deeply hurts you to be cheated on or left behind or not being good enough for a certain someone.

So what I want to say is, if you allow people to use you constantly and not take autonomy of your sexual pleasure, you will never get the type of satisfaction you want nor will you ever satisfy the people you want to satisfy, cause all you are doing is just letting other people use your body and never really feel the intimate, sexual romance sex brings with it. You know what's 8th house in astrology? Its the house of transformation, death, sex, taboo, things you do in secret type of energy. You know why those porn videos on internet never suffice, cause they aren't the things one does in secret, its all for show (Rahu energy) just to look like a certain type of way, the real thing is passionate, intimate, sensual and so wholesome at the same time.

To put all these concepts in this house together means you gotta bring a change within yourself (transformation), or simply let your raw self out. Now there are many negative connotations to this house, but in all honesty, honey you gotta feel it. You gotta understand that in real sex, once you get all these dustys off of your life, partners see each other and love each other for who they are, you can't keep hiding forever.

Now I'm seeing these fake weird self help gurus, sexual help gurus, now I am not telling you to do exactly as I say, but if you are a part of cult that tells you that getting fucked/married by men is the greatest feeling ever, and a wife shall not or should not ask for more, even when she is dissatisfied with the foreplay and if the dude isn't even taking an ounce of an initiative to to help your sexual needs with toys, or calls your desires devilish or even names your kinks as shameless and sinister, then sis/bro you need to take autonomy of your sexual pleasures, and get out of this mindset, also this relationship assuming you have since you are engaging with my reads, no matter how much it boils your blood. I can channel you guys crying, please take your time with this read, if this is your pile. You know what is right for you.

I am getting that you are running from this message. But Liam Payne's song is coming through, you are the tide honey, these messages are the moon (intuition).

I also think the people you imagine as your prince charming or you once used to (cause I'm betting on the fact that you are out of this abusive relationship) , they are literally dumbasses who think all you wanna do is get forced upon on a daily basis, and these idiots who don't understand your rough desires are literally calling you a slut, sex hungry person on a daily basis, when they don't even understand your sexy. Its like eating dirt from the face of earth. What the hell sis? Stop fantasizing about them

Also I think you often leave the people who tend to understand you and your rough desires, cause you fear them having this affect and power on you but once you get acquainted with them, you will feel so satisfied, tasted, satiated by them and they will love the energy you bring into the room as well.

I am also getting this Aphrodite (Greek goddesses are coming though a lot, you might have an altar for Greek Gods). I feel like you have this insatiable energy to you, like people are never satisfied with you, either they want none or they want more and more of you. Anahita the Zoroastrian goddess of fertility, also coming through here. The story of Emperor Augustus freeing Vedius Pollio's slave and abolishing slavery coming through here. Wow but you guys could be into studying history or law as well. The story of Augustus gives me this sense of freedom that you haven't felt in a long time as it was bottom necked and gradually closed off after long and long years of abuse and grooming and indoctrination of ideas that weren't truly yours. I am getting a Trident, which reminds me of Hindu God Shiva and Greek God Poseidon which in my opinion refers to breaking off this sheltered state that was suppressing your inner anger and needs. I am also getting so much water energy with Aphrodite, Anahita, Poseidon and Shiva, I feel like this refers to you, finally allowing yourself to flow and breaking of the barriers that were crossing your personal boundaries. Its as if you are finally becoming one with this eternal state of flow which Universe follows and letting your tenderness show and flow....

Currently some of the affects you have on people who don't like you as much is that you kinda encourage them to force themselves on you, and they think them slut-shaming, embarrassing and emasculating you off of your confidence is dimming your shine and turning you into a better "women". Disgusting, literally disgusting if anything else. They would want you to kneel yourself infront of them and everything that they like. For example they like superman, then you too should like superman too and never complain about that red underwear worn outside a full-set of covered clothes as being cringe even if you think that way. These abrasive people just wanna leave you unsatiated wanting for more, knowing damn well they cannot possibly satisfy you while they try to love bomb you and breadcrumb you in pieces to keep you in their shackles.

While the people who understand you can't seem to get enough of you, they love to make you scream and reach you ecstacy with their own hands cause they love you like that. They wanna rough fuck you like there's no tomorrow, they love making love with you. Also eating your ass or getting eaten by you. I heard they haven't had it in a while and they miss you and want you do that. Maybe you guys are good at eating A$$. Like damn, some of you could be LGTQIA+, take it how it resonates.

Girl, something about your energy tells me we are friends, even if I call you a dumb hoe. You do have this girlboss energy to you.

And the affect people have on you can be so diverse, I am specifically picking up Jungkook from BTS and Jinu from Kpop demon hunters. I am literally seeing people divorcing because of you and that affecting you guys as well. This is kind of a scary energy, but I am picking up Jinu allowing demonic forces to feed off of people which is morally very wrong. So something about your life being disrupted by a big person with name, fame and power could be significant. Just one day by BTS coming through significantly, specifically "Just one day I want to hold your hands, just one day I want to be with you"

Like they could feel like its illegal or even wrong to touch you, hold you, they could plead you to please let them go for another round. But it feels wrong for their colleagues or other employees to know about. I just feel like you make them happy. Bruv I ain't gonna lie, this feels like straight up, workplace abuse (ok but I am also getting someone you had a solo with/masturbation session maybe is missing you and is also currently in a office, and maybe they are the one getting abused in office, idk which one of you is getting abused though, I am sorry if you or any one of your partners are going through that.

All of their collaborations are stuck in one place because of you and your sensual affect. Like they are forcing themselves to concentrate on work to forget all about you. Like their only source of joy is their own work now and their individual work only. They are not asking for help or taking one even if they need any. I feel like this person feels more motivated to abuse people since meeting you and forcing themselves over you or getting forced by people (basically rough sex). I don't know if they have acted on this feeling, but I think you are stuck in a company of very closed minded people who don't understand rough or bdsm typa sex and relate their animalistic desires to r wording or getting r worded by people. Ok what the fuck? Get out of here sweetie pie. I am also getting that this is someone who wants voyeurism and public sex, they don't understand the frequency of having private sex with you. OMG, Idk who this Mogambo is, leave him. Something about Equator or Ecuador.

I am seeing that they feel very determined to move in their life, but due to karma hitting this person back, all of of their investments are going in drain.

I think positively (affect you have on people on good people specifically) you have quite the dreamy affect on people, maybe you are really good at wooing them. I am also seeing you have bad habit of misunderstanding your own skills, talents and acknowledgements. People might feel as if you kinda tease people a lot, especially in public. Idk why I am channeling that Kris wu and some dudes from burning sun scandal. I feel like maybe sometimes people feel like you aren't worth it and might compare your behavior to those of uglies, only to realize you were an abundant sugar daddy or sugar mommy archetype, devil in reverse here, people may feel trapped in your fantasies doesn't mean you have done something wrong here. Maybe the previous person we channeled did fake accusations against you. "You reap what you sow" maybe that's how you answer people and they don't like it. I am also getting you have a similar affect on people who love you where they become attached to you and hide their true feelings and insecurities in front of you. They believe they need to look their best, or the perfect for you. I think you are idealized as this dreamy person a lot. Like if you decide to take them on a date they will decide to be the perfect partner for you.

I think your sex appeal wins over people's subconscious and dominates their fantasies whether you like it or not, they kind of love portraying you as this cold hearted Vincenzo typa mafia and traitor and would love to win you over regardless of how bad they think you are, and here you are dying and crying in insecurities before all this glow-up. They could imagine you basking in sunshine soaking up all that sun. Like they see all that sun illuminating within you. Cause there is an edge to you and people literally creampie over that. And you silly you are still trying to let people use you up thinking that as good sexual experience, when people want you to dominate them. damn!!! you gotta straighten up pile 4. People will love you the way you are, I am getting jump over you, they will literally be over the moon to have a person like you, I am chanelling Megan Fox, Beyonce and Ariana Grande in your energy, like we literally channeled Jungkook in this pile, what I don't understand is why are you so unsatisfied with yourself?????? You just gotta let loose, stop being so frigid. I am literally getting that women could start ovulating over you (some of you could be girls who could make other girls go crazy). Now god knows what sorta domination fantasy you got onto them with your face. But really stop being slaves of other people's opinions of you. You guys can have scorpio ascendant or pluto in your first house. There's a theme of being a sex icon or eye candy and objectification, since I do not want to channel those unhealthy energies nor make you feel unseen for chanelling your persona not the inner you. Iam sorry if this pile didn't have that many sexual messages, instead a whole damn lecture right there. Don't let other people abuse you and use you to finally feel like everybody loves you, no, your beauty lies in you not allowing people to take unfair advantage of your insecurities and growing tf out of them. This type of dip in self confidence could also be due to some fake allegations against you in the past.

"Show me how it gets better" - its an affirmation, how does it get better by you being you and yourself, show this world how it gets better by the way of you being who you really are. - Sah D' Simone

You are more than enough. You don't need to tolerate all that abuse on a daily basis to feel if you are beautiful enough to be loved and not left behind. Also I feel like you are tired of being jealous of others for getting better treatment than you and being bitter of yourself, but this is isn't a solution right? You got to stop misinterpreting, and create misunderstandings.

Like people literally love getting slutted up by you. They would want you to ask them out on a date. They might want to slut their lives up for you sometimes in public. You can spice up their lives. I am getting Demeter the Greek Goddess of agriculture and harvest. I feel like you guys could have many earth sign placements. Your touch is very sensual it feels like Midas hands to them. I am getting a very hands on vibe from you, even with Engineer coming through before, I am getting like a sexy mechanic vibe through you guys. "Your hand is very sensual" I heard. I heard Kingly star or royalty so Magha nakshatra could be significant. Th disney movie Encanto coming through. Just like Bruno who was wrongfully ostracized, I think its obvious that despite being the right person in the room and getting persecuted, people recognize this rebel streak within you and want to tame this baddie.

Takedown by Twice, a soundtrack of K-pop demon hunters, is a song where the main character Rumi contemplates if the song is ready to be sung, as the demons aren't bad but were turned evil by Gwi-ma. So she knows its not all in their hands. So she wants to create a more empathizing version which everyone enjoys but in secret. Are you hideous on the inside or do you not understand yourself? Cause Twice choosing to sing the original version even in the credits without any modifications seems so symbolic to me, its as if no matter what they do, they will have to surrender to their company's whims and hide their own scars in real life, no matter the happy ending of K-pop demon hunters. I feel like you guys are given a choice by a Gwi ma of your own if its really necessary to hide these scars or embrace them? Is fulfilling these materialistic desires really going to make you happy?.

Channeled song : Burning Bridges by Sigrid, Takedown by Twice

I humbly advice to kindly give it an ear.

[iamquiantrelle]

W1LL U L13? (part one) • kylian mbappe (iamquaintrelle)

# pairings: kylian mbappe x fem! black singer reader (fc: ronisia) # summary: ballers were never your thing, and one little blind date wouldn't change that, will it? ♡ masterlist // send me an ask # tags: @szariahwroteit @muglermami @sailurmewn @perfecttrashface @angstdaddy @jasmystique, @jupias, @dima-lfc # warnings: cursing, enemies to lovers, blind date trope # chapter inspo: W1LL U L13 by SAILORR

The bass line thumped through your chest as you adjusted the headphones, eyes closed, completely lost in the rhythm that had been haunting you for weeks. The melody was there—sultry, hypnotic, begging to be turned into something that would make people stop everything they were doing and just feel. But the words? The fucking words were being stubborn as hell.

"Y/N," your producer's voice crackled through the intercom, pulling you back to the present. "That's a wrap for today. You've been at it for six hours straight."

You opened your eyes, blinking against the soft lighting of the Madrid studio you'd been calling home for the past month. The city had become your temporary sanctuary while you worked on your sophomore album—far enough from Brussels to give you space to breathe, close enough to everything that mattered in the European music scene.

"Just give me ten more minutes," you said into the mic, knowing damn well ten minutes would turn into two hours if he let you.

"Nah, you're done. Go eat something that isn't from a vending machine."

You laughed despite yourself, pulling off the headphones and stretching arms that had been cramped over the keyboard for way too long. Madrid had been good to you—the energy here was different, more vibrant than the structured perfection of Brussels or the calculated chaos of Paris. Here, you could disappear into the music without someone constantly asking about your "brand" or your "next career move."

Your phone buzzed against the mixing board. A text from your brother, naturally, because he had some kind of sixth sense about when you'd been working too hard.

Keem: how's the hermit life treating you?

You: perfectly, thanks. no annoying little brothers bothering me every five minutes

Keem: speaking of annoying... brice wants to know if you're free tomorrow night

You rolled your eyes so hard it actually hurt. Brice Tchaga—your brother's boss at the barbershop, occasional pain in your ass, and apparently self-appointed matchmaker since you'd moved to Madrid.

You: tell brice i'm busy

Keem: with what? sitting in a studio talking to yourself?

You: it's called WORKING marcus. some of us have careers

Keem: some of us also have lives outside of work

Keem: seriously though, he thinks you'd really like this guy

You: hard pass. you know how i feel about setups

And you did. You'd made your feelings about blind dates very clear after the disaster that was your last relationship. Some aspiring rapper from Antwerp who'd thought dating you would be his ticket to industry connections. Three months of your life you'd never get back, spent with someone who saw you as a networking opportunity rather than a person.

Your phone rang before you could type another rejection.

"I'm not changing my mind," you said without preamble.

"Hear me out," Brice's voice came through, smooth as always. You could practically hear him smirking. "This isn't some random dude I found on the street."

"Oh great, so he's a random dude you found in your chair. Much better."

"He's a footballer."

"Even worse." You started packing up your things, already mentally planning your evening of takeout and Netflix. "You know how I feel about athletes, Brice."

"This one's different."

"They're all different until they're exactly the same." You'd had this conversation before. Athletes were a hard no for you—too much ego, too much attention, too many options. They collected women like boots, and you weren't interested in being anyone's brief, brand-new pair.

"He's not what you think—"

"Let me guess. He's 'not like other guys,' right? He's 'looking for something real'?" You shouldered your bag, heading for the studio exit. "Save it. I've heard it all before."

"Y/N, come on. When's the last time you went on an actual date?"

The question hit a little too close to home. The truth was, it had been months. Maybe longer. Between touring, recording, and the general chaos of your career, dating had fallen somewhere between "learning Italian" and "reorganizing your closet" on your priority list.

"That's not the point," you said, pushing through the studio doors into the warm Madrid evening. "I'm not looking to waste my time with some guy who thinks his bank account is a personality trait."

"This guy's not like that."

"You said that about the last one."

"The last one was an accident. This one's different, I swear."

You stopped walking, something in Brice's tone making you pause. "Different how?"

"Different like... he doesn't really date. Like, at all. Dude's basically a monk with a football."

That was... unexpected. In your experience, famous athletes were usually the opposite of monastic. "What's wrong with him?"

"Nothing's wrong with him! Jesus, Y/N, not every man is damaged goods."

"The famous ones usually are."

"Look," Brice sighed, and you could hear the sound of clippers in the background. "Just meet him for dinner. One meal. If you hate him, I'll never set you up again."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You considered this. One dinner in exchange for permanent freedom from Brice's matchmaking attempts? That was actually a pretty good deal.

"Fine," you said finally. "One dinner. But if he shows up in designer everything and starts talking about his car collection, I'm leaving."

"Deal. Tomorrow, eight p.m. I'll text you the details."

"This better not be some fancy place where I need to dress up."

"Would I do that to you?"

"You once tried to set me up with a guy who brought his personal photographer to document our date."

"That was ONE TIME."

You laughed despite yourself. "Text me the address, Brice. And this better not be a disaster."

"It won't be. I got a good feeling about this one."

You hung up and immediately regretted agreeing. The last thing you needed was another awkward dinner with some athlete who'd spend the entire time talking about himself. But a promise was a promise, and at least you'd get a good meal out of it.

Your apartment in Madrid's Salamanca district was a far cry from the chaos of your Brussels flat. Here, everything was all warm colors, a space that actually felt like home instead of just somewhere to keep your stuff. You'd fallen in love with the neighborhood's tree-lined streets and quiet charm—a perfect contrast to the energy of the studios where you spent most of your time.

You poured yourself a glass of wine and settled onto the couch, your phone buzzing with a text from Brice.

Brice: reservations at ramón freixa madrid, 8pm tomorrow. wear something nice

You nearly choked on your wine. Ramón Freixa? That was a Michelin-starred restaurant. Either this guy was seriously loaded, or Brice was trying way too hard to impress you.

You: are you INSANE?

Brice: he insisted. said he wanted to make a good first impression

You: or he's trying to show off

Brice: maybe just... give him a chance?

You stared at your phone, already feeling the familiar knot of anxiety in your stomach. Fancy restaurants meant expectations. Expectations meant pressure. Pressure meant disaster.

But you'd already agreed, and backing out now would mean months of Brice guilt-tripping you about wasting his friend's time.

You: if this goes badly, i'm sending you the therapy bills

Brice: fair enough

********************************************************

Standing in front of your closet, you realized you had absolutely nothing appropriate for dinner. Everything was either too casual, too sexy, or screamed "I'm trying too hard."

You finally settled on a black midi dress that managed to be elegant without being overstated, paired with heels that added just enough height to make you feel confident. Your soft curls fell perfectly around your shoulders after an hour of careful styling, and you'd kept your makeup simple—you wanted to look nice, not like you were performing.

The ride to the restaurant gave you time to rehearse your escape plan. One course, maybe two if he was particularly boring, then you'd claim an early morning meeting and disappear. Simple, clean, efficient.

Ramón Freixa Madrid was exactly as intimidating as you'd expected—all sleek surfaces and ambient lighting, the kind of place where people spoke in hushed tones and the silverware probably cost more than your car. You felt overdressed and underdressed simultaneously, which was a special kind of anxiety you'd forgotten existed.

"Bonsoir, mademoiselle," the hostess greeted you in perfect French, probably recognizing your Belgian accent. "Table for two?"

"I'm meeting someone. The reservation should be under..." You paused, realizing you had no idea what name the reservation was under. "Actually, I'm not sure. My friend set it up."

"Ah, you must be Y/N. Right this way."

She led you through the restaurant to a quiet corner table where a man sat with his back to you, scrolling through his phone. Dark hair cut in a perfect fade with waves on top, broad shoulders filling out what looked like an expensive shirt, the kind of posture that suggested either supreme confidence or complete boredom.

When he looked up, you nearly stopped walking.

Because sitting at your table, looking just as surprised to see you as you were to see him, was Kylian Mbappé.

Shit.

You knew that face—everyone knew that face. But more than that, you remembered him. Vaguely. Some event in Paris last year, maybe? You'd been introduced in passing, exchanged maybe five words before getting pulled in different directions. He'd seemed nice enough, polite, but you'd been too busy being annoyed by the pretentious art gallery crowd to pay much attention.

Now, seeing him again, you realized your mistake. Because Kylian Mbappé was gorgeous in the way that made your brain temporarily forget how to form coherent sentences. Sharp jawline, expressive eyes, and a dimpled smile that suggested he found something about this situation amusing.

Double shit.

"Y/N?" He stood as you approached, and you were struck by how tall he was. Your heels put you at a decent height, but he still had several inches on you.

"Kylian." You accepted the hand he offered, trying to ignore the way his fingers lingered just a moment longer than necessary. "Small world."

"Very small," he agreed, that slight accent making the words sound warmer than they probably were. "Please, sit."

The hostess pulled out your chair, and you settled across from him, acutely aware that this had just become infinitely more complicated. This wasn't just some random footballer Brice had found—this was Kylian fucking Mbappé. Real Madrid's golden boy. One of the most famous athletes in the world.

And he was your blind date.

"So," you said, reaching for your water glass because you needed something to do with your hands. "I'm guessing you didn't know it was me either?"

"Brice was... vague about the details." Kylian's smile was wry. "He just said he knew someone who might be interesting."

"Interesting. That's one way to put it."

"You disagree?"

You considered this, studying his face for any sign of the arrogance you'd expected. Instead, you found something that looked almost like curiosity. "I think Brice has a weird sense of humor."

"Maybe." Kylian flagged down a waiter, switching effortlessly to Spanish. "Wine? Or are you one of those people who doesn't drink on first dates?"

"I drink. But this isn't really a date, is it? It's more like... an ambush."

He laughed, and the sound was warm, genuine. "An ambush. I like that." The waiter approached, and Kylian rattled off something in rapid Spanish that sounded expensive. "You speak Spanish?"

"Enough to get by. French, Dutch, English, a little Spanish. Job requirement."

"Right, you're a singer."

The way he said it wasn't dismissive exactly, but there was something in his tone that made you bristle slightly. "I am."

"I heard your last album. It was... nice."

Nice. You'd won three awards for that album, including Best French-Language Album at the European Music Awards, and he thought it was nice.

"Nice," you repeated, taking a sip of the wine he'd ordered. It was, predictably, excellent. "Wow, don't oversell it."

"I mean it as a compliment."

"Do you? Because 'nice' is what you say about your grandma's soup, not about someone's art."

Something shifted in his expression—amusement, maybe? "What would you want me to say?"

"How about honest? Did you actually listen to it, or are you just making conversation?"

Kylian leaned back in his chair, studying you with those dark eyes. "I listened to it. The whole thing. Twice, actually."

"And?"

"And what?"

"And what did you actually think? Not the polite, first-date version. The real version."

He was quiet for a moment, considering. "I thought it was really well done but... safe."

The words hit harder than they should have, probably because there was truth in them. Your first album had been carefully crafted, designed to appeal to the broadest possible audience without offending anyone or taking too many risks.

"Wow," you said, raising your glass in mock salute. "Tell me how you really feel."

"You asked for honest."

"I did." You took another sip of wine, reassessing. "Most people just tell me what they think I want to hear."

"Most people probably haven't heard what you sound like when you're not trying to please everyone."

That made you pause. "And you have?"

"I heard you at some party last year. You were drunk and singing along to some song I didn't know. You had your eyes closed, totally lost in it." He paused, something almost vulnerable flickering across his features. "That was the first time I actually heard you sing."

You remembered that night—vaguely. Some after-party following a fashion show, too much champagne, and a karaoke machine that had appeared from nowhere. You'd thought no one was paying attention.

"You were watching me?"

"Everyone was watching you. But I don't think you noticed."

The admission hung between you, heavier than it should have been. You'd been so focused on hating the idea of this date that you hadn't considered the possibility that he might actually be... interesting.

"So what's your deal?" you asked, deflecting.

"My deal?"

"Yeah. Brice said you don't date."

Kylian's laugh was dry. "I don't. Usually."

"But?"

"But he was very persuasive. And persistent."

"Join the club." You studied his face, looking for cracks in the facade. "What's the real reason? Because 'persistent friend' doesn't explain why one of the most famous footballers in the world agreed to a blind date with someone he barely knows."

He was quiet for a long moment, twirling his wine glass between his fingers. "Maybe I was curious."

"About?"

"About you. About what kind of person says no to being set up like five times before finally saying yes."

"Who says I said no five times?"

"Brice. He's been trying to make this happen for months."

Months? You were going to kill Brice. "He never mentioned that."

"He thought you might run if you knew how long he'd been planning this."

"He was right." You leaned back, reassessing everything. "So this whole thing was like... a setup?"

"More like a really long game."

Despite yourself, you were almost impressed. "And you went along with it?"

"Eventually." Kylian's smile was self-deprecating. "He showed me your Instagram."

"My Instagram?" You tried to remember what you'd posted recently. Mostly studio shots and random observations about Madrid. Nothing particularly revealing.

"You posted a video of yourself trying to figure out the metro. You were completely lost, getting more and more frustrated, and instead of asking for help, you just kept staring at the map like it was gonna magically make sense."

You remembered that day. You'd been late for a meeting and too proud to admit you had no idea where you were going.

"That made you want to ask me out?"

"That made me want to meet the person who'd rather be lost than ask a stranger for directions."

"That's not charming, that's stubborn."

"Maybe. But it's real."

The waiter appeared with the first course, giving you a moment to process. Real. There was that word again, the one that seemed to keep coming up in conversations about relationships you didn't want to have.

"So," you said, cutting into what looked like the most expensive appetizer you'd ever seen. "What's your story? Why doesn't Kylian Mbappé date?"

"Who says I don't?"

"Brice. Also, the internet. Also, the complete lack of any public relationships in the past... ever."

"Maybe I'm just private."

"Or maybe you're too busy, too focused, or too scared of getting close to people." You took a bite, savoring flavors you couldn't identify. "My money's on all three."

"You don't know me well enough to say that."

"Don't I? You're twenty-six, probably haven't had a serious relationship since you got famous, and you definitely have trust issues when it comes to people's reasons for wanting to be with you."

The accuracy of your guess was written all over his face.

"That obvious?"

"To someone who's been there? Yeah." You set down your fork, meeting his gaze. "The difference is, I actually learned from my mistakes."

"Which means?"

"Which means I don't date athletes."

Kylian's eyebrows rose. "At all?"

"At all. No footballers, no basketball players, no tennis players. Nobody whose job involves being worshipped by thousands of people on a regular basis."

"That's pretty specific."

"That's pretty necessary." You reached for your wine again, needing the liquid courage for what you were about to say. "I don't do flings, Kylian. I don't do casual. I don't do 'let's see where this goes' while you keep your options open."

"What do you do?"

"I want what my parents have. Twenty-seven years of marriage, and my dad still brings my mom flowers every Friday. He takes her on dates, writes her little notes, remembers every anniversary including the day they first danced." You could hear the wistfulness in your own voice. "That's love. Real love. Not this modern bullshit where everyone's scared to actually commit to anything."

Kylian was quiet, studying you with an expression you couldn't read.

"And you think athletes can't do that?"

"I think athletes are used to having everything handed to them. I think they're used to people saying yes without question. And I think they get bored easily because there's always someone new throwing themselves at them."

"That's a lot of assumptions."

"Based on what I've seen."

"What have you seen?"

The question caught you off guard. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, have you actually dated an athlete? Or are you going off stories and shit you've heard?"

You opened your mouth to answer, then closed it. The truth was, you hadn't. Your ex had been an aspiring rapper, not an athlete. Your assumptions were based on stories, gossip, and a general cynicism about fame that you'd developed over the years.

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

"Why?"

"Because maybe you're wrong."

The confidence in his voice was irritating. "You think I'm wrong about athletes being players?"

"I think you're wrong about me."

"Am I? Because I heard you're pretty cheap and selfish when it comes to women."

The words were out before you could stop them, sharper than you'd intended. Kylian's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes.

"Where'd you hear that?"

"Around. Girls talk, you know."

"And what exactly do they say?"

You'd crossed a line, but you were too committed to back down now. "That you're not exactly generous. That you do the bare minimum and expect them to be grateful."

Kylian set down his wine glass, leaning forward slightly. "And you believe that?"

"I dunno you well enough to believe or not believe anything. But if multiple people are saying the same thing..."

"Maybe they have a reason to say it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe I'm only cheap and selfish when there's a reason to be."

You scoffed. "What reason could there possibly be for treating someone like shit?"

"How about when they're only interested in what you can buy them?"

The words hung between you, loaded with implication.

"So you test them? By being cheap?"

"I pay attention. There's a difference."

"Enlighten me."

Kylian leaned back, considering his words. "You wanna know what a gift is to me?" He made air quotes around the word 'gift,' his expression almost mocking. "Tell me what a gift is to you."

"What?"

"You seem to have strong opinions about being generous. So tell me—what's a proper gift?"

The challenge in his voice made your cheeks warm. "Fine. Flowers. Not just any flowers—ones that you actually thought about. Perfume that you think would smell good on me specifically, not just whatever's most expensive. Jewelry that looks good with my skin tone." You paused, then added with deliberate boldness, "Lingerie that shows you've been paying attention to what I like."

Kylian's expression was unreadable. "So... things that require actually thinking."

"Things that require actually giving a damn about the person you're with."

"And you think I don't do that?"

"I think you probably have your assistant buy generic expensive shit and call it romance."

"You have a pretty low opinion of someone you barely know."

"You have a pretty high opinion of yourself for someone who just admitted to testing women by being cheap."

The waiter appeared with the second course, the tension at the table thick enough to cut. You both fell silent, focusing on your food while the conversation replayed in your head.

You were being unfair, and you knew it. But something about Kylian made you defensive, made you want to poke at him until you found a crack in his composure. Maybe it was the way he looked at you like he could see right through your carefully constructed walls. Maybe it was the fact that he was nothing like what you'd expected.

Or maybe it was the fact that you were actually attracted to him, which was definitely not part of the plan.

"Can I ask you something?" Kylian's voice was quieter now, less challenging.

"Sure."

"Why did you really agree to this?"

The question surprised you with its directness. "Brice promised to stop setting me up if I gave this one shot."

"That's the only reason?"

You considered lying, but something in his expression made you reconsider. "I haven't been on a date in eight months."

"Why not?"

"Because..." You struggled for the right words. "Because I'm tired of pretending that casual is enough. I'm tired of men who think buying dinner means I owe them something. I'm tired of having to guard myself all the time because everyone wants something from me."

"What do they want?"

"Connections. Status. To say they dated someone famous." You took a sip of wine, surprised by your own honesty. "What about you? Why did you really agree to this?"

Kylian was quiet for a long moment. "Because I'm tired of women who see me as a prize to be won."

"So we're both tired."

"Yeah."

"This is going great," you said dryly.

"Is it not?"

You looked at him—really looked at him. The fresh fade, the perfect waves on top, the expensive clothes, the kind of bone structure that photographers probably fought wars over. He was beautiful in an almost aggressive way, the kind of beautiful that made smart women do stupid things.

"You're really attractive," you said finally.

"Thank you?"

"That wasn't a compliment. That was an observation. Attractive men are dangerous."

"How so?"

"Because they make you forget why you have rules in the first place."

Kylian's smile was slow, dangerous, and showed his dimples. "Are you forgetting your rules?"

"No." The lie came too quickly. "I'm just... observing."

"What else are you observing?"

That his laugh was warmer than expected. That he had calluses on his hands despite being rich enough to never work a day in his life. That he listened when you talked instead of just waiting for his turn to speak. That the way he said your name made something in your chest tighten.

"That this was a mistake," you said instead.

"Was it?"

"Yes. Because now I have to text Brice and tell him his friend is an arrogant ass who thinks he can figure out women he just met."

"Is that what you're gonna tell him?"

"And other things."

"What other things?"

You signaled for the check, already mentally composing the message you'd send Brice later. "That you're exactly what I expected. That you're too used to getting your way. That you think your fame makes you more interesting than you actually are."

None of it was true, which made saying it easier.

Kylian didn't argue, just watched as you gathered your purse. "The night doesn't have to end like this."

"Yes, it does. Because this—" you gestured between the two of you, "—was never gonna work."

"Why not?"

"Because you're Kylian Mbappé, and I'm not interested in being another name on your list."

"What if you're not?"

"What if I am?"

You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Thanks for dinner. It was... nice."

"Y/N."

Something in the way he said your name made you pause.

"For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I think Brice was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"You are interesting."

The compliment shouldn't have affected you the way it did, but you felt it settle somewhere deep in your chest, warm and unwelcome.

"Goodbye, Kylian."

You walked away without looking back, your heels clicking against the marble floor with more confidence than you felt. Outside, the Madrid night was warm and full of possibility, but all you could think about was the way Kylian had looked at you when you'd listed what made a real gift.

Like he was taking notes.

Your phone buzzed as you slipped into the taxi.

Brice: how did it go?

You stared at the message for a long moment, then typed back:

You: it didn't. don't ever do that again.

Brice: that bad?

You: worse. kylian is awful and i never want to see him again.

It was a lie, but it was a necessary one. Because the truth—that Kylian Mbappé was nothing like what you'd expected, that he'd managed to get under your skin in the span of two hours, that you were already wondering what would have happened if you'd stayed—was too dangerous to admit.

Even to yourself.

Back at your apartment, you poured another glass of wine and tried to forget the way he'd said your name. Like it meant something.

Like you meant something.

But that was the problem with attractive men, wasn't it? They made you believe things that weren't true.

And you'd learned that lesson already.

**********************************************************

Kylian sat in the now eerily quiet restaurant, staring at the empty chair across from him where Y/N had been sitting just moments before. The faint scent of her perfume still lingered in the air—something warm and sophisticated that he couldn't quite place but knew he'd probably never forget.

He'd been left at tables before. Hell, he'd done his fair share of leaving tables when dates got weird or boring or started asking about his salary within the first ten minutes. But this? This was different. This felt like he'd just watched something slip through his fingers before he'd even had a chance to figure out what it was.

"Everything alright, sir?" The waiter appeared at his elbow, eyeing the untouched second course on Y/N's side of the table.

"Yeah," Kylian said, though nothing felt alright. "Can I get the check?"

The waiter nodded, probably used to dealing with awkward dinner situations in a place like this. Kylian pulled out his phone, scrolling mindlessly through notifications while he waited. A few messages from teammates, some Instagram mentions, the usual bullshit that filled his evenings. But his mind kept drifting back to the conversation.

You're exactly what I expected.

The words stung more than they should have. Because the truth was, Y/N wasn't what he'd expected at all. He'd been prepared for another starry-eyed fan or someone who'd spend the whole night taking pictures for Instagram. Instead, he'd gotten someone who'd looked him dead in the eye and told him his music taste was basic.

Someone who'd called him cheap and selfish to his face.

Someone who'd made him want to prove her wrong.

The check arrived, and Kylian barely glanced at it before dropping his card on the table. The amount was stupid—enough to feed a family for a month—but he'd stopped caring about restaurant prices years ago. Money was just numbers on a screen now, meaningless in the way that everything became meaningless when you had too much of it.

But Y/N's comment about gifts kept replaying in his head. Flowers that you actually thought about. Perfume that you think would smell good on me specifically. She'd said it like it was some revolutionary concept, like most men were idiots who couldn't be bothered to pay attention.

Maybe they were. Maybe he was.

The truth was, he couldn't remember the last time he'd bought a woman a gift that wasn't suggested by his assistant or picked up from whatever high-end store was closest to his apartment. When you could afford anything, everything started to feel the same. Generic. Safe.

Boring.

Just like Y/N had said his music taste was.

His phone buzzed as he signed the receipt.

Brice: how did it go?

Kylian stared at the message for a long moment. How had it gone? He'd managed to insult a Grammy-nominated singer's artistic choices, get called cheap and selfish, and watch her walk out on him before dessert. By most measures, it had been a disaster.

So why couldn't he stop thinking about the way she'd laughed when he'd made that comment about her Instagram story? Or how her eyes had lit up when she'd talked about her parents' marriage? Or the way she'd leaned forward when she was making a point, like she was physically fighting to make him understand?

Kylian: she left

Brice: WHAT

Brice: what did you do???

Kylian almost smiled at that. Trust Brice to assume it was his fault. Which, to be fair, it probably was.

Kylian: told her she played it safe with her music

Brice: you WHAT

Brice: bro are you insane???

Kylian: she asked for honesty

Brice: there's honesty and then there's stupidity

Brice: y/n just texted saying you're awful and she never wants to see you again

That hit harder than expected. Kylian set his phone face down on the table, not wanting to see Brice's inevitable follow-up messages about how he'd fucked up the one good thing Brice had tried to do for him.

The restaurant was starting to empty out, couples finishing their romantic dinners and heading home to whatever came next. Kylian watched a man help his girlfriend into her coat, the gesture casual and intimate in a way that made something twist in his chest. When was the last time he'd done something like that? Something simple and thoughtful without thinking about cameras or headlines or who might be watching?

His phone buzzed again.

Brice: she said you're exactly what she expected

Brice: that you think your fame makes you more interesting than you are

Brice: and that you're an arrogant ass

Kylian picked up his phone, reading the messages with a growing sense of frustration. Not at Brice, but at himself. Because Y/N was wrong about some things, but she wasn't wrong about everything. He had gotten comfortable with people saying yes to him. He had stopped trying to be interesting because his name did the work for him.

But she'd been interesting. Challenging. Real in a way that most people in his life weren't anymore.

Kylian: did she say anything else?

Brice: like what?

Kylian: i dunno. anything.

The typing indicator appeared and disappeared several times before Brice's response came through.

Brice: she said it was educational

Kylian: what's that supposed to mean?

Brice: probably that she learned everything she needed to know about dating athletes

Brice: dude i'm sorry. i really thought you two would click

Kylian pushed back from the table, gathering his jacket. The restaurant felt too warm suddenly, too close. He needed air, space to think without the weight of expectation pressing down on him.

Outside, Madrid's night air was crisp and clear, the city humming with energy even at this late hour. He could go home, pour himself a drink, and pretend this had never happened. Write it off as another failed setup, another reminder of why he didn't date and just fucked around instead.

Or...

Kylian: i want to see her again

His phone rang almost immediately.

"You what?" Brice's voice was incredulous.

"I want to see her again," Kylian repeated, walking toward where his driver was waiting.

"Bro, she literally said you're awful."

"Yeah, I heard you the first time."

"And you want to see her again because...?"

Kylian paused at his car, considering the question. Why did he want to see her again? Because she'd challenged him? Because she'd looked at him like he was just another guy instead of Kylian Mbappé? Because she'd made him want to be better than the person she thought he was?

"Because she's not wrong," he said finally.

"About what?"

"About me being exactly what she expected. But I don't want to be."

There was a long pause on the other end of the line.

"Kylian," Brice said carefully, "she's not gonna agree to another date. Not after tonight."

"Then I'll have to change her mind."

"How?"

"I dunno yet. But I will."

Brice sighed. "You know she doesn't date athletes, right? Like, at all. It's not personal, it's just a hard rule for her."

"Rules can be broken."

"Not hers. Trust me, I've been trying to set her up for months and she's turned down everyone. You're literally the last person she agreed to meet, and only because I promised to stop if she gave it one shot."

That gave Kylian pause. If Y/N had such a strict no-athletes policy, why had she agreed to meet him? Even reluctantly?

"She was curious," he said, more to himself than to Brice.

"What?"

"She was curious about me. Otherwise she wouldn't have agreed at all."

"Dude, she agreed because she wanted me to stop bothering her."

"Maybe. But she stayed for two hours. If she really hated the idea of being there, she would've left after twenty minutes."

Kylian slid into the backseat of his car, his mind already working through possibilities. Y/N thought he was generic, predictable, exactly what she'd expected from a famous athlete. Which meant surprising her would be key.

But how do you surprise someone who's already decided you're not worth her time?

"Kylian," Brice's voice was cautious now. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking she told me exactly what kind of gifts she likes."

"So?"

"So maybe it's time I stopped being cheap and selfish."

The line went quiet for a moment.

"You're really gonna do this," Brice said finally. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah. I am."

"Even though she said she never wants to see you again?"

"Especially because she said that."

Brice laughed, but it sounded more worried than amused. "You know you're probably gonna make a fool of yourself, right?"

"Probably."

"And she's probably gonna shut you down hard."

"Probably."

"And I'm probably gonna have to deal with her being pissed at me for giving you her information."

"Definitely."

Another pause.

"Alright," Brice said with resignation. "But when this goes badly, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Noted."

"And Kylian?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't be an idiot about this. She's not like the other girls you've dated. She's got walls for a reason."

The call ended, leaving Kylian alone with his thoughts as the car wound through Madrid's streets. Brice was right—this was probably a terrible idea. Y/N had made her feelings pretty clear, and he had a track record of making things worse when he tried too hard.

But something about tonight felt different. Important. Like maybe this was the first real conversation he'd had in months, even if it had ended with her walking away.

His phone buzzed with a text.

Unknown Number: thank you for dinner. despite everything, the food was excellent.

Kylian stared at the message, his heart doing something weird in his chest. She'd texted him. After telling Brice she never wanted to see him again, she'd texted him.

It was polite, distant, probably the kind of message she'd send to any dinner companion. But she'd sent it.

Kylian: you're welcome. sorry if i was...

He deleted the message before sending it. Started typing again.

Kylian: glad you enjoyed it. maybe next time i'll let you pick the place

Delete. Try again.

Kylian: the company could've been better

Delete. Definitely delete.

Finally, he settled on something simple.

Kylian: you're welcome. goodnight, Y/N.

He hit send before he could second-guess himself, then immediately regretted it. Too familiar? Not familiar enough? Why was texting suddenly so complicated?

His phone buzzed again.

Y/N: you too.

Two words. Barely a response. But she'd responded.

Kylian leaned back in his seat, a slow smile spreading across his face. Y/N thought she had him figured out, thought he was just another predictable athlete who'd give up at the first sign of resistance.

She was about to learn how wrong she was.

Because if there was one thing Kylian knew how to do, it was win. And he'd never wanted to win anything more than he wanted to change Y/N's mind about him.

Even if it killed him.

The car pulled up to his villa, and Kylian sat for a moment, staring up at the lights in the windows above. Somewhere across the city, Y/N was probably already forgetting about him, writing off the evening as exactly what she'd expected.

But he wasn't going to forget about her. Not the way she'd looked when she'd talked about real love. Not the way she'd challenged every assumption he'd made about the evening. Not the way she'd made him want to be someone worth her time.

His phone buzzed one more time as he rode the elevator to his floor.

Brice: just so you know, her favorite flowers are peonies. white ones specifically. her mom grows them in brussels.

Brice: and before you ask, no i'm not helping you anymore than that. you're on your own from here.

Kylian smiled, saving the message. Peonies. White ones.

It was a start.

........................tbd

[shake-back]

Choshoe!

brat tamer!choso x reader

Warnings: suggestive content/ALMOST smut (gotta edge you horny mfs), fluff, some crack

A/N: It's 1 in the morning, and this my 2nd fic in a loooong time (refer to my main jjk acc @6foot7foot8) so y'all chill on me cs this is def not proofread

part 2!

Brat tamer! Choso who can put up with all your nonsense because he's known you for like, ever. You being whiny about the temperature? A normal monday, you play fighting with him while he's trying to go to sleep? Typical. Nothing irks him, nothing gets under his skin.

And that drives you insane

Everytime you act bitchy is so that he locks in one day and puts you in his place. For him to choke you out, grab your face, bend you over the bathroom sink at a party

You'd do anything to see sweet Choso get riled up, get jelous, even just for a moment, but it looks like he's gonna be level headed to the bitter end :(

Until one day. You two were on vacation with some friends in Cancun for the summer. It must have been too hot, or he had a headache, or Gojo of all people was getting into his head, but he finally snapped.

"Oh my fucking gosh Choso why haven't you put any sunscreen on me? And you didn't even put any on your damn self, explain that to me now." You bark from underneath the beach umbrella you two were currently under, fresh out the water with sunburn hot on skin.

"I-I'm sorry baby please! you didn't remind me." He says, making grabby hands towards you, thinking a hug can make up for his transgressions. Gojo stops yapping for once in his life and focuses on someone else other than himself for a change.

"Oh brother, here she goes again." He says to no one in particular.

You swat Choso's hand away "No, I just wanna go back to the hotel now bruh. Like, you ruined this whole trip for me thanks."

'Bruh?' Choso thought to himself. We've been together for how long and she calls me bruh? He tried to shake it off.

"Okay mama's that's cool i'll just-" Before he could even stand and pick the umbrella up, you get up with the towel on and storm off, kicking sand everywhere, including onto him. Everybody around watching the meltdown happen.

This isn't even the worst that you've done to him in private or in public, but Choso just felt some type of way about it today. He sat there for a second, staring out into space, until he got up & followed you back to the hotel.

When he gets to the room, your starting to take your sandals off, muttering about something, like he cares about that right now.

Without saying anything, he walks up to you, exterior cool, calm & collected.

"Why are you getting so close to me, ain't I tell you-"

Your sentence is cut short when you feel his strong tattooed hand around your throat.

"Aye who the fuck you think you talking to?" He says, his voice dropping an octave like he just woke up, and his eyes lasered onto you, waiting an answer, yet you just stare up at him dumbfounded, not knowing what to say.

He puts his other hand around your throat, squeezing tighter.

"Didn't I just ask you a fucking question? You dumb or some shit?"

You look up at him, not backing down, not yet.

"You, the fuck." You manage to choke out.

He inhales, dragging you over to the wall, getting close to your face.

"You like this shit, huh? Weird ass bitch. You want me to fuck you up or something? Talking to me like i'm Megumi or some shit" He whispers to you. At this point, you're on your tiptoes, trying to squeeze your thighs together to hide the fact that you're getting off to this, but your betrayed by the moan you let out when his grip gets tighter.

One of his hands make their way down to your clothed sweet spot, just cupping it, no movement, no friction. Only thing separating his hand and your clit was the thin fabric of the bikini that you had him pick out for the trip. You try to grind up into his hand to relieve the tension building up inside you, but he just smacks your pussy.

"Nah, you wanna act like a brat get treated like a brat."

He pulls away from you, and walks out the room, slamming the door behind him, leaving you stunned and hungry for more.

Choso Kamo will never know a day of rest ever again

Lmk if y'all want a part 2 this was actually kinda fun to write lol

[orlaunderrated]

The Edges of Us: Chapter 15

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

Will Lenney x fem reader; George Clarke x fem reader

Summary: Y/N has always been close to George—but everything changes when she catches feelings for his sharp-tongued, infuriatingly charming friend, Will. Torn between loyalty and desire, Y/N finds herself caught in a messy tangle of friendship, secrets, and unexpected love.

Word Count: 5k+

Note: THANK YOU ALL so much for the love recently!!! i would like to say my plan for this series has uhhhh changed and gotten a lot longer. oops. I'm just having too much fun.

I'm also making a more conscious effort to make Will sound more northern and not... like me. lol.

xxx

It’s hot. I’m sweating, but I’m used to it. I mean, 28 degrees? Please. That’s barely warm enough to make me swap out a T-shirt for a tank top in Brisbane, much less make me act like the heat is out to get me.

Will, however, is acting like he’s being slowly roasted alive. Every few minutes, I hear him let out a dramatic sigh, dragging his hand through his hair like he’s in some action movie.

“It’s so hot,” he complains, again, standing by the car with his arms stretched out. “I’m melting man.”

I roll my eyes and grab a box of kitchen supplies. “Will, it’s 28 degrees. Get over it. You’ve lived through worse.”

He throws me a look, eyes half-closed, clearly trying to will the sweat off his brow. “You’re a freak. It’s like a bloody oven out here. How are you not sweatin’?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Mate, Brisbane summers? This is nothing. You’re just soft.”

He groans, but he keeps going, lifting a box into the car, his motions slow and exaggerated, clearly feeling the heat more than he’s letting on. “Swear down, you’re built different. Like—proper freak behaviour.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, swatting him away a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Now stop complaining and help me get these boxes in.”

We fall into an easy rhythm, loading the car in relative silence, save for his occasional grumble about the weather and me offering completely unhelpful advice about drinking more water or manifesting a breeze.

As he sets a final box down, he pauses. “By the way, Monaco’s coming up,” he says, almost casually.

I blink at him. “Right. The brand trip.”

He nods, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. “Still wish you were coming. Would’ve been fun.”

I try to smile, but it falters before it can settle. “Yeah, I know. Just... can’t really take time off right now. Not after taking a week off to move.”

He shrugs, but there’s something unreadable in the way he looks at me then—like he’s trying to decide whether or not to say more. But he doesn’t. Just gives a half-smile and closes the boot with a soft thud.

I gesture toward the flat. “I’ve got one last thing to grab. Wait here.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone, probably to melt into TikTok or some group chat with his mates. And I walk back inside, my chest feeling just a little too tight for the temperature outside.

I hurry back upstairs, my feet moving faster than my mind. I grab the last of my toiletries — shampoo, face wash, deodorant. The essentials. There's a knot in my stomach, one I can’t quite shake. The move is almost done, but I can’t ignore that nagging feeling. Like something’s missing, or I’ve forgotten something important. I try not to dwell on it. It’s just change. And change is always weird.

Stuffing the last of my bathroom things into a bag, I glance around my old room. The bed’s gone, the space left behind a queen-sized hole in the middle of the mountain of boxes. Honestly, it’s already filling up fast. I have no idea how Will and I managed to disassemble and reassemble that bed earlier today. It's impressive. We’re like a chaotic, sleep-deprived IKEA team.

I turn to head downstairs and almost trip on the way down. It’s hard to focus with everything in my head. But then I hear voices from the garage—Will and George. I slow, listening, unsure if I’m about to walk in on something awkward. But instead of that, I hear... laughter?

Only, it’s not quite right. Not full laughter. Just short bursts—sharp and a little too controlled. The conversation is light on the surface, but something about the tone feels clipped. Like they’re both working overtime to keep things casual.

I hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, caught in the strange stillness of it. It sounds friendly, but not warm. Not really. Still, the quiet illusion of normalcy settles something small in my chest. Whatever weirdness I was bracing for... maybe I imagined it.

I take a breath and push open the door to the garage.

They’re standing by the car, both with arms crossed now. Will’s leaning back against the car like he’s trying to appear relaxed, while George’s hands are deep in his pockets, his expression unreadable—but not unfriendly. Just... closed.

When they see me, their voices quiet down a bit, but it’s not awkward. George gives me that warm, open smile. "Alright, I guess you’re all packed then?"

I nod, trying to keep things light. "Yeah, just about."

George looks around the garage. "Looks like you’ve got most of it sorted. Where’s the rest of the chaos?"

"Already at the new place," I say, laughing a little. "I swear, it looks like a small disaster zone upstairs. But it’ll be fine. I’m sure I’ll remember whatever I forgot once I’m halfway to my new place."

Will is still leaning against his car, and is pulling out his phone, his fingers scrolling idly across the screen.

George chuckles, nodding. "Sounds like a good plan."

Then his smile fades just a little, a flicker of something more serious. I glance at him and realize it’s not the same relaxed George from before. He looks almost... sad? Maybe not sad. Just distant.

I don't know why, but I feel like there’s more he’s not saying. And then, just as I’m about to ask him about it, he speaks again.

"So, uh, I guess this is really happening, huh?"'

I blink, surprised at the question. "Yeah. It is."

He gives me a small, sheepish smile. "I didn’t realize you were moving today... I thought I had more time to mentally prepare for this."

I raise an eyebrow. "What do you mean? I swear I told you."

George rubs the back of his neck, looking genuinely apologetic. "I guess I just wasn’t paying attention. I should’ve caught on."

I laugh, surprised. "Well, I mean, if it helps, I can make it up to you. Maybe take you out to dinner sometime? It'll make up for eight months of rent-free living."

He raises an eyebrow, that usual smirk of his returning. "Only took you the better part of a year to 'find your feet,' huh?" He's grinning now. "But seriously, yeah, let's get dinner. Just us, like old times."

I feel a little lighter after that exchange. Not everything has to be so heavy. And George... well, George has always had a way of making things feel more manageable, even if it's just for a moment.

"Alright," I say, trying to get Will's attention. "Well, I guess we better get going before Will starts complaining about the heat again."

George laughs, and I feel like it's the most natural thing in the world. Will makes a grumbly noise in response.

George grins, and look over at Will, still leaning against the car, clearly a little too hot for his liking. He looks up from his phone, clearly grumpy.

"Ooh, look at me, I’m from Australia! This is nowt but a light breeze. Back home I’d be wearin’ a jumper in this!" Will says, putting on the worst Aussie accent I’ve ever heard.

I roll my eyes, grinning. “Alright, alright,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “Come on then, Captain Dramatic We’ve got flatpacks to conquer, not a heatwave survival guide to write.”

I glance at George one last time, giving him a half-smile, and he gives me one back, this time just a little more thoughtful. I turn away quickly before I second-guess anything, and head for the car, trying to ignore the strange feeling that seems to be hanging in the air.

We climb into Will’s car—a plush, newish Lexus. Nice, but not flashy. I’m still vaguely shocked he even drives. I always figured the Londoner in him would've ditched his license the moment he figured out the Tube.

He starts the engine, and the air-con kicks in with a low hum. I buckle in, glancing over at him. He’s leaning back in his seat, eyes closed for a second, one hand dragging across his forehead like the heat's physically punishing him.

Usually, he'd be complaining by now—some dramatic monologue about the temperature or the boxes or my “questionable” packing system. But he’s quiet. Not silent, just… duller. Dimmed, somehow. Like he’s buffering.

At first, I chalk it up to the heat. Or maybe he's just tired. We’ve been lugging boxes around all morning.

But then he looks at me—just for a second—and it’s not the usual cheeky, half-smirking Will. It’s more distant. Like he's there, but not really plugged in. I blink, trying to brush off the weird feeling twisting in my stomach.

Something’s off. I just don’t know what yet.

“You alright?” I ask, looking at him sideways.

He blinks, shakes his head as if coming out of a trance. “Yeah. Just… tired. Heat’s getting to me, I guess.”

I raise an eyebrow but don’t push it. “I told you to stop acting like it’s the end of the world.”

Will lets out a small chuckle, but it’s a bit too forced. “Right, right. I’m fine.”

The silence between us feels heavier now, like something’s pulling us in opposite directions, but I can’t figure out what. I want to ask him what’s changed, why he’s so off, but something stops me. Maybe it’s because I’m starting to get that feeling in my stomach—the one that always comes up when things are shifting and I’m not sure where they’re going.

Is he regretting helping me move? It's been a big day already and it's not even 11am. Is he realising that the boyfriendy side of things is just not for him - not with me?

His hands are gripping the wheel just a little too tightly, his jaw tense. He’s not saying much, and I’m starting to wonder if he’s been this quiet because of the heat—or because of something else.

I try to shove the thoughts down, like stuffing too much laundry into a washing machine and praying the door shuts.

I glance at him as we drive. “You good?” I ask again, this time gentler. “I know moving’s a pain. Don’t feel like you have to go to IKEA with me today.” I pause. “Or any day.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, just looks out at the road, like the answer’s in the next postcode somewhere. After a beat, he finally turns toward me—but only halfway, like when people drive and can’t fully take their eyes off the road, but want you to know they’re there. His lips curl into a tired smile. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… a lot going on today.”

I nod, but something about his tone makes me feel like he’s not talking about moving. Maybe it’s just me overthinking, but the tension in the air feels like it’s building up, like something’s about to happen and I don’t know what.

By the time we arrive, I’m more confused than ever. Will is quiet, his eyes darting around like he’s searching for something he can’t find. The second we park in the dim, slightly echoey underground garage of the new flat, he seems to snap back into focus.

The hum of distant cars and the faint flicker of fluorescent lights fill the space around us. I’m halfway through unbuckling my seatbelt, reaching for my purse, when Will’s voice cuts through the quiet.

“Do you think George will be alright with all this?” he asks suddenly, low and careful.

George.

Always back to George.

I freeze, the movement stalling mid-air. “What?”

“You know, with you moving out, and all the… changes?” His eyes stay fixed on the dashboard, but I can tell there’s something heavier behind the question.

I shrug, trying to keep it casual. “He’s fine. He hasn’t said anything. He’ll be alright.”

But deep down, I know I’m only telling part of the truth. George hasn’t said anything — and I’m not sure if that’s because he’s really okay with it, or if he’s still pretending it doesn’t matter.

But , let’s be real — I was offered his spare room until I ‘found my feet.’ I’ve done that now. This move was always the plan.

Will’s gaze flickers toward me again, studying me like he’s trying to figure out if I’m hiding something. He doesn’t say anything else, but the quiet between us feels even more loaded now. Like there’s a question hanging in the air that neither of us is brave enough to ask.

I start to open the car door, but Will’s voice stops me.

“I just… don’t want you to get caught up in all that,” he says, his tone a little off. It’s a weird mix of hesitant and serious. “I just want this to be… easy, you know?”

I glance over at him, brow furrowed. “This?”

“Us,” he says, a little too quickly. His eyes flick to the steering wheel, then back at me. It’s like he’s testing the word out, trying to make it sound right. “I want this to be simple. Not… complicated.”

I blink, trying to catch up. My heart thuds a little too loudly in my chest. “Okay,” I say, though it doesn’t sound as certain as I want it to. “I mean, yeah. I don’t want it to be complicated either.”

Will doesn’t respond right away. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, but his gaze is still fixed ahead, distant. It’s like something’s shifted in the space between us, and I can’t put my finger on what it is.

I feel the tension in my own chest now, the weight of all the unspoken things lingering in the air. I want to ask him what’s going on, but he looks so… careful, like he’s trying to hold everything together, but not quite sure how.

Finally, he exhales, his face still unreadable. “Yeah, just don’t… don’t make it harder than it has to be, okay?”

I nod slowly, unsure of what to say. “Sure. I mean, that’s what I want too.”

Will glances at me again, then turns his attention back to the 'tenants parking only' sign in front of him. He takes a deep breath like he’s steeling himself for something, but I still can’t tell what.

And just like that, I’m left with a pit in my stomach. Something’s off. But I can’t figure out what.

xxx

“See?” he says with a grin, setting down his Swedish meatballs like it’s a proper treat. “All I needed was a bit of scran and some proper cooling. Maybe I was a bit narky before.”

I roll my eyes, teasing him, “A bit? You were practically melting.”

He chuckles, his whole posture shifting as he takes his first bite. “I’ll admit it. I’m naff with heat.”

“You’re from England,” I say, sarcastic, “You don’t even have heat.”

Will shrugs, clearly in a much better mood now that his belly’s full. “That’s fair enough. But I’m still all about the AC and meatballs, so I’ll keep moaning anyway.”

We laugh, and for the first time today, everything feels... easy. The tension that had been hanging between us is gone. Maybe it was the heat, or maybe it was the awkwardness of that earlier conversation. Either way, we’re back to being ourselves, and I can’t help but feel a little lighter.

xxx

Will nudges me as we walk through one of the showrooms, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m tellin’ ya, we could build a proper fort with all these pillows,” he says, grabbing a stack and chucking one at me.

I barely catch it, and it lands in my lap with a soft thud. “Alright, now you’re just daft,” I laugh, tossing it back.

But he’s already grabbed two more, lobbing them at me like some kind of cosy siege. I duck, giggling, and throw one back, barely missing his face. We both crack up, and for a moment, it feels like we’re in our own little world, just mucking about.

Suddenly, he reaches out, grabs my hand, and before I can protest, pulls me over to the nearest couch. He sits me down and settles beside me, his arm brushing against mine. It’s the first time he’s touched me today, and I feel a flutter in my chest — subtle but electric.

“Alright, that’s enough pillow warfare,” I say, trying to steady my breath between laughs. “We’ve got a flat to furnish, not a pillow fort to build.”

Will grins, squeezing my hand lightly. “Who says we can’t do both, eh?”

“You’re impossible,” I say, shaking my head, but the smile on my face gives me away.

“Impossible in a good way, yeah?” he says, giving me a cheeky grin.

I roll my eyes, but can’t help but smile wider. “You’re lucky I like you.”

“Proper lucky, that,” he says with a wink. “Otherwise, I’d be knackered.”

A bit later, after Will’s just given me some proper rubbish advice on picking a rug, he suddenly points at this massive sectional sofa. “I’m tellin’ ya, if you ever need a couch, that one’s a belter.” Without waitin’ for a word, he legged it across the showroom and flopped down on it like he owned the place. “Comfort’s where it’s at, innit? This is the future of proper lounging, no two ways about it.”

I laugh. “I’m pretty sure it can’t fit in the flat, though.”

He grins, clearly having a blast picking out pieces he thinks I’ll need. “Well, I’d offer me help, but I’m pretty sure ma back would give out if I tried to lift this entire thing.”

I scan the shelves, trying to decide what I need. “I’m thinking just the smaller stuff today —shelves, maybe, and a nice chair for reading. I don’t need another bed just yet, the guest room can wait.”

Will hums, looking at the couch section. “You sure you don’t need a couch, mate? I mean, your place is looking pretty bare without one.”

I glance over at the couches, and my stomach drops. Sure, some of them look nice... but their price tags? No thanks. "I’m good without a couch for now," I say, narrowing my eyes at a particularly overpriced one. “IKEA couches are just... too much for what they are. Honestly, I could get a much better one secondhand.”

Will raises an eyebrow, clearly not buying it. “Fair enough. But what about these shelves then? Bet you could do with a bit more storage, yeah?”

I nod, already thinking about how messy things tend to get when there’s no proper place for anything. "Yeah, I definitely need more storage. Maybe some bookshelves, or something to hang my future plants on."

We continue walking through the showroom, and Will’s already grabbing a couple of things to throw in the cart—mostly small items like picture frames and throw blankets. I’m distracted by a sleek little coffee table when Will’s voice cuts through my thoughts.

“You sure you wanna keep that knackered old bedside table?” he says, referring to my bedside table he unceremoniously shoved in his car boot this morning. “Thing’s seen better days, hasn’t it? Looks like it’s been through a war.”

I cross my arms. “What’s wrong with it?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “I like it. Reev found it for me on Facebook Marketplace. It’s got character.”

Will looks at me like I’ve just suggested I buy a whole set of porcelain garden gnomes. “Character? You mean ‘fallin’ to bits, smells like joss sticks’ chic? That thing’s got more wobble than a dodgy pub stool.

I can’t help but laugh, shaking my head. “You’re being dramatic. Besides, it’s perfectly functional. It was free! And it’s got history.”

He snorts. “History? Yeah, if by history you mean ‘cheap’ and ‘fallin' apart.’” He glances over at the matching tables, clearly imagining how they’d look together. “Come on, you could get two nice matching ones for not much more than the price of that... whatever that thing is."

I scowl at him, pretending to be offended. “First of all, it's vintage. Second of all, it was free. Third of all, I like it.”

Will grins. "Alright, alright. But you know I’m right."

I roll my eyes. “Sure, Will. You’re totally right. I’ll just get rid of my, incense-scented treasure I inherited from my friend.”

“Alright, alright—y’win. But at least get yourself a desk, yeah? Sommat that’s not hangin’ on by a thread.”

"Deal," I say, chuckling, and add a couple of shelves to the cart.

After we’ve picked out what feels like half the store, we start sorting through what will fit in his car and what will have to be delivered. Will's getting into the logistics of it all, calculating how many boxes will fit in the backseat and whether we’ll need to make two trips, and what can be delivered straight to the flat by next week. I’m genuinely impressed with how well he’s handling it—it's like he's done this before.

“Alright,” Will says with a satisfied smile, tapping his phone screen, “If we play it smart, we can squeeze the lamp, shelves, an’ all them baskets in one trip. But I’m tellin’ ya now—if I’ve gotta play Tetris with the boot, I’ll be expectin’ a medal at the end of it.”

“I’ll buy you a drink,” I say, half-joking. “I’ll even let you pick where.”

“Deal,” he says, grinning wide.

xxx

We make it back to the flat just as the afternoon sun starts to dip, the air still warm but not as suffocating as it was earlier. Will’s already started on building the set of shelves—he’s got the instructions spread out in front of him, his brow furrowed in concentration. He’s quiet, focused, his usual commentary missing as he clicks the pieces together. The speaker hums softly in the background, playing a playlist we threw together in the car. It's a mix of chilled-out tunes and random 90s hits. It's nice, and it still feels more curated than spontaneous.

I sit on the floor, sorting through boxes scattered around me, labeling everything like it matters more than it does. Clothes in one pile, kitchen stuff in another. Books to the left, random knick-knacks to the right. The only sounds are the rattle of tools and a barely-there synth line from the speaker. It should feel comforting. And maybe it does. Mostly.

I glance over as he places the final shelf onto the frame. “Hey,” I say, breaking the silence. “You want a snack or

something?”

He looks up, blinking like I’ve pulled him out of somewhere far away. “Snack? Uh, aye, go on then. What were you thinkin’?””

I tap my chin, pretending to think. “Tesco run. Meal deal. Sandwich, crisps, drink. The works.”

That gets a smile out of him—small, not quite lighting up his whole face like it usually does. “Canne argue with that.”

“You want anything in particular?”

He shrugs. “Whatever. You know what I like.”

I pause at that—because I do, and that used to feel like something. Now it just sounds like... delegation. Like he’s keeping a hand on the door.

“Chicken and bacon?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

Will nods. “Classic. Thanks.”

I push to my feet, brushing off my knees. “Alright. You keep playing handyman. I’ll grab the goods.”

He gives me a half-salute, more out of habit than humour. “You got it.”

The door clicks shut behind me. The air outside feels cooler now, and for a second I can’t tell if that’s the weather or just the shift in the room I left.

When I get back, he’s finished the shelves and has started unpacking the coffee table we both agreed was a dumb purchase. He looks up when I walk in and gives me a grin—easy, practiced.

“Mission accomplished,” he says, holding up the shelf like a trophy.

I smile back, setting the Tesco bag on the counter. “You’re a natural.”

Will rummages through the bag, pulling out the sandwiches. “Perfect. You’re a legend.”

We sit side by side, eating on the floor. The music’s still playing, the crisp bags crinkling in our hands. The quiet isn’t awkward—but it’s not full, either. It’s the kind of silence that gives space, not comfort.

I keep waiting for him to lean in, to say something, to make a joke or ask how I’m feeling about the move. But he just eats, legs stretched out in front of him, nodding along to the music like he's somewhere else entirely.

Still, I don’t say anything. I just lean into it. Because maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Simple. Easy.

I’m not sure what snaps him out of it, but suddenly he turns to me, mouth still half-full of sandwich.

“This is crass, but—”

“Oh god, here we go,” I mutter under my breath, already preparing for whatever nonsense he’s about to spout.

"I'm excited to fuck you on every new surface in your new gaff.”

“William!" I gasp, nearly choking on my crisp. "You could’ve just said 'christen the flat'!”

“Aye, but that doesn’t quite get the message across, does it?” he grins, his laughter bubbling up as he proudly enjoys the shock he’s caused.

A heat spreads across my cheeks. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it too—the idea of us here, in my flat with no roommates who will make a comment in the kitchen in the morning.

xxx

The next week feels like a blur. I spend most of it making trips to ASDA and TKMaxx, picking up whatever I can—throw pillows, mismatched kitchen utensils, a few random plants that will probably die within a month. But it’s all mine now. It’s starting to feel like a home, slowly but surely.

I found a couch on Facebook Marketplace. It’s nothing special—well, it’s actually a little lumpy, and the cushions are a weird shade of beige—but it's better than nothing, and it’s mine. I post the details on Airtasker and within an hour, I’ve got a guy lined up to move it for me. It’s a little sad how exciting that feels, but it’s progress.  

I’m making my way through the week, one trip to Pinterest board at a time, when Will starts coming over after work. He’s been really sweet about it all—helping me with whatever I need, always offering to build furniture or move things around. Every evening, I hear the familiar sound of his keys in the door, and I can’t help but feel a little lighter.

It’s the little things. Like him bringing over takeout because I’ve “been too busy to cook” (even though I’ve definitely eaten the same instant noodles three nights in a row). Or him teasing me when I say I still haven’t figured out where to put my wine glasses, despite the fact that my shelves are almost full. The way he jokes that I’ll probably just put them on the windowsill, like some sort of millennial cliche.

And, of course, the way he always stays a little longer than he plans, helping me with my flatpack furniture, his hands steady and familiar. It’s easy to fall into this rhythm with him. It feels... natural. Like we’ve been doing this for months, even though it’s only been a week.

But there’s something off. Something I can’t quite put my finger on.

It’s like a quiet shift, subtle but impossible to ignore. He’s here almost every evening, still helping out, still making sure I don’t lose my mind trying to put together IKEA flatpacks. But the way he looks at me has changed. Maybe it’s how his smile lingers a second too short when I laugh, or how when I catch him staring, his eyes no longer hold that same playful warmth. It’s not coldness, just distance. Like he’s holding back, and I don’t know why.

When he’s close, it feels like he’s pulling away. The space between us isn’t just emotional anymore, it’s physical too. Whether we’re brushing past each other in the kitchen or lounging on the couch, I notice it—the growing gap that wasn’t there before.

The way he holds me in bed has shifted. He’s still there, still pulling me close, but it’s more like... he’s going through the motions. I miss the way he would hold me like I was worth figuring out. Like every touch meant something—like I mattered, like it was real.

Now, it’s all about getting the job done. He’s still affectionate, but it’s no longer playful or intimate. It’s like he’s trying to be present but is keeping himself on the edge, like he’s afraid to get too close. Every touch feels more like an afterthought than something genuine.

I miss the way he’d hold me until I fell asleep, his fingers running through my hair as if he wanted to memorize the way I felt. Now, it’s just quick kisses, a brief squeeze of my hand. It’s not bad, but it’s not us anymore.

I think back to that ridiculous moment on move-in day, when he joked about “christening every new surface.” Even though I sensed something was off, it felt like we were starting something real—something full of heat and laughter. But no such thing has happened yet. Now that spark feels like it’s flickering out. I miss the cheeky grin, the lightness in his voice—the way he used to be playful with me. I keep wondering if he ever really meant it, or if it was just him being funny in the moment.

I try not to let it get to me. After all, I guess we're still just friends. And friends help each other out, right?

God, it’s so silly to be this upset about not getting railed on my kitchen counter. Humbling, honestly.

But still, the way he’s pulling back, without saying anything, is driving me mad.

xxx

Taglsit: @meglouise00@migilini @thankyoulovely @mosviqu @formulaal @jonnybernthalslover @tiredqzl @mrswillne @ravenaz

[zapper-powerbutton]

*[The snow swirled around Friday's shoes as he made his way up the street towards Button's apartment, the bright blue scarf Chip insisted he wear keeping the cold from biting into his face too harshly. Still, Friday lamented his inability to melt into shadow--his preferred method of long-distance travel-due to the carefully crafted plate of cookies he balanced on his arm.] *[Friday let out a low, apprehensive cello note as he recalled the conversation he'd had with his dear friend that afternoon.]

---

"Friday. Friiiday. Friiiiiiday-"

Friday melted out of the shadows behind Chip, a questioning hum of a viola answering his call.

"Friday! There you are!" Chip practically bounced in place, a certain gleam in his eye.

Friday knew that look. It was the same look Chip got when he had one of his "super-awesome totally amazing ideas". The little Pippins was too enthusiastic for his own good sometimes, and it made Friday worry.

"Friday, you've noticed how…down Button seems lately, right?" Chip asked, his expression of hapiness at seeing Friday melting into something more serious.

Friday let out a mournful hum of bass in aknowledgement. He had noticed. They seemed…slower. Sluggish. Not as present.

"Exactly! And we can't let Button be a sad little Zapper! They're usually so…bouncy! Enthusiastic!" Chip counted off his points on his gloved hands.

Friday's constant hum of music, a constant, steady reminder of his presence, sharpens into a high, worried trill.

"I know, I know! It breaks my heart too!" Chip agreed. "We have to do something!"

Friday's music softened into a melodic, inquisitive hum.

"No, no, not me! You! Go check on Button! You're really good at that whole…listening, and making people feel better thing! Please, please, pretty please with a cherry on top and sprinkles and a little umbrella?!"

Friday’s hum becomes a long, drawn-out note, a sigh of resignation, but with an underlying current of affection.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you! You’re the bestest, most shadowy, most wonderfully hum-tastic friend a Pippins could ever ask for!"

---

*[Friday stopped short in front of the apartment's lobby doors, peering up at the building with slight apprehension. He wasn't as confident as Chip that he could make a difference--not many people understood his melodies as well as his bright little friend--but he was determined to try.]

*[Friday stepped inside the entryway, searching the buzzer buttons for the correct apartment number. With a sigh, he adjusted the scarf around his neck and reached out.]

*BZZZZT!*

[The door clicks, allowing Friday to open the door and enter the building. It isn't anything too special about it, but there are a few event posters littered across the otherwise quite bland walls. Just a few floors up, Friday finds himself in a long hallway, and approaches the apartment where Button lives.]

[Button receives the alert that someone is here to visit them, startling them out of their busywork. Now? Of all times? Tenna just got back, it's not like they'd been out from work or missing. And with all of their memories flooding back with that dream they had... they haven't even spoken to her yet? Why now???]

[Button very hurriedly cleans up their space as best as they can. Stray papers, sticky notes, pens, and other stationary litter the room, which is worryingly empty otherwise. Sure, they have their TV setup with a couch, coffee table, and rug, as well as a large, plain chest of drawers, there's really nothing out in the room. Well, aside from the mess.]

[There's a knock at the door. Their heart sinks. They barely know the first thing about hosting guests, and now there's someone on the other side of their door, uninvited. The place is still a bit of a disarray. It's probably nothing, right? Just a coworker here to hang out, right? There's no terrible, awful news about Tenna being hurt or dying... right?]

[* Eugh, jus' answa da damn door, Button!!!]

[Button takes a deep breath in... ... ... and out. They shake their head like an etch-a-sketch as if to remove all the worried and bad thoughts to redraw new ones. They let their face relax into something a little cheerier looking. And gently, they open the front door.]

...OH! Eh.. Friday! Pleasant suprise seein' ya here!

[tikay21]

🐺 Gravity @ Edgewave June 2025

Still can’t believe I got to be part of this: Thanks @aniraklova for making this amazing idea happen. Didn’t expect this when I first started posting here - but damn, what a ride 🤘.

start prev - next

I plan to go on and bring their story back - "a tempting offer, won’t ya?" 😉

GRAVITY Band Saint • Phoenix • Thunder • Hannah Crew Connor • Damon • Marcin • Wesley • Pierce

Poster - Edgewave 'Back on Stage'

Thanks to all CC Creator - without your amzing work, nothin' of this would've been possible - you make my world more colorful - kisses and hugs - 🥰🧡🧡🧡🐺🤗

an additional note about Conn to the backstory you can read here: a piece of backstory if you’re curious.

and just a add lil note from my side: Gravity has been with me for years. They weren’t created for this event, they’ve grown slowly, with stories and struggles and a whole lot of memories. This comeback is just one chapter in their journey. And yeah, it’s part of my world I’m happy to share with anyone who’s curious or feels connected. We all love our blorbos, right? I’m actually on vacation right now, working on an old laptop with limited time and tech issues, so yes things took a little longer and I’m just glad it all came together in time. I really believe we all carry our characters with love, whether they’re new or have been with us for years. Giving them the space they deserve, in our own way and that’s what makes this event so special. And for me? Being part of it has been a true heart project. It shows how much I value the idea and all the amazing entries out there - love the variety (one long post or a series of shorter ones 😜), love all the individual creativity. Thanks again 🥰

[camo-art]

teach me the ways of mage please

Hey, first of all, thanks for the question, you are asking in the right place 😄! – Sorry for the long waiting, I wanted to make a decent enough explanation.

I'll try to condense everything in a light to read text and go from easier to understand to more complex + some lore (and philosophical - it was too much text so I didn't explain the philosophical part of Mage). Hope it's clear enough and if someone has a doubt, feel free to ask in the comments! (Or ask directly too)

Too much text coming!

The main concept:

First of all, let's begin with the core concept of Mage the Ascension – The reality is shaped by what people think that is true.

When the majority of people believe in something and it applies to everyone, it's called Consensus, but some special people, the Mages, can shape reality by their own beliefs thanks to their strong willpower, and the more natural it looks the easier it is for them.

And don't think that a Mage is a Gandalf style wizard, They are person with a strong believe that might sound slightly fantastic but some will find it believable; A martial artist that do superhuman feats but says that it's just discipline and training; a person that says that can see ghosts; that friend that always have good luck so you wouldn't be surprised if they tell you something really convenient happend to then; And of course, the more Gandalf style ocultist wizards.

But how does magik works?

If it's magical or fantastical thinking (which most humans have in one or anothet way), possibly a Mage can do it for real if they belive that is real.

But here's the catch: Remember the Consensus?, imagine it as the flow of a river. If a Mage follows what the popular belives, they move easily to manipulate reality, but if the swim against this consensus, it's their idea versus the belief of the majority, so it would be really hard to swim against the current of all that people's beliefs.

How does it works mechanically speaking in game?

Basically a Mage has 2 core elements: Spheres and Arete.

Spheres: Determines in which areas of reality the Mage has control and how much domain he has over them. (1 Sense - 2 Improve - 3 Control - 4 Create - 5 Master).

Arete: Determines how strong is the Mage's Magik, how conscious he is about the universe (and maximum knowledge about the spheres). In game it also determines how many dices the character rolls when doing a Magik.

The 9 spheres of reality:

Correspondence: Connection between elements and dimensions of space.

Entropy: Decay but also luck and fate.

Forces: The elemental energies (Fire, electricity, gravity, inertia, etc.).

Life: Heal and alter living beings.

Matter: Unanimated objects.

Mind: Everything related to minds and the consciousness of being.

Prime: Understanding of the primordial energy that within all things.

Spirit: Otherworsly habitants.

Time: The time.

Now for real! – How to do Magik

1.- The Mage first identity what she want to do.

(Ex. Break a wall).

2.- The Mage determines the tools she gonna use to do it.

(Ex. Her bare fists).

3.- The Mage determines HOW is she doing it.

(Ex. In this case, she will use the martial art knowledge she archived through years of training at the Akashayana dojo and the Force sphere to increase the streng of her punch to be able to break a solid wall which otherwise would be impossible for a human – Basically she is using Magik in a way she believes is possible and doing something a normal human wouldn't be able to do).

4.- Roll Arete to determine if your Magik works and a characteristic+skill for the action itself.

The factioooons! 🎵🎶

There are many factions in the setting, but there are 3 (or 4) main factions.

The Council of the 9 Traditions: The main characters, they do more mystic or fantastic Magik and fight to control the consensus so their Magik still possible in this world.

The Technocracy: The main rival of the traditions, originally the main villain but now more of a gray antagonist. They are also playable. They try to control the consensus too and use technology that is "illuminated" – basically technology that is so advanced that is Magik even if they will NEVER say it that way. They fight every supernatural creature they find to protect humanity from them.

The Nefandii: The main evil guys and real villains of the plot. They are infernalists and want the descense and destruction of humanity instead of the Ascension because they say the universe original state is chaos because they are mad. They are NOT gray, they are all sociopaths so they are not and should never be played.

The forgotten 4th group: The Disparate Alliance: A group of Mages' factions that hate the Technocracy but don't like the more conservative view of the 9 Traditions so they founded they own group but are not too many of them and they are usually hiding.

Extra: The Merouders: Mages that went mad and now destroy reality wherever they go, and the reality hits other Mages instead of them so they are dangerous but are individual Mages, not a faction exactly.

Okay so this is really extence already so I'll explain the groups in the two main playable factions to finish.

The 9 Traditions:

Akashayana: Mystial martial arts

Celestial Chorus: Religious mystics from monotheistic religions.

Chakravanti/ Euthanatoi: Followers of the Karmic will.

Kha'Vadi/ Dreamspeakers: Shamans and tribal Mages.

Virtual Adepts: Computational and telecommunications Mages.

The Order of Hermes: Traditional high Mages (mostly medieval European practices) who organize themselves in Houses depending of their main practice.

Sahajiya/ Cult of Extasis: Uses human feelings and strong experiences to see beyond perceptible reality.

Society of Ether: Mad science.

Verbenae: Witchcraft and pagan practices like druidcraft.

The Technocratic Union:

Iteration X: Mechanic and computer science.

New World Order: Control of information, propaganda and secret agencies.

Progenitors: Organic sciences (sometimes chemistry too[?)

Syndicate: Here comes the money, money money money money money. (Economy in general).

Voide Engineers: Protect the world form creatures from the outer space – Astronomy and geography.

Epilogue and how to learn more:

The two main factions are fighting to dominate the consensus and this is a big part of the plot.

The Nefandii are causing chaos too and all the other factions hate them.

- If you want to start playing I suggest to start by watching youtube videos that are simpler than reading the game manuals.

- After that you can download the free Quick guide for Mage the Ascension 20th anniversary to understand the basics.

- In Whitewolf Wiki you can read more about lore and factions.

-If you really want to read the core book, I suggest starting for the MTA 20th anniversary edition because it has a lot of the lore of the game, all the main factions and is the most complete version because it unifies lore and mechanics from all the previous versions.

----------------------------------------------------------

If the person that made the question or anyone else have a specific question please feel free to ask. I wanted to explain as much as I can without making the text too complex but if anyone have more questions, general or more specific, I will be happy to answer them 😄.

Thanks for reading.

[i05wook]

Pika Pika Please - Murata Fuma

summary: taking your boyfriend on a surprise trip to his favourite place...the pokémon centre

genre: fluff

warnings: none

pairing: &team fuma x reader

wc: 1.3k

a/n: happy birthday to our sub-leader and hero, fuma!! can't believe i got to see you perform live twice here in japan♡ being in japan has helped me remember just how much i love my &teamies and hopefully i'll be writing more them soon. also the pictures (except fuma) are mine that i took at one of the pokemon centre here in japan.

also a huge thank you to @hyuukais and @astrae4 for beta reading this!

The late June sun beat down on the busy streets of Tokyo as people went about their day, parasols and iced coffees in hand.

With temperatures of 33°C expected for the whole week, spending the day outside wasn’t exactly ideal. However, today was special—both you and your boyfriend, Fuma, were finally in Tokyo with a rare day off together. 

His birthday was at the end of the week. You’d already bought his presents, but you still wanted to treat him to something a little more personal—something that would make him smile. So, you decided on one of his favourite things in the world: Pokémon.

Sure, there were shops all over Tokyo that sold Pokémon merchandise, but nothing quite compared to the Pokémon Centres. Bright, colourful, and packed with every kind of merch imaginable, they were like stepping into another world.

The walls were lined with plushies of all sizes, from palm-sized Pikachus to life-sized Oshawotts. Shelves overflowed with boxes of trading cards, and statues of fan-favourite Pokémon greeted visitors at every corner. You could find everything from snacks and stationery to posters and accessories. For the average fan, it was paradise. For Fuma? It was heaven on earth.

You could spend hours there together, always stumbling across something new or adorable to take home. Your shared apartment was proof of it—the spare room had slowly evolved into a Pokémon shrine. His card collection took up most of the desk space, plushies were stacked neatly on the shelves, and above the guest bed hung a framed poster of all the Eeveelutions. It made him happy—and seeing that always made you happy, too.

————————

“Babe, fancy a little outing today? Just a few quick stops I need to go, and I’ll even grab us a treat on the way home,” you called out to your boyfriend from your bedroom, as he sat at the breakfast bar eating his breakfast. 

“Sure—as long as we can get coffee first,” he said, making his classic bargain as usual, a grin evident in his voice. You smiled to yourself, knowing full well he’d still tag along even without the caffeine bribe.

Agreeing to his usual caffeine bribe, you left your boyfriend in charge of ordering the coffee while you finished getting ready. Once it arrived—an iced caramel Frappuccino and a matcha latte—you were both armed and ready to tackle the long list of errands ahead. 

Operation errands was a go!

The first of many stops was the post office, where you had to return an impulsive online order—one that seemed like a good idea at the time, but soon realised it was, in fact, not. After a surprisingly short wait, the parcel was on its way. No errand run felt complete without a quick stop at the drugstore to restock sunscreen and lip balm—and maybe splurge a little on a new hair treatment. 

With the first two errands already complete, it was time to make your way to the subway station in order to head to the mall to run your bigger errands. 

The metro was quiet for the time of day, most people at work or school, which meant that it was easy to find two seats next to each other. Sitting shoulder to shoulder on the quiet train, Fuma pulled out his earphones and placed one gently into your ear before slipping the other into his. Soft music began to play, wrapping the two of you in your own little world as you let your head rest on his shoulder. There was something deeply serene about sharing music in a nearly silent train, travelling through the busy city. 

————————

Ikea was the next stop on the list of errands. While Ikea was typically where you bought larger furniture from, today shopping consisted of small items only. You needed to buy some more dish towels because someone — Fuma — burnt the last good ones trying to boil pasta. No knows how he managed it, but you’d long stopped questioning these things. You also loved to buy candles from Ikea, however the last time you were there, you couldn’t decide what candle you wanted so you had to bring Fuma to help.

Ikea shopping trips could last anywhere between 20 minutes to 2 hours. Some days you both had to try out all of the beds while others, you were on a mission to get what you needed and leave. Today was in the middle. While you didn't spend time trying out all of the beds, you spent a reasonable amount of time just smelling the different scented candles. Fuma was set on wanting the meatball scented candle, and while funny,  not a scent you wanted in your apartment. However, Fuma said that the bergamot candle you wanted gave him a headache. The pair of you continued to argue over the scent until you both reached for the same lilac candle in a clear glass jar—the colour of wisteria. As soon as you both smelt the candle, you made eye contact and started hitting him lightly on the shoulder. 

“This is the same smell as the candle we lit that one night I stayed at yours and there was a power cut,” you rushed out excitedly. 

“What? The night in which we played uno by candle light, and you decided to commentate the whole game like it was Formula One?” 

It was a moment early into your relationship with Fuma. That night, between laughter and flickering candlelight, something inside you shifted. You knew—without question—that you loved this man with your whole heart. No one else had joined in with such antics before Fuma, but he gave back the same energy as you, commentating on his next moves. Both of you rolling on the floor with laughter by the end of the game. 

“Let’s get that one then, shall we babe?” Fuma said, as he wrapped his arm around your shoulder, placing the candle into the bag and guiding you through the rest of the aisles. 

————————

It was finally time for the day’s big event. Somehow, Fuma still hadn’t realized you were heading towards his favorite place. It wasn’t until you rounded the corner and faced the store’s entrance that it finally clicked. He glanced at you, and with a silent nod from your side, he practically dragged you inside.

Like a child in a candy shop, his grin stretched from ear to ear as he wandered from shelf to shelf. You quietly grabbed a basket and followed him, watching with a smile as your six-foot-tall boyfriend darted around the Pokémon Center, clearly unsure what to choose. But one thing was certain—he wanted matching plushies. Pikachu and Eevee. When he stopped in front of the plush wall and picked up the two, he looked at you with wide, pleading eyes, silently asking if he could buy them for you. Without a word, you nudged your basket toward him, giving him the go-ahead. He kissed the top of your head as he placed the plushies inside, barely able to hide his excitement.

He made a beeline for the snacks section, scooping up his favourites and waiting for you to catch up with the basket. Once you did, he dropped everything in with practiced ease and headed straight for the Pokémon card shelves, eager to grab the newly released packs. Without hesitation, he bundled about ten into the basket—clearly no time for decision-making—and marched toward his final stop: the stickers.

Every visit, he picked out a new one—Snorlax, Pikachu, Ditto—tucking it into the back of his phone case so he could swap them out whenever the mood struck. Today, he grabbed two Ditto stickers: one for him, one for you. He always liked when your phone cases matched, even in the smallest ways.

After dropping them into the basket, he took it from your hands and tugged you toward the cashier. “If I stay any longer,” he said, eyes wide with faux panic, “I’m buying the whole store.” Leaving the store, two bags in hand, he wrapped his arm tightly around your waist, pulling you into his chest.

 “Thank you for today darling.”