#that does color your perception of this new turn

[kashverse]

uncle gogo = gojo, for those confused

career day at the sukuna household is not for the weak.

at the tender age of five, your daughter is no longer just a visitor at her father’s company. no. today, she is there for work. she arrives at the office in her best outfit—tiny blazer, tiny briefcase, tiny attitude—ready to take on the corporate world. sukuna, ever the supportive father, plays along.

"alright, kid," he says as they step into his office, adjusting the little lanyard around her neck that says junior executive (custom-made, obviously). "first day on the job. you ready?"

"mm-hmm." she nods seriously, clutching her briefcase like it holds state secrets. "good," sukuna smirks, ruffling her hair. "first order of business—don’t let the idiots boss you around."

"idiots like uncle gogo?" she asks.

"especially uncle gogo."

things go smoothly at first. your daughter sits in sukuna’s big chair, scribbling on documents (coloring books), occasionally nodding as if she understands corporate jargon. employees pop in to say hello, bringing little gifts—stickers, snacks, an absurdly large teddy bear that now sits beside her like an honorary executive.

but then, he arrives. a mid-level manager with a smile just a little too fake, eyes that linger just a little too long. your daughter, ever perceptive, immediately stiffens. the man kneels beside her chair, trying to look friendly. "and who is this little boss?" he asks, voice dripping with condescension. your daughter stares him down, face blank.

"…weird man," she declares.

the entire office goes silent. sukuna, who had been checking emails, slowly looks up.

"what?"

his daughter turns to him, completely unbothered.

"i don’t like weird man."

the manager laughs awkwardly. "kids, huh? always saying the darndest things." sukuna barely spares him a glance. "yeah. they do."

your daughter, meanwhile, has already moved on, humming as she arranges her teddy bear like it’s the new CFO. sukuna doesn’t think much of it at first. kids have weird instincts. but a few hours later—

"boss," one of his executives says, looking grim. "we have a problem." sukuna doesn’t look up from his laptop. "when don’t we?"

"it’s about him."

the name that follows is the same weird man his daughter had called out earlier. sukuna finally looks up.

"what about him?"

"he’s been embezzling funds. we just caught the discrepancies in the accounts—tens of thousands missing. and, uh..." the executive hesitates. "he’s also been at the center of multiple employee harassment complaints. HR covered it up, but—"

CRACK.

everyone in the office flinches. sukuna has broken his pen in half.

by the end of the day, weird man is ex-employee weird man. security drags him out kicking and screaming, and the company lawyers are already preparing a case. sukuna, meanwhile, sits back in his chair, arms crossed as he watches his daughter—his psychic daughter—methodically stacking staplers like it’s part of an intricate business strategy.

"so," he says, tapping his fingers against the desk. "you got anything else for me, little oracle?"

she looks up at him, blinking.

"uncle gogo steals candy from your office."

sukuna sighs. "of course he does."

[nouearth]

love in the making.

grant gustin x male reader.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘. the talk of the town is the production of a new picture starring hollywood's elite star, grant gustin and his co-star, you! as the chemistry between you and grant escalates, so do the tabloids, and the executives aren't happy. what will happen to your relationship with grant when the studio takes matters into their own hands?

𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. one-shot [ 13.6k ].

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. male reader 〳 mid 1950s!au 〳 coworkers!au 〳 movie star!grant 〳 up and coming actor!reader 〳 smoking 〳 yearning 〳 slow-burn(?) 〳 gossip columns 〳 soap opera type of drama 〳 sexual content: top!grant, bottom!reader, anal penetration, breeding, kissing, spitting, blowjob (r!giving), praising, body worship, snowballing.

The leathery smell of cigar permeated the room. Grant added to the thickness in the air with several puffs, then suddenly modulated his breath when he realized it was his turn to run through his lines.

“Pardon me, Katharine. Your voice was so mesmerizing, I nearly fell to a slumber. Where were you when my mother ran out of bedtime stories to tell?” Grant cleared his throat, fulfilled by the laughter scattering from one person to the next while Katharine Scott, the leading lady of the picture, turned scarlet.

He began reading his dialogue.

It was half of the truth. Grant just didn’t bother mentioning that you’d been on his mind since the minute you walked in and introduced yourself -- that would’ve garnered a peculiar reaction. Aside from the screenplay, Grant’s eyes often meandered to you when they needed a break. The words on the script were beginning to scramble like alphabet blocks.

Before the tables were pushed together for the read-through, he noticed how your feet were crossed at the ankles, toes tapping to a rhythm he never noticed. In moments where the writer consulted with the director about the wooden dialogue, Grant could hear your muted taps speed up. Were you nervous? You had to be; you only had your foot in the industry for barely more than a year -- which was apparent.

You still had that humility in your smile.

Maybe it was frustration? Grant chewed on a pen he was holding as he attempted to decipher those pursed lips of yours. It was the color of flesh -- as it should be -- but why did he find them so… entrancing? It wasn’t just the color that got to him, but also the texture. They looked soft, really soft, as you ran through your lines with Katharine. Soft like your voice when you said your name for the first time. Soft like the grip of your handshake, which Grant knew you were well-aware of because you suddenly tensed your fingers at his fingers, nails into his palm, to compensate for your lack of callous. Soft like the ham and cheese bagel he had this morning, you would bite your own lip from how indistinguishable the bread roll and your mouth were from one other.

He chewed harder at the thought. Why does Grant want to see that happen?

“Grant? It’s your line.”

When Grant’s vision focused harder on your lips, he realized your mouth was aiming directly at him. Separating and closing, all for him. He immediately perked up.

“What—oh. Right. Where were we…” Grant felt warmth creeping up his neck, rubbing at it to ward off the heat. He only made it worse as it climbed to his chin and mouth, the taste of heat almost perceptible when he fought it off with a lick of his lips. “Gross, what the hell is—“

Metallic, acidic, and bitter on his tongue -- it was a taste that made him fully alert to the blue stain on his script. Then quickly after, the peculiar heat dripping off the corner of his mouth.

“Grant, you have—“ He watched you conceal a gasp when he turned to you, but your eyes -- everyone’s eyes -- made it perfectly clear that he needed to break this habit of chewing pens.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you will excuse me…”

He should’ve listened to his mother when he was little.

“Just my luck…”

Grant was bent over the sink, scrubbing away at his face with a soapy hand. He was dressed down to his undershirt, figuring he’d address the stain on his dress shirt later in the evening.

It was almost like there was an invisible force field around his chin because the ink stain was refusing to wash out. Grant was certainly in a better position than before, but he could still make out that splotch of grey-blue, muted from his unrelenting efforts to look somewhat presentable again.

“Grant, you all right? I’m coming in,” He recognized your voice immediately and perked up at the prospect of seeing you again, even if he really ought to know better than to be happy to see someone in this predicament.

Especially a handsome one.

“I think it’s coming off, you think? Could be my flesh that I’m tearing away at, but if it works…”

It was natural to glance at someone when they enter the bathroom. Humans are naturally inquisitive people. Innovation and evolution weren’t the result of keeping to oneself. What wasn’t natural was staring, particularly when it came to a man’s face, which seemed to have been exasperated from adrenaline.

You were panting and heaving as you made your way to counter. Grant took notice of your necktie, swinging from side to side with every step you took. You must’ve forgotten a tie clip. If not, then it must’ve fallen sometime between the moment he left the room and you entering the bathroom.

He had to admit, you looked—

“Keep at it and you’ll find the city of Atlantis,” you stifled a chuckle when Grant washed off the soap suds again, only to reveal what many would presume to be a rather strange five o’clock shadow.

Well, half of one.

“Speaking of finds,” he grabbed a handful of paper towels to dry his face, then nodded towards the paper bag that you had set on the counter. “What’s the loot?” Grant asked, partly because he wanted to distract you from watching him any longer and because he was simply curious.

Once again, inquisitive people drove evolution. In this context, Grant would like to get to know you more -- for the sake of the motion picture, of course.

“Went to the general store and thought you might need these,” you began unpacking the bag one by one.

A package of bar soap, a tin of cold cream, and a modest bag of assorted fruit chews. “Soap? We have soap right here.” Grant recognized the logo on the bag, there was a candy store west of the studio lot. He wondered where you went first. Did you get hungry during your brisk shopping trip, or was the general goods store on the way and you needed to kill time?

“Yes, well, that’s hand soap. You need Ivory soap, which is hydrating and better for your face. Hand soap will dry you out.”

He also wondered why you were helping him out. Not that people don’t go out of their way to help a celebrity of his status, but often, he could tell when someone was contriving flattery.

“What about the tin?” Grant asked. With one hand, he picked up the tin and analyzed the engraved packaging against the light.

You began rummaging through your bag of fruit chews. “Cold cream. It’s what my mother uses to remove her makeup. Use that before you wash your face. It should help melt the stain,” Pink wrapper, it was a strawberry chew. Grant deduced that it also must have been your favorite flavor since you searched high and low for it, flicking past the greens, blues, oranges, and yellows.

Replaying it back in his mind made him chuckle. He had been inside the candy store before, usually spending a few cents on chocolates for his dates. Still, the store was a marquee for locals who wanted to self-serve their candy bags and that hadn’t gone unnoticed. A buffet of confectionery to put it persuasively, which made Grant laugh again at the thought of you picking out the strawberry chews.

You could’ve avoided the trouble by not packing the other flavors at all.

“It’s for women… ‘She’s engaged, she’s lovely, she uses cold cream,’” The irony of the tagline shared a brief fit of laughter between you and Grant.

It felt good to hear you laugh, even if it was quite apparent that you were restraining yourself to lower the chances of choking on a fruit chew. Death was inevitable as much as it was arbitrary, and Grant was not letting a handsome man like yourself be the first case of ‘death by candy, and a badly timed joke.’

Besides the point, you were benign. Your knowledge in women’s beauty products caused a case of interest, and that made Grant want to excavate your formality even more.

“You look like you belong in the Looney Tunes, Gustin. That should be the least of your worries,” he watched you primp yourself in front of the mirror, minor adjustments to your hair where the gel had fallen loose. “Anyway, I’ll get us some lunch. They said we’ll resume in a bit. You like salami? I know a place that makes a great Italian sandwich. Good fries too.”

With autumn approaching, the weather was only getting windier. By dint of the way a strand of hair fell delicately over your forehead like the stem of a cherry, Grant figured he should make amends with the upcoming season if it meant he would be seeing more of you fixing your tousled hair.

“Actually—wait for me, yeah? I prefer dining in for lunch, can’t stand soggy fries,” Grant opened the tin of cold cream and was instantly hit with a whiff of nostalgia -- something of gardenia and vanilla all at once. He must have smelled this at his mother’s vanity at some point in his life.

“Well, you must hurry because I had nothing but double the allotment of caffeine. I feel like Lucy in that one run where all she had for dinner were mints,” you were referencing an episode of I Love Lucy, adjusting your tie in between glances.

He slathered on the white paste and rubbed at the stain on his chin. Grant wouldn’t have guessed this was part of a woman’s nightly routine. If he ignored the floral notes, the product resembled shaving cream for the most part.

“‘There’s nothing quite like a good after-dinner mint,’” Grant quoted a line from the same episode you had mentioned. In retrospect, he was glad he shelled out a couple hundred bucks for the hottest commodity of the decade. He had never seen someone’s eyes light up the way yours did.

If the building was set on fire and everyone had to be evacuated, Grant wouldn’t have known by virtue of your radiant smile -- it was disorienting. Whether or not he would’ve made it out in time… the matter of the fact was that his fate was entirely dependent on you, and Grant was surprisingly at ease with that proposition.

You cleared your throat when it registered that the stare shared between the two of you had stopped you in your tracks, Grant in his. The silence was almost tangible. Grant wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at your eyes, then your nose, and then your lips again. That information served no purpose, only to embarrass him with the strong chance that it might’ve been too long.

Much too long for him, he began noticing your delightful cologne and not the smell of floral and vanilla. If he took a step closer, maybe he could—

“You can wash it off now. I’m curious to see if it works.”

For now, Grant was content on watching you at arm’s length, eating your favorite piece of candy and laughing as you tidied yourself.

It seemed like he was only beginning to scratch the surface.

It had only been a little more than a week of principal photography, but Grant was quick to inform himself of the director’s social cues. Sucking in his bottom lip meant that something regarding the scene was off -- whether it be the lighting, the wrinkle in a shirt, the fumble of dialogue, or the stiff movement of the actors. He was a meticulous man, stopping a take when Grant’s hair wasn’t as slicked back as he had envisioned. Imposing at times, but the general kindness kept the set rather freeing.

Today, Grant received a firm nod behind the camera.

“You got a light?” Grant asked with a cigarette between his lips, patting his pockets only to leave with empty hands. He pulled a chair next to where you had been studiously scribbling notes on your script. He couldn’t have read it if he tried -- and he had tried once -- chicken scratch hadn’t left your fine motor skills anytime soon.

“Uh-huh. Every apartment has one if you find the right landlord,” you said dryly, flashing a cheeky grin and continuing to annotate the script in your hand.

“Cute,” he snickered while you fished a lighter out of your pant pocket. It wasn’t your scheduled smoke break yet, it was often reserved right before lunch. You figured that you mind as well get one out of the way since the clock was nearing lunch time anyhow.

Lighting up your cigarette, you drew in a breath of tobacco and felt it cloud over your brain after, tempering the stress signals with warmth. “Here,” your thumb remained on the flint wheel while your free hand hovered over the flame to block the desk fan. The wick of fire bridged the distance between you and Grant as you both leant forward to ignite his cigarette.

His hand rested on yours, gently bringing the lighter closer to the end of his cigarette stick, and stabilized itself until the tobacco was lit.

It shouldn’t have felt intimate. It was probably from the smoke, wasn’t it? The type of buzz that made Grant hallucinate all and everything around him -- black crows if he was in a troubled sate. In this case, it was the tremble of your hand when Grant held it, unsteady like the lighter’s flame before you had capped it. It was the look you gave him, aggravated if it was from most men, but almost imploring on your end. It was the silence that bestowed between the two of you, the type where Grant knew you could tell he was staring at you now, because you began scribbling arbitrary patterns on the margins of your script.

He should probably tell you that the scribbles were merging with your annotations, but Grant had to be careful. Otherwise, he was going to open his mouth and give you an earful of lunacy, starting with “Your hands are cold” and ending with “Can I hold them for longer?”

“So, what’s for lunch today?” You asked, stretching your arms overhead. Grant watched your fingers closely as they fanned out and held nothing but air.

“I could go for a hamburger. You?”

“Something light for me… think I’m coming down with a bug. My stomach suddenly hurts.”

Grant regretted letting go now.

“We missed you at shooting today. And yesterday. And the day before that. Mainly Wilder though—he likes how you can get scenes done in one take.”

You were caught off-guard hearing Grant’s voice through the handset. Even if he was calling from the other side of town, there was something about his presence that made you sit up and spruce up your surroundings, not forgetting your own appearance, of course.

“Well, that’s comforting. I’m sorry—how exactly did you get my telephone, Grant? Where are you calling from?” It must have been the hoarse sound of your voice that made Grant laugh into the handset. You could see it now, his smile.

“Don’t worry about that—and from my hotel. What you should be worrying about is your health. Why are you still up?” Grant started out lighthearted at first, but then muttered, like the weight of his concern strung his voice along.

Really, you ought to sleep. The positive of being sick meant that you could leisure all day and not feel guilty about watching television, even if you had outdone your daily average by a margin. The negative? Your senses were heightened by tenfold, which was ironic because your sinuses were blocked. That didn’t matter whatsoever. What did matter was that you kept waking multiple times throughout the night because your bed was either too warm, too cold, too soft, or too hard.

Now, sleep was as elusive as seeing Grant. It had only been a couple of days, yet you began to feel off -- which could be another symptom of the flu in hindsight.

“It’s wash day. I’m soaking my clothes as we speak,” you flicked off the television to hear Grant better. The rain was pouring down hard on your window.

“You do your own laundry?” Grant asked. He sounded genuinely astonished.

Picturing his expression alongside, you couldn’t contain your laughter any longer. “I am an adult, Grant.” Your toes said otherwise as they wiggled in your socks in complete bliss.

Hearing Grant’s voice was a much-needed energy boost -- way more effective than the oranges you had been eating, but not on par with the programs you had been watching. He’ll get there soon.

“I usually have my housekeeper do it for me,” he confessed.

It was no surprise. You read all about it in the papers before, how the wealthy hires a live-in help, or a nanny if the household contained a family with more than enough kids. They were all cut from the same cloth either way.

“And have you noticed any silk ties going missing?” You asked in jest.

“Now that you mentioned it—“ Before Grant could finish, you laughed, picturing his expression screw into realization that he hadn’t worn his red necktie in a bit.

Objectively, it made sense. The last thing you would want to do is clean the bathroom after coming home from work. It was a luxury you would like to have the option to afford one day, but for now, having a housekeeper was merely that—an option.

You had a much more ambitious goal in mind, and that was making an impact on Hollywood. “Case adjourned.”

Grant’s laugh suggested defeat, and you were all too familiar of the long silence that would come after. If he was here face-to-face, you both would sit in the sound of white noise, or the beating rain in this case, and simply stare at each other.

You weren’t sure when or how it came to fruition, and in the end that didn’t matter—because it was nice.

It was nice to be free from all things interfering with Grant.

“What was for dinner?” He asked, instantly reminding you of the emptiness in your stomach.

“I overslept—well, as overslept as one could be when all they have on their agenda for the day is to die in bed while watching re-runs.”

“Dying to one of Lucille Ball’s shenanigans doesn’t sound too bad. If you time it right, the audience can laugh when you exhale your very last breath,” you laughed at Grant’s morbid mind. “I’ll come over then.”

“You don’t know where I live, Grant. And no, I might pass the bug to you. You’re the production’s biggest asset. We can’t afford any more delays if you fall sick too.”

“I do, actually. The apartment with the orange accents. It’s all everyone talks about because it’s so bright. And I’ll be fine, (M/N). I shot quite a bit of my scenes already. I know you’re a rising star, but the whole world doesn’t stop for you, sweetheart.”

Hearing Grant call you ‘sweetheart’, even if it was said in jest, had you thinking of several different situations in which he would say it again -- preferably in earnest.

“It should. All the take-out places in my neighborhood closed early. What I would do if I had the world in my palm…” From the couch, you looked solemnly out your window, watching blocks of buildings sleep in the shadow of the moon. Your stomach growled as the rain poured harder.

“Even as a dictator, you wouldn’t be able to stop me from coming over. I’ll be there in a split.”

“But it’s raining—“

The line ended with a buzz.

“You know, you don’t have to keep checking up on me, or even bring me food for the matter. I stocked up on some ‘TV Dinner,’” you took a whiff at the steaming bowl of lobster bisque, putting your sinuses to the test. Still nothing. Giving up, you took a sip.

“No wonder you’ve been complaining about your throat! At least buy the meatloaf one,” Grant poured you a cup of orange juice before putting the jug back, rummaging through your freezer after. “And since we’re on the subject… I’ll try one of these bad boys out.”

It was strange seeing someone in your kitchen, let alone your apartment. As unfamiliar was it was, you couldn’t lie and say that you hated it. It was easier to talk to Grant, on the couch and eating a meal together, than it was with a bunch of people interrupting their conversation for either one of them, sometimes both, to do another take.

“Have you ever been offered the chance of being a mystery guest?” After finishing dinner, you curled up on one end of the sofa while Grant sat on the other, arms sprawled over the back and feet cushioned separately by a foot stool.

You and Grant were watching a late night re-run of ‘What’s My Line?’ Four panelists had to question contestants to determine their line of work with only yes-no questions. Toward the last round of every episode, there would be a celebrity mystery guest in which the panelists sought to determine the identity of while blindfolded. For tonight’s episode, the panelists were still stumped on the first contestant’s ‘occupation’—which hardly seemed fair because it was then revealed that she was a victim of a knife-throwing accident.

They let anyone participate these days.

“I have. I wanted to partake in it, but the studio rejected the idea.”

“Why’s that?” You asked, aghast.

Frankly, if you were in Grant’s shoes, you wouldn’t have take ‘no’ for an answer. Anyone who was anyone guested on that show. And if you were Grant’s manager, somehow scarcely able to believe you would even have the energy to be in meetings all day, you would have made his dreams come true. All of them, no matter how absurd they could be.

“They thought I’d be confused at the questions given to me,” Grant sounded aggrieved. You looked over. In the guise of his smile, you could tell those words still affected him. “I think I’m capable. I just lose my train of thought in front of a crowd sometimes.”

Which made the passing thought of being Grant’s manager only a fantasy as the guilt suddenly festered -- you believed those horde of headlines insulting his intellect once. Luckily, it had since dissipated once befriending him.

“Well, when the day comes, I don’t want you to tell me,” you confessed. “Leave the surprise to the broadcast.”

Though, it wasn’t like you thought lowly of him or made any disparaging remarks on his character because of those articles. Rather, you simply pitied. You weren’t going to tell him that, however. He doesn’t need to know how deep your affection for his films and personages go. That he gave you the kick you needed to pursue this strange, yet fulling path -- you could taste the accolades right around the corner, even if you were still living in a dingy apartment.

The awful truth was that Grant also didn’t need to know that you had fallen harder for him -- the real him -- than any other roles he had played. Maybe it was his gorgeous looks that projectors couldn’t do justice. Or the clumsy nature that strangely fit his otherworldly persona -- something had to humble him. Or how he was doing this, bringing you soup every day and making himself comfortable in your own home, like it was his as well.

Or how he was looking at you right now, curled up on the other end of the sofa, his foot accidentally brushing over yours in midst of finding a comfortable spot.

You stretched your legs out when you suddenly felt tense in the body, turning away from the television set to face your body to the ceiling, your chin to your chest to keep your eyes on Grant, who began mirroring your position. It was like you two discovered telepathy for the first time; your leg occupying the gap between his thighs, Grant between yours. He turned the TV off like you had been wanting, filling the living space with complete darkness, and blindly skimmed his sock over your own.

Feeling his sock rub against your ankle stirred something inside of you, and it wasn’t reassuring that this urge only bloomed when Grant did it again. Once at your ankle, two at your calf. Whether this was his idea of a sick joke, you didn’t want that to be answered. Your senses were already heightened from the flu, the stillness in the room deafening, but the intertwined pairs of feet -- the sound of cotton caressing cotton -- alerting. Enticing.

It was an urge that seemed confined to Grant, you realized that when your body responded out of instinct and nudged his ankle and calf in retaliation. Not to get him to stop, but to silently convince him to resist -- because you were frightened you couldn’t any longer.

After a few more cycles of this—whatever activity you two were engaging in—Grant straightened his legs by your hips, seemingly complacent in this exchange by the sound of his chuckle.

“I’ll leave by dawn.”

“Good night, Grant.”

For the past couple of days, you had gotten into the habit of looking forward to Grant’s daily delivery of soups from a restaurant not too far from where he lived—three meals for breakfast, lunch, and dinner respectively. You had to admit, as delicious as they were, you were beginning to exhaust your taste buds of anything broth related. Substance was much needed, especially for a bite of the sandwiches that Grant had graciously introduced you to a couple weeks back.

However, you were feeling better, and that was the most important part—actually, scratch that.

The most important part was who was helping you recover from this aggravating bug. Sipping on the last spoonful of tomato soup, in hopes that your next meal would involve using your teeth, you were itching to resume filming.

At least you thought you did before you flipped through the daily paper. It was a still shot of Grant—blurry, walking down a sidewalk, hand in one pocket while the other was carrying a bag. That was normal, you had seen many of those in your lifetime.

What wasn’t normal was that you recognized the restaurant logo on the bag, the row of evergreens surrounding the perimeter, the distinct branding of the entrance of the building he was near.

Even if the photograph was in black and white, you could tell the handles and windows were painted with a shade darker than white. It made for a rather intriguing backdrop if you could choose to ignore the tightening feeling in your chest.

You started to panic as it became more apparent.

Orange.

“Shit.”

You braced yourself and read the headline.

HOLLYWOOD PLAYBOY STRIKES AGAIN: GRANT GUSTIN SPOTTED AT NEW ALLEGED LOVER’S RESIDENCE!

At first Grant thought he must have misunderstood. When he picked up today’s daily, he was half-expecting a gossip column regarding another one of his romantic adventures with a former co-star, the other half wishing the paper had focused on someone else for a change.

Last month’s column produced a rather in-depth, and slightly creepy, overview of his dinner with Miss Patton. He knew he had good reason to feel peculiar about the waiter serving them. If it hadn’t been for Miss Patton’s desperate plea to get a meal in her stomach as soon as possible, Grant would’ve demanded a switcheroo, effective immediately. The lanky, young man lingered far too long and asked too many questions for his liking, his presence alone made Grant’s Negroni Spritz go flat.

Did Grant’s reputation need to take another hit after finally recovering from those multitudes of fender benders a year and a half ago? Probably not -- Grant didn’t need to endure another hour-long chastising session about how his actions could damage the movie studio. It was all bluff anyway. Grant and the studio head both knew that scandals ushered in huge numbers, record-breaking attendances when it came to his most recent pictures.

Either way, had he known his private conversation with Miss Patton would become… well, not so private, Grant would’ve committed arson to the studio the night of. At least the executives could file an insurance claim based on the physical damage. Grant doubted there would be much validity to the claim if the reason provided was his inability to hold his tongue.

Luckily, Grant had since stopped pursuing after risks. It was what made a dent to his once speck-less Mercedes-Benz in the first place.

Dear God… my sweet Iris, what have I done to you?!

What he wasn’t expecting was—

“‘The Gustin Effect! Hollywood Heartthrob Grant Gustin Helps Local Restaurant Sell Out… Soups?,’” Grant repeated to himself. He was sweating as his eyes went over the large serif font for the nth time like skates on ice. He had to give it to The Daily Spring -- it wasn’t exactly an intriguing headline, but it made his heart race knowing the context. Regardless, it wasn’t exactly how he wanted to start off his day.

He suddenly felt compelled to pour another packet of sugar into his coffee.

“Keep reading, it’s a rather heart-warming article,” Grant’s manager said through the handset with a peculiar enthusiasm, as if the man wasn’t scolding him a few days ago for wandering about without telling him first. “Looks like we’re back on track, don’t you think?”

“As my manager, you’re supposed to be—I don’t know—warding off any worries that I might have. Not unsettle me any more than I already am…” Grant frowned, tucking the handset between his shoulder and ear before briefing into the rest of the gossip piece.

“What are you talking about? This is great news!”

“‘Local restaurant ‘The Cloud Room’ saw an unexpected surge in business after a photograph was published in the newspaper, showing movie star Grant Gustin holding a bag of the restaurant’s soups while en route to a secret rendezvous.

The image caught the attention of the public, leading to a wave of curious customers eager to try the same dish, dubbing the star’s powerful influence as ‘The Gustin Effect.’

With lines stretching down the block for the past three days, the possibility of the effect faltering anytime soon seems slim to none. The owners are considering expanding their hours to accommodate the growing number of customers drawn by the star's casual endorsement.’”

There were several more paragraphs, but Grant couldn’t be bothered to read any more of it. A sudden migraine had been festering the moment he laid eyes on the headline.

“Christ, Kid. You’re on a roll these days. I’d have to use both of my hands to count the number of articles written about you this past week. It’s impressive. If we play it right, then the upcoming picture could be your biggest hit yet. I know you’ve been clamoring for this moment, Kid.”

“Listen, I think I should—“ he groaned, rubbing at his temples.

“Oh, Grant. It’s just your typical fling, wasn’t it? Usually you sweeten a lady up with chocolates, but I guess… soup has its merit too. Nothing to worry about.”

Throbbing -- Grant’s head was throbbing now. He didn’t have the freedom to be indifferent to other people’s opinions. In fact, his career relied on it—on the public, on his manager, on his manager’s manager.

“No, the thing is—“

Now his hands were clamming up. He could feel the handset in his palm slipping, but he tightened his hold—because that was what people in his line of work did, right? If he was on the game show you and Grant were watching the other day, one of the questions would have been:

“Do you portray yourself as who you really are in your line of work?” “Are you free to express yourself however you wished in your occupation?” “Would people like the real person behind this persona of yours? Your parents, perhaps? Grandparents?” “Would you risk the comfort of your career for love?”

“I’ll run it by with the studio. Thank God for your little lady’s soup obsession because they were on my neck for letting you off my leash.”

Maybe his manager was correct in inducing this fear of the press, of anything that provided a space for a cluster of inquisitive people who sought for a piece of his life to sell.

Grant braced himself and exhaled, “It’s not a lady.”

Because Grant would answer all those questions with a resounding ‘No.’

“What, your brother in town? Do you even have a brother? Oh, it must’ve been your father then! Well, that will certainly fare better with the heads—”

All except one.

“It was (M/N).”

All the things Grant wasn’t saying sat heavy in his mouth. He wasn’t used to holding his tongue like this. Under normal circumstances, Grant would ramble non-stop about his favorite pastimes, like going up to Colorado to challenge the steepest ski run, or modestly luxuriating near the poolside at his mansion. It always got the conversation to a flying start with you.

Now, all of his efforts of building some kind of relationship with you seemed to be in vain.

Since Grant had revealed to his manager about his frequent visits to your apartment, there had been a constant stream of articles, propagated by the studio, about his love life, about his philanthropic efforts, about his wishes to build a family with a loving wife and four kids; all in the effort to bury his truth had it ever leak.

They brought his past flings back to the spotlight, even if he hadn’t communicated with these women in months. They brazenly brought you into the picture, gossip columnists regurgitating all types of bogus stories such as: your ego-trip when you demanded filming to stop because of your illness, your tantrum on set when Grant forgot his lines, your need to berate your assistant when she was as little of a second too late in fetching your coffee.

‘Inside sources,’ they’d call it—when really, these were excerpts manufactured from the publicity agent’s fictitious and unpublished novel, later trashed somewhere in the building to start a new one -- to find a new story for so-called ‘journalists’ would hound you with.

Articles about the alleged feud between you and Grant had only gotten more vicious and scathing on your end, and all Grant could do was watch in agony as the studio lot became a media circus, increasing day by day, week by week, with more photographers and reporters desperate to encounter these alleged incivilities. As a newcomer in the industry, it certainly raised your profile, but it was also to the detriment of your reputation -- a fact that everyone was content with considering the amount of coverage the film was receiving.

He had held onto your presence as a small comfort throughout the past bleak month, but even that necessity was taken away from him. More executives began coming onto set under the guise of quality assurance as shooting headed for its last week. Their intention became very much apparent whenever Grant would be inconvenienced with another obligation of shooting for more publicity stills.

Upon realizing you had done all your promotional material in solitude, there was nothing Grant had wanted more than to join you by your side. More so, when in a cursory attempt to blend in with your surroundings, you helped yourself to the catering service and tried to become interested in the employees. Grant knew you didn’t have enough energy in you to exchange more than a “How are you?” and some complimentary words about the food.

You didn’t stay much longer for the wrap party.

Nor were you even welcomed.

He was rarely in a situation where he could physically harm someone, but seeing the headlines the past month, how ostracized you had become during the last few weeks of filming, maybe the circumstances of his life would issue a free pass to do such heinous crimes out of the goodness of their heart -- especially since it pertained to you.

“You shouldn’t be here, Grant. Christ—someone could see you! How did you get here without someone following you?”

Before Grant was being sharply pulled into your apartment, he was contemplating on whether he should greet you with a reasonable “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you,” a pleading “It’s all my fault, please forgive me,” or a simple “Hi.”

The door clicked shut, and Grant mentally slapped himself out of his thoughts. Instead, it was none of that.

“Everyone got wasted by nine,” Grant revealed lightly; there was some apprehension that any louder, he would break you based on your meek appearance. “Your eyes are red.”

You made a dismissive noise, brushing Grant off as you passed him on your way to the bedroom. “It’s only been a month and you’re already forgetting the color of my eyes, Grant? I’ve been telling you to go to the doctor.

Grant followed. By simply watching your back, Grant noticed your walk had changed. “Stop. Stop that.” You walked too fast for your own good at times, missing shops because you had tunnel-visioned toward the front, but Grant easily caught up to grab your arm and stop you in your tracks.

Or maybe he was just getting accustomed to your pace before shit hit the fan.

“Stop what?” You turned, facing him as you leaned against your bedroom door with crossed arms. At your lower eyelids, Grant caught sight of tears forming along the waterline. He shouldn’t think that crying looked lovely on you, so he kept that thought to himself.

But it really did put him in a trance for a moment. During that moment of attraction, it couldn’t be helped that the open collar of your shirt also led various prospects nearly consume him and all of his being, making him take a step closer. His fingers brushed by the tip of yours, the wattage of the slightest physical touch making you flex your fingers like you were upholstered by secrets.

A month shouldn’t have felt that long, but this was the moment when it all came into fruition -- that Grant hadn’t properly spoken or seen you in a month. He remembered how he felt when you looked at him for the first time, something like a sensation coming painfully back to a numb limb. As torturous as it was, it made Grant feel alive.

“Stop pretending like you’re okay,” Grant swallowed hard, finding himself in a dilemma between wiping your tears for you or giving you the space you clearly needed, even if Grant had involuntarily done enough of that.

You scoffed, using the back of your sleeve to wipe your eyes. “I’m not pretending. I don’t even have stray cats in my balcony like I used to anymore to be okay for.”

“Stray cats would’ve brought you much more comfort than I ever could, I have to admit that,” Grant said, your face assuming an expression that led Grant to plausibly assume you would have disagreed. That, or he was simply toying with his delusions, knowing he couldn’t fathom the tangible truth of the damage his relationship with you had undergone.

He meant it when he didn’t want anything more than to join you by your side. Grant followed you to the sofa and sat next to you, knees and thighs touching. Hands—pairs of hand wishing they could hold you in between the passing silence.

“Why didn’t you call?” Grant didn’t think you mean for the reasonable question to sound as despondent as it did. He also didn’t think he has a lapse of control left, because you looked so fragile and nebulous—that despite his best efforts, Grant eventually slipped a hand into your palm because he was afraid acknowledging your existence would make you disappear.

He held you tighter.

“My hotel was under supervision… it’s not an excuse, I know. I should’ve tried to find a loophole. I couldn’t even write to you without the possibility of being caught. And when I was, they released more of those horrid articles about you. They were breathing down my neck, (M/N). I swear. I didn’t know what to do other than to… be complicit. I’m sorry. Truly. I’m a coward.”

“You’re not,” you sighed with eyes fixated on Grant’s hand in yours. “You have a lot more to lose than I do. I get it.”

He caressed his thumb over your palm, sparking some kind of will to exist by which he had the gentle squeeze of your hand to judge by. “Doesn’t mean it’s right, though. I don’t know, it all happened so fast. If I would’ve shut my damn mouth, none of this would have happened. I just—panicked. For God’s sake, it’s not like we’re…”

Lovers. Grant doesn’t think it was his imagination that something in you seemed to have unwound after the implication. If Grant hadn’t mentioned that he wasn’t great at comforting people, which he was confident that he had never told you, it counted for something when he was struck by the relief in your shoulders and hand, your palm seemingly sinking—but you didn’t have to fret, because Grant was there to catch you.

He was more capable at this than he had thought.

You chuckled over Grant’s reservation to even say the unspoken word, so you left him be. “My manager told me to lay low for the time-being and wait for the storm to pass. It’s nice to know I’m not fired or anything, they know it’s all deceptive.”

There was something so comforting in the ability to be physically touching you, in knowing that from here on out, Grant could simply take you by the hand, shut the door between the two of you and the rest of the world, and share your thoughts.

Maybe if all went swell, hand-holding wouldn’t be confined to a sad set of affairs. In Grant’s ideal world, holding your hand would also be the preface of something more, a bridge that allows him to cross his way over to you and explore all facets negative and positive, intimately so.

“We’re all pawns to the studio anyway. Vehicles that put in an extra floor to the building. Bad publicity is good publicity. It’s free marketing for the film. Scandals make stars, and you’re halfway there.”

Grant was sure of it. He had seen many other actors and actresses recover their careers with far worse rumors. The main priority was money, and as long as it didn’t stop the audience from filling up the theaters, there was no reason to drop a talent.

You brought your legs onto the sofa and crossed your legs facing Grant. “Is that supposed to be comfort me, Mister Fender Bender?”

“That was only three times—and, mind you, no one got hurt.” Grant followed suit. His bent knees pressed against yours. He had your hands opened in his palms as if telling fortune was second nature to him, tracing the lines embedded in your palm with an inquisitive index. “How am I supposed to comfort you, then? Tell me.”

Your hands weren’t much smaller than Grant’s, the fact had been known since the very moment you two had exchanged handshakes for the first time. Still, those beautiful appendages visited his dreams often. It hadn’t meant anything to Grant until one night, he was dreaming about the day he had his hand over yours as you lit his cigarette. The second night, he dreamed of you testing his temperature via the back of your hand to Grant’s forehead. The third night… well, Grant was ashamed to admit that his attraction had breached far into indecent territories by which helped him solve a night of endless tossing and turning in a matter of minutes.

Then multiple nights, because Grant since wholeheartedly accepted that this infatuation for your hands had actually preceded his deep affection for you.

Unless someone brought good reason that Grant should stop playing with your hands and obsessing over them, it wasn’t in his agenda to ever let go.

“You’ve done enough. I guess… I’m a little upset that I splurged on a new suit for nothing. I was going to wear it to the wrap party,” you huffed, idly playing a game of ‘Try To Catch Grant’s Finger.’ No prize money would be offered, just bragging rights—which did have some merit.

So far, you were losing.

Grant smirked as he managed to wriggle a finger out of your grip. Five points for him, two points for you. “Who said there can’t be one with just us two?”

“Cheater! And that’s called a date, Grant.”

“I would’ve stayed then.” Suddenly, the solution to end your pitiful evening slotted in place.

He sprung up from the sofa with a hop, smiling graciously at you. “Come on. On your feet. We’re bringing it to a place I know.”

For Grant to call his residence something as pedestrian and humdrum like ‘a place,’ as if all the great virtues and grandeur of the mansion had been entirely diminished because the construction of expanding his already-massive pool had been halted for whatever reason—you questioned, and was rather frightened to know, about what his idea of a party was. It soon became a momentary thought when Grant began giving you a brief tour around his mansion—and the amenities that came with it.

With its manicured gardens, gold-plated fixtures, towering columns that couldn’t have prepared you for the imposing entryway, Grant’s stately mansion exuded an aura of refinement and exclusivity, and you were in awe by the sense of splendor. You felt out of your element. It was extremely telling as you walked over the imported marble floors like they were made of crystals. Delicately caressed ornate sculptures stoned near every corridor because it would have been irresponsible for you to only observe the complex lines that made their forms so irresistible. It was the epitome of a lifestyle that you would never be able to afford, yet you weren’t jealous at all.

It was a spectacle for sure, but you couldn’t have possibly felt comfortable living with such large quantities of upkeep. Grant mentioned that his bedroom was his favorite, and that was what you could get behind. It wasn’t opulent like the rest of the resident was. It felt lived in, homely, comfortable, even though you were hyper-aware of the fact that his balcony practically contained another living space.

“Get changed in the bathroom. I’ll wait here,” Grant said, sitting on the end of his bed. You had never seen a king-size bed before, but the magazines weren’t lying when one of the print advertisements likened their mattress of that size to a cumulonimbus cloud.

The color of your bespoke formal wear spoke softly; champagne at the blazer and cedar at your slacks. The fabric so light, they almost seemed without substance. The great craftsmanship nearly made you empty a week’s worth of cigarettes in a day, but the tailoring of your suit, alongside the cut and detail, quickly separated you from the past appearance of a boy who had yet outgrown his father’s hand-me-downs to a well-dressed and confident man who paid his bills on time. Once you slicked your hair back for the final touch, you walked out of Grant’s bathroom to reveal yourself.

“I forgot my tie on your bed.”

Grant had opened his mouth to take another gulp of whiskey, but when he turned to look at you, his tongue was seemingly paralyzed in the back of his throat, suddenly coughing up the previous sip he had taken.

You laughed while you made your way to his full length mirror stationed by his closet. He was quick to follow behind, subsiding his raw throat with the last ounce of liquor and grabbing your tie on the way over.

“You look nice. Though, I didn’t take you to be someone who was keen on light colors. You always wore navy,” Grant said, turning you to face him by a gentle hold on your shoulders.

You tipped your head when Grant began to slip the necktie beneath your shirt collar. “Most of my clothes are from my father’s. I will say—as much as it made a dent in my wallet, it was nice buying something for myself for once.”

You tried not to be too obvious about looking at all facets of Grant; the careful attention of his gaze; the veins in his hands as he looped the cloth. In this moment, you came to realize that you wanted Grant in all the ways you were used to ignoring. This was different in the past, different from those peculiar exchanges between the two of you where playing footsie and skimming hands were simply done in the guise of naivety.

He caressed the green cloth in his hand while his gaze focused on yours, utterly complacent about how he compelled you to part your lips with a single look.“Well, you made a great choice. You look terrific. Handsome.” All so alluring, when he stalled further, slowly passing the fibers of silk between inquisitive fingertips. With one firm tug, Grant knotted the tie at your throat, pulling you closer to him in the process. “Beautiful.”

This was different because you knew Grant felt the same way.

“Beautiful?” You repeated for clarification. The word that came out of his mouth littered you goosebumps over your skin. Nobody had ever called you beautiful, you were sure you were the first man in history to be called as such.

You refused to believe this was a serious statement, but then Grant repeated cooly, “Beautiful,” and before you could counter, he pulled on your tie again, nearly closing the small distance between the two of you, and settled his lips on yours.

You collapsed into the kiss, like it was taking all the effort not to kiss Grant, and you were finally giving up. Grant knew that you wanted this, that by any sensible measure desperate for the taste of liquor to come from his mouth and pass into yours with the swap of his tongue. He knew it the way he knew that the Western End had the best suits in the city and that you needed a reservation for almost every restaurant in the district—it was a fact that he didn’t have to think about, and which everybody else knows, too.

You didn’t mean to make that noise come out of your mouth, but after suffering a lapse in Grant’s presence, his lips on yours felt like a whiskey sour on a hard day. It was much needed gift with the past few months you had been having. The softness and care in Grant’s lips made your breath shudder, one would think you had been laved by the cold sea, whereas you were actually melting, in Grant’s arms, gripping his lapel for balance.

“I missed you,” Grant said softly. He circled his arms over your hips, his hands sliding beneath your blazer because he needed to feel every muscle in your body tensing, to pull you impossibly closer to memorize how you fit in his arms.

You supposed you had to credit the liquor for his brazenness.

“I missed you too,” you collapsed into his arms, trusting the warmth of his embrace.

He kissed you in between breaths. “I missed you so much, I couldn’t function properly knowing you were hurting. Guilt was hollowing me from within,” Harder on your mouth, apparently coming to the conclusion that you relished in the roughness of his embrace, in the bruising link between your mouth and his, from the way you gasped and pulled more of him into you. “I shouldn’t have left you alone.” Palm deep against his nape, you pushed his head toward the slant of your jaw because you needed to recover your breath. Quickly, before you would risk the chance of collapsing on behalf of lost time, dispelling your last remaining breath inside Grant’s mouth out of desperation to overcompensate.

“I told you it was fine, Grant—“ You groaned when he began nibbling at the underside of your jaw. By virtue of his unstoppable desire, Grant propelled forward, holding you tight, and you stumbled back into the corner until your back collided with the wall, the impact drawing out a pleasurable hiss from your throat.

“It’s not. It’s absolutely not. You nearly drove me into talking to a shrink about you.” You nearly stopped Grant to have a proper conversation, without all these interruptions. Between his kisses and the gripping, you were an incoherent mess if the tightness in your slacks had something to go by, but you instead followed along, entranced by how Grant could look so stunning when all he was doing was undressing you.

He started with the tie. “But then, that would’ve made matters entirely worse upon the realization that… I was so in love with you,” he whispered over your bare throat after sliding the cloth off. Next, was your shirt. “And that it can’t be fixed. I can’t be fixed. I can’t fix myself now knowing that you feel the same way. You do, don’t you?” Then, your undershirt.

You swallowed hard. “I do. I entirely do, am so much in love with you. Grant—” You struggled to get the words out without giving into Grant’s delirious kisses on your bare body. Maybe if you had stumbled, it would’ve delayed his ravenous appetite for your body a second or so longer—but even then, you weren’t sure if you were capable of witnessing and being at the hands of a man who was so clearly starving.

“Oh, Grant—that’s very…” Good. Erotic. Attractive. At least one of those words you were meant to say, but it would’ve been a relic of a bygone touch. Being mouthed at your perky nubs was as indescribable a feeling could get, but then when Grant began licking over your body, slowly sinking onto his knees as he worked his way down your torso, sucking spots and licking marks you hadn’t had the faintest idea about—you were reduced to the role of a whimpering bystander by which ultimately stripped your brain beyond words.

Grant undressed the lower half of you—all but your brown socks—and you had long accepted the fact that it was inevitable in showing Grant how much you enjoyed giving him free rein to your body. Your erection was strong, a reveal of flesh that made him suck in his lips to keep himself from ravishing you already.

“You’re leaking,” you wanted to hide and crawl in a ditch somewhere. It was embarrassing as Grant marveled over the thick trail of pre-cum that tagged over his fingertip when he curiously dipped a finger over your glans.

“Well, don’t comment on it…”It was like he read your mind, because Grant placed a warm palm on your stomach to prevent you from enacting on your wishes, ultimately trapping you in place by the gentle strokes over your cock. “Fuck…” you watched with bleary eyes, all sorts of feelings stockpiling to feed your endorphins

In turn, you felt your skin blossom with heat, patches on your neck and chest burning, because Grant refused to take his eyes off of you. He stroked your cock ardently while assuming an expression of treacly sentiment, like he couldn’t believe his dreams had become a reality. Watching you writhe over the wall, leak over his twisting fist, bite your moans into your hand; these were the exact amenities you would’ve have wanted had you sought for a mansion of your own. Not the towering stairwells, or the ornate carved fountain, or even a separate room for the live-in housekeeper.

Just Grant, his presence, and his magical touch. That was all you needed.

“Wait, wait. Grant, stop—“ You begged a second too late. Your balls tightened when Grant’s hand was only more relentless upon your desperate pleas. His hand massaged your thighs, lips mouthed at the underside of your sack. The prospect of you returning the favor for Grant—or better, with your mouth, hoarding what had yet to be revealed deep down your throat—made you shudder with a release. “Fuck—”

“It’s okay. I’ve been meaning to taste you…” Upon the violent tremble of your thighs, Grant scooted closer, deftly angling and pumping your cock over his open mouth, and let you shoot. You blinked past tears as you felt yourself spill thick shots in Grant’s mouth, over his tongue as he cradled your seeds like they were precious metals, and at the last second, over his face because you stumbled out of his grasp and caught yourself on the wall, heaving.

It had taken a moment for you to catch your breath, shutting your eyes as the tremor in your body would jolt from out of the blue. It was all too much, the sweet relief courteous by the man you loved. You were embarrassed by how quickly Grant had unraveled you, but that was certainly a testament to your attraction to him, or to his skills.

When you opened your eyes, Grant pulled you by the hips for another kiss. A strong embrace to control the tides in your body. Then, a wet and sloppy kiss to clarify that Grant wasn’t done yet, as he breached your mouth with his tongue and surprised you by passing cum into your mouth. It was an ongoing battle, the thick substance swapping from tongue to another, the bitter notes subsiding as more saliva snowballed into the mixture. Between the lewd exchange, Grant began undressing himself out of anticipation of what would come next.

“Swallow,” Grant broke the kiss with a whisper, resting his forehead on yours to feast his eyes on the very prospect of you fulfilling his demand. It was an immense pull of attraction, the slow cascade of his hand over your spine following along with it, that made you gulp the thick content in your mouth. He seemed satisfied when your throat bobbed, smiling. “Good?”

“I imagine yours would taste better,” you rested a hand over your his head, coming his hair back with your fingers until they reached the back of his neck, offering you leverage for another kiss—sweet and clean on Grant’s lips.

“I wouldn’t mind if you tried me out,” Grant was already down to his briefs, his eyes subtly pleading for the sake of his thickened bulge. Prior to noticing, you had been roaming your hand over his lean body. His bare chest, the well-defined muscles breaking you of your fantasies—because it was better than you could have imagined. Grant looked about two seconds away from forcing you on your knees himself, but lucky for him, you were just as eager.

Sinking onto your knees, you carefully pulled down his briefs. Slowly at first, to compose yourself, but then to test your patience, because the length of Grant’s shaft seemed never-ending. When you fully stripped him of his briefs, you had to take a scoot back in fear that his impressive cock would hit you in the face.

Grant was massive, the weight of his length making it stoop forward and dangle with every step he took. There was one protruding vein that nearly made you drop everything and sucked him off right then and there, until he was fully hard in your mouth and you could feel more veins throbbing—but again, you needed to show him some type of restraint, even though at this point, you doubted that he cared.

“So, the rumors are true, then?” Instantly, you were taken back to a gossip column regarding Grant’s size. Whoever tipped those writers off should win a Pulitzer Prize.

Grant shrugged, apparently nonchalant at the fact that he could practically cover the length of your face with such ease. “Had no idea where that came from, honestly…” Holding his thighs, you briefly trialed the theory out under the guise of kissing the underside of his thick shaft. Between licking the flesh, kissing his balls, and fondling his cock, you were also completely immersed in the smell of his cock. He smelled like pure arousal, a peculiar saltiness in your nostrils as you breathed him in, from unkempt pubic hairs to the leaking tip. Nonetheless, it was gratifying as your cock responded in several twitches.

“I don’t think I can fit you in my mouth,” you said, aware that you were grinning like a fool.

“It’s the effort that matters,” he chuckled, his hand smoothening over your head to rest on your nape, pushing your mouth closer to his hardening cock. With one hand braced on his thigh and the other wrapped around the base of his cock, you felt Grant tense when you cradled the tip into your mouth with your tongue, sucking. “Your mouth is so warm, (M/N)…”

He was as salty as he smelled. The pre-cum coated your tongue nicely, resembling the taste of your cum prior, but somehow ten times more potent, as if you were drinking sex directly from concentrate. What was even nicer was how heavy your mouth felt when you took more of Grant in. It was like the weight of him had its own gravitational pull, separating your mouth wider to accommodate the massive girth like sucking a cock this big came second-hand nature to you. You reckoned that you should become quickly accustomed to it though, because you couldn’t fathom the idea of leaving Grant disappointed.

You and Grant were like this for a couple of minutes; Grant pushing out drips of spit with his mouth to add onto the wetness and you doing the same thing, pushing your saliva out and spreading the thick layer over his shaft with your hand to help ease the slide into your mouth. You could barely fit more than a few inches, your cheeks hallowing for as long as they could before the strain of the stretch had gotten to the nerves.

“Oh, fuck…” Grant moaned, having had enough of your sloppy strokes by robbing you of your recovery once more and greedily pushing his cock back into your warm mouth.

God, the way it looked… a reddened, fat swollen cock straining in the grip of your fist, a drop of pre-cum glistening heavy on the tip, a thick layer of saliva over the thicker size of his staff… the fact that you could see your own fingers struggling to wrap around his cock as you sucked him off—it all felt so very surreal, and so very real.

“You’re so big, Grant. Fuck…” You lifted your gaze and stared into Grant’s nebulous eyes. Somehow, it made the act ten times more obscene upon realizing that you were practically servicing him, on your knees, worshiping all facets of his body. His calves were toned against your lips, thighs sturdier as Grant made an effort to stabilize his stance following your teasing mouth working up his legs with ticklish kisses, then back to the head of his cock, where you began nibbling at the swollen head.

“Christ, (M/N)…”

He was always very expressive, but in the moment, he seemed at a loss for words. Dumbfounded, as you began using two hands to stroke what you couldn’t fit inside of your mouth. Swiveling and twirling his wet cock with your fists, all while you sucked and licked on his swollen tip, feeding into the rush that made his cock throb so hard in your mouth and hands, into the delightful sounds that revived your sensitive cock back with life.

Grant bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from making any sound. What came out were staggered breaths, clear evidence of his indulgence while his hips were moving without his volition. Your plump lips stretched wide around his pistoning cock, sucking and slobbering over the hot ample flesh, eyes wide and disbelieving, as if you couldn’t believe you could fit this much of Grant inside of your mouth.

It was endgame the moment Grant hissed and sunk in his stomach, flexing his abdomen under way—everything was building to the perfect eruption. You had your mouth opened, stroking him over your face to catch him with your tongue as he had done with you. Grant was close—so close that his face could make you spill for the second time of the night on the strength of his twisted expressions.

Your delusions consequently settled you in for a rude awakening when Grant suddenly pulled you up on your feet and kissed you hard, yet almost apologetically on the mouth. You whined against his lips, ultimately kissing him back because you couldn’t get a word in from how relentless he was being by which you couldn’t blame—the agony of being nearly relieved would’ve wrecked havoc on your mental state.

“I need to be inside of you first, please—“ Grant begged hot on your neck. He backed you into his bed until your backside collided with the mattress upon the push of his hand. Then your chest, when Grant took free liberty of your body and bent you over.

The first thing on your mind was that, “God, this mattress was lovely,” but the second you felt something wet spread over your hole, all the compliments you had reserved dissipated and expelled through a shuddering breath. You were blinded by the soft bedding, burying your moans into the sheets, but you could conjure up the holiest image of Grant spreading your asscheeks open and exploring you with eager licks.

“You’re so good at this,“ you sighed, curling your toes into your socks.

“You bring out the best in me, you know…” Grant muttered, squeezing your ass cheeks as a sign of affection when you looked over your shoulder and smiled at him. His mouth was much too busy to verbalize his feelings.

You wondered if Grant was aware of how obscene he had sounded—these wet, slurpy sounds that his mouth made while tasting your insides. His hot breath was beckoning, pushing your hips out by inclination for Grant to give you more. More, more, more. It seemed like he listened to your body because you stiffened immediately, barely suppressing a surprised gasp, when his slicked finger entered you.

You felt like you were in a free fall. Finally. This was exactly what you needed. Your mind went utterly blank, unable to comprehend the single digit curling inside of you. It was thought-annihilating, the way Grant had curled his fingers inside of you—two now, after deciding for himself that you had been clamoring for a bigger fill, that you needed to feel a stretch.

“Please, Grant—that’s enough, please. Need you,” you whimpered, self-conscious at the sound of his wet fingers slipping in and out of you. He liked playing with your body, screwing his fingers deep inside of you, only to yank them out because it made you yelp.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he brought the rest of your body onto the bed, bringing immediate relief to your legs. “One more.”

It made your tight hole beckon for more with a pucker.

With such control, forcefulness, and precision, your mouth fell open in a silent moan and your eyes went wide at the push of Grant’s third finger. You could barely keep your hips still, even with Grant’s efforts to hold you down with a palm on your lower back. It was all too much, your whole world seemed to have narrowed down to your sensitive hole; the sound of his hard fingers pumping in and out of you; the slick sounds obscene and alerting in your ear; the sweet stretch that made the discomfort all the worthwhile—because Grant was just as anguished as you were. You could hear him stroking his slicked cock, the anticipation of the inevitable building as you felt yourself loosened on account of his efforts.

You knew you were well-primed because your body still craved more.

“No more… need you,” you bit out, breathing unsteadily when Grant pulled his fingers out and flipped you onto your back. Your eyes naturally fell to Grant’s cock, and it looked as mouthwatering as it did a few moments ago. Your hole clenched at the likely chance that you’d be feeling the ramifications of taking such a well-endowed man well into the next day, and the day after that. “Please,” you begged once more, reaching low to prevail him with lazy to his erection.

“Other than getting over that nasty cold, I’ve never seen you so desperate for something,” Grant was kneeling on the bed, adjusting your position so your legs were wrapped around his hips, his cock teasing your entrance with careful ruts. You felt the head press ever so gently when he leaned forward and captured your lips for a soft kiss. “I find it really, really, really charming.”

“Mm…” Your fingers, tentative and slow, cupped the edge of Grant’s jaw. This was just the beginning, you realized. A new chapter for you and Grant where the idea of dropping hints of attraction was no longer needed because everything came unraveling, faster than you had anticipated, but nonetheless, it was exciting.

Grant put a free hand on the back of your neck, threading his fingers through your hair, and you wrapped your arms around his neck, securing his place on top of you. When Grant broke the kiss to look into your eyes, it made all the difference between lust and love as he slowly pressed his cock into your hole, unlatching some kind of internal safety mechanism within you until it had clasped over the plump head after getting cold feet.

“Slowly,” you groaned, sweating bullets beneath the shower of his kisses. You built up a strong resistance to Grant’s hips, reluctant, and to put it quite plainly, frightened to take him in stride. But it was Grant’s silent promise to take care of you that took the edge off your apprehension bit-by-bit.

Grant followed a pattern. He pushed deeper, paused, then found a place on your body to distract you from the discomforting stretch, reeled back a bit, then thrusted deeper than before, gradually opening you up. Adding on the pleasing strokes to your hard cock, you felt your muscles relax, the sweat bullets cooling your body.

“More…” you mumbled on his lips, and at times you regretted asking for it, because Grant made your stomach turn. His cock was so deep inside of you, too deep when the stretch nearly became unbearable, yet your cock pulsed and your hole clenched for the exact opposite.

You noticed he liked talking you through it especially, whispering bone-chilling compliments like, “You’re taking my cock so well,” “Look at you, you’re so beautiful…” and your favorite, “You’re driving me crazy. Do you have any idea how hard I’m restraining myself?”

Grant was listening to your body. He knew what it meant when you were clenching so tight around him, panting for him with that wide-eyed look of yours, supplying his broad back with unrelenting scratches. It meant that you weren’t full enough—it meant that you covertly indulged in the stretch he was providing you with.

It was the best and worst feeling in the world, because you knew with suddenly clarity that you wouldn’t be able to live without this. You would crave this feeling always, especially when Grant fully breached your hole with a thrust that filled you to the brim.

You were full. So fucking full.

“Oh, God—“ The cock in you was thick and throbbing, easily brushing your prostate without so much of a motion. You nearly passed out from how intense the sensation was, having your inner walls be massaged from within as Grant finally started moving.

“You took all of my cock, fuck—I knew you could. I know you so well,” Grant grunted against your mouth, pistoning in and out of you with hard thrusts. Your arms had dropped to Grant’s sides, fingers digging into Grant’s toned buttocks, trying to pull him deeper inside of you.

Instead, he reeled himself back.

Your legs dangled in the air as Grant pushed your knees to your chest, leveraging the back of your thighs hard to properly pile-drive his cock into your hole. Your feet sweltered in the confines of your socks, but you didn’t mind because you were getting accustomed to the humidity in the air.

Grant didn’t hesitate anymore. There was wild fury in his face, the imposing strength and passion managing to be its only rival as they equally sought for one purpose and one purpose only, which was to fuck you into oblivion. Grant looked dangerous, delirious, and you feared him as much as you wanted him. In your folded position, you spread your buttocks apart for Grant to see how well he was fucking you. How deep he was stroking your insides with his thick cock, making you gape when he completely pulled out, then making your body shiver—when he screwed himself in with one hard thrust, overfilling your guts.

“You put a smell on me, didn’t you?” His voice sounded spiteful, but what he does to you was pure love. He growled into one of your calves between pants, smooching and grazing his teeth at the toned muscle.

The bed creaked with every thrust of his, loud and heavy enough that you wouldn’t be surprised that the corridors of his mansion were echoing from it.

“F-fuck—if only. You would’ve d-done this sooner,” Tiny tremors and tingles exploded as Grant pummeled deep into your body and brushed over your prostate. You were stroking yourself to the sound of his ravenous moans, to the sound of his heavy balls slapping over your taint, to the sound of his sweaty thighs coming into contact with yours, warning you of a sensation of pin-needles sticking into the area by virtue of the thunderous claps.

Grant couldn’t have looked more beautiful than this. The gel in his hair loosened, letting delicate strands of brown locks to fall over his forehead. Every so often, he would push his fringe back with a careless swoop, and you whimpered at how effortlessly handsome he was at everything.

It lit you up inside, your body bursting with raw energy with the brutal impaling that Grant was feeding you. Your cock throbbed in your fist, and your hole squeezed at the unveiling of untamed passion. Grant must have seen the desire written on your face, because he was triumphant in the smile he had given you, leaning down to wake you from your state of stupor by means of a sloppy kiss.

“G-Grant, I-I’m so, I can’t—“ Grant took over your mind and body. He was everywhere, inside and around you. It was like you existed only for him, and his massive cock. His tongue pushed your lips apart and began cradling the flesh that had held your garbled moans from being remotely coherent.

“I can’t hear you,” Then, he fucked you like he wanted to gut you. Grant reached deep, hammering into your prostate every time his hips collided against yours. “Tell me, what do you want? I’ll give it to you. You know I will.”

Your eyes rolled until Grant could only see the whites of them. Your toes curled into your cotton of your socks at the contrasting affection in his voice. Your hands sprawled and crumpled a spot in the bed sheets, pulling and tugging hard enough for one corner of the satin bedding to untuck.

“Come. I need to come—“ you gasped out, struggling to breathe. Your world had shrunk to one sensation, the spot inside of you that had been gifted the ruthless beating of Grant’s cock. It was like he was chastising you for causing such feelings to stir inside of him. If that was the case, you needed to memorize the recipe, and quickly, because you were desperate to reduce the chances of ever being stripped of this sensation to a selfish zero.

“I’ll help you come,” he seized your body once again, hooked your legs over his shoulders, and pushed his total body weight on top of you. He blatantly disregarded the fact that your limbs had never been stretched this far before, but it was all worthwhile when Grant satisfied your longing by wrapping his warm hand over your cock and pumped. “I’ll make you come.”

“S-shit, Grant!” Each thrust harder than the last, his cockhead repeatedly hitting that golden spot, and your cock ached with desire in the lovely pulling of Grant’s hand. Your entire body seized, writhing as the familiar feeling in your stomach kept building and building without the intention to ever stop. It embarrassingly only took a few more strokes before you would spill thick all over his fist. All over your body, cumshots joining your sweat in layering your moist skin, when Grant kept stroking with the intent to empty your balls until they had tightened into your body.

Only then did Grant slow his thrusts and pull himself out. Did he change his mind about coming inside of you. Over your body? Face? You couldn’t tell what he was planning as you just began recovering from the daze your orgasm had put you into.

“You’re going to like this,” Grant grunted, pecking you on the lips before reaching down to angle himself back at your entrance.

Your gaze was casted with a mixture of utter bliss and wonder, chuckling. “What are you—fuck…“

Your hole felt warm and wet all over again when Grant pushed himself back inside of you with ease. Furthermore, it was a peculiar feeling, like there was an extra weight to his cock, the sound of the sticky substance—

You gasped, suddenly alert and clenching as you felt something viscous leak out of you.

Grant was fucking you with your own cum.

You couldn’t have been more turned on. Grant rolled his hips just right, slow and firm, coating your raw hole over and over with your seed, building back his stamina in the process. His cock pulsated in you. It was apparent that it was feeding into Grant’s satisfaction considering his gaze had been fixated on the translucent sheen of your cum passing back and forth on the girth of his cock and your internal walls.

“So beautiful…” Grant moaned out, clearly overwhelmed with the state of his arousal.

With every thrust, you swallowed him whole, the long glide of his thick, cum-covered shaft, the kiss to your prostate; you gyrated your hips to prolong his orgasm and allow him to recover his strength as Grant freed his hands from your body and tucked them behind his head, giving you free rein on his cock.

You rolled your hips, using your core to swing your ass forward and back on his throbbing cock, drawing out deep and guttural moans from the connection.

“Darling, (M/N), fuck—“ Hissing, he suddenly seized your waist and gripped hard, impaling you onto his cock with a rough pull, and you watched his stomach tighten, wrapping your legs back around his waist in preparation of his orgasm.

You watched in awe as you lost yourself in Grant’s fill. He came hard, gritting his teeth and digging his fingers into your thighs. It was a marvelous ache, both at your flesh and your hole, and you could feel his cock pumping multiple heavy loads deep inside of you and flooding your guts as reparation for your pain.

Even though Grant’s legs gave out, making him topple over your sweaty body, the strain in his thighs didn’t falter the desperate need to sow your insides with his warm seed. It was as if he was marking his territory, moving his hips slow and relaxed because he knew you were bound to him the moment he kissed you. Milking his cock inside of you was just a simple reminder, and you hugged his hard, spilling cock with gratitude.

His lips were slow and gentle, a contradictory to the merciless invasion of your guts. Nonetheless, you rocked on his shaft, blissfully spreading his love from deep within, and savored his shuddering breath.

“You’re heavy,” you groaned out, rubbing your hands from his shoulders to his sweaty back. Despite your complaint, you didn’t make much of an effort—if any at all—to push him away. It was peaceful like this, feeling his heart beat come to a somewhat normal pace while you two were stickily intertwined at the hip. “Some kind of confession…”

The sound of Grant’s muffled laughter into your neck made you smile. It was light and feathery, like the way you had always felt when you were with him.

“First kiss and sex, all on the same night. Who’s doing it like us?”

“No one. Absolutely no one.”

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

[bobluvbot]

someone you loved

pairing: sirius black x f!reader  summary: your relationship with sirius hurt so much, that the only way forward was to forget. wc: 3k a/n: angst angst angst!!! lots of negative self talk and low self esteem, allusions to a bad childhood (not stated directly), implied emotional abuse & cheating, both sirius and reader are going through it.

snippets of his voice echo in your head like a haunting lullaby that doesn’t seem to end. its funny how the mind is known to block out the traumatic memories, but for some reason, yours kept record of the most painful ones that left his lips.

you’re just too much. 

i can’t love you the way you expect me to.

i’m ending this.

i’m sorry, but i can’t deal with this, with you, anymore.

it keeps repeating like a song once loved, now loathed left on repeat, and a stop button might be somewhere but you can’t bring yourself to turn it off. it reminds you of that habit you secretly developed when you had two large bruises on both your knees after a nasty fall, bone hitting pavement. nothing bled, which was a relief to the new babysitter as no bright band-aids would be blatant proof of her lack of attention on the kid she was supposed to keep watch on. blood kept within the skin, nothing left to do but to watch your body slowly take it back. you were curious of how the color changes each day, the angry reds bleeding into dark purples that resemble galaxies that you’d see on your astronomy books. one day spent examining your bruises again, you pressed on the reddish purple one too hard and tears spring up your eyes when the sting hits. but as it lingered and faded, a strange feeling of satisfaction replaced it, and you felt the urge to press on it again, curious to see if the same unknown feeling makes an appearance again. It does, and the fascination as you play in between the lines of pain and pleasure follows you as you grew up. Curious, you once read up on it from those muggle books, where you learn that the body itself releases pain-killing hormones that help relieve the perception of pain, leading to a temporary feeling of relief. 

you knew thinking about sirius’ words will never not hurt, will continue to bury you in a deepening hole that you have to fight to the nails to crawl out of, but you couldn’t stop. 

It gave deep seated satisfaction to that green monster in the back of your mind, responsible for only seeing the negative in each situation you find yourself in. ‘i told you so,’ it says in a tinny singsong voice, clearly pleased with each iteration of sirius’ words and the raw metal stabbing your heart each time.  

it also serves like a constant reminder of your failure. Failure to love like a decent person, failure to be the person that sirius needed, failure to gauge what was too much that the other person drowned without you knowing, failure to protect yourself and your dignity from being trampled on like nothing, and failure to just simply accept the fact that love just wasn’t made for people like you. 

being friends with lily made you forget a lot of things, fundamental parts that you realized so young. you knew better, should have after everything you’ve gone through, but somehow with her, anything seemed possible, achievable, tangible when you’re a kind person. marlene would always say, doing good things meant you can expect to receive good things back from the universe.

and for the most part it seemed to always work that way. you’d witnessed james nurture the simple appreciation he had on lily’s genuine smile at him that eased his nerves while they were in line to get sorted into houses throughout the years, growing as he’d gotten to know her innate kindness and wit, and finally erupting from him like rays of sunlight until he became brave enough to speak it out loud starting fourth year. 

Even though the marauders had acted questionably during their early years of exploring their pranking abilities, james had always been full of love. Never hesitating to share it to those he truly cared for. it took lily years to accept this, and more to gain courage and let herself experience it. 

by 7th year, you never believed a love could thrive like that whilst cradled with such young hands until you saw james and lily do it effortlessly. 

so what part of this could’ve made you think otherwise? 

were you to blame for believing in that fantasy, that something like this could be attainable for someone like you, too? 

you had always housed deep adoration and awe for sirius black, like many others, despite his wild reputation and scandalous rumors that seem to always follow when his name gets uttered.

why? Because he was once the raven haired boy who slipped the trolley witch a few sickles when he saw you return the pumpkin pasty after realizing you couldn’t afford it. 

it had been a gloomy tuesday. the trolley witch was supposed to go compartment by compartment, but the bumbling first years seemed to miss that memo and started piling up close to the cart to see what was being sold that she had to force them all in a line. you were quiet and unobtrusive as you stood patiently in line; which was nothing compared the boys’ raucous laughters and animated chatter behind you. sirius would’ve accidentally pushed or stepped on you if he didn’t see your figure. the train was loud and so was james’ mouth, so excited to be away from his parents and to have his first official Hogwarts friend, but sirius also stood close enough to you that he could hear your stomach grumbling and see your arms crossed over your midsection. he admitted once that he found the gurgling sounds funny (like an eleven year old would do) but he didn’t have the heart to poke fun at you because he remembered he’d hear the same thing from his own when his parents would send him to bed without eating. 

even before your turn, you were already overwhelmed at the amount of food and candy available, none of which sounds or looks remotely familiar to what you’ve had growing up. your heartbeat picked up when you heard loud sighs, feet tapping impatiently (both James) snorting and shushing (sirius), and just grabbed something that resembled bread, quickly apologizing to the witch that gave you a kind smile. you hadn’t eaten anything as you rushed to pack the mismatched, secondhand supplies that the headmaster had sent you, and you were dropped off to the station just in time before the train left. your fingers trembled in excitement to finally eat and in hunger as you fished out your coin purse. It took a few seconds before it sunk in that you don’t have enough to buy your pasty. How embarassing. 

You swallowed your tears back, willing the hateful voice in your head to keep quiet for a minute or two, just enough time to put back the pasty and run to your deserted compartment, where you could freely go to town beating yourself up for your stupidity. Just quick enough so no one will notice. 

It took three deep breaths before the dam opened, for the tears to run uncontrollably down your cheeks. You couldn’t even wipe it off because your hands were still clutching your stomach, trying to ease the growling, gnawing pain. Pathetic.

The compartment door opened and you didn’t even hear someone clearing their throat, only looking up when a hand dropped three pasties, a chocolate frog, and a bottle of pumpkin juice on your lap. Barely balancing it, you looked up to see who took pity on you, but only caught a glimpse of stark raven hair and alabaster skin.

you’d find him later during sorting, squeezed between three boys that couldn’t seem to shut up about what house they thought the other would go. not used to kindness, much less from a complete stranger, you hesitated approaching him. but fate always had a weird way of showing you it does listen to your wishes once in a while and you found yourself later on, scooting a bit to your left to make space for him on the bench of your shared house. you both exchanged a knowing smile, and you’d always remember him like that. The kind boy who gave you a feast even without knowing who you were. 

you’d remember that boy when the pouring rain had finally soaked through your thick coat as you waited patiently for him at madam puddifoot’s on your first Valentine’s day. Despite the fact that he was already two hours late and the cafe would be closing soon, you chose to wait. 

you’d remember that kind boy when some mean ravenclaw girls in class would pick on you for the most absurd things, embarrassment coursing through your veins as you looked back at him desperately for some reprieve, only for him to avoid your gaze and continue to guffaw at something James said, effectively ignoring your existence. 

You once asked him why. It was embarrassing how quick he figured out what you were really asking. In fact, he knew a lot of things: that he didn’t deserve your love (or anyone’s for that matter), that someone as pure and selfless as you shouldn’t even associate with the likes of him, and that he was aware of every single thing he does that shatters you whole. He knew that he should tread this conversation gently, to not let his claws rip further skin more than he already has, but the Black darkness has its way of slithering out of the deep recesses he tries to bury it in. 

Words leave him exasperatedly, like he’s not spouting words that cut through skin. “I’d been clear to you right from the start, of what I can give you and what I can’t. You knew what you were getting into, Y/N. you put this onto yourself.” 

He storms back into his dorm before he could hear your quiet sobs echo through the empty common room. 

—-

lily knew in the back of her mind that this wasn’t just a simple, silly request now, but more of an obligation to her closest friend. 

it’s been three weeks. three excruciating weeks to be handed and given and filled with so much love she didn’t need to ask for, whilst seeing her best friend chip away with the lack of, like a once-bright porcelain doll that was abandoned and exposed to the direct heat of the sun. 

you had finally gone silent by last week, like a shut door. refusing to eat, go to class, speak—- hell, lily bets, if you could also not breathe by choice, you wouldn’t. It’s like youre keeping everything you once had given to the world thoughtlessly, close. Dorcas thinks you were keeping close to heart the mundane things that make you alive, to remind yourself that you still are. She had said, like air to a balloon. lily cried herself to sleep that night, the thought of losing such a fundamental part of her life, you, inch by inch, day by day, in front of her very eyes was a haunting, damning thought. Something that she and you both thought would come so much more years later, with unsurmountable memories, many glasses of champagne and slices of cake, wrinkles and smile lines, more laughter and loving hugs exchanged. 

she had thought the silence was a welcoming sign of change. A necessary step towards acceptance and moving on. she was relieved when your crying stopped, tremors leaving your fingers, and there was a chance again for the redness to vacate the whites of your eyes. She held hope that she and the girls can start working on instilling your light back, hopeful that a few months from now their star can find its way back to its rightful place in the sky and everything could be okay once again. 

Lily looked forward to nights that were filled by snores and shuffling of sheets, not the unmistakable sound of your feet on the wooden floors, misjudging that everyone was asleep, the muffled creak of the dorm room door opening and closing, and your footsteps fading in the dark. She’d wait fifteen to thirty minutes (the longest was an hour or two on the first night) before she’d hear you return, footsteps still light but she could hear the slight drag in each step, almost as if it was taking so much of your might to even make it to the bed. the quiet whimpers would start, followed by muffled hiccups lily knew only happens when you cry too hard. it took so much of her to exercise self-restraint, to keep herself on her own bed and not lay beside you and hug you as if it’s something that could put you back together. 

She has to turn her back on you even if it felt like raw betrayal. 

Because that one time she didn’t, she couldn’t forget the look of horror, dejection, desperation, and pure unbridled embarrassment on your face when you realized she knew what you were up to late at night. She knew you came up to the boys’ dormitory, crawling into sirius’ bed, where you begged and begged for him to take you back, that you’ll be a better more doting and loving girlfriend this time around, that you won’t be too attached this time and will give him the necessary space and time he needs so he doesn’t feel suffocated, that you’ll be anything, do anything just for him to welcome you back into his arms and whisper sweet nothings in your ear until your throat was raw, and sirius has to physically take you back to the start of the staircase to your dormitory. 

this happened for days and days on end until the boys had to lock their door at night, or whenever sirius is in. 

james couldn’t meet lily’s eyes when he’d ask for her help to keep you apart from Sirius as it would do you no good. they had gotten into a fight because of this, because lily heard nothing but  ‘stop her from making a fool of herself’ and her best friend is the smartest intuitive empathetic kindest witch she had ever met; the farthest thing from a fool. 

But one day those very words came off your lips with a hollow laugh. “But I am a fool, Lily. No one in their right mind would even do half the things I do.” It would be hypocritical for lily to deny sneaking out at night and crawling into your ex’s bed and begging for him to take you back as something of a desperate fool would do. A girl once had chased and pined for Remus during the entirety of fifth year and the things she did to get his attention were laughable at that time. But she didn’t plan to see the same, even worse, done by her best friend, and she still couldn’t wouldn’t call you a fool.

After all, your only fault was that you loved. And that shouldn’t even be a fault because that’s what she did with James, marlene with dorcas, her father with her mother. even someone as selfish as petunia could find love and be loved right back. 

you of all people deserved to love and be loved right back after everything you’d been through, and james would say the same thing for sirius as well. 

but sirius was a complex person, lily could recite this on top of her head from endless times where you stood your ground, defending sirius’ honor like he’d see your great martyrdom and suddenly consider you once again worthy of his love and affection. Before, she knew of sirius as a friend and James’ brother— but she knew more than what she signed up for because you’d fill in the gaps for her when she’d try to beat some sense into you during the unacceptable treatment you’d accept from sirius. 

You’d say with such confidence “he loves me, he’s just going through a lot right now, especially after that howler his mother sent him a few days ago.”

You didn’t have to elaborate, lily remembered that day vividly, not because of the way sirius’ face fell when the howler began its assault had reminded her so much of how she’d react after getting bitter letters from petunia, but because that same day she saw sirius being manhandled by a hufflepuff, both kiss sick and all over each other, into a secluded broom closet. 

It was years worth of push or pulls, of moral dilemmas that would get the outspoken redhead to choke on her words, and dejectedly sweep them under the rug out of your sight. Because the beaming smile and flushed cheeks you’d sport when Sirius murmurs sweet nothings in your ear, the weight on your shoulders dissipating when tucked in his arms, the jump in your step whenever he’d kiss you on the forehead and wish you good luck for the day— Lily couldn’t bear the thought of robbing you with those moments of bliss, even when it’s all done in private. 

So in an empty classroom on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon, she points her wand at you, fingers trembling and tears trailing down her cheeks, but you don’t see any of these. Instead, your beautiful features wear a serene expression that weakens lily’s knees. Oh how she missed her dearest friend. She’d do anything in the world to get you back, hold your hand, and dance with you in the autumn rain. 

So she does the wand movement like she practiced for days and takes a breath. She pictures you and Sirius happily dancing barefoot during the yule ball, your blushed cheeks when you told her about the feel of his lips on yours for the first time, you on sirius’ shoulders as you carried the quidditch cup, both smiling big as remus snaps a picture from the muggle camera, you drifting off to sleep on sirius’ shoulder while your hands were laced as you rode the train back to hogwarts.

Before mumbling the incantation, obliviate.

[bomber-grl]

Kusuo Saiki Dating Headcanons

Pairing(s): Kusuo Saiki x Gn!Reader

It takes a really long time to get to the point where the two of you are dating. Like 100,000,000 words, slow burn, they finally kiss at the end– sort of fanfic. Honestly, I think Saiki’s a bit hesitant about relationships in general because they seem like a hassle. Everyone else is on thin ice already, the thought of putting effort into a relationship is exhausting enough.

Like with everyone else, he’s pretty indifferent toward you at first, and you only move up to "mild annoyance" status if you stick around long enough. Especially since he’s probably hearing all your thoughts, so there’s that.

Now, onto the actual headcanons. Saiki isn’t exactly the affectionate type. You two probably started as friends, mostly with you bothering him. Even after he realizes he likes you (though he really tries to hide it), nothing changes much. The difference is, you’re the only person he seems to tolerate. Everyone else wonders why you even bother with him.

Sometimes, Saiki gets... freaked out? There’s really no other way to put it. He’s used to being around people who are idiots, so when someone like you comes along—someone who’s rather perceptive—that’s a bit much for him. It messes with his head. Despite being able to hear your every thought, he starts wondering if you’re psychic too.

You can tell what he’s feeling, what he wants, and even do things for him. Sure, he could do all those things tenfold in just under a minute, but for some reason, he finds himself smiling. He even starts thinking fondly of you.

If you were another Nendou, though? He’d probably avoid you, and your relationship would be a slow burn that takes another 100,000,000 words and even worse edging (Not like that). But I digress. Saiki shows affection in subtle ways. Like remembering offhand comments you’ve made about your favorite snack or color.

He’s the type of guy who’ll subtly push your chair out of the way when you’re about to trip or pick up a dropped pen without you asking. He might not say much, but he’ll do whatever he can to make your life a little easier, even if he doesn’t directly tell you that.

I know it might sound like I’m painting him as a deadbeat bf, but honestly? He’d probably be a great boyfriend. He can literally hear your thoughts. He knows what you want, even before you say it. He’s seen (and heard) men ruin their relationships because they thought they knew their partner. So, when you want to grab a treat or have been wanting something that relates to an interest, he’ll know.

He’ll also know (and hear) if you slightly even think he’s good looking on a particular day. He’ll never admit it, of course, but if you get embarrassed thinking about it (since you know he can hear your thoughts), he secretly enjoys that. Seeing you flustered is one of his guilty pleasures—even though he’d never show it.

And yeah, Saiki’s protective. He won’t say it, and he won’t make a big show of it like other people would, but he does care. If something’s bothering you, he’ll subtly step in. Like if someone’s making you uncomfortable, he’ll use his telekinesis to, throw something at them or trip them up—whatever works, as long as no one knows it was him.

He doesn’t like people messing with you, and he won’t hesitate to shut them down, even if he keeps it minimal to avoid drawing attention to himself.

In this following scenario you're another Nendou. He hardly ever gets surprised. I mean, hearing everyone’s thoughts kind of ruins surprises, spoilers for a new tv show, honestly anything for him. But maybe—just maybe—the only way to startle or fluster him is by turning the tables on that. Maybe it’s the first time you show affection in your relationship.

Saiki’s not big on physical touch– we all know that much. If you want to hug him, go ahead, but he’ll probably just stand there like a statue. So, let’s say you somehow convince him to come over to your place, and then you, attempted subtly, suggest that you kiss him out of nowhere.

He’d choke on his drink and immediately try to cover it up. Forget not hearing your thoughts, he literally didn’t think you’d want to kiss him anytime soon. He won’t show it (obviously) but deep down, he’s definitely a little shaken.

Now, in the chance that you two do kiss, (which is chapters later– in fanfiction terms) he’s very hesitant? Like sure, he can destroy the entire Earth if he even wanted to but the idea is still startling. He thinks it over and once he agrees (which is the only kiss you’ll get until the next blue moon) he is admittedly worried.

He’s never kissed anyone, he never planned to so he tries to be collected like he always is. If a satellite suddenly went offline somewhere in space, well that’s nothing to do with him.

Also, an extra that isn’t a dating hc is that Saikis mom and dad love you so much, his dad literally asked if you were actually real which earned a side eye from Saiki. It does get annoying for Saiki, but he’s pretty glad you all get along.

[eu-nicola]

the ferrari couple

part 2

summary: when Charles signs with Ferrari, his life takes an unexpected turn when he falls in love with you "Princess Ferrari". Together both become the perfect couple, but behind public perfection, the pressure of your careers leads both in other ways

warnings: nothing

word counter: 4550

author's note: english is not my first language, this is a request from @pperlaaiy

Time kept moving forward, but the pain of the breakup remained palpable for both of them. No matter how hard they tried to pretend they had moved on, there were small actions, barely perceptible details, that betrayed them. These were unconscious gestures, habits they couldn’t abandon, memories that lingered in every corner of their lives. Although they never publicly admitted it, those signs were enough for the most observant to know the truth: they hadn’t gotten over each other.

The watch was one of the most meaningful gifts you had ever given Charles. You had given it to him in 2019, shortly after his first victory with Ferrari at Spa-Francorchamps. It was an exclusive model, with a black dial and red accents, the colors of the Scuderia. On the back, you had engraved the words: "Time is always on your side. With love, your princess."

At the time, Charles had proudly posted about it on his social media. "A special gift from someone special," he had written, along with a photo where the watch gleamed on his wrist as he held a Ferrari steering wheel.

After the breakup, fans noticed something: Charles still wore it. Not always, but often enough for it to be noticeable. Every time someone spotted him with the watch, speculation flared up again.

"Why does he still wear it?"

"It must mean something."

"He’s never forgotten her."

Although Charles never spoke about it, the watch became a silent reminder of you, something he carried with him in his most important moments. He wore it during his first victory in 2021 and in several key interviews, as if deep down, he couldn’t part with what it represented.

On your side, there was also an item you couldn’t let go of: the ring Charles gave you for your birthday. It was a delicate yet meaningful design, featuring a small diamond at the center surrounded by a white gold band. On the inside of the ring, Charles had engraved the phrase: "Always with you, through every turn."

He had given it to you during an intimate dinner in Monte Carlo, with a look that said everything words couldn’t. That ring became your favorite accessory, something you wore almost every day, even to official events.

After the breakup, you began wearing it less frequently, but it never disappeared entirely. Sometimes, it appeared in your photographs—a glimmer on your finger that fans never failed to notice.

"Is that the ring?"

"We know what you’re doing."

"This isn’t over—they still love each other."

Though you tried not to give it much importance, there were nights when you found yourself spinning the ring between your fingers, recalling the moment Charles had given it to you. It was as if the weight of its meaning wouldn’t let you fully let go.

Coincidences were another element that kept the connection alive, at least in the minds of the fans.

Once, Charles shared a photo on his social media of himself at a restaurant in Paris, dining with friends. Curiously, a few weeks later, you posted a picture at the same spot, seated next to a glass of wine. The comments exploded immediately:

"Did they go together?"

"This can’t be a coincidence."

"Please, get back together."

Another time, during an interview, Charles mentioned a song he had been listening to lately—a melancholic ballad about impossible love. A few days later, you shared the same song on your Instagram stories, accompanied by a simple rose emoji.

These were small things, barely details, but for those who closely followed your story, they were undeniable proof that the love was still there, buried under the weight of your new lives.

What baffled the fans the most was the silence. Despite the rumors, speculations, and direct questions, neither you nor Charles had spoken publicly about the breakup. When journalists tried to dig into it, you both elegantly dodged the questions.

On one occasion, during an interview on Italian television, you were asked directly:

"Your relationship with Charles Leclerc was much loved by the tifosi. Is there anything you’d like to share about that time?"

Your response was brief but full of meaning. "It was a beautiful chapter in my life, and I’ll always be grateful for it."

Charles faced a similar question during a Ferrari event. His answer was nearly identical: "I only have good memories. I’ll always admire her as a person."

That mutual respect, combined with the silence surrounding the details, only fed the mystery. It was as if you both were protecting something you still considered sacred.

Though you tried to move on, the past continued to haunt you. The events at Ferrari, the places you used to frequent, even the people who knew both of you became constant reminders of what you had shared.

There were nights when Charles found himself looking through old photos on his phone, remembering the days when everything felt perfect. And you, though you tried to focus on new projects and a new life, couldn’t ignore the moments when his absence felt like an unfillable void.

You decided enough was enough. You had tried to be strong, to stand tall while everything that once made you happy now felt like an open wound. But there was a limit, and yours came in a moment of absolute clarity: you could no longer bear to see him, especially when another woman was near him.

Though you never admitted it aloud, there was something heartbreaking about being at the Grands Prix—in the paddock that once felt like your second home—watching Charles move on with his life while you seemed stuck in the past. So, after much reflection, you made a decision you never imagined: you wouldn’t attend another Grand Prix, at least for a while.

The decision wasn’t easy. You had grown up in this world; motorsport was in your DNA. Since you were a child, you had accompanied your family to the most iconic circuits in the world. Monte Carlo, Monza, Silverstone… All those places were filled with happy memories, but now, they were also imbued with his presence.

What finally pushed you to make that decision was a moment you witnessed in the Monaco paddock—the Grand Prix that had always been special for both of you. You were standing near Ferrari’s motorhome, watching Charles from afar. It wasn’t something you consciously did, but your eyes always seemed to seek him out in the crowd.

This time, he wasn’t alone. A tall, elegant brunette stood by his side, laughing at something Charles had just said. His smile was easy, comfortable, as if he had already left behind the weight of what you had shared.

It hurt more than you wanted to admit. You tried to look away, convincing yourself it meant nothing, but the buzz of rumors in the paddock wouldn’t let you escape.

"Did you see Charles? He seems to be dating someone new."

"They look good together, don’t they?"

"It’s surprising she hasn’t said anything."

Those comments followed you throughout the entire weekend. And although you tried to keep your composure, the damage was done.

There was something even more painful than the images of Charles with someone else: the absolute silence between you two. No messages, no calls, not even a polite greeting at the events where you inevitably crossed paths.

It was as if everything you had shared had vanished into thin air, as if it had never existed. But you knew that wasn’t true. You knew it because the emptiness he left in your life was real, and it hurt.

There were moments when you wondered if he felt it too, if he ever thought of you the way you thought of him. But the distance between you was an unbreachable wall, and you didn’t have the strength to try to tear it down.

A week after the Monaco Grand Prix, you made the decision to step away from the world of Formula 1. Sitting in the living room of your apartment in Milan, you looked at your calendar filled with event invitations, meetings, and races, and felt an overwhelming need to disappear.

You sent an email to your team, asking them to rearrange your commitments. “For personal reasons,” you wrote, “I won’t be attending any more Grand Prix for the time being. Please ensure that my absence doesn’t affect Ferrari’s plans.”

It was a brief, almost cold email, but writing it was one of the hardest things you’d ever done.

Your absence didn’t go unnoticed. The paddock had always counted on you, not only as the ‘Ferrari princess’ but also as a key figure at events, someone who represented the brand’s history and legacy. Journalists immediately began speculating.

“Why did she stop attending?”

“Is it related to Charles?”

“Does this mean something changed at Ferrari?”

Charles noticed too, although he never said it out loud. During the first races without you, it felt strange not to see you. Even though you hadn’t spoken in months, there was something comforting about knowing you were there, somewhere around the circuit.

However, over time, he began to accept your absence as just another reality of his life. Or at least he tried to.

For you, the days away from the Grand Prix were both a relief and a torment. It was true that not seeing Charles helped soothe the more immediate emotions, but it didn’t mean you stopped thinking about him.

There were moments when you’d turn on the TV and watch race replays, trying to ignore the sting in your chest every time the camera lingered on his face. You watched the interviews, the celebrations, and wondered if you’d ever reach the point where you could see him without feeling shattered.

You buried yourself in work, in projects that kept you busy, but there was a void that nothing seemed to fill. You felt like a shadow of the person you once were, someone who used to shine on the very stages you now avoided.

Meanwhile, Charles thought that with time, he would get used to your absence. At first, he justified it as a logical necessity for both of you. He was sure that by distancing yourself, you could heal—and in some way, so could he. But the more days passed without you, the more aware he became of how difficult it was to move on.

He unconsciously looked for you in the places you used to frequent: in the paddock, in Ferrari’s VIP areas, even at the dinners after the races. At first, that emptiness was easy to ignore, masked by the excitement of racing and his contractual responsibilities with Ferrari. But with every victory, every defeat, every interview, your absence became a weight he couldn’t shake.

One night, while he was in his hotel room in Singapore after another long day at the circuit, Charles was absentmindedly scrolling through his phone. Social media was full of pictures of him, as always, but there was something about the apparent perfection of it all that made him feel... empty.

Without thinking too much, he opened your chat. The thread of messages between you was still there, untouched, as if it had been waiting.

The last message was from months ago, one you had sent shortly after the breakup. Brief but full of emotions you could never fully verbalize: “I hope you’re happy, Charles.”

He had tried to respond at the time, but the words never seemed right. That night, however, the silence became unbearable. Before he could second-guess himself, he typed:

Charles: Hi

The word felt strange, like an echo in the void. He stared at the screen, wondering if you had changed your number or if you would simply ignore him. It wasn’t long before the typing dots appeared.

You: Charles?

Reading your response made his chest tighten. There was a mix of surprise and emotion in that simple message. He hesitated for a moment but decided to continue.

Charles: Yeah, it’s me. I know it’s been a while… and I don’t know if I should even be messaging you, but I wanted to know how you’re doing

There was a moment of silence. He thought maybe you wouldn’t reply, but then your response came.

You: I wasn’t expecting this message, but I’m okay. And you?

Charles: I’ve been better… I think I miss you more than I should

His fingers trembled as he sent those words. It was the first time he had admitted something like that, even to himself.

You: Charles ...

You could feel your heart race as you read the message. You had spent months trying to ignore those feelings, convincing yourself that distance was for the best. But there he was, opening a door you thought was closed.

You: I miss you too, though I tried not to admit it

Charles: It’s not the same without you. Everything feels… empty

You: I know. I feel the same. That’s why I stopped going to the Grand Prix. I couldn’t bear it

The conversation they never had

From that moment on, the words began to flow. Both of you let out what you had been holding back for months.

Charles: I always wonder if we made the right decision. Sometimes I feel like I let you go too soon

You: I don’t know if it was right or not, but it hurt. It still hurts

Charles: Me too. Every time I’m in the paddock, I look for your face, even though I know you’re not there. It’s like a part of me still hopes you’ll show up somehow

You: I do the same… but from afar. I watch the races at home, and it hurts to see you and not be there

There was a pause. Neither of you knew how to move forward, but neither did you want to end the conversation.

Charles: Do you still have the ring?

You: Yes

The message was simple, but for him, it meant everything.

Charles: I still wear the watch you gave me. I always carry it with me

You: I noticed. I thought maybe you wore it because it didn’t mean anything anymore…

Charles: No, I wear it because it reminds me of what we shared. Because it still means everything to me

Your eyes filled with tears as you read his words. There was a sincerity in them that completely disarmed you.

The connection that never died

That night, the conversation went on for hours. You talked about everything: the good moments, the mistakes, and what had led to your separation. But you also talked about how much you still cared for each other, even if you didn’t admit it directly.

Charles: I don’t know if things can ever go back to how they were, but I can’t pretend I don’t care about you. I always will

You: I don’t know if we can go back either, but I’m glad to talk to you again. I felt like I’d lost a part of myself when we stopped.

The words were a balm for both of you, but they also reopened a wound that hadn’t fully healed. Although no promises were made or decisions taken that night, one thing was clear: the love you shared hadn’t disappeared.

Talking to Charles had been like opening a door you thought was closed forever. Even though the conversation had lasted only a few hours, it left you with a mix of emotions: relief, nostalgia, and a sense of peace you hadn’t felt since the breakup. Talking to him didn’t fix everything, but it lightened the weight you’d been carrying.

For the first time in months, you felt light. The weeks that followed were more bearable. You didn’t talk to Charles again, and he didn’t write to you either, but that was okay. There was something comforting in knowing that, despite everything, the connection between you still existed. There was no need to force anything.

However, that calm was tested when you received an invitation to a charity event in Monaco, organized by various figures in motorsport. You knew Charles would be there—he was practically the public face of Ferrari—and there was no way to avoid it. You hesitated for days, debating whether or not you should attend.

Finally, you decided to go. You had spent months avoiding any place where you might run into him, but something inside you told you it was time to face the situation. If you had survived seeing him with other women on social media, you could survive this.

The day of the event arrived faster than you expected. The venue was the kind of setting you knew perfectly: a gala hall decorated with opulent luxury, filled with important people. It was the kind of environment where you had always moved with ease, but this time something felt different.

You prepared carefully, as if every detail was a piece of armor. You chose an Italian-designed black dress, simple yet elegant, that complemented your figure perfectly. Your accessories were minimal, but you wore the ring Charles had given you. You didn’t know exactly why you chose to wear it that night, but something inside told you to.

Before leaving, you gave yourself one last look in the mirror. You looked flawless, but there was something in your eyes—a mix of determination and vulnerability—that you couldn’t ignore. You took a deep breath, promised yourself to keep your composure, and headed to the event.

The hall was already crowded when you arrived. Cameras from paparazzi flashed incessantly as you walked in, as always. You knew how to pose, how to move gracefully through the crowd with calculated elegance, but this time you couldn’t help feeling more aware of your surroundings.

Charles wasn’t in sight at first, but you knew he was there. You could feel his presence, like an electric current in the air. You greeted acquaintances, exchanging smiles and polite words while trying to stay calm.

Finally, you saw him. He was on the other side of the room, talking with a small group of people. He wore a dark suit that highlighted his elegant bearing, and his smile was as charming as ever. For a moment, you stopped to observe him, trying to process how someone could feel so familiar and so distant at the same time.

He hadn’t seen you yet, and for a second, you considered leaving before he did. But you didn’t. You had decided to come, and you weren’t going to let fear control you.

As you chatted with one of the event organizers, you felt a gaze fixed on you. You looked up, and there he was. His eyes met yours across the crowd, and for a moment, everything else disappeared.

Charles didn’t look away. There was something in his expression that you couldn’t entirely decipher: surprise, nostalgia, maybe even a little sadness. You, on the other hand, tried to keep a neutral expression, though you knew your eyes probably betrayed you.

After what felt like an eternity, Charles excused himself from the group he was with and started walking toward you. Your heart began to race, but you forced yourself to stay in place.

When he finally stood in front of you, no words were needed at first. You both looked at each other, as if trying to read what the other was thinking.

“Hi,” Charles said at last, his voice soft.

“Hi,” you replied, keeping a calm tone, though your heart was in turmoil.

“It’s good to see you here,” he said after a moment. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

“I decided it was time to stop avoiding these places,” you answered with a slight smile.

The conversation was brief and polite. You talked about the event, recent projects, and superficial topics that you both knew meant nothing. But there was something in the air, an underlying tension that neither of you could ignore.

“I’m glad to see you,” Charles said before the conversation came to an end. “Really.”

You simply nodded, not knowing how to respond. You didn’t want to show too many emotions, but you couldn’t hide the weight that this moment held for you.

When he walked away, you felt a mix of relief and sadness. You had faced the moment you had feared so much, and although it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t the disaster you had imagined either. You had proven that you could be in the same place as him without breaking down, and that was a small victory.

You didn’t speak to Charles again that night, but there were moments when you felt his gaze on you. Every time it happened, you tried to keep your composure and focus on the people you were talking to.

The noise of the party, though distant, still echoed in your head as you glided down one of the hallways of the building. The night had been exhausting, not just physically, but emotionally. Seeing Charles, talking to him, feeling his gaze on you throughout the evening, had drained you more than you wanted to admit.

You found an empty room at the end of the hallway, probably a break room for the organizers or special guests. You didn’t think twice before entering, quietly closing the door behind you. The silence was welcome, like a balm that soothed the inner noise that wouldn’t let you be at peace.

The space was lit only by the moonlight filtering through a large window. There was a painting hanging on the wall. You approached the back of a chair and slowly sat down, your eyes fixed on the painting. You tried to decipher it, but in reality, your mind was elsewhere.

Your head spun in a tangle of emotions. You had survived the first face-to-face conversation with Charles since the breakup, but that didn’t mean you were completely fine. There was so much that still hurt, so much that you still needed to say to him.

As you stared at the painting, time seemed to stop. Everything you felt took over you all at once: longing, the love that still lived in a corner of your heart, and the weight of everything that could have been.

You were so absorbed that you didn’t hear when the door opened behind you. You only realized you weren’t alone when you felt a familiar presence a few steps away. You turned your head slowly, and there he was, Charles.

You froze for a moment, saying nothing. He closed the door gently, as if afraid to interrupt the silence of the moment. His gaze was intense, but there was no trace of the usual confidence he radiated. Instead, he seemed as lost as you.

“Sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“It’s okay,” you replied quickly, your voice calmer than you felt.

He stood for a moment, as if unsure whether to stay or leave. Then, slowly, he walked over and sat on the same chair, beside you. The closeness made your heart start to race, but you tried not to show it.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension in the air was palpable, but there was also something comforting about sharing the silence.

“I needed a break,” Charles finally said, breaking the stillness.

You nodded, not taking your eyes off the painting. “Me too.”

He studied you, as if trying to pick up on every detail of your profile, every expression that might give him a clue as to what you were thinking.

“It’s hard, isn’t it?” he murmured.

“What?” you asked, though you knew exactly what he meant.

“Being here, pretending everything’s fine when it’s not,” he replied, his voice heavy with contained emotion.

You stayed silent, your fingers toying with the edge of the ring you still wore. You didn’t need to say anything; he already knew the answer.

Charles sighed, leaning slightly forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Did you know... that I loved you even before we met?”

His confession hit like lightning in the middle of the calm. You turned your head toward him, surprised, looking for any sign that he was joking. But he wasn’t. His gaze was serious, vulnerable, and filled with an honesty that took your breath away.

“What?” you whispered, barely audible.

“I loved you before I met you,” he repeated, this time looking you straight in the eyes. “When I was at Sauber, before I joined Ferrari, I’d see you and think: she’s everything I want and will never have.”

You felt the air grow heavier around you. You didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to respond to something so raw and beautiful at the same time.

“And then, when I finally met you...” he continued, with a melancholic smile. “It got worse, because I realized you were even more incredible than I had imagined.”

You couldn’t help but smile slightly, your eyes glistening with tears you didn’t let fall. Without thinking too much, you extended your hand and took his. His touch was warm and familiar, and when he interlaced his fingers with yours, you felt an electric current run through your body.

“Charles...” you began, but couldn’t continue. Words seemed insufficient to express what you felt.

He leaned in a little closer, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel his breath, and your heart began to race even faster. Everything else faded away: the painting, the moonlight, the distant music. There were only the two of you, as if the universe had decided to give you a moment outside of time.

“I miss you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You didn’t respond with words. Instead, you let your gaze and the squeeze of your hand speak for you.

Charles leaned his head down, moving closer slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t. You closed your eyes as his lips finally brushed against yours, soft and filled with a passion that had been held back for too long.

The kiss started shyly, but soon it grew deeper, more desperate. It was as if you both were trying to recover everything you had lost in the last few months. His hands slid to your cheeks, while yours clung to his shirt as if you feared he might disappear.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless. Your foreheads touched, and neither of you said anything. There was no need.

In that moment, all that mattered was that, for the first time in a long time, you were together.

[once-in-a-blood-moon]

It's All About Intention

Solomon x GN! reader

Summary: You ask Solomon's opinion on what color you should paint your nails, and learn something new along the way.

AN: This is dedicated to @nnnneeev for being such sweet friend to me. Love you!! 💜 Anyways, hope everyone enjoys! Mwah!

Warnings: None

The soft pads of socked feet march through Cocytus Hall in search of something – or someone. The ever perceptive sorcerer who lounges in the common room grins to himself, lazily licking the tip of his finger to help turn the page of the tome he’s reading. He knows you too well, and by the sound of your footsteps, you’ve got something on your mind.

“Hey, Solomon,” you say as you pass through the threshold, “I need your opinion on something.”

Just as he thought.

He marks his page before closing the book, focusing his attention on you as approach with a little box in your hands. He recognizes it as he’s seen that box in your room, yet the contents within are eluding him.

“I’d be happy to assist you in any way I can,” he says with a genuine smile. “What’s on your mind, my dear?”

You sit next to him on the couch with the box in your lap. With a soft sigh, you begin to explain your dilemma. “I can’t decide on what color to paint my nails...”

You peel the flap of the box back, opening it, as Solomon leans over and peeks inside to see many different bottles of nail polish in the ultimate ROYGBIV categorization. A soft whistle blows past his lips; he’s impressed by how pleasing it is to look at. He knew you painted your nails often, but it dawns on him just how many bottles you own. You’re like him with books, except for you, it’s nail polish.

“I’ve never realized you had quite the collection. I think you might give Asmo a run for his money.” he says with a chuckle.

Your eyebrows raise, obviously not believing that statement. With a quick shake of your head and a chuckle, you reply. “Oh, no. I don’t think anyone could beat him with his many shelves of high-end nail polish.”

Solomon hums. “You’re right,” he strokes his chin in thought, “you’re about two hundred bottles off.”

That earns him a light smack on the arm as you both laugh.

“Shut up.”

“If I shut up then I can’t give you my opinion, sweet apprentice of mine.” He’s got that shit-eating grin again, never missing an opportunity to tease you. It’s his favorite past-time.

You huff out in faux annoyance, even going so far as to roll your eyes. You’re lucky he finds you so cute when you do that, he thinks. Otherwise, he might’ve been offended.

“Fine, fine. Just tell me what you think.” You scoot the box further down, now resting it on your knee so he’s drawn to its focus once more.

Solomon’s eyes flick over each color with intensity. He’s really giving this some thought. “Well, is there anything you want to come out of this?”

Silence settles between you, and for a second he thinks you didn’t hear him. That is, until he glances up to see you with the most dumbfounded expression as you stare right back at him.

“Uh, yeah? My nails to be painted?”

It seems he wasn’t clear with his wording. Though he does get a hearty laugh out of your response. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean...do you have something you want to manifest?”

Your expression stays the same, the only change is a few hard and confused blinks. “What does this have to do with painting my nails?”

“Well, everything really. Painting your nails using a certain color can attract that which you seek. I’ve taught you that using different colored candles in spells can aid in what you bring in, right? So, the same thing applies here.”

Solomon can see the wheels turning in your head now. He thinks this is a good lesson to be taught – that magic requires innovation and that magic is in everything.

“Really?” you ask.

“Really. So, if you wanted to strengthen your intuition, you might use a shade of blue. If you wanted to boost your creativity, you could use yellow,” he pauses before a grin curls on his lips again, “and you could use pink to attract love.” His eyebrows wiggle in a suggestive way, making you laugh a little.

“Okay, okay. I think I get it. Though I didn’t realize that I could incorporate magic into painting my nails.” He watches you look over your precious box with a certain glint in your eyes. He loves that look, that giddy sparkle when you learn something new. You’re too precious for your own good.

“My adorable apprentice, magic is in everything. All you have to do is show up with intention.”

“Intention,” you nod as you remember him saying that during one of your first lessons. “It’s all about intention, yes, I remember.”

Solomon chuckles. “Good.” He digs into the box, pulling out a little bottle filled with a deep indigo. “How about painting them indigo...to remind yourself you are capable of anything you put your mind to, especially within the realm of magic. You are more than capable of becoming a wonderful sorcerer someday.”

To your surprise, he leans over and places a soft kiss on your cheek before adding, “I am so proud of you.”

His eyes soften as he watches your cheeks heat up with one word coming to mind; precious.

“So, is there any chance I could get you to paint my nails while you’re at it?”

You clear your throat as you try to choke the fluster down. “Sure, but it’ll cost you.” you grin as you tease him back.

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Mammon, he’s rubbing off on you in the worst way.” Solomon rolls his eyes, chuckling again.

“I’m kidding!” you snicker. “Anyways, what color were you thinking for yourself?”

He pretends to think as he eyes a certain color in the box. “Hm, how about pink? I have something I want more of…” he wiggles his brows again, smirking widely, “your love.”

[iwritejustforfun]

Coconut scented ꩜ .ᐟ (part 2)

part 1 👈

part 3 👈

Chishiya Shuntaro x reader

Word counts: 1.2k

Summary: Reader was a hairdresser back in the normal world, when she met Chishiya, she was determined to take care of his hair.

Warning: The second part of this series. It’s a whole lot of fluff, just declaring Chishiya’s feelings for you. I used different colors to distinguish each character’s words.

Writer's note: English is not my first language so i'm extremely sorry if my grammar is not correct, feel free to correct me, thank you and enjoy 🫶

It's not wrong to say that Chishiya slightly regrets not stopping Kuina from instilling confidence in you, because the way that you’re walking around in that tiny bikini is driving him crazy. Luckily for him, that doesn’t happen too often, you still want to protect yourself from crazy perverts – like Niragi, to be exact. But the thing is, it's not just the fact that you're wearing a bikini that distracts him, it’s everything that you do. He can’t pinpoint the exact moment when everything changed, but now, every word, action, and smile of yours makes his heart flutter. He can’t help the feeling of wanting to get closer to you.

But what drives him even crazier is the fact that he had never felt these feelings before with any other woman, so why you? Even though in the back of his mind, he knew that he was falling in love, because that is how love is, you can’t control it, nor you can control who you fall in love with. But he just can’t bring himself to accept it. He’s in denial that the cold hearted Chishiya is developing feelings, he didn’t want to feel attached to anyone, especially in the Borderlands – where anyone could die tomorrow. Although that man is overly confident in his intelligence, he suddenly became stupid in love.

He had tried to stay away from you, but never succeeded. Occasionally, he still lets you take care of his hair, and he would always console himself with the fact that he only does it because you’re really good at your job (not because he actually loves the way you touch him).

And now, you’ve gained a new hobby, which is practicing makeup on Kuina. Every night you two would leave him behind and hide in the room to have your own fun, doing makeovers and putting up fashion shows with the variety of clean bikinis that you found. The truth is, the two of you did invite him, you said something about how makeup would suit him really well, but he pretended not to be interested, because he don’t think he could control himself if you get that close to him. Until one day, you both managed to lure him into being your judge for your little show. You and Kuina will compete to see who gives the other person the best makeover.

You are the first one to show off your skills, a few days ago you found a sailor hat along with a really cute sailor bikini laying around, it must be one of The Hatter’s kink (ew), but you decided to wash and keep it anyway because you know it’ll suit Kuina really well. You make her change into the bikini, then take off her pony tail and turn her dreads into low pig tails so you’ll be able to put the hat on her. For the make up, you gave her thick eyeliners with a blue under eye that matches her outfit, then you draw on a tiny anchor on her right cheek and finishes it off with a red lip. Damn, you’re so proud of your work, she is drop dead gorgeous, you’re for sure going to win this.

Next it was Kuina’s turn. Now some people might mistake her for an absent-minded person, but she is actually quite sharp. She knew that Chishiya has a big fat crush on you, and it’s so funny that someone as perceptive as you can't figure it out, cause come on, he makes it so obvious. So with this opportunity, she has decided to mess with him. And lucky for her, the day before she found a leopard print bikini in the unused pile, it was tiny - perfect.

Saving the best for last, she starts with your make up, deciding to give you smokey eyes with some freckles, brown lip liner and gloss. Then she tops it off with some chunky gold jewelry that she had collected around The Beach. For the hair, she just let you wear it down. Satisfied with her work, she thrusts the bikini into your hands and pushes you into the bathroom to change.

When you took a good look at the bikini, you were shocked at how small it was, so you called out to her – “Kuina, this is tiny!!! I can’t wear this!!!”

“If you don’t then you’ll just have to admit your defeat” - she challenged, knowing that you're a competitive person.

At first you were hesitant, but thinking that you could show off to Chishiya, you confidently stepped out, wanting to see what his reaction would be. And let me tell you, that man’s eyes almost fell out, jaw dropped to the floor. Damn, you have him in a chokehold, he’s so thankful he had agreed to this. He wishes that you could always dress like this, but then again, it’s not really a clever choice in this environment (and it’ll be a big distraction for him).

So without any hesitation, he chose Kuina as the winner, his reasoning was because he likes cat. That is such a stupid excuse, but he doesn’t give a fuck, you look good and he isn’t going to lie about that.

Kuina jumped for joy when she knew she won. But you were not buying it, you outfit was AMAZING, how could you lose??? “I want a rematch” - you said, with a displeased look.

“Chishiya, let me do your make up”

“What?”

You then walk over to him and push him down on the bed – “I’ll show you that you’ve made the wrong decision”. Without saying another word, you climb on top of him and strangle his body in between your legs, making him sit still.

Oh, this is going to be interesting.

He tries resist a little but is now pinned down by your body, he could clearly feel the way your skin was rubbing against him, making the blood rush straight to his …ahem… so he stops moving, afraid that if you push down any harder you’re going to be able to feel him.

He is now completely at your mercy.

So you pull out your make up bag again and begin your revenge. You decided to give him smokey eyes that matches yours and cat-eye eyeliner to enhance his sharp gaze. Then you put on some light contour and blush to make him look absolutely snatched. Finally, you finish off his look with a pink-ish gloss and accentuate his beauty mark. Done, you then give him the mirror so he can admire your work.

When he saw his reflection, his jaw dropped, even Kuina standing next to him was surprised. Damn, you have done a really good job, he has never looked so fabulous in his life, and he can’t even deny that he’s feeling himself. So with a nod from Kuina, he admitted that he made the wrong decision, you are the true winner.

As soon as that was said, you cheered in joy. You were celebrating your victory when you realized that you were still sitting on top of Chishiya, so you awkwardly cleared your throat and quickly moved away from him, but still continued to celebrate your victory, making him instantly miss your touch.

But when he saw how happy you were, the way you playfully teased Kuina and how your bubbly laughter instantly lit up the room, he knew. He knew that he couldn’t push back his feelings any longer, he’s long been lost in your eyes, captivated by your lips and lovely smile, never wanting to escape. He can feel himself painfully yearning for you, and he will willingly do anything, anything, to be able to call you his.

You have to belong to him.

[joelalorian]

Under False Pretenses - Chapter Three

Stepdad!Dave York x f!reader | wc: 3109 | masterlist

Summary: A challenging mission, whirlwind marriage, and an unexpected yet captivating stepdaughter push Dave York to the brink as secrets, feelings, and loyalties collide.

Warnings: Explicit, 18+ mdni. Stepdad trope. Unspecified age gap. Pining. Ogling. Self love (m and f getting it done). Accidental voyeurism on reader's part. Soft, sexy, and intense Dave. We like thick thighs in this house and so does Dave. Dave gives reader a nickname based on his perception of her. No use of y/n.

Series Masterlist

Chapter Three

The next few days passed in a blur as you adapted to your new life. You learned the route to and from the girls’ school, started taking care of the morning drop-off routine, and picked them up when neither Dave nor your mom could get out of work early enough. You explored the affluent seaside town you now called home, finding a quaint bookshop and café you knew would quickly become your go-to places along the main street downtown. You even walked the beach a few times, the salty air helping to clear your mind and soothe your soul. And, best of all, you picked out some color samples to test on the basement walls.

By Friday, you settled on a soft shade called Sea Salt that appeared to change color based on the amount of natural light, ranging from the palest owl gray to the lightest sea glass blue you’ve ever seen. It was beautiful and you couldn’t wait to cover the walls with it, knowing it would look different in the main living area of the basement than it would in the bedroom based on the ample natural light filtering through the small windows high up on the walls of the main area.

That evening, your mom and Dave had a black-tie event to attend in the city and they would be gone overnight, leaving you to take care of the girls. You grew close to them quickly, completely charmed by their sweet, sassy personalities and big, dark puppy eyes that perfectly matched their father’s. You were looking forward to this evening home alone with them and planned a sleepover in your basement suite.

Handing over a tip to the delivery guy, you accepted the large pizza and closed the door with your foot. Your mouth dropped open when you turned, your eyes landing upon Dave coming down the stairs in a perfectly tailored tux sans bowtie. God damn, the man looked good, like a secret agent sent to seduce every woman with a pulse. You practically had drool running down your chin at the sight of him.

Desire flared heavily in your belly, and for a moment, you hated your mother for taking such a fine specimen off the market. How did she get so lucky? Why couldn’t you have found him first?

“Take a picture, Firecracker. It’ll last longer,” he teased with a roguish wink as you stared at him. You hoped your eyes didn’t give away the longing you felt building up inside you.

“Shut it,” you clapped back before clearing your throat. “You, uh, clean up nice.” Heat rushed up your neck at the lameness of that comment.

“Wow, Daddy, you look so handsome!” Alice exclaimed as she and Molly came running into the room before he could respond to you.

“Thank you, sweet girl,” Dave grinned down at them, running his hands over their hair. Still holding the pizza box, you gazed at them and tried tamping down that warm feeling pooling in your belly. It was fucking hot that he was such a good dad.

“What about me? Don’t I look beautiful?”

None of you noticed your mom come down the stairs until she spoke, attempting to steal the attention away from her husband. She waited; her arms flared dramatically as she twirled in a circle to show you all her black, form-fitting, floor-length gown. It was a nice dress, though the bosom cut dangerously low, bordering on too much for a black-tie event.

Alice and Molly excitedly assured her that she looked like a queen, with the added, entirely innocent, comment that she was too old to look like a princess. You barely held back a laugh at that, and Dave’s lips twitched when he met your gaze, his dark eyes lit up with amusement.

“You look very nice, mom,” you assured, knowing her ego took a hit from the girls’ comments. She did look pretty, though she went overboard with the makeup like usual. She always liked to push boundaries. “Hope you two have fun tonight.”

“We will, don’t worry,” Lisa said with a wink at you before clutching Dave’s arm and batting her fake eyelashes at him. “Right, baby? Did you load up our overnight bag already?”

“The bags are in the car,” Dave rumbled, bending down to hug his girls and breaking away from your mom’s grip on him in the process. You observed the loving interaction between father and daughters with fondness, ignoring that little voice in her head reminding you how much you’d love to hug him, to feel his body pressed against yours, how you ached to be the one going to a gala with him instead of your mother….

“Are you ready?” your mom asked when the goodbyes took too long for her liking. Turning to you, she added, “I expect you to clean up any messes y’all make before we get back in the morning.”

Dave’s eyes shot to your mother sharply, his displeasure clear before he turned to you with a reassuring look. “Just have fun tonight, don’t worry about cleaning up. We’ll be back early to work on painting.”

“Painting?” your mom asked with a high-pitched voice. “You’re letting her paint the basement? Don’t you think that’s rather excessive and unnecessary? She won’t be staying here long term, David. Don’t expect me to help. Not after telling me that I couldn’t paint the kitchen!”

“Gee, thanks Mom,” you grumbled under your breath. Why did she go out of her way to remind you that you were not a permanent fixture in their home, their lives?

Dave rolled his eyes and steered your mom toward the door, shooting you an apologetic half-smile over his shoulder as his gaze lingered on you. “Be good, girls, and have fun!” He winked at you before closing the door behind him, while your mom kept complaining about letting you paint the basement.

“Good luck,” you called out, checking the deadbolt before leading the girls to the basement with the pizza. You already had plates, cups, snacks, and drinks ready to go. “How about a movie marathon?”

“YES!” The girls cheered. “Can we start with Moana?” Molly asked.

“Sure. Then Alice can pick the next one.”

Within a few minutes, you had the movie cued up, doled out pizza for all three of you, and joined the girls on the nest of blankets you placed on the floor to watch the movie. Halfway through it, your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A smile arose unbidden when you saw who sent the message.

Dave: Feel free to call or text me if you need anything.

You: Will do. Enjoy your night out!

You expected that to be the end of it, but Dave sent another text.

Dave: I’d rather be home having pizza and a movie marathon with you girls, to be honest.

That surprised you.

You: Not a big party guy?

Dave: Not even a little bit.

Dave: I’d literally rather be anywhere but here.

That really surprised you.

The evening carried on with a few more texts from Dave. Nothing salacious, but he was chatty. You wondered what your mother thought of her new husband spending so much time on his phone, texting while having a night out with her. Did she know he was texting you? Did she even notice or was she just out living her best life and leaving her husband on his own?

Most of all, you wondered why he was texting you and not at least trying to enjoy spending time with your mom – his wife. You refused to think about it too deeply, not wanting to encourage the disturbing crush on your stepdad that was slowly, but surely trending toward actual feelings.

Dave turned into the driveway, pulling into the garage with a relieved sigh. He couldn’t wait to be out of the car and get a break from Lisa’s constant play-by-play of the night before. He heard the same stories more than twice over since they left the hotel. He also heard the same complaints about him being glued to his phone all night and not dancing with her. Of course, she failed to acknowledge that she spent half the night flirting with their neighbor Roger, who attended the event with his wife.

Not that it mattered for fuck’s sake. He was hungover and couldn’t take it anymore.

“Lisa, give it a fucking rest. Please.”

Her mouth slammed shut as he exited the car, pinching the bridge of his nose to ease the oncoming headache. It was barely eight o’clock in the morning. He needed coffee and a god damned break from his wife’s incessant chattering.

There were no signs of life when he walked into the kitchen and slipped a pod into the coffeemaker. He was halfway down the stairs to the basement with a steaming cup of black coffee in hand before he heard Lisa enter the house, stomping her feet on the hardwood like a fucking child.

The sight that met his eyes when he reached the bottom of the stairs made him forget all about his wife, her nagging, and his building headache. His girls were cuddled up to you on the floor, the three of you still asleep, cozily wrapped in a sea of blankets. His heart melted, then grew three sizes as he took in the contented expressions on your faces. His eyes lingered on you, noting how curled one arm above your head with your hair spread out like a halo across the pillow.

Fuck. Even in sleep, you were gorgeous.

Unable to tear his eyes away, yet unwilling to wake you, Dave pulled his phone from his pants pocket and quietly snapped a few pictures. His teasing line to you from last night – the one about pictures lasting longer – struck him as oddly apropos.

Not wanting to disturb the three of you, Dave slipped silently up the stairs to finish his coffee before showering and getting himself ready to help you paint. When he returned to the kitchen, you and the girls were finishing your cereal at the breakfast bar.

“Daddy!” the girls chorused when he entered the room, and he grinned at them. Nothing made him feel loved like his daughters greeting him like this.

“Good morning, my sweet girls! Did you have a fun night?” His big brown eyes flashed to you, drinking in the soft, sleepy look on your face as the girls regaled him with tales of the sleepover. “Well, that’s great! I wish I could have been here for all the fun.”

“Next time, Daddy,” Alice replied sagely, causing you and Dave to laugh.

“You ready to get started on today’s adventure?” he asked once you finished your cereal and coffee.

“Sure, let me get changed and we can get started,” you replied eagerly. “I have all the supplies downstairs.”

After instructing the girls to change into their day clothes and keep themselves entertained for a while, Dave followed you downstairs, removing the wall hangings and covering the floor and furniture with plastic sheeting.

Dave mixed the paint next, setting up the brushes and rollers, and poured it into two trays by the time you exited the bedroom, dressed in a pair of fitted sleep shorts and an old, oversized tee shirt that hung off one shoulder. He groaned internally at the sight of your thick thighs in those little shorts.

This day was going to be an exercise in self-control, he thought, watching you bend over to pick up a roller, his eyes glued to your voluptuous ass. Fuck.

Hurriedly adjusting his shorts before you could spot him, Dave grabbed a roller and got to work. The pair of you worked companionably, joking and sharing conversations as the hours passed. You made quick work of the large, open room, and Dave sent you on to get started in the bedroom while he finished the edging in the main area. He had a much steadier hand than you, something you learned early in the adventure.

When he finally joined you in the bedroom, Dave couldn’t help but laugh. There were paint specks in your hair, a smudge on your cheek, and your left eyebrow was now a mottled light gray.

“This is a good look for you,” he chuckled, gesturing at the mess you made of yourself. The urge to strip you naked and pull you into the shower with him nearly overwhelmed him.

You looked back at him, chagrined yet satisfied that you finished the walls. “What can I say, I really enthusiastic about my work,” you sassed with a shrug.

“I can see that. Why don’t you get cleaned up and I’ll do the edging here.” He watched you duck into the closet and pull out a change of clothes. When you turned to leave the room, he laughed at the stripe of paint across the seat of your shorts.

At the sound of his laughter, you ducked back into the room. He blinked at you owlishly as you moved closer, not noticing your hand reaching out to swipe a finger across his paintbrush until you booped his nose with the fresh paint-covered finger. Cackling, you danced out of the room leaving him to stare, stunned yet aroused, after you.

How were you so damn cute?

Later, after everything was cleaned up and the first coat of paint was left to dry, Dave ordered takeout for everyone. Lisa bragged about the gala the evening before while you all sat around the table and Dave sighed heavily.

He had such fun spending the day working with you, that he forgot all about his wife.

That certainly spoke volumes.

After dinner, Dave quietly asked Molly and Alice to share a room for the night so you could sleep upstairs. “You obviously can’t sleep down there with all the paint fumes, Firecracker,” he responded when you tried to argue. That took the wind out of your sails, and he grinned at your resigned expression.

He went to sleep that night knowing you were just down the hall, his dreams filled with you. He didn’t know if that was comforting or terrifying… or something else entirely.

One late evening, you walked around the neighborhood, enjoying the cooler air moving in off the shore and the full moon overhead. You loved checking out the houses – just like Dave’s, they were more upscale than you were used to. The peacefulness of the affluent, yet sleepy neighborhood settled over you as you headed back to the house. Bypassing the front door, you went through the vinyl gate on the side of the house with the intent of sitting on the patio for a bit, the thick grass below your feet softening your steps.

A sudden splash followed by an immediate sigh caught your ears as you reached the back corner of the house, and you froze. Autumn settled into the New England air, and it was cold enough that Dave winterized the pool already. So, what was the splashing?

Peeking your head around the corner of the house, you spied the string lights above the patio, the soft glow highlighting Dave sprawled in a hot tub. That was new… the hot tub and seeing your stepdad shirtless.

Your mouth fell open at the sight of him, eyes closed in relaxation with arms spread along the hot tub’s edge, steamy water bubbling around his fit body. His bare chest, wet and glistening in the subtle lighting, made you salivate. Another sigh left his lips as his left arm shifted, his hand dipping beneath the bubbling water. Dave’s head tipped back to lean against the small cushion at the lip of the hot tub and you could see the muscles of his left arm working in a slow, steady rhythm.

A low moan slipped from his lips.

Oh.

Oh.

Holy shit.

You couldn’t move as the realization washed over you. Instead, you stared in awe, continuing to spy on him feeling secure that you were hidden in the shadows. You should feel dirty, like a fucking pervert watching your stepfather like this…

You felt anything but that.

The sight was so fucking hot you had to bite your bottom lip to keep from moaning aloud as arousal flooded your senses, the evidence of it pooling in your panties.

Dave arched against the side of the tub, sending ripples through the water as his hand moved faster, harder beneath the surface. You longed to get closer, to climb into the heated water with him, replace his hand with your own.

Fuck! When did your hand slip past the waistband of your joggers? Your fingers were knuckle deep in your soaked pussy before you realized what you were doing, body leaning heavily against the wall of the house, eyes locked on Dave as you fucked yourself, palm grinding against your clit.

What the hell were you doing?

Who fucking cared. You were too worked up to think straight.

A jolt of pleasure coursed through you as you ebbed closer to the edge in time with Dave.

“Fuck.” The grunted curse reached your ears, Dave’s voice rumbling from deep in his chest though he visibly fought to stay quiet. You plunged your fingers as deep as you could at the sound, rubbing hard against your cunt until your orgasm washed over you. Curling your free hand into a fist, you shoved it against your mouth, teeth biting into the skin to keep you from making a sound. Dave came with a stuttered grunt, drowning out the small whine that snuck past your fist.

Holy fuck. You’d never done anything so depraved, yet you couldn’t find it in yourself to feel bad about it. It was the single hottest thing you’d ever experienced solo.

Another splashing sound drew you back to reality, and you took off, quietly working your way back to the front door and down to the basement before Dave saw you. If you slipped your soaked fingers into your mouth as you went, wondering what Dave would think of the taste, no one needed to know.

Jumping in the shower, you wondered what Dave thought about while getting himself off.

What kind of fantasies did he have?

Did he think about his wife – your fucking mom?

Did he… did he ever think about you?

You climbed into bed after drying off and applying your cocoa and shea butter moisturizer, gentle lingering tremors still coursing through your body from that fantastic, entirely unexpected orgasm. You fell asleep with your mind still full of the image of Dave in the hot tub.

tbc

Chapter Four

tag list: @imdrinkingpedro @lillaydee @ppascalrain @yorksgirl @missladym1981 @baronessvonglitter @slimybeth69 @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @inept-the-magnificent @wannab-urs @thundermartini

[kimoralov3]

something new

pairing: colin bridgerton x reader

descripttion: you can colin return to bridgerton house, but everyone is acting strange

word count: 1726

a/n: i'm sorry the ending is rushed :( @arkofblake @ivysprophecy

“Do you think they will be shocked?” Y/N asks, drawing Colin’s attention away from the window and towards his wife.

“Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied. What were you saying, my love?” He asks as he gives her hand a gentle squeeze. Y/N smiles at his distracted tendencies before repeating herself.

“I asked if you thought your family would be shocked. About our marriage.” She clarifies as she returns Colin’s squeeze.

He ponders on that for a moment before answering. “I am not sure. I do not think Hyacinth and Kate will be, they have always been the most perceptive of my family.” 

“Ah, yes. Did I ever tell you about the time Hyacinth cornered me and asked if I had feelings for you?” Y/N asks with a laugh.

“My god, that girl is scarier than Eloise. How does she always know?” Colin asks, amazement yet a hint of fear coloring his tone. 

“Children tend to be very observant. Perhaps we were only truly fooling ourselves.” She points out as she pats his cheek. He rolls his eyes, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“Well we are fools no more, Mrs. Bridgerton.” He says as he presses a kiss to her knuckles.

“Ever the charmer, Mr. Bridgerton.” Y/N says with a giggle.

The tender moment is interrupted by the carriage rattling to a stop, jostling the two of them forward slightly. As Colin helps Y/N down from the carriage, the two of them are greeted by the beautiful Bridgerton estate.

“It’s good to be home.” He mutters under his breath as he looks around, taking in his family home. 

“Did you tell them that we were coming?” Y/N asks as she loops her arm through Colin’s.

“Of course I told them. It was in the last letter I sent to them before we left.” He says, placing his hand over Y/N’s. 

“Oh yes, how could one ever forget about your letters?” She says teasingly as the two of them begin walking up the steps of the house.

Colin scoffs at that, giving her a smile. “You love my letters. You especially love to watch me write them, do you not?”

Y/N stifles a laugh, knowing exactly what it was that Colin was referring to. Colin smirks at that, knowing that he’s squashed the potential teasing session that his wife would’ve launched. 

The two of them walk into the house together, taking in the fresh flowers set up around the foyer. 

“Colin? What on Earth?” Eloise exclaims as she rushes over to her older brother. 

“Well hello to you too, Eloise.” He says with a laugh as he pulls away from you to hug his sister. 

“Have you just returned?” She asks when they’ve pulled away from each other. “Why did you not inform us of your return?”

“I did, in my letters. Did you not read them?” He asks with a frown. Eloise cackles, playfully slapping his arm.

“Oh Colin, you have always been quite the comic, haven’t you?” She says as she wipes fake tears from her eyes. It is as she does this that she finally realizes that her and her brother are not alone. “Y/N? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I-” Y/N’s words are cut off by the sound of footsteps rushing down the stairs.

“Colin!” Hyacinth and Gregory shout as they hug their brother, nearly knocking him to the ground. 

“What is all this commotion?” Violet asks as she comes down the stairs, gasping in shock at the sight of her son. “Colin! You did not tell me you would be returning so soon.”

“Does no one truly read my letters?” Colin says in disbelief as he looks at his surrounding family. They all share a laugh before Violet’s attention turns to Y/N.

“Oh, Miss Y/N — I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you here to see Daphne and the baby?” She asks curiously. Y/N and Colin share a confused look before attempting a response.

“Daphne’s here? I was not aware of that.” She says as Colin takes his place beside her. Eloise pays the act no mind, busy arguing with Hyacinth and Greogory about something, but Violet seems a bit shocked about it. Before she can comment on it, however, the two eldest brothers join the rest of their family downstairs. 

“I do not understand why  you are being so stubborn about this. All I am asking you to do is to— Colin?” Anthony asks, shocked to see his brother standing there. He has always been one of the last ones to the party of knowledge. 

“Ugh, yes yes, Colin is here and we are all surprised by it. Can we move on now?” Eloise complains, her hands on her hips. Benedict laughs at that, clapping Anthony on the back. “What we really need to get to the bottom of is why Colin and Miss Y/N arrived together.”

“Why does everyone keep asking us that?” Colin asks, growing more frustrated by the moment. 

“Well you could forgive us for all being a bit confused.” Violet says with a shrug. “Why have the two of you arrived together?”

“Because they are married.” Hyacinth says simply, taking in all the faces of her family members. Silence hangs in the air for a moment before chaos erupts, all of them talking over each other.

“What on Earth is going on down here? You all will wake Auggie.” Kate scolds as she walks quickly down the stairs. 

“Did you know about this?” Anthony asks as he turns sharply on his heel. Kate gives her husband a confused look as she loops their arms together. 

“Know about what?” She asks as she looks around the room, trying to discern if something is out of place. 

“This!” Anthony repeats himself as he gestures to Y/N and Colin. Kate looks at the two before returning her attention to her husband, looking at him as if he were crazy.

“What? They are married, I do not see a problem.” She says simply. If it were possible Anthony’s jaw would have dropped even farther, while Y/N hides a smile behind her gloved hand. 

“You knew that Colin and Y/N had gotten married and you did not say anything?” Benedict asks as Anthony struggles to recollect himself. 

“I thought everyone knew. Colin wrote of it in one of his letters.” Kate says with a shrug before turning to face her brother in law. “By the way Colin, I must compliment you on your writing skills. You must teach Anthony some day.” 

Colin beams at this while Anthony scoffs, adjusting his waistcoat before walking off somewhere, muttering something under his breath. Kate laughs, waving the family goodbye before following after her husband. 

“Colin, Y/N, can I speak with you for a moment?” Violet asks after everyone else has wandered off to do their own thing. Colin nods, looping his arm with Y/N’s once more and following his mother to the drawing room. 

Violet shuts the doors behind them as Colin and Y/N sit beside one another, hands intertwined. Violet smiles softly when she sees this, sitting across from the newlywed couple. “So, the two of you are married?” She asks after a moment of silence.

“Yes, and we deeply apologize for not notifying you sooner, but it all happened so soon—” You begin, but Colin cuts in when he sees the look of concern cross his mother’s face. 

“Not like that! Nothing… improper happened, if that is what you are worried about.” He reassures her, causing Violet to laugh out a breath of relief.

“Thank goodness. I was starting to worry that your brothers’ habits would rub off on you.” She says with a smile as she looks between the two. “Well, I can’t say that I’m happy about missing the wedding, but I always knew the two of you would find each other one day. It was only a matter of when.”

“Thank you, mother. I cannot tell you how much your approval of Y/N means to me.” He says with every ounce of sincerity in his body. 

“Should we tell her?” You whisper to Colin, smiling at the look of intrigue that flashes across Violet’s face.

“Tell me what?” She asks as she adjusts herself in her seat, inching closer to her son and daughter in law. 

Colin playfully glares at you for that. “Now why would you say that? You know how excited she gets about these things.” You laugh at that, playfully swatting his shoulder.

“Do not keep her waiting, she is clearly on the edge of her seat.” You say as you tilt your head towards Violet, who clears her throat and sits up straighter as if to appear less interested in whatever it was the two of you had to say. It did not work, but you both appreciated the effort.

“Y/N and I are with child.” Colin finally says as he looks at Violet. She screams out of shock, nearly shooting up out of her seat.

“Are you certain?” She asks as she looks between the two of them, her eyes rich with glee. Y/N nods, returning the gleeful look on Violet’s face.

“Yes, we are quite sure.” You say as Violet pulls you up for a hug. You’re a bit shocked, but happily return the hug.

“There is no greater gift a mother could ask for than for her children to be happy. Thank you, Y/N, for showing my son true happiness.” She says once she pulls away from the hug. The kindness of her words has you fighting back tears, causing Colin to stand and separate the two.

“As much as I love seeing the two of you bond, I would like for my wife and I to get settled.” He says as he pulls you into his side.

Violet nods, allowing the two of you to leave. “Of course. Oh, and Y/N?” She calls after you. You and Colin stop and turn at her calling of you. “Welcome to the family.” She says with a smile. One that you had seen her give to her children for years; one that she had reserved for her family and her family only.

[slowlysoluminary]

Still working on that chapter. Don't worry, it's coming along! Yesterday i was trapped at a party for 10 hours and, being the introvert i am, decided to take a break from drawing for an animatic by trying to draw for this au instead. don't know why i didn't just do artfight lol

FULL KING REFERENCE PACK + SIFFRIN DUO POSTGAME REFERENCES

Notes and details under the cut

sooooo howsabout postgame content?

the original post talking about postgame can be found here but it doesn't go into too much detail

So post-game resetfrin and gloop. they go with the party, kinda like a lot of twohats aus? resetfrin goes with the party because they know mirabelle and kinda know isabeau from when he would get apprenticed by the king (long story), but also because resetfrin acted so much like the old siffrin they used to know that it felt odd to leave him behind.

gloop, however, WAS the old siffrin! the party knows this, they found it out in the last loop, and they've formed such a bond with them that it's as natural as it is in the original game. the only issue is: gloop has changed SO much. physically, mentally, even a pronoun change - the party wants to help her out, but they want to explore who this New Siffrin is, too. Isn't it ironic that the new addition is the one you know far more of than the old addition?

resetfrin stays siffrin because... uh. because he's always been siffrin? there's no conflict there. gloop, after getting their memory back, ALSO goes back to siffrin, because that's who they really are and they acknowledge that loop is their own person. they don't want to be reminded of their time as gloop, either.

so... they're both Siffrin. And they're both technically the same person. do you see the issue?? the two of them didn't. the party did.

there's a comic I'm thinking about making to explore the processes and conversation that happened to initiate the name changes. the long and short of it is they can't BOTH be siffrin, but neither of them want to be siffrin if the other one can't also be siffrin, so they go on separate journeys to find a new name. they come back together with the party afterwords and they both ended up picking the same name so it's back to square one.

they talk to the party the second time and after a lot of brainstorming land on Orion for resetfrin and Lux for gloop. it helps the party distinguish between them and helps me establish the difference between postgame content and in-game content

(plug moment but these names were suggested by @the-bitter-ocean who gave me like. a whole list of things i could choose from. oh the life saver. i didn't even think about what names they would've picked until xe helped. and ohhh theyre so good. he also has some amazing aus including a miraloops au that you should go check out. pretty please)

the hair thing is SUPER IMPORTANT i originally only did it because they needed a way to separate themselves from eachother, but i realized they would also have done it to separate themselves from the old people they used to be. very poetic. 10/10 thank you brain for the excuse

the colors for orion's alt outfits are just a limited color pallete, they're not actually the colors afaik. (<- says the creator) but Lux's colors are 100% the colors, yes. their star body is different from loop's, where loop's body is solid black and lux's seems to glow on it's own. do you see where the name lux came from.

it's really dysphoric. imagine being turned into a ghost against your will and losing your memories, and them after gaining your memories back you turn into a completely different body AGAIN and it's STILL not the original body you had. i would cry.

gloop/lux's eye is still blind. even as a ghost they lacked depth perception. L. since resetfrin wasn't with the party to lose his eye they don't have any vision impairment

actually, about that. funny little thing. if siffrin wasn't there to protect bonnie, who did? haha hehe. hey why does odile have her arm in a cast...

KING TIME

okay i got a lot of questions about it so i double-checked on the original post and. yeah it DOES say the king's name. both in the text and on the image. but you'd be forgiven for missing it because it's pretty small on the image and there's a lot of text to read through

anyway pre-madness king's name is Lazare!! he originally looks like the lithe dude on the left. he's scholar-ish, came to vaugarde on vacation before losing his memory, yadda yadda... a lot of his information is on the original post so I won't repeat anything that's already been said

he picked Lazare a few days after losing his memory. he never told his name to anyone in the town he was staying so all he got was "travelling one" and he really genuinely thought that was his name for a hot second until he realized that Vaugarde really likes adding -one to titles

i made his hair curlier! after drawing the king for the chapter cg i realized i did NOT makw his hair curly enough when drawing Lazare. his hair type is almost exactly mine, though mine has more define curls, so drawing it is a BLAST!!

Defender arc Lazare! He bulked himself up to come off more physically and mentally strong. is this a trans allegory? is the King trans or was the body craft just to match his perception of himself? not sure. At this point in time he's already travelled with siffrin for a bit so i like to think he's a teensy bit protective. somewhere between friend snd father figure. cool guy

you know who's not cool? this guy vvv

this is where the King becomes the King :3 his hair is OBNOXIOUSLY long, almost rapunzel-like but nowhere near as bad. it always covers one eye but it doesn't really matter which one.

the crown happens like... VERY shortly before he makes the wish and starts freezing people in time. hes lonely and isolated and its something like coping with his delusions about everyone being out to get him

that's not the way he thought in the original loop, but after the reset his descent is much faster and harder than the last. when Siffrin starts climbing the tower, yearning becomes animosity as he thinks Siffrin finally betrayed him like he "always knew they would." or something.

hey 16yo sif jumpscare!!! wasn't he on the original post too?

.

anyway!!! that's it! that's all! i swear it's all. inevitably I'll have to make gloop and resetfrin full references but I'm happy with the ones i drew in the original post which I'll probably end up pointing people to if they want to draw either of them. the king was the one i worried about most because he's so different from canon, and same goes for the postgame designs. even coming up with new names was worrying because they're practically not even the same person from canon anymore

but that's the fun thing with aus, isn't it? lol

cya

[candywife333]

One of the guys

pairing: OT7? alphas X chubby wingwoman HYBE counselor Y/N (omega in hiding)

NEW MINISERIES (almost resembles a series of just drabbles)

Summary: She's the man. No literally. She totally is. At least in the perception of everyone at HYBE. She hangs out with the guys like a pro , strategizes with them to get them any girl of their choice, gets rid of their one night stands with ease, convinces their FWBs to leave them alone, provides constructive criticism about their sexual techniques, and even counsels them when they are having mental breakdowns. In essence, she makes MEN out of boys. Is that her job description? Not exactly. But she does it anyway. Because Y/N just happens to be one of the guys.

Warning: cursing, crude language, eventual smut

PART 2

"Y/N!!!! Y/N?!!!! PLEASE OPEN THE DOOR. I NEED YOU!! I AM GOING TO BLOODY DIE OTHERWISE!! PLEASE GIRL, OPEN THE DOOR AND I WILL GIVE YOU MY FIRST BORN CHILD". y/n scoffed as she heard the ruckus outside of her door, first born child? What was she the antichrist, or a demon? The closest to that she ever got was using cow placenta face masks on a Sunday and babysitting her niece.

She opened the door in bewilderment adjusting her thick specs, goddamnit, the constant disguise got on her nerves some days. She stared up blankly at a perspiring, anxious looking Namjoon who was frothing at the mouth. "Sure Namjoon, come in and while you are it, why don't you tell me why you want to sacrifice a squealing, diaper pooping little human being to me? Maybe we can work that into a schedule".

He sat on the comfy couch on her office, as she blew out her lavender aromatherapy candle, turning off her zen bamboo lights. He blurted without preamble in a nervous frenzy, " I am not able to take my penis out of my foreskin ".

Y/N was the only one he would ever come to with such a concern, because she wouldn't laugh in his face and judge him. Y/N tapped her floral pen on her stationary sheet and wooden pad. Her tapping brought his attention to nails painstakingly painted pale pink color with a pink diamond ring surrounded by a halo of smaller diamonds on her left hand that twinkled in the dim light. That was new. He never had noticed those on her before.

She calmingly inquired, "Are you on any medication Namjoon? Any antidepressants or heart medication, or did you ingest any herb recently"? Namjoon stuttered, somewhat soothed by her expressionless, blank face, "No. Not that I know of". She continued asking him, "Were you getting your morning erections and any nocturnal ones prior to this? And also, do you have diabetes or atherosclerosis"? As he answered negatively to all these questions, Y/N sighed. Then she quietly asked, "Do your regularly clean down there, with soap and warm water"?

Namjoon froze. "Ex--x-xcuse me"? Y/N sighed again, she rephrased , "To your own knowledge, do you clean up every time you have a shower down there by retracting back your foreksin from your penis and washing it with at least some warm water". He remained silent til he gasped out ," Yes ....I think I do ". Y/N put down her clipboard , keeping her hands on her thighs, looking directly in his eyes.

"You have a few options Namjoon. Either you can go to the clinic a few blocks away, and get it checked out by the urologist, who I can notify regarding your complaints. And he will get it figured out. Or, I will have to examine the situation since I am a licensed psychiatrist (a doctor nevertheless)".

Namjoon sat there in confusion, Y/N was a licensed psychiatrist, an actual doctor? Since when? So, her counseling idols was the usual for her? Then it all made sense. So that is why nobody had to actually go outside of HYBE to get basic medication/psychiatric medication prescriptions. That is why the prescriptions would always be written in her loopy cursive handwriting.

Then he realized he had to answer her. He decided to let her examine, as embarrassing and humiliating as it was. He didn't have time with the upcoming showcase the day after tomorrow to run to an urologist. "Please examine me y/N".

She nodded in assent and told him to get on the examination table which had been lined with a long white sheet. She turned on a circular examination light told him, "Take your pants and underwear off, and lie down flat on your back. I will examine you, so let me know if I am hurting you. I will stop or be more careful if that is the case".

She turned around , her back briefly facing him so that she could get sanitize her hands before placing gloves on. Namjoon noticed a protruding mass wrapping around her long baggy shirt. Did she by chance, have a big ass? It was a little silly to think that way, but they had never seen her in anything else. And her specs occluded her face, so they couldn't tell what she looked like without them.

Y/N took off her tinted glasses, and low and behold, Namjoon was starstruck as he saw her beautiful face. She had the biggest eyes and a classic round face, with beautiful lips the color of carnations. He was so distracted at her gorgeousness, he didn't realize she was trying to retract his penis from his foreskin. He erupted loudly, "OWWWWW. PLEASE STOP". She held his member more gently as she sighed, stating in a placid manner, " You have to clean down here a little more frequently Namjoon. After sexual intercourse, when in the shower regularly, and especially after a workout. This is called smegma, this white stuff. And it is basically dead skin cells that don't get cleaned off and build up as gunk. Let me get some saline solution and a pair of artery forceps and I will try slowly retracting it".

Namjoon blushed in embarrassment. Y/N took some saline solution on a gauze pad and gently started working it around his penis , making him slightly wince due to the sensitivity. Y/N internally sighed. Thankfully she didn't need to use artery forceps to pull it down. After dislodging the smegma, she was able to pull his skin off of the penis. It took some more time than usual, because there was a good amount of buildup and the man had a big D. Surprise, Surprise.

After fixing the situation, Y/N motioned for him to dress up once again. Namjoon, looking less stressed, but still flushed from the somewhat humiliating experience thanked Y/N, " I am so sorry to waste your time Y/N". Y/N waved away his concern, "That's what I am here for man. Just make sure to regularly clean that area with warm water okay"? Sheepishly smiling in agreement, Namjoon, taking a seat gingerly at the edge of the sofa.

Nodding reassuringly at him, Y/N concluded, "If that will be all, then I will talk to you later. Please let me know if you have any concerns later on, and I can help you out".

Namjoon walked out breathing a sigh of relief, that his problem was easily resolved even though he was mortified that she had to see something so intimate. He shouldn't be so inquisitive, but how was it that her face was so pretty but she covered it in thick framed glasses? And the rest of her appearance was drab and uninspiring expect for her pink accented nails and earrings. Surprisingly ,he had even gotten the faintest most alluring whiff of strawberries and cream that he couldn't place. Not her usual scent. Something alphas like him catalogued frequently, scent patterns. He had a feeling she was hiding a whole personality this entire time right under their noses.

If she was hiding her appearance and her scent, what else could she be hiding?

[hope-to-hell]

Broken and reset, or: what to do with a man like that. Smut, oral (f receiving), restraints, mild pain play, d/s tones, sub!john. We like our man banged up, right? A little blood, a little bruising: it paints him in the most delightful colors. Maybe he likes it, too. Given the right circumstances, he finds clarity in the midst of chaos. It doesn’t do to discover these things alone, though. Won’t you give him a hand?

———

Bind him, arms behind. Put him on his knees. Look, can you see the pretty boy beneath the blood and gristle? He’s there, peering out behind liquid brown eyes. Here is a man seemingly without fear, a legend, the goddamned boogeyman, and yet. And yet there’s trepidation there. This is new to him: the hand firm on his shoulder sending him down, the chains that bind without a beating to follow. What is this?

He’s just so fucking gorgeous looking up like this, all long lashes and the sleepless nights that cling below his eyes. And look, there’s the most beautiful bruise blooming, such that he can hardly see out of his right eye. The coming days are going to be hell on his aim, with his depth perception on vacation. You can tilt his head back oh so gently with the very tips of your fingers, maybe scratch your way through the stubble on his chin, but be mindful of those sharp teeth. His shirt is hanging open, stained with red, and though very little of it is his own, the blood and bruising suits him.

It’s a good look for you. Pat his cheek once or twice, then give him a good slap, hard enough to turn his head and rock his body to the side. All you’ll get out of him is a grunt as he rights himself, mind. He’s a man of few words on the best of days. So you’ll do the talking, and he’ll kneel there and take it. If he hangs his head it’s only to gather himself— to find the burning stone at his center and grip it tight. He may be all sweat and blood and the tearing ache of overused muscle but he is fierce, and he is silent, and when he looks up at you again he bares teeth that shine like knives.

There he is. There’s that fighting spirit. And he is all yours, to use as you please. What am I going to do with you? But you already know, don’t you? As does he. Circumstances may change, but this kind of dance is as old as time. Power ebbs and flows, gathering around those who best can hold it. And so he may have strength, but here he watches closely for his cues, fully aware of his position, letting power flow through him and away. How can he be surprised when you drop your panties to the ground? He shouldn’t be. But his body knows what’s coming even if his mind is still playing catch-up. He licks at his lips and they’re so pink, so slickly shining. Hey. Put that mouth to use.

Lean back. Let the edge of the desk press its mark into your ass. Make him work for it. It costs him so much effort to balance himself like this, to strain toward you. Admire the way he trembles with the effort of holding himself bowed tight, core burning, trying so very hard not to fall. He shifts his knees wider and it steadies him, but now he cannot reach. Such a quandary. What’s he going to do about it? He’s clever, your John, but most of all he’s stubborn: he would dig his way barehanded through a mountain if his goal lay on the other side. So just watch, and wait, and don’t give him a hand. Let him work through this.

He shuffles forward on his knees and if he winces it’s a fleeting thing; then again, it could be a snarl. But he’s closer now, close enough to look up between your legs with his one good eye. There’s my good boy. Aren’t you clever?

Definitely a snarl.

There is danger here: this is a man who can kill with whatever he has to hand; the legend most-repeated is that he killed a man with a pencil, of all things. And perhaps he doesn’t have the use of his hands, but he has teeth. He has a body stronger than you’d ever guess to look at him. And right now all of that is focused on you. Do you think he knows what that does to you— the arousal that spikes hard and sudden, sending liquid need smearing down your thighs?

His hair is lank, oil shining slickly through it; from head to toe he is a man in dire need of a wash, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is the sound that slips from his lips when you grab a hank of hair and pull him closer. He moans, the sound catching low in his throat, crushed down like a secret he didn’t mean to share. But it's such a pretty sound, so you do it again. It seems like it shouldn’t be possible, that he should remain silent on his knees. Yet here he is, the legend himself made flesh, and he is yours.

You know what to do. His breath is hot against your tender flesh, and he is so close to where you need him. Pull him that last fraction of an inch and let him fix his mouth to you. He eats at you like a starving man: now lapping through your folds, now suckling at your clit. At any other time he would take you apart with purpose, but this is sloppy, filthy, squelching. This is the animal drive to feed, to consume. And when he draws back to breathe he is shining wet from brows to beard. You’re so pretty like this, maybe I’ll keep you there forever.

Can you feel the shiver that runs through him? Fuck.

Who said you could talk?

Pull him close again and close your thighs around his ears this time. Trap him there and feel his desperation grow to a fever pitch. There’s no breath left in him and still he eats at you, his own hips hitching in a useless search for friction, hands curled hard into fists behind his back. But it does the trick: heat coils inside you and you’re so close, so close, just a little more, like you mean it and maybe he can’t hear with your thighs over his ears and his blood roiling through him in search of oxygen, but he feels it. Curl around him and let your strings be pulled tight. Be greedy. Be selfish.

Let this all come crashing through you, thighs shaking, holding his head there so tightly his face will be forever imprinted upon your flesh. Give him the reward of a job well done: ride out your release against his face and don’t try to hold back any part of it. Fuck. Fuck, that was good. Fall back against the desk and feel him rest his head against you, filthy and wet. Let his breath slow and soften, though he must be so very hard and wanting. Now ask him this: you okay?

Yeah.

Hey. You must be— Jesus, that was— hey. You think you can fuck like this?

A pause. Considering. Yeah.

Now steady him as he stands. Listen close and you can almost hear the thud of his heart pounding. Open his belt with one hand while the other is firm at his hip. Oh, he likes that. Look, you can see his cock twitch and you haven’t even opened his fly yet.

Neat trick. There's gravel in his voice and even if that’s all he says, he’s still shuffling closer, head bowed, good eye fixed on your hands. And when you draw him out, his cock is heavy and hot, trailing silvery precum. A sigh judders up and out of him, relief and uncertainty at once.

Listen to me very, very closely. I want you in me, and I want you not to hold back. Let’s see what you can do like this.

Guide him home. Feel him pulsing thick and needy in your hands, and feel yourself twitch in kind. Already your body claims that too much has become not enough. But he’s being so damned careful and that has to change; he is strung so very tight with the effort of holding himself still above you. So grip the collar of his open shirt and haul him down— I’ll tell you if you’re too damned heavy, now move— and just. Look at him: red blush blooming down his throat, tendons standing taut, face turned down like he could drive the bruising right off his face onto the desktop and breath rolling hot across your shoulder.

You can wrap your legs around him now. Steady him against you. He’s grinding sweat and filth into your skin, but how can you possibly care when the friction of rough hair and bone is relentless, driving you closer to the edge? How could anything be more compelling than the grunts and gasps that sear your flesh? He is overcome by the need to bury himself deep, to rise up on his toes and squeeze the breath from your body. And if you dig your nails into his hip it’s even better: those bright points of pain catch at him, unmooring him and he is lost, pulsing inside you with the release he can no longer keep at bay. Do it again and he’ll paint the air with a gasp and a garbled oh. Oh hell.

Roll him over and off you; loose his wrists and press your thumbs into the bruises gathering there; if he whines, the sound is lost to this moment, small and secret. And when he looks up, watch him closely. Something in him has lifted. Stroke the handprint rising red across his cheek, and when he leans into the feeling, don’t take your hand away.

[keischreiber]

Tailored For You

Synopsis: He's your boyfriend, isn't it only natural that he observes you the most?

Contains: Fluff

Pairings: Reiner x reader

Reiner's your boyfriend, so it's only natural the he observes you the most.

You're always eager to do things with your boyfriend, however you also know that he's busy. This is why you never demand him to go with you. Instead, you always invite him, giving him the option to say either yes or no.

※ "You do know that you can ALWAYS just tell me to go with you, right?"

He had a semi-apologetic look on his face, as if it was his fault why you can't just ask him upfront. But you explain that you don't want to bother him if he's busy because when it came to Reiner and work, things just tend to happen last minute.

This was one of the reasons why he can't help but to continuously grow in love with you. You were always so considerate.

As usual, he agrees to go with you. He never says no unless there was something more important. Thing is, there was simply nothing that was as important as you.

When you arrive at the mall, he knows that it's to get the essentials which often consisted of: Food, cleaning supplies, toiletries— the basics. Sometimes, he'll see that you'll get some things that he knows was for him.

※ "Is this really necessary?"

He'll ask, to which you just say yes because it's for him. You tend to spoil him when you can, knowing that he hardly does that for himself. He uses his money mostly for his mom, his cousin, his aunt and uncle, you.

The one thing that he doesn't usually see you get are things for yourself outside of the essentials. Sometimes, he would see you looking at a dress or two only to walk away mumbling things like, 'my pair at home is still pretty decent, I don't need that'.

He knows that you love stuffed animals, plush toys, anything that was soft and cuddly. There were instances where he'd see your eyes sparkle at the oddest looking one in the store, and then he remembers how your perception of cute was… unique. He saw your collection of monster and other odd plushies amid your zoo of a collection. Even from that you'd walk away, muttering to yourself that 'it's not within this month's budget, so maybe next time'.

Reiner also knows how fond you were of trinkets. You liked jewelry, no matter the price. You always seem to be in a good mood when you pass by a trinket shop that sold all kinds ranging from hair clips to anklets; some plain, others intricate in make. But again, to you it's more of a want than a need. So, it'll have to be for another time.

He knew why you were so tight when it came to money. The both of you have talked about your future together, and you wanted to save as much as you can so that he didn't have to shoulder everything. You even told him not to spend needlessly on you, but rather, spend it on his family. They come first.

And, to be honest, the fact that you care about the people who were important to him made you very endeared to him.

Which was why he honors this request.

But that doesn't mean that he can't spend a little. He never splurges, as per your request, but he does do what he can with what he has.

Because you'll scold him if he buys you new clothes, one time, he would invites you to his house, telling you to bring a few old white shirts, and maybe some old jeans while you were at it. You were curious why you needed to bring clothes, but you did anyway.

When you arrive at his modes home, he's waiting there for you with a do-it-yourself tie-dye kit. Gabi's there too, happily offering her help in turning your old white shirt into a masterpiece.

While you and Gabi did that, Reiner was with some needle and thread, sitting with his mom. There, Reiner was getting a quick lesson on how to do some embroidery, and when the day was over, you had a bunch of colorful shirts (Some being Reiner's whites which will now be yours), and jeans that looked like new because of the embroidery.

※ "I know it's nothin' special, but I hope this makes you happy."

But it was special. Not only that, it's priceless. A full-on Braun effort.

You love him for his consideration of you; and you love his family for making this day more memorable than just sitting alone at home with a good book.

These were now your favorite things to wear. Sometimes, when Reiner sees you in his (now yours) oversized tie-dyed shirt, he'd be a blushing mess. He always found it… uplifting… to see you in his clothes.

There was also a time when you caught Reiner red-handed.

※ "Wait, I can explain. This— I… I mean… I know it looks like a mess right now but I'll—"

But you cut him off with the tightest hug. Reiner thinks that it wasn't the cutest plush, after all, he had handmade it himself. He didn't really know how to sew, and everything skill that he employed into making the patterns and actually sewing was something he had asked his mother's help for. Teaching him how to make sure the patterns made sense, how to ensure that when he turned the material inside out, all the stiches were invisible… the success rate was… well, it was messy. But it was a plushie. Reiner wasn't satisfied with it, and was about to undo the stitches when you found him with it.

To Reiner, it looked like an abomination, but to you it was the most adorable thing. You take it from his hands and hugged it to yourself.

"Can I keep him?"

You ask him, and he just smiles in defeat, before pulling you against him.

※ "He's supposed to be yours to begin with… so of course you can."

You had noticed prior the bandages on his fingers. He worked so hard on this cute plush doll for you. It's now your treasure, something that means the world to you.

And then there was a day that was especially tough on you. You normally don't vent out to him, and instead, simply want to be close to him on days like these.

※ "Hold on, I have something for you."

He'll tell you, before reaching into his pockets. He's been waiting for a good opportunity to give you something, but felt short on occasions. However, today was as good a day as a birthday, or anniversaries, or Christmas. Today, you were feeling down, and he wanted to try and remedy that.

When his hands emerged from his pockets, he was clutching at something.

※ "C'mon, your hand. Give it."

He would demand sweetly of you, to which you show him your hand.

What he began putting on you was a bracelet. It was made of tumbled stones of varying shapes and sizes, stones whose colors complimented each other. Accented with small white beads that almost looked like tiny stars.

※ "I would've gotten you something more expensive, but I know you'll get mad."

He began to explains with a grin, trying to comfort you with a light joke.

※ "So, I picked everything out instead and made something myself. It's not much… but I hope it can cheer you up."

And since you were already vulnerable, you ended up crying against his chest. He said nothing thereafter and simply allowed you to cry for as long as you needed. He held you carefully, offering your back with gentle pats and soothing stroked up until you fell asleep in his arms.

As you drifted into the land of slumber, all you could think about was how every bit of Reiner's love and kindness meant everything to you.

You didn't need fancy, expensive things.

After all, the things that you've receive were enough.

More than the material things, you had Reiner who chose to stay in your life.

And that in itself was priceless.

[jyaki123]

so Close

in which Meguru and you are close in proximity.

"Do you think we could've been friends?"

You think about the question you blurted out for a moment, recalling your past.

Your passion for your craft came as a discovery not influenced by those around you, but from your own enjoyment. The discouragement from others had almost guided you away from this path, letting their misunderstandings cloud your judgement. However, after countless nights of pondering whether your talents were enough to risk it all, you decided it was.

In a fit of impulsivity and a little bit of hope, you arrive at the front door of an artist your family occasionally commissioned. It was late at night but you hoped she'd be awake. When an older woman answers the door a couple of minutes after your timid knocking, you sigh in relief.

That night was the start of a long journey. One that had you secretly working on projects late at night. Ms. Bachira, the artist you've gotten familiar with, had taught you from afar. She believes that art is a concept intimate to solely the artist and their work; meaning it is an activity that inspires one's freedom in expressing themselves. With that in mind, art became a window into your mind and a mirror for your perception of everything around you.

Your works caught the attention of Ms. Bachira... and her son, Meguru, who was the same age as you.

In the bright mornings of summer, he'd see different unfinished pieces. Sometimes the same artwork would be seen for weeks, others would last a day. No matter the medium, he found himself attracted to it, staring intently before running out the door to play with his ball. He knew of you since his mother occasionally brought you up in conversation. However, Meguru didn't bother to try to meet you yet.

He didn't need to when he found you hunched over on a stool working on pottery.

The machine's whirring echoed in the room of the studio as he was left staring at you. You were working carefully, the sleeves of your crinkled shirt were rolled intensely to your shoulders. He concluded that if he tried to talk to you, he'd mess you up so with a small smile, he retreats to his room.

Often times you've heard your classmates call Meguru weird and you wondered why, especially when all he does is play football alone. You've seen him play in the backyard when you came to his house early enough. It was inspiring, really, and almost sad that he was playing by himself. The stories you'd hear of him from his mother were endearing and you couldn't understand how he, of all people, could be weird.

When you reached your half-finished painting, you scrap it and grabbed a new one. This feeling of lonliness overwhelms you but it wasn't yours. It was Meguru's. You tried to paint it, letting the brush guide your strokes and the colors bring to life both the joys and struggles Meguru might have. For the first time, you didn't sketch or brainstorm--- you feel. When you finished, pride swelled within you. In other occasions, you'd probably try to do the same piece again with less error but it was perfect even with its imperfections.

Months go by and the school semester has you busier than you imagined. Your escapades to the Bachira household were less frequent but you managed to keep creating wonderful artworks. On a free afternoon, you decided to attend one of your high school's football games with the purpose of getting quick gesutre drawings of the players. As embarrassing as it was, you find yourself staring at Meguru. The way he played was different than the other players, seemingly enjoying the game with a noticeable smile on his face. While the others struggled, he did not and you found the disconnect odd. You figured the team would be more in sync since they practice formations and other things similar to that. To satisfy your curiosity, you search for Meguru and find him dribbling the ball alone on the way home.

"Why'd you guys lose?"

He turned around to look at you before responding. He tilted his head with a grin after recognizing you. "Because they couldn't keep up with me." You gave him a look. "You could've went for the goal instead of passing, y'know." He put his hands up in a shrug and his smile turned into a small smirk. "But wouldn't it be more exciting to score a super goal than a normal one?" He swiftly lifts with his feet, doing some balancing acts with it. You huff through your nose. "Only if-" "-Someone could keep up with me! Right?" He interrupts you with a giggle. At first, you were annoyed but realized that maybe he did have a point. Compared to everyone else on the team, his movements on the field seemed second nature to him. It was spontaneous, much like his personality. In a way, the field was his canvas and his moves were his marks of paint. Together, they make something beautiful... and it reminded you of your experience with art. There was silence, save for the rhythm of the ball on his feet, until you spoke up.

"Do you think we could've been friends?"

You think about the question you blurted out for a moment, recalling your past. Meguru looks up to the sky in thought as well before giving you the brightest smile you've ever seen.

"Who says we aren't right now?"

A smile creeps up to your face. You laugh as you wonder why you didn't befriend such a wonderful person sooner.

----------------------------------------------------------------

notes: woah... honestly, i was planning angst. writing on the fly is an experience bwahaha. at first, i wanted to make it more universal to readers but... i guess i secretly wanted to capitalize on bachira's mom being an artist.

(c) 22 December 2024

[xxsycamore]

'𝐂𝐀𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐌 𝐎𝐍 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐄

↬ ❤  You make Roy's number one dirty fantasy come true.

Roy Mustang x f!Reader • rating: E (MDNI) • tags: Fetish; Fetish Clothing; Skirts; Secret Relationship; Sex in a Car; Semi-Public Sex; Teasing; Fondling; Hand & Finger Kink; Vaginal Sex; Creampie; Dom/sub Undertones • wordcount: 2,183 • masterlist

And the rest of the world could disappear and I wouldn't care

'Cause I'm on fire.

(namesake song by Stateless)

a/n: Don't rewatch fma years later if you've become a writer somewhere along the way. You'd have something you want to get out of your system and it will be embarrassing.

"Are you cold, Lieutenant?"

Like a switch that's been flipped, Roy's tone changes once he finds himself alone with you. It was just a second ago when he gave the chauffeur an order, quick and straightforward, putting a start to the two-hour-long ride and shutting the metal cover of the partition that provides privacy to the backseat. Of course, you're accompanying Roy today - it's just you - and having known that in advance, while your Colonel's brilliant mind was at work crafting military plans, yours was coming up with plans of its own. Ones that are quite different in nature.

Your heart rate had quickened the moment you found yourself in the vehicle with Roy. No, even earlier than that. With hot blood pumping through your veins, there's no way you could be cold as per his question. But Roy is oh so perceptive when it comes to you; caring in the way the question rolled off his tongue, colored by his noticeably softer tone.

He's asking you because you're still wearing that long black coat over your uniform today, neatly buttoned all the way up, even if the sun did its best to warm up the earth so that the hours around noon offer weather that is rather pleasant.

And if you said you are cold? What would he do then?

With a well-measured chuckle, you slip into your more casual persona, remembering that you're now behind closed doors, so to say.

"Quite the contrary, I was thinking of taking this off now."

Over the rustling of clothes, your ears pick up on the small humming of part-curiosity part-confusion leaving Roy's mouth. The shared seat is rather cramped in the most perfect way, making your efforts at brushing past Roy's form inconspicuous as you strip off the overcoat. You need his eyes on you for what is about to follow.

You make sure you're half turned to the Colonel as you rise yourself off the seat so you can not only shrug it off your shoulders but also discard it completely to be half-decently folded and soon-to-be-forgotten, at your other side.

"Ah, that's much better—" The words are not yet fully out past your lips before Roy reacts. Your smile widens with mischief as you're granted a few silent seconds which stretch out to a blissful eternity, full of staring freely at Roy's expression. That's the face of a man getting a hard-on, if you know one.

Roy's deep dark eyes are wide with surprise, glued at your lower half, mouth slightly ajar. You're waiting for him to return the gaze. When he finally does, you're witnessing a new shift in his mood.

"What are you wearing, Lieutenant?"

Playing coy, you run a hand across your hip, from knee to the hem of that piece of clothing that seems to have captured Roy's attention so immensely. You swear you can hear the hitching of his breath as you graze the material with the tips of your fingers, barely dragging it higher up your hip than it already is, revealing more of your bare skin underneath.

"Oh, this? I found my old uniform at the bottom of my closet the other day, and… I made some adjustments."

The cheap lie of your casualness is see-through, when Roy can tell the effort behind those modest adjustments. What once was an ordinary part of your blue Amestrian state military uniform has been diligently reshaped into something so wicked and out of place with the attributes it once bore.

At least, that's how most people would see it.

You know that it's clear as day to Roy that you've actually taken care of everything to the tiniest detail; the thin silvery edges along the front pleads and the slit on the left side.

"A miniskirt?" Roy's chuckle is him regaining his composure, and his glove-clad hand palming the ball of your knee is his barely contained interest. It's hard not to part your legs right there and then, almost as if this is the signal you've been waiting for.

"A tiny miniskirt! C'mon Colonel, where is your enthusiasm? This is me showing commitment and loyalty to your high ideals…!"

Playing with fire, you take Roy's hand and guide it upwards to the subject of the conversation. The warmth of your skin is still penetrable as you can feel Roy's burning touch where it comes in contact with it. You egg him on, despite the time and the place, or maybe exactly because of the risk they carry.

"You can treat this as a preview, for the day you finally reach your goal…" You reach out a hand to caress his face, but Roy is quicker, catching it in his grasp.

"Here's my enthusiasm."

With a swift manner, you find yourself manhandled into the position Roy desires, seated on his lap - with your back to him.

Relentlessly, Roy's large palm is laid on the place between your shoulder blades as he pushes, making you bend forward.

You grunt, less out of discomfort than of surprise weaving along with pure desire pooling in your abdomen.

"It's quite short, isn't it? Are you even aware that you're giving me a flash of your underwear right now?"

It's firm and matter-of-factly, Roy's tone, as he sends shivers down your spine, forced to realize you're no longer in control of the speed of events. He could pull out his cock right now and you'd obediently sit back without protest, only able to lament the loss of the rest of the teasing you never got to inflict on your Colonel.

You all but feel his gaze on your ass, the lack of contact killing you as you feel your legs begin to slightly cramp from holding the position. Perhaps your hyper-concentration is what lets you know he is taking off his gloves right now, the faint, familiar sliding sound of the thin material indicating things you can't even wrap your mind around despite being all the same ready for. Luckily Roy doesn't leave you hanging for much longer, even if his next action rips out an embarrassing gasp out of you.

"Ah—"

Sensing his big, strong hands suddenly coming to grasp and grope the globes of your ass through the material of your skirt, or at least the part it does cover a part of, you shamelessly feel desire seeping wetly inside your panties, staining them right where Roy's gaze is bored into. You're all on display for him, and you like it, in combination with the way he squeezes and pulls your asscheeks apart, that's your confirmation. That's exactly what Roy's dirty fantasies were made of, and you're making them all come true right now.

At this point, you should've expected the small slap he gives your ass, but nonetheless you still flinch when Roy leaves a faint imprint of his palm on your cheek.

"Turn around for me."

Without skipping a beat, you shift your position between his long legs, eager to be welcomed in his embrace. Roy lets you straddle him, your legs coming to rest on either side of his, and inevitably your tiny miniskirt rides up even more.

Roy lets out a low humming noise, palming your newly exposed heat through the underwear, and you can tell he felt the wet patch stained with your arousal. He guides you to sit down on him comfortably, but instead of relaxing, you tense up as soon as you feel his raging hard-on tenting his trousers.

You really made him diamonds, a smirk playing on your face with the thought, despite how progressively lightheaded you get. Perhaps there's still room for a witty remark or two before he steals your ability to form coherent words.

"On a second thought… I think I might be rather cold in this skimpy thing…"

You reach out to find his hands, wanting to guide them on your body again, but Roy barely needs the encouragement. With your hands on top of his, he traces the skin of your thighs, exposing you in a lie as he feels how hot your flesh is the more he nears the apex of your thighs.

"Caress me, Roy… set me on fire with your touch…"

The call of his name does things to him you can only vaguely imagine by the way his lower lip slightly twitches. You can tell he's been craving for you to call him by his name in the sea of formality surrounding your daily lives. Right here and right now, he's your Roy; he wants to hear it again and again, and you make use of knowing it well.

"I'll take good care of you, then."

Unzipping his trousers, Roy distracts you with a long-awaited kiss as he makes quick work of his garments, freeing his aching cock. True to his word, his hands continue to roam on you, under the short coat of your uniform, then under your skirt; fingers sticking in the hem of it, toying with it but never taking it off. That's good, that's what you made it for, he needs to enjoy seeing it on you to his fullest.

In contrast to how much he takes his time caressing you, the way he puts your panties to the side is all but cruel and rushed, as if the barrier separating you offends him.

You expect him to shove his cock in you in a heartbeat, but he has other plans. Wrapping an arm around your waist, he maneuvers you up again so your glistening lower lips are only slightly grazing the tip of his cock. So close, yet so far from becoming one with him.

"You're going to pay for doing this when I can't get my fill of you."

Hearing those words, you suck on a breath, eager to know what he means. He gives you the answer without having to ask.

"Nothing to bend you over on. Not enough room to fuck your beautiful thighs."

You mewl as you finally feel his warm hand on your bare heat, wetness pooling on his palm as he rubs your folds in a way that isn't even remotely enough to spark satisfaction.

Maybe he's right, this is cruel of you; the images he paints in your imagination are all too vivid and dreamy when the only thing you can think of is presenting himself to him, enticing him to finally, finally-

Before a loud moan can escape your throat, Roy's hand clasps around your mouth, sealing it shut so no sound can leave. The other he uses to push you down on his cock, piercing you with it on one swift, long thrust.

You pulsate around him, walls tightening and refusing to relax as if afraid he'll deprive you of this pleasure as quickly as he gifted it to you.

Roy doesn't take his hand off just yet, knowing all too well that you have a lot more of those sweet sounds in you that are not suitable for the risky situation you're currently in. Paying attention to the volume of his own voice, he whispers more filth against your nape, bringing forth goosebumps.

"Relax so I can finally fuck you like you wanted to. That's what all of this was for, right? You wanted to be pounded good?"

Feeling Roy beginning to move you up and down on his cock, you can barely think of giving him an answer, but maybe your body does the speaking for you anyway.

"One day I'll seriously have you wear these things around me all the time. Would you mind then, I wonder? Or would you be getting off on the thought of how much you rile me up everytime I catch a glimpse of what's under your skirt?"

Tears pricking at the corners of your eyes with how good it all feels, his dirty promise, or this little taste you're given of how such a scenario would play out, you do your best to follow Roy's movements as you fuck yourself on his cock harder than how he tries to make you.

The fierce look he gives you with those dark, lust-clouded eyes, is already driving you closer and closer to the edge, and you want to drag Roy together with you. In an attempt to seal his lips with yours, Roy shows mercy and removes his hand from your mouth, changing it for his own mouth.

His low grunts are something you'll hear in your head for days, as he erupts in you right as you fall in the abyss of pleasure, meeting him halfway. His scorching hot semen shoots in you in several pumps as you helplessly tremble in Roy's arms, trusting him to catch you when your body goes limp with pleasure.

He calms down from his high gradually, petting your back as you continue to cum around him.

Not pulling out just yet, Roy kisses the last sparks of afterglow from your lips, making sure you both enjoy this moment to the fullest.

At least until the next time you both can indulge in those perverse fantasies again.

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[skaruresonic]

Your chat with wood reminded me, this is something that I noticed, but fans and none fans REALLY love to see Sonic get his ass kicked

Like I've noticed this from old 2000s fan stuff, they aggressively make Sonic egotistical and obnoxious, then immediately want to punk him

It's like they're aware those qualities are bad, but then misapply it to actual canon games Sonic. This includes ignoring him actually being a powerhouse. Fucker rips off metal from a military plane, and survives falling from massive heights and flung across mountains

It's ironic since his actual most obnoxious in game would be Colors Wii for boss dialogue, but that's still mild compared to Archie or fan parody (not to mention Sonic notably only is explicitly rude to villains). This also applies to char relations

They'll act like Metal is supposed to be a formiddable threat when...in canon practice, fuck no. Metal is a jobber

Because these perceptions are beyond infesting due to meme culture, none fans are incorrectly thinking "yeah he's an egotistical dick" like reg fans

So the idea of Sonic beating Shadow or Knux 1on1? They'll be pissed! Regardless of actual canon

Sidenote: remembered seeing someone be sad that "I'm Sonic, Sonic the Hedgehog" wasn't used much in 2010s, then miss the point on why. This is literally cuz there was no scenario it'd be appropriate (he doesn't meet a new neutral person besides Rookie, and that was a pressing situation of escaping)

To be fair, Sonic does suffer a lot of abuse in canon. I used to say that knocking Shadow out to advance the plot was a common plot point, but it might be fair to say that knocking Sonic out has become a series cliché at this point as well.

Usually it's done to establish the threat du jour as srs bsns. To "yes, and" that last point, the trope cannot work without the baseline assumption that Sonic is strong:

In several instances you can see Sonic wavering on the edge of unconsciousness and still struggling to stand. bro's got that fighting spirit The important part is that he always gets back up no matter what.

What an inspiring message! Unlike the Gary-Stu folks usually try to portray him as, Sonic has never been completely infallible. You don't need to be invincible; you just need to pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and keep trying.

Not to turn this into another culture war discussion, ofc, but I really feel as though folks who dismiss Games!Sonic as some perfect Gary-Stu who never suffers are dismissing the entire crux of the character.

Games!Sonic suffers all the time. He gets beaten; he has doubts; he makes mistakes. He just doesn't let setbacks get him down for long. He's an inspiration, an ideal to strive toward, rather than someone who is supposed to be #relatable.

---

They'll act like Metal is supposed to be a formiddable threat when...in canon practice, fuck no. Metal is a jobber

Kind of? Depends. Without any bells or whistles, Metal Sonic tends to blow his fuse on charged attacks and burn out pretty quickly.

He also admits he transformed his body with his own two hands because he could never seem to defeat Sonic. Sonic mocks the fact that he had to turn into a monster just to get a leg up over him:

However, he's not nearly as much of a jobber as IDW portrays him when Surge and Kit fry his circuits. There's no way that tactic should have worked; Metal is both waterproof and can be revived with large amounts of electricity.

The other half of this Spicy Meatball Take(tm) that fandom tends to struggle with is "Metal doesn't have an existential crisis, and it's illogical for him to have one if he believes himself to be the real Sonic."

Even when he's ranting in the Metal Madness and Overlord fights, his motives are fairly easy to understand as ego. He has one (1) line about no longer "being afraid," but it's so nothingburger compared to his other bluster about building a robot kingdom and lacks so much context (when, exactly, was Metal shown being afraid...?) that we can easily discard it. It's clear from the surrounding lines that Metal is just bullshitting because he's butthurt that he can never defeat Sonic. Why do you think Sonic rubs it in his face at the end of the game? lol

I'm almost convinced Iizuka imported his existential character arc from the OVA and forgot that it doesn't suit Games!Metal's character.

Metal mimicking Sonic's finger wag a grand total of once in Sonic CD (funny; never see anyone argue that Metal bullying animals mimics Sonic's mannerisms) doesn't inherently mean he believes himself to be the real Sonic. It just means Eggman programmed him to do so, for whatever reason.

Furthermore, if he genuinely believed he was the real Sonic, then he shouldn't have that much self-doubt to begin with. At least when Shadow got Sonic's goat in SA2, it was because he framed him and got the military on his ass. Shadow's interference came with concrete consequences that directly affected Sonic. What has Sonic done to threaten Metal's sense of identity, other than exist?

Why does a being that believes itself to be the "real" Sonic want to build a robot kingdom? A being that looks at itself in the mirror and says "I'm Sonic the Hedgehog" also turns around and says "Dictatorship under my robotic thumb is good, actually"?

There's also the paradox of "Why would a 'real' Sonic ever serve Eggman?" He wouldn't. Metal is bound by his programming because he's a robot. The implication that Eggman curtails his free will should further cement his status as Walking Toaster.

---

Because these perceptions are beyond infesting due to meme culture, none fans are incorrectly thinking "yeah he's an egotistical dick" like reg fans

People paint Games!Sonic as a boring Gary-Stu because his dickery isn't as pronounced as it is in Archie. Which is funny because Games!Sonic could stand to be a bit more sensitive, all things considered.

You need only look at his treatment of Knuckles in the Adventure era for proof:

Sonic parries Knuckles' "What about you?" with an insult.

Sonic sweet-talks Knuckles into searching for the keys even though he doesn't want to. Maybe because of the ghosts roaming about. They got Larry, after all.

Deeper's lyrics also suggest that Knuckles wishes Sonic were a little more considerate of his plight by having him imagine a scenario where Sonic acknowledges how important the Master Emerald is to Knuckles and offers to help him find it:

lol "wouldn't of." tfw the editors are asleep at the wheel

Note how surprised Knuckles looks here. Clearly this isn't something he expected Sonic to say. And before anyone is inclined to think Knuckles was the only one, Sonic's insensitivity would also annoy Tails and Amy on occasion:

---

So the idea of Sonic beating Shadow or Knux 1on1? They'll be pissed! Regardless of actual canon

Sonic kills demigods on a regular basis and pulled off Chaos Control so well that it surprised Shadow. Why is it a surprise that he probably could kick their asses lol.

---

Sidenote: remembered seeing someone be sad that "I'm Sonic, Sonic the Hedgehog" wasn't used much in 2010s, then miss the point on why. This is literally cuz there was no scenario it'd be appropriate (he doesn't meet a new neutral person besides Rookie, and that was a pressing situation of escaping)

tfw you complain about no "I'm Sonic, Sonic the Hedgehog" when "long time no see" is right there