#the thing you need to keep in mind is that most of this one is spoken and not sung

[prythianpages]

Take Me Home | Azriel x Reader

Azriel x Reader | When Azriel gets drunk, he forgets he has a wife.

warning: drinking, drunk & fluffy Az

a/n: You can thank tiktok for this one. It inspired me to take a little break from all the angst. I literally have never written a fic so fast before, this took me a little more than an hour. Just something short & sweet (1K words.)

Azriel liked to drink every now and then. Rarely, would he get drunk. He preferred maintaining control, always mindful of his surroundings and alert to his ever-listening shadows. 

But when he did get drunk, he'd sometimes forget he had a wife.

Normally, it was Azriel who stayed at your side. He was the hand that always found yours under the table when your words began to slur or the gentle pressure at the small of your back keeping you upright as you stumbled through the crowd. But tonight at Rita’s, something in his shoulders told you he needed to let go.

So when Cassian ordered shots for the table, you passed yours to Azriel with a playful grin, silently telling him, “your turn.”

He hesitated but after a few teasing remarks and a chorus of encouragement from the rest of the Inner Circle, he tipped the glass back and knocked it down in one go. Then another. And another. 

You watched the shift in him slowly unfold. His shoulders began to ease from their earlier tense posture. Though it was dark, you could see the inky tendrils of his shadows twitching and rippling less against his skin. Almost as if, they too, were content. 

You knew he was tipsy the moment he let Cassian drag him onto the dance floor without so much as a protest. And you knew he was drunk when he nearly tripped over nothing and just laughed before catching himself.

Across the table, you met Rhysand’s gaze. He was lounging back with a smirk, swirling his drink lazily in his hand as he watched the scene unfold.

“Should I stop him?” you asked, though your voice lacked any real concern. 

Rhysand raised his glass in salute toward Feyre, who had joined Cassian and Azriel on the dance floor.  “No. Let him. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him in weeks.”

Sensing your mate’s gaze on you, you turned your head back to the dance floor only to see Azriel shying away from your gaze. Oh yeah, he’s definitely drunk. Rhysand chuckled, mirroring your thoughts.

Rhysand was right, though. This was the most relaxed you’d seen your mate in weeks and your heart ached a little with how much he had needed a night out like this.

Azriel continued to sneak glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. He didn’t last much longer on the dance floor. Cassian’s spinning and swaying became too much, and eventually, he slipped away from his friend. His steps were a little uncoordinated.

Then, his eyes found yours. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at you like you were the only steady thing in the room. The grin that spread across his face was boyish and a little lopsided as he approached the table.

“Hey,” he said, swaying slightly.

“Hey.” You grinned back up at him, a hand reaching out to push back his hair. The stool you sat on gave you just enough advantage in height to do so. His wings shuddered in response, making your grin widen at how easily flustered he got when drunk. You adored it, reveling in being able to make him feel that way.

Azriel’s shadows danced lazily around his shoulders like they, too, were drunk. He leaned down, one of his wings casting a small shadow over you, offering some privacy in the midst of the noise.

“My friend over there,” he whisper-yelled, breath warm against your ear and his scent washing over you, “thinks you’re cute.”

You blinked, pulling back to look at him. “Friend?”

Before you could even process, he pointed to the side. You followed his hand, confused, just as a soft whoosh sounded beside you.

And there he was.

Standing a few feet away with the same grin on his face, exactly in the spot he had pointed to you. You pointed your hand at him and silently beckoned him back to you. With a dark glimmer of shadows, he vanished from across the room and stumbled right back in front of you. You hopped off the stool, catching him with both hands on his chest and helping in steadying him.

“Tell your friend I’m really flattered but I’m taking my husband home.”

You showed him your ring, lifting your hand in front of his glazed eyes. He blinked at it, brows pulling together. Something like disappointment flashed across his face, his wings drooping slightly behind him.

 “Oh.”

You bit your lip to keep from laughing, your heart melting as you gently reached for his hand. You lifted it, bringing it up the same level of the hand flashing your wedding ring. The matching silver band to yours gleamed on his finger, and you gave your finger a little wiggle for emphasis.

His eyes widened. “Oh.” A pause. “Me?”

You nodded, your fingers lacing with his. His whole face lit up, that grin of his brighter than ever and reaching all the way to those hazel eyes you loved so much. He turned to the person closest to you both, Rhysand, “I have a wife!”

Rhysand raised his brow in mock surprise. “Just wait until you find out you have a mate, buddy,” you heard him mutter.

But Azriel didn’t hear. Or maybe he did, and chose to ignore it. Either way, he turned back to you, stepping a little closer. You released his hand and Azriel was quick to place both his hands on your waist.

“Well then, my wife,” he said, pulling you flush to him, his tone and touch possessive in a way that made your stomach flutter.

He dipped his head, his forehead resting against yours, nose brushing yours in a gentle nuzzle. His eyes flicked to your lips, lingering for a beat too long, before lifting back to yours.

“Take me home.”

You laughed softly, cupping his cheeks and placing a chaste kiss to his lips. “Okay, my husband.”

He looked at you like he was falling for you all over again and then, his lips were chasing yours for another taste. Warmth bloomed in your chest, the bond between you thrumming with love and adoration.

Because even if Azriel forgot he had a wife when he was drunk, his heart always knew.

At the end of the night, in every life and every state of mind, he always chose you.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed this silly little fic! & kudos to you if you recognized the tiktok that inspired this.

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444 @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

@alwayshave-faith, @xadenswhore, @kodafics

[adorekento]

Thinking about Nanami Kento who started eating pineapples because he read somewhere that says it makes your cum taste better.

Yes. That’s all it took. One article.

He swore by it like it was gospel. And he’s definitely the type to believe anything he sees on social media—he once showed you an AI-generated video of a cat breakdancing with the most serious face and asked, “How do they train them to do this?”

You love him. Truly.

But sometimes, your man is a little too earnest.

At first, you didn’t think much of it.

“Pineapples?” you asked, brows raised as you pushed the grocery cart down the aisle, glancing at him with suspicion. He nodded, stepping beside you to help push the cart toward the fruit section.

“I’ll eat it. Don’t worry.” he said with the most nonchalant tone.

You snorted. “Ken, you never eat pineapples. Don’t play with me.”

He shrugged casually, reaching out for a ripe one. “Just trying out new things, darling.”

You didn’t press. You just smiled and kept shopping.

But then it became a pattern.

He started slicing pineapples right after breakfast. Drinking pineapple juice after lunch. Eating pineapple rings straight from the fridge after dinner. You’d find him standing by the counter at night—shirtless, towel around his waist, wet hair from the shower—cutting up fresh chunks like it was his new religion.

“What’s gotten into you, Ken?” you asked one night, leaning against the doorway in one of his old shirts. “Is this part of some new diet?”

“Don’t mind me, dear..” he said smoothly, offering you a slice. “Want some?”

You declined, shook your head, and walked back to your shared bedroom.

Then came the requests—“Can you pack me some pineapple slices for lunch, love?”

“Could you make me a pineapple smoothie before I head out?”

“Do we still have those pineapple popsicles?”

Now you were suspicious.

And then... you understood.

“O-Oh... Ken!”

You gasped, your voice muffled as he held your hair tighter, his other hand gripping the edge of the couch cushion. He was on the couch, legs spread, breathing ragged as you took his cock deeper into your mouth.

His hips rolled up slowly, purposwfully, guiding you with control and need. “Yes... darling... mhm—just like that...” he groaned, his voice a deep rumble that vibrated through your core.

You moaned softly around him, and he twitched against your tongue.

“Fuck... your mouth feels so good, baby.” he hissed, head falling back, golden brows furrowing in pleasure. “So pretty like this. So good for me.”

You hollowed your cheeks, slow and steady, letting your tongue trace every ridge and vein as his hips bucked slightly, losing composure.

His jaw clenched, brows drawn together, and his abs tensed under the golden glow of your bedroom lamp. He looked so perfect—hair damp, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in quiet awe as if you were divine.

Then his breath hitched. He cursed—low and deep—before he came, faster than usual. Hot, thick, with that slight tang you’d started noticing lately.

Your lashes fluttered, heart pounding as you stayed there, taking it all—tasting him, claiming him.

You closed your eyes for a second, letting your breath fan against his sensitive skin, before pulling off him slowly with a soft, wet pop. His chest rose and fell hard, like he’d just sprinted a marathon in your name.

Still catching his breath, He lookwd down at you, flushed. “is it… better?” he asked, a little hopeful, a little shy, like he’d just asked for validation on a science fair project.

You blinked up at him and raised a brow. “Mhm. It felt good, baby.”

“I’m glad,” he murmured, voice still thick with pleasure. But then, not too long.. “That’s all?”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean, Ken?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes darting away. “Well… I... read this article—it says if you eat pineapples regularly, it… um… makes your... release taste sweeter.”

You stared at him.

He cleared his throat. “So I’ve been… keeping track. Just curious if there's some change..”

You blinked again.

Then laughed. Loudly. Almost doubled over, laughing into his thigh.

“Oh, Ken.” you said through your grin, wiping a tear from the corner of your eye. “You’ve been training for that? You do know you don’t have to, right? Your cum already tastes good.”

He flushed. Actually flushed. “I just thought... maybe it’d be even better.”

“You’re ridiculous.” you giggled, crawling up his body and pressing kisses to his jaw. “And weird. But… weird in a sweet, earnest, completely MY boyfriend way.”

“I take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Later that night, you found him watching a video titled “5 Signs Your Boyfriend Hates You”, his face set with that same intense seriousness. He nodded along, mentally ticking off the signs to make sure he wasn't doing them with you. You didn't even bother to say anything. You just grabbed his collar and kissed him, harder.

a/n: it doesn't make ur cum taste sweet btw 🥀 ALSO I'm writing some long ass shit plz WAIT 💔

© [ adorekento ] do not steal, repost, or translate my work.

[soulcaketuesday]

Five of Swords 🗡️

In a show about people being trapped in self made coffins, Namami is one of the only characters that's able to step away when she realises how harmful the system is to her. This card isn't about that, though! Five of Swords is about trying to win an unnecessary battle, inevitable defeat, and trying really hard to stab a classmate. Don't mind the bloody nose, the scraped knee, the smudged mascara - she's going to keep fighting, longer than she needs to, no matter who gets hurt, as long as the sun keeps shining down just on her like a spotlight.

one of my pieces from a now cancelled zine. the other piece is here, go look at this kid having a chill day. drafts and notes below

NANAMI MY GIRL MY SILLY GOOSE i was sooo happy to get assigned a card about her and i REALLY wanted to do the concept justice!! but i was fighting with this the entire time lmao!! i think her pose and expression changed a thousand times and i couldn't figure out where to place the swords or what to do with the sky, i kept trying to switch to a more painterly style bc i hated the lines and ended up just wasting time.... nightmare!!! well anyway hope u like it 💁‍♂️

some things:

she's wearing anthy's rose bride tiara and the earrings that were given to utena by akio, which can only mean good things for her. she's winning the fight. she's gonna win it. (the sillhouette of her shorts is similar to tsuwabuki's middle school uniform shorts in an effort to make her look more childish)

touga was originally supposed to be lurking in the background but he was messing with the composition so i deleted him. then his sword was supposed to be impaling nanami's rose but i didn't like it there so i moved it. despite everything he's still in the scene but only if you have eyes and hearts that believe..........

the yellow sun and white clouds could be an egg 🍳 it could be 🥚 take my hand...

i think the third thumbnail was actually my first attempt but i didn't like it very much... i liked the first one but wasnt sold on it tbh!! i still like the imagery of the tangled swords weighing her down and the little cuts and bandages on her hand, but idkkkkk. i just wouldn't have made it work lol so i guess i went for the most complicated one 💁‍♂️

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Nineteen

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

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

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

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

2021 (Hungary)

Max was having headaches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

He leaned back, stretching his legs out. 

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

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

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

Not just any McLaren, either.

One capable of winning championships.

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

It was stupid, probably.

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughed under his breath. A minute passed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t miss a beat. "Monaco." 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

“Do you think I’d be a good mom?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amelia nodded again, more to herself this time. 

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

Without hesitation, she rattled off the answer.

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

She answered every time without missing a beat.

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

Amelia smiled, small and shy but real.

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

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

— 

She felt... clingy.

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

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

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

She didn’t feel normal.

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

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

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

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

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

But reason didn’t quiet the fear.

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

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

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

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

It helped. A little.

— 

Lando out-qualified Daniel by a mile.

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, barely, but it was enough.

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

Amelia pinned him in three moves flat.

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

— 

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

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

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

Amelia flexed her fingers, breathing deep and slow. 

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

Chaos.

Immediate, all-consuming chaos.

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

She flinched so hard she almost dropped her iPad.

And then Max—Max—

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

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

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

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

Her hands trembled.

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

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

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

The red flag was thrown. Race temporarily suspended.

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

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

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

Didn't trust herself to speak yet.

— 

Lando was out.

Too much damage. Retired on lap two.

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

Esteban won. His first victory.

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

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

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

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

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

Lando squeezed her tighter.

— 

Summer break came just when she needed it.

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

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

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

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

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

— 

They fell in love with the first place they viewed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

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

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

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

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

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

— 

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

“So, how was it?” He asked. 

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

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

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

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

She raised an eyebrow but stood up, moving to join him. As she sat beside him on the steps, she rested her head on his shoulder. “You’re really good at this whole comfort thing.”

Lando chuckled, sliding an arm around her waist. “I try my best.” After a beat, he stood up, holding out a hand to her. “Wanna dance?”

Amelia looked at him, surprised, but the quiet night seemed to make everything feel a little more possible. She took his hand with a grin. “We’re really doing this?”

Lando smiled, tugging her to her feet. “Why not? It’s a slow song.”

The music played on, soft and gentle, and for a moment, neither of them said anything. Just moved together, swaying under the dim glow of the patio lights, with the sound of the wind and distant waves in the background. Amelia closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the moment settle into her chest, her heart still thudding, but in a different way now.

“You know, you’ve been pretty great,” she murmured after a while, her hand resting against his chest. “With everything.”

Lando’s smile was barely visible in the dark, but she felt it in the way he pulled her just a little closer. “Always.”

She closed her eyes.

Always sounded pretty good.

NEXT CHAPTER

[strawberrypinky]

I try to keep this blog relatively free of openly discussing politics for various reasons, but as I continue to watch what is currently happening in the United States, my horror outweighs my desire to keep this a purely fandom related zone.

I am an Englishwoman who was raised in Germany. Roughly four years of my History curriculum (a mandatory class I had to take, mind you) were dedicated to studying Nazi Germany. I directed a play for Holocaust Remembrance Day, and in preparation for it I was allowed to read original Nazi files on homosexuals in a federal archive. I am also an autistic woman.

I have read, precisely, what eugenics lead to, and it remains the most horrifying thing I have read in my entire lifetime.

The Nazis considered everyone unworthy of life who fell under one of the following "categories":

Epileptic

Schizophrenic

Manic-depressive

Suffering from Cerebral palsy or muscular dystrophy

Deaf and/or blind

Homosexual or "transvestites" (which at the time was used to refer to intersex and transgender people, particularly trans women)

Anyone else showing signs of disabilities affecting cognitive ability or being diagnosed with one

Autistic people were considered “unworthy of life” by the Nazis. Although eugenics was already a troubling issue in Germany before their rise to power, the Nazis’ obsession with “biological improvement” in pursuit of a so-called perfect Aryan race led to horrific practices that echo the proposals we see today from RFK Jr. The Nazis gathered routine information from doctors’ offices and welfare departments, using it to compile lists of those they deemed “unfit.” Hundreds of children and adults were targeted — murdered, experimented on, or forcibly sterilised.

To publicly call for a “disease registry” to track autistic people is openly engaging in tactics used by Nazi Germany. It’s eugenics - point, blank, period.

Autistic people have, and always will continue to exist. They are not a “problem” or “crisis” to be solved, or a “tragic” aberration that needs to be snuffed out. Autism is not an “epidemic”, nor the result of vaccinations. It is not a “preventable disease”. Autism does not “ruin families”.

Today, we see a rise in autism diagnoses not because autism itself is increasing, but because we are finally recognising it in populations - especially women - who were historically overlooked. Diagnostic criteria have improved dramatically over the past two decades, and autism is no longer treated merely as a “last resort” label for children with cognitive disabilities.

The ongoing push to “find the cause of autism,” while simultaneously slashing funding for the Department of Education, Medicaid, and social services that support autistic individuals, is not about helping anyone. It is a thinly veiled attempt to justify modern-day eugenics under the guise of scientific inquiry. Most autistic individuals are fully capable of leading independent, fulfilling lives. And those who require higher levels of support are no less deserving of love, kindness, respect, and the fundamental dignity owed to every human being - not subjected to the cruelty of ableist agendas.

Watching history begin to repeat itself, despite countless promises of “never again,” is horrifying in more ways than I can even begin to express - and make no mistake: if anyone believes this agenda will stop with autistic individuals, they are gravely mistaken.

[intromortal]

ꕥ MAKE YOU MINE ⸻ lee heeseung

lee heeseung doesn't do relationships or any of that 'labels' stuff, it's a known fact. yet when jay's gaze lingers too long on you, he can't help but leave his mark on you in one way or another

this work contains ⋆ smut. mdni. jealousy, p in v, creampie, no protection, manhandling, name calling, degradation!!! hair pulling, mean hee won't kiss you, kinda toxic situationship thing going on, Feelings, reader is kinda crazy but also i've had too much caffeine today So ⸻ rules ⋆ m.list

length ⋆ drabble ⸻ 1.8k words

Heeseung, all things considered, is a pretty chill and laid back guy. Not prone to big displays of jealousy, especially anywhere public.

Most of the time he's quietly laying back on a couch at a party across the room, watching you with a glint in his eyes as you reject yet another guy trying to sneak his way into your pants. There’s something about the way you so obediently glance his way every time someone tries to flirt you, how your expression ever so slightly shifts to something he would describe as needy when he slouches further into the soft brown cushions, legs spread almost as if to invite you over on his lap.

It’s been months since you started fucking, and as embarrassing for you as it feels to admit, you two haven't really put a label on what your... status actually is. You’re definitely more than friends—though you don't know if you would even consider Heeseung your friend in the first place—but you also don't believe you're anywhere close to being a thing yet. That litter sliver of something keeps you fucking hooked on Heeseung though, even when you know it's terrible for you.

And he enjoys every second of it. How you're so loyal to him even when he doesn't give you any reason to be.

He’s confident you'll follow him around everywhere like a little lost puppy as long as he keeps feeding you whatever crumb you need; a gentle brush of his hand whenever he greets you, a soft compliment whispered in your ear before leaving you to find something to drink, a sweet forehead kiss at the end of the night when you've both found your way between the bed sheets. I’ve got it under control, he thinks.

Yet he can't find any explanation—one that he’d make peace with, that is—for the scorching rage that overcomes him whenever he sees you and your bestie walking hand in hand around campus. The slightest twitch to his eye when he notices how bright you seem to be around Jay, how hard you laugh at his jokes and how touchy you are, shoving his shoulder away when he makes a stupid comment, yet letting your hand linger on the cotton of his shirt. There’s a different light coming from within you when he's around, and Heeseung fucking hates it with his entire being.

Mostly because he doesn't want to admit what it really is. Lee Heeseung is the furthest thing from a relationship-kind-of-guy you could possibly ever find, and it's always been this way, everyone knows.

To fuck with him is to make peace with the fact that you'll never be anything more than someone to warm his bed—or car backseats more often than not. And most are okay with that as long as they get their hands on a piece of him, no matter for how short. You were okay with that too, at the very start. It just doesn't help that lately he has fucked you like he loves and hates you at the same time, and while you try your best to not let his empty calculated affections tie you down to him too much, it's gotten harder and harder to escape the literal black hole Heeseung is.

You promised yourself to only orbit around him for a bit, then escape at the first pull you feel is too strong. But here you are, on the event horizon anyway.

His lingering stares whenever Jay is around don't go unnoticed by you, far from it actually. And maybe you even play into it a little too much, because here you are, underneath Heeseung, and for the first time in weeks he's fucking you like love is the furthest feeling possible from both his mind and heart.

It's funny, how he's tried to maintain his cool around you so desperately, and what finally breaks him is Jay staring way too long at your ass for it to be a mistake. There’s nothing Heeseung would have loved more than to beat him to a pulp, for looking at his girl like that.

Except you're not his girl—he hadn't even realized he really wanted you to possibly be until then—so he can't do that. But what he can do instead is take it out on your poor unsuspecting pussy.

"You are such a nasty slut," he whispers against your lips as he pistons into your weeping cunt, ignoring every attempt you make to kiss him, biting down on your bottom lip when you don't catch the hint. "Walking around in that tight black skirt, for what?" It feels like he's spitting venom at you, a primal edge to his tone unlike anything you've ever heard from him. Despite everything, you'd be lying if you said it didn't make your pussy clamp even harder around him, trying to milk his girth for all it’s worth.

You take too long to reply for his liking, his hand digging almost hurtfully into your cheeks to force you to look at him. "For. What?"

"I– fuck, i don't know."

He looks at you incredulously, like you must've gone dumb on his cock already, while his movements come to halt, despite your little cries and begs for him not to.

"Yes, you fucking do," he spits, grabbing your thighs and flipping you over onto your knees. A little scream rips out of you at the sudden motion as he manhandles you in whatever way he wants, paying no mind to any possible aching body part of yours or any discomfort you may feel. "Wore it to flaunt this ass around, didn't you? I know you did."

He lands a harsh smack on the skin of your bottom, kissing his teeth in annoyance when your entire body jerks forward, front collapsing on the bed. He eases his cock back into you in one thrust, setting a pace that is somehow faster and harsher than the one you could barely keep up with earlier. "Wanted  Jay to bend you over like this, huh?"

"N-no! I– ngh." Your rebuttal is cut short by his hips slamming into yours with a harsh thrust, his thick hand pushing your head against the sheets, uncaring of all the drool that's dripping from your mouth, your eyes rolling into your skull. He plants one of his feet into the soft mattress, the new angle helping him reach so much deeper inside you as the hold on your hips becomes nearly unbearable, sure to leave a flashy bruise.

Good, he thinks. Let everyone know I own you.

It doesn't matter that you two will still not put a label on whatever you have going on after this, Heeseung will find a way to mark you up with his actions instead. He'll fuck you so good even in the off chance you give Jay a chance all you'll think about is gonna be going back to him right after.

"Oh, shut the fuck up." He grabs some of your hair, using it as leverage to fuck into you even harder, the mix of pain and pleasure so unbelievably delicious you don’t even know what to do with yourself if not just lay there and take it all. "That’s all a slut like you is good for anyway, shut her mouth and let me use her pretty pussy as I please."

And it doesn't matter for you either you realize, a fucked out smile spreading on your face as he takes you like he has never done before, because to get a reaction out of the ever so collected Lee Heeseung, it means you have made him your bitch as much as he has made you his. He just doesn't know it yet.

The sudden thought is so euphoric it pushes you close to the edge instantly, your cunt clenching around him more and more while Heeseung is behind you wondering why he just heard a giggle leave your throat in the midst of it all.

"Is this some kind of fucking joke to you?" His voice is rough, but the hint of uneasiness behind the facade is easy to pick up on, it only spurs you to laugh more—as much as you can manage, because soon his thrusts get angrier and you don't know if you're laughing, crying or moaning anymore.

You taste the salty tears running straight into your open mouth, and you don't exactly know why you're crying because you have never felt lighter, even with the harsh, repeated press of Heeseung's hips against your red, marked up flesh.

Heeseung thinks you must've gone delirious on his cock, the proof being the very white ring you're leaving on the base of his cock, and while his chest blooms and tickles with something unfamiliar to him, he can't help but want even more. He wants to give you even more.

He doesn't recall when this punishment he's inflicting on you turned around to him chasing your approval so fucking bad, but he can't stop. He can't stop himself from gawking at your bent back littered in his marks, he can't stop himself from bending down to mouth at your neck when all he initially wanted to do was put you back in your place, he can't stop himself from letting his hand find your familiar little bundle of nerves to roll circles on it.

He tells himself it's not for you, it's for him, so he can hear all the divine noises you're making for just a little longer, just enough to reach his orgasm.

His lips brush your nape again, and he wishes he hadn't turned you over so he could taste your laugh right off your lips. He almost opens his mouth to say something he might regret, but he stops himself with a low, guttural moan and a stripe licked on your skin instead.

Neither of you last long after that, and you come with shudder around him, cunt milking him for all he has, all he is worth. He gives it all to you, filling you up so well it has you clawing the sweaty bed sheets beneath you.

You're glowing underneath him as he gets off of you, and Heeseung doesn't want to linger on the fact that his chest cavity, where his heart is supposed to be, glows just as much for you. It's a scary thought.

"You're mine," you whisper, like you've finally cracked the code to something you couldn't wrap your head around for the longest. You state it like a fact, like how you do when you say things commonly agreed upon—like the earth being round and Sim Jaeyun having the prettiest dick on campus.

You don't turn to Heeseung when he says nothing after and all that fills the room is the swooshing of his clothes being collected from the floor and your front door shutting with a soft thud.

It doesn't matter, because whether he likes it or now, you know he has nowhere to go if not back to you.

[bjlipss]

— i would love to go back to the old house;

★ synopsis: you and satoru make a promise to marry each other if you’re both still alone by thirty.

miyan’s notes: no curse au, no warnings, maybe some realness, just fluff and smut. wc: 3681.

you’re both seventeen, laying on the grass behind the school gym, where the sun’s dipped low enough to cast everything in a warm, golden haze.

it’s late spring—almost summer—and the scent of cut grass clings to your clothes, sweet and sharp. someone’s left a soccer ball abandoned a few feet away. the world feels lazy and endless, like nothing important could ever happen here.

you’re side by side, arms brushing but never quite touching, your pinkies just barely grazing sometimes when one of you shifts. satoru’s sunglasses are crooked on his face, and he doesn’t fix them. his white hair is fanned out messily over the grass, and there’s a blade of it stuck behind his ear. he hasn’t noticed.

he was dumped yesterday. you heard about it from someone else before he told you���his ex apparently said he was too much. too loud, too intense, too everything. it made you kind of furious, but you didn’t say that. you just sat with him today, like always.

your first real relationship ended last week. it wasn’t even dramatic. just two people slowly realizing they didn’t quite know how to hold each other anymore. still, it left a hollow feeling in your chest, one you’re pretending isn’t there.

he exhales, slow and dramatic. “you ever think we’re just… cursed or something?”

you snort. “that’s a little dramatic.”

“it’s me,” he says, turning his head toward you, and you can see the curve of a grin forming. “drama is my whole thing.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t say no. he quiets down again, goes back to staring at the sky with a look that’s a little more thoughtful than usual. birds are flying overhead in little staggered v’s, and there’s a faint breeze brushing your skin.

then, like it’s the most casual thing in the world, he says, “if we’re both single at thirty, let’s just marry each other.”

you blink. the silence after feels loud.

“what?” you laugh, eyebrows lifting. “what kind of pact is that?”

he shrugs, still looking up. “a realistic one. we already know each other’s worst habits. you can tolerate me. that’s rare.”

“you’re an idiot,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “but sure. yeah. a backup plan. solid.”

you mean it like a joke. like a throwaway thing. but then he turns his head toward you, and his glasses slide down his nose just enough that you can see his eyes—really see them.

“no,” he says. “i’m serious.”

you stare at him. he’s not laughing. there’s something oddly earnest in the way he says it, like he’s offering something fragile and important without realizing it. like a promise he doesn’t expect you to keep, but wants you to want to.

your heart does a weird thing. tightens. pulls.

you swallow. “okay. me too.”

neither of you says anything after that. the sun dips lower. the breeze picks up. the world moves around you, but for a moment, it’s just the two of you in that quiet stretch of time, young and bruised and hopeful.

your pinkies brush again.

this time, neither of you pulls away.

—

years pass.

at first, the promise is a soft, silly memory tucked into the back of your mind like a note in a locker you never emptied. you think about it sometimes—on your birthday, when your heart gets broken again, when you see a wedding invitation in the mail and wonder how people keep getting so lucky. the pact becomes a kind of quiet comfort, a lighthouse in the distance. not real, but there. always there.

you go to university. he does too. different cities, different people, different rhythms. you both grow into yourselves slowly, awkwardly, like plants reaching for light in the wrong season. you learn how to love better. how to walk away when you need to. how to be alone and not hate it.

you date people who are kind. people who challenge you. people who hurt you in ways that teach you something. some of them ask about him, the boy in the old photos, the one whose name still slips out when you’re tired or wine-drunk. you always brush it off, say he’s just someone from your past. nothing more. nothing to see here.

he dates too. once, you find out through a mutual that he’s seeing someone seriously—a girl who’s smart and sweet and nothing like you. it bothers you more than you want to admit. but you never say anything. you just keep your head down, push it away like you do with everything else that hurts. you’re happy for him, you think. you should be.

life moves fast, and slow, and fast again. you move cities. he changes jobs. there are stretches of time where you don’t think about him at all—and then suddenly everything reminds you of him again. a song he used to hum under his breath. the way someone else laughs. a white-haired stranger passing by on the street, so close to the version of him you remember but not quite right. the ghost of him lingers, not haunting you, but following you in the corners of your life.

and then, there are the moments when life tangles your paths back together.

—

it’s your friend’s birthday—an old classmate who’s turned their tiny apartment into a chaos of people and warm lights. the kind of party that’s too loud, too crowded, but you’re here anyway because it’s easier to go than stay home. the tension of being alone hits you in the chest as soon as you walk in. everyone’s happy. everyone’s with someone. everyone’s moving forward, but you’re stuck at some point in the past, lingering in the gap between where you were and where you should be.

you almost don’t go, tired from work, emotionally drained. but you show up, because something tells you to. maybe it’s because you promised yourself you’d stop running from things that make you uncomfortable. or maybe it’s just the weird way life works, pulling you toward the people and places you’re not ready for yet.

you’re standing near the kitchen, sipping a drink you don’t really care about, when you hear it—a laugh that cuts through the noise, familiar and unexpected. a laugh you know instantly, one that hits you in the chest like a familiar song. it’s a sound you haven’t heard in years, but it’s like it never left.

you turn, the crowd of people blurring out of focus, and there he is.

satoru.

he’s leaning against the fridge, talking to someone you don’t recognize, his hair a little longer, his shirt untucked, uncuffed. still so him, but also… different. his face is older, but still beautiful in that effortless way, the same white hair, the same sharp eyes that seem to know you even from across the room.

he sees you. he freezes. and for a second, it’s like time holds its breath.

“hey,” he says, voice soft, almost surprised. “you look…”

he doesn’t finish the sentence. but you hear it anyway. you look the same. you look different. i didn’t expect to see you here.

you smile like you’re not unraveling. like it doesn’t matter that your heart just skipped a beat. “it’s been a while.”

he hugs you then, warm and solid. it lasts a second too long. too much unsaid between you both, but it’s all there in the tension of his arms around you. the promise is still alive in the quiet air between your breaths. but neither of you mentions it.

he leaves before you do.

—

months later, it’s a late-night convenience store in tokyo. you’re tired, bleary-eyed, the kind of exhausted that comes from too many late shifts and not enough sleep. you’re reaching for instant noodles and a bottle of tea when you hear the shuffle of footsteps behind you. you don’t look, too focused on the shelves in front of you. but then you hear it—his voice, soft but unmistakable.

“you live around here now?” he asks, stunned.

you freeze for a moment. and then you turn.

there he is, standing in the aisle like he’s part of some strange dream. his hair is tied back messily, longer than before. he’s holding a bag of sour candies, blinking at you like he’s not sure if you’re real or if his tired eyes are just playing tricks on him.

“yeah,” you say, suddenly self-conscious. “just moved a couple months ago.”

“me too,” he says, a little sheepish. “just moved last week. tokyo’s a lot different from what i remembered.”

you laugh, and for a moment, it’s like you’re both seventeen again, standing in the hallway after class, talking about nothing. only now, it’s quieter. more knowing. there’s a little more space between you both, but you don’t feel it as much as you think you should. he’s still satoru, after all.

you talk for a few minutes, small things. the weather. work. how both of you somehow managed to end up in the same city again after all this time. his hair’s longer now, and so is yours. there’s something different about him, something worn into the lines of his face, but you’re still the same. you’re still the same. the realization hits you like a wave.

when you say goodbye, there’s a small flicker of something in his eyes. like he wants to say something else. something important. maybe you do too. but you don’t.

you both go your separate ways, the moment slipping away with every step, but neither of you forgets it. not really.

—

another year passes. you’re invited to a mutual friend’s engagement party. you don’t know it’s mutual until you arrive and see him standing on the balcony, glass of wine in hand. his back is to you, but you recognize the way his shoulders sit under the weight of the world, the way his posture softens when he’s trying to relax.

you hesitate. for a second, you think about leaving. about turning around and pretending you never saw him, never heard that familiar laugh or felt that same ache in your chest. but you stay. something inside you says that this is the time. that maybe, just maybe, the universe is ready for you to have the conversation you’ve been avoiding for years.

you walk over. he turns, and his eyes widen when he sees you.

“this is getting ridiculous,” he says, a grin tugging at his lips. “we keep showing up like we’re being summoned.”

you laugh, but it’s a little more nervous than you mean it to be. “maybe we are.”

you talk for fifteen minutes, small talk mostly. his girlfriend is waiting inside—he doesn’t say that, but you can tell. he’s polite, but distant this time. something in his eyes is different, more guarded than you remember. and it’s strange. it feels like a wall has gone up between you both, and you can’t figure out why. you want to ask, but you don’t. it’s not your place.

something tightens in your chest, a quiet jealousy you don’t want to feel but can’t help. so you excuse yourself early.

—

and then there’s the funeral.

someone you both knew in high school. someone you weren’t close to, but close enough to go. it’s raining—of course it is—and your coat is too thin for the chill. the crowd is subdued, the kind of heavy silence you only get at funerals. you stand off to the side, trying not to draw attention, but then you spot him across the crowd.

he’s standing alone under an umbrella, his jaw clenched. his eyes are cast downward, but when he looks up, he sees you. his gaze sharpens, like he’s unsure if you’re really there. but then he steps toward you, slow and hesitant.

you don’t speak much. just stand side by side beneath the gray sky, the rain soft on your faces, like a veil between everything that was and everything that could have been. you don’t know if it’s the weight of the moment or something else, but it feels like you’re both seventeen again, standing in that quiet space between friendship and something more.

afterward, when you’re on the train home, your phone buzzes. a contact name that hasn’t been on your phone for a while.

satoru: thirty’s not that far.

you stare at the screen for a long time, the words sinking into your chest like a stone. the promise that’s always been there, waiting for the right moment to be spoken. but now, in the quiet of your apartment, you don’t reply.

you think about it. about everything. about how he said it, softer than usual, quieter than you’re used to. you think about his eyes, the way they followed yours. the rain on his umbrella. the years that have passed.

you think about his voice, and you wonder if he remembers the exact words. you wonder if he ever stopped.

—

… you almost don’t go. again.

the invitation sits unopened on your counter for days before you cave, peeling it open with the tip of your key. you don’t recognize the name on the envelope immediately, but inside, there’s a handwritten card. a friend-of-a-friend, someone you once shared a table with at a dinner party, who remembered your smile. you had forgotten about them, honestly. but here they are, inviting you into their life, into their celebration. their quiet reminder that life moves on, and people keep finding their paths while you still seem to be standing still.

“it’ll be nice,” your coworker says when you mention it offhand. “dress up, eat fancy cake, forget your life for an evening.”

you smile. nod. pretend it’s not terrifying—the thought of being surrounded by people who’ve figured it out—who’ve found their person, their path, their place in the world. the thought of seeing them again—the ones who chose their someone. and you’re left holding only the pieces of a promise, one you had never quite stopped waiting on.

but you go anyway. because you said you would. because maybe, just maybe, it will be easier to let go of things you’re holding onto by showing up. by being there.

the venue is small and beautiful, tucked in a quiet corner of the city. ivy climbs up stone walls, winding their way to the second floor, the kind of building that feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something important to happen. soft music spills out from the inside, cascading into the courtyard where the last rays of the day spill gold over everyone’s skin, turning them all into something fleeting, something perfect.

you wear a color you’ve always liked on yourself, something soft and simple, but still carefully chosen. it’s funny—how you’ve started choosing your clothes more for yourself than for anyone else. how you’ve learned to dress for the person you’ve grown into, not the one you thought you’d be. you smile as you check your reflection one last time. and then, you spot it—lipstick on your teeth. for the first ten minutes, you don’t know, and then someone kindly points it out, their laugh light and warm. you laugh too, grateful for the small kindness. you take a drink from a glass of champagne that’s almost too pretty to touch, as if it should be saved for something special, and for a second, you almost feel like you belong here.

you don’t know many people at the party. that’s fine. you’ve never been one to throw yourself into the middle of things. you’ve always been the one to drift at events like these, skimming the surface, smiling politely, offering a few words here and there, but keeping your hands folded in your lap when you sit, staying small, staying unnoticed.

you make it through the ceremony. the vows are sweet. you clap when you’re supposed to. you eat a few hors d’oeuvres, and when the music gets too loud and the voices start blending into a buzz, you slip away to the balcony. it’s quiet out here. the city hums beneath you, distant and untouchable. for a moment, you let yourself breathe.

and then you hear it—laughter. soft, familiar. close.

you turn, already knowing. already feeling the weight of it before you see him.

he’s standing a few steps away from the doorway, talking to someone you don’t recognize. sleeves rolled up to his elbows, tie a little loose like he’s just been letting the night happen around him. his hair’s still white—shorter now, messier, and there’s something about the way the years have softened him in places you never thought could soften. his eyes still hold that distant glimmer, the one you always tried to make sense of. but now, there’s something more grounded in him—something that matches the tiredness you’ve started carrying around yourself.

he’s changed. and he hasn’t.

your chest tightens.

then, like some invisible thread has tugged at his spine, he turns.

his eyes land on you.

and the world tilts, just slightly.

he goes still.

you don’t move either.

something deep in your ribs aches with how long it’s been, with how many almosts have collected between you over the years. so many moments where he almost looked back, where you almost said something, where life almost collided and made sense. but it didn’t. not then. and maybe not now.

his expression shifts—surprise first, then something warmer. softer. something like disbelief, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, one that you can’t ignore. maybe it’s a memory. maybe it’s hope.

“hey,” he says, stepping closer. his voice is quieter than you remember, like he’s afraid to break the moment. “i didn’t know you were coming.”

you swallow, suddenly aware of how dry your throat is. “me either. i didn’t know we had mutual friends.”

he lets out a breath that sounds too much like a laugh. “of course we do. fate’s had a weird sense of humor since we were seventeen.”

you don’t say anything. you just look at him.

his eyes scan your face like he’s trying to memorize it all over again. he looks at you as though you’re someone he never quite expected to see again, and it feels like he’s seeing all of you, not just the parts he remembers. he’s still beautiful in that effortless way—how he’s always been—but now, there’s something real in it. something tired, something weighted, something that speaks of the years between. of all the things that have happened since.

you speak first. “you look good.”

he smiles slowly, his mouth curving up in that easy way that always made your heart trip. “so do you. better than good.”

you roll your eyes a little. “still laying it on thick, i see.”

“you used to like that,” he murmurs, and there’s something vulnerable in the way his voice dips, something nostalgic, almost like he wants to reach back through time and pull out the version of you that used to smile when he flirted. the version that used to think it meant something. “used to smile when i flirted.”

“used to,” you echo. but your voice is gentler than the words. there’s a quiet understanding between you now. something that was there before, buried beneath everything that has passed.

a beat passes.

and then he asks, almost cautiously, “are you still with anyone?”

you shake your head.

his eyes flicker, searching yours for something. for a sign. “me neither.”

your stomach flips.

there’s something there in his gaze—something that feels like an opening, like a crack where the past might slip back in. you both stand there, framed by the golden glow of the setting sun and the hum of music drifting in from the party. it feels like the air around you is waiting. like the universe has been holding its breath, waiting for this moment, just to see what you’ll do now. to see what the two of you will decide to do with all the time that has passed, with all the unspoken things between you.

“you remember,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, “what we said, back then?”

you don’t pretend you don’t. you nod. “yeah. i remember.”

his hands slip into his pockets. he shifts a little, as though unsure of himself, and his eyes stay locked on yours. “at some point i started to think it was just a joke. something we said to make the world feel less uncertain.”

“me too,” you admit, the words soft and honest. “but it never stopped feeling real.”

he tilts his head, watching you, and you can feel the weight of everything hanging in the space between you. “i kept waiting,” he says, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “not on purpose. not always. but every time something ended, every time i felt alone again, i’d think—maybe we’re still heading there. maybe we just haven’t caught up to the promise yet.”

your breath hitches. it feels like the air is too thick. too much. too many years folded up between you.

“and now we’re thirty,” he says, a small, stunned smile tugging at his lips. “and you’re here. and i’m here. and i don’t want to waste more time pretending like i don’t want this.”

you look at him. really look at him. and suddenly, all the years, all the almosts, all the moments where you left too early or he looked back too late, they don’t feel like failures anymore. they feel like steps—each one leading you toward this. this moment. this chance to finally make good on something that’s been waiting.

you take one step now.

closer.

his breath catches when your fingers brush his, like he’s not sure if this is real, if it’s happening. And then, when you don’t pull away, when you stay there, your fingers lacing together as though it’s always been that easy, something shifts. The years that kept you apart, the missed chances, the long silences—they start to fall away.

you lean in.

and when you kiss him, it’s not loud, not dramatic, not bursting with fireworks.

it’s quiet.

it’s soft.

it’s like coming home.

it’s like finally keeping a promise you never really stopped waiting on.

[pipszhou]

𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐛'𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐭

✧ — synopsis: Top of the class? Not for long. All it took was one lecture, one remote-controlled vibrator, and Professor Caleb’s merciless control to turn you into a shaking, dripping mess. And when he calls you up to the chalkboard, you learn the real curriculum: obedience, humiliation, and being bred full by your favorite professor.

✧ — pairing: caleb x mc

✧ — wc: ~2.5k

✧ — tags: professor caleb, semi-public sex, vibrators, humiliation, degradation, subspace, sexual overstimulation, creampie, breeding, power imbalance, dom/sub, rough sex, size kink, dirty talk, cock warming, spanking, hair-pulling, biting, marking, possessive behavior, multiple orgasms, orgasm control, begging, soft aftercare, classroom sex, pet names

✧ — notes: hello hello again i'm really horny so i wrote this within a day. not beta read, i hope you enjoy my horny endeavors! i just need more power imbalance lmao

You’re in a predicament.

The top student of the entire university—the pride of the campus—yet here you are, sitting at the back of the lecture hall with your thighs pressed tightly together, your nails digging into the edges of your seat. Your brows furrow, delicate lines forming between your temples as you bite down hard on your bottom lip, desperately trying to smother the whimpers threatening to spill out.

Because nestled deep inside you, hidden from the world, is a merciless vibrator—thick, hot, and unforgiving—pounding into your dripping cunt with devastating precision. Each thrust stretches you open wide, the fat head grinding against every desperate, soaked spot inside you. The toy doesn't just vibrate; it fucks into you, grinding in deep, twisting and pulsing like a real cock seeking to wreck you completely. Your walls flutter helplessly around it, clenching and spasming in pathetic pleasure.

As if that wasn’t enough, a suction toy clamps tightly onto your swollen clit, tugging and slurping with obscene, wet noises, like it's trying to suck your soul straight out through your trembling folds. Every pull sends white-hot sparks through your body, every pulse making you jolt and tremble.

All because of him.

Professor Caleb. Your childhood friend. Your Gege. Now the most sought-after artificial intelligence lecturer on campus—the heartthrob every girl wanted. And the man who had no mercy for you.

This was his game. His twisted, cruel judgment: could you endure, maintain your perfect, untouchable image... while the toy he prepared tore you apart from the inside out?

Or would you crack, humiliate yourself by running to the bathroom to finger yourself raw like a desperate little thing?

You refused to lose.

Your pride was too fierce.

Your stubbornness, too stupid.

So you stayed in your seat, trembling, thighs sticky and slick, grinding ever so slightly against the chair in a desperate bid for relief. Hands clamped over your mouth, you prayed no one would hear the faint, wicked buzzing between your legs. You clenched, you gasped, you endured.

Until the voice you dreaded most called out, slicing through your fragile composure like a blade.

"Class number 13," Caleb said smoothly, his voice sending shivers down your spine. "Please come up and solve the problem. What is the predicted value output of this activation layer in the full network?"

Oh gods.

Oh fuck.

Your heart plummeted. Your body spasmed around the merciless toy, gushing helplessly. Your mind—blank, so utterly blank, filled only with the overwhelming feeling of being stuffed full and sucked dry.

You hadn’t heard a single word of the lecture.

But you had a reputation to keep. The golden girl. The untouchable ace.

You forced yourself to rise, your nails digging into the table so hard they threatened to break. You took slow, shaky breaths, fighting to control the feverish pulse hammering through you. Your legs trembled as you stepped out into the aisle, every eye in the room burning into your skin, every step feeling like a mile-long walk of shame.

You reached the front—and there he was. Professor Caleb. Eyes dark with amusement. Smirk hidden behind the respectable façade.

He handed you the chalk. His fingers brushed yours—and in that exact moment, you caught it: the glint of the remote tucked in his palm.

A flick of his thumb.

The vibrator inside you roared to life, surging to its highest setting, brutal and relentless. It slammed into you, the fat shaft pistoning deep, hammering your g-spot, dragging moans up your throat you barely swallowed down. The toy twisted with each brutal thrust, the head grinding against your sweetest spots, almost lovingly cruel in how it refused to let you breathe.

The suction on your clit tightened too, a filthy, slurping rhythm pulling at you in time with each thrust inside—as if the toy was fucking and drinking you at once, milking you dry.

Your knees buckled slightly. You caught yourself against the chalkboard.

You could feel it.

The thick, pulsing length of the toy stuffing you full, stretching your cunt to its limits, buzzing violently against your spasming walls. Your panties were drenched, your thighs glistening. Your dignity, seconds away from shattering.

And yet you had to solve the equation.

In front of the entire class.

Under his watchful, merciless gaze.

The chalk trembled in your hand. He leaned in close, voice a low purr only you could hear. "Go on, top student," Caleb murmured, dark and wicked against your ear.

"Show me how well you can think… while getting fucked dumb.”

Fuck—a moan slipped past your lips before you could catch it. You wanted to curse the existence out of him. You wanted to tear him apart with words, call him the cruelest bastard alive. But all you could do was look at him—eyes burning with dark, venomous vengeance, even as your body betrayed you with heavy, panting breaths and soft, pathetic whimpers.

You tried—you really fucking tried—to walk your mind through every algorithm, every neural network formula you’d memorized so well. You tried to scribble something on the chalkboard, your hand trembling. But it was useless. Your writing was a mess of illegible lines, nonsense formulas no one could make sense of, the chalk crumbling and snapping in your tight, desperate grip.

Then you heard it— the low, rich sound of his chuckle. Amused. Entertained. Savoring your unraveling.

With a lazy flick of his thumb against the remote, he cranked the suction to maximum.

The effect was immediate. Your entire body convulsed, a helpless jolt of pleasure rippling up your spine. The suction on your clit was savage, unrelenting—greedy little pulls that sent wave after wave crashing through your gut, making your vision blur with stars.

Fuck, you were so close. So fucking close.

You slapped a trembling palm against the chalkboard to steady yourself. The chalk clattered to the floor with a hollow thud as your fingers lost their grip. Your knees buckled, barely holding you up as your hips gave a desperate, involuntary twitch.

Inside you, the thick vibrator kept thrusting deep—the textured veins along its shaft dragging against your slick walls with every ruthless stroke, the fat, rounded head grinding mercilessly against your sensitive cervix. It was maddening—perfect—too good. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every pulse made your cunt flutter helplessly, greedy for more.

The suction was obscene, slurping at your clit so loudly you were sure someone, anyone, could hear. Humiliation and raw, brain-melting pleasure tangled inside you, choking you.

Then—his hand.

You felt it. Large, warm, strong fingers gripping your shoulder tightly.

You barely registered him leaning down, his breath hot against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, sinful growl meant for you alone.

"Fuck, baby," Caleb rasped, the words sending a violent shudder through your entire body.

"Why don't you just give up—let go—and I'll fill you up with my babies later, hm? Breed you nice and full right here…"

That was it.

The last straw.

You came—hard. Your body seized violently, every muscle locking tight as the orgasm tore through you, raw and merciless. Slick gushed down your thighs, soaking through your panties, dripping onto the floor. You bit down on your own hand to muffle the loud, broken moan that ripped free from your throat.

You shattered under him, completely undone, just as he wanted.

You heard it—the low, scandalous murmurs rippling across the room. The students whispering, stealing glances at the obscene sight before them. You, gasping for air, your knees buckling under you, while Professor Caleb—the campus heartthrob—stood so close you could taste his cologne, feel the heat of him against your trembling skin.

Then he stood upright, rolling his shoulders lazily like nothing was wrong. Like you weren’t falling apart on the floor.

"Alright, folks. Class dismissed," he said, mock sympathy dripping from his voice. "I'll take care of our top student here. She must be feeling a little... overwhelmed."

He winked—a cruel, knowing thing that made your blood boil.

"Come back next week with the answers to the problem on the board."

Students scurried out, throwing lingering stares your way, none brave enough to question him.

None knowing just how soaked you were—how the vibrator still pounded inside you, thrusting, suctioning, working your overstimulated folds mercilessly. The cum from earlier leaking out, wetting your thighs shamefully.

Once the last student left, Caleb locked the door with a click. He turned, his steps slow and deliberate as he stalked toward you. He grabbed your arm and pulled you up, no patience left in him.

"Stand up, Pip-squeak," he said, his professor mask fully dropped, replaced by something darker, filthier. "I’ll make it fast for you."

You nodded, helpless. Your legs felt like jelly, your cunt still clenching pathetically around the toy buried deep inside. With his steadying hand, you stumbled upright.

He guided you to his seat—the throne at the front of the room—and sat back lazily, spreading his legs in a welcoming posture.

"Strip, baby," he ordered, voice thick with lust. "I wanna see every curve hiding under that tight little shirt and short skirt you wore, thinking you could tease me."

You glared at him, breathing heavy. God, you hated him. You hated how hot he made you. How wet you got just from the sound of his voice.

"Chop chop," he said, tapping his jaw with his fingers smugly. "Or do you want me to rip it off you instead? I won't be gentle, Pips."

You cursed under your breath but obeyed—gripping the hem of your tank top, peeling it over your head slowly, exposing trembling skin. Your skirt pooled down your legs with a soft whisper, leaving you utterly bare, nothing left to hide.

"What now, Caleb?" you asked, your voice small, shivering slightly.

"Good girl," he murmured, unzipping his fancy linen pants with one smooth motion. His thick, heavy cock sprung free—long, veined, angry red at the tip, leaking pre-cum like he couldn't wait to ruin you again.

The same cock that had broken you a hundred times before.

The same cock you dreamed about, drooled over, worshiped like it was your personal god.

"Sit on me," he said. "You know the drill."

You let out a shaky breath, heart pounding in your ears. No matter how much you wanted to slap him for being an asshole—you wanted him more.

You were his cocksleeve, after all. His needy little thing.

You climbed onto his lap, one trembling hand gripping his collarbone for balance. The other reached down between your legs, pulling the soaked, buzzing vibrator out of your stretched hole and tossing it somewhere carelessly.

Lining him up, you sank down. It was like the first time all over again.

His cock was thicker than anything, harder, hotter—stretching your walls until they clamped around him desperately. Every vein of him dragged along your sensitive insides perfectly, the fat head of his cock pushing into your cervix with sinful precision. He filled you up like he was made for you—like he owned every inch of your tight, ruined cunt.

He was your naughty professor.

Your filthy god.

Your damnation and your salvation wrapped in one devastating man.

You started moving—bouncing weakly, trying to ride him the way he liked, but your legs were too shaky, too spent from the relentless overstimulation. You whimpered, grinding pathetically against him, barely able to lift yourself.

"Oh, baby," he cooed mockingly, hands resting heavy on your ass. "Is that all you got? After coming so pretty in front of the whole class?"

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you squeal, then soothed it with a rough grope, making you rock harder against him.

You tried to look away, humiliated, but his dark gaze pinned you in place—all-consuming. Inescapable.

"Shut up, Caleb," you snarled weakly. "Shut the fuck up—I—"

He gripped your hair tight, yanking your head back roughly. A broken cry escaped you, your back arching, pressing your tits flush against his chest.

"You don't get to order me around, baby," he growled, voice pure sin against your ear. He bit down on your neck, hard enough to bruise, suckling dark purple marks into your skin like a man possessed.

"You're mine, Pip-squeak. My perfect little whore."

Your mind spun. Your body shook. You fell deeper into subspace—weightless, aching, desperate for him. He toyed with you, slapping your ass, groping your tits, biting your throat, until you were a trembling mess in his lap.

"Need help, my lovely top student?" he whispered against your ear, voice thick with cruel affection. You nodded frantically, tears clinging to your lashes, your body begging.

He chuckled low and deep—"could’ve said so sooner, Pips."

Then he took control. His hands grabbed your waist, slamming you down onto his cock with brutal, merciless thrusts. Each movement drove him impossibly deep, splitting you open, pounding against your g-spot so viciously that your cries turned into strangled, high-pitched sobs.

You dug your nails into his back, leaving angry red trails down his spine. You wanted to brand him. You wanted him to remember how you fell apart on his cock.

The lecture hall echoed with the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—your cries, his low groans, the obscene, squelching sound of your cunt sucking him in greedily. "Keep it down, baby," he mocked, voice a rumble in your chest. "Others might hear you begging to be bred."

Fuck him.

Fuck him so much.

But you were too far gone. Your second orgasm built fast, violent, white-hot, ripping through you with every devastating thrust. You couldn’t hold back—your body convulsed, your cunt squeezing him desperately, trying to milk every drop from him.

And he was close too. You could hear it in his ragged breaths, feel it in the way his thrusts became rougher, erratic.

"Baby," he moaned brokenly, forehead pressed against yours, "I’m gonna come—open up, please—"

You did—your walls clamping down, your legs shaking, your mind blank as you came undone together. He spilled inside you with a low, desperate groan—thick, endless spurts of cum flooding your sore, twitching cunt. You could feel every hot, filthy drop filling you, leaking out, dripping down your thighs in thick, sticky trails.

You collapsed against him, shaking, gasping, his cock still buried deep inside your pulsing heat. His arms wrapped around you tight, possessive, like he was afraid you might slip away.

"Mine," he murmured against your hair, voice rough and spent. "Always mine, Pip-squeak."

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

You stayed there—your body convulsing in little aftershocks, your pussy throbbing around him like it was the end of the world. He held you close, a suffocating, trembling embrace, like he needed to feel you breathing against him just to stay sane.

Even after the humiliation he put you through—after the teasing, the breaking, the claiming—you still loved him just the same. Your Gege. Your professor. Your ruin. Your home.

"Meet me after your classes end," he rasped, his temple resting against your bare shoulder, his cock still buried deep inside you. "Five p.m. sharp. As usual."

You nodded weakly, knowing full well—

You weren’t going to make it home in one piece.

[a-soft-aside]

𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x reader

Summary: Your recent work trip is the longest time you and Robby have been apart since you two started dating. He’s thought of you non-stop and all the things he’s been wanting to do to you. He gives you a welcome home to remember. A/N: THIS IS PURE SMUT (with a lil exposition). +18, MINORS DNI. sorry y'all this got real freaky real fast. just Robby loving on you and then proceeding to rearrange your guts (not medically) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ CW: Explicit sexual content, age gap (reader is in her early 30s), FACE SITTING, oral f!receiving, dirty talk, praise kink, body worship, p in v, creampie. WC ~2k.

You stroll down the terminal at Pittsburgh International Airport, luggage in tow, and look down to see a notification ping on your phone: Parked right outside. see you soon

You can’t help but smile. You’re tired, jet lagged, and in desperate need of a shower. Despite all of this, you’ve never been happier. The last three and a half weeks felt like some of the longest of your life. You normally looked forward to traveling for work; you enjoyed immersing yourself in a different culture, meeting new people, trying delicious food. But while you were overseas, all you wished was that Robby was there to enjoy it with you. Surrounded by bustling crowds and colorful open-air markets, you still longed for the domestic safe haven you had created together. Mornings spent in your warm bed with Robby were some of your favorites. 

You walk outside to the Arrivals lot and squint into the sunlight, searching for your boyfriend. You spot him to your left, leaning against his car, sunglasses on. He sees you walking toward him and beams. It makes your heart stutter even now. Your walk turns into a light jog and you fly into his arms into a bear hug. You allow yourself to fully melt in his embrace, and you hear a soft hum of contentment from deep within his throat. 

He reluctantly releases you to take your suitcase and place it in the open trunk. You hop into the passenger seat and stretch out your legs languidly. As the car pulls away from the airport, Robby asks about your travels in more detail, and you chatter excitedly for a few minutes. 

“It feels so good to be back,” you sigh, rolling down the car window to let in the breeze outside. 

“That makes two of us. I missed you.”

You take in his side profile, his crows feet, his aquiline nose, and feel as if your heart might burst. “I missed you too.” 

Of course, you didn’t know the half of it. Robby hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you actually. He’d find himself lost in thought at work, wishing for a moment of peace in his stressful day where it was just you and him. Still, his job was a much needed distraction from your absence. It was when he went home that he missed you the most. It felt like a light long since extinguished inside him had been lit again when he met you. His colleagues at the Pitt joked that he’d turned into a lovesick teenager. 

As time went on, his mind began to wander in other ways. He craved your lush body, the little sounds you’d make when he touched you in all the right places. You two had been at each other non-stop since you began dating, and the time apart only intensified his need. 

Robby scratched his beard before speaking. “So I was thinking...tonight…if you wanted to–”

“Yes,” you interrupt, understanding what he was getting at. You had packed your vibrator with you for your trip, but it couldn’t compare to Robby. You had laid in your hotel room night after night, your breathing rapid, imagining him on top of you, in you. 

Robby smiled. “I was wondering if you wanted to try something new,” he went on. You waited for him to continue, curious. 

“I want you to sit on my face.” he says plainly, almost casually, one hand on the steering wheel, the other elbow resting on the car’s center console. Your breath hitches. He keeps his eyes on the road while your eyes are on him. You feel your face flush. You’ve had your fair share of sexual partners go down on you, try to get you off (key word being try), but never had someone blatantly request this. Nor had you ever done it. You wouldn’t describe yourself as naive or coy by any means, and yet the image his suggestion provides immediately leaves you flustered. You start to feel arousal stir between your legs.

“Sure. I’m down,” you say, hoping he doesn’t detect the slight waver in your voice. “I’ll do my best to try and not suffocate you, but no promises,” you joke to play off your nerves.

“I’d be fine with that.” He finally turns to look at you, the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement. His eyes have a mischievous glint in them, almost boyish. You feel like you’re being toyed with, and you hate how much it’s turning you on.

——————————————————

You emerge from the shower with your hair still damp, dressed in a camisole and sleep shorts that show off the slightest bit of cheek. Robby is already laying back in bed, his eyes on you.

“So fresh and so clean, clean,” you sing mostly to yourself, doing a little shimmy. Robby laughs, thinking about how you brought levity back in his life the moment you stepped into it. Most days he doesn’t believe in God, but just in case, he thanks him for bringing you. 

He looks you up and down, making a note to also thank God for your outfit. 

“C’mere.” 

You happily approach him and crawl onto the bed into his lap. He pulls you into a deep kiss, gripping you at the waist. His fingers slip underneath your top and caress your soft skin. You let out a quiet “mmmm” into his open mouth and roll your hips against his. 

You rush to remove your top and pull his shirt off his head, and pull him close again. Your kisses progressively grow more and more sloppy, until you’re both panting, all teeth and tongue. Your arms are wrapped around his neck, and you lightly scratch his nape, where his hair is buzzed. He breaks the kiss suddenly to look at you. “Let me taste you.” His voice is gruff, and you feel your insides liquify. 

“I’m nervous,” you blurt out, before you can stop yourself. “What if you don’t like the way I look at that angle?” You wish you could bury the shame that’s seeping in. Despite your age difference with Robby, you don’t often feel it. In fact, it’s felt like the most natural relationship you’ve ever been in. No mind games, no immaturity. Just two adults with a clear expression of what they want; each other. The thought of coming across as needy or insecure makes you grimace. 

He takes a second to register what you’ve just said. While Robby may not be an open book, the softening of his expressive face speaks for him. He cups your face tenderly and looks into your avoidant eyes. “Sweetheart…I love you at every angle. But if you don’t want to, you can let me know. Right now all I want to do is make you feel good. But I can’t lie and say that wouldn’t make me feel really fucking good too.” He chuckles, running his knuckles down your bare back, something you find he absentmindedly does often when you’re cuddling in bed together. You shiver at his touch, the calluses on his hands, and are suddenly consumed again with a deep, insatiable, want. 

You bite your lip and without saying a word, you get up onto your knees on the bed. You take off your shorts and slowly pull your underwear down your thighs, where you’ve left a slick spot in the center of the fabric. Robby notices. He notices everything. He watches you almost reverently, his eyes growing dark. You approach him and swing your leg over his chest, have him straddled. You inch further and further up, until you’re hovered above his face, his eager mouth. You stay there for a moment, your core throbbing. He looks at you like the key to his deliverance is between your legs. 

In one swift movement, you drop down to meet his lips. You immediately moan at the sensation, and he lets out his own groan of pleasure. What happens next is an onslaught on all of your senses. You press your palms and forehead flat against the headboard in front of you for support as his mouth works under you with fervor, licking at your folds and lapping at your wetness. You squeeze your eyes shut, whining and bucking your hips, chasing the feeling. You feel the tip of his nose lightly brush against your clit and it’s like setting off a live wire. He drags his tongue against your clit again and the sensitivity is almost too much to bear. 

The wet sounds that fill the room are obscene, but you’re too far gone to care. All you hear are Robby’s grunts as he eats you, ravenous. Whatever insecurity you might have had prior to sitting on top of him have gone out the window—you forget yourself and where you are, only luxuriating in his worship. You throw your head back and arch your spine, bring your hands to your breasts and start fondling them, playing with your nipples. Robby emits a low rumbling hum of approval, enjoying the view you’re giving him.

You look down and admire how your thighs frame Robby’s face, the burn his beard leaves as it rubs against your most sensitive areas. You meet his brown eyes and see that he’s looking up at you possessively. You run your fingers through his greying hair and grind down further onto him. 

You start to ride his face, wanting more, more, more. Robby senses your frenzied energy and gladly reciprocates; he places his large hands on the sides of your hips, holding you down. He runs a hand over your ass, giving it a smack. You gasp and see him grin against you. You reach your hand back behind you and feel for his cock, the hardness bulging against his boxer briefs. His smile drops immediately and he lets out a guttural groan, thrusting into your touch. He grumbles something barely intelligible, though you can feel the vibrations against your pussy, sending a spark through you. 

“I’m sorry, what was that?” you tease, your voice breathless and airy. Suddenly, you’re yanked by your ankles and pulled further down the bed, until you’re flush against Robby’s sturdy chest. You let out a yelp as you land, and you feel the warm, solid strength of his arms locking you in place. You’re completely enveloped in him, and it’s dizzying. 

You nuzzle your face in the crook of his neck, when he finally growls in your ear “I said, you’re fucking trouble.” You whimper, fully aware of how drenched you are. 

Your legs instinctively spread, his knees propped up in between. He tugs the waistband of his boxer briefs down, and you feel his length, long and cut, rub against your entrance. He doesn’t break eye contact as he slowly pushes in, bit by bit.

Your mouth falls open, relishing in the delicious stretch. Robby is always nothing but careful when he first enters you, making sure you’re never in discomfort. Once he bottoms out, he pauses, letting you savor his fullness, every inch of him. He then tilts his hips down momentarily, before driving back into you. You let out a squeal. With each deep stroke, he goes faster and faster until he develops a steady rhythm. You begin to tremble, but his arms are still holding you in place, rendering you near motionless. 

Giving you no option but to lay there as he fucks into you. Robby cradles the back of your head as he keeps you anchored. Moan after moan is spilling from your lips with each deep thrust as he fucks you into oblivion, into a state of bliss. You feel like your eyes might roll into the back of your skull. You’re also vaguely aware that you might be drooling. Ever the multi-tasker, Robby gently brushes the hair out of your face and kisses you on the top of your head, the pace of his thrusts no less relenting. He lifts your chin to look up at him.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmurs. “My pretty girl.” You whine, so close to being completely undone. When Robby talks to you like this, it’s enough to take you over the edge. And he knows it. 

“God, you love taking it like this, don’t you?” 

You nod weakly, feeling nearly delirious. 

“M-Michael…” you hiccup. 

“I know baby, I know. Let it out.”

You sense your orgasm barreling toward you and yet you’re no more prepared; your vision goes white as if you’re staring directly at the sun. You come with a loud wail, your nails digging into the faded tattoos on Robby’s biceps, fingers scrabbling to find some release. 

He holds you close and fucks you through it, continuing to soothe you as you come down from your high. The way your walls clench around him makes him practically choke, and he comes hard, his voice strangled and hoarse. You feel him pulse inside you, filling you up again. 

You remain on his chest for a short while, the both of you absolutely spent. The only sound in the room now is your shuddering breaths. In a minute, you both will get up, wash off, and cuddle back in bed. But for now, you stay in this moment with Robby. 

“Welcome home,” he whispers, smoothing your disheveled hair. 

Home. You like the sound of that.

[iydiamartinx]

UNEXPECTED GUESTS IV

jason x reader, platonic!damian wayne, ft. batfam

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto & @omi-resources word count: 2k synopsis: Jason’s secret relationship is discovered by Damian—who keeps showing up uninvited. Jason’s patience is tested, popcorn is made, but at least Damian brought cinnamon rolls. a/n: Here it is! The final part! Hope Y'all enjoyed! Also I hope I got everyone who asked to be on the tag list, if I missed you I am so sorry!

Bruce lifted a brow at the sound of heavy footsteps and the sight of Jason sauntering into the manor kitchen, a duffle bag slung over one shoulder like he owned the place.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, pausing mid-bite, fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

Jason didn’t break stride. “Gee, thanks for the warm welcome,” he drawled, dropping the duffle beside a chair with a solid thud.

Bruce sighed, setting down his utensils. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just you have your own place.”

Jason shrugged, nonchalant. “Maybe I just felt like spending some quality time with dear old Dad.”

Bruce’s gaze narrowed, eyes flicking over him like a scanner calibrating for irregularities. Jason was calm. Casual. Civil. Voluntarily in the manor. Something was wrong.

Jason would rather set himself on fire than willingly spend an evening under Bruce’s roof. He was being too… not-Jason. Polite, even. Pleasant. 

Clone? Possibly. Cyborg? Wouldn’t be the first time. A mind-wiped doppelgänger sent to spy on the family?

Then it hit him.

He paused in growing horror…

Did he finally kill the Joker?

Was that why he was in a good mood?

Bruce stared at him. Jason just blinked back innocently, which only made it worse.

No, something was definitely wrong.

“He’s lying,” came a voice from the doorway, smooth and amused.

Dick entered, mug of tea in hand and an unbothered grin on his face. “It’s because everyone’s crashing at his place.”

Now that he mentioned it, the manor had been suspiciously quiet lately.

Bruce glanced between them. “Why?”

Jason froze, his posture stiffening like someone expecting a sniper shot. His eyes flicked to Dick, silently warning him to shut up.

Dick, of course, did not. If anything, his grin widened.

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “Why?” he repeated.

Jason shot Dick a glare, the kind that promised swift and bloody vengeance, but the little shit was immune. He grinned wider, practically radiating delight.

“Oh, because of his girlfriend,” Dick said, drawing out the word with far too much delight.

It had been unspoken—agreed upon, even—that whatever chaos was unfolding at Jason’s apartment stayed there. The last thing he needed was his personal life dragged into the manor spotlight and have Bruce interrogating his girlfriend. He was already hanging on to his sanity by the thinnest of threads.

But Dick had two fatal weaknesses: an insatiable love for family bonding… and a disturbing amount of joy in watching Jason suffer.

“You should see him at home,” Dick went on, far too pleased with himself. “Total domestic bliss. Folding laundry. Cooking dinner. It’s like watching a lion try to do ballet.”

“Shut the fuck up, dickhead,” Jason snapped, his voice a low snarl.

Bruce paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a Batarang.

Very slowly—deliberately—Bruce looked up. His eyes locked on Jason.

Jason had a what?

Before anyone could speak, Alfred appeared beside Dick with the poise of a man who had seen war, death, and teenage Bruce Wayne at his most dramatic—and had emerged utterly unshaken.

“Master Jason is bringing her for dinner, of course,” Alfred said, smooth as ever, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Master Jason is not!” Jason barked, visibly horrified.

Alfred raised a brow. 

Finding out you’d been invited to dinner at Wayne Manor wasn’t exactly a shock. If anything, you’d been expecting it. Most of the family already knew you—had dropped by Jason’s place uninvited enough times that introductions were inevitable. It was only a matter of time before Bruce caught wind of your existence too.

What surprised you more was how not nervous you felt.

Jason, on the other hand, looked like he was mentally preparing for battle.

As the iron gates of Wayne Manor creaked open, you watched him through the passenger-side mirror. Your six-foot-two, weapons-grade boyfriend was pacing beside the car like a man about to face execution. His hair was a mess—freshly wrecked from his own anxious hands—and while the tousled look worked unfairly well for him, it didn’t do much to hide the storm brewing behind his eyes.

“Just… don’t let them suck you into anything,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the universe. “Don’t be too funny. Or too smart.”

You arched a brow. “So… you want me to be dislikable?”

“What? No! I mean—maybe? I don’t know!” he snapped, throwing his arms up. “If you are, maybe they’ll finally stop showing up at my place uninvited. But I don’t want them to hate you either.”

He paused, then groaned. “God. Don’t mention cinnamon rolls. Damian’s still holding a grudge because I ate the last batch.”

You laughed. “Of course he is.”

Jason stopped pacing only long enough to glare at the front door like it personally offended him. “Just… don’t be nervous. We’ll be in and out. Quick and painless.”

You blinked slowly. “Jason. I’m not nervous. You’re the one spiraling.”

By this point, you weren’t even sure he realized what he was saying anymore. He was just venting aloud—burning nervous energy like a fuse inching toward a powder keg.

With a soft breath of amusement, you stepped into his path, catching his hand in yours before he could wear a trench into the manor’s immaculate brickwork.

“Babe,” you said, gently squeezing his fingers. “I’m fine. I got this. You’re the only one falling apart here.”

So you reached up, brushing your fingers along his jaw before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips. It was brief—grounding—but it worked. His shoulders dropped an inch, the rigid line of his jaw easing ever so slightly.

When you pulled back, you were already smiling. You laced your fingers through his and gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Ready?” you asked.

Jason exhaled, long and slow, like he was about to walk into enemy territory. Which, for him, wasn’t entirely inaccurate.

“Fuck no.”

Alfred greeted you at the door with the warmth of a man welcoming a long-lost friend.

“Miss Y/N,” he said, voice smooth with genuine affection. “We’re delighted to have you.”

You barely had time to smile before Damian appeared—materialized really—at your side.

“You’re sitting next to me.”

You blinked. “Hello to you too,” you said dryly.

He didn’t acknowledge it. His attention was already on the dining table as he pulled out a chair for you with the gravity of someone bestowing a great honour.

 “What? No! That’s my girlfriend, demon spawn.” Jason snapped. 

Damian didn’t even flinch. He turned to Jason with a droll look, sharp and effortless. “And I pity her for that fact every day.”

You muffled a snort behind your hand and slid gracefully into the offered seat.

“Thank you, Damian,” you said, smoothing your napkin onto your lap with a smirk. Then, with mock innocence, you patted the open chair on your other side. “There’s still one free spot left.”

Jason moved toward it—clearly ready to reclaim his territory—only for Dick to slide in smoothly at the last second.

“Y/N!” Dick beamed, overly bright, already leaning his elbow on the back of your chair like he belonged there.

Jason’s jaw ticked. “Oh no you don’t, Dickhead.”

With all the grace of a man well-versed in brotherly warfare, he hauled Dick up by the collar and dragged him out of the seat with zero ceremony.

“Hey!” Dick protested, arms flailing like a cat being relocated. But Jason was already dropping into the seat beside you, triumphant.

Dick slunk across the table with a wounded pout, muttering something about uncalled-for violence.

You raised a brow at your boyfriend. “You know we practically live together. You see me every day.”

Jason scowled. “So do these assholes. They break into my apartment every day.”

Damian arched a brow from your other side, utterly unbothered. “Careful, Todd. Green isn’t your color.”

Dinner was… everything Jason feared.

Tim asked how you two met—twice—just to watch Jason twitch with increasing irritation.

Stephanie demanded relationship details with the energy of a late-night talk show host, bouncing in her seat as she eagerly listened to answer her questions.

Cass watched you in silence, head tilted with a quiet, steady kind of approval. She didn’t need words. She’d already decided she liked you.

And Dick?

Dick was the worst.

He had a seemingly endless supply of Jason’s most humiliating childhood stories, and he recited them with theatrical flair, smirking each time your laughter made Jason’s eye twitch.

Meanwhile, Bruce sat at the head of the table like a statue carved from shadow and marble. He didn’t speak much—hardly at all, in fact—he mostly just watched. His gaze never drifted far from you, sharp and evaluating, like he was measuring you against an invisible checklist. Determining whether you were worthy of his son.

Eventually, between the second course and murmured side conversations, Bruce set down his glass with a soft clink against the china.

“Y/N.”

Jason stiffened like someone had pulled a gun on him. You felt it in the sharp shift of his knee against yours beneath the table. Without looking, you placed a calming hand there.

Jason’s fork paused mid-air. “Bruce…”

You didn’t flinch. You turned to meet his gaze, calmly. “Yes?”

Bruce didn’t blink. “You’ve been with Jason for how long?”

“Almost a year,” you answered easily. “Give or take a few near-death experiences.”

Dick leaned back in his chair with a grin. “That’s basically a vow renewal in this family.”

Bruce continued, tone even. “And you know.”

It wasn’t phrased like a question. You nodded anyway. “Didn’t take long.”

“You stayed.”

“I did.”

Jason muttered, “Why does this feel like a background check with extra judgment?”

Bruce studied you for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. “You’re aware of the risks.”

“I’ve had them explained,” you said dryly. “Repeatedly. With charts.”

Tim snorted into his drink. “Please tell me one of them was color-coded.”

“That was mine,” Damian muttered, arms crossed.

That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. It wasn’t often anyone got Damian’s seal of approval. 

Bruce went quiet for a moment, and the weight of his silence settled over the table. He studied you like a strategist surveying a battlefield.

Finally, he spoke. “You’re either incredibly brave… or incredibly foolish.”

You shrugged, unbothered. “Probably both. It’s part of the application process, right?”

Cass smiled behind her teacup. Steph stared at you with wide, glittering eyes and whispered to Jason, “Marry her.”

At that, something flickered in Bruce’s expression—approval, maybe. Something harder to name. Something deeper.

He nodded once, almost to himself. “You’ll be here for Sunday dinners moving forward.”

Jason nearly choked on his drink. “Are you serious?”

You ignored him, smiling sweetly. “Of course.”

“Babe!”

You patted his thigh. “Ignore him. We’ll be there.”

Dick leaned over, grinning at Jason’s dramatics. “Wow. He likes her more than he likes you.”

Bruce didn’t answer.

Which, of course, meant: yes.

After dinner, Alfred insisted on tea.

Damian insisted on sitting next to you again—claimed it was “for tactical proximity,” though he was clearly just making sure no one else got the seat first.

Stephanie suggested you move into the manor under the guise of “Jason’s health,” citing stress levels and his lack of basic nutrition, and how beneficial it would be for the two of you two live here. Cass offered you her bedroom if the “shoebox you’re living in” ever became unbearable. Tim asked if you could cook, already planning meal rotations. And Dick—of course—invited you to game night next week with a wink and a warning: “Lose to Damian at your own risk.”

Jason looked like he was developing a migraine.

He sat beside you on the long couch in the grand living room, shoulders hunched like a man awaiting trial. Laughter echoed around the walls—walls he used to call cold and empty. 

Now they rang with bickering, teasing, warmth.

You nudged him gently with your elbow, barely hiding your smile. “Still want to fake my death and move to the Alps?”

Jason glanced at you.

Then at Damian, practically glued to your side like an emotionally constipated barnacle.

Then at Tim, who was deep in concentration trying to download your favorite show onto the Batcomputer, muttering about file formats and codec errors.

Then at Bruce—stoic, silent Bruce—watching his family with a small, unmistakable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jason sighed. A long, suffering sound, that was too dramatic to be sincere.

“…Yes.”

← Previous Chapter

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[starfieldcanvas]

The other thing that seemed missing from the response is the specific reason he was giving that speech.

Yes, he wants to eliminate autism and autistic people from public life, and we should push back against that, and push back against the general ableism that makes these insults against autistic people legible to the audience in the first place. Of course.

But he was giving that speech to introduce a new attempt to identify the cause of autism—and he said outright what the conclusion of the research would be. Before the research had even started.

The research is expected to discover an "environmental cause" for autism. Despite exhaustive study of this exact subject concluding that the cause is overwhelmingly genetics + age of parent, RFK Jr is determined to "find" an environmental cause when everyone before him has failed.

We can easily see from prior research that there is no clear environmental cause of autism, so then what exactly is the point of this "research"?

RFK Jr is looking to find confirmation that one of the medical advances he hates—fluoridated water, vaccination, antidepressants—is the "environmental cause" of autism. And given that he's already stated that this new research will find an environmental cause, there's a pretty strong likelihood the research will be manipulated to give him the outcome he wants.

However, it won't be enough for him to simply claim that vaccines/fluoride/antidepressants/whatever is the fabled "environmental cause" of autism. He will also have to argue that autism is a bigger threat to public health (and the economy) than the rollback of the helpful thing he is trying to ban. Even during the original "vaccines cause autism" scare started by Andrew Wakefield and before Wakefield was exposed as a fraud, plenty of doctors told parents they should vaccinate anyway, because an autistic kid was better than a dead one. Medicine and public health are always about trade-offs—what kind of rare side effects are we willing to risk to take a vaccine that will protect us from a deadly disease we may never encounter? What kind of restrictions are we willing to accept on personal freedom to protect the public from infection?

So to lay the groundwork for banning whatever it is he's going to claim is the cause of autism, RFK Jr is playing up not only the quality of life issues of autism but also their impact on the economy and, crucially, the supposed increased rate of autism diagnosis.

Keep in mind that if there actually was an environmental factor causing widespread decimation of intellectual capacity in children, identifying that factor and banning the hell out of it would be a good thing. That's why you're not allowed to put lead in most consumer-adjacent products anymore, no matter how convenient it is as a metal or an additive: it is a poison that causes brain damage and developmental delay, especially in children. And activists and health experts had to (and still have to) work really, really hard to get it out of the consumer economy, because lead is useful and ditching it is extremely expensive.

Consequently, people trying to ban lead from gas, paint, pipework, etc, had to hammer home how much of a problem lead was causing, not just in terms of occasionally, you know, killing kids dead, but in terms of the cost to the health system and to other parts of the economy. In dollars. (Here's a link to the EPA's 1985 report outlining that a dramatic reduction in the amount of lead in gasoline would save the USA more money than it would cost.)

So when autistic people push back on RFK Jr's claims about autism by pointing out that yes, they do pay a lot of taxes actually, and yes, they hold jobs, and no, there has not been a significant increase in autistic people with expensive support needs as the diagnosis criteria have expanded, that's directly relevant to RFK Jr trying to set up autism as an economy-harming problem the elimination of which would justify the rollback of an existing cost-saving public health measure.

While the US government makes a lot of very stupid financial decisions, often due to corruption, its policymaking process is still often formally driven by cost-benefit analysis; it's not totally unreasonable to keep that in mind when trying to counter Republican talking points. And it's good to set up a preemptive bulwark of "So what? Autism is nowhere near as big a threat to the US economy as widespread tooth decay/widespread pellagra/widespread gastric disease" when RFK's "research" inevitably turns up some bullshit about how fluoridated water/fortified grain/pasteurized milk has some minor positive correlation with autism diagnosis rates.

I've seen basically two response arguments to Kennedy's slurs about autistic people being unable to pay taxes, have a job, play baseball, go on a date, write a poem, or use the toilet.

Both the responses are good and necessary, but I think they're incomplete. The two response arguments are essentially: 1. "That's not true, there are plenty of autistic people who have jobs and go on dates and play baseball," and 2. (largely in response to 1.) "Autistic people deserve acceptance and dignity even if they can't pay taxes or write poetry or use the toilet; people's value isn't determined by their abilities or productivity."

And, again, both of these responses are true and good and necessary. But what I'm not seeing people talk about enough is why Kennedy listed those specific skills, and what he's trying to imply with them. Because, see, when people are reduced to a dehumanized stereotype, "Not everyone is like that dehumanized stereotype" isn't sufficient, and neither is "Even people who are like that dehumanized stereotype deserve respect." The problem is the dehumanization. So let's look at the list of things we supposedly can't do, which Kennedy is using to conjure an image of "Inhuman Unthinking Blob."

Having a job. This is the big one. In American culture, your value, your personhood, is solely dependent on Your Job. Are you a valuable cog in the capitalist machine, or are you a cheap cog in the capitalist machine, or are you so worthless you're not even in the capitalist machine, and therefore have no reason to be alive? So it's good and necessary and important to spell out "A person doesn't have to have a job to be a person with dignity and rights." But there's a larger question out there, which is: What, exactly, constitutes "a job"? Yes, absolutely, everyone should have dignity and rights (and material needs like guaranteed housing, food, and consensual healthcare). But also, most disabled people, including ""severely"" disabled people, can and do perform productive labor benefiting their communities. It's just often labor that capitalist society doesn't classify as "a job," like caregiving, studying, or making art. It's important to say that people shouldn't need "a job" in order to deserve rights or resources. It's also important to point out that disabled people have been doing labor this whole time, just without the dignity, rights, or pay associated with "a job." In a socialist utopia where everyone had their material needs guaranteed, labor would still be done, and a lot of it would still be done by disabled people. That's important. Disabled people's contributions to society matter. And erasing that is something ableists do on purpose -- excluding the labor done by disabled people from the category of "job" is integral to excluding disabled people from the category of "productive" and thus the category "worthy of life."

Paying taxes. This is the most transparently ridiculous one, because absolutely everybody in the U.S. pays taxes. Poor people pay taxes (too much). Rich people pay taxes (nowhere near enough). Undocumented immigrants pay taxes. You buy a Snickers? It's priced $1.79 but you pay $1.92. That's a tax. You live somewhere? You're paying property taxes. You rent your home? How do you think your landlord pays their property taxes? From your rent. You're paying property taxes. You have a crappy underpaid minimum wage job? You're paying FICA. Everybody pays taxes. What Kennedy probably means to imply is "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes." Politicians love pretending that "taxes" means "federal income taxes" so they can claim to "lower taxes" while shifting the tax burden somewhere else (cf. Trump's attempt to claim that tariffs aren't taxes). And. And also. There's another subtle implication in there, that I see a lot from parents and ableists. Because of the deep intersection of ableism and classism, Kennedy is implying "They're too poor to owe federal income taxes" (therefore they're inferior) but also "They're not smart enough to do something complicated like file a tax return." When ableists talk about disabled people who "can't take care of themselves" or specifically "can't pay their bills" or "can't pay taxes," they're intentionally trying to conflate an economic state (having enough money to pay bills/taxes) with a cognitive ability (having the skills/executive function to manage money, budget, pay bills on time, or file a tax return). Kennedy probably doesn't file his own tax return either. I'm sure he has an accountant for that. Presumed-neurotypical people are allowed to do that. The world is full of rich people who lack executive function or money-management skills, whose wealth insulates them from the consequences of that, because they can either afford to just lose money, or they can afford to hire someone to handle it for them. The world is also full of poor people for whom one missed payment has ruined them. The world is also full of disabled people for whom one missed payment has gotten them declared mentally incompetent, institutionalized, or placed under guardianship -- by abled family members who probably hire an accountant to manage their own money. Again, all this is deliberate. Kennedy and other ableists/classists/eugenicsts are intentionally trying to conflate "lacks money," "lacks money management abilities/skills," and "lacks General Intelligence" as one more-or-less interchangeable phenomenon (Note: If you've read this far and haven't figured out my angle yet: There is no such thing as "General Intelligence" and the very concept is harmful).

Write a poem. Again, this is deliberately ambiguous wording -- pretty much anyone can write a poem, including people who can't write or speak. Have you ever expressed an idea in which the words you used had an additional meaning on top of their literal meaning? Boom, you can write a poem. Maybe not a good one. But Kennedy didn't say that autistic people's poetry is bad -- plenty of neurotypical people's poetry is bad too, after all. There is a somewhat positive stereotype floating around that neurodivergent people are creative. We may be tragic, burdens on society, our parents' heartbreak, worthless, stupid, subhuman, but at least we're creative. Probably due to being more animal-like, "closer to nature." And neurobigots like Kennedy absolutely hate this stereotype. No matter how much dehumanization the "positive" stereotype is rooted in, we cannot have any positive attributes at all. They must never let us forget that we have no redeeming value whatsoever. We must be rendered as completely lacking in thought, feelings, expression, and creation. I'm seeing some echos of 18th century racism, too -- a common belief among 18th century white Europeans was that even if non-Europeans were superficially clever, they could produce no "higher culture," no great art or poetry or literature, because they were intrinsically a lower tier of human. This seems to be the root of Kennedy's implication -- not that autistic people "can't" write poetry (anyone can), or that autistic people are bad at writing poetry (most beginners are), but that an autistic person's creative output cannot constitute true poetry, true "high culture," because it comes from an inferior mind.

Play baseball. This is an especially slippery one, because like writing poetry, it's a learned skill with gradations of skill level, not an intrinsic ability that someone does or doesn't have. Most autistic people aren't pro-level baseball players, but neither are most allistic people. And again, Kennedy didn't say "Autistic people are bad a baseball." He said that we would never play baseball. "Has ever played or will ever play baseball" is such a ridiculously low bar that even I can meet it. Technically speaking, I can play baseball. I have played baseball, in school gym class. I know how! You sit there minding your business until it's your turn to stand up, and then someone hands you a bat, and then someone throws a ball, and you're supposed to try to hit the ball with the bat, and in theory, after you fail three times, you're supposed to be allowed to sit back down again and go back to imagining wild self-insert fanfic, but the coach gives you "extra tries" out of pity, so you have to humiliate yourself with five or six attempts instead of three. Yeah. I can play baseball. So what's Kennedy going for with this one? Baseball in the U.S. is associated with two things: American identity, and idyllic midcentury childhood. If autistic people can't participate in America's Pastime, can we really even be Americans? Do we really count as citizens? I don't think Kennedy is personally, ideologically all that committed to xenophobia himself; he's just hitched his wagon to a deeply xenophobic administration because they indulge his medical conspiracy theories. But he knows how to align his goals to the administration's. He knows that his boss is deeply committed to narrowing and restricting who counts as "an American," who's not really part of "our culture," who's not really a part of baseball and hot dogs and the Fourth of July, if you know what I mean. Okay, okay. Maybe I'm reaching with this one. But I'm definitely not reaching with the other association he's going for: Idyllic Midcentury Childhood. All kids play baseball. By which I mean, all boys play baseball. I'm not sure Kennedy knows that girls can play it too, or that he cares. The point is, baseball is part of childhood, and autistic people are never children. We don't play, we don't learn, we don't go through developmental stages, we're just forever Mindless Blobs. That's why things that would be considered cruelty if done to neurotypical children aren't cruelty when they're done to us. We're not really children. We never become adults, either -- how can we, if we don't go through childhood first? You can tell we're subhuman because we don't go through the universal experiences of Real People Life.

Go on a date. Okay. This one. This is the one where I get actively angry at the well-meaning, "inclusive" responses. "Just because an autistic person has high support needs and can't do XYX doesn't mean --" no. Stop right there. There is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no impairment or disability that prevents someone from dating. There are people -- autistic and otherwise, disabled and otherwise -- who for whatever reason, choose not to pursue dating. Maybe they're aromantic, maybe they're loners, maybe they have religious objections, maybe dating just isn't something they're interested in. Fine. That's their choice. But there is no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date. There is no such thing as a disability that renders people incapable of romantic relationships. There is no such fucking thing as being "too disabled" or "too severe" or "too profound" or "too high support needs" to have a romantic relationship if two or more people want one. That is not a thing that exists. That is a thing ableists made up. There is no such thing as an autistic person who "can't" go on a date. There are autistic people who aren't allowed to go on dates, because their family or caregivers control them, infantilize them, restrict their freedoms, or treat them as mindless blobs. But all disabled people (yes, all) can pursue romantic relationships. All disabled people (yes, all) deserve the human right to pursue romantic relationships if they choose to. With other disabled people. With abled people. With whomever. And yeah, dating doesn't necessarily have to be romantic or sexual, but let me be perfectly clear -- disabled people, autistic people, "high support needs" autistic people have a right to have sex, too. A multiply disabled autistic person who needs 24/7 assistance deserves the absolute, unreserved right to have wild, kinky, balls-to-the-wall, whole-chicken sex with the entire starting lineup of the Detroit Lions, if xe so chooses to, and if said Lions are on board. We should not accept the premise that there is any such thing as a disabled person who "can't" go on a date.

Use a toilet without assistance. This is the Kennedy playbook trump card, but unlike some of the other claims, this one is actually true. There's no such thing as a disabled person who "can't" date, but yes, there are in fact plenty of disabled people, including autistic people, who need help with using the toilet. So what's Kennedy going for here? He's trying to evoke two things: Disgust and infantilization. We have a visceral disgust around excretory functions. Needing to eliminate waste reminds us that we're animals made of meat, not the higher intellectual beings we pretend to be. Everyone poops. So we do it in private, we describe it with euphemisms, and if someone needs help with it, well, they're not keeping up their end of the social compact to collectively pretend we're not animals with animal bodily functions. So people who need assistance with the waste process are disgusting, subhuman, a violation of imagined purity. And of course, they're babies. Babies wear diapers. Babies need help using the toilet. So an older child or adult who needs diapers or toileting help is basically a big baby. We have entire election cycles centered on "Which candidate has incontinence issues?" as a proxy for "Which candidate is a big baby unfit to lead?" as though someone's bladder leakage has any bearing on their wisdom or policy positions. And of course, since people who need help with toileting Are Babies, we're meant to assume that they can't do any of those other things, either. They can't even use the toilet, let alone write poetry or go on a date. In reality, plenty of people who need toileting help are writing poetry and going on dates. One of the biggest misconceptions that holds disabled people back from education or, in some cases, from basic communication, is this myth of linear "developmental stages" -- that if someone isn't "smart enough" to master an "easier/earlier" skill, then they can't possibly be "smart enough" to master a completely unrelated skill that some abled person thinks of as "more advanced." This is literally the primary barrier to communication access for speech-disabled people, and the reason nonspeaking people who type to communicate are so often disbelieved -- if someone isn't "smart enough" to master a "baby skill" like talking, they can't possibly be "smart enough" to read and write! Nevermind that for many speech disabled people, reading and writing are much easier than speaking. And if someone isn't "smart enough" to use the toilet unassisted, they can't possibly learn any advanced topics at all, because they must the "mind of a baby." (The only people with the minds of babies are babies. A 50 year old with incontinence has the mind of a 50 year old.)

So. To sum up: Kennedy is intentionally evoking the concept of autistic people as The Abject Unthinking, and neither "Plenty of autistic people can do those things he says we can't do" nor "Disabled people deserve respect and dignity even if they can't do those things" fully addresses the dehumanization he's trying to conjure. Maybe I'm just jaded, too, about calls for "respect and dignity" for disabled people that don't challenge the concept of The Abject Unthinking. I see behavioral therapists, institution staff, and parents pursuing adult guardianship talking about "respect and dignity." I see articles about how to restrain and forcibly drug people with "respect and dignity." Ableists literally murder disabled people in cold blood in the name of "respect and dignity." I don't know what "respect and dignity" means to these people, but it's sure not synonymous with "bodily autonomy" or "civil rights." By this point, I consider "respect and dignity" about as meaningful as "thoughts and prayers." All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, express themselves. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, make their own decisions about their own bodies. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, participate in their communities. All disabled people can, and deserve the right to, pursue relationships with other people of their choice.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Poison of the Spotlight

Pairing: Security Guard!Bucky x Actress!Reader

Summary: Paparazzi have always been the part you hated about fame, but Bucky is there to shield you from the noise.

Word Count: 1.6k

Warnings: Paparazzi; media harassment; sensory overload; anxiety; themes of fame; public scrutiny; loss of privacy; protective Bucky

Author’s Note: As an actress myself, this was so interesting to explore. Thank you so much for the request, my love!! I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

You’re not sure when the crowd doubled in size but the second the venue doors open, it feels like the damn has broken.

Flashes go off like lightning, rapid-fire questions are hurled from all directions, voices overlapping.

You hadn’t expected this. Hadn’t expected the sound of your own name to be swallowed by a hundred voices, spat back out like chewed gum, mangled and glittering and meaningless. You hadn’t expected the bodies to press this close, to squeeze the air out of your lungs with their questions, their cameras, their hunger.

You are smiling because you’re supposed to. Because the dress is perfect and the makeup is flawless and your publicist said just thirty seconds of poses, baby, that’s all they need.

But it’s louder than you thought it’d be.

Hotter, brighter, closer than it should be.

A voice - a thousand voices - explode around you and you can’t tell where they’re coming from. You flinch as someone steps too close, as someone shoves another forward to get the best angle.

But he is here.

“Back up!” Bucky’s voice is suddenly louder than anything else. Firm and sharp. His arm is at your back and you feel the warmth of his hand at your shoulder blades.

A flash pops too close. A mic nearly clips your cheek.

“Hey, back up” Bucky snaps again, voice inpatient.

His hand winds around your waist, his body moving in calculated lines, his face stony and jaw tense.

He maneuvers you expertly, weaving you through the growing knot of bodies with one goal in mind: get you out.

He moves like a storm and a wall and a prayer all at once. He says your name but not like them. Not like a transaction.

You’ve only had him as your bodyguard for a few months now, but somehow, he’s managed to become the only thing in your life that makes sense when the noise gets too loud.

He doesn’t talk much. Doesn’t ask for selfies. Doesn’t try to be your friend in the way most people do.

He just shifted in front of you without a word when you flinched at the flash of a camera the very first day. He noticed the way your hands shook after a press junket and handed you water before you asked. He called you by your name, not your character, not the headline version of you.

“Keep moving, sweetheart,” he now says quietly, calmly. As if he’s not being crushed by a wave of shouting strangers. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

You’re walking but you’re not walking - you’re being guided, steered, protected - his body forming a shield against the frenzied press of paparazzi. He’s bigger than you remember. Broader. He plants himself in front of you when the flashes come too fast. He catches your elbow instantly when you wobble in your heels, and you think he might actually tear someone apart if they touch you again.

You wonder if he can feel your heartbeat hammering under your skin.

You wonder if he hears the way your breath hitches in your chest.

“I’ve got you,” he repeats, close to your ear.

You press into his side without thinking, head ducked as he leads you through the mess as though he’s cutting through a warzone.

He’s saying things - short, clipped words to security, to crowd control, to the driver - and then suddenly, miraculously, there’s the car. The door swings open like salvation and Bucky helps you inside, tucking you in with careful hands.

You take a deep breath as if you’ve just broken the surface of the ocean.

Bucky slides in beside you and pulls the door shut. The windows tint. The voices vanish. You feel your heart crashing in your chest, blood singing in your ears, your throat tight and dry and useless.

You’ve always hated this part.

Not the acting. Not the scripts. Not the lights on set or the long rehearsals or the hours spent curled up in a trailer memorizing lines. No. You love that part.

You love disappearing into someone else.

But the moment the cameras turn on you - when it’s your name and your face and your body they want - everything inside you clenches.

Paparazzi have always been the prize of admission. And you’ve never stopped resenting it. They’re everywhere. Always everywhere.

Outside the airport. Outside your home. Outside your life. Their lenses are long-range weapons and their questions are landmines. You can’t move without being watched. Judged. Picked apart as if you’re a crime scene.

It’s not glamorous. It’s not fun. It’s not part of the job like they always say it is.

It’s invasive. Intrusive. Violent, in a way no one talks about.

Bucky is looking at you.

“Hey,” he says, so soft you nearly miss it. “You okay, doll?”

His voice is honey and gravel and everything safe. His brow is furrowed, the lines around his mouth carved deep with concern. He looks as if he’s ready to go back out there and dismantle the crowd with his bare hands.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you answer in an exhale. “That was just-”

“Too much,” he finishes for you.

You nod. Or maybe you don’t. You’re not sure. You feel out of place for a second.

“I should’ve stayed closer,” he says, jaw tight, voice firm and guilty. “I usually- damn it- I didn’t like the layout tonight. Too many press zones. Too many exits. I should’ve pulled you sooner.”

You shake your head at him, almost confused. “You were perfect Bucky.”

He stills.

You see the glimmer of something behind his eyes, something quiet and careful and maybe a little touched, like he’s not used to being told that. As if he doesn’t know how to believe it.

“I brought your water,” he says, as if needing to change the subject. His voice is rough. “And the bar you like. The one with the chocolate and honey.”

He reaches for the cooler under the seat as if he’s done it a thousand times, as if he knew you wouldn’t have time to eat, as if he made a checklist in his mind and checked it twice before the night began.

You take it from him. “You didn’t have to, Bucky,” you say, voice a little weaker than you’d want. But it sounds thankful.

Bucky exhales. “Nah, I did,” he counters easily.

He nods for you to go ahead and drink, as if he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but you see the way his fingers twitch, the way his shoulders don’t relax until you’ve taken a sip, taken a breath, looked at him as though you really are okay.

And you are. Because of him.

Because you’ve spent so long trying to armor yourself against a world that wants to consume you.

And then this man - this silent, serious, steel-spined man - walked into your life and made it his mission to be there for you. To make those situations as comfortable as they can get.

And maybe you fall a little in those moments.

Maybe you’re still falling now.

“I’m getting you something,” you say suddenly.

He blinks over at you, startled. “What?”

You turn toward him, straightening your back in your seat. “You’re always saving me. Protecting me. I need to thank you properly.”

Bucky’s ears go red almost immediately.

He shakes his head, gruff and sheepish all at once. “Nah, doll. You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” you counter fiercely. Fiercely enough that he genuinely looks a little shocked. “You’re the only reason I don’t lose my mind at these things.”

You see the way he swallows, the way he starts to shake his head, so you continue.

“I owe you something. I’m getting you- I don’t know, something big. A car, maybe. Do you need a new one? Or a vacation. You deserve a vacation.”

His eyes go wide. Wide and horrified and - bless him - so bashful.

“No- no, doll, you don’t have to-” he stammers, the words tripping over themselves like newborn deers. His usually so sharp cheeks turn the faintest, most beautiful pink. “You don’t have to do anything. M’ just doing my job.”

You stare at him. At the man who has blocked cameras with his body, shielded you from flying elbows, memorized the foods you like when you’re too stressed to eat.

You lean in, close enough to see the silver flecks in his blue eyes. Close enough to see his breath hitch.

“Let me spoil you a little, okay?” you press softly.

Bucky ducks his head as if he’s embarrassed. Mumbles something under his breath, eyes darting everywhere but to you.

“Come on, Barnes. You know you deserve it.” You smile at him, really smile, for the first time all night as it feels like.

Bucky releases an awkward, breathless laugh. And suddenly he doesn’t look so serious anymore.

Because you know that under all that steel and stubbornness and the wall he can be to shield you against the uncomfortable things of your job you can’t escape, he’s a real ass softy.

And you think, maybe the world outside can keep screaming.

Maybe the cameras can keep flashing.

Maybe the whole damn circus can keep spinning.

But as long as you have him, you'll be okay.

[gf2bellamy]

part two: confirmation synchronicity

— ★ what terrifies spencer isn’t the unknown but the known—how effortlessly you’ve loved him, how long he’s loved you back without saying a word.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing !

masterlist

Spencer was scared.

Not the kind of fear he knew from the field. Not the sharp, adrenaline-fueled alertness that came with chasing killers or walking into an unknown crime scene.

This was different.

The fear clung to him like static - irrational, persistent, humiliating in its intensity. Spencer Reid had stared down the barrels of guns, negotiated with serial killers, walked through nightmares made flesh. 

Yet nothing had ever terrified him quite like this: the irrevocable knowledge that he'd fallen helplessly in love with his best friend.

The realization had kept him awake all night, his mind cycling through memories - every shared smile, every casual touch, every moment he'd been too oblivious to recognize as love.

By dawn, the need to see you had become a physical ache, a compulsion stronger than logic.

Which explained why he now stood at your door at 7:23 AM, hair still damp from his rushed shower, heart hammering against his ribs as you blinked up at him in surprise.

"Spence!" Your smile was immediate, effortless, the same bright expression that had become his personal gravitational pull.

"Hi, hello," you added, stepping back to usher him in. "What a surprise."

"Hope that's okay," he managed, fingers fumbling with his shoelaces. His voice sounded strange to his own ears - too high, too tight.

"Sure thing," you said, closing the door behind him.

He paused, staring down at the floor by the entrance. You’d left a space for him—right next to your shoes, like you always did. A spot you never let anyone else take. You knew he liked to keep his shoes by the door so he wouldn’t track dirt inside. So you made space.

You always made space for him. And it hit him again—gentler this time, but just as profound. How easily, how naturally, you’d carved him into your life.

You were studying him now, head tilted.

"Hello?" You waved a hand playfully in front of his face, smiling softly. "You okay there?"

Spencer's breath caught. The morning light caught in your eyes just so, and suddenly he understood with crystalline clarity why poets compared love to drowning.

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," he lied, voice cracking on the last syllable. His fingers twitched at his sides with the unbearable need to reach for you, to confess everything, to risk the most important thing in his life on the chance you might feel it too - that impossible, miraculous synchronicity.

The words burned behind his teeth: I think I'm in love with you.

But he just stood there, not saying anything, terrified and exhilarated in equal measure, memorizing the way your sleep-rumpled hair caught the light.

You turned toward the kitchen —your fingers barely brushing his elbow, just enough to guide him, as if you’d mapped every inch of his personal space long ago.

“Coffee?” you called over your shoulder. Spencer nodded, as if he could ever say no to coffee ( or you ).

The cupboard door creaked as you pulled out his cup—the chipped blue one with the uneven glaze that he always used at your place. Not because it was the closest or the most convenient, but because at some point, without discussion, it had simply become his.

Spencer stared at it, something tightening in his chest, before his gaze drifted back to you.

To the sleep-mussed hair curling at your temples.

To the faint freckle just below your right ear he’d counted during boring briefings.

To the shirt—that soft, worn-in gray one with the stretched neckline.

He still remembered the first time he saw you in it. It had been after a particularly brutal case, one that left his hands shaking long after the jet landed. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t even looked at you, but you’d known. You’d always known.

“Come over,” you’d said, simple as that.

He’d hesitated. Not because he didn’t want to, but because the weight of wanting it too much had terrified him even then.

But you’d smiled—small and sure—and that was that.

“Get comfortable,” you’d told him, disappearing into your bedroom to change out of your work blouse. He remembered how the gray shirt hung a little loose on you, how the sleeves kept falling and how you didn’t bother fixing them. He remembered sitting on your couch with a blanket thrown over both of you, talking in half-sentences and full silences until the weight of the case finally began to lift off his shoulders.

"Spence?" Your voice was soft as you interrupted his thoughts.

Of course you'd noticed—you always did. The way his fingers trembled. The distracted flicker of his gaze. The uncharacteristic disarray of his clothes.

His head snapped up at your call, eyes wide. "Hm?"

The cup met the counter with a dull clink as you abandoned it, crossing the space between you in two strides. Up close, the evidence of his hurry was even more apparent—his vest sat crooked, the buttons misaligned, his hair still damp at the ends from a rushed shower.

"You're worrying me," you murmured, hands already moving to straighten the fabric at his waist before he could protest. "I asked if you were okay."

Spencer's breath hitched as your fingers brushed the thin cotton of his vest. The touch was casual, familiar—the kind of unthinking intimacy you'd shared a hundred times before—but now it sent electricity crackling up his spine. His lashes fluttered shut for a brief, treacherous moment, memorizing the warmth of your palms through the material.

"I—yes, uhm." The words stuck in his throat like honey. He forced his hands to cover yours, squeezing gently in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. Your skin was impossibly soft beneath his calloused fingers. "Just had a weird night."

You didn't pull away.

Instead, you tilted your head, studying him with those eyes—the ones that saw too much, knew too well. The morning light caught the flecks of gold in them, and Spencer realized with dizzying clarity that your hands were still resting against his ribs, your thumbs unconsciously stroking small circles into the fabric.

Waiting. Always waiting for him.

You tilted your head, curiosity flickering in your expression. “You want to talk about it?”

"No, it's fine," he murmured, his hands burning where they'd touched yours. He shoved them into his pockets before they could betray him further.

"Okay." You smiled—that easy, sunlit smile that made his ribs ache—and turned back to the counter, pouring coffee into his waiting cup.

"Be careful, it's hot," you warned as you handed it to him.

Spencer blinked down at the steam curling from the rim. "You added—"

"Cinnamon syrup." You grinned, already knowing his question before he could finish it. "Yes, sweetness is a must, Spencer." You shook your head in mock exasperation before settling onto one of the high chairs at your kitchen island.

He sat closer than necessary, his knee pressing against yours beneath the table before he could stop himself.

Then you were talking—really talking—the way you always did.

You filled the room with laughter and warmth as you chatted about office gossip. You were animated, expressive, and quick-witted—spinning wild theories about who was secretly dating who, and who was definitely hiding something in their desk drawers.

Spencer, naturally, confirmed half your suspicions with unintentionally deadpan evidence. Like “I saw them having lunch together twice this week” or “Actually, he mentioned she had a cat named Whiskers. Nobody just shares pet names with coworkers they don’t like.”

You had a gift for sensing things. Spencer remembered everything.

Together, it made for oddly effective detective work—at least when it came to inter-office drama.

It was normal. Perfectly, painfully normal. Just like before his world had tilted on its axis last night.

Except now, he couldn't stop touching you.

His knee remained firmly against yours. His fingers brushed your wrist when you gestured too widely with your hands. Once, when you leaned forward to emphasize a point, he caught himself reaching to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear before jerking back at the last second.

It was a craving—an insatiable, terrifying need to memorize you through touch. To prove to himself that you were real, that this fragile thing between you hadn't shattered just because he'd finally named it.

And when you didn't pull away—when you never pulled away—something warm and hopeful unfurled in his chest.

At least his brain still functioned well enough to hold a conversation while memorizing the way your lips curled around the rim of your coffee cup.

"So, should we go?" you asked.

Spencer blinked. Apparently, the multitasking wasn't working as seamlessly as he'd thought.

"Huh?"

Your eyebrows knitted together—just slightly—and the urge to smooth the crease between them with his thumb was so visceral his fingers twitched against his thigh. He clenched them into a fist.

"Garcia's inviting us to brunch," you said, shaking your phone in his direction. The screen displayed a string of emoji-laden texts that could only be Penelope's handiwork. "Do you feel like going?"

The question was weighted, your tone deliberately light. You were giving him an out, sensing—always sensing—that something was off. It was a simple question, but you didn’t ask it simply.

He could hear the subtext—Are you okay? Do you need something? Do you want to talk?—all packed quietly into that one casual sentence.

"Where?" He stalled, draining the last of his coffee. The cinnamon sweetness lingered on his tongue.

"That place right around the corner." You were already moving, collecting both cups. "Garcia said she and Morgan are close by."

When you turned toward the sink, Spencer found himself standing closer than intended—close enough to catch the familiar scent of your shampoo, close enough that if he reached out—

You glanced over your shoulder, momentarily startled by his proximity but saying nothing. 

And neither did he.

"Okay, yes. Sure." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "I'm... hungry."

The lie tasted bitter. He wasn't hungry for food.

He was hungry for this—for the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at his response, for the brush of your arm against his, for the unbearable, beautiful normalcy of being yours in every way that mattered.

Except one.

Except the one he actually craved.

"Guess you finished the cookies already?" You grinned, drying your hands on the dish towel before leaning back against the counter. The motion made your shirt ride up just slightly, revealing a sliver of skin that Spencer pointedly ignored.

"Yes." A soft smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Thank you again."

He mirrored your posture, leaning against the opposite counter. The distance between you felt both infinite and insignificant.

In all the quiet chaos of the morning, Spencer didn't notice how your gaze traveled over him—lingering on the way his sweater stretched across his shoulders, the sleep-softened edges of his usually precise appearance. Up, down, then up again—your gaze lingering just a second too long on the scarf around his neck. A small, private smile curling at the corners of your mouth. 

"You're welcome." You ducked your head slightly. "Though I might've stolen one or two cookies while driving over." The admission came with a conspiratorial wink, as if sharing some delicious secret.

Spencer’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Really?”

You nodded proudly. “I had to taste test. Quality control.”

He laughed softly, the sound barely there, but genuine. “I had a feeling.”

A beat of silence.

"I liked the quote," he blurted out suddenly, remembering the one you'd left on the note

Your eyes lit up. "Yeah, well, Algernon's right. You should listen to him." You pointed an accusatory finger his way, but the effect was ruined by the way your voice softened around the edges.

"Speaking of food..." Your gaze flicked to the clock behind him, then back to meet his eyes. "We should go."

Spencer nodded, pushing himself off the counter. “Right. Brunch.”

Brunch was... dangerous.

Spencer hadn't accounted for the booth—how it forced you hip-to-hip, your leg draped carelessly over his thigh like you belonged there. Every time you turned to speak, your breath ghosted across his cheek. Each accidental brush of fingers over shared syrup sent sparks skittering up his spine.

When you discovered the new pancake special—fluffy buttermilk stacked with caramelized bananas—your eyes lit up like Christmas morning.

"Oh my God, this is perfect," you sighed, shooting Garcia a grateful look for recommending it.

Morgan, tempted by your dramatic praise, reached across the table and casually snatched a piece of the pancake you had already cut for yourself.

"Hey!" You swatted at his wrist, but the damage was done. Morgan chewed with theatrical relish as you glared at the now-smaller stack.

"Mmm. Tasty."

You rolled your eyes, then turned to Spencer with that look—the one that always meant trouble. "You need to try this."

Spencer glanced at the diminished pancake, then at your expectant face. "No, no, it's fine—"

Too late. Your fork was already spearing a perfect bite, your other hand warm on his forearm as you gently turned him toward you. Around you, Garcia and Morgan's bickering faded to white noise.

Time slowed.

Spencer's lips parted obediently, the fork sliding free as he tasted brown sugar and something inherently you. He chewed deliberately slow, savoring the way your lashes fluttered when you leaned closer—close enough to count the flecks of gold in your eyes.

"Well?" You were practically in his lap now, oblivious to Garcia's suddenly interested silence. "Do you love it?"

Spencer swallowed hard.

I love you. The words burned his tongue.

Instead, he nodded, his knee pressing harder into yours beneath the table.

"Perfect," he whispered.

And for once, he wasn't talking about the food.

The absurdity wasn’t lost on him. That something as simple as you feeding him a bite of pancake could feel like a revelation. That after Morgan had stolen a piece, leaving your portion halved, you’d still offered him the sweetest corner—always the best part—without hesitation.

And he’d let you.

Spencer Reid, who calculated microbial growth rates on restaurant cutlery, who ordered the same three meals on rotation to minimize variables, had parted his lips without a second thought when you pressed the fork to them.

Confirmation.

The rest of brunch passed in a haze of accidental touches that weren’t accidental at all—your pinky brushing his when reaching for the syrup, your thigh staying pressed to his long after the booth’s confines excused it. Even the drive home blurred at the edges, his mind too full of you to register street signs.

Then your apartment: the familiar creak of your couch as you draped your ankles over his lap, your socked feet absently nudging his thighs while you chatted about nothing and everything. He should’ve been cataloging the way your laughter filled the room, memorizing the cadence of your voice.

Instead, all he could think was: This is what love feels like.

The hug goodbye lasted three seconds too long. You didn’t pull away—of course you didn’t—just settled deeper into his chest like you belonged there. Who were you to deny Spencer Reid anything? Who was anyone?

Now, standing in the silence of his apartment for the second night in a row, the truth settled over him with terrifying clarity:

This wasn’t a hypothesis.

It wasn’t a fleeting emotion to be analyzed and filed away.

The evidence was irrefutable, the conclusion inescapable. Every touch, every glance, every selfless act—they weren’t just data points. They were proof.

And for the first time in his life, Spencer Reid had no idea what to do with an answer.

[lazysoulwriter]

you said my name on live tv! - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you for sending, honey. hope you enjoy.

---

Pedro wasn’t supposed to say your name.

You both knew the rules — or at least, the one unspoken agreement that had kept your relationship safely under wraps for the last six months: no public mentions, no soft launches, no clues. You weren’t famous, and he liked it that way. Liked the quiet normalcy of it. Liked how no one in your world cared about red carpets or premiere dates, only if you were free for brunch or needed help picking out plants for the apartment.

But today, during a perfectly standard interview for a late-night show, Pedro forgot.

It started innocently. The host had asked a string of questions about Pedro’s chaotic schedule — something about jetlag and coffee addictions — and then, mid-laugh, the host joked:

“So who keeps you grounded when you’re not off being the internet’s daddy?”

Pedro, in all his charming glory, chuckled, eyes sparkling. “Oh, Y/N does,” he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “She reminds me to sleep like a human being.”

The studio audience didn’t catch it. Not really. Just a name dropped in a sea of Pedroisms.

But the internet did.

The clip hit Twitter before the show even ended. Zoomed-in, subtitled, slowed down.

“WHO IS Y/N AND WHY IS PEDRO PASCAL SMILING LIKE THAT WHEN HE SAYS HER NAME??”

“y/n… you better treat him right i swear to GOD.”

“do we think y/n is someone we know? a celeb?? no info anywhere. queen’s in hiding.”

“you guys she’s not famous. i did a deep dive. she’s just. a person. and he’s in love.”

—

Back in your shared apartment, you’re sprawled on the couch, one leg thrown over Pedro’s, a big hoodie drowning your frame and a bowl of popcorn slowly going stale between you.

Pedro looks sheepish, his phone buzzing non-stop. “I really didn’t mean to say it.”

You’re giggling, face tucked into his shoulder. “I told you that interview was live.”

“I forgot, baby. I was tired and they were being funny and then your name just… came out.”

You poke his side. “So now the whole world knows Pedro Pascal has a girlfriend named Y/N who tells him to go to sleep.”

He flips the phone so you both can see the flood of TikToks and tweets. One fan made a slideshow of blurry Pedro candids captioned “thinking about her” set to a Phoebe Bridgers song. Another user made a fake "Y/N Pascal" Vogue cover. Someone even made a fan edit of your blurry Instagram pictures that you thought were private, matched up with Pedro's, like they were connecting some conspiracy.

You both dissolve into laughter, tears welling up in your eyes from how ridiculous it all is.

Pedro wipes a crumb from your cheek and grins. “Should I post a picture of us now? Since it’s out?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What kind of picture?”

He shrugs. “Just… us. Normal. No face filters. No drama.”

You hum, pretending to think it over. “Okay. But I get to pick the caption.”

“And what are you gonna put?”

You grab your phone, snuggle back into his side, and type it out slowly.

“yes, it’s me. no, you can’t have him.”

Pedro bursts out laughing. “That’s evil.”

“That’s iconic,” you correct him, and press post.

The internet loses its mind again. But this time, you’re not just laughing from the sidelines. You’re in it. Together. On the same couch, eating popcorn, letting the world fall in love with a version of what you already have.

Just… a little more out loud now.

---

[poppitron360]

This is so true and it’s one of the reasons why I hated Leo’s writing in Trials of Apollo. He literally died and came back to life and all we get as a consequence is a few lousy jokes and a really uncomfortable scene where a bunch of his friends line up to beat him up and it’s played for laughs.

From a reader engagement standpoint this doesn’t make sense. Leo’s death was supposed to be the climax of those entire five books, and was hugely built up to, and should have been the most significant moment for his character- and literally nothing substantial happens as a consequence, aside from “yay we defeated the Big Bad”. It just doesn’t feel like he really sacrificed anything, and so the moment holds a lot less weight. A way to get around this? Give him trauma! That way it feels like one of the biggest moments in five books of writing actually had a lasting effect on the characters, and makes Leo seem a lot more compelling since he did this brave thing and saved everyone despite the risks, because Rick actually needs to do the work to convince us it was risky at all.

Now I know it’s part of Leo’s character to keep it all inside of him and hide how much it hurts and since TOA is not from his POV it could be difficult- but not impossible. There are several moments in the Dark Prophecy when this could’ve been shown. Leo literally runs around shirtless for the first few chapters (another weird writing choice, mind you) and there’s no mention of any physical scarring at all. When Apollo and Leo share a room, you could’ve had him have a nightmare or something and wake up, and in fact one of the lessons Apollo learns in that book is about sacrificing yourself for your friends, and Leo would’ve been a great person to have a discussion with about that. I haven’t read that book in a long time but I’m sure there were other moments it could be included.

This is also why I love any headcanons where Leo loses a body part/becomes disabled in any way as a result of literally being exploded. It shows some physical repercussions and means he at least sacrificed something if not his life. Also it can make for some cool gadgets being featured. I personally like to write him with at least mild tinnitus because it shows some damage has been done without affecting fanfic plot too much.

Did we just gloss over the fact that Leo was canonically abused as a child??

[rainydayathogwarts]

the red box - platonic!marauders

summary: when your friends are helping you clean out the belongings you'd gathered from your last relationship, marlene seems to forget the only rule. do not open the red box. wc: 1.2k+ cw: suggestive vibe, mentions/description of sex, inappropriate photos described i acc dont know what possessed me to write this...

“Okay,” You started, looking around the room where your friends had all been gathered around a giant cardboard box, where you’d kept all the belongings you had from your relationship with your ex. “Firstly, I want to thank you all for volunteering to be here today instead of Hogsmeade.” “I’m only here because everyone else volunteered and I didn’t want to be alone.” You shot Sirius an irritated look, but the corners of your mouth tugged up into a smile.

Clearing your throat, you continued your speech “Today is going to be difficult for all of us. I may shed tears, you may come across some not very appropriate things. But the most important thing you need to know is that you cannot open the small red box-” “What small red box?”

“Thanks Marlene, I’m getting there. A small red box is a box that is red, slightly smaller than a shoe box. Don’t open it. Thank you.” “What’s in the red box?” You stared at Remus, feeling betrayed that he was the one to ask the question, because if anyone in the room could mind their own business, even just slightly, it would be him. You sighed. There was no hope for you.

“Photos.” There was a collective gasp around the room, and you put your hands on your hips. Lily giggled, raising her eyebrows at you suggestively. “What, you mean you don’t want us to see you naked?” Sirius suddenly straightened his back, looking much more interested in this charity event than he had been three minutes ago. James furrowed his eyebrows “Why on earth have you kept photos with-” “-You don’t know what the photos are!” But your defensive tone had told them everything there is to know. “Anyway…”

The next half an hour was spent with the six of you going through the big cardboard box, each person in the group pulling out miscellaneous items and asking if you were keeping or throwing it. At the sight of James holding an old, battered hoodie, you mumbled “Oh, keep that.” Every head in the room turned to look at you with equally judgemental looks on their faces. “Love, you’re not keeping your ex’s hoodie.” You stared back at Remus’s disapproving gaze, reaching forward to take the hoodie from James’s hands.

James shook his head, holding it out of your reach. “I wasn’t even going to ask if you wanted to keep this. It has to go.” You tried to hide the pout that was fighting its way onto your face. “It’s comfy. I’m not gonna cry about him or anything.” You reached for the sweater again, but James shook his head, throwing the hoodie into the ‘throw’ pile. You gasped.

Lily put a hand on your back, caressing you softly. “You’ll hate us for it now, but trust me you’ll be thanking us in the long run.” You scoffed, muttering “Sure.” As you looked down in your lap, fiddling with your hands.

“Hey what’s this box?” You glanced up at Marlene, watching as she started taking the lid off a little red box. You screeched, yelling “Don’t open that!” You nearly tackled Marlene as you snatched the box away from her, but it was too late. The lid had skidded over to the other side of the room, and Marlene had already glanced at the images inside. “Oh my god.” She muttered, laughing in surprise, a dark blush on her face. “There was one rule!” you shrieked, your face hot, clutching the box tightly to your chest, one hand covering the images on the top.

“Marlene… What did you see?” You glanced down at the images on the top layer of the box, all moving polaroids, and shut your eyes dreadfully. None of these would you want any of your friends to look at. Marlene swallowed thickly. “The one where you’re-the one with his. The one where you’re…” Marlene made a slurping sound and you groaned horrifically from where you had stood up.

“Hey, don’t worry, it’s an-it’s an insanely hot photo. Almost too sexy.” From the corner of your eye, you saw Sirius and Remus perking up. But they weren’t the ones who yelled out “I want to see it!” No, that was Lily. James looked at his girlfriend with a shocked look on his face.

“I’m not showing it to you!”

“Marlene saw it!”

“I didn’t want Marlene to see it!”

“Oh, so you like her better than me!”

“No- I never said that!”

"Yeah, well you didn't have to say it."

"Lily..." Your best friend stared at you blanking. Sighing, you fished the polaroid from the top of the pile. Lily clapped her hands together excitedly, reaching out to take the image you were holding out to her. She held it close to her chest, as though it was secret. Well, it was, but the theatrics we a bit much. Lily’s eyes widened, and she looked up at you with a wide grin. “If I had a cock right now I’d be rock hard.” She told you, keeping steady eye contact. “Okay, that’s enough.”

“Wait, now I want to see!” Sirius spoke, earning himself a punch in the shoulder from Remus. “Ew, you’re not looking at that.”

“Why not? Lily said it’s hot.”

“Um actually, I said it’s hot!” Cut in Marlene, a look of pride on her face. “Sirius, I’m not about to show you a moving image of me sucking dick.” Sirius gulped thickly, shrugging his shoulders lightly. “Why not?” Good question. Why not? You mimicked his movement, shrugging your shoulders. “Well if I show you, we might as well all have a look at all these pictures!” You exaggerated, throwing your arms out in a wild gesture.

“Yeah, okay.” Muttered Remus, holding his hand out to see the photo. Oddly enough, you found yourself taking a couple of steps forward and handing the boy the inappropriate image. “Can I?” You heard James ask Lily, who nodded encouragingly. Remus held the picture in his hand, the two other boys huddling around him to look at it. You finally sat down in between Lily and Marlene again, the group naturally forming a circle again.

“If I were you, I would have this photo framed and hung up in the entrance of my home.” You laughed at Sirius’s words, feeling heat creep up your neck. “It’s just a photo.” “Just a photo?” Remus retorted, smirking at the image in front of him. You cleared your throat shyly.

Yes, to you, it was just a photo. Your ex’s cock was buried deep in your throat, and you had tears running down your cheeks, the smokey makeup around your eyes shiny and smudged. Your lips had curled up slightly into a smile as you laughed lightly, and your ex’s hand had come up to gently hold the side of your head, pulling you off his cock slightly as he thrusted his hips forward, gagging you slightly. You remember the day, not the moment. When you cuddled in bed afterward, and he told you that he had almost cum on the spot.

“Okay, make the most of that because you’re not looking at any of these other photos.” Marlene and Lily scooted closer to you, and you sighed. “I guess you two can see.” You didn’t see them, but you heard Marlene and Lily high five behind your back before leaning forward to take a closer look at the box.

“Oh, this one next!”

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