#they'd both have a smug smile on their face

[juliamccartney]

the barbie&ken mugshot pictures but it's sandrine & silas

[rafecameronsslut4ever]

CASUAL — lando norris (smut, angst, nsfw)

pairing; fem!reader x lando norris summary: whatever you and lando have, it's anything but 'casual'. warnings: smut 18+, a LOT of angst, mdni, fingering, oral (f receiving), (situationship?) a/n: i lowkey want chappell roan's casual to be inserted into my brain and OMG this one is too sad

part 2 - casual

"nah, nah. the two of us... it's complicated, y'know? just a casual thing, honestly."

the words echoed in your mind on the flight from london, replaying as the seatbelt sign dinged off.

casual.

the word had always carried a negative connotation, but hearing him say it made you feel so much worse. it made you feel insignificant, as if the months that had passed meant nothing to him, while it had meant so much more to you.

you were anything but casual.

all those nights, the mornings after, the kisses, the rendezvouses. they meant something, didn't they? you thought they did, at least.

the way he'd look at you when the lights dimmed and his voice would turn soft. the way he'd kiss you as if it was what he was made to do.

he knew every inch of you. every freckle, every curve. he knew you better than he knew the tracks he raced on.

but, then again, lando norris was never known for being reliable.

he was young and wild and carefree, a bachelor to be envied by all. a party boy, a flirt, a ladies' man. he was charming and he knew it.

he was good at making people believe that they were special.

everyone loved him. the oh-so charming lando norris. the young driver who had a bright future ahead of him. he was bound to get whatever he wanted, right?

the first night he touched you, the two of you had come to an agreement—no attachment. he made it clear that he didn't have time for anything serious, but that he would love to have fun with you.

you, of course, had agreed to that.

in the beginning it was nothing. 'accidentally' crashing into each other at parties, accompanying the other into hotel rooms, and then disappearing as soon as the sun rose.

but do these 'no attachments' things ever work? it wasn't even a complete month before the two of you became more and more involved and realised you weren't just having fun.

as you exited the airplane, your heart clenched at the thought. the two of you had never actually said anything, but it was there, hanging in the air, almost suffocating you.

the first time you realised it wasn't just fun, you were in the passenger seat of his mclaren. he was on his knees, big blue eyes staring into yours as he flicked his tongue in you. you were so close, you had been for a while. he could tell. his eyes were locked onto yours, a glint of smugness in them. and then, with the tip of his finger, he brought you over the edge.

after you both came, he had crawled into the driver's seat and smiled at you. his lips glistened, his chin damp, and his hair sticking up in places.

"you look beautiful." he said, a hand coming up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"i think i like you." his voice was barely a whisper, and if you hadn't been staring right into his eyes you might've missed what he said.

"yeah, me too." your voice was breathless.

and that was the only time either of you'd ever said anything about it.

was it casual?

then, that one time when you had flown to his family home in the uk and met his parents. they'd welcomed you with open arms and treated you like one of their own, and lando's face had glowed with joy the whole time.

"i still can't believe that lando has such a pretty girlfriend." his mom had said to you, giggling as the two of you shared a bottle of wine.

"mom!" lando had whined from the other room. "can't you just shut up for once?"

"oh, hush! i'm just saying it as it is." she shrugged.

you had blushed furiously at her words, looking down at your feet as you took another sip of the expensive italian wine.

you had thought he would deny the 'girlfriend' title, or at least laugh it off, but he didn't. instead, he grinned like an idiot and you wondered if the wine had gone to his head.

"yeah, guess i got lucky." he'd muttered, and his mom had smiled, nodding knowingly.

when the day ended, you had fallen asleep curled up next to him, his body warmth enveloping you like a blanket.

now, your eyes stung as you walked through the airport, a million thoughts running through your mind.

you'd spent the rest of the week there and it was the best time you'd had in a while. he'd taken you on a day-trip to oxford, but the two of you ended up staying the night at some cottage. he'd held you closer, kissed you harder. you slept together as many times as you could.

fuck, you weren't just casual.

and the time the you woke up in each other's arms, his face buried in your hair, hands wrapped around your waist. he had asked you what your plans for the future were.

"get an apartment in monaco right next to yours so that i can stalk you everyday. binoculars and everything." you had joked.

"really? not gonna say you're going to marry me and have a billion kids and we're gonna grow old together?"

you'd looked up at him, eyebrows raised. and then the two of you had burst out laughing.

"what the fuck, lando. i'm not having a billion kids with you."

he just smirked in response.

or the time when the two of you vacationed in italy with his friends, and at the pier he had introduced you as his 'hotshot pr girl'.

"he's paying me a million dollars to pretend to be his girlfriend because he doesn't like being called a virgin."

"hey!" he'd laughed, nudging you.

"shut up, loser."

and then you'd pushed him into the water.

"i'm never talking to you again." he'd pouted.

"oh yeah, find someone else to have your billion kids with. my uterus will be happy."

or the countless times he would call you in the middle of the night and tell you about his new merch drop, and you'd whine about how it was 2 in the morning and you couldn't give a flying fuck.

and when you had just gotten off the phone with his sister, "flo is such a sweetheart, i love her."

"my sister talks to you more than she talks to me. you know she likes you better, right?" he'd mumbled, looking offended.

"what can i say, i'm such a charmer." you'd said in the most british accent you could muster, and he'd rolled his eyes and shoved your face away.

december came, and cisca invited you to celebrate christmas with them.

"if he doesn't ask you to be his girlfriend, promise me you'll tell him it's over." your best friend has said, looking at you sternly.

you had just sighed in response, shaking your head.

"i'm serious. you don't deserve someone like that. not if he doesn't think you're worth the commitment."

"you're right. i know. i'm just... i'm just scared. i like him so much. i don't know what to do."

the morning of christmas, you'd landed in london and gone straight to his place. he was all dressed up, and you'd almost cried at how gorgeous he looked.

"merry christmas, darling." he'd murmured, and you'd melted at his words. he welcomed you with a kiss, the way he always did.

the day was spent exchanging gifts with his family, watching christmas movies and cuddling under blankets.

his family adored you.

"i'm glad you're here." he said.

"where else would i be?"

"anywhere else."

you smiled at him, and he returned it with a cheshire cat one.

that night, the two of you had been invited to dinner with his parents, and halfway through the meal you'd excused yourself to go to the bathroom.

as you stood there washing your hands, you'd heard the door swing open, and the familiar figure appeared next to you, locking the door behind him.

"lando."

"yeah?"

"what are you doing?"

"i need to wash my hands." he'd shrugged.

you raised a brow at him, looking at him pointedly.

he shrugged again, taking a step towards you.

"you look too good in this dress, can't help it."

you rolled your eyes as he stepped closer to you, fingers about to grasp your waist before you told him to back off.

"what?"

"wash your hands first. didn't you come here to wash your hands? there's no way in hell i'm letting greasy salmon fingers touch me."

and then the two of you had laughed before his lips found yours lips. it felt so natural, the way your body reacted to his touch or the way your lips melted into his.

"lando, we shouldn't." you protested, neck arching as he pressed kisses everwhere.

"shut up." he grabbed your waist before pushing you against the counter, his lips crashing back into yours.

"what happened to your hands? i told you to wash them."

"fuck the hands."

"technically-"

"shut the fuck up." he groaned, dipping a finger between your thighs. "you're dripping. fucking hell."

pulling his fingers out, his knee pushed your thighs apart, spreading your legs apart.

you gasped, shifting your hands as you balanced yourself against the counter. his eyes locked in yours as his finger dragged across your core.

"fuck, baby, you're so pretty." he whispered, eyes digging into yours.

"lando, please."

"please what?" he asked as he slipped two fingers inside you.

your eyes squeezed shut, head leaning against the mirror behind you. "oh, fuck."

"i asked a question."

you were quick to answer, fisting his shirt as his fingers moved inside you. "please fuck me, oh my god."

he smirked before dropping to his knees, spreading your thighs and pressing his tongue onto your clit. you yelped at the sudden feeling of his mouth sucking at your clit; eyes rolling back.

his hands grabbed your legs, swinging them over his shoulder. hand sprawled over your stomach, pushing you back against the counter.

when his tongue curled into you, brushing that spot he never failed to miss, you couldn't help but let a loud moan escape you.

lando hushed you; tapping your thigh. “gotta be quiet baby,” lando said through heavy breaths before pushing his face back into you.

biting into your lip, your fingers ran through his curls, admiring the sight of his head moving between your thighs.

your moans filled the small bathroom, the sound like music to his ears.

"lando," your voice was shaky, breath hitching as he picked up the pace, his hands pushing your hips down.

he hummed in response, the vibration sending waves throughout your body.

"oh, god, lando. right there, right there. oh fuck."

and then your body was trembling, and you were gripping his hair, his tongue still moving.

you were seeing stars, vision going white as your legs quivered around his face.

"oh, god." you sighed, chest rising and falling as he pulled his fingers out, smirking up at you.

"c'mon baby, give me one more."

it wasn't casual.

now, walking through the terminal, dragging your suitcase behind you, the tears threatened to spill from your eyes.

maybe he said 'casual' just to tell his friends he was still a player. or maybe, he was referring to the fact that the two of you were just friends who hooked up sometimes.

but whatever he meant, it wasn't the truth.

both of you knew it.

casual wasn't the way he held you close during thunderstorms, wasn't the way he'd make sure coffee was the perfect temperature, wasn't the way he'd look at you as if the world stopped turning.

the way he'd stare into your eyes as the lights turned off, the way he'd press a kiss onto your temple, the way he'd say your name.

it wasn't casual.

[delespresso]

RERUN ━━ Fiyero x fem!reader

author's note; this took longer than expected, i'm sorry! but here we are <3

prompt; "Admit it you missed me." "I certainly missed kicking your ass, if that's what you mean." for Fiyero x Reader? (maybe they knew eachother as kids?)

summary; fiyero's arrival in shiz university had everyone in a frenzy, but especially a certain lady from winkie country

side notes; i'm using a surname for the reader this time but its not an oc, feel free to imagine your own name! (i just didn't wanna use y/n). never read the books, so if i say anything about the vinkus/ winkie country is purely from google searches and maybe even made up by myself idk 😭

━━ ☄. *. ⋆

The newspaper pretty much hit her in the face.

She'd been walking in the courtyard, intending to head back to her dorm to get ready for her classes after an early morning jog. But the newspaper that somehow flew from a stack on one of the tables quite literally smacked her in the face.

She grabbed it with a huff, about to throw it aside. Of course, until the headline of the latest report from The Shiz Gazette caught her eye.

Prince Fiyero Spotted at Shiz!

She read it over and over again. Looked at the picture they'd printed repeatedly. Then she tossed it onto the floor, quite literally stomping over it as she ran back to her dorm.

When was the last time she saw that stupid, handsome prince? They were both younger then. Their separation was mainly because he could never for the life of him keep himself in one school — there was always something he did that had him transferred to a new one.

She'd thought that now she was in Shiz, maybe they wouldn't meet again. After all, it was quite a prestigious school. Maybe his nonchalant, slacking attitude would have him rejected the moment they saw his name.

She was so wrong.

He was here. Fiyero Tigelaar was here. The Winkie Prince. The boy she grew up with. The boy who stole her butterfly clips for no other reason than to make her run in the rain to catch him. The bane of her existence.

She was sure the universe was conspiring against her. The second she'd changed into her uniform, she left her dorm. Admittedly, it wasn't the typical blues that everyone wore. She was one of the few with a different shade; greys and lighter blues instead. She intended to head straight for her first class— only to find a small crowd gathered outside.

That horse. Oh, she knew the horse. She recognised the bloody horse before she even saw the person.

When someone finally moved their head out of the way, she caught sight of Fiyero Tigelaar himself. He was by the directory board, figuring out the layout of the place. Galinda was there too, no doubt trying to offer some touring services. He turned his head, about to respond to the blonde girl — when his gaze drifted over the girl's shoulder and found a familiar face.

A smile immediately broke on his ridiculously handsome face, his hand raised for a wave. It was as if everyone's attention immediately snapped to her.

She sighed inwardly, her eyes narrowed. The slightest nod was all the acknowledgement she gave him before she turned and trudged off elsewhere, avoiding him at all costs.

She'd heard of his little escapade to the Ozdust Ballroom, bringing quite the group of students with him for a night out in town. Already he was rubbing off on everyone, influencing them into his bad habits.

Fiyero had been in Shiz for a week now, and she'd successfully avoided him. But of course her peace and quiet couldn't last forever. In the back shelves of the library, as she skimmed through the book bindings to find a history book — she was loudly interrupted.

“Lady Yarrow.”

She nearly dropped a book with a gasp, startled by the sudden intrusion. Then she was quick to hush the person, spinning on her heels to see Fiyero's smug expression.

“This is a library,” she pointed out.

“Really? It was introduced to me as the ‘bookplace’,” he hummed, looking around as if it was a new discovery.

She rolled her eyes, inhaling deeply to prevent herself from yelling at him like she used to back when they were in Winkie Country.

“Library,” she repeated. “And you're meant to be quiet.”

Fiyero grinned, knowing she was getting ticked off already.

“And is this ever-present tension a new development? Or have I forgotten how easy you are to rile up?” he teased.

The young girl he knew was always sensitive, took everything to heart. They weren't necessarily best of friends but they weren't enemies either — or so he believed.

“Why are you here?” she deflected with ease as she turned back to searching for her book.

“I wanted to read.”

“Ha!”

“Shh, its a library,” he exclaimed in a mock whisper, repeating her earlier words as she shot him an exasperated glare.

“Why are you in Shiz?” she asked instead, moving on from the topic.

“Transferred from Royal Winkie.”

“Kicked out, I believe is the right term.”

“Oh so you have been keeping up with me?” he exclaimed, a bit of a giddy grin on his face as tailed her through the shelves.

When she didn't respond, he just skipped his way until he was in front of her. He walked backwards as she moved forward, still looking through the titles.

“I haven't. But you know our parents,” she grumbled.

“Admit it, princess, you missed me,” he teased, poking at her shoulder.

She swatted his hand away, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. He was still as insufferable as ever.

“I certainly missed kicking your ass, if that's what you mean.”

Fiyero chuckled at that, but he persisted anyway. He just kept shadowing her through the library, pestering her with random teases or jokes even until she was leaving. Even then he followed her.

She just couldn't seem to shake him even if she tried.

“Princess,” he drawled, knowing full well how much she hated when he called her that.

He couldn't help it though — getting on her nerves was his hobby. Not to mention, he hasn't seen her in years.

She ignored him though, continuing to walk through the halls and towards the garden instead. Fiyero knew she was stubborn, but so was he.

“Ignoring me won't make me go away,” he pointed out.

“Throwing a log at you might.”

His laugh was awfully gleeful for someone who just got threatened. When she settled at one of the tables in the garden, she noticed he wasn't directly with her anymore.

Just as she thought she was free of his torment, there was a daffodil suddenly in front of her face. She looked at the hand holding the yellow flower, following it up to see his cheeky and smug face. In a smooth motion, he slid the flower in her hair as an extra accessory.

"You know, I think I'll enjoy wearing you down," he said, before giving her his signature smile and walking away.

Fiyero Tigelaar made it his life mission to bother her at all times from that day onward — letting history repeat itself, as always.

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[emeritusemeritus]

Hi! I love your writings! I’m obsessed with jealous fred weasley so if you could write a one shot with whatever you’d like :)))

(If you hate just ignore pls lol)

Hi love! Thank you so much, this has been a lot of fun to write. I’ve been sat watching Goblet of Fire, took one look at Fred in this scene and knew it just had to be long hair Freddie because it makes me feral. Hope you enjoy! 🖤

Warnings: bit of swearing, mild sexual references. Fred gets jealous and a little possessive. Talks of marriage. Sorry McLaggen I needed a villain.

Word count: 1k

A cold heart and a warm jumper

Jealousy wasn't something Fred Weasley ever felt.

He knew his family weren't rich, that they'd never have the best of anything or anything new in abundance and so from a young age, he'd made peace with it and learned not to envy others. Being one of seven kids and most importantly a twin in a family that was already stretched both financially and emotionally, he'd had to learn to share, virtually from the day he was born. He'd shared clothes, toys, his room, practically his entire life with George, even a uterus and placenta, though he didn't care to think about that.

But now, watching Cormac McLaggen leering over the one thing in his life that he absolutely refused to share, he felt the unfamiliar rise of the green eyed monster throughout his entire body.

Godric he hated that slimy little prick. With his stupid blonde curls and the smug little smile that Fred really wanted to slap off his face right now, regardless of his rich daddy and any consequences that would inevitably follow.

The common room was a blaze with celebration, Harry’s victory in joint first place of the first task had been wildly celebrated by each and every Gryffindor and even Ron had joined in after being such a miserable git for a month. But even with the chaos and jubilant celebration around him, as well as a decent profit they’d made on taking the bets during the task, Fred was not in the mood for a party.

Despite it being the end of November, Fred’s striped jumper and beige overcoat suddenly felt like they were suffocating him as he stared at the corner where McLaggen leaned suggestively ogling his girlfriend, reaching out to touch her arm and shifting ever closer to where she stood. He was getting hotter by the second, burning up with anger and jealousy as he looked in disgust at the slimy sod. Who did he think he was to be stood so close to Fred’s girl? They’d been together years, it was hardly like nobody knew that she was his.

But then he heard your girlish giggle and his blood seemed to run cold. You were openly laughing with him, playing with a strand of your hair and making no move to shut down his advances.

He’d had enough and was just ready to march over and make Cormac choke down a puking pastille when he watched you take off your coat, throwing it over the chair behind you and taking a step back to avoid Cormac’s over familiar hands as they reached out for you again. Fred’s heart pounded as he looked at what you were wearing so proudly, his quidditch jumper with his surname displayed right across the back. He remembered now how you’d complained of being cold just before you left to view the task and he’d nipped up to his dorm to retrieve a warm jumper for you. He knew it wasn’t the nicest sweater, there was a hole in the left armpit that had been stitched back together with a completely different coloured thread and a great big pull in the fabric on the right sleeve but you’d worn it with pride. Your face had lit up when he held it out to you and you’d tried to sneakily smell it with a cute smile before you threw it over your head, tying up your hair so you could show off his surname now displayed across your back.

Watching you now, he realised how wrong he’d been. You were inching away from McLaggen, body turned away and looking for any sign of escape, the fingers in your hair a simple mechanism to block him from reaching out to you.

Fred was on his feet in seconds, almost trampling a load of first years who were sat in the pathway as he stalked over to where you were standing, his eyes fixed upon the letters across your back.

“Weasley,” he whispers in your ear as a greeting, immediately stepping behind you and placing his hand on the curve of your bum. You jump slightly at the sudden intrusion but recover quickly as you realise it’s him behind you. Fred watched as a smirk blossomed across your face as you realised, pressing your hips back just slightly as a form of acknowledgment, backing up into his hand which he squeezed, getting a good grip of your bum.

“This looks very good on you,” he whispers again into your ear, bending down just enough so that only you could hear how deep and breathy his voice had become. He reaches out with his left hand to glide it over your hip to your waist, tugging on the fabric of the jumper just enough that you’d understand exactly what he meant.

“The jumper or the name?” You smirk, earning another squeeze of your bum for your cheekiness, both of you openly ignoring McLaggen who is still trying to talk to you.

“Both,” Fred smirks, the tip of his nose catching on your hair, his lips moving dangerously closely to the smooth skin of your neck.

“If you don’t mind McLaggen, me and the Mrs have business to attend to,” Fred says suddenly, not even looking at Cormac who briefly considers if he does mind or not, mouth opening as if he is about to protest.

Fred doesn’t even give him a chance and simply throws his right arm around your shoulders and pulls you away with a shit eating grin on his face. His hand slips back towards your bum as you’re walking away, his hand slipping into your jeans pocket as he pulls you close to him, asserting his place. He can’t help but smirk as he directs you towards the stairs to the dorms, knowing that Cormac is still watching the pair of you and he takes a sick pleasure in knowing the last thing McLaggen will see of you tonight is Fred’s hand in your jeans as he takes you to his dorm; with his surname plastered in large letters across your back. The same surname that will be yours in just a couple of years, if Fred gets his way.

Maybe he should invite Cormac to the wedding.

[shanastoryteller]

happy halloween, shana :-) i love all your stuff and would like to prompt you for something based on house md if you've seen it

a continuation of 1

Cameron and Chase take the jobs he set up for them and Cuddy thinks she's pulling one over him instead of doing exactly what he wanted her to do and House is so smug about the whole thing that he has to avoid Wilson just to keep from being made from that alone.

"Is there are reason you're pretending like you don't know we still work there or do you just like fucking around with Cuddy and Wilson?" Cameron asks, glaring as he takes another of her fries but not smacking his hand away.

"It's both," Chase answers for him, the same smile that had been hovering around the corner of his lips ever since House told him about the position in surgery. It's annoying, but he figures it'll drop eventually. "Although what the reason is eludes me."

He shrugs, contemplating Chase's plate but he's not quite so desperate that he'll pilfer from a salad. "People keep underestimating me. You'd think they'd stop that eventually."

"You set them up," she says. "You do it on purpose."

"Lots of people do lots of things on purpose," he says. "It's not my fault that they keep falling for them."

She's silent as he takes two more fries, then she says, "You know, having you actually explain your motives doesn't make them make any more sense than before."

"Think about how Wilson feels," he says.

They both make faces at that and he takes a long sip from his beer just to hide his grin.

[exhaslo]

Over-Time Ch19 (END)

(CEO!Miguel x Shy/Clumsy!Reader)

Ch1, Ch2, Ch3, Ch4,Ch5, Ch6, Ch7, Ch8, Ch9, Ch10, Ch11, Ch12, Ch13, Ch14, Ch15, Ch16, Ch17, Ch18

Warning: MINORS DNI, SMUT, sexual thoughts, slow-burn, mentions of sex, bullying, cussing, fluff, touch starved

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Due to the evidence provided, we can confirm that this contract is null and void. My client would also like to inform Miss Dana that the intended nature of this action will not be easily dismissed. He wishes to press charges for emotional distress, breaking and entering and several other charges that were committed during the time of this ongoing investigation."

Miguel had a smug grin on his face as he watched Dana's facial expressions. His lawyer was ripping into her and her lawyer. Finally, the payback that he had been waiting for.

"And if my client doesn't accept the terms?" Dana's lawyer dared ask. Miguel just resisted a chuckle,

"That would be quite a shame. I would imagine how the news would eat this up."

"They'd go after you and that little mouse too, hun." Dana snarled angrily. Miguel just smiled,

"But what would look worse? The CEO who just wanted to enjoy his time with his future wife, or the snake who tried to steal everything from him by fraud?"

Dana's lip scrunched up as she showed visible anger. Miguel just leaned back, enjoying the rest of the conversation between the two lawyers.

--------------

Typing away on your tablet, you were planning Miguel's schedule for the following month. Holidays were coming up and that meant a lot of vacation time, which was free time for you as well. You just had to think about what you were going to do.

"Hm, I wonder how long Miguel's meeting will be?" You muttered to yourself.

"Miss me already?" Miguel whispered against your ear as his arms snaked around your wasit.

"Ah! M-Miguel!" You squeaked, dropping your tablet. "H-How did the meeting go?"

"Perfect thanks to you,"

Your lips twitched into a smile as Miguel kept complimenting your clumsiness. You wrapped your arms around his neck as Miguel started to kiss you. His hands groping your ass as Miguel lifted you onto your desk.

"Miguel, what if someone-"

"You've been working for me how long? Who's going to come in here?" Miguel asked with a low chuckle as he started to undo your pants, "Gotta wear more skirts, (Y/N). You tease me like this."

"Hehe, because we shouldn't be doing this at wo-mhm~!" You moaned softly as Miguel's hands started to rub against your panties.

"I won't stop until I've fucked you in every corner of this building," Miguel nibbled against your ear as you squirmed against his hand.

"Hah~ Miguel, s-so mean!"

"GUESS WHO'S BACK-"

Both you and Miguel froze as the door was kicked opened by none other than Lyla. Immediately you hid behind Miguel as he just stood still in place. The silence growing louder by the second.

"I need another month."

"Granted."

Just like that, Lyla left.

Once the awkward silence died down, you couldn't help but laugh. Miguel followed suit, holding your body as the two of you shared a moment of humor.

"See? That's why we wait until we're alone at home," You snickered. Miguel raised a brow before his fingers started to move again,

"Oh? Calling my place home already?"

"Ah-" Your cheeks started to burn as you glanced away from Miguel.

"So adorable. I want it to be your home too. Our h-"

"OKAY! I HAVE TO ASK!" Lyla came bursting in once more, causing Miguel to remove his hands with a heavy sigh, "How long until you caved?!"

"Lyla, go back to your vacation." Miguel grumbled. Meanwhile, you fixed yourself behind him,

"H-Hello, Lyla."

"Hi, (Y/N). C'mon, a week? A month?"

"Why don't I fill you in after your vacation?" Miguel stressed once more, "We're celebrating here." Lyla raised a brow,

"Celebrating?"

"Yep! Miguel is free from Dana," You chirped, standing behind Miguel with a bright smile. Miguel wrapped his arm around your waist,

"(Y/N) here helped make it happen."

"Forreal?!" Lyla gasped loudly, "How?!"

"Ah-"

You looked towards the ground, avoiding eye contact as you recalled the recording. Do you say that you were recording the conversation? If so, then that would admit to Lyla that you and Miguel were with each other for a good while.

"Jesus, cut the silence will ya? I get it, you fucked, tell me the details about that bitch finally getting what she deserved!" Lyla grinned as she went to sit on the couch, "Wait...Is this couch safe?"

"No." Miguel said quickly with a smirk.

"Ugh, is any part of this office safe?" Lyla asked with a huff. Miguel pointed to a corner, "(Y/N), you need to control his dick. This whole building will be tainted."

"That was his plan," You whispered.

Once Lyla took her tiny seat, Miguel explained to her the details of what happened. Not everything, because Lyla didn't need nor want to know about how lovely dove the two of you were in your relationship.

Once Miguel finished, Lyla was all giddy in her seat. She stood with a small jump and grabbed her bags again,

"Finally! Now I won't have to worry about sinking my new nails into that bitch's tough skin. Anyway, thanks for another month vacation~ When I come back I expect my office to be so clean it sparkles!"

"We didn't touch your office," Miguel grumbled. Lyla gave him a look,

"I can't trust you."

"W-We really didn't! Promise!" You blurted out, embarrassed by the thought.

"Okay! Bye!"

Once Lyla left, Miguel let out a heavy sigh. He picked you up and plumped himself down on the couch. You giggled and pecked his lips, grabbing Miguel's attention.

"So, why Lyla comes back next month...what happens to me?" You asked. Miguel raised a brow as he pinned you against the couch,

"I can give you a few choices," He hummed, capturing your lips in a kiss, "I have one in mind."

"I can work in bookkeeping~" You chirped. Miguel undid your pants, grumbling softly,

"In your office then,"

"Hehe, not what you had in mind?"

"No, but we can make it work if that's what you want," Miguel hummed.

With a smile, you wrapped your arms around Miguel and pulled him in for a kiss. To think, the man you first bumped into during your interview would be the man of your dreams. Someone who treated you right and with care.

Ding

"Mhm, Mig..." You mumbled between kisses, "That's....your next appointment."

"Shit," Miguel cussed as he looked at you with pleading eyes, "Just a quickie then. I need to have a taste of you."

"Hehe, okay."

Miguel was late to that appointment.

--------

A few months later

"Hey, (Y/N)! How's the budget coming for the Spring Banquet?" Lyla asked as she entered your office.

"Ah! Going w-well. We should be able to get that singer we were talking about~"

"Forreal?!" Lyla gasped and jumped for joy, "Miguel better be careful before I snatch you up!"

"Too late," You laughed, showing your ring. Lyla gasped, holding your hand before dragging you into Miguel's office,

"YOU DIDN'T THINK TO INFORM ME?!"

"Of?" Miguel raised a brow and saw Lyla pointing towards your ring, "Ah, I knew you would get too involved. Don't worry, I already included you in wedding preparations."

"Damn straight you did!" Lyla grinned from ear to ear, "So when the lil one coming?"

Flinching at her words, you covered your face in embarrassment before running towards Miguel. Your fiancé could only chuckle as he sat you on his lap,

"Already on the way,"

"Hehe, I'll get the names started."

"No! Just-" Miguel sighed heavily, "Why don't you see the email I sent you instead?"

Lyla clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as she left. Miguel wanted to sigh, but alas, he found his assistant quite humorous at times.

"I got us an appointment with the doctor for next week." Miguel hummed as he kissed your head, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm good, Miguel. It's just morning sickness, it's normal." You nuzzled against Miguel, "Even better with all the snacks you give me."

"Have to make sure that you are healthy, mi amor (my love)." Miguel cupped your cheek, kissing your tenderly, "I love you."

Melting into the kiss, you closed your eyes. Miguel was always so kind and caring to you. He was going to be your husband. The CEO of a powerful company, marrying a clumsy goofball like you. It felt like a fairy tale.

"I love you too,"

A fairy tale that you were more than happy to be in.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoyed!!! Might be a minute until I post the next story!!! Might start my Grimmjow obsession again muahahahaha

Here's a sneak peak of my next Miguel story: Level Up

Puzzle Pieces (Mafia!Miguel x Shy!Fem!Reader)

Corruption (Villain!Miguel x F!Hero!Reader)

Masterlist

@timidquindim @decentsoupperson @ivkygirly @reader-1290 @daddyfroglegs @eepybunny0805 @ddreabea @iamperson12280 @migueloharasoulmate @tojishugetiddies @koko-1025 @hyeinwluv85s @daisy-artfield @migueloharastruelove @a-lil-whore @hcqwxrtss123 @the-pan-liquid @tojisfav @pochapo @bubblegumfanfictions @brighterthanlonelythoughts @ghstypaint @mangoslushcrush @synamonthy @scaleniusrm @moonspectorx @dorck26 @a060403 @lunablackcosplay @soraya-daydreams @lovefanfic1 @mymrsweirdnessshipperstuff-blog @pretty-pink-princesss @corpsebridenightamare @razertail18 @gachagator @droolingmuttt @miguelsfavwife @ryzguy06 @raideaters-blog @manishkaworld @keidilla @byjessicalotufo @pigeonmama @k3ythesapphic @acesangels @stealingyourturts @angel-xx-1 @amberbalcom14 @ofmenanduhhhwellmen @oscarissac2099 @keepghostly @zeyzeys-stuff @k3ythesapphic @nightingale1011 @uncle-eggy @safixiovi @flaps200 @dahehow @weirdothatwritess @gerblinradio @electronicchaoschaos @mafiaanomaly @keyisloved @unwrittenletter @reader4life @leenasgirl200 @oscarissac2099 @mari0-o @cinnamoro1l @leryg0 @hizzielover @resident-clown @girl-of-multi-fandoms @sana-408-blog

[childrenofcain-if]

Imagine C catching Mc and D making out on the couch of their dorm's common room 👀 I'm positively certain they'd ban D from ever inviting Mc ever again

the evening started simply enough. you and D were lounging on the couch in the common room, tucked away in a quiet corner. it was late, and C had gone out to the library, leaving the space to the two of you.

D was sprawled across the couch, somehow managing to look comfortable and slightly smug, like they were already reading the thoughts drifting around in your head. you’d been talking about nothing, really—college, summer break plans, dumb stuff—but with D, even the simplest things could become something flirtratious. they had this way of smiling with a slight quirk at the corner of their mouth, or of letting their fingers trace idle patterns on your arm that made your heart do a little flip.

it didn’t take long before D closed the distance between you, inch by inch, their fingers finding your hand, then your shoulder, moving slowly as if testing the waters. their gray gaze was both daring and playful, a glint in their eye that practically dared you to look away. but you didn’t. you couldn’t. instead, you felt your cheeks flush as they leaned in, catching your lips in a soft, warm kiss that seemed to ignite everything inside you.

the kiss deepened, growing from soft to heated, and soon D was leaning more into you, their hands roaming your back, your waist, drawing you closer, and you barely registered how your jacket had slipped off, how D’s t-shirt was now on the floor, until you were both half-leaning, half-sprawled against each other. the only sounds were your shared breaths and the soft rustling of fabric as the world faded, leaving just the warmth of their touch and the spark that crackled between you.

suddenly, the door to the common room swung open with an abrupt, almost dramatic force, and there was C, standing in the doorway. they blinked, eyes widening as they took in the scene. C went rigid, looking as though they’d stumbled upon you two smoking weed. their mouth opened, then closed, and for a split second, they looked like they might just turn on their heel and walk out.

“oh my fucking god,” C stammered, their cheeks flushing an almost comedic shade of red. “what the hell are you two doing?”

you and D snapped apart, sitting up in a rush, and it took all your willpower not to laugh, though your face was burning with embarrassment.

“C!” you managed to squeak, desperately adjusting your shirt. “it’s, um, not what it looks like?”

“really?” C replied, raising an eyebrow as they folded their arms, a familiar, indignant edge in their tone. “because it sure looks like this was headed somewhere.”

D, ever the unbothered one, gave a casual shrug, smirking just a bit as they ran a hand through their messy hair. “don’t get all dramatic, C. we were just hanging out.”

“hanging out?” C shot back, looking equal parts horrified and disbelieving. “is that what we’re calling the fact that you two were practically dry humping each other while being half-naked?”

D chuckled, clearly enjoying C’s dismay, leaning back into the couch with a look that said they weren’t about to apologize. “well, it wasn’t supposed to be a big deal. you’re the one who barged in.”

“this is my suite too, you know,” C muttered, rubbing their temples as if they were trying to will themselves to calm down. “plus, this is the common room, not your personal love nest.”

“it’s late,” D pointed out, undeterred. “who was going to walk in here at this hour?”

“me,” C replied, still glaring. “i was going to walk in. unless their—” they pointed at you, “—tongue down your throat made you get amnesia or something.”

you tried to hold back a laugh, mumbling, “C, it’s not like we planned for this to happen when you walked in…”

C threw their hands up, clearly done. “obviously! but do you have any idea how hard it’s going to be to erase this…this image from my mind?”

D leaned forward, resting their chin on their hand with a nonchalant grin. “think of it as expanding your puritan horizons.”

C gave them a look that could kill. “you have two seconds to get off that goddamn couch before i officially ban you from bringing anyone into this room ever again.”

“alright, alright, we’re up.” D held up their hands in mock surrender, but there was a glimmer of amusement in their eyes as they glanced at you. “guess we’ve officially been cockblocked.”

“i didn’t expect anything else, honestly,” you replied, throwing D a wry smile.

C shook their head, clearly still flustered. “i swear, you two, if you’re going to do this sort of thing, just do it in D’s room.”

D’s grin widened as they draped an arm over your shoulder, still shirtless, only making C roll their eyes at their unabashed nature. “oh, don’t worry. we’ll make sure of not being in your line of sight the next time.”

C looked like they were about to explode, taking a deep, steadying breath as they pointed toward the door. “out. both of you. now. get some cold air or get each other off somewhere else before i lose what little patience i have left.”

with an exaggerated sigh, D quickly got dressed and stood up, giving you a wink as they reached for your hand. “guess our night’s over.”

as the two of you made your way to the door, C muttered something under their breath that you couldn’t quite catch, but you were pretty sure you heard the words “unbelievable” and “absolutely shameless.” just as you reached the door, C called out, one last note of warning in their voice.

“and don’t even think about bringing that…” C gestured vaguely, as if searching for a word, “energy back here again when you come back, D. or so help me…”

D threw a grin over their shoulder, giving C a cheerful thumbs-up. “got it, boss. we’ll keep our ‘energy’ under control next time.”

“good night,” C snapped, practically pushing you both out the door, the exasperation plain in every line of their face.

as soon as the door shut behind you, you burst into laughter, the sound echoing down the empty hallway. D joined in, their laughter warm and genuine, a little spark of mischief dancing in their eyes. they gave your hand a squeeze, leaning in close with a smirk that told you they were ready to continue where you left off.

“next time,” they murmured, voice low and soft, “we’ll make sure to choose a place C’s snobby ass can’t interrupt us.”

you couldn’t help but smile, feeling the last of your embarrassment fade as you walked together down the hall, the warmth of D’s hand in yours, the quiet thrill of the evening lingering long after the laughter had faded.

[majinbangus]

I saw this on ig and all I can think about is how undeniably this is soap

https://www.instagram.com/reel/C_vTWFlMxuI/?igsh=MW84M2Z2NmJweWhrNA==

I beg you to write smth based on this video 🙏

loosely based on the video, but no horsies, sorry

It's cute that you think you're slick, but he's a sniper for a reason.

They're at a park, attending a ceremony for something, it's not really important, but Soap and Gaz's presence was 'required' because the host needed the two sergeants- among a few others- there. Lucky Ghost and Price got out of it under the excuse that they had other responsibilities they needed to attend to because of their higher ranks. Soap and Gaz knows that's bullshit. The two pulled strings so that they wouldn't have to be here.

Bastards.

"Fucking hell," Gaz groans, pulling at the collar of his dress uniform. "How long do we have to be here again?"

"Another hour." Soap rolls his eyes. "At least the dobber finally stopped talkin'."

"Think the captain would be upset if we came back early?" Gaz asks rhetorically. They both know they'd get in trouble if they skipped, even though it's just the reception now. He scans the crowd, lips curving up at the demographic. "Lots of civvies here."

A lot of women, is what he's really pointing out.

Soap smirks. "Oh, aye? Noticed that too, did you?"

"Hard not to." Gaz shares a similarly smug look. His eyes sweep over to the side of Soap. "Looks like you have an admirer."

He knows. Soap clocked you the instant you entered his peripheral vision. "Bonnie lass that's been trying to get a picture of me? Using her friend to get the shot?"

Gaz chuckles, confirming, "That's the one."

He grins. "Watch this."

Gaz hangs back as he quietly strolls up behind you, keeping his gait casual. Your friend suspects nothing, and you're still adorably ignorant. It's only when he's right behind you, does he look at the phone, winking, and give you a light tap to your mid back. The cutest little squeal slips out of you, nearly jumping in the air.

"What-?" You turn around and freeze when you see that it's him. A sheepish laugh escapes you. "Oh. Hi... Officer?"

"Sergeant John MacTavish." Soap offers a hand, a lopsided smile on his face. "You know, if you wanted a picture, you could have asked."

You take his hand with an embarrassed smile.

"Sorry, Sergeant, I uh... thought you were cute..?" As soon as the sentence leaves you, your hand tenses in his, and you do your best to avoid looking at him, finding the sky suddenly very interesting. Behind you, your friend facepalms. "I, I mean-"

"You like a man in uniform is what you're sayin'?" Soap gently tugs you a little closer, holding in a chuckle when you gasp, placing a palm on his chest.

You gulp, but don't remove your hand from his chest. "Uh... yes?"

"Are you askin' me or tellin' me?" Soap puts on his sergeant voice, the one that gets subordinates sweating.

It works with you, too, though he thinks you're sweating in a different way. "T-telling." You bite your lip and tack on, "Sergeant."

He likes how it sounds coming from you.

"Atta girl," Soap praises, relishing your shy squeak, and maneuvers you so you're facing your friend again. He throws an arm around your shoulder, tucking you close to his side. "Now how 'bout that picture?"

And if he and Gaz happen to leave early on a double date with you and your friend, well, it would be worth the trouble they get in with Price.

[illdowhatiwantthanks]

Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Casey Novak x autistic fem!reader Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Graphic sex, oral, fingering, language, homophobia, homophobic slurs. Word count: 2,443 "Onions and relish!?" you observed, watching Casey scoop condiments onto a ballpark hot dog. Your face screwed up. "Gross."

"I've got highbrow taste," Casey retorted, glancing at yours. "And you shouldn't talk. Ketchup and mustard? Are you five?"

"It's a classic," you argued, both pushing your way through the crowded line of Yankees fans waiting for their own ballpark snacks.

You returned to your seats, up in the nosebleeds along with a scattering of other die-hard baseball fans, the humming of a summertime crowd and the buzzing of the lights wrapping around you like a blanket. You heard the crack of a bat, and both you and Casey froze, watching the field.

"Yes!" you yelled, pumping your fist in the air as your team–the Cardinals–drove in another run. "Fuckin' Redbirds!"

Normally, you'd be a lot more self-conscious about drawing attention to yourself in a crowd like this–almost exclusively Yankees fans, including your girlfriend. When the Yankees weren't playing the Cardinals, you wore some of Casey's Yankees gear and cheered them on with her. But the Cardinals? They'd been your family's team for generations. You'd grown up on Pujols and Molina and Wainwright, and you were nothing if not loyal. But in this crowd, you stood out amongst the black-and-white like a red thumb. Casey had looked embarrassed, and you'd worried for a moment that she really was bothered by your vocal support of the away team.

"Am I embarrassing you?" you'd asked.

"Yes."

"In a bad way?"

Casey looked at you and smiled at your serious expression. "No, honey. Like, embarrassing but it's endearing. Does that make sense?"

You thought about it for a moment. "I think so. You would tell me if I was bad embarrassing?"

"I would," she confirmed, patting your hand.

It was one of your favorite things about Casey that she was so patient when you misread or didn't understand social cues. She never made fun of you. She always explained, and she always reassured you when you were afraid you'd done something wrong.

But this time it was definitely Casey who had done something wrong. You watched her shove a bite of hot dog into her mouth, beautifully messy, as always when she wasn't at work.

"Your whole mouth is gonna taste like pickles for the rest of the night," you muttered, taking a bite of your own hot dog.

She looked at you, smirking. "And why are you so concerned about my mouth, huh?"

You blushed. "No reason..."

"Mmhm." She took another bite, smug, then grasped your chin, pulling you to her for a kiss. Her lips were salty with sweat, and she smelled like the ballpark dust and the leather of her glove. She was intoxicating, but then you always felt lightheaded when Casey kissed you. Something about the stadium lights and the summer heat just made you that much more dazed.

"That's fuckin' hot," you heard someone say behind you. You shrank and glanced back, Casey's hand squeezing yours protectively. Two men, unshaven, with beers to go with their beer bellies, leered at you from the row behind.

"Nobody asked you, asshole," Casey shot back, flipping him off. You avoided eye contact with them, trying to make yourself smaller. Having grown up in the south, you'd been in enough unsafe situations because of your sexuality that your go-to defense was to ignore and hide. Casey's was not. She was tall and strong, and she'd grown up with absolute confidence in who and what she was.

Your nostrils flared in disgust as one of the men licked his lips, raking his eyes up and down Casey's body.

"What's a hot piece like you doing with a dyke? You oughta let a real man take you for a spin."

Casey stood and pushed him–hard. The man reeled, sloshing his beer all over his front. "You better shut your fucking mouth or I'll shut it for you," she growled.

The man's arm shot out, grabbing Casey by the back of her head. He dug his fingers into her hair to pull her closer. "That's okay, honey," he said. "I like 'em feisty."

Any fear you had dissipated into white hot anger as you watched, as if in slow motion. You, however, were not stuck in slow motion. Without thinking, you lunged forward, grabbed the man's wrist, and wrenched it back until he squealed. You shoved Casey behind you.

"Get your fucking hands off her!" you spat, puffing yourself up as you stood between him and your girlfriend. Which, considering your diminutive height, probably didn't do a whole lot to deter him.

Your teeth clenched and your whole body buzzed with rage. It took a lot to make you angry, but you were spitting angry now. All you knew was that no one–no one–was going touch Casey on your watch.

The man laughed, knocking your cap off your head with a swipe of his finger. "And what are you gonna do about it, Tiny Tim? Or should I say Tiny Tina?"

Without warning and, for once, without considering the consequences, you slammed your first into his groin as hard as you could which, considering you played softball, was pretty damn hard. It was a perk of your height that you were at the optimal angle to punch someone in the dick.

The man doubled over, coughing, and spilled the rest of his beer. "Fuckin' dykes," he muttered. He motioned to his friend, cupping his balls, and they sidled off. Probably looking for another section to harass women in.

You let out a shaky breath and turned to face Casey, your heart beating rapidly as the adrenaline faded and the nerves returned.

"Are you okay?" you asked, frantically looking her over, placing a gentle hand at the back of her head where the man had grabbed her.

You hardly noticed Casey watching you, biting her lip. You were too concerned with making sure she was safe and unharmed. As you rambled, checking her hands and neck and hair and face for any signs of hurt, Casey stared.

Finally, she interrupted you. "Y/N."

You stopped and made yourself meet her eyes.

"I think we should go." She looked at you pointedly.

You face fell. "Oh, love. I'm so sorry. We can go home if it'll make you feel better."

"No, that's not why."

A look of confusion crossed your face.

"We should go home because we have things to do."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "I don't understand what you're saying, Casey."

She stepped closer, placing your hat back on your head and her arms on your shoulders. Her expression was self-satisfied as she leaned in, so close you could feel her breath, and whispered into your ear.

"Y/N," she breathed. "I need to do things. To you. Now."

"Oh," you said, the realization hitting you. "Oh my god. Okay."

You started gathering your things, then stopped and glanced at her. "From this? Really?"

"Y/N," she said, cheeks already flushed. "Don't make me wait. I'm gonna have a hard enough time making it home."

You tried to hide the mixture of shock and excitement on your face as you left the stadium, walking by the now abandoned concession stands and into the quiet parking lot.

"What's the alternative?" you asked her as you climbed into the driver's seat.

"What?"

"To making it home. You said you were gonna have a hard time making it home. But, like, where else would we–"

You were cut off by Casey's lips on yours, her breath hot and desperate as she grabbed your collar. She slid her tongue into your mouth, her teeth clacking against yours as she surged toward you, pushing for more.

When you separated, you both breathed heavily. Casey's face was flushed with lust. "If it were up to me," she said, leaning back in the seat. "I would've fucked you in the ballpark bathroom. I'd take you right here in the car. But I know that's not your style, so for the love of god..." Her eyes bored into you. "Drive."

Usually a slow driver, you made it back to Casey's apartment in record time. And, true to her word, Casey did have a hard time making it to the apartment, stopping at every chance she got–stoplights, outside the car door, in the elevator, the hallway–to kiss your neck, your mouth, undoing buttons of your Cardinals jersey as you went. Her hands slipped inside your shirt whenever you stopped for so much as a second.

When she finally got you into her bedroom, she was ravenous, tugging your clothes off and tossing them to the side with a singular focus. Her eyes were glazed and her face red as she struggled with your bra clasps.

"Fucking hell," she muttered, her fingers fumbling.

"Jesus, Casey," you said, reaching back to do them for her. "Calm down."

She groaned, letting her eyes rove over your now nude body, pushing you gently but forcefully on your back. She pecked you on the lips, then took your bottom lip between her teeth. You gasped, filled with both pain and pleasure. When she let you go, she was grinning.

"I'm gonna make you feel so..." She kissed your neck. "Fucking." Your collarbone. "Good." She lowered herself over you and pressed her mouth into yours, breathing you in, letting her tongue roam freely.

You moaned, arching your back. "Don't hold back on me now," she growled, leaving bite marks down your neck and across your chest. Usually quiet, you gave yourself permission to make some noise. After all, it drove Casey crazy.

"Fuck, Casey," you whined as she swirled her tongue across your nipples, first one and then the other, her hands pressing just above your hips. You writhed into her, squirming for more, your center already sopping wet.

"Tell me what you want," Casey said, trailing her tongue from your chest down to your stomach.

You struggled against her hands, pressing you into the bed. "Come on," you complained, nearly begging.

"Tell me," Casey said again, more forcefully, her fingers grazing over your clit.

You saw stars. "Fuck me."

Casey chuckled, her low voice vibrating against your already swollen clit. "That's my girl."

You gasped as she sucked your clit between her lips, swishing her tongue back and forth, back and forth. Her arms pinned your thighs in place, holding your writhing body tight. You heaved and moaned as you pushed Casey's head into your center. Her hair was soft and damp with sweat under your fingers, and you felt desperate for her as you chased your high.

She waited until you were nearly bursting, your breath hitching and your back arched against her, then pulled quickly away, wiping her mouth.

You gasped frantically. "What the fuck, Casey!?"

"Shh," she commanded, crawling back up your body and grabbing your chin. She straddled your hips, her own soaked center resting over yours.

"Casey, please," you begged, your eyes fluttering shut, the need of her flooding you.

"Don't close your eyes, honey. Look at me."

You huffed but opened your eyes, staring defiantly into hers, green and hungry and lustful.

She held your face still with one hand, then crept back down your body with the other. You let out a moan, squirming.

"Now arch your back for me," she said, the heel of her palm pressing hard into your clit.

Your body nearly exploded with the sensation, and you thrust into her with everything you had. You grabbed at Casey, pulling her into you, elated to know that she was using you, too, unable to put off her own pleasure any longer.

Your breath came faster and faster, your body jerking into Casey as Casey thrust toward you. You watched each other, both on the brink of losing control. Casey moaned, shutting her eyes briefly before squeezing your chin and staring at you.

"Now," she said.

And that one word was all it took. Your body shook against Casey's, your hips riding into her again and again, desperate for the friction as you moaned. She did the same, her nails digging into the skin at the top of your throat as she rode out her own orgasm. It felt like the two of you were hurtling across space, starbursts and supernovas and whole galaxies flashing inside you as you held onto one another. You quivered against her as the fireworks dissipated, spent and sweaty and heaving.

Casey grinned and planted kisses across your collarbone, counting. "One. Two. Three..."

You laughed and groaned. "Casey," you protested.

She'd discovered early on that, if she timed it right, she could make you come indefinitely. The only thing that stopped her was you getting overstimulated.

"Twenty-two," she finished and, once again, pressed the heel of her hand into your clit, harder and harder until she had you ready again, your hands grasping the bedsheets.

Your orgasm washed over you again, like a wave this time, pouring over you from head to toe.

Casey started in again, this time with her lips at the back of your knees. "One. Two..."

By the fifth round, you were nearly delirious, and Casey was salivating.

"Casey," you groaned, your body still pressing into her hand, almost against your will. "It's too much."

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, kissing you roughly. "Give me one more."

She continued grinding her hand into you, meshing her lips with yours, her tongue roving. Your breath caught and you moaned into her mouth, your orgasm taking you over one final, quaking time.

Casey cradled your head in the crook of her arm as you continued to shake, finally letting you relax.

"Thank you," she whispered, peppering your face with kisses.

You scrunched your nose. "For what? Letting you beat your record?"

"Well, that, too." She chuckled, deep and throaty, then brushed your sweaty bangs out of your face. "For protecting me. From that asshole."

You turned to her and tucked her hair behind her ear, running your thumb across her eyebrow.

"I would die before I let someone hurt you." Your voice was so quiet that, had anyone else been in the room, even they wouldn't have been able to hear. But you did. And Casey did.

She looked at you for a moment, then leaned down and kissed your forehead, hard and purposeful.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too."

You lost yourself in her arms for a bit as she ran a hand absentmindedly through your hair.

"We should go to more baseball games," Casey mused after a while.

You laughed. "Only if there's no relish involved."

"Deal."

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | Chapter 06 Chapter 06 | carnage⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

The dawn of the contest day broke over Ithaca, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold, as the tension within the palace walls thickened like a storm gathering on the horizon.

You were on your way to the great hall with a satchel swinging by your side, carrying your lyre, when muffled sounds drew your attention to a small, unused closet down the corridor.

Thunk.

Curiosity got the better of you, and you hesitated only a moment before pulling the door open.

There, you found Cleo in a compromising position with Antinous.

His clothes were disheveled, the buttons on his tunic partially undone, and Cleo's chiton was slipping from her shoulders. Their faces were flushed, and her lips were swollen and glistening.

Marks adorned Cleo's neck, a telling sign of the moments they'd just shared.

Cleo was the first to notice you, her eyes widening in panic. She hastily pushed against Antinous, her voice stuttering as she said your name, "_____."

You felt your expression blank, your lips pressing into a thin line as you took a step back, lowering your gaze. Without looking directly at either of them, you spoke curtly, "The contest will begin soon. It would be wise to head to the Great Hall."

Antinous adjusted his tunic, a smirk tugging as he gave you a small bow of his head, his eyes raking over your form with a brazen intensity. "Thank you," he muttered, his tone dripping with smugness.

With one last lingering glance, he turned and swaggered off, his back quickly disappearing around the corner.

Cleo, meanwhile, frantically tried to fix her appearance, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. A flustered giggle escaped her as she straightened her hair, attempting to regain her composure.

For a brief moment, you battled with yourself—considering whether to warn her to leave while she still could, to spare her the fate that awaited those who chose the wrong side.

But you held your tongue.

Especially when she nudged you lightly with her elbow, her voice carrying a hint of hesitancy despite her laughter as she said, "You should really loosen up, you know. I mean it, ____. Sometimes I wonder if you're not just wasting your youth—loyalty to a kingdom that may not even be the same by the end of today..." Her smile faltered, her words heavier than her usual teasing tone.

You stared at her, your expression unchanging, though your eyes hardened slightly. "I wonder if wasting one's youth might be better than spending it on someone who doesn't see past the moment." The words slipped from your mouth before you could stop them, a small shard of judgment bleeding through your usually calm demeanor.

Cleo's face flushed deeper, a mixture of shame and embarrassment crossing her features.

For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, but instead, her lips pressed into a tight scowl. She glared at you, her eyes narrowing with a spark of frustration.

"I don't get you sometimes," she added, her voice tinged with both frustration and a weariness that seemed to have been building over time. "You never let yourself live a little. It's like you're always on guard, always distant... and it's exhausting to watch, honestly."

Your eyes narrowed at her words, and your voice came out sharper than before. "Maybe it's because I see what happens when people let their guard down, Cleo. Look around you. The stakes are higher than they've ever been. We don't have the luxury of throwing caution to the wind."

Cleo's gaze faltered, her face flushing in deeper embarrassment, and she scowled with a cross of her arms. "Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?" Her voice held a bite now, her irritation surfacing fully.

The mention of Telemachus was no longer just a joke—it felt like a barb, a deliberate attempt to wound.

For the first time, her words stung, and you could feel your composure waver, a pang of something sharp twisting inside you. Your hand twisted around the rope of the bag, fingers curling tightly as if seeking a way to channel the restlessness bubbling just beneath the surface.

"This isn't about the prince," you snapped, taking a step back, your eyes glinting with a rare edge of anger. "This is about survival, Cleo. For all of us. You might think I'm distant, that I'm cold, but I would rather be that than blind to what's really happening."

Instead of trying to listen, Cleo's scowl deepened, her lips curving downwards in irritation. She huffed out a dismissive "whatever," before straightening up, her shoulders tensing. "I'm about to go watch the suitors warm up with the rest of the servant girls," she said, her tone dripping with defiance. "If you ever decide to get off your high horse, you're welcome to join us."

With that, she turned and sauntered away, her shoulders squared in frustration.

You watched her go, her form disappearing down the corridor, before you let out a shuddering breath.

You lifted your gaze upwards, the ceiling above seeming to stretch endlessly, and muttered softly, "Gods, please give me strength," before continuing your way to the contest.

As you entered the grand dining hall, you found yourself impressed by the change.

The sun filtered in through the high windows, casting a golden light over the space, illuminating the dust particles that danced in the air.

Only the suitors and a few servants were milling about, their hushed conversations and tense laughter creating a charged atmosphere.

Unlike the grand events that were usually publicized to the whole kingdom, this one seemed cloaked in a strange intimacy, a finality that made it feel more sacred.

The once opulent room had been stripped of its familiar trappings; the grand dining table and chairs were all removed, leaving a vast open space.

Twelve large wooden boxes had been set up, each marked with a target, waiting for the archery contest that would decide the fate of Ithaca.

The air felt different; a heavy anticipation settled like a blanket over everyone present.

The suitors, standing a few feet away, were warming up.

Some were shirtless, their muscles taut as they stretched; others wore serious expressions as they prepared themselves for the challenge ahead.

Their bodies glistened with sweat, and there was an undercurrent of competition among them—some laughed loudly, trying to mask their nerves, while others moved in silence, their focus unwavering.

A glimpse towards the kitchen door revealed Cleo and a few other familiar servant girls giggling and ogling the suitors, their eyes wide with a mix of shyness and excitement.

They stood partially hidden, peeking out with smiles and exchanged whispers, as if this were some kind of entertainment meant just for them.

Further off, you even spotted the disguised Odysseus, his posture deceptively relaxed as he observed every movement within the hall.

He was studying them, the men who dared to take over his household.

Swiftly and quietly, you made your way to your designated spot.

Unlike last night, you were placed higher up, just two feet away at the foot of the Queen's seat, allowing you to see the entire contest unfold in its fullness. It was a vantage point that made it impossible for you to miss a single detail.

Turning slightly, your gaze flicked back towards Penelope's empty seat; it loomed above you, the polished wood catching the sunlight, a symbol of her resilience and her endless waiting.

A pang of unease twisted in your chest as you wondered if she would be able to handle the events that were about to unfold.

Would she be able to bear it when the truth was finally revealed?

The weight of it all pressed down on your shoulders—the suitors, Odysseus, Telemachus, even Penelope herself.

You wondered if her grace would hold, or if the years of anguish would finally break free when the moment of reckoning arrived.

As you knelt down to tune your lyre, a shadow suddenly fell across you.

"Good morning, ____." You looked up, and there he was—Prince Telemachus. A soft, sweet smile graced his face, his eyes warm as they met yours.

It was the kind of smile that could light up the darkest corners of your heart, one filled with reassurance and kindness.

The sight of him made your heart skip for just a moment, but as you looked into his eyes, Cleo's words suddenly echoed in your mind.

...Oh? And I suppose Prince Telemachus would agree with you?...

The insinuations, the teasing remarks about the prince—they hit you all at once.

The smile faltered on your lips, and you found yourself looking back down at the strings of your lyre, focusing on adjusting the tune rather than meeting his gaze. "Good morning, Prince Telemachus."

Telemachus' brows furrowed, concern creasing his features. He shifted to squat down beside you, his eyes searching your face. "Hey," he said softly, his voice just loud enough for you to hear over the commotion in the hall, "what's wrong? You seem... distant." There was a genuine note of worry there, as if he could sense that something was off.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Oh, it's nothing, my prince," you lied, keeping your tone light. "I'm just a bit nervous about today, that's all." You tried to make the smile a bit brighter, hoping to reassure him.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the tension visibly easing from his posture. He let out a small sigh of relief, his lips curving into a smile that mirrored the sweetness from before. "There's nothing to be nervous about," he assured you, his voice gentle. "Everything is going to be alright."

You noticed the way his hand twitched, as if he wanted to reach out and touch yours, his fingers moving ever so slightly before he hesitated, ultimately letting his hand drop to his side.

The gesture, or rather the hesitation, made your heart race just a tad bit faster.

Before either of you could say more, the double doors of the grand hall were pushed open with a loud creak. The announcer's voice rang out clearly, "Her Majesty, Queen Penelope."

All eyes turned towards the entrance, and you followed suit, your breath catching slightly at the sight.

Penelope stepped into the hall, her head held high, her expression calm but resolute.

The morning light streamed in behind her, illuminating her like a figure out of legend. Her veil was gone, her face fully visible—a deliberate choice, perhaps, to show her strength and confidence. Her dark hair was neatly braided, her gown flowing elegantly around her as she moved forward with purpose.

There was a dignity in the way she walked, her steps measured, her gaze unwavering as it swept across the room, taking in the suitors, her son, and the entire setting that would determine her fate.

Her eyes held a quiet intensity, and you could see the years of pain, hope, and resilience reflected in them.

She was ready, whatever the outcome might be.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at her poise, even as that unease continued to twist in your chest.

She had borne so much—far more than anyone should have to—and yet here she was, standing tall, ready to face whatever came next.

Penelope stepped forward, her gaze sweeping across the room, her voice carrying the weight of both authority and something far more personal. She began, "Today is a day for truth, for decisions long delayed." Her voice was calm, yet it resonated throughout the hall, commanding everyone's attention. "For twenty years, my household has waited, and now, it is time to see who among you is worthy."

She turned her head slightly, her eyes resting on the head servant. "Bring forth the bow."

Two servants stepped forward, bowing deeply before leaving the room.

Moments later, they returned, carefully carrying a large chest between them.

The chest was adorned in Ithaca's colors—deep ocean blue and forest green, with intricate gold designs etched into its surface.

It was a chest that demanded respect, one that held not just an object but a legacy.

Penelope approached it, her hands brushing over the top before she slowly and gracefully opened the lid.

The room seemed to collectively hold its breath as she pulled back the chest's top, revealing the bow of Odysseus.

It was a magnificent weapon—crafted from polished horn, its limbs strong and powerful.

The bow was large, and even at rest, it carried an aura of strength, a testament to the man who had wielded it. The gold detailing shimmered in the sunlight, and the string lay coiled neatly, waiting for a hand skilled enough to draw it taut.

The sight of the bow was almost otherworldly—the embodiment of Odysseus' strength, the kind of weapon that could only belong to a hero.

"This bow," she began, her voice echoing through the hall, "was not just a tool of battle. It was the pride of Odysseus, my husband, gifted from the legendary archer, Iphitus, son of Eurytus, as a token of their friendship."

Her eyes softened, her gaze drifting, almost as if she could see Odysseus standing there, beside her. She paused, a faint smile curving her lips as she continued.

"It is a symbol of his unmatched skill, his wisdom, his courage. None but he could wield it, and none but he could string it with such ease." Her voice grew softer, as if she were no longer addressing the suitors but speaking to a memory. "It is the bow of a true king, a true protector of Ithaca—of our people, our home."

There was a pause, the weight of her words sinking into the silent hall.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, as though some of them began to understand that this was no mere contest—it was a testament, a challenge meant for a man of true worth.

Penelope's eyes lingered on the bow before she looked up again, her expression composed, though a flicker of something more—grief, hope, love—remained behind her gaze.

"This contest, therefore, is not merely to decide who shall take my hand," she said, her voice carrying a firmness that left no room for argument. "It is to determine who among you, if any, possesses the strength and honor to stand where my husband once stood. It is to prove that Ithaca shall have a protector worthy of its people."

She lifted her head, her eyes sweeping across the gathered men, meeting each of their gazes in turn, unflinching and calm. "Whoever can string this bow and shoot an arrow cleanly through the twelve axeheads I have set shall have my hand in marriage and shall take their place as the ruler of Ithaca."

For a heartbeat, the hall was silent, the weight of her declaration hanging heavily in the air.

There was no mistaking the quiet plea beneath her strength, though—her desire for someone truly worthy, for someone who could step into the place Odysseus had left. And as she spoke, you could feel the challenge in her words; it wasn't only a test of skill but a measure of heart, of worth, of loyalty.

For a moment, you saw the vulnerability in her eyes, the way her whole history with Odysseus seemed to ripple through the air; her voice softened when she spoke of Odysseus, and you understood.

The bow was a fragment of him, a piece of her husband, and this contest was more than a show—it was her last chance to find someone who could live up to that memory.

After her declaration, she nodded once, her expression hardening once again.

Penelope then cleared her throat and addressed the suitors directly, her voice calm but resolute, "I will not be witnessing this contest. Instead, I will retire to my chambers. May you all show honor and skill today." She dipped her head in a small, graceful bow and added, "I wish you all the best of luck."

As she turned to leave, her eyes landed on you, gaze softening. "Please, play something cheerful," she said quietly, her voice almost lost in the silence of the hall. "Let the suitors' spirits be lifted by your music."

You nodded, bowing your head respectfully. "Of course, my Queen," you answered.

You watched her leave, her elegant form moving through the hall with grace, while Eurycleia scurried behind her, her steps quick in an effort to keep pace with her queen.

Positioning the lyre comfortably in your hands, you took a deep breath, your fingers gently brushing the strings, bringing forth a bright, lively tune. The sound danced lightly through the still air, weaving around the tension and unease, bringing with it a sense of warmth and energy.

It was a piece meant to uplift, to inspire courage—even if, in your heart, you felt the unease of what was to come.

As the music echoed through the hall, the suitors began to step forward. But before any of them could make a move, Telemachus himself stepped up to take the bow. His approach was confident, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted high.

There was a murmur among the crowd, a collective intake of breath as Telemachus stood before them, his hands resting on the bow.

You watched the prince, understanding why he chose to compete.

Telemachus was not just trying to prove his worth—he was making a statement to the suitors, reminding them that he, too, was a contender, not someone to be overlooked.

Telemachus took the bow in his hands, and the room fell silent, all eyes fixed on him. He tested the string, his muscles straining as he attempted to draw it.

You could see the tension in his posture, the way his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried once, then twice, the wood creaking faintly under his hands.

On his third attempt, his knuckles turned white as he pulled with all his strength, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually succeed.

The entire room seemed to hold its breath, the anticipation thick in the air. But then, Telemachus glanced towards the back of the room, his gaze catching on something—or someone.

There, leaning against the wall, Odysseus, gave his son a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Telemachus let out a breath and relaxed his grip, stepping back with a nod.

He turned towards the suitors, offering a small, almost playful smile. "I suppose it's not my time yet," he said lightly, though the challenge was clear beneath his words.

He handed the bow back, his gaze moving across the suitors, his expression challenging. There was no mistaking his message—he was his father's son, and his strength and skill were not to be underestimated.

The suitors shuffled, their expressions wary. The prince's near success had shown them all that this was no ordinary contest, that this was no easy feat to accomplish.

Odysseus' eyes flickered with pride as he watched his son step back and make his way back to his mother's chair; settling himself down to watch the contest with clear eyes.

The suitors were strong, yes—but none of them had the true heart of Ithaca.

Though, for now, they would proceed as planned, allowing each suitor to attempt the impossible task, to let them fail and reveal their weakness.

It was all part of the ruse, the careful disguise, the setup.

And now, the stage was set.

The suitors would each have their turn, each of them about to face the impossible task before them, while Odysseus and his allies waited, the true challenge still ahead.

The first suitor, Leodes, approached the bow, a confident swagger in his step that belied his nervousness.

He grasped the bow with both hands, his face flushing slightly as he tried to string it. The bow barely budged under his efforts, his face turning a shade redder with each attempt.

Frustration contorted his features as he strained, his muscles trembling with the effort.

With a grunt, he finally gave up, stepping back with a scowl, his confidence visibly shattered.

Another suitor, Elatus, took his turn next.

He approached with a bravado that masked his growing doubt. He spat on his hands, rubbed them together, and then took hold of the bow.

He pulled at it, his jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together in effort. His movements became more desperate with each passing moment, his hands slipping against the polished wood.

Sweat beaded on his forehead as he strained, his bravado fading quickly.

After several attempts, he let out a frustrated growl and stepped back, shaking his head in disbelief.

Finally, it was Antinous' turn.

The blonde stood up, his eyes narrowed, a determined set to his jaw.

The room seemed to quiet even more, a collective anticipation hanging thick in the air.

He moved with deliberate steps, his shoulders squared, his head held high as though the weight of the room's expectation rested on him alone.

Antinous took the bow, his fingers brushing over the polished wood, his lips curling into a self-assured smile. He gripped it tightly, planting his feet, his muscles rippling beneath his tunic as he pulled.

For a moment, it seemed he might succeed—his arms flexed, the bow groaned slightly, bending just enough to spark a glimmer of hope among his allies.

But then, the strain began to show.

Antinous' face reddened, the cords of his neck standing out as he grit his teeth. He shifted his stance, trying to use his full body weight to pull the bowstring back, but it refused to comply.

His frustration grew, a vein pulsing visibly at his temple.

He gave a sharp, guttural yell as he pulled one last time, but the bow remained stubborn, unyielding.

The room held its breath, watching as Antinous' confidence slowly ebbed away, replaced by an ugly scowl.

His face flushed with both exertion and the sting of public failure. He threw the bow down onto the table with a loud clatter, a sneer twisting his lips. "This is impossible!" he spat, his voice dripping with irritation. He shot a glare at the other suitors, as if daring them to laugh.

The other suitors shifted uncomfortably, none of them daring to meet his eye. The silence in the hall was thick, the tension growing as each suitor came face to face with their own inadequacy.

The bow had proven to be more than a mere weapon—it was a testament to strength, a test that none of them could pass.

From your place, you watched the suitors' failures, each attempt underscoring their unworthiness. Their arrogance, their sense of entitlement, all fell away when faced with the challenge they couldn't meet.

It was becoming clear to everyone in the room—these men, for all their posturing, were not the equal of Odysseus, nor even his son.

In the corner of the room, Odysseus remained leaning against the wall, his eyes keen as he observed each failure, his expression betraying nothing.

But you could see the flicker of satisfaction in his gaze, the small, almost imperceptible nods as each suitor faltered.

It was all going according to plan, and the true test had yet to begin.

Finally, as the last suitor made his failed attempt, Odysseus, still in disguise, stepped forward, his expression humble as he approached the bow.

He bowed his head slightly to Telemachus, his voice carrying across the tense silence of the room. "I beg you, my prince, let me have a try. I know I am but a beggar, but I would be honored to hold a weapon of such greatness."

The suitors erupted, voices rising in disbelief and anger.

"Are you sick in the head?"

"A beggar? How dare he even ask?"

"Surely he's joking."

Antinous, still flushed from his recent failure, scoffed loudly, his eyes narrowing. "What nerve!" he spat, his hand motioning dismissively. "You think a beggar like you could even hope to lift the bow, let alone string it?"

The others muttered in agreement. It was as if they feared the humiliation of even allowing him to try, the risk that he might succeed too shameful to bear.

But before their protests could grow too loud, Telemachus raised his hand, silencing them. "He is a guest under my family's roof, and all guests deserve their chance." His eyes, filled with a quiet determination, swept across the suitors, daring any to oppose him. "If the beggar wishes to take part in this challenge, then so be it."

The suitors fell silent, begrudgingly stepping aside, unable to defy their hostess without risking public scorn.

Telemachus seized the moment, giving orders for the bow to be handed to the beggar.

With the prince's permission granted, Odysseus approached the bow. He moved slowly, his every movement deliberate, his eyes fixed on the weapon before him.

The suitors watched with skepticism, their expressions ranging from disdain to disbelief, and a few exchanged mocking smirks, unable to imagine this man succeeding where they had all failed.

You kept playing your lyre, the soft music filling the tense silence of the room. Yet even as your fingers plucked the strings, your gaze couldn't help but drift toward Odysseus, your breath caught in your chest.

You watched as he lifted the bow, his hands moving over it with a familiarity that spoke of years of practice, of ownership. He strung the bow effortlessly, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

The bow made no protest—it yielded to him, as if it recognized its true master.

A collective gasp filled the hall, the suitors' mocking expressions replaced by wide eyes and parted lips; shock rippled through them, disbelief etched across their faces.

The great hall fell into a stunned silence, the only sound the faint hum of your music as the bowstring settled into place.

Telemachus, standing by, watched his father with pride that he could barely contain, a small smile pulling at his lips as he saw the reactions of the suitors. He moved with purpose, discreetly signaling to the few loyal servants positioned near the doors.

They nodded, moving swiftly to lock the exits, their movements unnoticed by the crowd, whose eyes were all fixed on Odysseus.

Odysseus stepped forward and, with steady hands, notched the first arrow. He let it loose with a sharp 'thwack,' the arrow piercing through the first of the twelve axeheads.

The room held its breath as he moved seamlessly to notch another arrow, his actions smooth and confident, as though he had done this countless times before.

You watched in awe, your fingers still instinctively playing the lyre, though the music had become mere background noise to the unfolding scene.

There was something mesmerizing in the way he handled it—like watching a legend step out of the shadows and come to life before your eyes.

The room seemed to fade around you, the music blending with the anticipation that gripped everyone present.

There, before your eyes, was the man you had heard countless stories about—the hero of Ithaca, displaying the strength and mastery that had made those tales immortal.

It was as if the years had fallen away, and you were witnessing Odysseus in his prime, every bit the warrior and king he was meant to be.

The sixth arrow flew through the air, and another axehead was split with a precision that seemed almost impossible, Odysseus moving with a grace and confidence that seemed almost otherworldly.

The silence in the hall deepened with each arrow that found its mark.

It was a silence heavy with tension, the kind that made the air feel thick and charged.

Every eye remained fixed on Odysseus, no one daring to speak, no one daring to even breathe too loudly, as if afraid that the smallest noise might shatter the spell that had been cast.

The suitors' faces were a mix of disbelief and something bordering on fear. They had mocked him, ridiculed the idea of a beggar even attempting the task. And now, with each arrow splitting through the axeheads, they were beginning to realize that something was very wrong.

A few of them exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions shifting from annoyance to a growing sense of unease. Nervous chuckles broke out among some of the men, a weak attempt to dismiss what was happening as coincidence.

"He can't possibly think he'll win the queen's hand, can he?" one of them whispered, the words tinged with an uncertainty that belied his dismissive tone.

Another leaned towards his companion, his voice low, almost a hiss. "Is this some kind of trick? Who is this man, really?"

But none of them had an answer. They watched, eyes wide and mouths dry, as Odysseus pulled back the bowstring again and again, his focus unwavering.

Even the most arrogant of the suitors, who had laughed openly before, now stood with their mouths slightly open, their eyes darting between the bow and the beggar who wielded it with such mastery.

You played the final note of your song just as the last arrow sailed through the air, splitting the twelfth axehead with a resounding 'thwack.'

The silence that followed was deafening, the suitors frozen in stunned disbelief, their eyes wide as they took in what had just happened.

Odysseus turned his head, his eyes finding yours across the room. He gave you a stern nod, a silent cue that you understood perfectly.

You nodded back, the bright, almost giddy expression on your face standing in stark contrast to the carnage that was about to unfold.

Closing your eyes for a brief moment, you took a deep breath, steadying yourself before your fingers began to dance across the strings once more.

The song you played was deceptively cheerful at first, a light, whimsical tune that fluttered through the air like birdsong.

But slowly, almost imperceptibly, it began to change.

The melody darkened, twisted, the notes taking on an edge that was both haunting and vengeful, a shadow creeping into the brightness—the cheerful melody morphed into something almost bloodthirsty, a song that spoke of retribution, of justice long overdue.

It wasn't just music; it was a call to arms, a declaration of what was to come.

The suitors shifted uncomfortably, some glancing around as if sensing the change, though they couldn't quite put their finger on what was happening.

But you knew. You had been told exactly what this song would do.

You remembered the shed, the way Odysseus had discussed the plan.

The air had been heavy with the scent of earth and wood, the small space filled with the tension of what was to come.

Odysseus had detailed every part of the plan, his voice steady as he laid out each step, each role.

You had listened patiently, absorbing every word until finally, you had asked, "What about me? What will I be doing?"

Telemachus had nodded in agreement, his face uncannily serious, his eyes fixed on his father. "Yes, father, what will her role be?" he had repeated, his voice carrying a note of protectiveness that made Odysseus' lips twitch with the hint of a smile.

Odysseus had reached into his tattered robes, pulling out a simple piece of parchment.

He looked at you then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He handed you the parchment, watching as you slowly unrolled it.

"This," he had said, his voice low, "is a gift from Athena herself." The paper had revealed a sheet of music, the notes unlike anything you had ever seen—intricate, almost ethereal, as if the very ink had been touched by divine hands. "The goddess delivered this to me, explaining its purpose, its power. This song is imbued with her blessing. It will only affect those she does not protect—those who have no claim to her favor. For us, it will be a boon. For them..."

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. The meaning was clear.

And now, here you were, playing that very song, the melody shifting from bright and cheerful to dark and vengeful.

You could feel the magic in it, thrumming through your fingertips, spreading through the hall like a palpable force.

It strengthened those loyal to Ithaca, those under Athena's protection, while the suitors began to fidget, a sense of unease settling over them like a cold mist.

The suitors had no idea what was happening, but they could feel it—the shift in the air, the sudden heaviness that made their hearts pound and their hands tremble.

It was as if the walls themselves were closing in, the once grand hall now a trap from which there was no escape.

Odysseus' gaze never wavered from the suitors, his eyes hard and unyielding as the music filled the space around him.

The song bolstered him, his muscles seeming to grow even more taut, his presence even more commanding.

He was no longer just a man—he was a force of nature, a reckoning given flesh.

Odysseus stood tall, the bow still held firmly in his grasp.

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, he let the bow drop to his side, his hand moving up to grasp the edge of the ragged cloak draped over his shoulders.

With one fluid motion, he shed the cloak, letting it fall to the ground in a crumpled heap.

The air around him seemed to shimmer faintly, as if the very fabric of reality were bending to his presence.

The old, wrinkled skin that had disguised him melted away, replaced by the strong, rugged form that had been hidden beneath.

Muscles, hardened from years of battle, rippled beneath his sun-bronzed skin, and faint scars crisscrossed his arms and chest—evidence of the countless trials he had endured.

His hair, once matted and dull, now seemed to take on a life of its own, curling around his face in dark waves, with sprinkles of grey adding to his rugged appearance.

His eyes, once hidden beneath a tired, weary expression, now shone with an intensity that was almost chilling—a piercing gaze that seemed to look straight through the suitors, as if judging their very souls.

Fine lines marked the edges of his eyes, a reminder of his years, but they did nothing to diminish the fire within them.

A collective gasp went through the hall, the suitors recoiling slightly, their expressions shifting from shock to something resembling fear.

They could no longer deny what was before them—this was no beggar.

This was no mere man.

Odysseus took a step forward, his voice steady, carrying the weight of his authority. "I am Odysseus," he declared, his words resonating through the stunned silence of the hall, "King of Ithaca, and I have returned."

His gaze swept over the suitors, his eyes cold and unyielding.

The suitors cowered, some taking a step back, their faces pale. The arrogance, the bravado that had filled the hall only moments before, had drained away, leaving behind only fear and uncertainty.

They had come here seeking a queen, a kingdom, and now they faced a legend—a legend who had returned to reclaim what was rightfully his.

The truth hung in the air, undeniable and chilling: The true king had returned, and the reckoning was at hand.

The mood in the hall shifted dramatically, the tension thickening until it felt as though the air itself was vibrating with anticipation.

The suitors stood in stunned silence, shock and terror etched across their faces as they began to realize the gravity of their situation.

Antinous, who had been the loudest, the most arrogant of them all, was the first to react. His face went deathly pale, his eyes wide, his lips trembling as he stuttered out, "K-King Odysseus...?"

His voice barely broke through the thick silence, a pathetic whisper that seemed to crack the spell that had held the hall. 

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still, the weight of his declaration hanging in the air like a thunderclap. A collective murmur rippled through the hall, a mix of gasps, incredulous whispers, and faint scoffs.

Antinous' voice was shaky as he attempted to regain control. "This... this is some kind of trick!" he spat, though his eyes betrayed the fear he tried to suppress. "I refuse to believe it! He's a beggar, nothing more!" He glanced toward the other suitors, seeking support, but found only the same pale faces staring back at him, uncertainty gnawing at their bravado.

Another suitor took a step forward, his lips twisting into a sneer, though his confidence wavered. "Yes, this... this cannot be Odysseus!" He forced a laugh that echoed awkwardly in the heavy silence, his eyes darting between the king and the bow that now rested effortlessly in his hands. "It's impossible. The real Odysseus is dead, lost at sea! We've waited for years!" He looked around desperately, trying to ignite the doubt in others. "How could a man disappear for twenty years and just... return?"

Some of the suitors nodded slowly, as if clinging to his words, to the illusion of control they had crafted for themselves.

But the seed of doubt had been planted.

Their hands twitched nervously at their sides, and their gazes flickered to the bow, to the axes now split cleanly in half by arrows only the true Odysseus could have fired.

One of the younger suitors, trembling, whispered just loud enough to be heard, "Could it really be him?"

"Of course not!" Antinous barked, though his voice had lost its force. He took a shaky step forward, pointing accusingly at Odysseus. "This man—this beggar—he's nothing but a fraud! Some charlatan! Look at him!" His words stumbled out, desperate, as if trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "We—we can't let him fool us!"

Odysseus remained still, his eyes cold and patient as he watched them falter, their arrogance crumbling before him.

Antinous, still clinging to his denial, sneered again. "It's some kind of trickery! He's using magic or... or sorcery!" He waved a dismissive hand in the air. "He couldn't string that bow—no man here could! It's not possible!" His voice grew louder, more frantic. "You saw it! This must be the work of the gods to humiliate us!"

But as his words rang out, the silence that followed was deafening.

None of the other suitors moved. None spoke in agreement.

The tension in the air thickened, pressing down on them as the weight of their situation began to settle in.

Odysseus, his expression unchanging, took another step forward, his presence commanding. His voice was low but carried the undeniable power of a king reclaiming his throne. "You can deny it all you want. But the truth stands before you."

A ripple of fear ran through the suitors, and one of them—the youngest—dropped to his knees, his face pale and stricken. "It is him," he whispered hoarsely, his voice trembling. "It's really him. We're doomed."

The murmurs of disbelief turned into frantic whispers, then into rising chaos as suitors pushed back from their places, stumbling over each other in an attempt to retreat.

One last defiant voice shouted from the back, "It's a lie! He's no king!" But the speaker's words were drowned out by the clamor of panic overtaking the hall.

In the next heartbeat, chaos erupted.

Odysseus moved first, with Telemachus at his side—no longer the boy who had tolerated their mockery, but a prince, a warrior who had been waiting for this moment all his life.

Telemachus' sword flashed in the dim light as he let out a shout, the sound echoing off the stone walls, full of fury and long-held determination.

The blade cut across the back of the nearest suitor with cold precision, slicing through flesh as the man let out a strangled cry; blood sprayed, staining the marble floor as he collapsed in a heap, gurgling his last breath.

Chaos erupted.

Some suitors bolted for the doors, only to find them locked.

Others fumbled at their sides, reaching for swords that weren't there—realizing too late that their weapons had been removed under the guise of preventing damage during the contest.

Panic swept through them like wildfire, their faces draining of color, their eyes wide with terror.

They were trapped, defenseless, caught in the jaws of a trap they hadn't even noticed until it was too late.

Odysseus, by contrast, moved with unnerving calm.

He did not rush or hesitate. Each step was deliberate, each swing of his sword controlled. He was a force of nature, his strikes as sure and inevitable as a storm.

His face was a mask of focus, his eyes cold and detached, as though he had separated himself from the violence unfolding around him. He showed no signs of anger, no flashes of hatred—only a methodical precision that made it clear this was no wild vengeance, but calculated retribution.

He wasn't just cutting down men. He was restoring balance, reclaiming what had been stolen from him.

One suitor, his face twisted in terror, fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. "Mercy! Please, have mercy!" he cried, his voice cracking.

Odysseus glanced at him, but his expression didn't change. There was no recognition, no flicker of empathy. His blade came down in a clean, swift arc, the man's plea silenced in an instant as his body crumpled to the ground.

Behind him, Telemachus moved with the same eerie calm, though his strikes were fueled by a deep-seated rage—rage for the years of watching his mother suffer, for the disrespect shown to his father's memory.

His sword found its next target, sinking into a man's chest. The suitor gasped, eyes wide, before collapsing, his blood pooling around him in the growing sea of red.

The air was thick with the scent of blood, sharp and metallic.

Screams echoed through the hall, desperate, high-pitched, as the suitors scrambled over each other in a frantic bid to escape. But there was nowhere to run.

The once-grand hall was now a slaughterhouse.

Through it all, Odysseus remained eerily composed, his breathing steady, his movements as fluid as they were efficient. His face remained impassive, as though he were cutting through crops, not men.

Each suitor that fell before him was another obstacle removed, another piece of Ithaca restored.

You kept playing, your lyre's dark, vengeful melody rising above the chaos, weaving through the carnage like a thread of fate.

The suitors fell in time with the rhythm, their bodies collapsing as if your music were guiding the hands of their executioners.

And still, Odysseus showed no emotion.

His sword glinted in the dim light, slick with blood, but his gaze never wavered. He cut down suitor after suitor with mechanical precision, their pleas and cries of pain washing over him like a distant hum.

His face was as unreadable as stone, his presence filling the room with an almost supernatural calm.

He wasn't a man in that moment. He was something more, something unstoppable.

A suitor stumbled backward, his eyes wide with terror as Odysseus approached, his trembling hands raised in a feeble defense. "Please, no! I didn't mean—"

But the words died in his throat as Odysseus' blade pierced his heart, swift and clean. The suitor crumpled to the floor, his body joining the growing pile at the feet of the king.

Through the madness, you kept your eyes on your lyre, your fingers moving with a life of their own, but you couldn't help the way your gaze drifted every so often towards the unfolding carnage.

You did not flinch, did not look away, even as the suitors fell, even as the hall was painted red with their blood.

There was something chilling about it—something almost surreal.

The way the men you had served, the men you had watched lounge and laugh and eat without a care in the world, were now scrambling, terrified, their faces twisted in fear and pain.

And then there was Odysseus, standing amidst it all, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made your heart pound. His movements were almost too smooth, too practiced, like a dance he had performed a hundred times before.

There was no hesitation, no rush to his strikes—just a chilling certainty, a man who knew exactly what he was doing and how it would end.

There was sorrow there, yes, but also something else—something fierce, something that spoke of justice, of a reckoning long overdue.

The suitors, on the other hand, were chaos incarnate—stumbling, scrambling, their confidence shattered, their bravado reduced to nothing in the face of Odysseus' calm wrath.

And all the while, the music swelled, the melody growing darker, more vengeful.

You did not stop playing, even as the hall became a graveyard.

Odysseus moved towards Antinous, the man who had led the suitors, the man who had dared to try and take his place.

Antinous had backed himself into a corner, pale and trembling, though there was still a flicker of defiance in his eyes. He raised his hands, trembling as they were, in a last-ditch attempt to regain control. "You think you're a hero, Odysseus? A king?" His voice cracked, the mocking tone faltering as his eyes darted around, searching for an escape that wasn't there. "You're nothing but a monster... who abandoned his kingdom."

Odysseus paused.

For a moment, there was a terrible silence, the words hanging heavy in the air.

But then, his expression darkened, his eyes narrowing into cold, steel slits.

Antinous stumbled backward, his hands now shaking uncontrollably. His back hit the wall, and for the first time, the arrogance that had always cloaked him was gone. His eyes were wide with terror, his chest heaving as panic set in.

"Wait—wait! Please!" His voice had lost all of its previous bite, replaced by a pitiful, desperate plea. "Mercy... have mercy, Odysseus! It—it was a mistake! We were only—"

But his words caught in his throat, his breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps as Odysseus drew closer, unyielding. Antinous' legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, scrambling backward like a cornered animal.

"Please! I beg you!" He cried out now, his voice cracking with fear. His hands were raised in surrender, his face twisted in panic, a pitiful shadow of the once-proud leader of the suitors. "I—I didn't mean—"

His words were drowned in the silence of the hall as Odysseus loomed over him, his expression cold and unfeeling, as though he were staring down at an insect. The king's gaze flickered for just a moment, watching as Antinous cowered before him, reduced to nothing but a sniveling, desperate man.

Odysseus' lip twitched, not in a smile, but in something darker. His voice was low, each word deliberate, dripping with fury and finality. "Mercy?" He raised his sword slowly, deliberately, the edge glinting with the blood of the others who had fallen. "You know nothing of war, of sacrifice. You are a coward, hiding behind lies and empty bravado. You defiled my home, disrespected my family, and dared to covet what was never yours. Mercy was never an option."

He paused, his eyes like shards of ice, pinning Antinous in place. "Now, you will face the reality of what it means to cross the true king of Ithaca."

Antinous let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with terror as the reality of his fate settled in.

He scrambled backward, his hands clawing at the stone floor, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.

His lips began moving in what might have been a prayer, a last-ditch plea to any god who might still be listening.

But the gods had already chosen their side, and there would be no mercy for him here.

With one final look of disgust, Odysseus brought the blade down, swift and brutal.

Antinous' eyes widened for a brief moment, his lips parting in a final, silent gasp before the light in them faded. His body crumpled to the ground, lifeless, his arrogance and bravado extinguished in an instant.

The hall fell silent, the last echo of his pitiful pleas fading into the stillness.

Odysseus stood there, his chest rising and falling slowly, his sword dripping with the blood of those who had dared to challenge him. His gaze swept over the bodies littering the floor, but there was no satisfaction in his eyes—only the quiet, detached gaze he had held throughout.

The king had returned. And he had reclaimed his throne.

A/N: ooof! 8.0k words, lordy... but i must admit, it's getting easier for me to write/picture fight scenes instead of just summarizing them in a sentence lololo;  anywho as you guys can tell by the spammed updates, i really love greek mythology lolo; who's your favorite god/goddess? mine would have to be Aphrodite; for her to be the most beautiful to ever exist, she really does get envious whenever someone even breathes the word 'pretty' in another person direction 😩---i stan a messy queen

[sunkeji]

Immature sorceres

a/n: sorry for being m.i.a from writing, I just didn't have the energy to finish any of my ideas and things have been chaotic at home lately. But it's been solved! And I'm going on holiday soon so that's exciting.

cw: none

synopsis: a day with Gojo who has a crush on you, and the lengths he goes to in keeping it a secret. (Worst synopsis you've read, I'm open to ideas to rename it)

credits: none

Check my masterlist for further updates to this series: delulu chidish

"So, how much do you actually like y/n?" Geto asks Gojo. Gojo replies, "Oh, you know... Like a normal amount. If they ask me out right now, I would say yes with absolutely no hesitation."

Geto smirks at Gojo and states knowingly, "I don't see how checking y/n's social media profile every half an hour is normal, so I'm concerned with what you deem as normal... but considering it's you, nothing is normal." Gojo gets defensive and starts shouting at Geto, while Geto, being the instigator he is, adds more fuel to the fire.

Soon after, they're chasing each other around the basketball court while shouting profanities at each other. Shoko huffs a tired sigh and takes another puff from her cigarette, muttering about the immaturity of the two powerful sorcerers. As the chase intensifies, she calmly exhales smoke rings, seemingly unbothered.

Shoko texts you to come over to the basketball court, and you reply, saying that you'll be there in a few minutes.

When you arrive at the entrance of the basketball court, the first thing you notice are your black and white-haired friends wrestling each other on the ground. Shoko, on the other hand, is no better and is egging them both on while recording their wrestling match on her phone.

You sigh tiredly at the chaos unfolding before you. "Can't the two of you act your age for once?" You sigh exasperatedly, but they don't hear you. Shoko exhales a plume of smoke and calmly remarks, "They're just blowing off steam, Y/N. It's their way of bonding." You shake your head and mutter, "More like their way of causing trouble." Shoko laughs at your remark.

You can hear both of them grunting and saying something to each other when you hear your name roll out of Geto's mouth as he smirks at Gojo. You see that Gojo has gone wide-eyed and gasped dramatically before starting to screech at Geto once more. Geto, on the other hand, is laughing his ass off and has a smug expression, as if he's holding something over Gojo.

As the two of them continue their raucous chase, you and Shoko walk over to the entrance and take a seat on one of the benches. Shoko says to you, "You know, despite their immaturity, they care about each other more than they'd admit."

A voice from the entrance says, "Maybe, but they have a strange way of showing it." You and Shoko turn around to see your sensei, Yaga, standing menacingly and staring straight at the black and white-haired duo with his arms crossed.

The black and white-haired duo in question have now moved on to pulling at each other's faces, which made their speech slurred. Yaga shouts at them, "Here I am giving you a break, and this is what you do?".

Gojo scrambles to get off Geto and defend himself, but before he can, Geto interrupts him and says, "Actually, Gojo started getting physical first. All I did was say, Stalking Y/(your name)-," but before he could finish, Gojo had tackled Geto onto the floor and slapped a hand on Geto's mouth.

"HAHAHA SUGURU YOU'RE SO FUNNY BRO SO FUNNY, I'll do your laundry for a week if you shut up right now." Gojo mutters the last quietly to Geto, who smiles triumphantly and takes up Gojo's offer immediately.

Yaga sighs and mumbles quietly, "And you still have the cheek to tackle Geto right in front of me."

-

Gojo is getting reprimanded by Yaga at the side while the three of you sit together near the benches. When Geto takes a seat between you and Shoko, you ask him, "I heard you say my name while tustling with Satoru just now; what was that about?"

"Oh, it's nothing; I was just teasing him. Did you see his face? It was absolutely hilarious."

When Gojo is done being reprimanded by Yaga, he sulkily walks over and sits next to you on the empty side. He leans his head on your shoulder, and Poutily says, "It's not fair... I didn't even start it, but I'm the one being scolded, and on top of that, I have to do Suguru's laundry. Life just isn't fair."

After Gojo finishes his dramatics, he buries his face into the crook of your neck. You're about to push him off and tell him that his hair is tickling you, but before you could do so, you heard him mumble something along the lines of asking someone out, and then a long line of groans followed suit.

After that, you stopped listening because now he's just started saying gibberish and talking about anything that crosses his mind.

"Well, if you're free next Thursday afternoon, we could go to this new café that opened. It sells a variety of sweet and savory foods, and I've been wanting to go." You ask Gojo as you pat his hair gently as a way to comfort him.

Gojo looks up at you through his sunglasses and asks, "Just you and me?". 

You stare at him for a bit before answering, "I mean, sure, why not? I initially wanted all of us to go, including Nanami and Haibara, but... we could go ourselves too."

"Really?! Good! But you gotta promise not to bail on me," Gojo exclaims happily.

You nod your head in agreement, and Gojo's back to being his exuberant self.

Gojo in this entire fic is literally the embodiment of: 😔

[adaelines]

wrote this whilst i was playing re4 bc i couldnt stop looking at leon's arms and everytime he kicked an enemy i wanted him on his KNEES warning for smut! afab reader but gender neutral, public sex, he goes down on you whilst youre hiding from enemies, careful he spits, dom leon who lives for making you feel good

Leon always was prettiest on his knees. 

Wide, gunmetal blue eyes staring up at you, so full of love and adoration it’s almost overwhelming. The position and expression alone tells you how much he loves you, how much he wants to be on his knees for you. Despite his strength, just how easy it would be for him to overpower you and switch your positions, he still wanted nothing more than to be knelt before you, worshipping his lover the way he felt they deserved to be worshipped. He'd spend hours between your thighs, hours making you feel good, no matter the situation.

It's how you found yourself here. In the upstairs of a rough, almost destroyed house. You could hear the cultists downstairs, hear them searching for you both, and if either of you so much as moved you were terrified that they'd be alerted to your position above them. And yet Leon just couldn't help himself, not when you'd spent the last hour fighting and relying on one another to stay alive. It always riled him up, always made his heart beat fast and drool form under his tongue. Nothing got to him the way you did when you fought, when you protected him and he was able to protect you. 

The moment you were both alone, even when you technically weren't with the cultists downstairs still looking for you, he was immediately on you like you were his prey, like he'd been hunting you for hours and could finally go in for the kill. You should have known, with his smug little grin and the way he stood ever so slightly closer to you than usual, that something was going to happen. You just never thought you'd end up here, back against an almost broken wooden wall, the oh so powerful Leon Kennedy on his knees in front of you, looking up at you as if you had put the sun and moon in his sky. 

"Leon," you hissed, teeth gritted tight and the hand in his hair gripping onto him, "Are you serious? Do you want to get us killed?"

"C'mon, sweet thing, as if this would be a bad place to die," Leon's voice was low, full of a rasp that could only come from his desire from you. 

"Oh, in a random village in Spain full of cultists? Real romantic, Kennedy."

"From down here, I can't think of a better place," The grin on his face was wide, full of mischief, and you couldn't miss the way his eyelids fluttered when you gently tugged on his locks, nor could he miss the soft smile that briefly appeared on your face at his words. 

With a quiet sigh, you leant your head back against the wall, biting your lip.

"Fine, but please… make it quick, Leon, I'll fuck you properly once we're out of here, I promise," His grin only widened at your words, his hands quickly coming up to shove your pants down just enough for his face to fit. He didn't have the patience to fully remove them, once he saw your underwear, he couldn't wait any longer to dig his face as far as it would go, as close as he could be to your weeping core. 

With his nose pressed against the wet spot on your underwear, he couldn't help but let out a low moan. His eyes were shut, eyebrows furrowed like he was truly enjoying himself. Just by being this close, feeling your heat and smelling your wetness, his hips bucked up in his kneeling position, hands holding your thighs so tightly you thought they might bruise. He always did love leaving proof of his love on you, bruises of his hand and fingerprints left wherever he could. 

When you could feel his nose against your clit, feel the way he mouthed at the wet spot in your underwear like he was a man starved, you had to quickly bring the hand that wasn't in his hair up to cover your mouth. You didn't want to let go of him, but you also couldn't let yourself make any noise. It wasn't fair that a simple touch felt so good, not when anything above a quiet whimper would get you both caught, get you both killed. Leon didn't seem to care though, the way his hands rushed to shove your underwear down to join your pants around your thighs, the devious grin on his face proving that he didn't plan on stopping or slowing down any time soon. 

The way that Leon's tongue felt on your clit almost killed you, the hand in his hair tightening enough for him to let out a low groan against you, the hands on your hips tightening. Your other hand was still clamped tight over your mouth, keeping any noise you almost made at bay. This didn't make Leon happy though, even with cultists downstairs, he wanted to hear you as much as he could. One of his hands moved to the underside of your thigh, bringing it up over his shoulder as much as it could against the stretch of your pants. His grip was tight, holding you against him as close as he could, as if he wanted to become one with you, wanted to suffocate against you. Maybe he was serious about dying here, just by you instead of the people currently trying to kill you.

His tongue was quick against you, flattened so he could swipe from your hole to your clit. He took moments to focus on each, suckling on your clit and shoving his tongue into your hole as deep as he could. Eyes open now, he couldn't look away from your expression. He wanted to see everything, see you desperately try to keep your voice down, see you come apart simply from his mouth. It was always a beautiful sight, one that Leon held dear, making you cum was his favourite thing and nothing felt as good as knowing you felt good.

Pulling away slowly, Leon made sure to keep eye contact as he spat on your clit, grinning as he slowly watched it dribble down your cunt, onto your hole. He used his tongue before it could go any further, fucking it into you as deep as he could reach. If he couldn't cum inside you, he would have to do with at least knowing his spit was as deep as it could go, shoved inside you with his tongue and fingers, which he quickly brought to your hole when he started sucking on your clit once more. It was overwhelming, fingers in your hole and tongue on your clit, the hand in his hair was gripping so tight you'd have to apologise later, but trying to stay quiet when a man like Leon was giving you this much attention was hard, and you needed to focus on something. He always loved it when you pulled his hair anyway, so you knew he wouldn't complain at the sharp ache that it left on his scalp, not when you'd sooth it over with gentle touches later.

His touch and tongue were brutal against you, so harsh and so much that you could swear he was trying to kill you. When you let out a whimper that was slightly too loud, he pulled away, eyes stern as he stared up at you.

"Make a noise and I won't let you finish," His voice was just as stern as his gaze, but undeniably full of his need for you. Raspy and low, desperate. "Won't let you finish for a whole week. Won't you be good for me, pretty thing?" 

You couldn't help but whine at his words, lower and quieter this time, and the grin he gave was downright devilish. He gently patted your thigh, as if praising a dog, and pressed a gentle kiss on your clit before going back to the rough abuse he was giving it earlier. It wasn't fair, it was so much, and you were so close. Your legs were shaking, back arched against the wood and you swore your face was starting to hurt with the way you clamped your hand over your mouth. It'd be hard to explain just how you got a hand shape bruise over your mouth, but you couldn't care ar all. Not when Leon's mouth was about to make you cum, obvious in the way you were almost spasming against his hold.

"Cum for me, sweetheart, come on… want you to cum for me now…" voice quiet, almost a whisper but so so loud in your mind, all you could focus on. It wasn't a request anymore, he was demanding, almost a threat that dared you to not listen. His tone was serious, the one he used when he wanted you to know he meant business, would punish you if you didn't obey.

It wasn't hard either, not when his assault on your cunt was so focused, not when he knew every way to make you feel good and easily took advantage of it, when the thigh resting on his shoulder was tight against his cheek, the hand in his hair tight. You came with a muffled moan, head threw back and willing yourself to not scream with just how overwhelming everything was, grinding against Leon's face, using it for your own pleasure as you finished. He helped you through the orgasm, fingers and tongue slowing but not stopping, and when you pushed his head away out of sensitivity, he pressed one last kiss to your clit and gave you another devious grin.

''That's it, pretty, you're doing so good for me...''

He would absolutely be doing this again, and you would absolutely be getting him back for it.

[amymbona]

stanford!artrick cuddling, comforting, and babying reader after she runs into their dorm crying bc her date stood her up and she looked so pretty :( -🍄

AWWW :( you're so pretty in your little floral dress, teary-eyed and pouty, looking like a little bundle of distress at the doorframe of their dorm. They instantly take you into their arms and hold you like you're the most delicate piece of porcelain that could shatter if anyone dared to treat you harshly.

"Look at you, so cute in that dress."

"You look like a princess."

"Such a pretty girl."

"Don't cry for that idiot, sweetheart."

"Just breathe, baby, you'll be okay."

"It's okay, we've got you."

They're showering you with compliments, Art's - whose chest you're resting on - running a hand though your neatly curled hair, while Patrick keeps rubbing your back and bum, hoping to ease your distress with his ticklish touch. But tonight, you're having none of it.

"I'm so stupid. He didn't even like me."

It breaks their hearts to see you like this, but some unspoken satisfaction is hanging between the boys as they exchange a quick glance. At least there one less boy they need to compete with to earn your love.

"Nonsense," Art mutters, lifting your head with a gentle touch of his palm. God, even now when you're crying, you look so adorable with your pink cheeks and puffy lips. "Look at me, c'mon, you're not stupid. But he is."

"Yeah," Patrick agrees from behind you, pressing a small kiss to your shoulder, a cheeky smile on his face. "What kind of guy he is to dump such a gorgeous girl?"

Apparently, this particular's guy rejection was enough to completely erase your confidence, as a new set of tears gathers in your eyes and you bury your face back in Art's shirt. "Shut up, 'm not gorgeous."

"Bullshit," Patrick's hiss in your ear is accompanied by a squeeze or your ass and a gaze sent towards his blonde best friend. He's always been better with words, better at comforting people.

"Right. You're the prettiest - no - the best, most stunning girl we know, really," he attempts to encourage you.

"Then why does nobody wanna date me?" you imply with a small peep, sniffling as you realise the harsh truth. Nobody wants to date you, nobody's interested enough in you. But you couldn't be more wrong.

We would, they both think, as it their minds once again work in sync. They would, oh the would, they'd like nothing more, actually. Oh, if you only knee how many moments the boys have spent just admiring your beautiful face, watching you from afar and just taking you all in, wishing you were theirs. It's such a shame you always choose the biggest douchebags to be interested in.

"We could take you out," Patrick proposes almost way too casually.

With a sniffle, you lift your head off of Art's chest, wiping the snot away from your nose. Your distressed expression is met with Patrick's smug smirk, knowing he finally managed to push you somewhere. "What?"

"Don't act like you didn't hear me," he rolls his eyes, shuffling to lay more on top of you and squeezing you between Art and himself. "We'll take you out - to the cinema, or some club, or a fancy dinner - a proper date. Just say the word."

Your gaze flicks between both of the boys, eyebrows knitting in confusion when Art nods, now rubbing your shoulder in encouragement. But that's too silly, they're literally your best friends - they're like your brothers - wouldn't it be strange to go on a date with them?

"That's- that's too silly," you murmur with a small shake of your head.

"You're silly," Patrick counters softly. In such a tender gesture, so unusual of himself, he reaches out to wipe the dripping smudges of mascara from your cheeks, his touch as soft as a caress of a cloud, "But you're also a cute, amazing girl. Our cute amazing girl."

"And you deserve to be taken out on the best of dates," Art chimes in with his characteristically positive tone and kisses the top of your head.

But you're still unsure. "I dunno. Wouldn't it be, y'know, weird?"

"Weird?" Art laughs, "Who do you think we are, darling?"

Patrick nods, poking your nose, "Just give is a chance, hm? We'll make you feel like a princess total. Promise."

Art agrees, "Yeah, promise."

[genshingorlsrevengeance]

Could I ask for Himeko, Natasha, Springfield and AK12's S/O asking for help learning how to kiss properly (excuse for wanting to make out), too shy/tsunder to ask)?

(H:SR/GFL) Himeko, Natasha, Springfield, and AK-12's S/O asking them how to kiss

I can hear the ara-ara energy this ask radiates

When Himeko first hears the question, she can't help but feel a little flushed in the cheeks herself.

But it doesn't stop a beautiful giggle escaping her lips before setting down her coffee.

Noticing how badly S/O was blushing themselves, she puts one hand on their cheek to help calm them down.

Though if anything, it makes both of their heart start to race faster.

(Himeko) "Truthfully, I would like to learn myself. Perhaps we can help each other?"

She takes them to the privacy of her room before helping S/O with their question.

Natasha is taken off guard for a brief moment.

(Natasha) "My, that was very bold to ask."

Despite her surprise, she quickly recovers and smiles before patting the seat next to her with one hand.

(Natasha) "I'm an expert in medicine, S/O, so pardon me if my skills aren't up to par."

There is a teasing tone in her voice, but there was at least a modicum of truth to her words.

Not that S/O would know, since the kisses she gave almost took S/O's breath away completely.

Springfield opens her mouth slightly in surprise before covering it with one hand.

A few seconds pass before the gaze she's giving S/O grows softer, and smiling as one hand goes under her chin.

Springfield adjusts the apron on herself before leaning against the counter.

(Springfield) "I wouldn't mind at all, my love.~"

Before getting too carried away, Springfield puts the sign on the door of her cafe to "closed".

This was going to be an entertaining learning experience, at the very least.

12's face becomes somehow even more smug as she just teases S/O.

(AK-12) "Hm? I'm sorry, I was processing something. Can you repeat your question a little louder?"

12 heard them the first time just fine, if they wanted her to teach them how to kiss, they'd have to work a little harder than that.

After hearing them ask two more times, she slowly walks up to them, adjusting some strands of hair out of her face.

(AK-12) "I suppose I can show you a thing or three.~"

12 opens her eyes just to wink at them before quickly catching their lips, one hand on their waist as she brought them closer.

[jaelvr]

Mine

Home | NCT 127 masterlist |

Requested : no

Prompts ; 85. “I’ve seen how much you really care–don’t pretend like you don’t.”  + 52.  “i saw something today that reminded me of you.”

Pairing : best friend! Mark x reader

Pronouns : you/yours

Type : fluff

Word count : 524

Warnings : mutual feelings, friends to lovers, college au, fluff, slightly ooc

Have a great day !! 

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“I’ve seen how much you really care–don’t pretend like you don’t.” Haechan chuckled as the pair of you had made your way outside, sitting at the campfire the others had started. You'd come on holiday with the dreamies who'd become your closest friends, all of them like your brothers except for one in particular. Your loving gazes and yearning for Mark didn't go unnoticed by the others, the six of them pestering you until you eventually admitted to it, all of them swearing for their own safety that they'd keep the secret. "I don't. If he likes her then whatever." you murmured, trying to hide your sulking as you slouched down in the chair.

The brunette let out a chuckle, shaking his head as he watched you, trying to figure out what was going on inside your head. "You can't just keep pretending like nothing is going on between you two." he sighed, running a hand through his hair. You and Mark were the most confusing pair ever. Both are too scared to make the first move and both huge overthinkers. He stretched, looking up as he saw Mark make his way outside, seemingly approaching you two. "Hey." Mark grinned, unknowing of the previous conversation that had been taking place and sat down. Haechan mumbled some excuse of being tired, before getting up and leaving, but not before shooting you a look, telling you to take the chance.

"You okay?" Mark asked gently, moving slightly closer to you. His face softened as he saw you still slightly shivering, despite the blanket wrapped around you and being near the fire. "I'm good-" you started before he cut you off, moving closer, his arm wrapped around you as he moved your blanket to fit around both of you, pulling you into his side. "..Better?" he asked, a smug smile on his face as he looked down, letting out his addictive laughter. "I hate you." you mumbled, the small grin on your face getting bigger as you looked back at him, giggling as he rubbed his nose against yours. "You love me really." he responded, gently squeezing your hand. You let out a relieved sigh as he turned away, missing not only your red cheeks but unable to feel your rapid heartbeat.

“I saw something today that reminded me of you.” he murmured in a hushed tone, pulling out a locket from his pocket. It was simple but with a little bit of detail - something that was exactly you. His face turned red as he watched your face light up, clearly appreciating the small present he had gotten. "Can you put it on me?" you asked, your affection clear in your eyes. He hummed, taking it from you and pushing your hair out the way as he clasped it, his soft hands gently brushing against the back of your neck, both giddy from the close contact. He took in the moment, admiring how you looked in the moonlight, tugging you more into him and kissing your forehead. Maybe one day he'd be confident enough to tell you how he felt.

He just hoped it was soon.

[ageingfangirl2]

I Told You So! Zoro (OPLA)

After a night of drinking you wake up in Zoro's hammock and the swordsman isn't keen on letting you go. Zoro x Reader Fluff

ZORO

If there was something else I was good at other than being a great swordsman it was drinking, and being able to drink the rest of the crew under the table. The only person who came close to beating me was y/n, both in fighting and drinking. Their whole personality was different to mine, they were cheerful and always full of energy while people called me standoffish and lazy for how much I slept. There were moments when it infuriated me how everyone fawned over them, but that always changed after a drink or three.

y/n was an open book, they'd tell you their whole life story if you asked, which is how I found out they were a virgin and that was a challenge I accepted. y/n was easy on the eyes, I wasn't jealous of the attention they got from others, I just didn't like someone as skilled as them sinking so low for their first time. y/n said if I could beat them they'd sleep with me, and every little fight we had they won and I did try to beat them. Every time they beat me they'd say 'I told you so', now I wanted the satisfaction of saying it back to them.

After a night of drinking the rest of the crew stumbled back to the ship leaving y/n and me in the tavern doing shots. They challenged me to a shot off, and after eight they started to falter while I picked up number nine.

NEXT MORNING

'What happened last night?' y/n groans.

I'd been awake a few minutes before they stirred to life and I couldn't keep the smug smile off my face.

'I finally beat you is what happened,' I joke

y/n's eyes dart open upon hearing my voice, but I keep my arm around their waist keeping them in my bed.

y/n lifts the sheet, 'Don't say it Zoro.'

I chuckle and give their naked body a little squeeze, 'I wasn't going to say anything.'

'Yes, you were,' they pout and drop the sheet.

'No, I wasn't,' I retort.

y/n leans against my chest and sighs, 'You were going to say, I told you so, I know you were Zoro.'

I click my tongue, 'well, now that you mention it--'

y/n cuts me off by turning their head and kissing me. At least they didn't seem to regret waking up in my bed. I lean into the kiss, not wanting to let them go. Yes, I'd finally beaten them, but through my alcohol daze, I asked if they were cool sleeping together while drunk because I was a gentleman.

y/n pulls out of the kiss and puts a hand on my chest biting their lip, 'How about another round?'

I puff out my chest and nod, 'If you insist. I think I've found something I'll always win at.'

y/n rolls their eyes and slaps my chest, 'I'll be the judge of that Zoro.'

The rest of the crew were going to have a field day when we eventually emerged from the cabin.