#would he see him and find him so ridiculous that he can’t not draw him

[cuppajj]

yooo did you see alex milnes teasers for both hot motor oil magazines, they got ur mech in the g string set lmao

Literally cannot believe he drew that, go king go, anyway let’s get Lord Imperious Delirious into volume 3 🫡

[peachsayshi]

cc x·˚ ༘₊· ͟͟͞͞꒰➳ thinking about...reader trying to break up with yandere gojo  

minors / ageless blogs / blank blogs - do not interact.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ tags: yandere; dub con; lovesick gojo & he’s obsessive/toxic about it; he’s mean but yummy, okay?; size kink (ish?); gojo showing off his strength; sex without protection

notes: I had this written as an idea right after I wrote my hc’s for the jjk men in their yandere version. twylm readers, please forgive me for not posting the next chapter. I am working on it but I am really struggling - I had the worst burn out after the last chapter, and have been having a hard time trying to get back into the story >.< 

wc: 1,228

gojo plays with the hem of your skirt - the flat expression on his face telling you that he’s listening but appears unbothered by your statement. you can see the annoyance in his eyes, the irritation that you would say something so ridiculous in the middle of a make out session. 

his hands find the back of your thighs and with one swift motion he pulls you over his long legs so you’re hovering above his lap. the imbalance forces you to clutch onto his shirt with frustration, and he mindlessly reaches to undo his belt before tugging your underwear aside with his long, slender digits. 

“toru, are you listening to me?” you whisper in a small voice. 

“you want to take a break?” he repeats calmly, but those last two words are laced with disgust, barely slipping through his clenched teeth, and he lowers you down just enough for him to press the tip of his swollen cock against your slit. 

“I need to slow things down...” you breathe, lashes fluttering at the sensation from the contact. 

your thighs naturally start to tense up when he holds you there, and the pads of his fingers dig roughly into your hip to keep you in place. you hiss against the harsh touch, gazing down to find your lover pouting at you like a disappointed child.

any stranger would consider this an adorable expression with the way his big eyes widen while his brows upturn sorrowfully. 

to you, however, it was an entirely different message. 

“are you unhappy?” he asks, his words weighed down by hurt. 

a warm sensation travels up your calves as you try to maintain the pose and you shake your head no while squeezing him gently with reassurance. satoru flickers his attention back to the point of contact. your pelvis feels tight from holding this awkward position, and the ache to have him inside you naturally makes the space between your legs pulse with need. 

satoru gojo has given you everything and more. there is no reason for you to be unhappy. 

he made sure of that. 

“okay,” he confirms with a sigh, one palm moving to grope the curve of your ass while the other stabilizes your leg as he draws you down his length. “do you not love me?” 

a hard lump forms in your throat. 

you’re careful never to actually say those words to him. 

satoru’s devotion consumes your entire your soul - you can’t help but feel like you would be making a deal with a devil if you decided to admit your true feelings. 

you managed to keep his peace of mind this far by reassuring him with deep, promising kisses and strong acknowledgements of his feelings. 

technically you aren’t lying, but the reality is that you’re afraid to love him...and of what your love does to him.

giving him another silent reply, you nod your head as your fear creeps up the back of your spine. the only relief you find is the stretch between your legs, and your lips part into a circle as satoru gives himself to you inch by glorious inch.

your skirt flaps over you both, concealing him buried inside you. he arches forward to kiss your jaw, his large hands finding your breasts and he massages them over your fitted tank. 

he delicately trails his fingers down your waist to latch onto your hips once more. “then why...” he murmurs into your neck, “do you want to take a break?” 

your hand finds the back of his head, a moan leaving your parted lips when you feel him lick a stripe up the column before lightly nipping at your earlobe. 

“it’s just...” you gasp, feeling flowers of heat bloom in all the places he’s touching you, “I just feel like we are getting ahead of o-ourselves..ah...” 

he rocks your hips back and forth, moving at such a languid pace that you can’t help but clench your thighs around his own. your fingers curl around the snowy threads of his white hair, tugging at it gently before pulling his face away so you can meet his eyes. 

he looks smug - but he always does because he knows that you’re just addicted to him as he is to you. 

“isn’t that what we want?” he questions, the corner of his mouth twitching into a lazy smile as he takes off your top and unfastens your bra, “we’re already so perfect...” 

“satoru,” you whine, “that’s not the point-” 

this time he ruts his pelvis upward, interrupting your thoughts as he hits you at the right spot that makes your eyes disappear into the back of your head. he leans against the chair, maintaining full eye contact with you as he casually lifts you up before dropping you back down on his cock. “just want to make you m’pretty wife, is all...fuck you like this every single night...” 

you bite your bottom lip, frustrated with how wet he’s making you with his words. your body subconsciously succumbs to his demands and you slowly start bouncing up and down over his length. 

“that’s right, angel,” satoru grunts with approval, his hungry hands grab your ass roughly, and you squeak when you feel a slight sting from behind as the sound of his palm slapping against your skin echoes around the room. “see? I’m making you feel s’fucking good, your pussy’s so wet f’me...just for me...” 

when his mouth finds yours, you know you’ve lost the battle. his scalding kisses leave your lips swollen but you still search for him out of desperation to feel the fire. he’s reminding you how hard it would be to let go of him, reiterating that there is no man in this world who could ever love you as much he does. you feel silly for bringing this up, questioning your own trepidations about him and wondering if this is simply you sabotaging what you already have. 

you are in a daze from the way he fucks you but he isn’t slowing down his movements and you feel like he might actually split you in two. he would never speak to you with angry words, but you can feel it in his movements.

“gonna c-cum, gonna cum, gonna cum...” 

it comes out of you like a warning, but it only makes satoru go deeper and before you know it your vision is white. your body feels everything all at once, and the coil that’s been tightening around your lower belly loosens from the intense orgasm. the pleasure is euphoric, sinfully so, and it drains you of all the energy you’ve preserved. your body goes limp in satoru’s arms, and he keeps them wrapped securely around your waist as he pumps his cum inside you.

he holds you in this embrace, allowing the seconds to pass. his breath fans your collar bone while he tries to catch himself. your eyes feel heavy when you blink them open, and you cup his face in your hands as you seek to cool yourself down with his azure eyes.

“I’m never going to let you go,” he confesses with a sweet kiss to the inside of your palm, before placing another on your cheek while he tightens his grip, “so stop trying to push me away.” 

[fayes-fics]

The Secrets We Keep: Pt I

Part II >>

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Knowing someone your whole life doesn’t mean they can’t surprise you…

Warnings: none yet… fluff and angst. Childhood friends, yearning, arranged marriage, kissing. Pt II will contain a warning/rating change.

Word Count: 5.1k (this part)

Authors Note: Part 1 of 2. My longest gestating WIP! It’s been more than 18 months since I received a request for this secret diary fic. Tulip Anon, I have no idea if you still follow me, but I hope you think I did your detailed request justice. I won't post your ask yet, as it contains spoilers for the second half. Betaed by the awesome @colettebronte, who I can’t thank enough. I’m in the process of writing Pt II, so there will be a gap between instalments. Enjoy! 🫶

-i-

For as long as you can remember, you have loved one man secretly. To the point that you cannot imagine your life without a deep, burning affection simmering in your very core, as fundamental to your existence as drawing air into your lungs.

Benedict Bridgerton.

Your families have been neighbours in Mayfair and Kent for many generations—two aristocratic dynasties that, despite enduring friendships, have never seen intermarriage. There have been attempted matches down the years, according to family lore, but nothing came to fruition. 

So when you were brought to Aubrey Hall as a mere babe in arms, the eldest daughter, there were many good-natured jokes that Anthony’s future wife had been born. But the Viscount, wonderful as he is, was not the man who stole your heart just a few short years later. A bright sunny day in June that you suspect Benedict may not even be able to recall, but you can with perfect clarity, even now, some fifteen years later. 

He picked you as the first person to join his team for a round of garden games. Paying you heed and ensuring you were included, patiently showing you the ropes and applauding your achievements, ignoring the ridicule from the other twelve-year-old boys for letting a girl - and a little five-year-old at that - join in their games. 

Ever since that day, all you have ever seen is his enormous heart and steadfast empathy: always the one to reach out to those excluded, to be supportive, and to love harder and more expansively than his siblings. Thus, unsurprisingly, he became the focus of your singular devotion—a childish adoration transmuting into something more profound and complicated as you matured.

On your fourteenth birthday, your mother gifted you a thick notebook. And it became your refuge, the private canvas on which you outlet your innermost secrets and thoughts. The beautiful but now slightly battered, silk-covered tome is still your most treasured possession even now, more than six years later, so close to filled now, with only a couple of blank pages left. Never long from your hands, but when it must be, carefully stashed under the floorboards of your bedroom. Its pages the reflection of a naive, growing heart. There is one person who features frequently on its crammed, jumbled pages. Sketches of his handsome face, mostly from memory, interspersed with ardent notes and poems that, while they may not mention his name, are written for him. Adoration writ large in every pen and pencil stroke.

Little were you to know that the secrets you keep within its hallowed pages would one day alter the course of your life…

-ii-

It's the evening of the Bridgerton Ball, and usually, you would be brimming with anticipation for such an occasion, a chance to see the man who holds your most ardent admiration. Instead, you find yourself glum, mechanically stepping into the dress your ladies' maid Rachel assists you with, staring blankly into the vanity mirror as she adorns your hair with jewels. Still reeling from your father's shocking announcement the previous day.

The inheritance of a European title had seen him spend eighteen months abroad. In his absence last spring, you were able to persuade your more indulgent mother to delay your societal debut—a yearning to be free in the ways you know no woman really can be for long. A compounding factor was spending the summer in the Highlands with her sister, your Aunt Eliza, a spirited, independent woman who taught you many things and encouraged your artistic whims. And when you were back in London, your mother’s somewhat inattentive running of the house meant you were often able to slip away in the evenings, spending your time deepening your passion for art. Frequenting galleries and conversing with artists led to you being drawn into the bohemian, artsy underbelly of Bloomsbury, a beguiling, exotic contrast to Mayfair. Another secret you keep.

Upon his return to England, your father was not best pleased to learn that not only had you been allowed to skip the previous Season, but Eliza had also taught you to fish, fence and hunt—most unladylike pursuits in his opinion. He, therefore, made it his mission to ensure not only would you debut this year but also a swift match should be made, lest you “get other fanciful, dangerous ideas”.

Perhaps that is why, yesterday, nary two weeks into your first season, he abruptly announced over afternoon tea that he had secured a match for you and the man in question would be dining with you all that evening. A deal no doubt brokered in a private gentleman’s club as if you were merely chattel to be traded.

Revulsion filled your every fibre as you were introduced to Lord Farringdon a few hours later. A wiry man twenty years your senior with a hawk-like countenance and a disdainful disposition. Apparently, a brilliant intellectual mind but accompanied by a mercurial, malevolent reputation. You had read in Whistledown rumours about his mistreatment of his household staff and his previous wife. A forlorn figure who became a recluse long before she died of consumption tragically young. The idea of being betrothed to this cold, abusive man turned your stomach—a seemingly outsized punishment for your rebellion. Once the man left, you had begged and pleaded with your father to reconsider the arrangement, but sadly, your appeal fell on deaf ears. 

And so here you are. Going to a ball at which your father plans to announce your engagement. The stately beauty of Bridgerton House is not as heartening of a sight as it typically is. Tonight, it feels more akin to a gallows.

As soon as you arrive, you are scanning the crowds for the only friend you know will understand just how ghastly your predicament is—Eloise Bridgerton. A kindred spirit whose interest in marriage is as scant as your own. Bonding over your similar yearnings for freedom, you have been good friends since you were little, many a day spent together as children running through the Kentish fields, escaping expectation and flouting convention.

Acutely aware of time running out until your father speaks up, you fiddle distractedly with your fan, impatiently awaiting her entrance.

“For heaven's sake, y/n, please cease your fidgeting!” your mother chastises under her breath, snatching away the item. “I do not see why you are so agitated. Tonight is to be a wonderful occasion for you!”

A myriad of caustic comments are on the tip of your tongue, but you swallow them down. The last thing you want is to draw attention, and you certainly don't want to be gossip fodder; these ballrooms are a veritable hotbed of eavesdropping if Whistledown is anything to go by. 

When the collective Bridgerton family finally enter their ballroom as hosts, however, your eyes can't help but drift to Benedict instead. A reflex from years of longing, even though it is his sister,  arm looped into his, whose counsel you seek tonight. You excuse yourself to fetch a lemonade as soon as you spy a window of opportunity—Eloise standing alone, looking excessively bored. Abandoning your glass, you hurry over to her.

“I have news…”  You try to keep your voice neutral but grab her arm and practically drag her away from anyone within earshot.

“Well, it cannot be good if you are willing to rip my arm off to impart it,” she remarks dryly as you lead her down a hallway.

“It is not,” you pull a face that you know will convey to her the gravity of what you need to divulge.

With a nod of understanding and a look to a nearby footman, she leads you beyond him into an area of the house off-limits for guests. 

“Tell me…” her tone is sincere as she ushers you into the library and closes the door.

“My father has seen fit to arrange a marriage for me. He is planning to announce it tonight, right here at your family ball!”

She says nothing, only a sympathetic noise as she pulls you into a consoling hug. The emotions you have been tamping down for hours escape as a couple of bitter tears, her arms banding tight around you. You are not sure how long, but you stand in a hug, just grateful for her steadfast support.

“What am I to do?” you whisper.

“I do not know,” she confesses. “Have you tried to reason with your father?”

“A hopeless cause…”  

Her mouth twists in understanding, knowing you will have put up a spirited defence as much as she would have. She detangles from you and goes to a nearby brandy decanter.

“It's the very least you deserve, frankly,” she points out, handing you a glass and pulling you into a loveseat with her, wrapping an arm around your shoulder, clinking her glass against yours in a silent but bittersweet toast about your seemingly futile situation.

-iii-

Half an hour later, your parents are distracted across the far side of the room with friends when a large hand grabs yours out of the blue. You startle when you realise it is Benedict, your heart suddenly in your mouth. Before you know it, you are wordlessly being pulled out of the French doors behind you and into the night air.

“Where are we going!?” you demand when you recover from the initial surprise, his gloved hand tugging yours along through the darkened gardens. 

“Shh, make haste, we must not be seen,” he hushes you but keeps moving, furtive and fast, your feet having to take extra steps to keep up with his long stride over the lush, dewy grass.

“Benedict…” you try again once you round a thick hedge into the rose garden.  “What is going on?”

He slows a little but does not relinquish his tight hold. Gravel path now crunching under his boots as the honeyed scent of damask hangs heavy in the air. 

“Eloise told me,” is all he offers. “So we are escaping.”

“W-we are?” you stutter, frowning, a claggy tumult behind your ribs at his use of ‘we’. 

“Yes! Or at least we would be if you would keep quiet… please…” he amends, sounding a touch contrite about his initial brusqueness, but speeding up again, headed straight for a small wooden door in a high stone wall, almost hidden behind long, draping ropes of ivy, glowing silver in the moonlight.

When you reach it, he releases his grip on your hand and shoulders the door open with considerable force. The weathered wood creaks loudly, almost splintering under the duress. He signals to the inky blackness of the deserted mews behind Bridgerton House.

“It is now or never, y/n,” he warns as you look back at the house, lit up with the life of the ball inside. “So what is your choice?”

He may be presenting it as an option, but really, you know there would only ever be one answer. You would accompany him to the ends of the earth if he so much as asked. And so wordlessly, you step through the doorway and into the narrow street beyond.

“Good choice,” he compliments as he follows suit and closes the door behind him. “You may stay at my friend Granville’s tonight,” he offers sagely, “I have not seen him in a while, but I will explain when we arrive; I am certain he can provide shelter.”

“Benedict, I already know Henry… Quite well, in fact.”

He looks taken aback as if it had not occurred to him that you may move in the same clandestine circles as he does. To be fair, you have always been discreet in your outings, and it’s not something you have divulged to anyone, including Eloise. Still, what confounds you more is why he is suddenly so seemingly invested in seeing you escape from your predicament. It doesn't entirely make sense.

“Well, then,” he cuts into your brief reverie, “you know Henry is a generous host and discreet about the affairs of others. Your father will not come looking for you there. It will buy some time to figure out what to do next. To ensure your freedom.”

“Freedom?” You scoff. “Benedict, as much as I may wish it, there is no other path open to me. Tonight is merely a delay tactic at best. The only way to stop my father’s pursuit of this union is if I marry another….”

The admittance of this truth out loud makes you restless, belatedly realising that it truly is your only way out. You stalk towards the main road, the faint glow of the street lamp guiding your way over the cobbles. You soon hear Benedict’s footsteps behind.

“That is ridiculous!” he exclaims as he attempts to catch up with you. “There are other options available to you…”

“Such as?” you whip around, raising your hands, countering his assertion. When he falters, you return to walking, throwing a tart addition over your shoulder: “Unlike you, a man, I do not have the freedom of choice.” 

“You should always have a choice…” he counters earnestly, still catching up to your furious pace.

“Should and do are different things, Benedict. You do not even know how lucky you are!” You add bitterly, rounding onto the main street.

A gust of wind causes you to pause and a shiver to run down your arms, your gauzy dress not enough to ward off the unseasonable chill in the air tonight. Ever the observant gentleman, Benedict shucks his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders. Uncharitably, your ire makes you attempt to shake it off, even while knowing it is intended purely as a chivalrous gesture. You are surprised when he seems to grasp your shoulders tighter, holding the heavy velvet in place. It is cloaked in his woodsy, citrus scent, your vexed state turning into an entirely different type of flush as he crowds closer to you.

“My birth has allowed me certain privileges, I concede,” he replies, his stare seemingly far away as you are unable to look anywhere but the dampness of his bottom lip, shimmering slightly in the lamplight. Then he tilts his head down to meet your eyes. “But that does not mean I am able to have everything I wish for in life, y/n…”

Your tongue burns to ask what it is that he wants but cannot have, yet you do not allow yourself to pry. But seeing the wistfulness in his gaze deflates your irritation, your long-held adoration for this man taking over, making you sigh.

‘You deserve the world, Benedict….’

His face morphs into one of breathtaking intensity, and you realise, horrified, you spoke those thoughts aloud. 

“As do you, y/n,” he murmurs, eyes sincere, your heart beating wildly as his chest vibrates against your own. 

The upheaval of the last day, the man you secretly adore abetting a somewhat daring escape, your heated exchange of words, the lateness of the hour, and the feel of his tall, lithe body pressed against yours…. It's all a dangerous cocktail that culminates in you being utterly impetuous, pushing up onto your tiptoes and mashing your mouth against his with no thought.

His lips are plush and warm, and suddenly, he is kissing you back. It's like a cannon firing in your chest as his warm mouth opens yours. Suddenly, you are urgently taking from each other. A sweeping tidal wave through you obliterates any kissing experiences you have ever had before. It’s a desperate slide of tongues, a passionate continuation of your sparring. His hands are like a hot brand through your thin dress as they sweep around to your back, tugging you into him, his heat, scent and taste overwhelming.

But all too soon you are pulling apart, a need for air in your lungs overriding the spontaneous, reckless moment. For a few seconds, you stare at each other, breathing each other's panted air, hands still grasping onto each other, almost confused by what just occurred… until the whinny of a passing horse carriage has you springing apart as if burned. 

Realisation engulfs his entire being. “Oh god! Please, please forgive me!” he stutters, backing away, holding his hands out in a conciliatory gesture, almost tripping in his haste to put space between you, even though it was you who kissed him. “Please, just go to Granville,” he counsels rapidly before turning heel and disappearing into the night, leaving you standing alone, unmoored and breathless, utterly turned upside down.

-iv-

You drift home in a daze, your family’s London residence only a few hundred yards away. Your escape plans are forgotten in the haze of tumbling thoughts about that blistering kiss. How fervently and immediately Benedict had kissed you back, how wonderful it felt to be caged in his arms….  Climbing into bed and passing out, still bewildered. In fact, it’s only the rude awakening of your bedroom door slamming open the following morning that brings you crashing back to your senses.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?!” Your father roars, holding aloft what looks like the latest copy of Whistledown. “You have brought shame upon our family and likely ruination to your prospects!!”

Utterly alarmed, you sit bolt upright, blinking, taking a few moments before you can find your voice. “What are you referring to, father?”.

He glares at you, then throws the paper onto your bed and stalks out of the room without another word, puce with outrage. You know there will be crossed words at the breakfast table. The sight of your name on the crisp ivory page immediately draws your eye, and your stomach plunges as you read the paragraph:

The annual Bridgerton Ball last night was, once again, resplendent. A triumph that the dowager Countess can be rightfully proud of. Although less contentment could likely be gleaned from the behaviour of her offspring. The second eldest of whom was allegedly seen escaping into the unlit gardens hand in hand with none other than the most reluctant of this season's debutantes, the spirited Miss Y/n Y/l/n. Perhaps the rebellious Miss will not have to endure many more of society’s events that she so patently abhors, should a proposal from the most wayward of Bridgerton sons be forthcoming? I, for one, however, Dear Reader, am not holding my breath…

Hiding in your room as long as you can, hunger drives you to join the frosty lunch table, apologising for inadvertently ruining your father’s plans to announce your betrothal and meekly explaining the incident with Benedict as a complete misunderstanding. It was merely an old friend helping you to gather some air before the big news was to be proclaimed. His taking your hand was out of benevolent concern, nothing more, and when you suddenly felt unwell, he chivalrously saw you the few hundred yards home. The lies feel odd on your tongue, your thoughts only of Benedict’s mouth and body moulded hotly to yours as your father lectures about appropriate behaviour for a young lady and your family’s long-standing friendship with the Bridgertons not being an excuse for a lackadaisical attitude to impropriety.

“There is nothing else to be done now—I must secure you a special licence to be wed tomorrow before Lord Farringdon hears about this,” he decrees with finality, his tone brokering no argument.

You slump silently into your chair, dread creeping through every cell, silently chastising yourself for not following Benedict’s advice and running away. If only you hadn't been impetuous and kissed him, you might have been in your right mind to do so. It feels cruel that the one moment you chose to throw caution to the wind is the one moment that sealed a worse fate.

-v-

That afternoon, your mother ushers you to the Modiste, paying handsomely for a very rushed wedding dress. Something simple that can be finished at such a late hour. It will only be your family in attendance anyway; so much else seems unnecessary. As you stand forlornly upon the raised dias, ivory silk tacked up around you with pins; your mother announces she needs to depart to secure other last-minute arrangements, leaving your trusty ladies' maid to accompany you home once alterations are complete.

“You do not look a happy bride…” Madam Delacroix mutters after the tinkle of the bell above the door signals her departure.

“Your observation skills are certainly not lacking,” you respond quietly, craning to double-check that Rachel, your maid, is out of earshot, sitting listlessly in the front of the store, staring out of the window.

“I do read Whistledown, my dear,” she remarks delicately, “and this does not appear to be a dress someone marrying a Bridgerton would wear.”

Your stomach vaults at the implication; the thought of marrying Benedict has your heart going haywire, even as you know it would never happen. The crestfallen look as your mind flits to the awful man you will be marrying instead is one you cannot hide as she meets your eyes in the reflection.

“It is not indeed,” you sigh, “but Whistledown has rather accelerated my unfortunate fate. Hence the rushed dress…” you gesture to your outfit.

“Mr Bridgerton is a friend?” she digs delicately.

“Lifelong,” you admit, “but Lady Whistledown could not have been more erroneous in her assertions…”

“That you and Mr Bridgerton are together? Or that he would marry you?” 

You look away from the mirror and down to where she is crouched by your hem on your left side, taken back not only at her astuteness but her drive for information. Almost as if she were Whistledown herself.

“I do not mean to pry,” she modifies, “merely to understand your predicament. Maybe I can be of assistance? I have privately counselled many a young lady on the eve of their wedding. Be it a happy occasion or not. And have kept many a secret of the Ton. ‘Tis the reason my business is so successful, Miss y/l/n. A good modiste can be a trusted confidante.”

“W-we are not together,” you stumble out without meaning to.

“But you wish to be? Or perhaps something has happened between you?”

Your eyes dart furtively, and your cheeks heat at the memory, but you say nothing. 

“You need say no more,” she chuckles and offers a knowing smile that appears as much reminiscent as sympathetic.

You rapidly attempt to deflect. “I do not wish to be married to anyone, really. I do find it so unfair a man is free to pursue his passions in life, but merely due to my sex, I am not.”

There is a nod of understanding, and she stands up with her hands on her hips. “I keep a certain array of refreshments for special clients such as yourself.” She nods to what looks like a liquor cabinet partially obscured behind a curtain at the back of her shop. “If you can dismiss your maid, I can assist you on your last night as an unmarried lady.”

The suggestion is too intriguing to refuse. And Rachel will greatly appreciate your pin money.

A few hours later, you are sat upon a circular conversation chair, Gen, as she insists you call her, pouring you another snifter of brandy.

“Tell me, what is your passion?” she inquires, her polished French accent slipping a little, sounding far more East End than Parisian. Something about that makes you like her more.

“Art,” you answer wistfully, “not that I have many opportunities to practice beyond a private notebook. But it is my most prized possession.” You gesture to your pelisse, hanging on a nearby hook. “I have it with me always. I have sewn a secret pocket into all of my coats myself.”

“Ingenious! ” She declares. “You shall have my job one day!”

You laugh, feeling light for the first time in what feels like days, as Gen leans in, raising an eyebrow. “I can also see well why you may have bonded with Mr Bridgerton…”

You giggle and lower your eyes, taking a fortifying sip.

“But it is not just that, is it?” Her tone is thoughtful, delicate even, as she continues: “A life outside the boundaries of so-called polite society can be so very beguiling, can it not? I have seen you, Miss y/l/n, at parties in Bloomsbury…”

A panicked bile rises as your head snaps up.

“As I said before, I am always discreet,” she reassures, “your secret is more than safe with me,” she winks before taking a generous sip from her glass.

Possibly, it's the alcohol, but her understanding of your predicament and the fact she has, unbeknownst to you, moved in similar circles brings an odd sense of relief. Having a confidante, someone to finally share your secrets with, albeit a somewhat stranger, lifts a burden from your shoulders. Wonderful as Eloise is, being the sister of the man who secretly holds your heart is not without complications in many ways.

“Another?” she chimes animatedly, holding aloft the bottle.

You cannot resist that offer.

-vi-

It’s close to midnight when Gen loops her arm in yours as she guides you, quite inebriated herself, away from the hackney cab to the familiar abode of one Henry Granville. Her declaration that a party is what you need on your last night of freedom is definitely not one you would dispute. A myriad of heightened emotions roil inside as you await the door being answered: contentment at your newly cemented friendship with Gen, bewildered every time you think of your kiss with Benedict and abhorrence for tomorrow. 

As you wander into the debauched tableau of a party in full swing: the air thick with smoke and merriment, the sounds of pleasure, people consorting together, a hedonistic swirl of self-expression unfurling all around you—it all consolidates into a yen to be reckless. Take part this time rather than just observe as you have before. Alcohol mutating the simmering rage about the injustice of your circumstance into a yearning to experience pleasure, especially physical. To get lost in sensation on your one last night of liberty.

So when you encounter Sir Simms - Matthew - friend to your older brother, renowned rake, but quite handsome, you throw caution to the wind. He seems delighted to see you, instantly flirtatious and familiar in a way you would rebuff any other night but this one. Whispering in your ear how very bold you are to be at such a bohemian event and pondering what other adventurous experiences you might be willing to indulge in. At one point Gen pulls you aside, her breath sweetened with fermented fruits, as she leans in and counsels you to be cautious. But you rebuff her concerns, swatting away her hold and returning to Matthew, allowing him to pull you into a kiss. 

It’s not the same as with Benedict; your mind screams at the altogether more jarring experience. A wet invasion of tongue that is less pleasant and certainly doesn’t fire anything inside you the way that he had. Merely kindling a defiant resolve to rage against the dying light of your freedom. And so when he slurs into your ear, you consent to his invitation upstairs, knowing fully the implications of what will transpire—feeling vaguely detached from yourself as he pulls you along by the hand towards the staircase. 

Suddenly, your field of vision is filled with dark blue velvet, a strong arm wrapping around you, caging you into a warm body mass, disconnecting your hand from Matthew’s—crossed words in two male voices. A momentarily confusing blur that only begins to make sense when you tilt your chin up… and the breath is quite stolen from your lungs.

Benedict.

At first, it feels like a cruel mirage, the man you most desire here to stymie your last gamble at impulsivity. His hold is strong as you sense Matthew shrink away, defeated by Benedict’s threat to expose some dalliance or other. But as he whisks you to an empty room within the house, all you feel bubbling up is anger.

“Stop trying to rescue me!” you rail, reeling out of his grip and stamping your foot to emphasise your point, uncaring that you may be behaving more akin to a petulant toddler.

“Stop making foolish decisions!” he lobbies back after a fleeting wounded look.

You glare at him momentarily before turning your back and staring out of the window into the inky blackness of Granville’s garden, frustration prickling a tear in the corner of your eye.

Behind you, there is a sigh; then his voice turns softer. “Why did you not follow my advice? I came here this morning only to be informed you never arrived…”

That he came to check on you weakens your bluster, although you still have no earthy idea why, once again, he is so invested in your actions. But you are not done saying your piece. 

“What does it matter now?” you bite bitterly before spinning around to face him. “Benedict, we are in Whistledown. My father would have arranged a special licence for tomorrow regardless of whether I had come here or not…”

“He did what?” he splutters, shock almost choking the words.

You square your shoulders and cross your arms defensively. “I am to be married in the morning. 11am at St George’s.” When all he offers is floored silence, you uncharitably dig the knife in. “No thanks to you...” 

Your words are like a body blow, a world of hurt in his quiet tone as he stares at the ground. “I was only trying to help.” 

Regret floods your every cell; why you would choose to lash out at him, even you don't know—so many conflicting feelings and strong liquor coursing through you.

“Please… let me return to the party,” you sigh wearily, after a beat, gesturing to his blocking your exit from the room.

“You would regret what you were about to do until your dying day,” he attests, lifting his head, a vein on his forehead pulsing as his jaw tenses.

“Perhaps,” you shrug. “But that is my burden to endure, not yours.”

“I am your friend,” he frowns, “I will always want to alleviate your burdens…”

“I do not want a friend, Benedict, not tonight. I want a beau.” If you aimed to shock him, you are successful; a cavalcade of expressions warring on his face as you plough on. “So please move so that I may continue with my most inadvisable plan….”

“No.” It's soft but unequivocal, resolute.

When you realise he is not going to budge, you throw your hands up in exasperation. “What do you want from me, Benedict?” 

There is a gruff noise in the back of his throat, and then, with two determined strides, he is pressed up against you, his breath hot on your face. Then he is kissing you, ferociously, wantonly, opening your mouth with his, his hands encircling your waist and pulling you roughly into him.

And you are lost.

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[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐒𝐔𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘, 𝐈 𝐇𝐀𝐃 𝐀 𝐕𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐄 ! ❞

❝ HONESTLY, I CAN'T BELIEVE I GET TO CALL YOU MINE !! ❞

✧ pairing: professor! suguru geto x reader

✧ summary: it's your first valentine's day as a couple with suguru, but he's away for a conference in another city -- and you understand you do, but you can't help but miss him -- so what happens when he ends up surprising you?

✧ warnings: so fluffy!!, suggestive, mentions of nsfw, implications of smut, reader has graduated from her program, set after the events of the main series (including every part), these two idiots are so in love its ridiculous, lingerie mention, wearing his glasses and button down

✧ wc: 1,206

“I’m sorry I have to be away,” you smile at Suguru through the screen, knowing that you’d kiss his furrowed brow away if he was here, before finding his lips with yours. “This conference was last minute, I wish I didn’t have to go, but Yaga left me little choice but to go,” 

You shake your head, “We can celebrate when you come back, it’s not a big deal anyway. Just means you have more to make up for on White Day,” you tease, and he laughs, a smile on his lips for the first time the entire call, “don’t worry ok? I’m really not upset,” 

“I know, it’s just our first Valentines together and I know you had planned something for us. I really wanted it to be special,” his lips purse, arms crossed as he looks almost utterly hopeless (far too cute) and you can’t help but chuckle, “what?” 

“Never thought my hardass professor could be such a romantic,” you smirk, as his cheeks are tinted with a lovely red, “should I be giving you a poor grade for your tardiness?” 

He rolls his eyes, as his lips curl again in a smile that can’t seem to escape your presence, “Well, while I’ll definitely be making it up with some extra credit, I’d appreciate my favorite student to cut me a little slack,” 

“I recall you cutting me very little slack that first day,” 

“On the contrary, I think I was very kind, especially considering you were late to the very first class—“ 

“And what is this weekend?” You say in mock thought, “our first Valentine’s Day?” He huffs, and you smile in victory, “is this the first headache I’ve given you?” 

“Today? Yes,” and you gape at him, and it’s his turn to smirk, “I love you,” 

And your gaze grows soft, “I love you too, call me after the conference is done for today?” 

“You know I will,” and you both share your goodbyes and you’re left by yourself, as you lay back on your bed, a pout on your lips. Suguru had offered to let you stay at his place, but you know it would have only made you miss him more — being surrounded by his things, his scent, his clothes. You sighed as you buried your face in your pillow, glancing at the picture the two of you had taken in Kyoto at one of the local shrines, almost taunting you. 

He’d be back soon enough — right? 

Sorry I haven’t been able to call again. It’s been a lot of late nights — too many networking dinners. I’ll call you tonight. 

It has been two nights now, and it was Valentine’s Day tomorrow. You had barely gotten a minute to speak to Suguru since your call with him on Friday. You sighed, sending him a picture of you in his button up you stole, along with his spare glasses he had left at your place, can we have a networking meeting? I’ll send an invite to your calendar. 

I’ll clear my schedule. You smile. 

Another message, as soon as I get back. 

You pout, you expected as much — you shouldn’t have dated such an indemand academic. The horrors of academia. 

You laid back, forearm over your forehead as you stare back at your blank ceiling. It was fine, you really understood that he was busy, but you just — turning on your side to stare at his smiling face in the framed image on your bedside table before your eyes flutter shut — missed him. 

You stir awake to lips pressed at your neck, soft kisses that draw you from the heavy arms of sleep, as your eyes flutter open to see Suguru, at your side. 

“Sugu?” And his fingers trace your jaw, as your brow furrows in confusion, “but isn’t it—“ 

“Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart,” he pulls a bouquet of flowers from behind him — an arrangement of your favorites, as you blink, brain seemingly struggling to keep up, “you okay?” 

Your fingers find his cheek, “is this a dream?” And he chuckles, as he leans down to plant a sweet kiss on your lips, before his fingers lightly pinch your cheek. And you’re sitting up only to jump into his arms, a gasp on his lips, as he chuckles, arms curling around you, raking his fingers through your hair. The bouquet lays forgotten on the side because truly the best gift was in your arms. 

“I missed you too,” he chuckles, as you bury your face in his chest, breathing in his scent, as if he’d disappear any second. 

You lean back to look up at him, “What are you doing back early?” 

“Made a deal with Yaga that I’d go to all the networking events he wanted, if he let me leave last night,” he kisses your forehead, “surprised?” 

“I am, the best surprise,” you find his lips in another kiss, “I was fine with you being busy, but I just missed you so much. It reminded me of all the time we had to spend apart — and I just know I can’t spend another minute without you,” you bite your lip, “I was going to wait until the end of the night, but,” you bite your lip, “I know we discussed moving in before — and I think I’m ready to,” 

He blinks, before a smile breaks out on his lips, “Are you sure?” And you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him, lips sliding against his, as your hands slide back to cup his cheeks. 

You part, barely a breath apart, as you press your forehead against his, “Never been more sure of anything in my life — it’s definitely owed to us now, don’t you think?” 

He snorts, his eyes shining, as he presses another gentle kiss to your forehead, “Should we start looking for a place now?” And you grin, as you climb into his lap, a tilt of your head. 

“Don’t you want your Valentine’s Day gift?” You ghost kisses along his jawline, drawing a gasp from his lips, your hands guiding his own under his shirt you had stolen, “I had worn it last night just to try it on, but now,” you undo a few buttons of his shirt, a hint of red lace peeking through the undone collar. 

His clothed cock twitches through his slacks, as his fingers pull yours away, to undo the last remaining buttons to show a red and pink lingerie set — red lace hugged the outline of body with red hearts dotting along the design, sheer blush fabric left barely anything of your breasts and cunt to the imagination — not that he needed to imagine — he had practically memorized every curve and corner of your body. 

“Well?” And his fingers pull his shirt off of your body, as he’s gotten you pinned to the bed, as you giggle, lips parted, “I also baked you some sweet treats, baby,” 

His lips curl, as he leans down to meet your lips, as his breath warms your lips and his words warm your heart, “There’s only one sweet thing I want, right now.” 

The two of you never did get around to looking for a place together — not until the next day. 

✧ a/n: this was supposed to come out earlier, but i fell asleep because i slept badly last night and ended up reading a manhwa when i got tired of trying to sleep. wrote this fic listening to laufey's valentine :) i also didn't tag everyone since this was kind of a last minute thing - sorry guys <;3

✧ taglist: @spider-fan72, @grunge-mo0n, @ameri-blog, @kentocalls, @peachyminx, @forest-fruits-jam, @hanxyy, @flyingtranscatofeffed, @sunflowmaryam, @regrettinglifechoices, @sugurus-fave-monkey, @atomicbxtch, @shinylightsalad

[ponderingmoonlight]

JJK short please. Gojo is frustrated because someone he likes never faces him. But one day, she turns away and is facing a window/mirror; he sees her reflection and discover she only does that because she's trying to hide her blushing face from him.

He’s acting ridiculous and he knows it, staring at you like a creep while you didn’t even noticed his presence yet.

It’s always been this way. You, the most precious girl and now woman he’s ever met who acts kind and adorable around everyone else.

Fuck, you even manage to force a smile out of Nanami.

“I’m glad you’re okay, (y/n). That wasn’t an easy mission, especially since you were all alone”, Nanami comments while patting your shoulder.

“Yeah, we’re all glad”, Gojo blurts out.

Your face freezes. How did you not notice Gojo entered the room while you were talking to Nanami? Almost immediately, your heart starts pounding roughly against your ribcage, a wave of butterflies violently traveling through your stomach.

The truth is you adore Gojo Satoru. The way he walks, the way he talks, how he acts around his students. Since the first time you saw him with those shades that cover his bright blue eyes, so were lost.

But way too afraid to ever tell him.

“I need to get going. See you, (y/n).”

No, no, no. Panic starts rising up your throat, heat spreads through your cheeks. Nanami can’t leave you alone in that room with Satoru-

“Is there a reason why you’re always facing away from me? You don’t like me?”

When those words leave Satoru’s mouth on top of his steps that draw closer and closer, you feel like dying. Oh, if he only knew it’s actually the opposite, that you can’t stand looking at him without getting lost in his sight. You’re acting like an obsessed teenager with no self-control. What would he think about you if he saw you like that?

Instinctively, you yank your head to the side when he enters your vision. You can’t let him see you like this, with your cheeks so red that you look sunburnt.

Why would you hate him like that? Your body tells him more than urgently to just walk away, your face directed towards the window opposite of you. When was the last time he saw your beautiful features, your cute smile? He can’t help but stare at your reflection in the glass.

And your bright red cheeks.

“Are you flustered?”, he speaks up before being able to stop himself.

“What?”, you shriek back.

No, he caught the way you blushed. Does he think you’re obsessed now, that you’re a freak, maybe?

“Don’t tell me you’re flustered because of me”, he mumbles while grabbing your wrist gently.

“I…I…”

You can’t find the words. In fact, that minor touch of his hand against yours is enough to almost send what’s left of your mind over the edge.

“I just like you!”, you finally blurt out.

“You…like me?”

“And I get flustered when you’re around! Because I…I’m kinda into you!”

Thick silence hangs between both of you when panic starts to settle in your pounding heart. Oh, you messed it all up. He’ll never look at you again, might even make fun of you in front of the others. Would he do that? What if the director finds out? What if you get fired?

“Good for you.”

All it takes is a swift motion of his strong arms to devour you between them, his uncovered eyes now so near and clear that you’d definitely lose balance without him. Is this really happening.

“That I’m into you too, (y/n).”

[always-just-red]

@irandial and @micasosa34 requested a Rafayel version of this fic, so here it is!! This is a loose sequel, but mostly a spin-off? Also an emotional rollercoaster, sorry! (I fear I put too much of myself in this one, guys... there will be no beating the 'oh you are ACTUALLY in love with this man' allegations after this.....)

Fourth Wall (Rafayel Ver.)

Rafayel x Player!Reader 🔥

(Previous part/Sylus version here!)

Summary: You didn't think Rafayel would let you walk around an art gallery all by yourself, did you?

Genre: Angst! This is my revenge for the claw machine debacle (Checkmate, Rafayel!!! But also I'm sorry and I love you)

Warnings/Additional tags: player!reader, gender neutral, fourth-wall breaking, non-canon, one instance of swearing

| Word count: 2.4k | Masterlist | Opt-in to my taglist here!

Disclaimer: Characters belong to Love and Deepspace. All work is my own, so please don't repost or plagiarise!

You made it through about two rooms of the gallery before thinking about Rafayel.

You stand in front of a dark seascape: a night sky and a symmetrically black ocean framing the plight of a small fishing boat, adrift in the centre. The moon casts a pale, faraway light, and an orange lantern glows, drawing colour from the oppressive darkness— deep blues, and rich, shimmering turquoise, crested with white.

It should evoke some feeling of smallness, some respect for the vast indifference of the natural world, but no— your mind is set on the fictional artist who lives in your phone.

What would he think about it? What would he have to say?

At the moment, you suspect it would be some remark about how you should get your own opinion, rather than piggybacking his.

Still, it gives you an idea. You glance around self-consciously as you draw out your phone and earphones— tucking the latter into your ears as you offer a curt smile to the nearby gallery attendant. You’re not breaking any rules by loading up Love and Deepspace, but it feels slightly ridiculous in a place like this: full of real and honest things where you’re somehow lonely.

You log-in with a tap. “Let’s go to the beach,” Rafayel greets, his voice as warm as sunshine that melts a cold morning haze. “I never get tired of seeing the sunset there.”

You smile more sincerely, tousling his hair, but then it’s straight to business. You drag him into the AR Photobooth, directing him through a few poses until you find one you like: a duo pose. His fingers are meant to be around your chin, but without you, he seems to be pointing. Perfect, you shift— tilting your phone until the painting sits behind him.

He’s winking at you as he gestures to it, his face and body as still as marble.

You’re about to take the picture when a not-so-distant conversation strikes up, making you glance backwards. Another visitor is asking the attendant about a painting, and you lower your phone’s volume a notch so you can eavesdrop on them.

“This is one of Turner’s earliest paintings, y’know? He was young when he painted it. Like, super young.”

You freeze. The attendant and the visitor aren’t standing by a Turner painting; you are. Your gaze snaps back to your phone, drawn by the familiarity of the voice.

Rafayel’s turned away from you. He’s staring at the painting, one hand on his hip and the other up by his face, stroking his chin. He’s swaying on his feet gently, his head tilting as he takes in different parts of the seascape.

“You gonna take the picture, cutie?” he asks, glancing back at you with a knowing grin.

Your lips have parted slightly in surprise, but your finger manages to find the photo button. Rafayel returns to his candid observations just in time for your screen to flicker, mimicking a camera flash. 

“Ok, one more.” He turns around and settles into a new pose. You take another photo. “Nice,” he beams, “you’ll send those to me later, yeah?”

But you can’t—

“Relax, ok? I’m kidding. Now come on,” he pokes at the edge of your screen like a mime trapped by an invisible box. “Move this thing! I wanna see what else they’ve got here.”

You do move, but not to show him around. He gets a blurry view of the floor as you hurry over to a nearby bench, sinking down with a sigh because you can’t believe this is happening— again. With a few taps of your finger, you draw the curtains on Rafayel’s view to your world and return him to his.

“No, no, no! What?” he groans in disbelief, suddenly back in the Destiny Café. He throws himself into the armchair with reckless abandon— limbs sprawled— one hand over his face as though it would pain him to look on anything at all. “You find out I’m self-aware and the first thing you do is drag me back here? Where’s your heart? Your empathy? Your soul?”

You poke at his hand and he swats at the air like you’re bothering him.

“Leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m busy, like, contemplating the futility of my existence?”

So dramatic! You consider closing the app out of spite, but this is Rafayel. You know Rafayel; look past the theatrics. It’s been, what— just over a month since Sylus first told you he’d seen through all of this? He said the others were lagging behind, but maybe…

Maybe they weren’t.

Shit. Maybe they weren’t.

You watch Rafayel, sunken down in one of two places you’ve seen him inhabit every day, every night, for almost a year. This café isn’t different from the old in any way that matters. Sylus is new but Rafayel has been here from the very beginning. So many more days. So many more nights.

How long has he known?

He lifts his hand, just enough to peer in your direction. You’ve not closed the app. You’re not poking at him anymore. He sits up straighter in the chair, both hands in his lap, and he looks at them pensively. Maybe even remorsefully.

“You’re thinking about what it all means, huh? Don’t.” It’s a command, but it’s soft. Then softer, a: “Please?”

Your breath catches— oh— he’s known for a long time, hasn’t he? You lean back against the gallery wall, grounding yourself as you text him an emoji: a chick bursting out of its shell with question marks over its head.

He pulls out his phone. Sees it. “Why?” he translates with a melancholic chuckle.

Yeah. You tickle his head. Why?

He runs a hand through his hair. “I guess… I didn’t want you to feel bad?”

You text another emoji and he glances down at it, then laughs more loudly: “I’m a dummy? Check a mirror, cutie— isn’t it you who’s been walking around thinking Mister Wannabe Vampire is the only one smart enough to figure this all out? Puh-lease.”

He laughs even more at his own joke— maybe to fill the quiet and the fact that he can’t hear you laughing with him. It peters out like it inevitably must, and like it always does. He goes still.

“Can’t you show me around, even a little?” he asks.

No.

You feel bad, you do, but you can’t start living for him. This is your world; if you invite him in now, when does it stop? You already spend too much time with your head down, lost in your phone. You were walking through a gallery and thinking about him, remember? Art is supposed to make you think about something real.

No, you text him: a crow holding a sign with a big, red cross. It’s too abrupt, but there’s not an emoji for “I can’t. You know I can’t.”

Rafayel’s face falls further as he checks his phone, his eyes like the ocean in the painting across the room: lit by a weak, failing little light. He looks to you, even though he can’t see you. “Please?”

You don’t move.

“Please,” he tries again, “just this once— this once. Is that so much to ask?”

You’ve used up your three means of answering him.

He scoffs in dismay, alone in the silence of everything you can’t say— you couldn’t say— even if you were really with him and the distance between you was merely invented. How could you go to him, hold his face in your hands and tell him the truth: that you care, but not enough?

Here, now: the quiet confesses it for you.

Rafayel stands from his seat, taking a step closer, his gaze dark. You can see his eyes more clearly; that lantern is at the bottom of the sea, with the rest of the ship and everyone on board. “Do you know what my life is?” he asks, and the silence has become his ally, punctuating his every word so it can cut more deeply. “My life’s an empty café, a book with blank pages and a phone that won’t ring.”

The curtains behind him move softly with a superficial breeze, lit by a superficial sun.

“The only thing that’s real,” he says, “is you.”

You feel like the breath’s been knocked from your lungs.

You can’t resent him for it. He could have drowned you from the start, could have dragged you under a weight of responsibility, but he didn’t, and that’s Rafayel: always tempering himself into something less lethal. He’s been so still for you. So silent for you.

Your mind is wrapped in a vow you made him— one you’ve been unconsciously breaking— and you’re going to break it again, knowingly, wilfully this time, because you want him like this: angry.

You promised, didn’t you? I will never make Rafayel wait for me.

He’s always been waiting, and you want him to stop.

You close the app, muting your phone when notifications start coming through: a squall of frustration, pleading, and frantic apologies. You tuck all of it into your pocket and stand, wandering back to the painting that started it all so you can look at it differently.

Something real to think about. Something real.

You stare at a black ocean and think about him.

…

Rafayel isn’t talking to you.

It’s been a week since your ‘breakup’— dubbed gleefully as such by Sylus— and you load up the game to find your artist slumped back in his armchair, his book over his face. A week of him sitting down, cross-legged and armed, during the Deepspace Trials you’d set out to clear with him. A week of him hogging the Claw Machine, and missing every rare plushie with a sarcastic ‘oops’.

The worst part is that you’ve missed him. You’d tried replaying the kindled moments from his five-star memories, but he’d made you regret it. In Sparkling Traces, he’d summed up his feelings in a very… colourful drawing. Omnipotent Perception: he’d slipped deeper into the bathwater, a blush on his face as he avoided your gaze and murmured something about you ‘having some nerve.’

Now, you can’t even call him over to you. You poke at the book on his face, once, twice, then repeatedly until it slips, but his hands shoot up to catch it. He holds it in place.

Ugh. If he would just—

You drum away at the book more vivaciously, but his grip is solid. Plan B, then: you open your in-game messages and send an emoji instead. Rafayel stirs, one hand moving to his pocket and the other lifting the book so he can peek down at his phone. “What— you tryna bribe me now?”

He’s looking at grumpy crow holding out a present: a bundle of shiny, red gems. His translation is spot-on, as per usual, and you reward it by poking at his chest. He frowns down at the contact, then sits up, rolling his eyes as he tosses the book over his shoulder.

“This better be good,” he yawns, standing up and stretching with a listlessness that could only be described as cat-like, however much he’d whine about the comparison.

Having won his attention— and begrudging consent— you navigate your way to the AR Photobooth. Rafayel stares at you from within the frame: an unwitting subject of a portrait he doesn’t yet understand, but he soon will. You smile as he turns cautiously to regard his backdrop.

Behind him, the ocean laps at a shore of pale sand and stretches into the horizon, where the sun lazily dips. There’s about half of it left, turning the sky a blurred palette of orange and pink that’s spilled over the water. Clouds are few and dark purple, their linings aglow.

Rafayel’s folded arms have dropped to his sides. After a few, long seconds, he gazes back in your direction, eyes wide with surprise before they soften with a radiant smile.

“You—” he starts, and it could be something as light as a joke or as deep as a soliloquy. You’ll never know, because he doesn’t put it to words. He glances at the ocean again. Then at you. “Thanks,” he settles for.

You chuckle. There’s not many ways you can answer without tearing him away from the sunset and trapping him back in the café, so you stay sitting still. It’s a different silence than a week ago. There are things unsaid, but that’s ok— they’re the sort you don’t need to speak aloud, anyway.

Your shoes are set aside by your feet so you can feel the sand, still warm beneath your toes. You wiggle them into it, gazing out over the ocean as the evening breeze catches and plays with your hair, and the last of the sun trails over your skin. You stare out at where it’s sinking.

Rafayel moves, and your focus meanders back to your phone. He’s walking away from you, gradually— retreating further into the composition you’ve created, just for him. He looks as though he’s nearing the shore, but it’s cosmetic: there are no footprints in the sand. His hair isn’t moved by the same breeze, and his face isn’t gilded by the same light.

He stops by the ocean’s edge and crouches gently, mesmerised by the push and pull of the tide. Slowly, humbly, he reaches out a hand and lowers his fingers towards the water; they never slip beneath the surface, and they don’t stir a ripple.  

Rafayel laughs, masking an undertow of sadness, but not disappointment. “It’s funny,” he says, still sketching invisible, ineffectual shapes. “Loving the ocean as much as I do, and knowing… knowing I’ll never touch it.”

He’s all the way over there, but his voice is in your ears, so intimately close. You swallow an ache.

He looks up at you. Smiles: “Y’know what I mean?”

You’re using memories to complete the picture: His hair, mussed by the summer breeze that day you stood amongst the cherry blossoms. His face, painted by the sunset of a different life, where you’d roamed a desert together. In each and every moment, his eyes are the same, just as they are now: kindled by a tender, tentative fire.

“Yeah, Raf,” you say to yourself— just yourself. “I know what you mean.”

[emilys-bangs]

if your cascade ocean wave blues come | e.p

Tags: established relationship, vague details of a case gone wrong, hurt/comfort, fluff, non-sexual nudity, taking a bath, use of petnames, no use of yn, reader feeling guilty

Summary: After a bad case, Emily suggests a bath to get your mind off it. Requested here.

Word count: 2.4k

The unsub is in cuffs, but that doesn’t make you feel any better.

In the jet, you walk past Emily as she sits on the couch—where you usually join her—and make a beeline for the lone seat in the back. It’s nothing against her, but right now you’re desperately craving comfort—her comfort—and you know that if you sat with her you’d cling to her like honey, curling into her lap so she can somewhat ease the tightness in your chest. The case ripped you raw, leaving your emotions splayed out for anyone to see, let alone profilers, and the thought of them seeing you collapse into her makes you shirk away and head to the single seat with steady steps.

Her eyes follow you; you ignore them as you sit down, sure if you looked into the endless depths of them you’d crumble right to the floor. Instead you turn to rest your head against the window and close your eyes.

Even though you do it just to avoid her gaze, sleep takes you quickly. Exhaustion had steadily seeped into your bones throughout this past week, day after day spent trying to catch the unsub who left dozens of bodies in his wake. Now it catches up to you.

Your brief sleep isn’t dreamless. The unsub’s remorseless face swims in your head, his smile slowly creeping over his lips at the sight of your clenched jaw in the interrogation room. He’s smug, boasting the deaths of the slaughtered women whose names you’ve memorized, your shoulders rising up to your ears as you try in vain to get him to reveal your kidnapped victim’s location. Her cold corpse comes next.

Emily wakes you with a silent hand on your shoulder. You startle awake, looking up to find her eyes concerned when you blink up at her sluggishly. The clenched fists in your lap don’t escape either of your attention. You blink the sleep from your eyes as you uncurl your fingers, stifling a wince at the tender imprints of your nails on the heels of your hands.

“Let’s go,” Emily whispers. Your bag is slung over her shoulder, its strap laying on top of the handle of her own bag. 

Ridiculously, it makes you want to cry. She holds her hand out for you and her love is so quiet but so, so loud; steady and patient even when you ignore her hand and stand up, tears burning the back of your eyes as you walk past her and out of the empty jet.

No one’s here, but you still can’t accept her touch. It would break you, and the pieces of you would shatter on the asphalt, glinting under the fluorescent lights of the parking lot. So you hold yourself stiffly and walk to the car without looking back to see if Emily follows.

Her heels click resignedly against the floor, sounding far enough away that you know she’s keeping her distance. The lump in your throat only grows as you pull open the car door and get into the passenger seat, hearing her throw both of your bags in the backseat. When she opens her own door your eyes are closed, tears dampening your lashes as you turn your head away.

She doesn’t deserve this. She was working the case same as you, losing sleep over it and pouring herself into finding the unsub. You know that, but you fear any apology would soon be followed by your sobs, the force of them shattering your body into pieces.

So you stay quiet, let the lump in your throat grow as Emily drives you both home in silence.

She quietly picks up the bags again when you arrive, her eyes briefly flitting over you as she fits the key in the lock. You see her brows draw together, her lips pressing into a thin line as she unlocks the door and swings it open.

It barely clicks shut before you barrel into her. Her chest caves as she huffs in surprise, the breath knocked out of her, but in seconds her arms are around you. Emily holds you tight, one of her hands cupping the back of your neck as you exhale shakily.

“Hey,” she breathes, her lips gently nudging your temple. “Hey, I got you, honey.” Her fingers weave into your hair, the cold inside of her palm pressing against the nape of your neck. “It’s not your fault.” She says. There’s a firmness to her low voice, ready to defend you against your own mind.

You press your lips together, trying to keep your tears at bay. “I know it’s not.” Do you, though? Your voice is croaky and unconvincing. “It just fucking sucks.” The last word breaks and shatters, along with what’s rest of your composure. 

Tears blur your vision. You close your eyes, trapping them inside. “Just wanna forget,” you mumble, stuffing your face further into Emily’s warm neck, “help me forget, Em.” 

Her breathing stutters. 

Emily squeezes you tighter. “How about we take a bath?” She whispers.

Weakly, you nod into her neck. You know she won’t let go before you do, so you do it even though your body screams in protest. Emily sets down the duffle bags and takes your hand, gently leading you through the dark apartment while switching the lights on, her fingers steading your shakier ones. She passes by Sergio with a quiet hello before pulling you into the bathroom.

You’re too drained to protest when Emily gently pushes you down on the closed toilet seat. She turns on the tap as you watch, running her fingers through the water and making sure it’s warm enough before she bends to plug the drain. The sound of it splashing against the sides of the tub almost loosens something in you. You close your eyes, smelling rather than seeing it when Emily sprinkles in bath salts.

Your eyes are still closed when she gently takes your hands. Her fingers wrap around yours, securely curling around your wrists as she tugs you up. You stand, opening your eyes as Emily lets go. She gives you a small smile and the ghost of a kiss on the corner of your mouth before slowly tugging at your clothes, as if waiting for you to say no. 

You don’t. You let her take care of you, peeling your clothes off and gently nudging you into the tub. The water is almost hot enough to burn, but you’re glad for the sting as you sink into it.

Water laps at the sides of the tub as Emily joins you. It sloshes over the edges and drips to the floor when you lean forward and hide in her neck, closing your eyes as her hands wrap around your shoulder blades.

Emily doesn’t say anything. She just holds you, quietly pressing kisses to your forehead as she rubs warm circles on your back. You let out a shaky breath as something in you unwinds, a product of her steady hands and the warm bath water swirling around you. Again you know she won’t let go until you do, so you reluctantly loosen your grip on her waist.

“Gonna wash your hair now,” she murmurs. 

You nod and hear the water as she gathers it in her palms; some of it drips onto your body before she pours it onto your head, soaking your scalp. Warmth cascades down your face, your shoulders. It takes a few more scoops before your hair is fully drenched, and when that happens, Emily grabs your shampoo bottle.

“No,” you rasp and she stills. Her brow raises in question. “Your shampoo,” you say quietly, the twist in your stomach telling you it’s a ridiculous request. Emily probably thinks the same; you lower your eyes and draw your knees into your chest, the very tips of them peeking out from the water and getting exposed to the cold air of the bathroom.

The comforting scent of Emily’s shampoo floods your senses. Soon after her gentle hands follow, raking through your hair and lathering the shampoo until it bubbles on your scalp. Her repetitive motions are soothing; your shoulders loosen and slump further into the warm water, some tension leaking from your body if not your restless mind. You keep your eyes down, chin on your knees, tilting with her movements as she moves your head this way and that to properly clean your hair. Her short nails scrape against your scalp as she generously massages the shampoo into your locks. You breathe out a quiet sigh.

Conditioner follows on your roots, Emily’s chin nudging against your forehead as she leans forward to reach them. This takes less time, though she’s no less thorough as she spreads it through your hair. When she’s done, you hear her dip her hands into the water, washing the conditioner off before gently nudging your chin.

“Head up, baby.” Emily whispers.

You oblige. Her eyes meet yours and she gives you a small smile, concern visibly swimming in her dark irises. You can’t bring yourself to return her smile, but as she leans forward and kisses your temple, you grab her hand under the water and squeeze. Emily squeezes back.

“Keep your eyes closed, okay? Gonna wash this off.”

Too tired to reply but not wanting to leave her with silence, you hum. Even that sound is thready and weak, drowned out by the splash of the water as Emily pours it over your head. 

Her arms must ache; she repeats it over and over, runs her fingers through your soaking hair to wash out any lingering shampoo or conditioner, and she does it all with endless patience. She doesn’t take the easy route by dipping your head backward into the water, or better yet telling you to wash your own damn hair yourself. Painstakingly, she cups her hands under the water and pours it on your head until your hair is clean.

Her love only brings tears to your eyes. You feel them gather beneath your closed eyelids, a lump forming in the back of your throat as something clicks and you smell Emily’s body wash next. Opening your eyes, you find her lathering it between her palms, letting it froth into bubbles before she starts rubbing it into your chest and shoulders.

“Emily?” You say, your voice thick with tears.

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Tell me something good.” 

Tears balance on your lashes. You blink and they drip into the cloudy bath water, leaving small ripples in their wake. 

Emily stops lathering the body wash into your skin. Her hand slips down your chest, her fingers pressing into the left side of your ribs. “You’re alive.” She says quietly. Your pulse rises to meet her fingers. “We’re both home. We’re okay.” Her other hand gently cups your cheek, her thumb tracing the underside of your jaw. “It won’t always be like this.”

Maybe it’s the intensity of her stare. Or it could be her words, both firm and gentle. Or her hand against your heart, making the both of you feel your pulse. It could be all of these things, or none of them, that makes more tears drip down your chin, a choked exhale leaving your lips as you cover the hand on your cheek with your own.

“How do you always know what I need?” You ask, the tremble of your words echoing through the bathroom tiles.

Emily kisses the tip of your nose. “Because I know you.” Her hand leaves your chest and goes to the back of your neck, gently nudging you into her arms. Water sloshes as you sink into her again. “And because we’ve all been in this place before. We’ve been in it and we’ll continue to deal with it in the future, because that’s the price of the job.” She whispers into a kiss, this one to your damp hairline. 

“We can only do so much, honey. We have to remember that.”

The two of you are quiet after that. Emily trails her fingertips up and down your spine, again waiting until you move from her arms to continue taking care of you. She wipes the leftover tears on your face before grabbing her body wash, rubbing it onto your skin and chasing the bubbles off with rapidly cooling water and her soft lips. 

By the time you get out of the tub and pad into her bedroom, you feel somewhat lighter. Not as heavy as before, your tears and Emily’s touch taking away some of the heaviness in your chest. More of it is chased away when Emily hands you her pajamas and spreads her lotion over your skin, enveloping you in a bubble that’s purely her; her hair products and pajamas and lotion, her arms around you when she nudges you into bed and brings you into her chest.

Her fingers again delve into your hair, gently detangling the knots that have formed over the past few days. “Make you some tea?” She murmurs, her lips tracing your forehead. A kiss is pressed there.

“No.” You whisper, curling your fingers into the collar of her pajama shirt. Her pulse beats steadily under your knuckles—we’re okay. You swallow and nuzzle under her jaw, your eyes falling closed. “Just stay with me.”

“Okay.” Emily says.

Her fingers continue running through your hair, ever so carefully working through the knots in it. There’s the occasional scratch of her nails against your scalp, and even when you shift to get more comfortable in her arms, her lips follow your forehead. Sometimes they lay there, still, but every few minutes she’ll press an absent kiss to your temple.

The events of the day sink heavily onto your bones. With your girlfriend soothing your weary soul, her heart thumping steadily under your ear as she murmurs sweet nothings in a language you don’t understand, everything feels just a little bit better. The bed dips as Sergio climbs onto it, finding his way into the small space between Emily’s arms and your body. He curls into your side and one of Emily’s hands goes to your back, rubbing small circles at the base of your spine as she runs her fingers through your combed hair.

You didn’t think you’d find sleep again. But with her holding you like this, you’re helpless to stop it.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics

[bad268]

Daisies (Ollie Bearman X Verstappen! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Day 7 of Writing Inktober prompts instead of drawing!

Warnings: Jos Verstappen mentioned, based on Daisies by Katy Perry

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 496

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

Writing Inktober 2024 Materlist

~~(^Pinterest)

It finally happened. I showed them. I could do this, and the fact that I am now one of the 20 best drivers in the world showed everyone that dreams do come true. The only person who ever believed me was Ollie.  

I was raised by my dad, who always knocked me down, saying I was out there, and I was going nowhere. According to him, I was crazy for thinking I could be in Formula 1. 

Well, walking onto the track with Ollie in Australia showed as much. Ollie in his Haas kit and me in my Aston Martin kit. Red Bull fans knew of me and how I was Max’s sibling, but what confused them was that I wasn’t in Red Bull. Why would I? Then, I would be subjected to Jos in every waking moment.

Plus, I wanted to learn from the best, and Fernando Alonso is my hero. It just worked out that Aston Martin wanted to sign me too. I had been in their junior program for years, and it only felt right to take Lance’s place after he decided to seek other opportunities.

Ollie and I walked down the pit lane hand in hand, and we knew we would have to cross the Red Bull garage. It was inevitable since Haas was in the middle of the pit lane, and Aston Martin was on the far side.

“If he says anything, we can ignore him,” Ollie comforted as he moved his arm to rest over my shoulders and pulled me closer to him, placing a kiss on my forehead. 

“If he says anything, I’ll punch him,” I said simply with a chuckle, but Ollie knew I was not kidding. He knew all of the things Jos said to me, and he would back me up if it ever came down to it. 

“Nice to see you,” Max said as he approached us. My hand tightened around Ollie’s for a second, waiting for Jos to jump out from behind Max. Thankfully, Max noticed immediately. “He’s not here. I told him not to be here for this race. You’re an incoming rookie, and the last thing you need is him finding a way to ridicule you.”

“Wait, so he’s not here? Like at all?” I asked, loosening my hold on Ollie. Max nodded, so I ran into his arms for a hug before whispering, “Thank you.”

“Anything to help make this a little easier for you,” Max comforted we hugged, “Now, go show them what Verstappen’s do.”

I just chuckled in response before going back to Ollie and continued walking down the pitlane. When we got to Haas, Ollie turned and pulled me in with him. “What are you doing? I can’t go in here.”

“Then, close your eyes,” Ollie laughed as he continued dragging me through the garage. He grabbed something, but I couldn’t see it until he told me to open them. He was holding out a bouquet of daisies.

~~~~~

© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[sharpth1ng]

how do you envision billy and stu’s bedrooms? cause every scene in my head it’s completely different to how it was in the last and i need to have the same thought whenever a scene comes across in one of their bedrooms

^^Alright so I have actually drawn Billy's room! this is the background of a piece that will be on my patreon once i feel like i have enough content to actually launch it. I wouldn't say this is exactly canon, I started working on it before I started writing Debaser and there's some stuff i would switch up, like some of the movie posters. There's also the non-canon Maureen VHS which they obv don't have because they didn't film that. But yeah this is a basic idea of what Billy's room looks like to me.

As best as I can tell this is the bedroom they shot as Stu's room.

^^As you can see it has a ridiculous number of doors, and we know the door to the attic is behind the camera because that's where Sidney goes during the chase. We also know the two doors on the left side lead into the hallway, again because of the chase scene. The door on the right I'm going to guess leads into a bathroom, because another door leading to the hallway or into another room would be sheer insanity. This one bedroom has four fucking doors and none of them seem to lead to a closet.

^^^From the movie we can see more of the right side of the room. There appears to be a fireplace mantel, likely bricked off and not functional. Stu is using it as a shelf, it looks like there's some tapes and maybe a trophy there. We can also see his TV and some posters on the wall- someone has made a post where they identified these posters but I can't find it rn (thank you tumblr's broken search function). If anyone knows the post I'm talking about please feel free to link it!

^^^There's also at least three things that look like they could be one of Billy's flannels in this room. We never see Stu wearing blue or plaid in the movie and imo from his costuming it doesn't seem like his style so this detail is pretty funny to me. Billy is just leaving his repetitive wardrobe all over Stu's room. Gee I wonder why.

So that's basically Stu's room in the movie. The way I see it in Debaser is a little bit different, but in many ways the same. First big difference: a maximum of three doors. One to the hall, one to the bathroom and one to the attic storage space. Two doors to the hallway just feels homophobic. Another difference is that I imagine his TV somewhere at the foot of the bed, just makes for a much more comfortable watching experience.

I also imagine him with a lot more on the walls.

^^^Chip Sutphin's (also a Matthew lillard character) room from Serial Mom is a good example with all the Fangoria posters and stuff. Imo Stu is definitely reading fangoria.

(Unrelated side note can I just say i can’t see Chip's girlfriend Birdie without seeing pre-transition Billy. The Blue plaid, the short brown hair, the horror obsession) ⬇️

Like, this is Chips girlfriend and best friend. This movie came out in 1994. I can't. ⬇️

Ok, side note adjourned, back to Stu's bedroom.

Overall I see it as a lot more packed and messy than Billy's. There's more on the walls and more on the floor. I also think he's got a big ass shelf of tapes and video games, and probably some leftover action figures from when he was a kid. I think he kept more of his childhood stuff like that than Billy did. He doesn't play with his action figures anymore obv, but he hasn't thrown them out.

So yeah, that's sort of an idea what their rooms look like in my mind! I do plan on drawing Stu's room at some point but these kinds of detailed room drawings take me so much time, I'm not sure exactly when that will happen.

Edit: Ps you can read what’s written in the notebook in Billys room, please do

[syrupfog]

Zoro has always had a nose for alcohol. It’s how he’s always able to find it whenever the cook finds new hiding spots— 

Used to. Used to find new hiding spots. He’s not their cook anymore. 

But he’s got a nose like a bloodhound for alcohol, which is how he ended up here, at what looks like an abandoned shrine to a god he doesn’t believe in, on the outskirts of Wano. 

It’s easy enough to dig up a floorboard and find a veritable treasure trove of sealed bottles filled with purple liquid. Saké of some kind, surely.

If it’s good enough for some god, it’s good enough for him. The nap he takes after the first bottle, though, is… vivid. 

The cook is there. Why is the cook there? Fuck him. But Zoro watches as he paces. He’s in some ridiculous getup with a cape.

And suddenly, in the way dreams often go, they’re in the Sunny. And Zoro is watching the cook embrace HIMSELF. Another Zoro. He’s got him in a death grip so strong Zoro himself can almost feel it, watching as he is from a distance.

But then the Zoro he’s watching us pushing Sanji off of him, and drawing his swords, and yelling something about betrayal and disloyalty, and Zoro sure does agree with THAT. 

He watches as Sanji steps back, hands up, placating, and that Zoro growls and lunges at him.

When Zoro wakes up, he vows to forget about Sanji and move on. He’s gone, and no useless dream is going to bring him back. 

He lives his day as a ronin as is the plan, but returns to his secret stash of saké at night. It’s good, free and plentiful.

And the next night his dream is just as vivid. 

It’s the Merry this time. The Sanji in his dream has his hair parted the old way, and there’s a young Zoro with both his eyes, still. Zoro growls in disgust. Again with the cook? 

It’s night in the dream and they’re on the deck,

Sanji’s got a hand laid gently over young Zoro’s, and with the other he’s pointing out a school of glowing fish. Zoro has a vague memory of the real moment, but not of the hand over his. 

Then Sanji leans over and KISSES young Zoro, which— okay. So this is one of THOSE dreams.

The ones full of longing that Zoro’s worked to squash. 

But he watches his younger self kiss back, and get everything Zoro never got. He’s bitter, looking at them. 

And then young Zoro is pushing him off, and yelling. That he’s a liar and a traitor and royalty playing at pirates.

Zoro’s really not sure about where that last part is coming from. But he watches the horror wash across Sanji’s face and something inside of him twinges a little. He hears a whispered “I didn’t want this,” but it’s covered by the sharp sound of swords drawn, and then nothing.

Zoro doesn’t return for the saké for two more nights. He has no dreams. 

When he returns, sips, and sleeps, he finds himself in the Baratie. 

He really doesn’t remember much of the place, so the details of it now surprise him. The whole crew is there, even Brook, all except Sanji

When he appears, from the back, he looks haggard. Exhausted. Sopping wet. He’s wearing a waiter’s uniform, and has none of the bravado Zoro remembers from the Baratie. 

“Your favorites?” He asks, sounding almost hopeful. “Sea king curry? Mikans? Cotton candy?”

He’s met with silence, everyone stopping what they’re doing. Luffy breaks it. “Why would we want anything YOU make?” He asks. “A failure like you doesn’t even deserve to serve the future pirate king.” 

Zoro, watching from his table in the back, sees the way Sanji breaks.

He shrinks in on himself. “Please,” he says. “I’ll do better.” 

“You couldn’t even keep them safe,” says a voice Zoro recognizes as his own, sitting among them. “You left Luffy to starve.” 

“N-no,” Sanji trembles. “Please, I couldn’t— I had to keep everyone safe���“

Zoro can’t listen to any more of this. He stands, chair scraping the floor loudly. 

Sanji’s eyes snap to him. Not the him at the table, but HIM. 

As the dream fades out, Zoro finds himself glued in place under the weight of that shocked stare.

He thinks there might be something wrong with the saké. 

But, after one night without it, his curiosity gets the best of him. 

The dream is in a castle, imposing stone walls and dark lighting. Sanji is there, in front of a mirror, his face covered in purple and green bruises.

He’s playing with gold cuffs around his wrists. 

Zoro steps up, out of the shadows, and Sanji sees him in the mirror. His eyes are red and swollen. 

“Mosshead,” he breathes. His breath hitches and he swipes at his face with the heel of his palm. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Zoro doesn’t say anything. He’s used to another Zoro being here for this part. 

“I know you won’t forgive me,” Sanji says. “If— when I come back. I know even in my dreams it’s too late. But I need you to know I loved you.” 

“Loved?” Zoro questions.

“Love,” Sanji chokes out. “Love. Fuck. Always will, at this rate. Just— When I see you again, when we meet in Wano— please don’t pretend you forgive me when you don’t. I can’t— it feels like every dream I have you love me before you hate me and I can’t take that again. Please don’t even give me hope. I know this was unforgivable.” 

“Why’d you do it, then?” Zoro asks. This is a dream and can offer no real answers, but he still craves them. 

Sanji sobs, both hands on his face now. The bracelets rattle. “They said they had Zeff,” he says.

“They— you weren’t at Zou! They could’ve easily destroyed everyone there and I wouldn’t have been able to stop it! I just— I wasn’t supposed to live this long. I wasn’t supposed to live this WELL. I can’t keep being selfish.” 

Zoro scoffs. “Shut up,” he says, and Sanji flinches.

“Just fucking get back here or whatever. I don’t care about your excuses anymore. I’ll be waiting.” 

He turns to leave, and as he does, a pink haired girl with curly eyebrows runs into the room and says something about Luffy. Fucking weird dream.

Zoro wakes up, and he doesn’t drink the saké again. 

When he sees Sanji, it feels like it’s been a lifetime. The kimono he’s wearing is bright and his smile mirrors it. 

Then Sanji turns and catches sight of Zoro and his smile dims. 

Zoro feels angry all over again.

What was WITH all those fucking dreams? 

He ignores him as long as he can, until they’re together on the edge of a forest and Sanji’s sleeves roll up just enough that Zoro catches sight of two red rings, fading into brown, around his wrists. 

How… 

“Cook,” Zoro says.

Sanji looks to him. He looks almost… scared. “What, dumbass?” 

Zoro thinks about the cape with the silly outfit and the cuffs. He pauses. “Do you have a— sister? Pink hair?” 

Sanji looks BEWILDERED. “…yes?” He asks. “Is— has she been here?” 

Not physically, Zoro thinks.

Zoro takes a moment to recontextualize every dream he’s had since getting to Wano. 

“Cook,” he says. Slower. 

Sanji grits his teeth. “What,” he says. “Whatever you want to say, just spit it out.” 

Zoro’s not sure what he wants to say. He wants to say many things.

Things like “I don’t forgive you for leaving” and “you betrayed us” and “you betrayed ME”. But also now things like “what were those first two dreams? The ones with us?” And “did you stop having those dreams after I stopped” and “was it worth it” and “did you want to come home”

What he settles on is, “Is it all finished?” 

And maybe that was the worst possible question in the most vague way, but Sanji takes a moment and then nods, the motion a little jerk-y. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m— it’s finished.” 

“Good,” Zoro says. He steps up to him and Sanji flinches

Somehow, more than anything else, THAT is what convinces Zoro that the dreams were shared. That they were Sanji from the beginning. 

He ignores the flinch. He grabs Sanji’s wrist, avoiding the fading bruise, and squeezes to the edge of too tight. 

“You were a fucking idiot.”

Sanji goes to draw back but Zoro tugs him closer. “You were a fucking idiot and I did hate you for it. But I. Don’t.” 

Sanji freezes. He stares at the grass between them. 

“Don’t leave again,” Zoro says. “I don’t hate you. Don’t leave again.”

There’s tears on Sanji’s face that Zoro won’t mention. “Okay,” he says. “Shitty swordsman. Don’t get full of yourself.” 

But he leans forward. Hesitantly. Like a child waiting to be reprimanded. And when Zoro doesn’t, Sanji’s head lands on his shoulder.a

And Zoro doesn’t mention the tear tracks on his kimono or the way Sanji shakes apart in front of him. 

And Sanji doesn’t mention that Zoro doesn’t let go of his wrist. 

And maybe it’s a reoccurring problem, that neither of them mention things often enough. 

But today—

Today and tonight, it works in their favor. 

And when all this is over, no one else mentions is when they hold hands over the railing of the Sunny and watch the glowing fish pass by.

[lyrakanefanaticwriting]

First Kiss- libby x nash

authors note: i just realized i have never made a libby x nash fic before… which should be a criminal offence honestly. anyway here it is, and if you can’t tell by the title, it’s libby and nash’s first kiss 😉😉

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Libby poured all the wet ingredients into her bowl, while Nash focused on the dry ones. Even though she hated to admit it because she knew Avery was going through her own problems, she had been stressed with all the drama surrounding Drake, and Nash had offered to bake with her. He warned her that he was a terrible baker, but Libby assured him that all would be smooth sailing. She handed her bowl to Nash, who took it with a low hum as his fingers brushed hers, sending electricity down Libbys spine, before he poured Libby’s bowl into his bigger bowl. Libby reached into one of the cupboards to get an apron, when she heard something being plugged in. The electric mixer. Libbys eyes widened as she rushed over to Nash.

“Wait!” She exclaimed, racing over to him as she grabbed his arm. He turned and raised a brow at her, and her hand on his arm, and Libby dropped her arm back to her side, his sudden attentiveness making her draw back the slightest bit. Then he smiled, slow and smooth, as he spoke.

“What’s the problem, darling?” He asked her, turning to face her more clearly. Stubbornness rose in her chest.

“Not your darling. Also,” She said, going back to grab the apron she dropped before handing it to him. “Mixing in the dry ingredients without an apron would mean getting powder all over your white shirt. You need an apron.” His sudden eye contact made her feel nervous, so she turned her head. She thought that would be the end of it, before Nash’s rough, yet gentle, hands took her chin and moved her face to look back at his. Heat rose in her cheeks as Nash held her gaze again, before pulling his hand away, tying the apron around his waist, and speaking.

“Good to know. Hey, how’s this look?” Nash asked, pulling his arms out to the side so Libby could see his apron with ducks littered all over it. Libby laughed into her palm before speaking, trying to hide her giggles.

“Very stylish.” She said, her mouth fighting back a smile. He smiled at her, except this time, his teeth showed, as well as one dimple on his left cheek. God, why did he have to have those kind of smiles? Libby mentally cursed herself, before turning around and going back to what she was doing.

“Okay, get mixing now on the lowest setting for two minutes.” She ordered.

“Yes, ma’am.” He replied. The comment made her cheeks blush the slightest bit, but she just shook her head as she continued to clean her counter. Libby put all the dishes in the sink, before getting a spray bottle and spraying the entire counter down. She went to grab the cloth, but she couldn’t find it. Then she turned her head, and realized it was in the cupboard by Nash’s side of the kitchen. Okay, Libby thought. I just have to go past him. No sweat. Libby sauntered towards Nash, before he suddenly turned off his mixer.

“Hey, Libby, do you think that’s-“ Nash didn’t get to finish before whirling around, so quick that Libby jumped with a slight shout. Her feet tried to balance herself, but she noticed, with an internal groan, that there was some water spilt on the ground. Her feet slipped on the water and she started to fall backwards, before an arm wrapped around her waist, catching her one handed and pulling her up.

“Hey, did you slip, darl? Are you alright?” Nash’s soft voice drawled, his arm still wrapped around her waist as he turned to look at her. Libby tilted her head up and met his eyes too, and she was sure right then and there that there was a major blush on her face.

“Um- yeah! Yeah, I’m fine.” Libby stuttered, pulling herself out of Nash’s ridiculously muscular arms and grabbing the cloth out of the cupboard as fast as possible. “I just needed this.” She waved the cloth in the air, before feeling like she had to say more from Nash’s raised brow.

“I didn’t fall on purpose.” Libby blurted suddenly. That made both of Nash’s eyebrows raise, as he put down the mixer and crossed his arms, looking stupidly attractive despite the dumb apron. “It wasn’t a whole bit where you could catch me, you know.” Nash’s sudden smirk and raised brow told Libby everything she needed to know. She had said too much. Oh, why didn’t you just leave it at that? Libby cursed herself as she scrambled to explain.

“Well, that’s not what I meant, I just meant that-“ Libby cut herself off as she realized that no matter how much she explained, it was not going to get any less weird. “Never mind, bye.” Libby was about to scramble off to the counter she was trying to clean when Nash suddenly chuckled and took ahold of her hips, drawing her back. Libbys brain blanked as it finally caught up with what was going on: Nash’s hands, Her hips.

“Now hold on there,” Nash drawled teasingly, stepping closer as he crossed his arms and held her gaze. “You saying you fell on purpose over there, Grambs?” Libby’s heart raced once he took that step, her brain too broken by his close vicinity and earthy smell to focus on anything else.

“No. I’m not saying anything,” Libby huffed, before crossing her arms this time. “Now keep mixing. You still have a minute left, and we’re not screwing up these cupcakes because of you.” Nash guffawed as he tilted his head at her, laughing.

“Ouch. And alright, I’ll keep mixing.” He said with a smile.

“Good.” Libby said simply. She turned as she wiped down her counter, but out of the corner of her eye, she could see and feel Nash’s eyes on her. She tried her very hardest not to blush as she noticed the way his gaze raked down her body, before moving to his cupcake batter and mixing it. There was a pull to him that Libby had noticed since the first time they met. Despite everything she told herself, Libby hadn’t been able to get him off her mind. It was insane.

“Am I done mixing yet, chef?” Nash asked her suddenly. Libby turned around, walked over to him, studied his batter, then nodded.

“That looks about right.” She replied. “Now, grab that batter scoop from the pantry and try to get an even amount into every cupcake hole on the pan.” She glanced at her counter for a moment, and noticed Nash walking towards her. She turned her head and caught his gaze, watching him come closer and closer. A breath catches in her throat as he dips his head. And, just when Libby thinks he’s about to kiss her, just when she almost hopes he’s about to kiss her, he turns his head, facing his lips towards her ear, before whispering.

“Batter scoop.” He whispers teasingly. Then, he pulls open the drawer right beside her and grabs it, lifting his head and smiling at her flushed cheeks. He walks away, leaving her stunned as the blush spreads to the back of her neck.

“What was that?” Libby croaks out before she can stop herself.

“What was what?” He replies without missing a beat. Libby turned to look at him.

“That!” She said, pointing at the drawer where the batter scoop was. “That entire-“ She paused. Interaction, she was about to finish, before shaking her head and continuing.

“Nevermind.” She finished lamely. She continued to wipe down her counter, although she knew it was already clean.

“You mean me flirting with you?” Libby paused. She turned to look at where the voice came from, only to find Nash crossing his arms with his body turned towards her. Libby paused, before nodding quickly, blue hair getting into her face as she again wiped the counter down.

“I like doing it because you get all red.” He teased, washing his hands as he put the batter scoop into the sink. Libby’s heart thumped in her chest, as she answered.

“So?” She asked him, a good two syllables too high. He smiled at her sweet and slowly, holding her gaze as he took a few steps forward.

“So, maybe I like seeing you get all red.” He said. Libby couldn’t breathe, or let alone speak, so all she did was shake her head as she looked away from him. Suddenly, Nash took ahold of her wrist, pulling her forward.

“Don’t do that.” He warned her softly. Libby’s heart thumped louder, so loud that she was sure Nash could hear it.

“Do what?” She breathed. He pressed a thumb onto her wrist softly, holding her gaze.

“Diminish me every time I try to get close to you. I understand that this whole Drake situation has been hard, so just say the word and I won’t talk to you like this again.” Nash told her softly. Libby froze. Despite everything she told herself, Nash’s comments and flirting techniques were the only things keeping her from burrowing herself into a hole and never coming back out. Without him, she wouldn’t be able to hold her head up since everything was so difficult recently. As if possessed by something, she suddenly rose to the top of her toes, and pressed a soft kiss on Nash’s lips. Despite the feeling swirling through her entire body, Nash’s expression made her freeze. Did she do something wrong?

“Oh god.” She said suddenly, realizing what just happened. “I’m so sorry, I don’t- I don’t know what happened.” She pressed a hand to her mouth in shock, but Nash was quick to remove it. And with a dip of his head, his lips met hers, and he pressed a soft kiss onto them. Electricity flowed through her spine as she gazed up at him, watching him take a step forward and run his hands through her hair.

“Is this fine?” He murmured, coming closer. Too full of emotions to speak, Libby just nodded, and suddenly, Nash pulled her in closer, kissing her. It didn’t take long for the kiss to deepen. The hands that were in her hair moved down to her waist, and Libby’s hands moved to the back of his neck, feeling the ends of his hair. Soft brushes became more passionate, and although Libby made a sound in the back of her throat that might be seen as embarrassing, Nash just took it in with a low hum. In a flurried movement of kissing and stumbling, Libby felt her feet get lift slightly off the floor, before she felt herself get placed on the counter. She separated from him, although she was reluctant to, to look at her surroundings. Nash grinned at her, before speaking.

“So we’re at the same height.” His rough drawl explained, before taking her by the chin and pulling her in again. Nash’s body moved closer as he kissed her, and Libby locked her legs around him, wrapping her arms around his neck as she continued to kiss him passionately. Nash’s lips suddenly switched from kissing her to trailing kisses down her jaw. Libby shivered under his touch, and, just before he could plant a kiss on the end of her jawline, a loud clearing of the throat interrupted them. Libby immediately snapped her head up, although Nash was more reluctant to separate, before feeling her spine get coated with horror as she realized who it was. Alisa Ortega, Nash’s ex fiancé.

“Lee-Lee.” Nash greeted awkwardly. Libby knew how bad this looked. It hadn’t been too long since they had broken up the engagement, and since she was kissing him like this in a very public place, it felt like she was flaunting it in her face. Oh, god.

Alisa opened her mouth to speak, but Libby interrupted her.

“Is it about Avery? I better go see if she’s okay.” Libby rushed to say, hopping off the counter. Alisa narrowed her eyes at her as she began to speak, but Libby just waved her off. “Thank you so much Alisa, and um-“ She trailed off awkwardly.

“Thanks, bye.” She finished shyly, before speed walking off in the direction of her sister’s room, not wanting to admit that it upset her much more than she’d like to think that her kiss got interrupted.

Maybe, Libby thought with the slightest giddy feeling, cowboys like him weren’t so bad.

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btw this fic takes place at the dead end of the inheritance games and ties into the reason as to why alisa is so awkward with them in the hawthorne legacy ^^

hope you enjoyed!! <33💗

[kissitbttr]

a sweet moment of frat!miguel and muñeca that we rarely get to see

to miguel, relationships are complex.

he’s not built for one and never meant to. the idea of having to commit to one person when he still wants to have fun sounds like a real torture. the constant clinging and demands of going out on dates just enough to make him scowl. like what’s the point of it all? spending money on gifts or valentines dates just seem to be a waste of time.

until she entered the picture. gone were the days where his money were spent on booze and gears.

now, he’s having the ultimate pleasure of spoiling his girlfriend, walking her to classes, stay during cheerleading practice and begging her to stay over at the frat house. all that he did out of consciousness,

even curating the image of what their wedding would look like in the future.

yeah. that much.

the couple decides to have a small picnic at the campus park during their free period. whereas the rest of the students are busy with studying and walking from building to building, these two lovers find the spare time to be with each other.

“i love hibiscus flowers. they’re pretty” muñeca mentions, laying on her side with palm supporting the head. “sunflowers too—much better than a rose”

miguel fixes himself a smile upon his beautiful girlfriend, deciding to mirror her action by laying on his side as well. “how abouut cake flavor, cariño?”

she looks over at him and the sight is making her drool. the shirt that he’s sporting compliments his rippling muscles, not to mention the few unbuttons at the top showcasing a bit of his chest hair and gold chain around the neck.

“are you going somewhere with this?” she questions with a smile, seeing him shrug,

“just asking” he replies, eyes staring intently into hers. “i want to know what my girl likes—because if she mentions vanilla then i’m out”

muñeca giggles, head shaking at the ridiculous assumption. “i would never!” miguel grins even wider hearing the sound of that laugh. “i love red velvet—and anything fruit infused desserts”

he nods, making a mental note on that one. “what if I prefer chocolates?”

“then we can have both” she answers casually, hand sneaking through its way towards the slope of his calloused one. “chocolates and raspberries are good combo, anyway—not white or milk chocolates though. dark is the way”

“that’s my girl” miguel praises, his thumb drawing circles around her skin. “i love this dress on you, by the way—wear it often”

“you say that pretty much about everything i wear miggy!” she smiles, kissing his jaw. “you’re biased”

“is it my fault that my girlfriend looks good in everything?” he asks as if he’s proving his innocence, tightening the hold of his hand around hers, “got the prettiest girl on campus by my side and there’s no way i’m missing the chance to let her know how hot she is”

her cheeks warm at the compliment, looking down momentarily to hide the large grin that’s threatening to break through, “you just want to fuck me” it’s a joke,

“is it working?” he jokes back with a raised eyebrow, earning himself a punch on the shoulder making him grunt and laugh, “caray, ma!—you sure got some strength in you”

“thanks to my handsome linebacker’s workout routine” she winks, curling a loose hair around his forehead,

“put me in a headlock next, i beg of you” he says, and she can’t tell if he’s really joking or serious but she wouldn’t be surprised if it was the latter,

“ugh! you’re so unserious sometimes!”

they both share a laugh after. “okay back to question number—five!” he picks a chocolate covered strawberry with his free hand off the plate and pop it in his mouth. “dream destination?”

her lips curl into a thinking mode and so are her eyebrows, clutching their interlocked hand against her chest. “hmm—bali, malaysia, and rome”

miguel hums, nodding as he looks down. she tilts her head to the side with confusion written all over her face, watching him. “what is this, intervention?”

“what, no. can’t a guy ask his girl a few things to get to know her better?”

“miggy, we fuck at least three times a day, i think we already went past that kind of formalities” she rolls her eyes playfully, seeing how he shrugs innocently and grin. “so? what is this about? first it was about my favorite decorations, second it’s about my favorite dish and drinks of choice and then third, and fourth—“ she trails off, watching the shy smile on his face appears as he avoids her gaze,

“what?” she asks confused, yet his smile is contagious and that makes her smile too,

“just thinking about how everything would look like for our wedding someday”

“a wedding?”

“y-yeah” he scratches the back of his neck nervously, “i’m making notes, you know? i trust them all with you, muñeca—want you to handle everything”

her heart somehow blooms in her chest, gaze softening when he mentions about marriage. tying a knot. living happily ever after. with her.

she feels the little girl inside of her is squealing at the thought of a prince charming asking her for a hand. like ones she read on fairy tales and bedtime stories.

he wants to marry her

upon hearing no response, he feels the embarrassment creeping in as he gulps, his hand trembling slightly at the thought of being rejected. he would probably cry if she told him that she doesn’t see the future together.

“look you don’t—“

“baby” she coos, her hand moving to cup his face. “you want to marry me?”

he feels somehow at ease when he hears the tone of her voice, realizing that he may not look like an eager idiot whom he thought he’d be in front of her, “i do” his response is firm and set. “do you?”

the way he’s looking at her with hopeful eyes makes her wish that they’re both alone right now, just so she could straddle his lap and smother him with kisses. but seeing that they’re not and at a public space, especially on campus, she’s holding herself back.

instead of that, she cups his face before leaning in for a kiss. miguel sighs into her mouth, kissing her back with much more passion as he snakes a hand around her waist. the kiss is somehow becoming more intense and hungry. he then moves himself to move on top of her in swift motion, making her giggle at his enthusiasm.

what’s supposed to be a simple kiss, turns into a heavy makeout session. she squeezes both his shoulders as a gesture to take it easy, not wanting the head of security to catch them in the act. again.

miguel huffs when she pulls away, but the taste of her lips remains to be the reason why a lovesick smile attached on his features.

“of course i do” she replies, “just make sure that the ring is ready after we graduate, o’hara” and miguel will hold onto that. he will buy the most expensive and prettiest ring ever for her.

she swears that the love she has for him is bigger than anything. he had changed a lot for the better and she couldn’t be more proud. miguel had learned so many things during the times he had shared with her, and it would be so crazy to think that she didn’t bring any positive impact in his life.

her existence is the key of him growing. not just love but as a person as well. and he would argue to hell and back with anyone just to prove the point of his gratitude to her will always be bigger than this girl,

none of these two lovers knew what fate had in stored for them. to have a committed relationship with someone wasn’t in either’s bucket list, let alone getting married. but everything seems to have changed.

before this, they didn’t even know each other. there had been a time where miguel didn’t know muñeca exist and vice versa. and there’s some sort of twinge rattle in his chest, knowing that someone else could be loving her instead of him.

he doesn’t like that. at all.

the negative thought that plagued into his mind somehow gets pulled when he feels her soft padded thumb traces his lower lip. his pupils dilating when he looks at her, with the pretty smile that he never gets tired of. seeing that often makes his heart fail to find a steady rhythm.

gaze in her eyes speaks so kindly to him. a look in which helps to remind him that she belongs to him and so does he to her. and miguel finds himself exhale a breath of relief yet once again.

‘she is so unbelievably gorgeous and all mine’

[its-bread-bitch]

Once Zuko becomes fire lord he’s unbelievably busy. For the first five or so years on the throne he barely has time to think let alone spend any meaningful amount of time hanging out with his friends outside of diplomatic meetings. None of the gaang really blame him, they can all see first hand just how much is on his plate, and what they can’t see Aang or Hakoda usually relays to them. (After all, the avatar and chief of the southern water tribe are in frequent contact with the fire lord, unlike the young master earthbender or the children of said chief)

The first year is by far the most brutal. Zuko barely remembers what it feels like to sleep a full night, or even half a night. Everyone is either treating him like an immature, incompetent child (a misconception he swiftly pits to rest) or like the fire lord (which, to be fair he is). Point being, no one really treats him as ZUKO. Except of course, the young ambassador from the southern water tribe.

Sokka is just about the only thing keeping Zuko sane. Not because they see each other often or because they talk, no, it’s because somehow, he and Sokka have ended up sending each other ridiculous letters back and forth since Sokka’s appointment as ambassador.

By ridiculous, I mean to say they would probably cause outrage and/or scandal if anyone saw them. A crude picture of Zuko’s likeness with an arrow pointing to him labeled “fire lord stinky”. A series of very formal, beautifully calligraphies letters with only a single curse word on them. A simple letter that simply reads “people are stupid” in quick handwriting. A response a week later on the same piece of paper saying “that’s rough buddy” A second series where they ran out of curse words and began sending increasingly outlandish and oddly specific insults. A picture of a penguin otter with a mustache drawn on. A drawing of the atla equivalent of the finger circle. Long distance tic tac toe. A collaborative drawing that they’ve been sending back and forth that at one point might have resembled appa but now has so many additions that it’s utterly incomprehensible. Yet another calligraphied series of letters of random words that both of them find themselves cracking up at even though there’s no reason to break into giggles over a letter that simply reads “chives” in elaborate copperplate and yet here they are.

It’s stupid. It’s childish. It’s utterly unbecoming of a world leader and Zuko only is able to do it because the letters (except the calligraphy, which vary based on level of effort) take less than 5 minutes to draft and mere moments to read and Zuko only gets Sokka’s letters because they’re technically political correspondence but GOD is it the highlight of Zuko’s week.

[c1nna1nmyr0ll]

Zhongli x fem!reader

Word Count: 2.1k

Warnings: reader calls him rex lapis for this, god!zhongli, contract fulfillment, kinda ooc zhongli, dub!con, zhongli makes a sex contract with the reader, pet names (my dear and cumdump), virgin killer!rex lapis, arrogant!rex lapis, some biting, nipple play, nipple sucking, begging, vaginal fingering, multiple orgasms, masturbation mention, some praise kink, vaginal sex, creampie, and no aftercare

You know that it was a Hail Mary idea. You know it probably will not work. Just because you pray for it does not mean he will love you back. When he told you he was engaged to her, it crushed you. You have been in love with him since you were young.

The only reason you’re even doing this is because a friend of a friend said that your wishes come true when you pray to Rex Lapis at his statue. She prayed to the statue, and Rex Lapis came to her and fulfilled her wish. While you don’t really think it’s true, you are willing to try anything.

So, with your prayer offerings in hand and your faith, you find yourself at the foot of the Rex Lapis statue. The statue looks intimidating as the hooded man sits on his throne. A shiver of embarrassment runs through your body as you think about how ridiculous this all is. However, there is no use giving up now, right?

You lay down your food offerings and Cor Lapis, hoping it will be enough. You’ve never prayed to Rex Lapis before because you’ve never felt the need to. Maybe this prayer is being a bit selfish. After setting up, you bow down and put your hands together in prayer.

“Please, Lord Rex Lapis,” you begin. “Please let him fall in love with me.”

You repeat this prayer several more times before opening your eyes and looking up at the statue. Nothing. Nothing at all. Maybe a bit more will do better.

“Please, Lord Rex Lapis,” you start. “I will do whatever I need to do to fulfill my wish. Just give me a sign.”

A massive gush of wind whips behind you, and you turn to see him. Not the man you love and were hoping to win the heart of but him. Rex Lapis himself.

“Lord Rex Lapis?” you ask, your eyes massive. His hood is still over his head, with his dark hair circling his face. His gold eyes shine under the hood, and you notice he isn’t wearing a shirt. His bare chest is just displayed for you.

“Are you suggesting we draw up a contract, Y/N?” he asks.

“Huh?” you reply. You are practically dazed.

“You said you would do anything for your wish,” Rex Lapis says. “So, why don’t we create a contract?”

“I…” you can’t seem to muster words.

“You do something for me, and in return, I fulfill your wish,” he explains. “This is the foundation of the contract.”

“A contract?” you ask. “That is what is required?”

“Exactly,” he replies. “A simple contract is what I have in mind.”

“Really?” you didn’t think it would be this easy. You are quite lucky.

“Why yes,” Rex Lapis says. “What you give me is simple.”

“And what’s that?” you ask, ready to give whatever it is. He chuckles darkly, and his gold eyes flash down at you.

“Well, I was thinking you would give your…” he leans close to your ear before continuing. “Virginity.” You’re taken aback.

“What?” you jump back from your God.

“Simple isn’t it?” he asks. “I made things easy for you.”

Easy?? Easy?? Does he think this is easy?

“So, what do you say?” he asks. “If you give this small detail of yourself, I will gladly help you with your love.” You consider this. Will he really help you? Is this really the way to go? Will this really work? You huff out.

“This will really grant my wish?” you ask.

“Of course,” he tells you. “A contract is a contract.” You take some more time to consider everything. You huff out a sigh.

“Alright, I agree to your terms, Rex Lapis,” you say, almost not believing it yourself. His gold eyes glow, and he raises his hand towards you, indicating that you should shake it. You slowly take it and shake his hand.

“Good choice,” Rex Lapis almost mocks. “The contract is now in place, my dear.”

“Yes, it is, so let’s get it over with,” you reply.

“Over with?” he repeats, his eyebrow raises. “I will treat you better than this love of yours ever will. I can promise you that.”

“Huh?” your face grows hot. He grabs you into his strong arms, and it makes your chests press together lewdly.

“You heard me,” he whispers now that he’s close to you. “I will fuck you so well that this man of yours will pale in comparison every time.” You are speechless. Your sudden shyness intrigues him more. “How about I show you, hmm?”

Rex Lapis captures your lips in a kiss. It catches you off guard, but you don’t reject it either. He leaves your lips to instead kiss and nip at your neck with his sharp dragon teeth. You gasp at the feeling of his teeth on your skin. Something he seems to enjoy hearing. He moves his hands to grip your waist and helps lead you down to the soft grass underneath you. He detaches his mouth from you to admire how you look below him, entirely at his mercy.

“Are you ready to be fucked?” he asks lewdly. However, you do not respond. “I thought you would be.”

He grabs at your breasts and kneads them with his hands. His squeezes are harsh, much like his words. You whine at the feeling it gives you, but he ignores your whining. Rex Lapis tears your shirt off your body, leaving you half-naked under him. The breeze hits you, causing your body to erupt in goosebumps and your nipples to become erect and sensitive. Rex Lapis begins kissing down your neck again and goes to one of your breasts. He puts one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking hard and swirling his tongue around it. His hand comes up and twists your other nipple. You arch your back, feeling his tongue. It feels way too good.

You grab his dark hair and shove his face harder into your chest, making him take more of you into his mouth. His strength does, however, overpower you as he switches his mouth and hand over. He sucks the other nipple just as hard as the first one. You need some kind of satisfaction between your thighs as there is becoming wet from all this attention. You rub your thighs together, trying to get something, anything.

Rex Lapis lifts his head from your chest to speak.

“Looks like you’re already quite fucked out,” he tells you.

“N-No,” you try to say boldly, but it comes out cracked. He chuckles at you.

“No? Well, that’s good because we are just getting started,” he replies. He begins kissing you again, and one of his hands leads down to your clothed pussy and lightly rubs it. You hum a moan into his lips when you feel his fingertips grace your clit. “Do you want me to touch you more there?” Is that even a question? you think to yourself.

“Yes, please, Lord Rex Lapis,” you beg. “Please keep going.”

“Well, I guess if you are begging me so nicely,” he says. He moves his fingers so they go under your shorts and panties to move right to your pussy. His fingers dance around your folds, feeling just how wet you are.

“You are so wet from just all this?” he asks bemused. “That’s quite something indeed.” His fingertips lightly touch your clit, and you gasp under him. He kisses you again, quieting you. He rubs your clit slowly, and you are not sure if you want him to keep this pace or go faster. Your hips mindlessly grind against his fingers to help you reach your high quicker. He loves seeing you like this so very much.

“Have you ever done this before? Even with your own fingers?” he asks. You shake your head.

“Not really,” you reply, being truthful. His eyebrows perk up.

“Really?” is all he can say to that. You nod your head.

“Yes, really,” you say, and he continues rubbing your clit slowly. He notices you become accustomed to the pace, so he speeds up his fingers against the bundle of nerves. “Ah~ Rex Lapis,” you moan and grab at his hair and shoulders. He kisses you, and his lips drown your moans. You feel your body tingly and feel you need to let something go.

“Cum from my fingers,” he commands. You grip tighter and release whatever was held up inside you. You feel a flush of something release below where his fingers are. Rex Lapis stops rubbing your clit and checks below to feel your cum staining your clothes. “Looks like your garments are wet. Maybe we should remove them.” You have the heat of embarrassment on your face from what has just transpired. No one has ever made you do that. Not even yourself.

“Aww, do not be embarrassed, my dear,” he tells you. “You looked lovely as you came.” You give such a cute, innocent look as if to ask, ‘really? I did?’ He squeezes your breast once more as he kisses with his free hand. His other hand moves to the rest of your clothing and begins to remove it from your body slowly.

“Please take me, my Lord,” you beg once more. God, he loves hearing you beg.

“As you wish,” he replies and quickly removes your clothing, leaving your body naked against the grass. He removes his dark pants, and you finally get to see him naked. Something you never thought a mortal like you could witness. He grabs his cock, the tip burning a dark pink as if he has been waiting for this moment to occur. “You are so wet I can just slide right in.”

With those words, he takes that exact opportunity to slide his cock inside your pussy. The feeling is so full, and you can hardly stand it. It hurts, but you do not seem to mind either.

“My dear,” he breathes. “You are so tight around my cock.” Rex Lapis does not waste more time for himself and begins to slide in and out of your pussy. He holds your hips down harshly, his nails digging into your soft skin. He thrusts in and out slowly to help get somewhat used to this new feeling.

“R-Rex Lapis,” you moan either out of pleasure or pain. Rex Lapis moves his hands to your thighs and spreads them out, exposing you even more to him. He has no regard for you now and has begun to focus on his pleasure. His cock feels like it is getting slightly bigger inside you, something you never thought could happen.

“You’ve been teasing me unintentionally, my dear,” he tells you. “With just a few fast thrusts, and I am already ready to give you my cum.”

“N-No,” you reply shallowly.

“No? That’s cute,” he says and thrusts even harder into you, causing your body to twitch under him with each thrust. “You will take whatever I give you.” His claws dig into your thighs, and his cock reaches deep inside you as you hear him groan above you. He is nearing his high. He does not stop even when you clutch the grass around you, squeezing it so hard that it rips from the earth. His teeth clench, and the slams of his dick make you begin to cry your moans. You feel yourself gush around him even more than before. Each of your orgasms causes a ring of fluid to form at the base of Rex Lapis’ cock.

“You keep cumming so much, my dear,” he says. “I knew you would end up like this.”

“Wh-What do y-you mean?” you ask, fucked out of your mind.

“Ending up as my cumdump,” he says. He thrusts harder and shoots his load into your tight pussy. He chuckles darkly, seeing your hair stuck to your forehead and your chest heaving with heavy breaths. You look ethereal. “Such a beautiful innocent little cumdump.” He drags his cock out of you and watches his cum slowly trail out of you. The lines of it creeping out. He looks down at the ring of your cum at the base of his cock.

“Re-Rex Lapis,” you reach out to him, but he ignores your reach.

“Our contract is fulfilled, my dear,” he tells you instead. “What you wished for is now yours. So, I will take my leave.” He fixes himself as he stands. He transforms into a dragon with wings and flaps away from your still-naked body. Just leaving you cold and full of cum. What you wished for is now yours, his words repeat in your head. Did you get what you wished for? Or do you now have new desires?

© c1nna1nmyr0ll 2024, all rights reserved. do not plagiarize, use for ai, copy, translate, or repost my content on any platform. comments, reblogs, and likes are loved

[pagannatural]

1.13

-Route 666

-Sam’s hackles are up the minute Dean says they’re dropping everything to help a woman he knows. Sam is alternately irritated and amused by Dean’s trysts but he draws the line at someone else actually being important to Dean.

Sam acts exactly like a jealous wife. He says “so by old friend you mean…?” And then he crosses his arms and accuses “you never mentioned her” and “you mean you dated someone. For more than one night.”

-Sam is even angrier to find out Dean told Cassie he’s a hunter.

He looks like a scorned wife. He never told Jess, who he wanted to marry, the truth about his life shared with Dean. In the pilot, before she died, Dean challenged Sam by asking, Does she know the truth about you? She didn’t, she couldn’t know this part of Sam that Dean knows. Now Sam finds out that there is someone else in Dean’s life who knows their secrets. He’s threatened.

-Cassie is ridiculously beautiful and likable. Sam is too sweet to hold anything against her.

-Sam is paying very close attention to Cassie and Dean. He’s studying them, which means it’s really important to him to figure out what’s going on between them. He observes to Dean that she’s fearless and wouldn’t take his shit. He notices that they don’t look at each other at the same time, that they have unfinished business.

-Sam and Cassie are a lot alike. She’s educated, she stands up for herself and speaks her mind, and she’s the type to call Dean out. Dean specifically told Sam he admired the fact that Sam stands up for himself and goes after what he wants, and we know Sam challenges Dean all the time. Reporters also tend to do quite a bit of research, which is Sam’s thing. She was even in college at the same time Sam was, when she and Dean dated.

Dean met her and had the most serious relationship of his life during that first year Sam was away at college. John wrote in his journal something about Dean talking to a woman who is a reporter about Sam on Sam’s 20th birthday as they leave Athens, Ohio. Dean probably sought comfort from Cassie about missing Sam and definitely told her about him. Dean tried to fill the Sam-shaped hole in his life with Cassie.

-Dean can either have Sam or he can have a girlfriend (or he can have neither) but he can’t have both.

-Sam won’t let this go. He’s kind of teasing Dean about it but then he gets serious when he says “you loved her.” His vibe changes again when he guesses that she was the one who dumped him. He looks hurt. He probably thought he was the only one who had ever dumped Dean.

It makes him so insecure.

-Did Sam just think that Dean would never fall in love or get into a relationship? Is this the first time he’s considering that possibility?

-Sam reflects that when he was at college his life was so simple. Something about this particular case makes Sam miss when his life was less complicated, and the only thing different about this case is that Dean has feelings for someone. It would fit with Sam running away from his feelings for Dean.

-Sam coughs loudly when Dean and Cassie kiss and tells Dean to admit he’s still in love with her. Dean doesn’t. Imagine Sam’s face if he had.

-Sam watches Cassie and Dean kiss goodbye and then looks away with this expression on his face

-He asks Dean if a girl like Cassie ever makes Dean question if what they’re doing (hunting) is worth it. He also says he likes her, like he’s giving his approval. He’s doing the same thing Dean did in Hook Man, seeing if his brother wants to stay behind for a love interest.

They’re testing each other. They’re pushing to see who will leave first. Sam’s abandonment issues come from not feeling chosen and feeling left out, left on his own constantly while Dean and their dad hunted, the odd one out. It’s part of why he left in the first place. He thinks Dean needs his help, but he doubts that Dean would truly choose him when it came down to it. Before this he thought that Dean was choosing hunting over him, but now the possibility arises that he could choose another person. He thinks now that this is what Dean truly wants.

-Dean doesn’t answer Sam’s question outright. He just looks at Sam with so much love and tenderness and tells him to wake him up when it’s his turn to drive. There was never any contest.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 16 all chapters

~AUTHOR'S WARNINGS: N$FW, SEXUAL CONTENT, COPIOUS SWEARING, TOXIC POSESSIVENESS , IF SOMEONE TREATS YOU LIKE THIS IN REAL LIFE RUN RUN RUN BC IT WILL NOT TURN OUT WELL U CANT FIX THEM~

-Aware that John Wick knows this city much better than you, you stick to the crowds. You manage to find your way to the Peggy Guggenheim collection, and you hang out there for hours, looking through the art works, but really only half seeing what is in front of you.

You are devastated.

You’ve had controlling boyfriends before, and it was not fun. They seem exciting at first, until the person you were before is eaten alive by their tantrums and their ridiculous expectations as they try to fit you into a box of their own making.

You can’t believe John turned out that way.

Or maybe you can. Maybe you have a fucking type, and you should have seen this coming.

You stay almost until closing, then grab a bite to eat before daring to wander the streets. You find a little walled in park, a courtyard filled with lush greenery and a tinkling fountain. By some miracle, there is only one other couple on a bench at the far end. You practically have the place to yourself, and you sit down on a wrought iron bench with a sigh and eat your sandwich.

You pull out your sketchbook afterwards to pass the time. Your doodling hand wanders, and perhaps its no surprise when you draw John Wick from memory, his proud lips and haunted eyes. There are tears running down your cheeks as you do so. When it gets too much, even though you’re in public, you hang your head and weep into your hands.

Darkness falls, and you know you should be getting back. The bench has long ceased to be comfortable, and yet it’s like you have grown into it, unable to move.

Even with your head down, when someone sits silently down beside you, you just know it’s John.

You do not look at him, and thankfully he does not try to touch you.

“It’s getting late, y/n. You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Yes it is,” he insists, sounding almost tired about it. You hate it that your demeanor softens towards him, just a little.

“You broke my heart, Mr. Wick.”

“I was afraid I might.” He is sitting with his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. “Would you let me make it up to you?” 

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.” 

“No?”

“No. I think you have a mean streak.” 

He had tried to warn you, you realize, in his way.

God, are you really such a fool?

“Doesn't everyone?” 

You make a sound between your teeth, and he nods like you have said something profound. 

“I'm not a nice man, y/n. But I would be good to you.”

“Like last night? I didn't like that.”

The corner of his mouth curves in a wicked smirk, and your heart skips a beat in your chest, damn him. Was the contrition all an act?

“Yes you did.”

“Not the last part.”

“Hmm. I tried to warn you.”

In the vaguest terms possible, maybe.

“My fanny.”

He raises an eyebrow to that, and you’re not sure why that little gesture wounds you like a knife to the heart all over again. Perhaps because he is beautiful, and even though you know he’s dangerous for you, you still want him so very much.  

You start to cry again, and try to get up from the bench. You need to get away from him, because you can’t think straight when he’s near.

“Y/n, wait.” He catches your wrist, and when you don’t really fight him, he pulls you down into his lap, and goddammit if this isn’t what you’d wanted all along. You feel small in his arms, cradled against his long torso and sheltered in the bend of his neck, even if in your hindbrain you know you are not actually safe at all. He strokes your hair until you quiet, and he kisses your temple like you are something precious.

How can this man be so sweet, just to turn on you?

“Why did you leave me, like that?”

You just do not understand. You could have had a lovely, fulfilling, mind-blowing if not vanilla night together. He’d laid all the groundwork like a master orchestrator, and you would have let him fuck you senseless. Fuck, you wouldn’t have even minded the tying up part, if he just hadn’t humiliated you.

“Because…” His lips ghost along the line of your jaw, and you fight not to squirm as his large hand slides up your thigh, his fingertips feather light on your skin. “Only good girls get to cum,” he says low in your ear, and you hate how it makes you ache between your legs, to hear him talk to you that way.

Outwardly, you do your best to keep your cool.

“And touching your hair made me a bad girl?”

“No.”

“Disobeying you did.”

“Yes.”

“That’s kinda fucked up.”

“Maybe.” He actually seems a little amused by you, which is not the reaction you were expecting. “I like to be in control. But you make me feel...unbalanced.”

“Me?” You sound incredulous. The thought that you could affect this powerful man in such a way seems absurd.

“Yes, you, kitten.”

The urge to demand he not call you that desiccates on your tongue. 

“So...what? You feel the need to take revenge for that?” 

“Maybe. I thought you knew the game we were playing, when you batted those big eyes up at me. Mr Wick, Sir, aren’t I a good girl?” His fingers dig into your thigh with the memory, and you can feel his growing erection beneath you. “But you’re just an innocent, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“You’re used to boys just eating out of the palm of your hand. But I am a man, with a man’s appetites, and a man’s desires.”

He was a little more than that, you reckoned.

“You want to control me.”

“That’s part of it.”

“Why?”

He smirks. “Maybe I had a rough childhood.”

You can’t tell if he’s joking or not.

“I want to take care of you.” He kisses your cheek again, and it is gentle and sweet and everything you had wanted from Mr. Wick, before this all went sideways. “I want you to be mine.”

You are not proud of the way those words unleash a fluttering swarm of butterflies in your belly, your breath quickening in your chest. You are proud when you manage to answer, “I don’t need taking care of.”

He just snorts lightly at that, as if it’s not even worth arguing over. “Come back to the hotel room with me. I promise I’ll finish what I started. With interest.” His hand slowly slides up your thigh, just beneath the skirt of your sundress, and you think you might die. You should not want this man, after what he did to you.

The ache between your legs suggests otherwise.

You give yourself some points, when you shake your head.

“No. I’m going back to my hostel.”

The shift in his demeanor gives you whiplash, a thunderhead of a frown pulling his handsome features. “Need to get back to your little friend Javi?” The jealousy in his tone hot as a brand. “Did he try to kiss you again?”

Your heart drops to your feet.

“How did you know he tried to kiss me?” you ask, your voice so small.

That was in Rome, after all.

What should have been obvious before comes crashing in, and you realize what a little fool you’ve been. That feeling that someone’s been watching you, and John’s so convenient and coincidental appearance outside the alley…

“Holy shit. You’ve been following me.”

“I’ve been protecting you.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have no idea what the world is really like, sweetheart. It’s a dangerous place.”

You frown at this.

“So…you think I’m stupid?”

“No, of course not.”

“You think I can’t take care of myself then.”

“I think I found you wandering around here like a lost little lamb. There are monsters here who would have gobbled a sweet little treat like you up in one bite.”

The fact that he sees you that way is more alarming than the thought of some unnamed threat in the shadows.

For some reason it makes you think of the men in the van back home—and how that van was found empty and on fire.

“How do you know about the monsters, John?”

“I just know.”

“You said you weren’t a cop. Were you FBI?”

He glares at you, which you take as a no.

“Interpol?”

You are met with silence, and you nod, mostly to yourself.

“You know about the monsters because you are one.” You think about those fierce looking Italian men with their scars and their bespoke suits. His previous words echo in your memory. Sono retirato.

“Were you in the mob?”

“Not…specifically.”

Then you remember he’d said he was from Belarus.

“Bratva, then.”

You should be terrified as you work all this out, trapped in the circle of this man’s arms, but you feel strangely numb about it all.

“My clever girl.” He sounds almost sad about it.

“Not clever enough,” you sigh.

You are not sure who is more surprised, you or him, when you burst to your feet. You actually manage to slip out of his grasp, though you only make it three steps before he captures your wrist again with a grip like an iron manacle. He gives you a dark look, annoyed that you would even try to play this game with him.

You remember what you learned in martial arts class a lifetime ago, pointing your thumb down towards the weak point of his grip and trying to jerk free. It’s worked before, with grabby men.

Not with John Wick, though.

“Stop.” Again, there’s that steely tone. The alpha voice one uses to reprimand a naughty dog. It only makes you angrier, and you struggle.

He pulls you hard against him, and you bite his hand. He doesn’t let you go, just adjusts his grip. “I didn’t want to do it this way,” he snarls low in your ear. “But you are so fucking stubborn.”

“Thank you.” You try to headbutt him behind you, but he ducks into the bend of your shoulder. You feel his chest trembling against your back, and only belatedly do you realize he is laughing at you.

“Enjoying this?”

“A little.”

“There’s no fucking way you can get me out of here without someone seeing. Let me go.”

He just sighs into your hair, like you’ve said something extremely naïve.

The arrival of newcomers into the park catches both of your attention. You lift your head, ready to ask for help, when you recognize the besuited tough guys from before.

Well, fuck.

“You've got some balls, showing your face around here, John Wick. Gianna d’Antonio’s son sends his greetings.”

“This isn’t a good time,” he snarls in return.

“Sorry, are you too busy fighting with your little girlfriend?”

He actually releases you then, pushing you to stand behind him. They are blocking the exit, so for now, you comply.

“You know how this will go,” John says, assuming a ready stance, his feet spread. He almost sounds regretful about it. “Do yourselves a favor, and leave.”

“Can’t do it, John,” says the one in the lead.

“For fuck’s sake,” curses John under his breath. The lead Italian makes a move, and John bursts into action. He is like a tornado of carnage upon them, throwing punches and breaking arms, cutting tendons and stabbing throats.

You are absolutely frozen as you watch all this unfold before you.

That is, until one of the thugs throws a knife at John, and you watch it bury in his chest. This is the thing that breaks your spell, and you run towards the fray with a scream, though who the fuck knows what you intend to do.

However, like he wasn’t just stabbed in the heart, John takes another attacker’s gun, pistol whipping him with it before shooting the knife thrower, then the last one standing. It cannot have been more than minute, before all of them are dead at his feet. He leans on his bent knees for a moment, catching his breath.

“John?” You hardly recognize your own voice as you rush to him, certain he’s taken a lethal blow and somehow fought through it with the surge of adrenaline. However, when you peel back his suit jacket you find no blood. He lets you look him over with frantic hands, maybe enjoying the fact that you don’t wish him dead, before pulling the still protruding knife from the breast of his jacket.

When he produces the little leather journal you’d gifted him from his inside pocket, now gravely marred with a puncture through the cover, you understand.

“Holy fuck.”

“You saved my life,” he says with an odd little smile down at you, as though all this is normal and what you just saw is totally ok.

Utterly horrified, you run.

“Y/n, wait!”

You throw yourself into the dark winding streets, taking any turn you can, trying to stay out of sight. Your feet fly beneath you; even in your shitty strappy sandals, it’s the fastest you’ve ever run.

It’s not fast enough.

When strong arms close around you, lifting you from the ground, you try to scream. A big hand clamps over your mouth, and you find yourself pressed hard into a stone wall. “Please, calm down,” he pants in your ear, out of breath from killing four people then running you down.

Your answer of, “Are you fucking kidding me?” is nothing but muffled syllables.  

“Goddammit,” he sighs behind you, rifling in his pocket for something as he pins you with his body. “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

Your pitiful plea of “Let me go,” is cut off by an evil-smelling cloth shoved into your nose.