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carbonfiction · 2 days ago

Note

Omg hi I love your writing and blog!! I saw your post about Frank calling reader mama aaaannnnddddd it’s made me completely feral ever since. I cannot look at his man without hearing him call me mama (so thank you for that).

Do you have anymore input on this concept? 👀🫶🏻

Oh my darling do i!!! Im SO very sorry for the delay in responding to this also!

So, i offer you, my fellow truther, two more frank calling reader mama concepts. One soft fluffy and one smutty (with a tinnnnnny smidge of breeding kink)

Lil Mama

Warnings?: frank being handsy, calling reader mama, loving frank and bashful reader, piv smut, leglocking smidge of breeding kink.

Masterlist

You stand at the bathroom mirror, eyes focused as you apply the last few flicks of mascara. Soft skin glowing, lips a decadent shade. You see frank pottering in the bedroom behind you, checking over the windows, turning the softly glowing lamp off ready for you both to leave. You were going to see a movie, perhaps grab some food afterwards, usual date night shenanigans.

He leans a large bicep on the doorframe once he's done, just as your eyes flit over the curves of your body, wrapped up in the dress you know frank loves. A loud playful whistle echoing around the tiles as he finally steps in.

"Well shit sweetheart...You know how pretty you look right now?"

His arms loop around your waist, pulling you back against his hefty frame as you giggle. Your eyes meet his in the mirror as his chin rests heavy on the bare skin peaking through the shoulder of the garment.

"Frank.." you murmer quietly, tone a little bashful from the way his gaze roams, his touch always gentle yet possessive as one finds the swell of your ass.

His lips press against your shoulder, slowly rising kisses and gently nips teased at your neck. An expression painted into a smirk you can feel pushed against you. His left hand roams from your ass, soothing over the soft plush of your tummy while his right drifts up, a palmfull of your covered tit in his grip. You squirm infront of him, skin heating, growing shy.

"Whatcha so bashful for baby?" Frank croons, deep and so rumbly it sends butterflies fluttering beneath his hands. His lips drawn up just behind your ear. "So fuckin gorgeous mama n you dont even see it"

It makes you grin in a way you can't seem to help, his gaze meeting yours with such conviction, such honesty. Frank never failing to make you feel beautiful, even in the smallest of moment or the most basic of outfits.

"Always feel it" you breathe, the words falling quiet with another press of chapped lips to your jaw.

It never matters, not to frank. You look beautiful dressed up and angelic even when dressed down, it never fails to make franks heart stutter in his chest. You take his breath away every morning he wakes up with you there besides him, cheek nestled against strong planes of him. He finds the bed hair endearing and the half asleep grumbles soothing.

"What was that lil mama?" he murmers, Wide nose nuzzling along the line he'd just pressed his adoration into.

A gentle gasp that built in your throat dislodges as he squeezes your hip urging you on, eyes locking with his in the mirror as you swallow. "Said I feel it.. Always.. With you."

"Good," he nods after a quiet moment, smoothing your dress back over with careful hands. Lips pressing against the back of your neck before he stands to full hight behind you. "Means 'm doin my job jus' right."

-----------

"Frank, Please.. " you whimper, nails pressing crescent shapes into tanned skin, franks muscles rigid beneath your grip. Pleasure spiking hot from the base of your spine, legs adjusting to wrap around his waist as his heft melds you into the mattress.

"Please what mama?" he coos, head dipping and lips pressing soft against your forehead. slow rocks of his hips hitting so deep you want to sob. "What'd you need, tell me. Always give you anythin you want"

"You- Fuck.." you struggle, words broken, lost between another gasp or perhaps a sob, you cant be sure. Your body aching so pleasantly from the stretch of him between your thighs, arms sore from the way they hold his neck so tight. "- so deep.. Want it all.."

Franks hand drifts from beside your head, down over the peaks of your tits and the soft plush of your belly. His palm aplying a pressure that makes you keen, feeling every single delicious inch moving back and forth. "Yeah.. You just need me all up in this pretty fuckin tummy? Need it so full'a me?."

A sound breaks from your throat, somewhere between a howl and a cry, head nodding so fast its a surprise you dont give yourself whiplash.

"Want you to.. Ohmygod, Want your cum in there too frankie. Please.."

Your words make franks hips stutter, a low groan falling fron the very depths of him. His head drops against your shoulder, tilted until chapped lips find your throat.

"Cant- shit -cant say that.." he grits, hips rutting slower, knocking against your cervix, pushing the very air from your lungs. "Less you wan' me to make you a mama f'real"

The way your legs lock tightly around his lower back speaks for you, the sound of his balls, full and ever tightening, slapping against your ass speaks louder.

Then, in the most broken and gruff you've ever heard from Frank, an offering. An agreement. Spoken into the very breath you inhale as his thumb presses to the swell of your clit. "Alright' i got ya, gonna give my girl what she wants. You just take it kay? Can you do that f'me?"

You moan, mewl and arch, confirm that, yes, you can take it, against Franks lips.

Then you shatter.

His thumb working you through the burning bliss of pleasure he draws from you. Cunt tightening in rhythmic throbs around him as your nails dig and scratch his skin.

"Thats it.. Thats fuckin it. good girl, m' gonna give it to ya.. S-shit yeah 'm cumin"

His voice rumbles in the haze of your come down, weak and wild. His hips stutter more frequently, lips sloppily meeting yours the moment you feel the telltale twitch of his peak.

You both shudder at the warmth filling you, at the implications and the bliss coursing through your bloodstreams.

But Frank doesn't rush draw out, doesnt even shift his weight as he finds your gaze. The brightness in them and the lazy, glowing smile he loves so dearly. Panting the words against sweaty skin. "That what you wanted? T'Be my gorgeous girl, my lil mama?"

#one load frank #pls frank #frankiethoughts #frank castle x reader smut #frank castle x reader #frank castle x female reader #frank castle x reader fluff #frank castle punisher #frank castle smut #frank castle #the punisher x reader smut #the punisher x reader #the punisher #the punisher fluff

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cloudyzeusy · 11 hours ago

Note

You can please write about timeskip atsumu miya, who begs reader to pretend to be his partner just because he drunkenly told his team he had a partner, inventing a whole story just so he doesn't look like a loser in front of his team for being the only one without a partner and he had no one better than reader to drag him into the lie?

“Just This Once”

pairing: atsumu X top male reader

warnings: fluff

The post-match bar was buzzing with noise, the kind that made it impossible to think but easy to laugh. Bokuto was already on his third beer, somehow loud enough to drown out the music.

Atsumu leaned back in his chair, grin wide and smug, pretending his whole body didn’t ache from the match.

The topic of conversation had gone from volleyball to now their dating lives.

"C’mon, ‘Tsumu, ya really don’t got a partner? Even Shoyo’s got someone now!” Bokuto grinned like it was the funniest thing ever.

It wasn't Atsumu's fault that Bokuto had gottten with Akashi after years of pining, Hinata had started dating Kageyama, and somehow even Sakusa was dating someone.

“Wait, seriously? You? Mister ‘I’m so charming?" Hinata said with innocent curiosity.

“Not surprising. You’re loud. And annoying. Sakusa said dryly.”

“Oi! I’ll have ya know I’m very dateable!” Atsumu pouted not at all happy with the sudden attack.

As Bokuto kept teasing him for being single - which was ridiculous that Bokuto had someone before him- his pride took over.

No way was he letting Bokuto win this one.

Atsumu slammed his drink down onto the table, flushed from alcohol and irritation.

“I’ll have ya know I’ve got the best partner in the whole damn world. Perfect. Gorgeous. Smart. Better than all o’ yours combined.” He bragged falsely.

“Wait, you’re dating someone?!” Hinata gasped, eyes wide.

“WHAT?! Why didn’t you TELL us?” Bokuto shouted making most of the bar turn to look at them.

“This sounds fake.” Sakusa said suspiciously.

But Atsumu kept on lying, it wasnt like he could go back now after blurting out he wasnt single. The alcohol only fueled his confidence.

“Oh yeah, last week we had this candlelit dinner on the roof of my building-" His brain screamed, Stop talking! Stop talking! but his mouth had clearly staged a mutiny. "- real movie kinda stuff.”

"That’s next-level romance, bro!” Bokuto clutched his chest dramatically.

"What’s their favorite food? Do they come to games? Are they hot?” Hinata pressed excitedly.

“Hotter than me, obviously.” Atsumu smirked, having Hinata and Bokuto eating out of the palm of his hand.

“That’s not hard.” Sakusa muttered quietly, watching the scene unfold with suspicious eyes.

Then Bokuto also slammed his hands down onto the table saying. "Okay, okay, hold on- WE GOTTA MEET THEM! Tomorrow. Dinner. Done.”

"Ohhh, yes! Bring them to the next team dinner! I wanna see the person who can put up with you!” Hinata nodded along like it was the best idea ever.

“E-Eh?!” Atsumu choked on his drink.

“Can’t wait to meet this imaginary saint.” Sakusa smirked.

He was so screwed.

It wasnt like he could refuse as then they would know he was lying if Sakusa didn't already figure.

The laughter of his teammates followed him out of the bar, but all Atsumu could hear was the sound of his own panicked heartbeat. How the hell was he supposed to find a partner in twenty-four hours?

Atsumu woke up like a corpse rising from the grave, groaning like life itself was a personal attack. His face mashed into his pillow, mouth dry as sandpaper.

The sunlight felt personal, like it was punishing him for his life choices.

He couldn't even get up for a hot minute the pounding in his skull prevented him from even thinking.

He slowly began to pieve together last night’s events in fragments: Bokuto yelling, Hinata’s sparkly eyes, his own big mouth.

"A candlelit dinner on the roof? why did I say that?!” He cursed himself.

"Why couldn’t I just laugh and take the hit like a normal person?!” He sighed.

He was even more horrified when he checked his phone and saw Sakusa had sealed his fate - because of course he did.

Sakusa:

> Dinner with your partner tomorrow. 7pm. We’ll buy.

Bokuto:

> YEAAAHHHH! CAN’T WAIT TO MEET THEM!!🔥

Hinata:

>They must be amazing if they put up with you 😂”

"Wait, hold on-" Atsumu began typing, but it was almost like Sakusa could sense what he wa about to say with his next text.

Sakusa:

> Don’t chicken out now

Atsumu paced his apartment like a madman, running his hands through his hair.

“Fake partner… fake partner… who the hell do I know that’ll agree to this?!” Atsumu muttered to himself.

There was only one person he could beg for this kind of favour, and he was already dreading it.

Atsumu groaned into his hands. He was going to owe you big time. Like lifetime-supply-of-dango big.

Atsumu rang on your doorbell repeatedly like a man on a mission. Yes, he was still hungover and was wearkng mismatched clothes and sunglasses indoors.

But at this point he was too far gone to care.

You opened the door, unsuprised only one person rang your doorbell like a man possessed -Atsumu. You just stared at him, blurting out, "What the hell happened to you?”

“Don’t ask. I need ya. It’s life or death.” Atsumu said dramatically.

"Oh, this is gonna be good.” You rolled your eyes but stepped aside to let him in.

He then began to confess: "I told my team I had a partner last night. Don’t ask why, I was drunk."

"Of course you did." You mumbled to yourself more than anything."What’s wrong with you?”

“Drunk me is really confident! Don’t judge!”

“How confident? Like ‘karaoke until 3 a.m.’ confident or ‘steal a traffic cone’ confident?”

"Somewhere between Hinata breakdancing on a table and Bokuto taking his shirt off in public.”

"Why me, though?” You asked curiously.

“Because you’re literally the only one who doesn’t think I’m a hopeless mess!”

Atsumu then collapsed onto your couch like a man on death row, looking up at you with the kind of desperation usually reserved for sports anime protagonists about to lose the championship.

“Yer the only one I can trust with this,” he started, voice pitched just a little too dramatically. Then- without warning-he dropped to his knees on your carpet like he was about to propose. Hands clasped with his classic puppy-dog eyes.

“Please, be my fake partner just for dinner! I’ll… I’ll do yer laundry for a month!”

You stared down at him. “You? Doing laundry? You can’t even fold your own shirts right.”

“I’ll even iron! Iron! That’s how serious I am!” he vowed, like he was swearing an oath on the volleyball court.

“You’re lucky I don't enjoy watching you suffer.”

Atsumu immediately perked up, grinning like you’d just said yes to a proposal. “So, that’s a yes?”

“No, that’s a maybe, and only because this is too pathetic to watch.”

You crossed your arms, fixing him with the kind of look that could melt steel. “So, let me get this straight… You got drunk, bragged about a relationship you don’t have, and now I’m supposed to save your sorry ass?”

“…Yes. Pretty please?” Atsumu leaned forward, still on his knees, as if doubling down on the humiliation would somehow help his case.

“You’re lucky I don’t charge for stupidity.”

“Ya know, yer real mean when I’m on my knees,” He muttered, and immediately regretted it when you raised an eyebrow.

“Do you want my help or not?”

“Okay, rules.” You jabbed a finger at him like you were his coach instead of his fake partner. “Rule number one: no kissing.”

“Aw, c’mon, not even a little one?” He pouted like you’d just told him Santa wasn’t real.

“Rule number two: no pet names.”

“What if I call ya ‘sweetheart’? That’s romantic!” he countered, leaning back on his heels with a grin.

“No.”

“…‘Darlin’?”

“No.”

“Yer takin’ all the fun outta this.”

“Good. Rule number three: no hand-holding unless absolutely necessary.”

Atsumu flopped back against the couch like you’d shot him in the heart. “Yer cold. Ice cold. Like Sakusa cold.”

When he was about to leave your apartment, he was still smiling scratch that beaming - like a man who had just won a gold medal in “getting his way.”

“Why do I feel like I’m going to regret this?” you muttered, rubbing your temples.

“Because yer gonna fall for me, obviously,” Atsumu shot back with a wink, striding toward the door.

“…Get out of my apartment.”

He left humming. Actually humming. You could practically see the imaginary scenarios spinning in his head-holding hands, fake couple selfies, “accidentally” kissing for realism.

You groaned, already regretting every life decision that had led to this moment.

The sound of chatter and clinking dishes spilled out every time the restaurant doors opened.

Atsumu nervously fixed his hair in the reflection of the restaurant window, fixing his collar for the fifth time. You noticed all this, and leaned against a wall, arms crossed, with a teasing smile.

“Relax, Miya. You look like you’re about to propose, not fake-date.” You teased him.

Atsumu sighs, rubbing the back of his neck: “Remember- no weird stuff. We’re keepin’ it simple, got it?” He ignored your last comment.

“You mean like how you bragged about candlelit rooftop dinners? Sure, Miya. Totally simple.” You smirked at him.

"I hate how confident ya sound right now.” He groaned.

The second they walked towards their table, all eyes turn to them like predators spotting prey.

Bokuto leapt up with a huge grin “There they are! Atsumu’s mystery partner!” His voice was so loud that two nearby tables turned to look.

Hinata’s jaw dropped, bright-eyed and whispering, “Whoa, they’re actually real!”

Sakusa just lifted an eyebrow, saying nothing but studying you with quiet suspicion.

Atsumu grinned nervously: “Told ya I wasn’t lyin’, didn’t I?”

You calmly shook hands with the group, clearly more composed than Atsumu. “Nice to finally meet the famous teammates.”

Hinata, curious as ever, leaned forward on his elbows.“How did you guys meet?! Was it romantic? Did Atsumu confess first?”

“Miya, you didn’t tell us he was this hot!" Bokuto blurted out, causing Atsumu to choke on his drink.

“Shut it, Bokkun,” Atsumu muttered, eyes wide.

You raised a brow, smirking down at him.

“You didn’t mention I was hot? That’s rude.”

“Stop talkin’ like that in front of them,” Atsumu grumbled, still red in the face as you finally sat down together.

Under the table, you rested a warm hand on Atsumu’s thigh. He stiffened immediately, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from reacting.

Leaning in, you whispered near his ear,“Relax. You’re actin’ like a nervous first-year.”

He turned to glare at you, face flushed. “Yer evil.”

“What are you whispering about?!” Hinata interrupted with wide eyes. “Did I miss something?”

You replied smoothly, voice playful.

“Trade secrets.”

The conversation turned, predictably, to how you met. That’s when Atsumu realized-he hadn’t thought this part through.

“Uh… well, we…” Atsumu started, voice trailing off. His mind was suddenly blank.

You stepped in easily, tone confident.

“We met at the gym. Your setter here tripped over a volleyball trying to show off his serve. He reminded me of a puppy."

Bokuto exploded into laughter.“Classic Atsumu!”

“That’s not-! I did NOT look like a puppy!” Atsumu sputtered.

You tilted your head, smiling slyly.“You totally did. But it was cute, so I let him buy me lunch as an apology.”

The table ate it up. Even Sakusa’s lips twitched like he was holding back a laugh.

In truth, the two of you met while coaching a junior team- Atsumu had been a guest setter, you were helping with drills. You’d volunteered to play a one-on-one match to demo for the kids. Atsumu had gone full “pro mode,” trying to impress, only for you to spike one of his serves right back in his face.

It was friendship ever since. But… the fake story sounded cuter.

As food arrived and the table laughter died down, Atsumu leaned in slightly. His voice was low, almost shy.

“Thanks for doin’ this for me. Can’t believe I’m sayin’ this, but… I’m glad it’s you sittin’ here with me.”

You paused. For a moment, the playful mask slipped. Your usual smirk softened into something gentler-before you covered it up again with teasing.

“Careful, Miya. You’re startin’ to sound like you mean it.”

“Atsumu, you look so happy!" Hinata beamed, completely oblivious.“You’re always yelling at us, but now you’re so soft!”

You leaned back with a smirk. “Guess I’m a miracle worker.”

Atsumu muttered under his breath, flustered,

“Shut up.”

Dinner wrapped up with smiles and grins. You and Atsumu saw everyone else off.

You stepped out into the warm night air, the buzz of laughter fading as the restaurant door closed behind you both.

Atsumu fidgeted with his keys, still red in the face, and kept glancing over at you like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

As you both got into the car, you teased him one more time. “You really sold the ‘romantic boyfriend’ act in there. Should I be takin’ notes?”

“Oi, don’t start with me. I was just playin’ along!” He said defensively.

Then it was just silence. The faint hum of Atsumu’s music filled the car.

You noticed how tightly he gripped the steering wheel- nervous. A stark contrast to his usual loud-mouthed confidence.

“You’re awfully quiet, Miya. Didn’t think silence was in your vocabulary.”

“Just thinkin’,” He said softly.

He cleared his throat like he wasn’t sure how to start.

“Thanks for doin’ this for me. I’d look like an idiot if I went back on what I said.”

“Ya already look like an idiot, Miya, but… you’re welcome.” You half-smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Deserved that.”

There was a pause before he said it.

“Y’know… pretendin’ with ya didn’t feel like pretendin’.”

You glanced at him, brow raising.

“…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’- I just meant ya made it easy. That’s all,” he rushed, his accent thickening as his nerves slipped through.

You leaned toward him slightly, watching his ears turn red. He tried to focus on pulling over to the side of the road, but he kept sneaking glances at your lips.

“You’re a terrible liar, Miya.”

“Yeah… guess I am.” He let out a half-laugh, eyes flicking to you again.

“Then stop lyin’.”

And you leaned in, pulling him into a soft kiss.

You woke up late the next morning, scrolling through your phone.

There was some texts from Atsumu. Long ones. Which was weird as he was usually all voice notes.

Atsumu:

> so um. the guys wanna know if ur comin to the next match. bokuto literally said “bring the hot one” hinata asked if ur single. again. sakusa said u were “surprisingly tolerable” which is basically a compliment coming from him.

> anyway they kinda love u now

> and i guess. i kinda get it.

> if u wanted to keep this whole “act” goin… y’know… for appearances or whatever… unless u maybe wanted it to not be an act???

> just sayin. no pressure. unless u wanna kiss me again. in which case. lots of pressure.

> okay shutting up bye

You kept rereading the messages, more suprised at Atsumu’s vulnerability than the fact he wanted to kiss you. You were smiling before you even realised it.

You typed a reply. Then deleted it. You typed another and deleted that too.

Finally, you settled on...

You:

> depends

> would “not an act” mean more thigh touching or less? 👀

You were suprised by his quick response.

Atsumu:

> don’t test me

> i’m already sweatin

> ur evil

> but like in a hot way

You smiled, laughing as you typed back.

“Fine. Let’s make it real.”

#zeus's asks #zeusy☁️#sub character #top male reader #seme male reader #x top male reader #haikyuu x top male reader #haikyuu #atsumu x reader #atsumu x male reader #miya atsumu

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simplygojo · 2 days ago

Text

Friend-Of-A-Friend ── Chapter Twelve

author's note ⸺ Hi friends!!!! I HOPE YOU LIKE THIS ONEEEE - It is not well edited because I am on the road traveling right now and have posted this to queue for later this month!! The tag list will also have not been updated since I have not been online…but I hope this works AND I CANT WAIT TO READ UR COMMENTS AND DMs WHEN I AM HOMEEEEE!!! LOVE YOU LMK HOW YOU LIKE THE SERIES SO FAR <3 pairing ⸺ Suguru Geto x Reader content ⸺ corporate-worker!reader, emotional tension, modern au, the good-ole-days trope, reader uses female pronouns, YEARNNINGGGGG, detailed descriptions smoking (weed + cigs), high tensions, Suguru's POV, taglist at end, 3.1k, this is an 18+ series - mdni

divider credit: @/toastray ୨୧ art credit: @/juziluohai

previous chapter ୨୧ series masterlist ୨୧ next chapter

Suguru's POV: Present Day — On the Balcony

He hadn’t expected her to say anything.

But then she looked at him with that crooked little smile—equal parts curious and cautious—and said, lightly, “Didn’t think you were paying that much attention to me.”

It came dressed like a joke, but it wasn’t one. He could tell. It sat more like a shield than a punchline, softening something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

And god—how could she not have noticed before now?

He couldn’t help but admire the way she was always trying—at everything. Not in a desperate way, not in a loud way. Just… in the way that mattered.

And yet she said it like she was surprised. Like it hadn’t ever crossed her mind that he might be looking at her.

Something shifted in him then—stronger than it had before. Silence didn’t feel like an option anymore. Not saying anything felt too close to dishonesty.

So he said it, low. A little rougher than he’d intended.

“I’ve always paid attention to you.”

There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in him—just the quiet certainty of someone who knew exactly what he meant. At least, that’s how it felt to him. Like she recognized it. Maybe she hadn’t meant to let it show, but she did. He knew that she knew.

And something in him gave, just slightly.

There was an uncomfortable tightness in his throat—a feeling growing behind the silence, held in check by steady breaths and quiet resolve.

He felt it then, how badly he wanted her to understand. How much he needed to give this part of himself over—to let it land and to let her know just how much power she held over him.

But he moved carefully, because the last thing he ever wanted was to give you a reason not to like him.

So when he spoke again, his voice came quieter. Closer.

Like a truth that had been held back so long it almost pained him to say aloud.

“I think I started paying attention to you before you ever said a word to me.”

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Suguru's POV: Over The Years

He was supposed to meet Gojo and his new girlfriend.

It was the first day of classes after winter break. The cold was knife-sharp—one of those clear, windless days where every breath left your lips in smoke. His scarf itched at the edge of his jaw.

His hands were stuffed deep in his coat pockets. He was running late, boots clicking against the frozen pavers that cut across the quad.

Then he saw her.

She was standing just outside the library, half-shadowed by the arch of the building, talking to someone. To Gojo—as well as the person he could only assume was the girlfriend he was meant to meet.

Suguru slowed before he even realized he had.

She was turned slightly away, but he could see enough—the thick, rich blue scarf wrapped around her neck, pulled up over her head like a soft cocoon. Her hands were bare, curled around a paper coffee cup, steam rising in thin ribbons through the cold.

Her mouth moved, smiling around something Gojo must’ve said. But she didn’t laugh loudly. She didn’t throw her head back. It was just slightly quieter than that. Contained. Like the warmth she gave off wasn’t for show.

There was something about that moment—something painfully unremarkable in its simplicity—that hit him in a way he couldn’t name. Not then. Not yet.

She was just… there.

And suddenly, the day was not the same.

Suguru didn’t move. Didn’t call out. Gojo hadn’t noticed him yet, and he didn’t give himself the chance to be noticed, either. Something in him curled inward, protective. Possessive of the stillness, the not-yet.

He turned the other way.

Walked off slowly, like if he moved too fast, the spell might break.

He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know anything about her except the way the scarf framed her face and the way she smiled like it was hers alone.

And oh how he prayed that she wasn’t Gojo’s mystery girlfriend.

But even then, even before the first word, there was a part of him that already missed her.

He spent the rest of the walk imagining what she might have said. What she sounded like when she wasn’t with Gojo. Whether her smile looked different when no one was watching. Whether she would’ve turned to him—just once—if he’d called out.

He didn’t.

And she never saw him.

But that moment stayed with him. Lodged quiet and aching in some small pocket of his chest, like a song he couldn’t hum out loud.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

It was warm inside this apartment—humid, really. The kind of heat that came from too many bodies pressed into a too-small apartment, from coat piles on the bed and cheap wine in mismatched cups and bass-heavy music coming from someone’s sad little speaker setup in the corner, but the music was not bad

Suguru wasn’t sure why he agreed to come.

“I don’t know why we’re going to your ex’s place,” he’d said earlier that evening, tugging his hair into a half-knot with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Sounds like a setup.”

Gojo had just grinned, mouth full of nerd clusters (iykyk).

“We dated for like three weeks. It barely even counts, plus she doesn’t care. Besides, I’m tight with one of her roommates now.”

“Tight, huh,” Suguru had muttered, unimpressed.

But he came anyway.

And the moment he stepped inside, the air changed.

Because she was there.

The girl in the blue scarf.

Only—tonight she wasn’t bundled in wool or shadowed by cold. Tonight she was warm-lit and alive, shoulder tucked close to the kitchen archway, talking to someone over the rim of a red solo cup.

He knew it was her before his brain caught up.

Same mouth. Same eyes. Same posture—casual, a little self-contained, like she was only half-present, like a part of her lived somewhere softer, somewhere no one else could see.

Suguru stopped walking. Just for a breath. Just long enough to feel that same weight in his chest from weeks ago drop down again—low, familiar.

God, she was real.

He stood there quietly, unsure if he wanted her to see him yet.

Watching her laugh at something someone said, the way she tried to hide it behind her wrist.

Her hair was loose tonight. She wore a too-small tee shirt, paired with loose jeans that sat low on her hips—careless, effortless. Skin exposed in places he wasn’t ready for. He looked away. Unsure if he deserved to witness that kind of beauty—so easy, so unguarded. Like catching sight of something sacred when you weren’t meant to.

And then Gojo returned—two drinks in hand, bright as ever—and nudged his elbow.

“Oh—sick—there she is! Come on,” he said, already walking ahead. “You should meet her.”

Suguru didn’t move.

Something in him resisted. Not from fear exactly. Not from shyness either. Just from the knowledge that once he heard her voice, once she looked him in the eye—it would be over for him.

And it was.

“Hey!” Gojo said, slipping into her periphery.

“Suguru, this is my friend I was telling you about. She’s the one who dragged me to that gallery thing last week. Said I needed to learn how to shut the hell up and look at art.”

She laughed at that, the sound light and honest.

And then she turned to him.

And she smiled.

That smile was quieter and even more genuine than the laugh. Kind. No edge to it. No performative tilt. Just… genuine interest.

“Hi,” she said, and held out her hand for him to shake. “You’re Geto? I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Her voice was exactly as he’d imagined it—light, a little textured, like it sat closer to her chest when she spoke. “I’m—well. I guess you know that already.”

He blinked. Took her hand. “Yeah,” he said softly his eyes still stuck deep within hers. “Gojo talks.”

“God, I hope not too much.”

“He never really stops.”

That made her laugh—and oh god, it was real. No filter, no pullback. The kind of laugh that caught her off guard. Her fingers were still in his. Warm. No rush to let go.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, and finally, gently, pulled her hand back.

“You too.”

And he meant it more than she knew.

He didn’t know what he said next. Something boring measured, probably. Something forgettable.

But he remembered that her hand was smaller than his, and that her skin was cool from the drink, as well as that she smelled of warm vanilla and cinnamon.

Her eyes held his for just a second longer than politeness required. Or so he liked to think…Those eyes held his attention longer than most people could these days.

And he knew.

Knew in that breathless, doomed way that he’d only felt once before a few weeks prior. That this moment would mark something. That she would matter.

And that he was already too far in.

He spent the rest of the evening quietly orbiting her—always close enough to listen, never quite close enough to speak. Drifting between conversations, watching for a moment that might open naturally, something easy.

But nothing about the way he felt was easy. Not even close.

Still, no one noticed. He didn’t give himself away.

Suguru was never the obvious kind. His wanting lived beneath the surface—silent, steady—folded into glances and unfinished thoughts he wouldn’t let himself say out loud.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

The evening had begun to settle in, slow and colourless at first, barely shifting the light through the wide front windows. Inside, his and Gojo’s house began to darken as the evening began.

A candle burned low on the windowsill, something citrusy she’d lit without asking.

She was sitting there, on the floor again.

The mirror—a bent, square-framed thing with one chipped corner—sat propped against the coffee table. It hadn’t belonged in the apartment less than an hour ago.

She’d found it abandoned on the sidewalk while walking over and insisted on carrying it the rest of the way, arms wrapped around the metal frame, leather boots clicking against the pavement.

It was small. Barely wider than her face. Still, she set it down on the coffee table with a kind of ceremony, wiped the dust from the glass with her sleeve, and perched in front of it, already unzipping her makeup pouch.

Meanwhile, Suguru sat back against the couch. One arm was draped along the top cushion. The other wrapped around a sweating solo cup filled with a strong rum and Coke.

Across the room, her legs crossed and uncrossed beneath her oversized sweatshirt.

There was a fresh smudge of colour on her cheeks—still too vivid, not yet blended. Her knees shifted as she adjusted her angle in the mirror, and the hem of her shorts caught at the top of her thighs every now and then.

Gojo's voice drifted in from the hallway—something about a missing belt—and her laugh answered it without turning around.

She kept her eyes trained on the mirror. One corner of her mouth quirked up at her own reflection.

Mascara wand held steady, she blinked carefully, once, twice. A careful press to the lash-line.

The living room was filled with low music and the occasional demand for another round of shots. Nothing else.

She didn’t speak much when she was doing her makeup. Her face eased into something honest, almost tender, beneath the movement.

Lips parted slightly as she worked, brows soft. Every gesture precise. Fingertips patting, smoothing, blending.

Suguru hadn't moved in at least twenty minutes.

The light from the candle traced the curve of her jaw in a heavenly way.

There was no reason for anyone to look that good doing something so ordinary—and yet, she did. As if the divine had grown tired of grand gestures and tucked itself into the smallest, quietest things.

Her wine glass sat beside the mirror, nearly empty, lipstick blooming at the rim. She reached for it without looking, drained what was left in a single gulp, and gave a little cough behind her wrist.

The tip of her tongue passed over her bottom lip, catching a drip.

No part of her performance belonged to anyone else.

Suguru let his head fall back against the wall. Eyes low, half-lidded. His attention was unwavering from her.

From this distance, her scent still carried faintly on the air—something warm and cheap and unmistakably her.

Gojo passed through once, barefoot, muttering about changing his shirt. He tousled her hair as he went. She barely blinked.

No one noticed the way Suguru was watching her. They never did.

She leaned closer to the mirror. A gold hoop earring swung forward, brushing the side of her neck. Her lips drew together, then apart again, searching for symmetry.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Her presence, casual and glowing, spread out across the room—through the candlelight, the cracked mirror glass, the stray flecks of powder on the coffee table.

He was mesmerized from the moment he saw her.

Not in the way people usually meant when they said that. Not in that cheap, stunned, double-take sort of way. It was quieter than that. Slower.

Then came the knock at the door that interrupted his thoughts…

Gojo answered it—loud as ever, already grinning. “Oh, hey! You made it.”

Suguru glanced up as the guy stepped in. Tall. Clean-cut. The kind of buttoned-up smile that looked like it was used to being believed.

And of course, it was someone she’d met through Gojo.

Suguru watched her rise from the couch, watched her walk over and kiss him like it was nothing. Like she didn’t even have to think about it. And something in his chest twisted—tight and hot, bitter in a way he hadn’t expected. Not jealousy, not quite. Something meaner than that. Possessive, maybe. Unwelcome.

She turned, still smiling, arm around the guy’s waist. “Suguru—this is my boyfriend.”

He nodded. Polite. Said something neutral. He didn’t hear her boyfriend’s response. Didn’t really care.

Later, at the party, Suguru found out everything he could about this guy. Asked the right people. Listened more than he spoke. It didn’t take long. Everyone always had something to say—most of it small, most of it stupid, but Suguru gathered it anyway, pieced together the shape of a man who didn’t deserve her.

Then he passed it all off to Gojo. Let him run wild with it, stretch the truth where it would sting, plant the seeds with a smirk and a shrug.

It wasn’t even a week before the two of you had broken up.

He didn’t say anything when he heard you'd broken up. Didn't need to.

Gojo told him, obviously—grinning like he'd just orchestrated a divine act of justice. Suguru had only lifted a brow and nodded, quiet and unreadable. But he’d felt it. That small, private satisfaction blooming somewhere deep in his chest. Warm. Vicious.

He didn’t feel guilty about it. Not really. The guy had been a dick. And you... You deserved better.

That satisfaction lasted exactly three days.

Because on the fourth, he stepped out of his room, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and found you curled on the couch in one of Gojo’s hoodies—eyes rimmed red, tissue in hand, looking like you hadn’t slept at all.

Gojo was beside you, cross-legged on the floor, remote in hand, flicking through Netflix like he was on a mission. “It has to be low-stakes,” he was muttering. “No heavy trauma. No dead dogs. Just hot people kissing and, like, one unrealistic career change.”

You let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh. Quiet. Shaky. Suguru stood frozen in the hallway, suddenly unsure whether to walk in or disappear entirely.

That’s when you looked up and saw him.

And something in his chest sank. Because all at once, the satisfaction felt childish. Sharp-edged. Pointless.

He hadn’t expected to feel sorry.

Hadn’t expected it to ache.

But it did—watching you wipe at your face with the sleeve of a hoodie that wasn’t his, trying to laugh like you were fine. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d broken in half right in front of him.

And all he could do was stand there, and feel it all catch up to him.

୨୧ ୨୧ ୨୧

Over the years in university, the trio grew even closer. But with her and Suguru…It hadn’t happened all at once.

The closeness crept in gradually—folded between late-night walks, shared playlists, the way her voice softened when she spoke to him directly, or at least he thought she did.

Somewhere along the way, she’d picked up his worst habit. At first it was teasing. The way she wrinkled her nose and stole a cigarette from the pack in his back pocket.

Then she asked for one of her own. Then, eventually, she didn’t need to ask.

Suguru didn’t mind. He liked having someone to smoke with.

Especially her.

It made the habit feel less like a vice and more like a ritual. Something private. Something slow.

That night wasn’t special. Not really. Just one of the ones that slipped in between—hot, airless, and too humid to sleep. Crickets chirped in the tall grass just beyond the porch, a soft, constant pulse in the background. The moon hung swollen and pale behind a gauze of clouds. Nothing moved.

They sat shoulder to shoulder on the porch steps. Her thighs stuck to the wood. She wore some kind of tank top, hair pulled back lazily, and she held the cigarette like she’d been doing it all her life. Their arms brushed when she passed it back to him, and he didn’t pull away.

They hadn’t said much. Didn’t need to.

The quiet was comfortable—settled. Words would’ve only interrupted the rhythm of the evening: the sharp inhale, the pass, the clink of ice in the glass beside her knee. Smoke drifted slowly up into the air above them, curling into the heat like it belonged there.

A few minutes passed that way. Back and forth. Cigarette, joint, silence.

There was sweat gathering at the base of his neck, and he could see it shining at the hollow of her throat too. A curl had come loose from her hair, sticking just slightly to her cheek.

She didn’t wipe it away.

Suguru leaned his head back against the wooden post, letting his eyes fall half-shut. The smoke tasted sweeter coming from her lips. Not the joint itself—just the trace of her on the paper, faint and lingering.

She reached down and scratched at a mosquito bite on her shin, muttering something under her breath. He didn’t catch it. Didn’t ask her to repeat it. He was just happy to be involved.

The night stretched out ahead of them, endless and still.

And in that stillness, he found a peace he didn’t know he needed.

He wouldn’t mind if every day unfolded like this.

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xddaengx · 1 day ago

Text

play along - the series ⎜ pt 2 (rewrite)

✧ Pairings: Seventeen x Reader ⎜ Woozi x Reader ⎜ Mingyu x Reader

✧ Genre: Poly AU! ⎜ Idol AU ⎜ Established Relationship ⎜ Romance ⎜

✧ Warnings: woozi is a pleaser⎜ oral (f!recieving)⎜ Multiple Partners ⎜ Poly AU⎜insecurity⎜MDNI 18 + ⎜sap woozi ⎜body worship ⎜slow burnish ⎜

✧ Word Count: 5.6k

✧ Summary: Your boyfriend proposes the idea, that he shares you with his 12 best friends.

✧ Author’s Note: This is a rewrite of the original series as I wanted to try and update it a bit better in my own style, you can find a master post of the whole series here -> play along pt 1 - 10 - best believe I was listening to a playlist called seventeen sexy songs on spotify while I wrote this, let me know what y'all think.

(UNEDITED)

You keep your voice quiet as you speak into your phone, your hand cupped over the end to try and muffle your words even more, the faint tap of your shoes as you walk down the silent hallway. “But… if he’s busy I don’t want to interrupt him.” You murmur into the phone dropping your head in a soft bow as you pass by some staff who barely pay you any attention as you continue to approach the studio, nerves prickling the edges of your skin.

“Don’t think of it as interrupting then.” Mingyu says through the crackle of your phone, his words muted by the loud music playing in the background, his members voice echoing through your speaker. His voice is calm, casual but you can almost see the way the corners of his lips are tilted upwards in a cheeky grin, “He knows you’re coming and he said he’s excited,” Mingyu starts, your hum of doubt making him pause, a breathy chuckle hitting your ears, “Okay, he pretty much said that, in the way that Woozi does, besides he’s in that studio all day, everyday, it won’t hurt him to see a pretty face every once in a while.”

You huff a soft laugh, trying to ignore the way your stomach flip flops at the compliment, you had been dating Mingyu for so long now, you don’t know why he still made you nervous with simple words, “As long as you warned him, we all know what happened last time Hoshi tried to sneak in.”

“Hey, he helped me make a song.” Hoshi cuts through the speaker on your phone, your eyes catching sight of the frosted studio door the words “UNIVERSE FACTORY” printed in large black letters in the centre.

“At the cost of an eyebrow.” Mingyu chimes back and you can hear the muffled huff of Hoshi as he argues under his breath. “Baby, he likes you, like actually genuinely likes you which is rare for Woozi so just go with the flow, he won’t do anything you don’t want him to.” Your feet pause outside the door, your head nodding as Mingyu talks, your breaths evening out and you let out a quiet sigh.

“I’m at the door.” You whisper slowly.

“Okay, you remember the code…26-05” You nod again even though no one can see you, your lip catching between your teeth as you murmur out a soft goodbye, a smile blooming at the multiple you get back in return. You hang up, slipping the phone into your bag before sliding up the pin cover on the door - 2...6 - the door opens with a click before you’re even finished your eyes shooting up to find Woozi peeking through the door towards you.

“I had a feeling it was you.” Woozi says, his voice hoarse, as if it’s been a while since he had to use it, he stands just inside the door way opening it a touch wider for you to slip in besides him, the door clicking shut quietly as you glance around his studio.

“Oh, Mingyu said you might be busy and to just let myself in.” You stumble out quickly, your gaze flicking over to him before moving to continue taking in the room.

“I was,” he agrees, watching you closely, “but I kept checking the time. I didn’t want to miss you.” You glance around the studio, surprised by how cozy it feels despite the modern, open layout. It’s filled with shelves of vinyl records, scattered scribbled notes, softly glowing lamps, and ambient lighting that makes the space feel almost sacred. A mix of LED light line the roof, hidden mainly from view other then the soft blue glow they let peek out.

It’s quiet, and warm and cozy, just like him.

“You’ve really put your own little spin on this place, haven’t you?” You say, drifting further into the room.

“It took a while to get it right, the way I was picturing it to be anyway.” Woozi’s gaze follows yours as you look over the sprawled papers on his desk, the computer opened on multiple screens with his work spread across them. “Do you…um… do you want to see what I was working on?” Your head nods in response before you even get a chance to think about it, Woozi sliding past you to sit in his desk chair his fingers working quickly on the keyboard as he motions you over, his hands reaching for a headphone set off to the side.

You wander over, perching on the arm of his couch tucked against the wall, taking the offering of headphones from him quickly, sliding them over you ears before giving him a quick nod, the producer clicking his thumb against the space bar, the music quickly filling your ears, soft and aching, layered with harmonies that tug at something inside your chest. It's not for the charts, it’s not for performance, it feels personal. Raw. You don’t speak until the last note fades.

“Woah.” You say quietly, sliding the headphones off your ears as you pull your lip between your teeth again, unsure about what to say. “It gives me the same feelings as Hug did, it feels so upsetting and comforting at the same time.” That gets a quiet laugh out of him. His shoulders ease, but his fingers keep fidgeting at the edge of his sleeve. You watch his profile in the glow of the screen, smooth jawline, soft eyes, lips pressed tightly together like he’s holding something back.

He glances at you. “I heard you and Hoshi hung out the other night.”

“I guess you could say that…” You start, a soft laugh bubbling out of you as you add, “We had a good ol’ chat.” Woozi just hums, his smile widening a bit at your joke before he adds on,

“He said it was the best he’s slept in months…” You lean back on the arm of the couch, curious to where this was going, You feel his gaze lingering on you, heavy and quiet, like there’s something that he wants to say but he just can’t get it out. “I was nervous about today, about how this whole thing is going to work.” He finally manages to voice his thoughts, your brows raising a little in surprise at his words.

You shift a little on your seat, turning to face him a little more, “How what is going to work?”

“I mean it’s not like we hang out or really do anything together, I mean I think before today we’ve had a total of maybe four conversations and most of the time you don’t even look at me while we do.” You blink at him, a little startled by his honestly, by the details he seemed to be keeping track of.

“It’s just… I don’t want you to feel obligated to come here, you know? Mingyu and Hoshi…” He pauses for a moment, his brows squeezing together as he thinks of the right words, “The others, people usually gravitate towards them naturally and I’m not really one of thos—”

“Don’t say you’re not like them,” you interrupt. “That’s the point. You’re not supposed to be.” He looks at you again, uncertain. You continue, voice soft but firm. “I’m here because I want to be here. Not because someone is forcing me to or because I want everyone to feel included just to get closer to one of you. I don’t care that we’ve only talked a handful of times. I care that every one of them mattered.” You see it, the flicker of emotion across his face. Relief, maybe. For a moment, he doesn’t move. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch slightly at his sides like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know how. His lips part, then close again.

“Woozi,” You mumble as you stand from your spot, gently placing the headphones back on his desk before crossing your arms over your chest, “I’m here because I want to be, but I don’t have to stay if you don’t want me to.” Your words hang open in the space between you, soft and heavy, filling the room with an almost unbreathable silence. You’re both standing now, Woozi springing from his chair like something bit him, his arms still limp by his side as he watches you closely.

He doesn’t speak, or move, his eyes are fixed on you, wide and unreadable, but you can see the cogs turning, the thoughts rushing past his eyes as his gaze begins to flicker over you - roaming, from head to toe as he takes everything in. You catch the way his throat bobs as he swallows down whatever thought almost made it to the surface. He wants to say something, you can tell, his fingers twitching at his sides before digging into his thigh, like he’s so close to reaching out to you but a part of him just doesn’t know how.

You glance down at them, his hands, slender, elegant, calloused, capable of creating the kind of music that makes people cry without knowing why. But right now, those same hands tremble slightly at the thought of just touching you. And still, nothing, so you take a breath and try again. You didn’t think agreeing to sleep with your boyfriends friends would lead to so many situations of uncertainty and you’ve barely even begun.

“You can tell me, you know.” You say, your voice a tremble in the wind, not wanting to spook the man before you, “if you’re not sure about this or… if it’s too much too fast, you can always tell me.” You hint, wanting to give him the space to pull away without any guilt or second guessing.

“I’m not unsure of anything.” Woozi finally responds, and you can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes you, your eyes tracking over him again, his posture still tense those his hands have managed to release his thighs. “I’m just nervous.”

“Nervous about what? I didn’t think I was the type of person to make people nervous.” You let out a soft chuckle at your own joke, only just managing to catch the glare of despair that Woozi shoots over to you, the exasperation evident on his face. “What are you nervous about, Woozi?” You ask again, your gaze a little softer, your arms falling from their spot against your chest, taking hold of the hem of your dress, fiddling with the fabric. He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. Just breath, nervous and tight.

“Of getting this wrong. Of ruining something before it even starts. Of wanting something too much and making you uncomfortable.” His words knock the air out of you, not because they’re dramatic, but because they aren’t, but because they’re plainspoken and real and so unmistakably Woozi.

You take a step closer. “You haven’t ruined anything.”

He nods once, slowly. “But I might. And my legs don’t seem to be working at the moment.”

“Woozi,” you say, and his eyes shift to you again. You hesitate for a moment before reaching out, slowly - cautiously, letting your fingertips brush the back of his hand resting on his leg. His breath catches, the contact is featherlight, nothing more than skin grazing skin. But you feel the electricity of it spark down your spine like a live wire. His hand stays there, tense beneath yours, as if he’s trying to hold himself in place. He doesn’t pull away. “I don’t need you to do anything grand,” you murmur. “I just need you to be you.”

Woozi is quiet for a moment, the slowly, almost unnoticeably his hand turns under yours, his fingers curling in between yours gently, his eyes watching the motions almost like he can’t believe this is really happening. His palms are a little sweaty against yours but you can’t help the way your lips tilt up at his movements. “I thought about you all week,” he says suddenly, voice low and hoarse. “And every time I let myself imagine you being here, I’d get halfway through the thought before talking myself out of it. I’d think, she’ll be uncomfortable, or I won’t know what to say, or what if I want to touch her and she doesn’t want that?” His quiet confession leaves a brick on your chest, he’s honest, and vulnerable in the way that Woozi has always been good at.

You feel his fingers flex against yours, almost like he’s waiting for you to pull your hand away from his, but you don’t. You squeeze his hand softly, taking a small step closer to him. “You just have to ask.” Your voice, floats around the room, tangling in Woozi’s head as he thinks over every syllable.

Woozi blinks, like he hadn’t even realised that was an option, his mouth parts again and for a moment, nothing happens, nothing comes out, just the soft rise and fall of his chest as the producer stands at a loss for words. He copies your movements, shifting one step closer his fingers wrapping around yours just a little bit tighter. “You don’t know how long it’s been since I let myself want something this much,” he says, voice lower now, softer. “Want someone.” He clarifies. Then, his free hand rises, hesitantly as if he’s expecting you to smack it away at the last moment, and hovers near your hips, his eyes searching yours for permission. His hand settles lightly, tentative at first, and then firmer once he sees you’re not going anywhere. The warmth of his palm seeps through the fabric of your dress like a slow burn, grounding you both in something real and now. “You’re warm,” he mumbles, almost to himself.

“And you’re shaking,” you whisper back, the edge of a smile tugging at your lips.

“I know.” His head tips toward you slightly, almost as if he’s leaning into your orbit without realising it. “This is… new. Not just the situation. You.”

You tilt your head. “Me?”

“You feel safe,” he says, like the words are being dragged out of him against years of practiced restraint. “Like someone I don’t have to perform for.” You reach up, brushing a strand of his hair back from his forehead. His eyes flutter shut briefly, like he’s memorising the feeling.

“I see why Hoshi was so pleased with himself.” Woozi hums almost to himself, “One look from you and we all crumble like sand.” Your breath catches a little as his other hand pulls out of yours, adding itself to your hip, his fingers curling into your plush flesh, slow and deliberate. He watches your face, looking for any signs that he should stop himself, pull away.

You give him nothing, not even a hint of hesitation, especially when you step forwards, closing any space left between you, the warmth of him leaking through the thin fabric of your clothes, your hands lifting to gently smooth down the front of his shirt, his muscles flexing as you feel the solid thump of his heart. “You keep saying you’re nervous, but you haven’t run away from me yet.” You tease.

“I don’t think I could if I tried,” he breathes, eyes locked onto yours like you’re the only thing anchoring him to the floor. “Not from you.” You reach up, your hand tracing the edge of his jaw with the lightest touch, and he leans into it - subtly, but enough that it makes your chest ache.

“Then what are you waiting for?” There’s no more hesitation after that. Woozi moves. It’s not rushed. It’s not aggressive. It’s slow, desperate. His lips find yours with a gentleness that betrays just how long he’s wanted this, how hard he’s tried to be careful, to not let that want slip through the cracks of his usually tightly guarded expression. His mouth is soft and warm, but it deepens quickly when you respond, when your hands slide up into his hair and your body presses flush against his. He makes a low sound, something between a sigh and a moan, deep in his throat. The sound vibrates against your lips, and it’s all the encouragement you need to press harder, to tilt your head and let your mouth open just enough for him to taste.

The kiss turns heated, fast, like all the restraint he’s been practicing has finally snapped under the weight of your closeness. His hands glide along your hips, his thumbs brushing the soft material of your dress, a frustrated groan sounding from the back of his throat. You still feel the delicate tremble in his fingers, but they hold you firmly now, pulling you closer until your thighs bump the edge of his desk and he’s crowding you into the space between him and the mess of his music.

“You smell like flowers,” he whispers between kisses, his breath ragged, lips brushing over your jaw now, his voice husky. “I can’t think when you’re this close.” You smile, letting your hands wander, down the firm lines of his abdomen, along the curve of his arms wrapped around you.

“Then stop thinking,” you murmur against his ear, nipping softly at the shell, “Just feel.” Something in him breaks at that. He groans, low and desperate, and suddenly his hands are on the backs of your thighs, hoisting you up effortlessly to sit on the edge of his desk. Pages scatter beneath you, pens and notebooks shifting, but neither of you notice. Your legs part automatically, instinctively, and he steps between them, the motion pressing your bodies together again, tighter, hotter. His mouth crashes back into yours, more urgent now, his hands roaming, one slipping beneath the hem of your dress, fingers teasing at the soft, bare skin of your thigh, while the other anchors you at your waist.

His kisses turn needy, his teeth scraping against your bottom lip as you raise your hands to thread into his hair - his lips trying to pour every desire he’s ever had into your kiss, there a part of you that’s ashamed that you respond so equally to Woozi, knowing after this you’ll be going back to your boyfriend, you’ll always go back to him at the end of the day.

“You’re real,” he murmurs, like he still doesn’t believe it, his forehead pressed against yours as he catches his breath. “This is real, right?” You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer until your noses brush.

“As real as you want it to be.” He kisses you again, slower this time, more controlled, but the fire behind it doesn’t dim. His hand strokes over your thigh, up and up, until he’s teasing along the hem of your underwear, his fingers hovering there, waiting. You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your own breathing quick and uneven. “You can,” you whisper. “If you want to.”

“I want to.” Woozi’s voice cracks as he pulls away from you, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he can really consider them, his fingers digging into your thighs as he lets out slow, deep breaths. His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it when he continues, “I want to hear every sound that Mingyu had ever kept hidden from us.” The words send a spike of heat straight down, the acknowledgment of this whole situation somehow lighting even more fire under you as you picture your boyfriend’s pleased smile at Woozi’s words. He touches you softly at first and when he feels how ready you already are for him, he makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

“You’re already soaked,” he murmurs, kissing your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “I haven’t even done anything.”

“You’ve done plenty,” you breathe, your hips tilting toward his hand instinctively, desperate for more. He groans again, fingers beginning to move in slow, deliberate circles that have your thighs trembling around him in seconds. You cling to him, the pressure in your stomach coiling tighter with every breath, every flick of his fingers, every soft kiss he presses to your collarbone. He finds your pulse point and sucks softly, earning a gasp from you that only makes him move faster. Pulling back for only a moment to send you a question glance as he looks down at the yellowing bruise on your shoulder.

“Ask Hoshi.” You just barely to get out before Woozi’s lips are back on you pressing a short kiss against the bruise.

“Let me see you,” he says suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “I want to see your face.” You don’t hesitate, you reach down, tugging the straps of your dress off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall until you’re exposed to him, bare from the waist up in the soft, warm glow of his studio. His breath catches audibly, his hands still against your thighs as he drinks you in.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, with so much sincerity it makes your chest ache. “Mingyu the lucky fucking bastard.” He leans in again, kissing down your neck, across your chest, until his mouth finds your breast. His tongue flicks over your nipple, and you cry out, your hands fisting in his hair as his fingers keep working between your legs.

“Woozi, I think I’m —” you pause before you can finish your sentence, letting out a long whine as Woozi pulls his fingers away from you.

“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, the vibration making you whimper. “But I want to take my time with you.” Woozi’s voice is low and smooth, heat dragging up your spine as his breath ghosts over you skin. His fingers, slick from you, trail slowly up your thighs again, though not returning to where you want him, but higher, curling over your hips, the pads of his thumbs pressing into your flesh in slow, languid circles. You feel each touch like it’s a kiss, like he’s memorising you.

He pulls away a little, just enough to graze his eyes over you, and you swear if anyone else looked at you like he did, like he was studying a piece of art you’d pull away from him, try to hide yourself from his stare but not Woozi. His eyes held an appreciation that was hard to find anywhere else.

“I’m going to take my time with you.” He confirms his previous statement, and god does he.

He drops to his knees in front of you, slowly like he’s settling in for a long afternoon, and slides his hands beneath the hem of your dress again, his thumbs catching the very edge as he pulls it up your thighs. His hands pause only for a moment at the junction of your thighs, gently pushing against them as your legs slide open in response. You shiver from the brush of air against your damp panties, but he doesn’t touch you there.

Not yet.

He presses kisses to the inside of your thighs instead, slow and searing, the heat of his mouth sending little shocks through your skin as he trails closer… and then farther away again. “Woozi,” you whisper, your voice thick with need.

“I know,” he hums, almost smug, but still sweet. His mouth presses higher, kisses damp and open, dragging along the crease of your thigh where it meets your hip. “I’ll give you what you want. Just… let me have this first. Let me worship you a little.” His hands latch to your hips pulling you closer to the edge of the table, and you exhale a sound, almost a moan as he drags your dress up a little higher, your fingers threading through his hair as he presses soft kisses along the waist band of your underwear. The he looks up at you, his fingers hooked on the material, watching waiting.

You nod slowly - your hand bracing on the table as you lift your hips, his hands working to slide your panties down your legs, you almost snap your legs shut as the cool air of the studio hits you, but you manage to stop yourself, Woozi’s eyes locked on all of you as he tucks your garments into his back pocket.

His voice is barely there when he speaks again, “Fuck, I don’t know if I can go slow anymore.” And then he leans in. The first touch of his mouth to you is featherlight, more like a question than a kiss. He presses closer, his tongue licking a slow stripe up your centre, tasting you, savouring. His hands move slightly to curl around your thighs, holding you open, his thumbs stroking gentle, grounding circles into your skin as he begins to truly eat you out. Slow, methodical, teasing, like you’re something decadent, something he’s wanted for far too long and refuses to rush now that he finally has you.

Every pass of his tongue feels deliberate, every flick against your clit meant to unravel you one stroke at a time. He moans into you - the sound muffled but deep - like he can’t help himself, like the taste of you alone is driving him mad. Your back arches, your hands clench in his hair, your thighs threaten to close, but his grip is too firm, keeping you open for him, on display, the pads of his fingers digging into your skin with just enough pressure to leave marks. When you gasp his name again, this time desperate, needy, he pulls back just slightly, his lips wet, chin glistening, and looks up at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted.

“I want to watch you come,” he breathes. “Right here, on my tongue. Is that okay?” The way he looks up at you, the fact that even asks the question sinks something deep in your stomach, something that says ‘we’re going to remember this forever’. All you can manage out is a soft nod, the grin spreading across Woozi’s lips enough to make your body melt as you let yourself fall back onto your elbows, just upright enough to see him work. mouth covering you again, tongue circling your clit with more purpose now, pressure building, his moans vibrating through you. You’re so close already, the tension coiled tight in your gut, your whole body singing under his worship. But just when you think you’ll fall apart, he slows. Not cruelly, not to tease in that way, but to prolong it, to savour it. Like he’s coaxing you toward the edge, then pulling you back, over and over again, letting you fall apart bit by bit under his mouth.

“I could do this for hours,” he whispers into your skin. “Stay on my knees and taste you until you can’t remember your own name.” You whimper, your thighs shake, and when he seals his lips around your clit and sucks, slow and deep, your entire body goes taut. “Come for me,” he murmurs. “Please.”

You do.

One hand tangled in his hair, the other slapped over your mouth as you let out a breathy whine, his name on the tip of your tongue as you clap your thighs together against his head, his lips spreading in a smirk against you as his tongue keeps moving slowly against you. You feel Woozi’s soft taps on your thighs, a polite question, as your legs fall open your back collapsing against the desk as Woozi leans over you to grab a handful of tissues from the desk. He’s flushed, his mouth glinting with you all over him and his pupils are blown wide as he watches you try to catch your breath.

You watch as he wipes his mouth carefully, slowly slipping your dress back up your torso and the straps over your shoulder, he's almost sad to wipe you off him as you pull yourself back into a sitting position, reaching for him as he steps towards you, your legs circling his waist as you catch his lips with yours, your essence still on his tongue as he dips it in your mouth, his hands raising to clasp at the sides of your face. The kiss is softer then before, Woozi happy to take his time some more, your hands reaching for the ties on his sweatpants as he pushes himself away from you.

Your head tilts, eyebrows pinched in confusion as he dips his hand into his pants, adjusting himself before pulling his hand back out shooting you another nervous grin. He leans forward again, like he can’t quite help himself, pressing a tender kiss to your collarbone, your neck, your jaw and lastly your temple before he pulls away a little further.

“Don’t…Don’t worry about me.” He murmurs softly, voice rough, “I just wanted to take care of you.”

Your brows knit a little more. “But, woozi—”

He shakes his head, final but not unkind, his hair falling in his eyes as he tries to place on a gentle smile, “I don’t want…I can’t have this feeling like a transaction.”

“Woozi, that’s not wha—”

“I know.” He cuts you off, his arms crossing against his chest, his guards slowly sliding back up. “I know that not what you mean by it, but expecting…” He shakes his head a little, “if I think you’re doing it just because you think you owe it to me, it’ll ruin what it really is.” He corrects himself. After a pause, he adds, so quietly it almost doesn’t register: “I wrote about you. A while ago.”

Your breath stills. He doesn’t clarify at first, like he regrets saying anything. “You didn’t know,” he says, half to himself. “And I didn’t think you needed to. It was just one song. Well… to be honest maybe more.”

Your hear rears back a little, “You’re serious?”

He huffs a breath, not quite laughing. “You remember that solo I put out a few years ago?” You nod, his words suddenly all clicking into place, the brightness in his eyes mirroring the recognition in yours. “Ruby, was all cause of that stupid little red dress you wore at the Christmas party where Mingyu introduced us all.” Woozi lets out an almost humourless laugh.

“Red’s been my favourite colour since then.” You can’t stop the way your mouth falls open a little at his statement, the completely honest nature taking you by surprise. Your mouth opens and closes like you can’t decide which words to speak, but the buzzing of your phone from inside your purse has both of your eyes flicking away from each other.

Woozi takes a few steps forwards, sliding his hand in your bag and picking up the phone to see Mingyu’s name lighting the screen. “I guess girlfriend duty calls.” Woozi chides, passing the phone over to you as you slide off the desk, straightening out your dress before feeling the cool breeze brush against you, your eyes shoot up to Woozi’s before dipping to look down at his pockets.

Woozi lets out another laugh, his hand tapping against his back pocket, “I think I’m going to keep those for a little bit, if you don’t mind.” You shift slightly, smoothing your clothes again as the silence stretches. The studio hums faintly in the background, monitors on standby, forgotten melodies still lingering in the air. Woozi hasn’t moved from where he stands, his hand falling back to his sides like they doesn’t know what to do without touching you.

He doesn’t look at you when he finally speaks. “You don’t have to pretend it meant more than it did,” he says, voice even, too even. “I know what this is. What Mingyu’s letting it be.” You blink, caught off guard by the quiet bitterness laced beneath his tone.

“It’s not that simple,” you say.

He exhales slowly, nodding. “No. It’s not.” He turns, finally facing you, his expression unreadable. “I just didn’t want it to feel like I was... cashing in on something,” he admits, voice rougher now. “Like he gave permission and that made it okay. Like I just took my turn.”

You take a step toward him, your voice softer. “It wasn’t like that.”

“I know,” he says, but his mouth twitches like he doesn’t quite believe himself. “Still. I didn’t do it to just cause I could.” He cuts himself off, then lets out a short, self-deprecating laugh. “Doesn’t really matter.” You watch him, the set of his jaw, the way he won’t quite meet your eyes. Something curls in your chest, aching, slow, warm, and suddenly you realise that this situation might be a little more difficult than you had all thought it would be.

“I meant to keep it to myself,” he says after a beat.

You blink. “What?” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but his voice gives him away.

“‘Ruby.’ The solo track. And... others. You’ve been in more lyrics from us than you realise.” You go still, heart catching. He finally looks up at you, and his gaze is steady now, open. “Not because I thought you’d ever hear it and know. I write what I feel, what I think about. And for a while, it’s just been you.” You don’t say anything, you don’t know if you can, you just let the silence stretch between you. “I don’t want you to owe me anything,” he says after a moment. “Not because of tonight. Not because of what Mingyu said was okay. Not because of some song.”

“I know,” you say quietly. “That’s why it means something.” His shoulders ease, just a little. The corner of his mouth twitches, soft. You glance at your phone, still buzzing quietly in your hand, then back at him.

“Go.” He says, the smile creasing his eyes this time, like his body and mind were finally on the same page, like he said everything he needs to get off his chest.

“We will be discussing this further.” You say with a threatening finger pointed his way as you grab your purse, and stomp, commando, out of his studio your phone pressed to your ear.

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1dmonthlyficroundup · 9 hours ago

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— 1D Monthly Fic Roundup —

Hi, and welcome to the 1D Monthly Fic Roundup for July 2025! Below you’ll find 1D fics that were all published this month. We hope you’ll check out these new fics! If you would like to submit your own fic, please check this post on how to submit or visit our blog @1dmonthlyficroundup. You can find all our other posts here.

Happy reading!

＊ Finding Pieces We Can Fit by larryftnoctrl / @the-larry-way [E, 119k, Louis/Harry]

At 32 years of age, Louis admits defeat in the search for a life partner. His mother introduces him to a similarly disillusioned but still hopelessly romantic Harry. These two forces collide and collude in the best and worst of ways, determined to make things work.

Miso cannot be bothered by their shenanigans. She can see the writing on the wall.

＊ Radiant by larryftnoctrl / @the-larry-way [T, 270 words, Harry/Louis]

Harry calls Louis after Soccer Aid.

＊ sun (series) by @disgruntledkittenface [NR, 300 words, Louis/Harry]

Girl direction, exes to lovers, American au

＊ red by @tracksuitponytail [T, 100 words, Harry/Louis]

A Glastonbury drabble feat. one very special garment

＊ grip by @tracksuitponytail [T, 100 words, Louis/Harry]

A thigh, a grip, a boyfriend on the phone.

Or: Louis climbing the barricade, a drabble.

＊ Float darling by harrysboy / @calumsboy [T, 1k, Harry/Louis]

Harry’s eyes flutter open, eyes adjusting in the dark to see him. Louis. His eyes are gazing sleepily at him, pupils dilated and a star of love in each of them. Harry smiles.

The world feels a lot different right now. There isn’t anything to worry about or think about outside of this bedroom. It’s just him and, more in the focal-point of his mind, Louis. Harry likes it this way. He likes feeling this way. It’s warm.

or, a little drabble about louis giving harry aftercare and it meaning the world to him.

＊ Cannonball by @haztobegood [G, 100 words, Louis/Harry]

Harry reads by the pool.

＊ Roller Coaster by @kingsofeverything [G, 100 words, Harry/Louis]

Harry’s afraid of roller coasters, Louis holds his hand.

＊ Nothing's Ever Set In Stone by @lululawrence [NR, 8k, Louis/Pedro Pascal]

Unknown: Hey, is this Louis? I’m Pedro, the owner of the car you hit this morning

After a quick back and forth during which Louis apologized repeatedly, he thought that would be it. He was glad that Pedro was being so nice about it, but he figured they'd said everything they needed to and it would probably come to a close soon with Louis never hearing from him again. Which was fine.

Maybe if they ever ran into each other and figured out who the other was while in the neighborhood, they could be somewhat friendly. They weren’t incredibly close to each other, but Louis walked past the guy’s house at least a few times a week with Clifford, usually in the evening before bed. It wasn’t completely out of the realm of possibility.

But the conversation didn’t end. At least, not the way Louis expected it to.

＊ all we need is music by localopa / @voulezloux [T, 4k, Harry/Louis]

in honor the 40th anniversary of live aid, solo artists harry styles and louis tomlinson decide to recreate the dancing in the street music video done then by mick jagger and david bowie. the only problem is harry and louis don’t exactly like each other all that much.

＊ Loss Prevention by Anonymous [E, 5k, Louis/Harry]

There's a price to pay when you're caught stealing, and Louis makes sure Harry pays it.

＊ Some Things Just Make Sense by @louislittletomlintum [E, 21k, Zayn/Harry/Louis]

“What do you reckon?” Zayn asked him curiously.

“What? About you?” Louis countered, raising an eyebrow and rolling a bit of the beer sticker between his fingertips.

“Yeah,” Zayn shrugged. He squeezed his ankle, causing a small shiver to run through Louis’ leg.

“Reckon you could be,” Louis shrugged back, side-eyeing Zayn and smirking a bit cheekily when he saw that his joke landed, still pretending like his beer label was much more interesting than Zayn.

“Reckon I could be what?” Zayn pressed, clearly willing to play.

“Could be lovely,” Louis answered, looking back up at him. “Could be an arsehole, dunno. Would have to know you a bit better before I could say,”

or the one where louis winds up dating zayn whilst also dating harry. it's okay though, since harry is also dating zayn. maybe they should all just date one another and be done with it.

＊ Don't Delete The Kisses by @louislittletomlintum [T, 5k, Louis/Harry]

The first time that Louis realised he was in love with Harry it was with a fag hanging half out of his mouth and staring in through a grubby kitchen window, caked in years of debris.

five times louis is longing and one time he isn't

＊ The Sun Knows We're In Love (series) by @homosociallyyours [G, 600 words, Harry/Louis]

At his family's new beach house, Harry meets Louis for the first time.

＊ Let Me Put Some Country (In You) by @wishingforloushair [E, 10k, Louis/Harry]

“Tarnation. That was mighty rude of me.” Louis stares at him for a long moment, his eyes dragging across Harry’s hat and down to the decorations on the table. “Say, Harry, is it? You seem like the kind of guy who would go buck wild for a pipe of onion rings. D’y’all have a hankering? On the house?” “Uh,” Harry frowns, trying to make sense of what Louis is offering. “What?” Louis’ smile falters for a fraction of a second before it comes back just as strong. He cocks his hip slightly, hooking his free thumb over his belt near the alarmingly large buckle depicting a bronze Texas longhorn bull head. “Pipe of onion rings, on the house, darlin’.”

Harry as the Man of Honour has planned Eleanor’s hen do at The Steers and Stripes, London’s number one Wild West themed restaurant. Their waiter, dressed in his tight jeans, chaps, spurs, and cowboy hat with a dubious at best grip on the grammar of slang, makes Harry think he might have a little bit of a thing for country boys after all. Of course, there’s only one way to prove it when the bar has a mechanical bull…

＊ Forget The Time by Worldsofdreamers / @defences-down [M, 1k, Louis/Harry]

Greece! is the word and the destination.

Or The band travels to Greece to play a festival, and if there were any hinges left, the bag got lost between London and Athens. Part 20 of Chasing The Clouds

- Fic Fests -

＊ 1D Aro/Ace Fic Fest / ao3 / Masterpost / @1daroaceficfest

A One Direction Fic Fest centred around all the identities on the aromantic and asexual spectrum

＊ 1D Drabble Challenge / ao3 / Masterpost / @larrydrabble

100 word stories. All 1D pairings welcome

#28th appreciation #trackinghome #1dficvillage #july2025

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ps-cactus · 1 day ago

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[ ROOTED ] // Sebastian Sallow & GN!Reader & Ominis Gaunt

pt.2 ↓ 3,2k words. Pt.1 Here

tags and warnings (same as pt.1): no smut, no obvious romance, established relationship, unreliable narrator, haunting, mystery, dark magic, death and resurrection, identity loss, obsession, blood/mild gore, symbolism. No Y/N.

Also posted on AO3

A/N: lol this part wasn't ever meant to be, but I watched the 'Dark' series and heard Hozier's song there. So here is the thing.

Summary: You died. Here is what happens after a short while.

“What else has to happen before you admit you’re lying to yourself?”

The Moonlight man's voice is as cold as your favourite soft light, the one already gone. It merged with the thick dark of night and dissolved it into this lifeless grey. Your plan quickly collapsed: no leading them into the forest, no quenching your burning thirst, no basking in the approval of your achievements. There are only the ropes holding your body tight, almost pressing you down, making you feel weaker.

The Firelight man has stopped begging his companion, and now he’s begging you. His words are endless and insistent, sometimes desperate and so heavy, as if they hurt him to speak. As if he were dying and clinging to whatever life’s left with all the words he can try. But you know better. He isn’t dying. There is not a single fresh wound on him, not even the faintest shine of blood. Even the runes on his forearms, the ones carved just like yours, are now wrapped in many clean and thick bandages soaked in something herbal. You can hardly smell his blood at all.

Oh, you remember that scent. So sharp, so real it sings in your bones. You’ll never forget it. Nor the hunger it stirs. You swallow, ignoring the voice beside you, trying to pretend the thick saliva clinging to your mouth is warm metallic blood instead.

A glint of light hits your eye, making you flinch. He’s holding something small and metal in front of you.

“Please, just look. Can you recognise it?”

You study the object, something new in this painfully narrow, suffocating world at last. It's a fine chain with a coin, covered in little dots. Your mind has finally been helping instead of hindering, and it tells you there is something else. Something familiar. It’s an amulet.

You think you probably had a dream of something like it once. You even lower your heavy head to check. But there’s nothing there. Just your dirt-smudged shirt, with a few buttons missing. And the ropes binding you.

“Yes! Oh, Merlin…” He moves closer, the floorboards groaning right beside you. “Yes, it's yours. That's right.”

“What?” The Moonlight man steps slightly closer, then stops. He never even looked at you once, and he hasn’t come near in a long time. You don’t bother looking at him as well anymore.

“I think it's working. You remember, don’t you?”

A hand holds the amulet closer to you. Your vision is hazy again, blurred by exhaustion and this grey morning light. You don’t look at the coin, distracted by little freckles on a hand where bandages end, wishing you knew why they catch your attention so much.

The metal catches the light again. It glints, flashing into your eyes. You shift away as much as you can.

The thing irritates you. It angers you.

He's mocking you. Of course he is. Offering something you physically can’t even reach. He was the one who made these ropes appear, wrapping you so tightly you can’t even move properly, let alone get away to the deep, steady calm of the forest.

You kick your legs toward him with all the force you can muster, trying to land a blow. It's not nearly enough, and you miss. He retreats quickly, stopping when he's well out of your reach. With every move he makes, you hate him even more.

“And this?”

“It’s alright, it's nothing," the Firelight man insists. He raises an empty hand in front of the glowing wand’s tip aimed at you. “A little more time, that’s all I ask. It must be like when a bludger hits your head. The memories come back. They’re there. I know they are.”

The Moonlight man rarely speaks at all. You already despise him for it. For this silence. You hate how unpredictable it makes him.

Eventually, he puts the wand away. Reaches out a hand, helping the other one up from the floor.

The warmth in the room rises slowly, then consumes. The house shrinks around you. You breathe, but it’s not air anymore, rather something dry and stifling, like heat turned to finest dust. It clings to your lungs, making you cough. Your body, still so new to feeling alive, fades again. The clarity slips.

The always-talking man drinks water and offers it to you. Just the mere thought of it in your mouth makes you cough again, and you turn away.

You regret instantly. The light from the window is blinding. Too close, too white. Makes this air so bright and impossible to breathe. You notice how your exposed skin begins to dry out from it, turning grey.

You need to get out.

You need shade.

Just a little further into the dark.

Whatever your body can manage.

There’s a patch of shade beneath an armchair. Everything you need now. You inch toward it, trembling. The ropes tighten around you, the floorboards claw at your clothes, but none of it matters. You don't even realise the noise you're making. Or that the chair isn’t empty.

“Just a moment, alright? Don’t move… Hey—sunlight bothering you?” The always-talking man glances between you and the window. He moves his hand and the curtains draw closed with a soft whoosh. “The days’ve been sweltering here lately. That’s better, yeah?”

You flinch away from his hands as he moves you to the other wall. The floor is still warm from the sun, but at least there’s no direct light.

He sits against the other wall, not far from you. Sometimes you meet each other’s eyes. You’re alright with him looking at you, his brown eyes remind you of a tree bark in the night forest, and this memory soothes you. It brings you hope.

The books and piles of paper are all over the floor. The two men read. Write. One of them looks your way sometimes. Rubs his face a lot. He and the other, even quieter man, both speak in low voices. They ask you question after question. Their words make less and less sense to you. Again and again, they show you some metal coin. Every time your jaw clenches, but you don't know anymore if the light it once reflected was ever real.

You can barely see though the haze as the quiet man murmurs to the floating quill at the kitchen table. When he finishes, he folds the parchment, picks up some of the pages near you, and walks away. Near the door, he briefly halts.

At that same moment, the man with four books in his lap asks about the metal coin in his palm. You don’t have the strength to think. You can’t even look anymore. Light spills from the open door onto the floor and walls. Even from there, it weighs on you. It's impossible to keep your heavy eyelids open.

When you wake, the presence of something passing close by startles you.

“Did you fall asleep?”

“No, just… No.”

There are two strange men in the strange oppressive room. One sits on the floor with the back of his head against the wall. He covers his face with his bandaged hands. The standing man is a bit closer.

You struggle to tell if this thought is real, but you realise the room feels so strange for a reason. You’re no longer in the spot you think you were. Did you crawl to this place? Did someone move you? Most importantly, you're away from that terrible daylight.

Your limbs tremble under the weight of the heat around you. It’s hard to breathe here. You stretch slightly, trying to wake your limbs. The closer man shifts while talking and his close presence coils tight in your chest. You can't make sense of his words, but they definitely unsettle you.

“They said memories might exist, but they don’t return. They fade. And something else takes their place.”

His voice is low, he's holding a wand angled toward the floor. You avoid looking at the faint red glow at its tip. Instead, your eyes stay fixed on the man's other hand, where his fingernail drags over the same patch of skin again and again.

“And in the end… None of their subjects retained any resemblance to who they were. You’re the one who decided not to hear it when they warned us.”

“Maybe that’s what happens when you call someone a subject,” the bandaged man says, getting up and stepping over the papers on the floor. “Do you want to rest?”

“You’ve been treating them like that since the beginning. Well... we both have now. And it only gets worse. It’s cruel, Sebastian. I can’t—I don’t want to.”

The quiet voice changes. It reminds you of some comfort that makes you almost stand this man. You notice he’s so tall and so pale, he makes you think of the moonlight—the only thing you know and miss so much.

But it isn’t real, anyway. The real moonlight would never have scared or hurt you. And you are scared and hurt near this man.

The skin on the finger he's been scratching finally splits. Just the tiny trace of the fresh blood, but the smell already fills your lungs. It doesn’t give you any power, but it clears the fog in your mind. Not all of it, however enough to show you a clear line between you and the man.

While voices ring, the disturbing red glow on the wand's tip fades. You move closer. Neither of them notices; they’re busy being loud. Looking at the injured finger, you swallow nothing. Your mouth has been so dry for so long.

Risk doesn’t matter, it doesn't even exist anymore. You’re sitting well enough. That’s all you need. The bandaged man turns away, running a hand through his dark hair.

You move fast. You kick the closer man in the legs. He stumbles. You kick again. His wand skids across the floor as he drops, trying to reach it, or just falling.

You’re immediately losing all the little strength you gathered. But the thoughts unravel. The man's so close now, and only one thing stays.

You bite. Hard. Deep.

You tear.

You’re furious.

...You almost cry in despair.

You wanted something so small. But there’s nothing. No metallic taste. No warmth. No blood.

The frustration eats the last of your strength. You can’t move anymore, just breathe in this thick, choking air.

“No, it is me. Let me see… It’s fine... Just the sleeve.”

“And if it wasn't?”

“But it was. Just the sleeve.”

“That not what I asked!”

“I—I don't know.”

“Pretend better.”

The voices fade, swallowed by endless silence. You don’t know how long you lay in it, or whether it’s real or just your exhaustion playing tricks on you. You don't care.

He’s there. The man you slightly recognise as the one always being loud, he's looming above you.

“Why did you do that?”

You just stare at the heavy tear gathering on his lower lashes just few inches from you. You’re too afraid to move, terrified that any such effort might push you back into the fog and silence where thought stops existing. You didn't like it there.

“Why?” The man says again, even louder now. His voice shakes with it, his whole body does. You flinch when the tear finally falls, landing on your shirt. “He’s your friend. And so am I. Don't you remember anything? Anything at all? You recognised the amulet, didn't you? Can you just say it at least?”

The word friend brings one thing to mind: that metal amulet. It's lying on the floor not far away from you. The image crawls back into your mind, of this man holding the amulet out like a trick before your eyes. The useless questions he’s been asking.

You say nothing. You don’t want the loud man’s voice, nor his presence. Whatever little space your body allows, you use to lean away from him.

From somewhere else in the room, a softer voice cuts through: “You’re torturing everyone in this room right now. Stop.”

The man rises, careful to not touch you. “Maybe I only imagined the thing with the amulet… You’re right. This… has to stop.”

He takes a few steps away. Points his wand at you. Then lowers it. Lifts it again, but there’s even less resolve in the motion this time. His breath stutters. Deep, unsteady. You can hear it well. Just as the pulse beneath this flushed freckled skin. Wild and out of rhythm.

As the air around and inside you grows nicely colder, something begins to settle in your mind. Urgency.

A wicked and fulfilling combo of clarity, fear, and rage.

This one's been speaking all the words in the world to you, begging you to answer. The other man behind him brought you to this place from your peaceful home, and just let you be held captive here.

And now they're going to kill you.

You thrash like a cornered, injured animal, throwing yourself against the ropes binding your body—sideways, forward, back. They tear at your skin, and you let them. You just want out, whatever this out might be. You’ll keep trying and fighting, even if this is how it all ends.

Desperation even gives you this surge, and your head hits the floor hard. A white flash. Maybe you meant to. Maybe not. Either way, the world around you vanishes for a few solid seconds.

The first thing that comes back is sound: a high-pitched ringing. Then, the shape of the Firelight man sitting on the floor. Hand on his head.

The ropes are gone.

You realise it only a second too late, just as they pull tight again.

“Wait!”

He reaches toward you. You don’t let him. You throw your weight forward, reckless and full. The fabric tears beneath you, your skin dragging with it against the floorboards. The muscles seize. You make it worse.

Something cracks. Heat explodes in your left shoulder—sharp, deep, blinding.

Perfect.

The man’s bandaged hand flies to his shoulder. The same place. The same pain?

Better than perfect.

You turn your body and press your burning shoulder into the floor. Push harder. The cry that escapes you is half agony, half victory.

But you can't hold it.

Your breath snags. Your body folds. Still clinging to survival. Still trying to keep your bones intact.

The pain pulses through your bones. The ringing in your ears doesn’t stop. You don't move.

You’re sick of the same unchanging scene here. These walls, this airless room. Just beyond these choking walls, the forest waits. Full of breath, of movement, of everything this place is not. The forest doesn’t fear you. Doesn’t resist you. It waits and wants you back.

And still, these two sit. Still, they talk, write, and read. What a waste.

The floor is no longer warm with the sunlight, and it excites you to finally feel the night arriving and your mind clearing. The chill is sneaking in already, threading through cracks, brushing your skin. Soon it will be everywhere.

You’re ready and you want it to hurry.

The pain in your shoulder fades to a dull, steady ache. You feel calm. You can breathe as good as this tiny room allows.

The Moonlight man has drifted off more than once in the armchair. But the Firelight man hasn’t slept at all. He keeps sipping from small vials, and whatever’s in them makes his heartbeat unbearably loud to you. Now he just sits there, staring at his countless pages. Turns his wand over and over in his hands. Even that object, hated as much as the two of these people, reminds you of something gentler. Home. The forest, where every tree waits patiently, knowing you’ll return.

And when you think about it, it’s more than a reminder. It’s the truth: every wand was once part of the forest. Something of the forest still lives inside it, reshaped but never gone.

You focus on the wand. Really focus. The grain of the wood. The shallow grooves. You don’t have to imagine them. You can see them. Your vision sharpens again. The flickering light of the fireplace dances over the surface, but nothing blurs anymore. A single silver beam slips past the curtain, almost like it’s calling for you. Closer than you expected. It takes only a few minutes to edge toward it, dragging your back along the pleasantly cool wall.

You flinch when the light touches you, so weightless and so soft at once. You even close your eyes. Nothing’s happening in the room anyway.

The light settles into you. Steady, gentle. Clear. If a single thread of moonlight can bring this much comfort, then the truth is simple: you have to leave this house. Even if you go alone. You’ll bring them later, once you’re strong enough again.

Watching the Firelight man’s wand stops being a mere distraction; it becomes a game. You enjoy seeing the slow creep of soft green across the wood. Lichen works into every groove, every grain. And with every growing patch, the ropes around you loosen.

Bit. By. Bit.

The Moonlight man had stepped away to return with the mug that the Firelight man takes from him. For the first time in hours, he looks at you. He says nothing. Doesn’t linger. You haven’t moved, not really, and he doesn’t see that the tension in your limbs is gone. That the bindings have thinned to shimmer, nothing more than tricks of light.

The crackling fire masks the subtle, splintering sound coming from his wand’s wood.

You can’t afford to wait for the same to happen to the second one. Your body hums with readiness. If you don’t act now, the moment will vanish again, just like it did last night. You glance toward the door. It’s so far. Heavy. You’re strong again, but you’ll need every second.

The window is closer. The glass is thin. Just reaching past the curtain will feel good. And once you’re outside, they’ll be too slow and distracted to follow.

It’s time.

The Firelight man yawns, refusing to rest—and in that split second, you leap to your feet. Swing the curtain open. Behind it, a small stone pot sits on the windowsill. You hurl it through the glass. Then you follow, crashing through after it, barely noticing pieces of your reflection in the broken glass.

The cuts don’t matter. You’ll survive them. What you couldn’t survive was staying.

Behind you, something shatters. Flares. The voices rise, sharp and unbearable.

But the forest has been waiting. And now it receives you.

You run.

You breathe.

Finally.

Every rotted leaf and every fresh green bud, every whisper of wind and call of night bird on it—everything greets you like an old friend. They lend you speed. They give you strength. They bring you joy. All the ground belongs to you again, even the pieces of it you’ve never seen or touched before.

Beneath endless trees veiled in shadow, under canopies bathed in silver light, you stop to look and listen.

You are alone.

You are free.

A strange sound breaks the stillness, but it’s not coming from the woods. It’s you. You’re laughing. It feels good.

You know now that even without them, your return will be accepted. It’s only temporary anyway. You’ll fix it and bring them. You can fix anything now.

Your thoughts are crisp and certain. You press a hand to your chest, feeling how deeply the breath sinks in—cold, damp, glorious.

And you remember the amulet, the one that lived here once. Metal, weighty, resting on a chain so old it had snapped twice. Once, you repaired it. The second time, it was the Firelight man who fixed it. For you. You suddenly wonder why you call him that.

And you look down at your chest.

Without thinking, you tear another button from your shirt. You scratch at the skin beneath. But no. There’s nothing.

And there never was.

There were never Ominis’ hand, tracing the dots on that amulet, pointing out the astronomical mistake, though he still called it finely made.

Sebastian’s hair was never tangled in the chain while he slept on your chest. That warm weight, that closeness—of course, it was never real.

Just a trick of mind after all the suffering they put you through. But now, you are strong. You are ready. You are near. You promise to stop being so confused about what’s real.

There was only ever the forest. And you, woven into it as deeply as its roots, as bound to it as your breath to this wind.

You raise your face toward the moon. Still far. Still watching. Still silent.

The moon has to help you.

And you promise to listen, after all this is your one true…

friend?

#was I giggling using the word glorious? yes I was #iykyk #no beta read #mind tags and warnings #by not a native english speaker #ominis gaunt fanfiction #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts legacy fanfiction #sebastian sallow x reader #sebastian sallow fanfiction #ominis gaunt x reader #hogwarts legacy oneshot #cactus writes

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falcosam · 1 day ago

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i have 1000 ideas of how the sambucky confession could go down but one i like a lot is when it happens on an ordinary day for them.

set where both sam and bucky have been pining after each other for years, bucky even longer.

it’s a bit before bnw, and they’re still doing missions together as partners. bucky’s cleared out his side, with sam being done on his end.

they’ve pretty much completed the mission without any issues. bucky’s standing in the middle of a field, waiting for joaquin to pick them up and send them home.

and fuck.

there’s nothing special about this mission, really. bucky didn’t even get to see sam in action much because he was dealing with his own goons.

but something about seeing sam descend upon him like an angel, sun hitting him just right, makes bucky lose it.

he intends to check on sam, ask if he’s alright, no injuries, you’re sure? the usual post mission fuss.

except the first thing he says when sam’s in front of him is: i’m in love with you

at first bucky thinks maybe he imagined himself saying it. but one look at sam’s face and horror dawns upon him because sam’s (beautiful) lips are parted in shock and bucky can hear his heartbeat - both of theirs going crazy.

he swallows, wondering what to do. how to follow up. how to pretend he doesn’t have any feelings for his best friend when it feels so good to admit it. it feels so good to let sam know that bucky loves him.

sam is the one who speaks up first.

“i can’t believe-”

“i’m sorry.”

“no, hear me out buck.” sam says, reaching out for bucky. he tries not to flinch at his hand coming to touch his shoulder. he’s already thinking about moving out of their shared house even though it’s the last thing he wants. “i’m not mad.”

“of course you wouldn’t be. you’re you.” bucky immediately replies. sam wilson is the most understanding and kind person on earth.

“no - as in-” sam sighs, gently lifting bucky’s chin until they’re seeing eye to eye. bucky wants to turn his head back down, look at his twiddling thumbs.

god he wishes he had a knife in his hand so he can do something with his hands

“i love you too.”

bucky looks at sam then. really fucking looks at him. his wings are still spread out. he might be imagining a halo over his head.

“oh.”

sam grins, and it’s blinding. bucky feels crazy. nothing feels real until hands are cupping his cheeks and oh. “yeah buddy.”

he’s never felt so shy before, asking somebody if he can kiss them, but bucky feels it just then with sam. he leans into his touch, whispering against sam’s mouth, pleading for permission.

sam’s lip is busted, and their first kiss tastes like blood. but he can feel sam smiling into it and really, it’s the best first kiss he’s ever had with anyone.

#p #sambucky #snowangel #sam wilson #bucky barnes #i can’t believe i forgot this in the car earlier #anyway i typed this out with my mum next to me sorry mother dont look at my yaoi

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youthereader · 1 day ago

Text

Lo Que Me Haces

pairing: frankie morales (triple frontier) x fem!reader

summary: 3.8k words. You were supposed to be backup. Then the mission went loud and Frankie Morales saw exactly what you could do. Now he doesn't hold back.

rating: E. gun violence. rough sex. competence kink. reverse cowgirl. prone bone. bilingual dirty talk. competitive sex.

a/n: I wanted to write Frankie as an equal with Reader in skills. Turns out, he loves to see you succeed. ugh Spanish is not my first language though so I'm sorry in advance.

The sun hasn’t risen yet, but the sky is gray enough that you can’t count on the darkness to hide you anymore.

Your stomach’s quiet. Always is, right before it starts. Nerves long since trained into silence.

You're prone on the roof, chest pressed flat to the cement, breathing through your teeth. Your scope is steady. No wind. Not enough to matter. You’ve already adjusted for distance—three hundred meters, one-story drop. Target’s on the far side of the compound near the loading bay, pacing with a radio pressed to his mouth.

A glint of silver flashes at his hip. Holstered sidearm. He’s not on patrol. He’s calling it in.

Below you, over comms, you hear Pope's voice clipped and annoyed:

“Extraction window’s closing—where the fuck is Morales?”

You don’t respond. You don't need to. You've got eyes on everything.

Beside you, someone shifts—too loudly. Benny. You don’t turn your head.

You don’t look at Frankie either. He’s crouched behind the lip of the roof, rifle loose in his hands, his sleeves rolled past the elbow and sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. He hasn’t said much all morning. Just watched and assessed.

You heard it in their voices—bonus support asset—like you were some kind of afterthought, a generous add-on to the real team.

And that was fine. Let them. Let them think you were just tagging along. That you wouldn’t pull a trigger unless someone told you when.

You adjust your angle slightly, fingertip resting against the trigger guard. The man in your sights stops pacing and lifts the radio again. His mouth moves, and the second it does, you squeeze.

The crack of the shot breaks the morning open.

No flinch. No hesitation. The man drops. He’s dead before his body hits the concrete.

You exhale once, steady and low, and shift your scope to sweep for a second threat. There’s none. You already knew that. You still check.

It’s only when you roll onto your side and push yourself to your feet that you realize how quiet it’s gotten.

Frankie’s staring at you. Not in a surprised way. Not angry, either. Just wrecked, like he just saw something he wasn’t ready for.

“Holy fuck,” Benny mutters from behind you. But it’s faint, far away.

Frankie stands slowly and walks the two feet toward you, still looking at you like you’ve grown a second head.

“You didn’t say you could do that.”

You shrug, brushing a fleck of concrete dust off your elbow. “Didn’t figure I needed to.”

He blinks once. He exhales—low and long—and you see the way his jaw clenches. Not like he’s mad. Like something in him’s been pulled tight and hasn’t let go yet.

And it won’t. Not for a while. Not now that he's seen you shoot a man like it was muscle memory, like you’d done it a hundred times before. Because you have.

You clear two more rooms before Pope and Ironhead link up.

They’re breathing hard, rifles drawn. Will nods at you, curt, but his eyes linger a little too long on the hallway behind you—on the two bodies crumpled in the dark.

Pope raises an eyebrow. “That you?”

You don’t answer.

Frankie does. “Yeah.”

Pope looks between you, like maybe he missed something, but there’s no time to dig into it. He motions to the west end of the compound. “Truck’s ten yards past the gate. Two left at the post. You ready?”

“I’ll go first,” you say.

Will moves to argue—too late. You’re already sliding out into the alley, low and fast. You catch one of the guards mid-turn and sink your blade in smooth, one hand over his mouth. His knees hit dirt with a soft thud.

The second sees movement and raises his rifle.

You’re on him before he gets his finger on the trigger.

Frankie’s behind you now. He doesn’t try to stop you. Doesn’t say a word, he just watches.

By the time the others catch up, you’re crouched beside the truck, checking the undercarriage for surprises.

“Clean,” you mutter. “Get in.”

Pope drives. Frankie takes the passenger seat. You and Will slide in the back. Benny’s already there, suddenly not cracking jokes anymore.

No one says much for the first few miles.

The jungle road is narrow and slick from overnight rain. Mud cakes the tires. Mosquitoes whine at the windows. Sweat clings to your collar, already cold despite the heat.

Your eyes stay on the side mirror, watching for movement. Always watching.

Then—quietly—Frankie speaks.

“We’re clear,” he says into the comms.

You glance at him just once.

He’s already looking at you. Not sideways anymore. Not casually. It’s like he’s finally seeing you for what you are.

He turns back to the road ahead, jaw tight. You can almost hear what he’s not saying.

Benny leans forward, his voice low. “Jesus, she’s better than half the guys we’ve ever worked with.”

Will hums. “Better than most.”

Pope doesn’t respond.

Frankie does.

“She’s a sniper,” he says, voice level. “And recon. Ran black for six years. Middle East, Balkans, Central America. She doesn’t need our fucking approval.”

It’s the first time he’s said anything real since the kill.

You don’t smile. But you meet his eyes in the mirror. This time, he doesn’t look away.

The safehouse isn’t much. Concrete walls, one working ceiling fan, and the faint smell of mildew and gun oil baked into everything. But it’s quiet. And it holds.

You strip out of your tac vest and set it down on the table, checking clips, then rechecking. It’s not about habit anymore. It’s about giving the others time to speak first.

Behind you, boots scrape tile. Pope drops into one of the plastic chairs, hands steepled under his chin. Will stands by the window, watching the street. Benny paces. Frankie hasn’t taken his eyes off you since the truck.

They’re quiet. Not in a bad way. Not anymore.

In a what the fuck just happened kind of way.

Will clears his throat. “So. We gonna talk about it?”

“No need,” Pope says, eyes still on you.

Benny finally stops pacing, palms on his hips. “Where the hell did you learn to shoot like that?”

You don’t look up. Just start stripping your sidearm for cleaning. “Long time ago.”

Will exhales. “Who was your CO?”

You glance at him then, just briefly. “Classified.”

“Bullshit,” Benny mutters. “You were Delta, weren’t you?”

“Close,” Frankie says, voice low. “SIGINT recon, attached to Task Force 42. Pre-split.”

They all turn to look at him. You don’t.

Benny lets out a low whistle. “That op in Kandahar?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to.

Pope leans back, blinking up at the ceiling. “Jesus. They pulled her for this?”

“Probably figured we’d underestimate her,” Frankie says.

That’s the first time he includes himself in the accusation. You finally look up, meeting his gaze across the table. Something shifts in the air.

A beat too long passes before Will clears his throat and says, “Well. Remind me not to piss you off.”

You smirk. “Noted.”

Benny gives you a wide berth on his way to the water tank. Pope stands and claps a hand to your shoulder, firm and brief. “Nice work out there.”

Then it’s just you and Frankie. Still seated and watching. He hasn’t even moved to take off his gloves.

He just says, quiet and rough: “You ever think about coming back full time?”

You arch an eyebrow.

“You’re not washed up. You’re not out of practice. You could run circles around us.”

You lean back in the chair, wiping the bolt carrier clean with a strip of cloth. “I didn’t come here to get recruited.”

He nods, eyes on your hands. “That’s not what I meant.”

Another beat of silence.

Then he says, “Didn’t mean to underestimate you. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Your voice is steady when you reply: “No. You won’t.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

You glance up from where you’re folding your shirt, still in your tank, sports bra flattening your ribs. Your hair’s a mess, face streaked with sweat and dirt. You haven’t showered. You haven’t even sat down.

Frankie stands there, his shoulders tense, his eyes on you like he hasn’t made up his mind if this is a mistake or not.

Then he locks the door. You raise an eyebrow.

“I wasn’t sure,” he says, voice low, rough as gravel. “If I came in here, if you’d—”

“Change your mind?” you cut in.

He nods once.

“I haven’t.”

Frankie exhales like that costs him something. Then crosses the room in three strides and kisses you before you can say another word.

It’s not polished. It’s not pretty. It’s hungry.

His hands are on your waist, sliding up your spine like he’s starving for contact. Your mouth opens for him instantly, teeth clashing, tongues brushing. You bite his lower lip and he groans into it, tilting his head like he’s chasing more.

“Fuck,” he breathes, dragging his mouth down your neck. “You have no idea what you did to me out there.”

You arch into him, half-laughing. “Pretty sure I do.”

He lifts your shirt in one tug, eyes dropping to your chest. “Jesus—” he murmurs. “Mírame...”

You don’t ask what it means. You do.

You hold his gaze when you reach for his belt, fingers brushing the hard line of his stomach as you work the buckle free.

He sucks in a breath. “Estás cabrona,” he mutters. “Too fuckin’ good.”

You grin. “That supposed to be an insult?”

Frankie shakes his head, smiling despite himself. “No. Nah. It’s just... fuck, it’s hot.”

Your hands slide under his waistband and you grab his cock, already hard, twitching against your palm. He hisses through his teeth.

“You’re seriously this turned on?” you ask, voice light, teasing.

“After watching you kill a man mid-sentence? Hell yeah, I am.”

That makes you laugh—honest and unguarded. “Fucking psycho.”

He presses his forehead to yours, grinning. “Takes one to know one, baby.”

You’re back at it—clothes shoved down, hands greedy, your back hitting the wall with a thud as he sinks to his knees.

“Let me,” he says.

You nod once.

Frankie’s already tugging your pants down before you even move—knees on tile, jaw set like a man on a mission. You steady yourself against the wall, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding into his curls.

“Spread your legs for me,” he mutters. “C’mon, baby—just like that.”

You do, and the sound he makes isn’t polite.

He palms your thighs like he owns them, thumbs pressing into the muscle, dragging your hips closer. Then his mouth is on you—hot, hungry, filthy. He starts slow, lapping a broad stroke up your slit, humming low like he needs to memorize the taste. Then he dives in—sucks your clit into his mouth and groans like he’s starving.

Your head knocks the wall. “Jesus, Frankie—”

He pulls back just long enough to breathe, eyes flicking up, dark and molten.

“Eres tan jodidamente rica,” he rasps. You’re so fucking rich. So fucking good. “Can’t believe I didn’t do this sooner.”

His mouth is back on you before you can answer, his tongue rolling in slow circles. Then faster. Then he slides two fingers into you without warning, crooking just right. You gasp. He chuckles against your cunt, and the vibration makes your knees nearly give.

“Look at you,” he mutters, mouth wet. “Fucking soaked for me.”

You tug his hair hard—hard enough that his head tips back. His lips are slick with you. He looks wrecked.

“Get back to it,” you say, grinning, breathless.

He does. You grind against his face now, chasing it. He lets you. No ego. No hesitation. Just filthy, precise pressure and that voice in your ear every time he comes up for breath.

“Take what you need, hermosa.”

“Rub your pussy all over my face, I don’t care.”

“Fuck, you taste so good.”

He moans when you start to fall apart—murmurs that’s it, that’s it, as you shake through it, thighs clamping around his face. He doesn’t stop. Not until you’re breathless and gasping and shoving his head away with a shaky hand.

He rises slowly. You’re panting, dripping. Grinning. He leans in, kisses the side of your mouth with a smear of you still on his lips, and says—

“Next time I go down there, I’m making you beg.”

You reach for his belt again, this time with purpose. Frankie helps, fumbling with the button, zipper loud in the stillness of the room. You push his pants down just far enough and wrap your hand around his cock—thick, flushed, twitching under your grip.

“Condom?” you ask, voice low.

He grabs one from the side pocket of his cargo pants—shakes it out with a huff of laughter. “Didn’t think I’d need this tonight.”

“You always carry one?”

He smirks. “With you around? Fuck yeah.”

You take it. Tear it. Roll it down slowly. Frankie hisses as your fingers slide over the sensitive head, his hands curling into fists against the mattress.

Then you turn.

You climb onto him backwards, knees on either side of his hips, your hands splayed on his thighs. You grip the base of his cock and guide him in.

He swears—low, guttural—his hands flying to your ass, squeezing, spreading.

“Holy shit,” he growls. “Look at this. Fucking look at this.”

You rock back onto him fully, slow and deep, your hips circling with practiced control. You’re already slick from his mouth, and the stretch still makes you grunt through your teeth.

Frankie watches you like a man undone.

“Take me,” he mutters. “Fucking ride me. Shit—you were made for this.”

You move—grinding down in tight, dirty circles, bouncing just enough to make him lose composure. He grabs handfuls of your ass, spreads you so wide you feel exposed under the heat of his stare.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, voice shaky. “Watching you fuck yourself on me—Jesus, hermosa.”

You glance over your shoulder, sweat dripping down your spine. “Gonna tap out already, Morales?”

He surges upright in a flash—grabs you under the ribs and flips you like a rag doll. You yelp, breathless and laughing, but it’s swallowed by the mattress as he shoves you flat, pressing his full weight down with his chest to your back.

You feel him line up again—then slam into you hard.

You gasp, cheek to the sheets.

“Oh my God—”

“Not done,” he pants. “Not even close.”

He sets a brutal pace, hips snapping into yours, one hand pinning your wrist above your head, the other gripping your hip so tight you’ll feel it tomorrow. You push back against him, trying to throw him off, but he growls and drives in deeper.

You squirm beneath him, shifting your weight, dragging your nails along the sheets.

“Fucking—stay still—” he hisses.

“Make me,” you spit.

He grabs your other wrist, presses both down above your head, and pins you there with one arm. His other hand comes around and wraps tight around your throat—not choking, just claiming.

“Quédate,” he growls into your ear. Stay.

Your whole body locks up—and then shudders.

He groans, low and ragged. “Fuck—you feel that? You feel how close I am?”

You nod, dizzy. “Don’t come.”

“I won’t.”

His voice breaks on it. He’s holding off, barely.

And you’re not sure who’s gonna break first.

Frankie curses—sharp and desperate—and pulls out, breathing hard against the back of your neck.

“Timeout,” he rasps, dragging his palm down your spine like he’s grounding himself. “Fuck— I need a second.”

You collapse onto your stomach, panting into the sheets, your skin tacky with sweat. “You good?”

He laughs—an honest, winded sound—and flops down beside you. “Just regrouping.”

You glance at him.

He’s sprawled on his back, eyes wild, chest heaving. You’re both flushed and wrecked, covered in sweat and bruises you don’t remember earning. You grin.

“Pussy.”

“Don’t test me,” he says, pointing a lazy finger in your direction.

You roll onto your side, knees pulled up slightly, still catching your breath. Frankie’s eyes trace your body in slow, greedy lines.

Then he moves.

He reaches for you, trailing his fingertips up your shin, to your knee, to the curve of your hip. Light, barely-there strokes that make you twitch.

“Frankie—”

He’s already shifting closer. His hand slides between your thighs. You suck in a breath.

“Still so wet,” he murmurs, voice low and frayed. “Still fucking open for me.”

You whimper as his fingers drag through your folds—slick and easy. He slides one in, then a second, then curls them just right. Your whole body jolts.

“Yeah,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “Just like that. Give it to me, baby. Let me feel you come again.”

You moan into the pillow as he fucks you slow and deep with his fingers. His mouth is everywhere—your neck, your shoulder, the side of your face. Every word comes out like a confession pressed against your skin.

“I wanna make you come in my mouth again.”

“I wanna tie your hands behind your back and take my time.”

“I wanna fuck you in front of a mirror—watch your face when you fall apart.”

You grind down against his hand, chasing it.

“Wanna see you on your knees, begging for my cock.”

Your hips jerk, legs tightening. He groans against your ear.

“That’s it, hermosa—déjalo ir. Come for me.”

You do—mouth open, fingers digging into the sheets, legs trembling around his wrist as he works you through it, filthy and reverent, murmuring good girl while your whole body clenches around him.

When it’s over, you collapse half on top of him, boneless and shaking with laughter.

“Jesus,” you breathe. “You always talk that much?”

He smirks, wiping his fingers on the sheets. “Only when I like what I see.”

You flop back onto the mattress, chest still rising and falling, skin flushed, lips parted. Your thigh’s damp from the slick between your legs. Frankie’s beside you, half upright on one elbow, his hand dragging slow over your hipbone, fingers still wet—glinting faintly in the low light.

You swing your knee lazily, foot brushing the sheets, then glance down the length of his body.

He’s still hard. The condom’s still on, stretched tight, latex gleaming with your slick. He twitches when your eyes linger there.

You lick your lips. You smirk. “This isn’t what I expected.”

His brow lifts. “No?”

You turn your head toward him, propped up on your forearm now, your body loose but still thrumming. “Thought you’d be serious. Controlled. Soft, maybe. I don’t know.”

Frankie’s hand slides up your hip. He squeezes, slow and firm. “And?”

You smile wider. “You’re filthy. Competitive. Kinda mean.”

He grins—crooked, dimpled, panting. “Only with people who can take it.”

His thumb skims the edge of your ribs. You’re still breathing hard. You haven’t looked away from his cock. Neither has he.

Your voice is low when you speak again. “You gonna finish what you started?”

Frankie leans in close, nose grazing your temple, his breath warm and thick with heat.

“Turn around,” he murmurs. “I’m not done with you yet.”

You do it with a grin, with every intention of breaking him this time. You stand up.

You stand over him on the bed, feet planted on either side of his hips. Sweat glistens along your inner thighs. He lies back, arms behind him, his cock flushed and straining, still sheathed in latex and glistening with slick.

Frankie’s hands grip your ankles, holding you there like you might vanish.

You shift your weight—just slightly—and watch his eyes darken.

From this angle, you know what he sees. Your pussy, still swollen and slick. The twitch of your hole, open and begging. The hint of your ass. Your grin.

“What are you gonna do, then, Frankie?” you ask, voice low and hot and goading.

He licks his lips. “Come here.”

“Make me.”

He yanks your ankle hard, and you fall forward with a surprised laugh, landing on his chest. He spanks your ass once—sharp, claiming—then pulls you higher into his lap. You shift your hips, teasing the head of his cock against your entrance, then line him up and sink down slowly.

You both groan. The stretch punches breath from your lungs. Frankie’s jaw goes slack. His hands grip your hips like he’s barely holding back.

You kiss him softly—too softly. Then you drag your tongue from his bottom lip to his top in a single, slow stroke.

He growls.

“You little fucking—”

He cuts himself off with a thrust that makes your thighs shake.

You brace against his shoulders as he starts to move you—grinding, rolling your hips while he bucks up into you. The rhythm is fast, chaotic, greedy. You meet every push with a snap of your own, dragging moans out of both of you.

“Fuck,” he gasps, clutching your face in one hand. “You feel—mierda, you feel like a dream.”

Your cunt pulses around him, clenching when he says it. He feels it. His eyes flutter.

You smirk and lean in close, just to whisper, “You’re gonna break first.”

He shoves his thumb in your mouth. You suck hard.

Frankie’s hips stutter. “Oh, fuck me—”

You grind down, taking every inch, and the look on his face breaks something in you. He’s panting now, blinking slowly, like his brain’s short-circuiting. His hand flies from your cheek to the small of your back, clutching hard.

Suddenly, he flips you and throws you back onto the bed like he can’t take it another second.

He grabs your thighs, opens you up, and fucks you. No finesse now. Just raw, desperate thrusts—deep, punishing, perfect.

“You wanna take it?” he growls. “You gonna give it to me?”

“Yes,” you pant, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Say it.”

“I want it. Fucking give it to me, Frankie—”

He groans, long and ragged, thrusts growing uneven.

“Can I—fuck, can I come on you?”

You’re already reaching for the condom, rolling it off his cock with steady fingers. He shudders.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Give it to me.”

He pulls back with a gasp, fist tight around himself, and you watch as he strokes once, twice—

Then he’s coming. Hot, thick stripes across your stomach. His whole body curls over you as he groans your name, trembling through the release. You feel it splatter, warm on your skin, his hand braced beside your head, his breath in your ear.

“Fuck, baby… jodida perfecta…”

You lie there, breathless and ruined, grinning up at him through sweat.

He looks down, sees what he’s done to you, and lets out a shaky laugh.

“Well,” you murmur, wiping your thumb through his mess on your belly. “That got out of hand.”

Frankie grins, still panting.

“Next time?” he says, eyes still burning.

You raise an eyebrow. He leans in, mouth brushing your jaw.

“I don’t stop ‘til you scream.”

#frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales x y/n #frankie morales #triple frontier fanfiction #fem reader #pedro pascal fanfiction

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sabxhere · 19 hours ago

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RAIIIIIIII, RAI WHAT THE FUCK RAI RAI WBWHWBHWBWHWJWJWJ😭😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖

WHEN YOU SAID "I'm dedicating the next one to you" I THOUGHT LIKE, SOME TIME WOULD PASS BEFORE YOU POSTED IT, NOT THAT I WOULD GET HIT OVER THE HEAD VIOLENTLY WITH PEAK AFTER YESTERDAY'S BANGER, OH MY GOD, I'M BLEEDING ON THE GROUND FROM PEAK INDUCED CONCUSSION,,,,,I FEAR I'LL NEVER GET UP OR BE NORMAL AGAIN, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE OH MY GODVWHWHWHWHWHWJ💖💖💖💖💖💖

HOLD ON, NAW, CAUSE YOU HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHEN I SAW THE NOTIF I THOUGHT "railwynn tagged me in a post??? ohhh, what!!! That's so exciting, lemme check it—!" AND THEN I FUCKING READ THE CAPTION AND HEARD THE SONG AND THE ANIMATIC STARTED PLAYING AND I THOUGHT "NO FUCKING WAY NO FUCKING WAY NO FUCKING WAY" IN TECHNICOLORS, I LITERALLY SPENT THE ENTIRE TIME WATCHING THIS WITH LIKE, A HAND COVERING MY MOUTH AND THE WIDEST EYES AND THEN SMILE IRL, CAUSE OH MY GOD, THE SURPRISE, THE CUTENESS OF THE ANIMATIC, RAI YOU KILLED ME, RAI I'M DEAD STOP BLUDGEONING ME OVER AND OVER AGAIN WITH PEAK, GIRL, GIRL, IT'S OVER, I'M NOT BREATHING ANYMORE, GIRLLLLLLWHEHWBWHEHWJ😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖💖💖/SILLY/VVVVVPOS

UMMMM, ANYWAYS, GOSH, OKAY LEMME LOCK IN KINDA, AUGH, THIS LITERALLY MADE MY WHOLE EFFING WEEK, HOLD ON AUGH,,,,,OKAY, OKAY I NEED TO LOCK IN, "monster" is such a detey song it's killing me, oh my god, the ukulele too, it's so perfect for them, THE LYRICS, KILL ME KILL ME KILL MEEEEEEEBWJWHWHWJWJ😭😭😭💖💖💖OH I'M SO COOKED, THIS IS MY ROMAN EMPIRE I FEAR, I NEED TO LOCK TF AND STOP GUSHING TO ACTUALLY TALK ABOUT THE ANIMATIC, BUT OMG IT'S SO HARD, SCREAMING SO LOUDLY😭😭😭😭💖💖💖💖

Any shot with petey looking at dogman and him being surrounded by sparkles and seen in softest way possible from petey's perspective, PLEAAAAASSSE, WTF WTF, IT'S SO CUTE, AUGHHHH, AND HOW THROUGHOUT THE ANIMATIC PETEY GOES FROM FLUSTERED AND NOT WANTING TO LOOK HIM IN THE EYES CAUSE HE FEELS VULNERABLE, BUT AFTER DOGMAN REASSURES HIM AND GETS CLOSE AND SNUGGLES TO HIM, HE LITERALLY CAN'T TAKE HIS EYES OFF OF HIM, RELEASE ME RELEASE ME FROM THIS ENCLOSURE, I NEED TO BE PUT DOWN LIKE A DOG RIGHT TF NOWWWWW😭😭😭💖💖💖💖

The frowny blushing expression petey has at first is so adorable, and the flashbacks!!! I was so silly excited when I saw them, ahhh yes, "hey babe do you remember when your job was hunting me down for sports and how we went at each other's necks 5 times a week?? Good times😌💖💖"/SILLY/J HWHEJWHWNWJW GIGGLING, JOKES ASIDE, IT'S SO GOOD, their progress and how they grew as people it's so good, ughhh, and the flashbacks are so cute, I WAS GIGGLING SO SO BAD AT THE ONE WITH DOGMAN CHOMPING ON PETEY S ARM, HAHAHAHAHA

PETEY LOOKING AT THE STARRY SKY WHILE SAYING "I've always felt like a monster" AND REMINISCING OF HIS CHILDHOOD AND PAST, AND HOW SMOOTHLY THE TRANSITION FROM PRESENT TO HIS KID SELF GOES, RAIIIIII😭😭😭AND HIM SEEING GRACE AND GRAMPA FIGHTING, THE BROKEN PLATE ON THE FLOOR, OH FUCK, ALSO FORGIVE ME IF I'M WRONG, BUT, the shot with him having the collar and leash, is it a reference to petey's past, in the super diaper baby series, where he's dr dilbert's pet??? MAYBE IT'S NOT AND I'M LOOKING TOO INTO THINGS, BUT IF IT IS, THAT'S SO SO COOL, AND I'M SCREAMING SO LOUDLY RN, I NEED TO BE LOCKED UP ACTUALLY

WHEN DOGMAN BUTTS HIS HEAD AGAINST HIM. AND PETEY'S TOO FLUSTERED TO FUNCTION FOR A SECOND AND IS STARING UP IN WONDER LIKE "how is this my life, how did I get so lucky" AND THEN RECIPROCATES THE CUDDLE WITH THE "but I could get used to this" LINE, PLEAAAAASEEE, I CANNOT TAKE IT ANY LONGER I CAN'T DO THIS ANYMORE RAI, WTFFFFFFFF, JUST KILL MEEEEEEE, IT WOULD BE QUICKER, SOBBING PATHETICALLY😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖/SILLY/POS

The way they look at each other, their sweet smiles, the way petey's eyes light up when he says "and I love that it means—" , DOGMAN CRADLING HIS FACE, THE KISS THE KISS THE KISSTEHEKISSWHWBWHWHWHWHHWHWHWH💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖💖

Closing my eyes, I'm ready to go now, I'm ready, getting dragged away by the grim reaper, it's okay, I'm in a better place now, I wouldn't have wanted to go out in a better way😭😭😭💖💖💖

RAI, THIS IS. SO FUCKING GOOD, WORDS CANNOT ENCOMPASS HOW MUCH THIS IS DEAR TO ME AND HOW CUTE AND CHARMING I FIND IT NOR HOW MUCH I'M IN AWE AT THESE AMAZING FRAMES, I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU WANTED TO DEDICATE SUCH AN INCREDIBLE PIECE TO ME, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, you're so sweet and kind, aughhhhh😭😭😭💖💖💖

Anotha one -that I hadn't finished lkshjgkls Don't mind the mess T0T, but we can all agree that "Monster" from Adventure Time is a detey song right? Right. Dedicating this one to @sabxhere for being such a cool supporter, you a real one uwu

#dog man #dogman #petey the cat #detey #petey x dogman #jailbreak #RAI I NEED TO SORTA SHAKE YOU LIKE A SNOW GLOBE RN SCREAMING SO LOUDLY😭😭😭💖💖💖💖#THAT'S OOMF + INCREDIBLE ARTIST + HUGE SWEETHEART + SUPER COOL PERSON I AM GONNA EXPLODE GUYS😭😭😭💖💖💖💖💖#THIS GOES BEYOND WHEN I SAY “hah guys i'm winning so bad i'm winning soooo bad” when i see cool art THIS IS STRAIGHT UP GOING FOR MY JUGULAR #AND ALSO AT THE SAME TIME LIKE A HOST FROM A SHOW DRAGGED ME AND THREW ME ON A STAGE AND SCREAMED “CONGRATULATIONS YOU WONNNNNNN YOU WON!!!”#AND I WAS STARING AT ALL THIS GOING “WHAT WHAT WHAT HUH WHAT WHAT'S HAPPENING” I FEEL SO FLATTERED AND BEWILDERED IN THE BEST WAY POSSIBLE #RAIIIIIIIIIII I LOVE YOU SO MUCH YOU'RE THE BEST OF THE BEST FRFRFR UGHHHH😭😭😭💖💖💖💖#railwynn's art!!!💖💖💖💖

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chesapeakescove · 1 day ago

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One of Your Mayfair Girls || George Russell Two Shot

Part II: Bad Idea

Pairing: George Russell x Childhood friend!Reader

Summary: George Russell has always been your safe space, the boy next door who never made you feel small even when the world did. But now he’s living in the glitz and glam of Formula 1, and you can’t help but feel left behind for prettier, wealthier options. What you don’t know? One messy, drunken night is about to prove how wrong you’ve been — and just how long George has been holding the same secret fantasy as you.

Word Count: ~10.K (two parts)

Warnings: Explicit smut, consensual drunken sex, oral (fem recieving), PIV, no protection, heavy drinking/intoxication, vocal!George, mutual pining, long-time friends-to-lovers, messy emotions, praise kink (mild), soft dom!George energy, creampie, comfort sex, very affectionate post-confession sex, drunk-but-consensual decision-making (both parties equally drunk), emotional vulnerability.

Author’s Note: Fuck George is so hot I can't, like it's actually not OK. This part nearly killed me to write because desperate George is a whole other levelHow does he go from “socially clueless but earnestly in love childhood friend” to “lust-drunk, possessive, confessional sex god” in 0.5 seconds??? anyway. this is 5k of pure smut -AKA messy feelings and George saying filthy things he’s definitely been thinking about since 2015.

Tags: #george russell x reader #george russell fic #f1 #friends to lovers #mutual pining but make it horny #smut #george pls ruin me #he really said “you could make a bin bag look sexy”?? #feral behavior #this is just ~5k of yearning and him ruining you #friends to “oh god we’re kissing” to "fuck that feels good" pipeline

Have an idea or prompt for a future one shot or mini series? Check out my submission rules and send me an ask!

Rules || One-shots, Requests & Smuts - Masterlist || AO3 Work || Next →

Fuck, he's such a good kisser.

You brain had gone to mush in a matter of seconds. One minute he'd been next to on the couch, eyes wide and sincere. The next, the weight of his hand on your thigh was anchoring you in place as he coaxed your mouth open, closing the little space between you. His breath was warm against you, lips fixed on yours with a hunger that made your pulse stutter.

He kissed you like he’d been holding back for years — a tentative brush at first, testing, tasting. But his lips kept moving against yours, hungrier, more certain, until the rest of the world slipped away and you were melting into him completely, heat pooling low in your stomach as his touch and his mouth consumed you.

He pulled you onto his lap in one swift movement, your knees bracketing his hips as his mouth devoured yours. His hands fumbled beneath the hem of the oversized sweatshirt you wore, fingertips skating over the bare skin of your waist, and the kiss deepened until it felt like there was no space left between you. It was everything you’d ever wanted, messy, breathless, overwhelming, and you didn’t have time to care that you were drunk or that you might not remember every second of it tomorrow.

All you wanted was to keep feeling his body pressed against yours, to let yourself be consumed by him completely.

“This is a bad idea,” you mumbled.

“Probably,” he murmured against your skin, not missing a beat as his lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “Don’t care.”

His voice was low, breath warm against your pulse as his stubble scraped lightly over your skin, sending a shiver down your spine.

Before you could respond, he shifted suddenly, scooting forward on the couch and wrapping his arms under you, scooping you up with an effortless strength. You yelped, startled, stifling a laugh as he chuckled into your throat, the sound vibrating against your skin.

Neither of you stopped.

You stumbled into his bedroom upstairs still laughing, drunk and giddy, your back hitting the closed door as George shoved you against it with another deep kiss.

“Christ,” he muttered against your mouth, fumbling with waistband of her borowed boxers until it gave with a small rip, slipping dow her legs like paper. He pulled back just long enough to grin sheepishly.

“Guess it’s good I gave you old ones. Easier to get you out of them.”

You giggled breathlessly, swatting at his chest. “You’re an idiot.”

“Maybe,” he said, kissing you again as his hands roamed your sides, pushing the sweatshirt fabric off your shoulders. “But I’m your idiot.”

You flushed at that, too drunk to unpack it, just letting him ease the zipper down till the sweatshirt was off your body. His gaze raked over you, standing in your black bra and lace panties, like he’d been waiting years for this.

“I used to have wet dreams constantly thinking about this,” George admitted drunkenly as he kissed down your chest, his voice low and filthy as he unhooked your bra

“Wondering,” he continued, lips grazing your jaw, ��what you looked like under all those baggy hoodies you wore to school…”

Your knees went weak. “And?”

He grinned against your throat as a hand palmed her ass. You gasped at the sudden contact, your body jolting as he tightened his grip, then let out a startled laugh that quickly dissolved into a moan when his teeth grazed your pulse point. Before you could recover, he swept you up effortlessly and threw you onto his bed, the soft mattress dipping under your weight as you bounced lightly, staring up at him with wide, breathless eyes.

You barely had any time to catch your breath, half-naked and still flushed, before George was a hovering mess above you—hair wild from your fingers, voice low and rough in your ear with years of restraint burning away.

“Better than I ever imagined.”

George kissed his way down your body, taking his time as he unclasped your bra—lingering at your collarbone, your breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth until you whimpered, arching against him.

“George—”

“Say that again,” he muttered, hand sliding up your thigh. "Say my name, please."

“George.”

His fingers brushed over your panties, teasing, and he groaned when he felt the damp spot already forming. “Fuck. You’re soaked.”

You moaned as he slid them aside, tracing lazy circles over your clit until you were trembling, clinging to his shoulders.

“You always this responsive,” he teased softly, “or just for me?”

You could barely form words. “Mmmm … you.”

That made him smirk. “Good.”

He kisses went low and lower, lingering at your swell of your hipbone.

“You know,” he slurred softly, “I used to think about this constantly.”

You blinked, dazed. “What?”

He laughed, low and filthy, lips brushing your thigh with his knuckle. “Fucking you.”

Your breath caught.

“Back when we were sixteen, seventeen,” he continued, voice roughened by alcohol and honesty as a finger hooked under her panties. “I couldn’t sleep some nights thinking about it. Wondering if you’d let me kiss you down here. What you’d sound like if I made you cum.”

“George—”

He groaned, slipping them off in one movement and spreading your thighs wider. “Had this photo of us. That summer by the pool. You in that little wet red bikini next to me.”

Your stomach flipped. “You kept that?”

“Kept it?” he muttered, grinning against your plush thighs. “Had to hide it in my room so my Mum wouldn’t find it… was having a wank to it constantly.”

His fingers were still dancing lazily through you folds, and your breath grew more ragged by the minute

“Nothing compares to the real thing though.” He murmured, eyes drinking in the sight of her dripping cunt.

When he finally let his breath fan over your core, you let out a startled gasp.

“Ahhh!—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning up at you before pressing a kiss to your mound. “Been thinking about this for years. Let me enjoy it.”

And then his mouth was on you, hot and wet and devastating, his tongue teasing with slow, deliberate strokes that made your back arch. His stubble scraped lightly against the sensitive skin of your thighs as he worked his way around your core, and the faint hum of his groan vibrated against you, sparking fire in your veins.

You grabbed his hair with trembling fingers, a helpless moan spilling out as your hips jerked toward him, his tongue working you over—slow at first, achingly so, then firmer, more insistent, when he felt you twitch and heard your breath hitch.

“Fuck!” you whimpered, hips jerking when he groaned against you. "That's …. ahh that's so good."

His fingers joined his mouth, sliding slowly into you, curling just right as his tongue kept working in tandem, relentless and teasing until your toes curled.

“Always knew you’d taste like this,” he murmured against your cunt between licks, before sucking your clit in a way that made your vision blur, his fingers thrusting steadily until you felt yourself teetering on the edge.

Don’t stop,” you begged hoarsely, fingers tightening in his hair, "please, don't stop … oh, fuck fuck fuck—"

The pressure built and built until it finally snapped, your body falling apart embarrassingly fast with a near-scream, crying out his name as the finish crashed over you in violent, overwhelming waves. Your thighs clamped around his head while he coaxed you through every aftershock, licking you softly until you were shivering and spent.

George sat up after a moment, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, smirking like the cat who’d caught the canary. “You sound like you haven't cum in ages.”

You groaned lifelessly. “You’re an idiot.”

"I'll take as a yes then," he laughed, leaning over you, pressing a sweet kiss to your mouth that tasted like your musk. "Don't act like you didn't love it.”

You did. God help you, you did.

He stripped quickly, tossing his shirt somewhere across the room. You barely had time to take in his lean frame, lean muscle stretching under pale skin, stronger now than the gangly boy you grew up with, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. The weight of him pressed you into the mattress, his cock hot and heavy against your thigh, making you shiver.

“Still think this is a bad idea?” he asked, teasing, but his voice was rough, aching, threaded with need.

His breath fanned over your cheek, and the heat of him was everywhere, consuming.

You kissed him instead of answering, desperate, threading your fingers into his messy hair and pulling him down until there was nothing between you but heat and want.

George groaned and slid into you in one slow, deliberate thrust, both of you gasping at the stretch, the sensation making your nails dig into his shoulders. You felt every inch of him, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot against your cheek as he stilled for a moment to let you adjust.

“Fuck,” he whispered, forehead pressing to yours, voice trembling. “Mmmm, that’s so good … so tight, baby.”

You whimpered softly, clinging to him like you’d float away without the anchor of his body. For a long moment, he didn’t move — just stayed there, buried deep inside you, forehead pressed to yours as you felt his ragged breaths fan across your lips. His hands roamed slowly, grounding you: one cupping the back of your neck, the other tracing soothing circles at your hip as if he needed to feel every inch of you. When he finally began to move, it was slow — steady strokes, deliberate and unhurried, like he wanted to memorize the way you felt around him, like every drag of his cock through your walls was a secret he intended to savor forever.

“You feel…” he groaned, breaking off with a shudder as he pumped into her deeper, his voice rough. “Christ, you feel incredible.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your head tipping back as pleasure bloomed and spread, slow and encompassing. “George—”

“Ahhh, fuck that’s… is that good?” he gritted out, his voice breaking on the words, lips brushing your jaw.

“Yes, fuck yes,” you panted, every nerve alight, hips instinctively rolling to meet his. “Harder, please fuck me harder.”

The request seemed to snap something in him. His jaw tightened, and the controlled rhythm gave way to something rougher, hungrier.

“Whatever you want,” he promised, the word a low growl as he captured your mouth in a fierce kiss. His pace quickened, thrusts sharper and deeper, his grip on your hips tightening like he was afraid to let you go, like he wanted to lose himself in you completely.

One of his hands slid under your thigh, hitching your leg up to his waist, changing the angle so every thrust hit deeper, sharper, pulling a high pitched moan from your lips. Then he shifted fully above you, folding you into a desperate, intoxicating press that made him sink impossibly deeper. You gasped, a broken sound ripping from your throat as your eyes rolled back, the new angle hitting so perfectly you saw white.

“Ahhh,” George rasped, his voice ragged, thrusting hard and steady as he looked down at you with glassy, drunken awe. “You look so fucking pretty like this… eyes all crossed, taking me so well.”

Your body trembled beneath him, the words and the relentless pace shoving you closer and closer to the edge. He reached between you, fingers finding your clit, rubbing deliberate circles in time with his thrusts. It was overwhelming — his cock, his fingers, his voice — all of it. You were sobbing now, the pleasure so sharp it bordered on unbearable.

“George—!”

“Let go for me,” he groaned, leaning down to kiss away your tears. “Come on. Give me another one.”

And you did — falling apart with a scream, clenching hard around him as your body shook.

George nearly choked on a moan, his head tipping back like he couldn’t handle it, a slack drunk smile forming on his jaw. Ohhh, fuck,” mouth slack and eyes glassy as he breathed through it. “Oh, fuck…” His voice cracked, wrecked and needy. “God, you’re—shit—squeezing me so good—” He bit off the rest with a strangled groan, hips jerking helplessly. “Feels unreal—Christ.”

His forehead pressed to yours, eyes glazed, breath hot and uneven as he babbled between shallow thrusts. “You’re gonna kill me like this. So good. So fucking good. Don’t stop—”

His hand slid up your side, steadying you as his breath came out in a shudder. “Can you keep going for me?” he coaxed, voice hushed and urgent. “Just a little more, yeah? Wanna feel you do that again.”

You nodded, barely able to form words, and he exhaled a shaky laugh.

You nodded, barely able to form words, and he exhaled a shaky laugh, the sound more like a groan.

“Good—fuck, good,” he husked, pulling back just enough to look at you, pupils blown wide, mouth slack like he couldn’t even keep himself together. “Always—always wanted you like this. On top. Wanna watch you—” his voice broke with a strangled moan as he shifted his hips into you, “—fall apart on me.”

Before you could respond, his arms hooked beneath you, and with a sudden, fluid shift, he dragged you with him until you straddled his lap, chest to chest, his hands already gripping your hips so tight it almost hurt. He helped you find a rhythm, rocking you back and forth over him, each drag of his cock making your breath hitch.

Another moan ripped out of you, hands scrambling for purchase on his shoulders as your swollen core brushed against his pelvis again and again.

“Yeah—fuck, just like that,” George groaned, the words falling out of him like he wasn’t even thinking, his fingers digging hard into your skin. “Keep going—don’t stop.” His forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut before he forced them open again, wanting, needing, to watch you.

His gaze was glassy, desperate, almost reverent. “You’re so fucking perfect. You have no idea—mmmm—you have no idea how long I’ve needed this.”

dragged another guttural sound out of him, each one filthier than the last. “You don’t know how many times I’ve—fuck—imagined this,” he babbled, raw and unfiltered, words spilling out between shaky breaths. “You on top of me, falling apart, riding me, been dreaming about it for years and now—fuck—you’re here, you’re real, taking me so well.”

His hips snapped up into you harder, need overtaking rhythm. His hands clamped even tighter at your waist, forcing you down to meet every upward thrust. “That’s it—yeah, that’s it,” he rasped, voice cracking, nearly whining as the pace grew frantic. “You’re so close—I can feel it—come on, love—cum for me again. I need it. Need to feel you fall apart on me.”

He fucked you like a man starved, drunk and delirious, every messy, hungry stroke pulling you closer to the edge until there was nothing left but him, you, and the heat burning between you.

"Right there!" you cried, the coil in your stomach winding tighter as his cock hit the perfect angle, climbing until you were nearly screaming, your words tumbling out between gasps, "please—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop—ahhh George!"

our body seized as the pressure finally snapped, the orgasm tearing through you so violently you could barely breathe. You screamed his name, thighs locking around his hips, nails sinking deep into his shoulders as your whole body shook, every nerve alight.

George let out a broken, guttural sound, his rhythm falling apart the moment he felt you clamp around him. “Oh—fuck—fuck—” he gasped, words spilling out like he couldn’t contain them. His forehead crashed against yours, his mouth hanging open as his thrusts grew sloppy, desperate, driven by pure instinct. “Christ—so tight—milking me—don’t stop, don’t you stop—feels too fucking good—”

He was babbling now, incoherent between moans, kissing you like he needed to breathe you in just to survive. “You’re—God, you’re perfect—mine—all mine—please—please let me cum in you—can’t hold it—shit—!”

Another latent heat pulsed through your core at the sound of that, cunt throbbing from his pounding and his desperation, and you clenched hard around him.

That undid him completely.

George let out a strangled, wrecked moan—louder than you’d ever heard from him—as he buried himself deep, holding you flush against him like he could fuse you together. He pumped into you in ragged, uneven bursts, spilling himself inside you with a force that made you whimper at the warmth of it.

Oh my God—fuck—can’t—” he groaned, words spilling out between gasps, shuddering as another pulse of release overtook him, pushing deeper, grinding into you like he could carve the feeling into his bones. “That’s it, that’s it—take it, love—take all of me—fuck—fuck—”

Even as the peak ebbed, he didn’t stop right away, couldn’t, still rolling his hips lazily, riding out every last aftershock, filling you until it was leaking hot and messy between your thighs. His whole body trembled as he collapsed against you, breath coming in harsh, uneven bursts, his chest slick and heaving against yours.

For a long moment, the room was nothing but panting, your heartbeats slamming together in the quiet. You slumped against him, both of you boneless and trembling, your forehead pressed to his damp shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

“Christ,” George whispered, his voice so low it was almost a rasp, his lips brushing your hairline. “Can’t believe you’re here. Can’t believe I get to… fuck, that I get to feel you like this finally.”

His hand splayed wide across your back, big and steady but shaking faintly, like he needed to keep touching you to make sure you wouldn’t disappear. He pressed another kiss to your temple, softer this time, but just as desperate.

You were both trembling as he laid you both down in the covers, chests heaving against one another, your bodies tangled and slick with sweat and his cum. The sounds of your ragged breathing and the soft creak of the mattress were the only things left in the aftermath, his arms still wrapped tightly around you as if afraid you might vanish.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, softly, so quiet you almost missed it, George murmured against your hair, “Don’t leave.”

You blinked, heart stuttering. “Hm?”

His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, his voice rough and hoarse. “Don’t go back to your mates place tonight. Just… stay. Please. I don’t want you to go.”

The vulnerability in his words made your throat ache. You nodded against his neck, too raw and spent to argue, letting yourself melt into the safety of his hold as his breathing finally began to steady.

Your head throbbed in dull waves when you woke, the faint glow of sunlight sneaking past George’s expensive blackout curtains stabbing at your eyes. You lay very still, trying not to jostle the aching mess of your body, but mostly trying to ignore the reel of memories unraveling behind your eyelids: his mouth on yours, the sound of your name spilling out of him like a prayer as he fucked you, his hands everywhere, anchoring you and undoing you all at once.

For a moment you wondered if it had been a dream—too soft, too messy, too much like the fantasies you’d buried for years. But no, your borrowed sweatshirt was crumpled at the foot of the bed, your thighs ached, and the scent of him clung to your skin.

Then came the other thought, the one that twisted in your gut:

What if he doesn’t remember? Or worse, what if he does and regrets every second?

You stared at the ceiling, frozen. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him—not yet—not when the weight of what last night could mean pressed so heavily on your ribs.

But then you heard it: a quiet inhale.

You turned, cautiously, and found George already watching you. He was lying on his side, hair a chaotic halo against the pillow, blanket pooled at his waist. His face was open in a way you’d almost never seen before—unguarded, almost stricken—as if he’d been awake for a while, rehearsing words he couldn’t quite say.

“You’re awake,” you managed, your voice a rasp.

“So are you,” he said quietly, and there it was—the tremor beneath his tone, the thing he was too careful to ask.

The silence stretched, taut and fragile.

You swallowed hard, picking at a loose thread in the sheets just to keep your hands busy. “Do you… remember last night?”

His eyebrows ticked up slightly. “Yeah ... do you?”

It was almost absurd, the way you were both bracing for the same blow. The tension cracked with the tiniest of laughs, first from you, then from him, both of you letting out shaky little sounds that weren’t quite amusement, not quite relief.

He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flicking away for a second before returning to you. “So…” he hesitated, chewing his lip, and for a moment you thought he might retreat. But then his voice dropped lower, tentative. “Was it just… that? For you? Or was it… more?”

The question hung between you like a live wire—hesitant, vulnerable, and so unlike the glossy, unshakable George the world got to see. He looked at you like the answer might undo him.

You froze, his words wrapping around you like a net. Was it just that for you? Or was it more?

You wanted to answer, to blurt out that it had always been more, that it had been more for years, but the words knotted in your throat. You couldn’t tell if he wanted you to say it—if this was just a casual, drunken slip for him that he was too polite to call a mistake.

“I…” you began, faltering, staring at the sheets like they might hand you an answer. The pause stretched until it felt unbearable. Then, with a breath so shaky it trembled, you forced yourself to look at him.

“It wasn’t just that. Not for me.”

George’s expression softened, all at once, the tension in his jaw unspooling as if you’d given him air. His hand found yours beneath the sheets, tentative at first, then firm, like he needed to ground himself. “Good,” he murmured, the word a low exhale as he tugged you closer until you were pressed to his chest. “Because I don’t want it to be just that for me either.”

Your heart thumped against his ribs as you tucked yourself into him, letting the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his arms dissolve the worst of the dread.

After a long, quiet moment, you tipped your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “So… you really kept that photo?” you asked, voice still a little raw but teasing now, needing to lighten the weight in the room.

George groaned softly, rubbing a hand over his face in mock agony.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” you said, a faint smile curling at your lips. “You basically confessed to having a shrine to me in your teenage bedroom.”

He flushed crimson, laughing under his breath. “It wasn’t a shrine. Just… one very well-hidden photo.”

“That you were wanking off to every night.”

“Not every night.” He rolled his eyes, then sobered a little, chewing on his lip again before blurting out, “So… what now? I mean—what do you want us to be?”

Your chest tightened at the question, but his voice was so earnest, so unpolished and afraid, that the fear felt a little easier to bear. “I don’t know,” you admitted softly, fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. “But I don’t want this to just… go back to how it was.”

His breath left him in something close to relief, his forehead resting against yours. “Good,” he said simply, like that settled it, like for now, being here in this bed with you was enough.

He stayed quiet after that, just holding you, his hand splayed across your back like he couldn’t quite believe you were real. The minutes stretched and blurred, a kind of stillness you’d never shared with him before settling over the room — no words, no tension, just warmth.

Before you could say something, his phone buzzed against the nightstand — a message lighting up the screen from someone you vaguely recognized from last night:

Alive?

George reached over, turned it facedown without reading more, and pulled the blanket back over both of you like a fortress. “They can wait,” he said simply, tucking you tighter against his chest.

“Do we… actually have to get up?” you mumbled eventually, your voice muffled against his chest.

George let out a soft huff of laughter, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your spine. “Not unless you’re desperate for cold cereal or a sad piece of toast.”

You tilted your head up, grinning despite yourself. “That’s your idea of breakfast?”

“I’m an athlete, I eat clean,” he said in mock offense, but his grin gave him away. “Besides, you’re the one who stormed into my flat without bringing croissants or something.”

“Next time I’ll bring a proper hangover spread,” you teased.

His eyebrows quirked. “Next time?”

You rolled your eyes and swatted weakly at his chest, which only made him chuckle, the sound rumbling beneath your ear.

He smirked against your hair, voice dropping playfully. “Though… next time could start right now if you wanted.”

The offhanded sex joke startled you, a flush creeping up your neck before you could stop it. Your body reacted embarrassingly fast to the thought, but you shook your head, burying your face into his chest. “Not now,” you mumbled.

He stilled, pulling back slightly to look at you. “Not feeling it?”

You hesitated before sheepishly admitting, “No, I am. I just… forgot my birth control last night.” The words tumbled out in a whisper, the memory of him finishing in you hitting all over again, making your face burn.

George blinked, then let out a bashful laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Well… that’s on me too, isn’t it?” He kissed your temple gently, still chuckling. “Alright. After we nap, I’ll go to the pharmacy and save your dignity. Plan B and croissants — the real hangover breakfast.”

You groaned into his chest, swatting at him half-heartedly, but the teasing warmth in his voice melted the knot of nerves in your stomach.

He let the quiet linger for a moment before his hand drifted lower, fingers ghosting along the inside of your thigh. “Or,” he murmured lowly, his breath hot against your ear, “I could do something else instead. That doesn't require more Plan B."

Your breath hitched as his fingers wandered higher on your thigh, grazing over sensitive skin, teasing without committing, every nerve in your body sparking back to life.

"If you insist," You replied breathlessly, burying your face into his neck, trying to stifle the soft sound that escaped you.

You could feel George smirking against your hair. "Oh, I do."

And for the first time, as the bliss rose again dizzying and real, it truly sank in:

last night hadn’t been a dream.

It had been real. And you loved it.

Weeks later, you found yourself tucked into another one of George’s hoodie again, your hair pulled into a haphazard bun, clinging to a paper cup of coffee that was almost too hot to hold. The late afternoon London air was brisk enough to sting your cheeks, but George’s hand at the small of your back kept you grounded as you walked side by side down a quiet Chelsea street. He looked unbothered by the passing glances — baseball cap low, sunglasses on — as if being out in public with you like this didn’t feel monumental.

It did to you.

You had still been replaying every moment from that night in the weeks after. Sometimes, it didn't feel real still, that he was yours now. That you were worth the two hour drive and the late night calls . But whenever the thoughts began to swim in your head, George would simply plant a kiss on her lips in the kitchen or push up your dress in the hallway till the doubts were gone and all that was left was him.

So when his phone buzzed, and he fished it out with his free hand, glancing at the screen with a self deprecating chuckle, you looked up.

“What?” you asked, suspicious.

He turned it so you could see:

@deuxpaddockSpotted: George Russell grabbing coffee in Chelsea with a mystery girl. ☕️👀 Move over Lady Eleanor — looks like our Brackley boy likes them cozy and casual.

Photo: George in a hoodie and cap, holding two coffees. You at his side, his hand tucked protectively against your lower back. A blurry shot of him leaning down, kissing your cheek.

You winced at the headline, stomach sinking, bracing yourself for the inevitable comment section full of comparisons to someone like Chloe.

But George just smirked, passing the phone into your hands like it was nothing.

“See? Told you,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your temple. “Not such a bad idea after all.”

You scrolled down hesitantly.

Comments:

@gridtea: WHO IS SHEEEE @f1gossip: private insta, no tags, no name… girl is a ghost 👀 @socialitelondon: can confirm: she’s not one of ours. Definitely not from London either. Interesting. @wiltonGR63: She looks… plain? Honestly surprising choice NGL. @paddockprincess: (replying to @wiltonGR63): Honestly what are you smoking she gorgeous??? I hope he knows how to fight @QueenC: (replying to @paddockorincess): All I’m saying is I heard from a mate’s cousin that she came off as bit of a social climber to some of his circle. Not really the “F1 girlfriend” type. 🤷‍♀️ @brackleygirl: (replying to @QueenC) wowww bitter much? She seems really genuine compared to the posh model types he’s been seen with lately, if you want to talk about social climbing. His “circle” just sounds jealous. @lilianhurst: EEEKKK. My flatmate's sister went to school with George, and apparently this is his childhood mate from his school days! Apparently they've know each other for ages but finally made the jump to bf/gf, I'm sobbing.😭 @gridtea:(replying to @lillianhurst) Stop thats adorable. NGL this is the most normal F1 couple we’ve gotten in ages @georgerussellnation: It's also the most like himself he’s looked in forever too, they look so happy, 10/10 support.

You stared at the mix of comments, most of them oddly warm, celebratory even and felt a lump form in your throat. It didn’t erase the sting of the insecurities floating in your head, but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as it would have yesterday.

George glanced down at you as you slipped your hand into his, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles.

“Let them talk,” he said softly, his voice so certain it made your chest ache. “I’ve got what I want.”

And the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.

#f1 fanfiction #f1 fic #formula one #f1 fanfic #george russell smut #gr63 #george russell angst #george russell x reader #george russell #george russell fanfic

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thevindicativevordan · 2 days ago

Note

Superman is a BIG hit in the box office and online in spaces like Twitter, Tiktok, and Tumblr.

As a fellow fan who’s suffered through the DCEU’s efforts to “””””fix”””” Superman, it’s nice a movie came out that proved no, Superman was never “boring”, he was a damn icon for a reason. Its sweet that people who always hated the character don’t get to control the narrative anymore.

I was interested in how it feels for you that Superman is much more popular again with MAWS, S&L, and now Gunn’s film.

It's gratifying that there is finally something for the general audience to experience that will show Superman in a positive light. I've been thinking what the takeaways will be, both good and bad, from the general audience about who Superman is. What I've come up with:

Superman has finally shaken off the stoic bore default personality. Corenswet gets angry, sad, horny, but also maintains the compassionate and idealistic nature of Superman. Yes the speech to Lex at the end was as subtle as a brick to the face, but people needed to hear that I think

No more invincible god Supes either. MAWS, S&L, and Corensupes all get banged up pretty bad with and without kryptonite in play. A nice change from Cavill not having a single hair on his head out of place after destroying the city fighting Zod

Something I didn't praise Gunn for in my review and want to do so here is that Corensupes actually is pretty smart. Engineer tries to chain herself to him to cripple his fighting ability? He just uses her as a club against Ultraman! Can't make it to the Fortress by himself? Call Krypto! Cavill's approach to everything was to punch it harder, Corensupes shows more brains in his fighting style

On the downside, a bunch of people just got converted to the Post-Crisis mindset with regards to Krypton (i.e. it's a negative place with negligible impact on Superman and the real thing that matters is his upbringing by the Kents). At least he does have the Fortress, Krypto, and Kara to somewhat alleviate that. I've said before I think Kara's arrival should be the inciting incident for Kal to connect more with his heritage, and we can still get that even with his biological parents being bad, especially if my hopes that the "semi-sequel" is Kal and Kara teaming up come true

On the whole I can live with that. Especially keeping in mind the era this is replacing where he was constantly going evil. Speaking of which, video games alas remain a negative for me since the next game he'll be in will be Injustice 3. Hopefully the movie and MAWS are enough to counterbalance that, and reports that people are actually being inspired to check out his comics is thrilling no matter what. After losing out on the millenials and zoomers, maybe Gen Alpha will be the start of Superman reconnecting with the kids and thus ensuring a new generation of fans.

#superman #dcu #my adventures with superman #david corenswet

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gabriellerudessa · 3 days ago

Text

HELLO, Fallout Fandom.

I have been Cooking today and have more character analysis, specifically from the show.

So, I know that we fans of the series have pointed a lot about the parallels between Lucy and Coop, and @raventrigonsdaughter also made this excellent post pointing out how the Maclean family also parallels the Howard family - Rose parallels Coop, Hank parallels Barb, Lucy parallels Janey, I really recommend you check the post.

And I have been like "all right, from the characters from the present, Maximus and Norm are the only ones not paralleling anyone from the past, and no one is paralleling Williams/Moldaver? Hu..."

So... I have some Thoughts regarding Norm and Moldaver but I think we need some more about Williams/Moldaver before I can make any more specific analysis on it.

HOWEVER, I was answering a comment on a post earlier and it hit me WHO Maximus is probably supposed to parallel: Maximus is paralleling Barb, SPECIFICALLY her supposed journey inside Vault Tec and with the cold fusion, and Maximus and Lucy's relationship? It's paralleling Barb and Coop's relationship.

BEAR WITH ME.

So.

Vault-Tec. Big organization that tells everyone they're just doing the best to keep humanity alive, but who's inside and high on the chain knows the truths and how hostile it actually it to other companies that it considers a threat to them (hostile buyout of William's company) and with some very dark plans related to controlling everything.

Brotherhood of Steel. Big organization that says they're the good guys, trying to keep order, keep humanity from destroying itself again, but actually priding on controlling everything and very hostile to other factions (attacking NCR on the show, specifically, but we know there's more).

Barb, at the moment of episode 8 reunion, IS NOT top of the ladder, she's answering to someone and parroting the words of her superiors. Also, we can't be sure at which internal rank she started, but I think it's safe to say that she didn't know from the start Vault-Tec's true plans and discovered once she was considered a loyal employee. It really wouldn't make sense to disclose those type of plans to a new employee probably not that high on the rank.

Maximus, we know that he started very low on the BoS, and after a very risky move, was considered enough by Elder Cleric Quintus to hear Quintus' true plans about controlling the Wasteland.

Barb, at some point her division (not specified) bought Williams' company and hid away the cold fusion, much probably under her superior's orders.

Maximus, TRIED to keep the (unknown at the moment) cold fusion out of BoS hands, failed, and ended participating in the attack on the Observatory. Moldaver (Williams) died close enough to him that he was praised by it, Knighted under public clamor, and as such helped to conquer cold fusion for the BoS. The thing at this point is, with what Moldaver told him, and what he learned in his travel with Lucy, will he do as Barb and use the cold fusion only for the BoS, or will he use it for the good of everyone? Will he be able to go against the organization that literally raised him, unlike Barb, that, at least from what we know, never found the courage to go against Vault-Tec?

And now the cherry on cake regarding specifically Lucy and Maximus relationship, and Coop and Barb one.

First: both have very rose colored lenses for each one in their first scenes together. Very they only see the best in each other. The kick is that, with Coop and Barb, we have NOTHING previous to their relationship, we only really have glimpses. How was Barb before Vault-Tec? How was Coop in the war? We don't know. For all we know, they both were always very moral and good. With Maximus and Lucy, however, we have befores: Maximus grew in a cult, left someone to die, is lying about his identity; Lucy grew in a Vault, married, had to fight for her life, left to search her dad.

Second: The core of how they parallel each other that I can most clearly pinpoint, is anchored in two specific scenes: the dinner scene, talking about dogs and freedom, between Barb and Coop, and the scene after Maximus and Lucy leave Vault 4, what to do with the fusion core and Maximus confession.

For Coop and Barb, it's a build up that starts over what will be allowed in Vaults and moves over Barb, manipulating a bit using her own experience while waiting for news if he was alive or not, true, but also being, I think, sincerely raw regarding the fact she's doing this because it's the only way she can see to keep Coop and Janey alive. It's the only Right Thing she can see. When she's leaving, Coop pulls her back and apologizes and they hug, and the scene ends.

Coop's specific words are "I know you always try to do the right thing. That's what I love about you." And Barb... It seems to me that those words stung a bit. Because she knows that things changed and what she's helping to be done in Vault Tec is not right or good, but it's the only thing she can see as possible. She can't care about right or wrong, she needs to care about survival.

For Lucy and Maximus, it starts over the fusion core, and how important it is for Vault 4. It IS something a lot bigger than dogs? Sure, but it also allows us to see well a similar dynamic. Maximus is, well, dead set on keeping the fusion core because it will allow him to use the power-armor and help people, while Lucy argues that no, that wouldn't be right, what's the point? She convinces Maximus, they return the fusion core, and then she invites him to live in Vault 33.

Lucy's specific words to Maximus are "I can honestly say your are the best stranger that I've ever met. You're a good person, Titus". And they clearly HURT Maximus, enought that he confesses he's not Titus and that he let Titus die and that he lied to her and basically saying that he's actually not good. And Lucy, well, she forgives him and tells that she threw acid at an innocent man's face.

Here is how both couples parallel each other.

The essence of what both Lucy and Coop say to Maximus and Barb after the confrontation that is, at its core, about right or wrong regarding how to help people, is "You're good and that's what I like about you". That's it. Different words, but in essence, this. Lucy is the naïve, always try to do the right thing, high morals, slightly blind regarding how things are, optimist, like Coop was, and Maximus is, well, more jaded, lying to protect himself, tries to shield Lucy regarding what his organization is capable of, ruthless, says he's doing to help others but is not very good at it for whatever reason, like Barb.

HOWEVER, here's were they diverge, and it starts already in the talk about how to help people.

Barb, probably because of what she saw in Vault Tec, refuses to see another way of helping people, also probably because Coop didn't provide a way of doing it, just was like "what about freedom", which, yeah, I can understand a bit Barb's answer. He didn't offer solution (and I don't think there WAS one he could suggest, not in the state of things pre-war), just complaining about how things would be done, at least to her ears. As a consequence, she "wins" the argument, the way she has is the only way to ensure survival and that's it.

However, with Maximus and Lucy, the talk ends differently. Lucy, differently from Coop, offers a solution regarding the problem: return the fusion core and keep helping people the way we can, without a Power Armor. And Maximus LISTEN and TRUST HER that it can be done another way.

Then, well... With Coop and Barb, it ends as he apologizes and they hug. He's saying she's good, doing the right thing, she knows it's not the truth anymore, but doesn't confess, undoubtedly expecting Coop to not understand the conundrum she's in with her work and the political scenary. Expecting Coop to be Too Good for Her and send her away.

But, moving to Maximus and Lucy, Maximus confess everything, hoping Lucy to toss him aside, because she is GOOD and PERFECT came from a good place and why she would want a liar like him? Then Lucy surprises him, not only forgiving, but showing that SHE HERSELF is not perfect, because she threw acid at an innocent man's face after just two weeks in the surface.

Maximus is... Willing to be vulnerable enough to Lucy to confess and expect a rejection, probably because, well, they don't know each other that long, it's easier to risk losing something that doesn't even exist yet. Howeve,r Lucy herself is already, well, wise enough to get that good and bad are not that clear cut and that she can't judge him. Lucy is willing to recognize that their contexts are different and still thinks that Maximus is good.

Barb and Coop... It's a more thorny situation. They have been together for years, and one thing we can say is: Coop fought the war, but very clearly never really reflected on its morality and the morality of his own actions, it was all about Freedom. I say this because of how he refused at first killing someone in fiction, thought it was too much. I don't know, I think it's very hard that Coop, in a Power-Armor, never killed anyone during the combats, but I can buy he only really thinking over the morality of killing when filming a movie where he interprets a sheriff.

And why I'm pointing out the thing about killing or not in war and it's morality? Because pre-war Coop comes across as, like Lucy, extremelly good and moral and doing the right thing. And this way of being certainly made Barb all the more aware and afraid of any possible judgments should Coop discover the truth about Vault Tec.

It's harder to make oneself vulnerable and tell your bad actions and lies if you're together for years and build a family. Barb had way more to lose if she was truthful, and Coop's behavior and words certainly gave her just more certainty that she would lose him if she told the truths.

Also, on a expectation note, I'm curious to see how Barb and Coop's separation was, in divorce and possibly after bombs, especially because of how he still calls her "wife" despite we KNOWING they divorced because of the "alimony" and is, apparently, looking for both her and Janey.

We know that, with Lucy and Maximus, there was a first, willing separation, where he told Lucy to go away with the head to give her time, shielding her from the truth of BoS, and then a unwilling one, where he's unconscious and Lucy has to go away for her own life and he awakes not knowing what happened to her, but probably assuming that her father kidnapped her.

I wonder if Coop and Barb will be similar: a willing separation, the divorce, and an unwilling one, after the bombs.

One thing I can say for certain: Maximus and Lucy start similarly to Barb and Coop, but they are both more open to admit they aren't perfect and to be vulnerable with each other, while Barb and Coop were at a point where they didn't thought so possible.

Maybe if Barb had been able to be actually away from Vault Tec for some time, like Maximus was able to be away from the Brotherhood... Maybes maybes maybes.

There is probably more scenes where we can pinpoint how both couples parallel each other, but this is what I was more able to pinpoint for now.

#fallout #lucy maclean #maximus fallout #cooper howard #barb howard #fallout series #fallout prime #lee moldaver

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