#future you is practically the master of the house

[satoblue]

speaking of time travel . . . how about a forbidden fruit au where your future child is transported to the past before you and satoru ever get together and you’re still madly crushing on him. . .

[harmoonix]

Random astrology observations ~

Saturn or Neptune in the 6th/8th and 12th houses can drain/make you exhausted so easily. It takes so much mental stimulation and sometimes can even be a depressive placement

Air Mercury like9s to isolate from people or from being social sometimes. It's ironic for the air element to do that.. but social battery turns off

Saturn x Chiron/Venus aspects can sometimes fall in love with people who are not available. Meaning they're either taken or not interested

Neptune in the 1st hosue most times like to create their own reality/world as an escapism key when things turn too bad or when become too tired

Heavy Pisces/Neptune in the chart can result in daydreaming often. Of course, these are things a doctor needs to check on, but Pisces and Neptune both can indicate this sometimes

The planets Uranus and Mercury are where your inspirations and ideas come from. When you feel inspired, you can be an indicator of these planets being activated in your chart

Venus can represent cheating just as it represents love. But also, the 5th house is associated with infidelity, too. That's why ppl with mercury or gemini in the 5th house can often be the victim of a love triangle or lover rejection

Leo/Scorpio/Libra and Aries in the 5th house usually tend to have a big libido, and that can result in the native having a big dating pool

Earth Venus placements can be seen as the top most loyal placements. I remember writing this too when I had a thing for men with Taurus Venus. That thing is gone now.. but still

People with the sun in the 6th house/sun at 6° 18° people want your advice on certain things. Is it important for them to know your opinion

People with the moon in the 9th and 12th houses can be good at doing shadow work/healing practices. Shadow work can help a lot

Virgo Mars natives are quite picky (and reserved) when it comes to their dating life. They are very committed to their relationships, nonetheless

Pluto in the 2nd house natives might develop a big fear of losing their control/losing their possessions, Pluto in this house is extremely satisfied by money

Eros (433) in earth signs can end up putting their relationship before anything else. They focus on their needs and their partners! They are also so good at caring/taking care

This is more of a less known fact, but you can get so attached to people who have their south node in the same sign as your moon or Venus. Will also make it hard to detach from them (yk in case they're toxic or something)

Saturn Retrogade in your chart can affect your mental state by the fact that everything needs to be organized and in order

Venus x Neptune aspects, it is true that these natives will be delusional about their true love, but they can feel love at a very deep level as well. Because as many others they love with their soul

When the sun transits your 12th house, can you feel invisible during that time, feeling like people don't get in contact with you anymore and isolating yourself

The sun in your chart can also be the source of your happiness, depending on the house and aspects and ofc the degrees .

An earth moon is probably the best placement that indicates you are fully able to control your feelings. Stable emotions and full of serenity

Capricorn Placements worry so much about the future, and that can affect their mental health. Especially Risings, they always stress about things they don't know

Jupiter Dominants are also deeply aligned with the universe since Jupiter tends to be quite spiritual and a master at evolving into better

Water Signs over the 2h or 3rd house have a magical voice. Siren/Aries vibes, falling for their voice or their words. Their voice tends to be deep and sensual too

8° 20° degrees on Venus/Mercury know how to charm people with deep words. They may also possess a sensual voice

Water Degrees on your ascendant 4° 16° 28° 8° 20° 12° 24° can indicate a native with a peaceful energy, calm and pure native

[enzosbabyangel]

Harry Potter characters and sugar daddies

✰ Characters: Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy

On the fourth day of christmas my true love sent to me, four thousand dollars | 12 days of christmas master list

og a/n: i made up a name for Harry’s daughter lmao. Remus was removed because i couldn’t come up with an idea for him and couldn’t imagine him as a sugar daddy, i will make up for it in the future thanks to my amazing friend @winnie1emon coming up with a cute idea <3 did i post this earlier then i was supposed to by accident? yes yes i did.

current a/n: This was originally made on my old blog as part of my ‘12 days of christmas’ event. This was all written like five months ago and i just re-posted onto here. i didn’t proofread anything lmao or remember what was in this or the Remus idea. still love @/winnielemon though 💞💞 format is also my old ugly one that i was too lazy to change lmfao

✰ Content warnings: nsfw, MINORS DNI, 18+, age gap, , reader in Harrys is a bit bitchy, cheating, reader is a half blood in Lucius’, you could imagine it as muggle or blood traitor if you’re a pureblood💞

✧ 𝐻𝒶𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒫𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑒𝓇 -

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You used to be his daughter’s best friend, Giselle. You two were inseparable, meeting in college and becoming best friends. You constantly slept over at each other’s houses during weekends or holidays. You often attended dinner at the Potters as Giselle lived off-campus.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Another reason you were so willing to attend dinners at the Potters was because of… well… your best friend’s father.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Yep, the infamous Harry Potter. No, it wasn’t because of his popularity. It was because of his sheer talent in bed. Good at fingering you, eating you out, fucking you, fucking your tits, he made everything feel good and he was fucking talented.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Almost nothing could make you give up that man. Well, until you found out Giselle, your ‘best friend’ was spreading shit about you and stealing from you. You completely snapped, shouting and taking all your stuff back. Completely messing up her room in the process. ‘The bitch got what was coming.’ you thought to yourself.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . After that you wanted absolutely nothing to do with the Potters. Much to Harrys dismay,

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “Please Y/N, just calm down. I’m sorry about what Giselle did but i’ll talk to her about it- tell her to give you some money… anything.” Harry practically begged as he lightly grabbed your arm to stop you. His eyes pleading as he looked down at you.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “No! i don’t want your money, just leave me alone.” You said, eyebrows furrowing slightly in annoyance as you glanced behind you to Harry. Tugging your arm out of his grip you grabbed your coat off of the hanger, putting it on hurriedly. The buttons being messily done up to close it and keep you warm from the coldness outside.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Just as you finished doing your coat up, Harry spoke up before you could leave, “Hold on a second, please.” Quickly leaving the room as you were left to stand in the hallway of the front door. Your arms crossed as you rolled your eyes but decided to grant his wish, staying put.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . And just about a minute later he came back, your eyes widening and mouth opening slightly as you looked at the two grand in his hands. You glanced up at him before back at the money. You knew what he was trying to imply. With raised brows you looked back up at him, a shocked look on your face, asking with a dumbfounded tone, “All of that is for.. me?”

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Harry didn’t say anything in return, just nodding as he looked at you with the same pleading eyes, mixed with a bit of shame. Evidently in his small smile.

-

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . And that leads to now. Harry slurping at your pussy, tongue flicking at your sensitive clit or exploring the inside of your tight walls as you rode his face. Holding onto the headboard for support as you looked down at Harrys messy hair that covered the pillow his head rested on. His glasses thrown on the bedside table. His hands resting along your waist as he ate your pussy as if it was his last meal.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Your body was laced in sweat as your hips moved back and forth, his nose occasionally making a pang of delicious pleasure shoot through your body as you bit your cheek, moans falling from your mouth.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “Shit..” You let out through a moan as your right hand moved down to grab a handful of Harrys hair. The movements of your hips becoming more speratic as you felt yourself getting closer to your orgasm.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . A tug at Harrys hair had him groaning into your pussy, adding to pleasure you were feeling and a couple more flicks of his tongue to your clit made you finally cum. Hips stuttering as you slowly rode through your orgasm, loud moans filling the room.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . As you finally came down from your high, you plopped down onto the bed next to Harry, catching your breath as you sat, back resting against the headboard. You glanced down at Harry to see him wiping your arousal from his flushed face. His hand moving to grab his glasses off his bedside table as he sat up.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . As you caught your breath you sat back up, grabbing and putting your panties back on. While you did that Harry got some money from the bedside drawer and turning his body, tapping your shoulder.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You glanced over at him, soft smile forming on your face as you saw the one grand he had pulled out for you. You uttered a ‘thank you’ and took it from him, taking the money and placing it beside you as you moved to the edge of the bed. Picking up your oversized t-shirt and black booty shorts.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “So uh… i was just wondering… maybe you and i could go to the movies tomorrow? i remembered Giselle talking about how excited you were for… a um… that horror movie to come out.” Harry awkwardly spoke as he watched you get dressed again.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You put your knee high boots on, stopping for a slight second as his words sunk in. “Oh… i would love to but i have a tutor sesh tomorrow.” You said, a sheepish smile on your face as you finished buckling up your boots. Grabbing your bag with one hand. Placing the one grand inside. your bag you quickly made your way around the bed, placing a soft kiss to his cheek, “Maybe another time?” You suggested with a soft smile before quickly leaving the room.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You didn’t bother to hear what he said next. You didn’t want him pestering you on when that other time would be. You tried desperately to push Harry away if it wasn’t for sex, not because you’re a bitch… you were just conflicted with your growing feelings for Harry and keeping the secret that you have a boyfriend from him.

✧ 𝒟𝓇𝒶𝒸𝑜 𝑀𝒶𝓁𝒻𝑜𝓎 -

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You met Draco at a Fluorish and Blotts, where you were for a book signing. You payed him no mind at first, despite his not-so-subtle staring and smirk on his face, looking you up and down. The typical, rich, creep behaviour. The second you got your book signed you hurried off to the exit, but alass he still got to you.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . What he did, unsurprisingly was try to charm his way into your pants. walking down the road with you as he pretended to be oh so interested in your interest of the writer you came to see today. Then interested in your time at Hogwarts, commenting on how he left fourteen years ago. It’s comedic how he didn’t realize that made everything ten times creepier. His continuous attempts at bringing you home failed each time.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Until, he offered you two thousand dollars. Who could blame you? you’re a twenty year old college student with a student loan. that two thousand can go a long way. So, he came home with you that night.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . And now, a year later, he’s still paying you.

-

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “Fuck baby… s’your god damn pussys the best,” He let out through breathy moans. His hips slamming into you at an animalistic and somewhat impressive-for-his-age pace.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . The room was filled with the sounds of your moans and skin slapping against skin as your nails scratched across his back. The pace of his thrusts prevented you from getting in a proper breath.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “Such a slut… selling your body to some old man for money?” He commented with a smirk, arms lifting himself higher up above you so that he could stare down at you. “Don’t even need to pay off your student loan anymore and you still let me do what i want with you.” He continued on with a chuckle. “Do you just love me that much? or the money?”

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You were being too fucked out to properly understand his words or form an answer as you just nodded, letting out little babbles in response. Draco just chuckled as he listened to your incoherent responses, finding pride in how he managed to leave you completely stupid with his dick.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Your moans started becoming for frequent as you gradually drew closer to coming undone. Draco was too as his thrusts became sloppier and he continued to spew random, dirty words and thoughts at you.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You came first, clenching around him as your legs shook around his waist. Draco moaned at the feeling of your walls tightening around him, completely stopping his thrusts to soak in the feeling before pulling out, spurts of cum quickly landing on your stomach as you watched with eyes lazy with lust.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Draco plopped down beside you, and what happened after you don’t know as you quickly fell asleep.

-

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . When you woke up in the morning you had fresh pjs on and Draco was gone. You stretched in bed, the relief feeling good before you flopped back over on your side. Laying comfortably in your bed as you smiled slightly to yourself at the sheer comfort you felt. Your laziness didn’t stay though as you saw the large amount of cash on your desk, quickly sitting up and scooting over to the large stacks of cash. The total amount had to at least be around ten grand. Next to the cash was a small, ripped from a notebook peace of paper. You grabbed it and read it, wanting some type of explanation for the amount he gave you.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ‘around fifteen grand here for you. why? well it’s been a year since we met. an unofficial anniversary ;)’

✧ 𝐿𝓊𝒸𝒾𝓊𝓈 𝑀𝒶𝓁𝒻𝑜𝓎 -

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Lucius was a… special situation. Maybe not really a sugar daddy. The money he gave you was more… ‘keep quiet money’. Money given to you to make sure you kept your mouth shut about the fact he was cheating on his wife with a ‘disgusting’ half blood.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Maybe he did pay you for sex a bit, but majority of the money was to keep you quiet. He was ashamed of himself of course, tempted by a halfblood. But god, he couldn’t help it. The soft curve of your body, the way your beautiful H/T, H/C hair framed your face. The way the maid uniform fit you. The soft hum of your voice that he hears in the early hours of the morning while you’re preparing dinner. Everything about you was addictive, as if you were trying to seduce him.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You were so addictive, in fact, that he’ll pull you into his office and take you right then and there,

-

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “Ah-! Sir-“ You managed to get out through laboured breaths as you desperately gripped at the edge of the desk you were bent over. Your body jolting upwards with every thrust of his hips.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . A harsh slap pained your ass as you let out a mix of a gasp and a moan. “Silence,” was all Lucius let out as his hand tangled in your hair and pulled. He used you as if you were a mere sex toy to him.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Lucius set his hand down on the free bit of desk next to you, leaning forward as he spoke, his tone cold and degrading. “What a filthy excuse of a woman, letting a man in a marriage use you as they please.” A slap to your ass, his tone turning slightly more amused as he continued. “And tempting a man in a marriage at that.”

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . You only shook your head at his words, your eyes squeezing shut as your moans made your attempts at speaking fail, unable to vocally deny his words. You simply accepted the words as you let your head drop forward, you could tell that he was getting close when his grip on your hair tightened and his thrusts sped up in urgency.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . When he did cum he immediately pulled out, his cum spurting onto your bare back and ass. Some reaching your uniform where it was bunched up at your waist.

-

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . After his high he simply stuffed himself back in his pants, straightening up his appearance. He picked you up by your arm and pulled you up, just to drop you on the floor. He quickly reorganized his desk, that was already quite neat before he fucked you on it.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “You can stay in here and… please yourself if you must.” Lucius spoke as he rummaged through his wallet. adding two grand in ‘keep quiet’ money on top of the five hundred ‘let me fuck you’ money. He didn’t even spare you a glanced as he closed up his wallet and placed it back into his pocket, maneuvering his way around you and his desk.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “I’ll lock the door so that nobody can walk in. You have spare keys to this room to get out if i’m correct?” He asked with a raised brow, eyeing you as he watched you clumsily get up, not uttering a word. You nodded in response to his words, causing him to just slightly smile.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . “Good.” he spoke before turning and leaving the room. You stood awkwardly as you listened to the lock of the door and the slowly disappearing sound of footsteps. Feeling a mix of shame and guilt, though the feeling was quickly replaced with acceptance as your gaze dropped from the door to the two grand and five hundred on the table.

₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . Well, a girls gotta do what she’s gotta do.

��� ⊹ . ݁˖ . Written by ankoluvly, december 2024 on tumblr. Do not republish on ANYTHING ©

tags: @screamingoverfiction @nofingjustaninchident @willowlovestheweasleys @manesuaves @pizzaapeteer(idk if you want to be tagged but i remember you saying you were excited for these. just tell me if you don’t want to be !)

[kitkatkitzune]

MUSE

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Fem!witch!reader

Summary: Always the artist, never the muse… until now that is… sorta?

Warnings: A tiny bit of Angst, Death, Mentions of painting with blood, Inconsistencies in the tense it’s written in (whoopsie)

Notes: First post of the new year!

After a lot of consideration I have decided that I am not going to be making a tag list at this point in time. I am simply not organized enough for it, maybe sometime in the future but not now! I’m sorry! If you’d like to be notified when I post you can turn on notifications… sorry again!

Word Count: 1.5k

MASTER POST , TVDU MASTERLIST

———————

You hum as you walk around the Mikaelson home, stopping every few moments to admire the paintings hung around the house. Some of the paintings were incredibly old and some were only made a few years ago, and all of them had been made by the hybrid.

There was at least one of each sibling, Elijah, Rebekah, Kol, and even Finn. Freya had also gotten a painting after her return. However, there was someone missing.

There was not a single one of Klaus hung around the home, he wasn’t even in the large family portrait at the end of the hallway. You come to a stop in front of it, tilting your head in confusion.

You don’t get long to ponder the thought as a familiar voice cuts through the silence, “Admiring the artwork, love?”

Turning, you face Klaus with a small smile, “Yes, everything is so beautiful… you’re incredibly talented.”

He hums, taking a step backwards, “Come, I’ll show you my studio.” he beckons you to follow, holding out his hand for you to take.

After a moment's hesitation, you take his hand, allowing him to whisk you away to the art room. The room was isolated, far away from the rest of the rooms in the house. You could tell that this is where Klaus goes to clear his head, when he needs a moment to himself. You couldn’t help but feel honored that he brought you here.

He smiles, “Take a look around…”

You begin to look around the room, admiring the different paintings and drawings all around. Every one was unique in its own way but they were all so Klaus.

There were even paintings in blood, you assumed that the blood used had come from one of Klaus’ many victims. You hover your hand near the canvas, it was of an angel. Ironic. There was something about the painting that you couldn’t shake though, it looked so familiar.

“An angel of death? Since it’s in blood?” you question, quietly.

“Sometimes,” Klaus murmurs in your ear, causing you to jump, you had been too distracted by the paintings to notice how close he had gotten, “inspiration strikes at the strangest times, even while I’m slaughtering my enemies.”

“It’s beautiful…” you smile softly, tilting your head to look at him.

“It’s yours,” he says instantly.

“Oh Klaus, I couldn’t…” you trail off, your eyes catching another painting behind him.

You quickly move to the other side of the room to get a closer look, it was of you.

You look back at Klaus, who, for once in his life, looks a bit nervous, “You weren’t intended to see that yet…”

“You painted me?” you ask in a whisper.

Klaus smiles, regaining his confidence, “Well, I paint you quite often,” he makes his way to you in a split second, “Your beauty is something I enjoy capturing… although, no painting will ever compare to the real thing.”

Your face heats up a bit at his words and you sputter trying to find a response, Klaus however grins, responding before you can, “I don’t know if you picked up on it… but the frame on this was is the same as the other ones displayed, I plan to hang this one in the hallway with the rest of the family portraits….”

Your brows furrow, letting out a small laugh, “I’m not a Mikaelson, Nik.”

“No, but you practically live here, practically family at this point.”

“I suppose that’s true.” you let out a little laugh before frowning, “but what about you?”

“What about me?”

You roll your eyes at his question, “All these paintings, Nik, and not a single one of you.”

He smiles but you swear you see a flicker of hurt pass his eyes, “I’m the artist.”

“And?”

Klaus sighs, “I’ve simply never had the urge to paint myself… I prefer to paint other things.”

You knew there was a deeper meaning to his words and reading between the lines you were quickly able to figure it out. Klaus painted beautiful things, even in his most chaotic works there was beauty, whether it was landscapes or a pretty girl— he painted things he liked, things he loved.

His whole life, Klaus had felt like an outsider in his family, he was the half-sibling, the hybrid, the bastard child. He felt that he did not deserve to be painted, to be hung on the wall with his siblings, and you would make it your mission to show him just how wrong he was.

As it turned out, painting was a lot harder than it looked. You had gone through at least ten canvases over the past week, all containing painted scribbles of the original hybrid and you were growing increasingly frustrated. Klaus always made it seem so simple but it was anything but.

After numerous attempts at recreating his face and failing miserably, you decided to cheat.

There were spells for death, aneurysms, memory, you name it— there was a spell for it. It took time but eventually, you found one for painting. It helped you create a spectacular painting of Klaus. You use the term ‘help’ when in reality, the spell did most of the work.

You were ecstatic to show him the painting, holding the canvas close to your chest as you reached the art room.

“Nik?” you call out quietly, entering the room.

He hums, setting down his paint brush, he was working on a landscape painting. He turns to you, raising a brow when he sees you’re carrying something.

“I’ve brought you something…”

“You’ve got my attention.” he stands up from his stool as you hand him the canvas.

He flips it over and reveals the painting of himself, a small smile appears on his face. Suddenly, his brows furrow, causing you to gulp.

“Do you like it?”

“It’s excellent, love, I just wasn’t aware that you painted.”

“Oh,” your face heats up, “I don’t, not really… it’s just, you deserve a painting too… just because you’re the tortured artist type doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be captured and immortalized in art…”

Klaus surprises you by pulling you against him in a tight hug, “Thankyou.” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your head.

You freeze in shock but, after a moment you relax, “Of course…”

When he finally pulls back, he stares down at the painting before finally looking at you, “I know that you did not paint this though.”

“I- What do you mean?“

He clicks his tongue, “Artist, remember? I assume you used a spell, little witch?”

You sigh, “Well yes, but I just wanted to paint you and I couldn’t do it! It’s incredibly difficult! I tried my best but everytime I just ended up with scribbles!”

“Scribbles?”

“Yes! Scribbles!” you grab his hand, dragging him to your room to show him the failed paintings.

As expected, Klaus cackles at your failed attempts making you pout, “I did try!”

His laughter quickly subsides at your protest, “I know you did, it’s just… I think we should hang this one up,“ he holds up one of the paintings, “although, people may think Hope painted it.”

“Don’t be mean…” you cross your arms, looking away from him.

Klaus frowns, setting the paintings down, he approaches you and places his hands on your arms, uncrossing your arms, “I’m only teasing, I think that it’s quite sweet.”

Finally, you turn back and look at him, trying to hold your angry expression but fail. The two of you stand there for a moment in silence, just staring at each other until finally, Klaus moves. He dips his head, connecting your lips in a sweet kiss that quickly turns heated, his hands find their way to your waist and he pulls you flush against him.

You tug on his hair and he groans at the feeling, sliding his hands to the back of your thighs. He picks you up with ease, pushing you against the nearest wall causing a few things to rattle, including the painting made in blood. It fell to the ground, making you both break apart at the sound.

“That painting…” you mumble, out of breath, “It’s still so familiar…”

Klaus smirks, setting you back on the ground, “I thought you’d have figured it out by now…” he brushes some of the hair from your face, “It’s you, you’re the angel… I made that the day we first met. When you were surrounded by those vampires… and with a flick of your wrist all of their heads exploded, coating you in their blood. I had never seen a sight so beautiful…”

“That is… so messed up…” you breathe out, “but so hot.”

And with that, you grab his face and slam your lips to his. You truly were his muse, and he was yours… sort of?

Bonus!

You sit at the dining room table, coloring with Hope and Klaus. Rebekah was braiding Hope’s hair and Elijah sat at the head of the table drinking his coffee while looking over the newspaper when Kol came waltzing into the room.

Kol smiles, “I saw your new painting Hope, it’s lovely.”

Hope tilts her head, “What painting?”

Elijah answers before Kol can, “The portrait of Niklaus in the hallway.”

Your eyes widen and you immediately look at Klaus who is smirking at you.

“You ass!” you take the crayon you were currently holding and throw it at him, causing him to cackle.

“I told you I’d hang it up!”

[plutosunshine]

What will help you go through Saturn lessons? Saturn in the houses

Saturn in the 1st house

Saturn in the first house requires a person to develop a deep understanding of their responsibilities and capacity for self-discipline. To master its lessons, it is essential to learn to accept yourself as you are, with all your flaws and strengths, while also working on your self-confidence and self-esteem. Saturn teaches patience, so you must be prepared that the results of your efforts will not come immediately but through consistent hard work and overcoming inner barriers. The limitations Saturn may impose should not be seen as punishment but rather as opportunities for growth and the strengthening of character. Building a clear structure in life, creating a daily routine, and taking a systematic approach to problem-solving will help manage its influence more easily. Self-discipline becomes the key to success: the more order and organization you have in your life, the easier it will be to overcome challenges. It is also important to learn not to shift responsibility for your life onto circumstances or other people but to see yourself as the rightful master of your destiny. Accepting limitations and working on yourself will gradually lead to inner strength, stability, and self-respect.

Saturn in the 2nd house

Saturn in the second house teaches responsibility, discipline, and patience regarding resources, self-sufficiency, and value. To navigate these lessons, it is important to develop inner stability and learn to recognize the true value of yourself and your life, regardless of external circumstances. Start by identifying your priorities in the financial and material realms and understanding which beliefs about money and resources limit you. Saturn requires a structured approach, so build a habit of budgeting, saving, and working toward long-term financial goals.

Equally important is the lesson of self-sufficiency—learn to rely on your own skills and efforts to feel secure about the future. On an emotional level, it is necessary to overcome feelings of lack or fear of loss, which Saturn may intensify, and gradually replace them with an awareness of your worth. Developing patience and resilience will help you realize that success in this area comes through gradual effort rather than instant results. Practice gratitude for what you already have and cultivate a realistic approach to managing resources, avoiding extremes—both greed and excessive extravagance.

Saturn in the 3rd house

Saturn in the third house teaches discipline in communication, thinking, and learning. It demands structuring your thoughts, learning to express yourself clearly and accurately, and formulating ideas. The key to mastering these lessons lies in patience, consistency, and responsibility while learning and interacting with others. It is important to overcome the fear of expressing your thoughts or a lack of confidence in your intellect. Developing a systematic approach to learning, such as setting specific goals and deadlines for mastering new information, is essential.

Additionally, it is important to work on your relationships with siblings, neighbors, and people in your immediate environment, showing more patience and a willingness to engage in dialogue. Saturn in this house does not tolerate superficiality and requires deep analysis of any situation. Gradually developing critical thinking will help overcome obstacles. If communication challenges arise, practicing writing, reading, or public speaking can be beneficial — this will strengthen confidence and allow you to structure your ideas more effectively.

Saturn in the 4th house

The lessons of Saturn in the fourth house are connected to deep inner work on one’s emotional world, family foundations, and emotional security. To overcome these challenges, it is necessary to consciously work on one’s roots and relationships with family, especially parents, as karmic ties or heavy family patterns often emerge here. Taking responsibility for your emotional maturity becomes a key step: instead of blaming your family or circumstances, it is important to see how they have shaped your personality and learn to build your life based on your own principles. Saturn demands discipline and patience, so creating a stable home environment, even if it requires time and effort, becomes the foundation of your inner balance.

The lessons often involve learning to cope with loneliness and emotional restraint, finding support within yourself rather than in external circumstances. Learning to set boundaries with others is helpful, as well as recognizing your right to personal space and emotional well-being. Practices such as self-reflection, working with a psychologist, or meditation can help you better understand your fears and limitations, freeing space for more mature and healthier emotional responses.

Saturn in the 5th house

The Saturn in the fifth house requires patience, awareness, and inner discipline. The fifth house is associated with creativity, self-expression, joy, children, romantic relationships, and games. When Saturn enters this house, it can impose limitations and challenges in these areas, prompting an individual to gain a deeper understanding of their true needs and talents. It is important to learn to take responsibility for one’s own happiness and creative fulfillment rather than shifting it onto circumstances or other people. Saturn demands consistent effort and a serious approach to any creative project; superficiality and carelessness will not bring satisfaction. Overcoming fears of self-expression, criticism, and failure plays a key role. It is essential to find what truly brings joy and to develop it despite difficulties.

The romantic relationships may serve as a lesson in trust and maturity: Saturn teaches one to see love not as a source of pleasure but as a commitment and opportunity for growth. Regarding children, this placement often pushes for a serious and responsible attitude toward their upbringing or toward developing one’s own “inner maturity.” It is important to learn to find joy in simple things and to allow oneself to express happiness, even when it requires effort. Accepting discipline as a foundation for growth and realizing that satisfaction comes with time and hard work helps you successfully navigate Saturn’s lessons.

Saturn in the 6th house

To pass Saturn’s lessons in the sixth house, it is necessary to focus on discipline, responsibility, and service in daily life. The sixth house symbolizes work, health, routine, and self-discipline, so developing beneficial habits and patience in daily duties are key themes. Saturn demands structure and diligence, so learning to plan tasks, organize work time, and not avoid difficulties is important. Overcoming laziness, chaos, and procrastination will help harmonize Saturn’s influence. Special attention should be paid to health: regular medical check-ups, physical activity, and a balanced diet become essential tools for maintaining body and spirit balance.

Saturn’s lesson here is to recognize the value of work, humility, and service to others. Work done with responsibility and without the desire for immediate rewards brings inner growth and strengthens character. It is important to understand that success comes through painstaking effort, not quick results. Accepting routine duties as a means of self-development and improving one’s life will help to pass Saturn’s lessons with wisdom and resilience.

Saturn in the 7th house

Saturn in the seventh house teaches responsibility in relationships, maturity, and balance between personal freedom and commitments to others. To navigate these lessons, it is essential to build honest, stable, and mutually respectful partnerships. This primarily requires patience and a willingness to work on yourself and your relationships, especially when facing challenges or disappointments. Saturn may manifest as delays in forming a serious union, but this time can be used for self-discovery and developing communication skills. Understanding your expectations and limitations will help avoid illusions and disappointments.

It is also important to realize that responsibility in relationships is not only about obligations but also about respecting boundaries—both your own and your partner’s. Practices like meditation and working with a psychologist or mentor can be helpful in overcoming fears and insecurities related to intimacy. Respect for yourself and others, a realistic approach to relationships, and a readiness to learn from mistakes are the keys to successfully mastering the lessons of Saturn in the seventh house.

Saturn in the 8th house

Saturn in the eighth house indicates profound transformations, challenges, and lessons related to themes of intimacy, shared resources, debts, inheritance, and emotional depth. To successfully navigate Saturn’s lessons in this position, learning to accept change as an inevitable part of life is crucial. Develop patience, discipline, and responsibility in managing shared finances, as well as in relationships that involve trust and emotional vulnerability. Work on fears of losing control and embrace the necessity of letting go of what no longer serves your growth. Practicing meditation, mindfulness, and other activities that promote emotional healing can be helpful. Strive to find a balance between the material and the spiritual, recognizing that true strength comes from inner peace and the ability to overcome fears. Cultivate resilience, trust in life, and accountability for your actions.

Saturn in the 9th house

The lessons of Saturn in the ninth house are associated with embracing discipline and responsibility in matters of faith, philosophy, education, and life beliefs. This placement emphasizes the need for a serious approach to broadening one’s worldview, studying profound knowledge, and developing personal wisdom. It teaches patience and demonstrates that true understanding comes through hard work, personal experience, and overcoming internal limitations.

It is essential to overcome the fear of making mistakes in the search for truth and to learn to trust your inner teacher. Saturn’s lessons in this house demand a striving for deep understanding rather than superficial perception and an awareness that genuine knowledge requires time and effort. Taking responsibility for your beliefs and being willing to learn, even when it seems challenging, will pave the way to wisdom. Saturn also highlights the importance of structure, which may manifest in the need to plan studies or travels.

Saturn in the 10th house

Saturn in the tenth house indicates the need to learn lessons of responsibility, perseverance, and discipline, especially in professional matters and issues related to social status. The key to successfully overcoming Saturn’s challenges in this position lies in accepting the necessity of long-term effort and building a structured approach to life without expecting immediate results. Developing patience and understanding that true achievements come through consistent effort and a willingness to take on greater responsibilities is important.

The fear of failure can be a strong companion, so working on self-confidence and avoiding excessive self-criticism is crucial. Focus on quality over quantity in your tasks and projects. Strive to find a balance between career ambitions and personal life, ensuring that your professional sphere doesn’t completely drain your energy.

Saturn calls for awareness of your true goals. This is a time to reassess your aspirations: does your work align with your inner purpose? Be prepared for the possibility of changing direction or letting go of outdated goals that are no longer relevant. Embracing responsibility for your choices, developing self-discipline, and maintaining a long-term perspective will help you achieve sustainable success and fully realize your potential.

Saturn in the 11th house

Saturn in the eleventh house teaches us responsibility within social circles, the development of friendships, and the fulfillment of long-term dreams. This lesson requires patience and a conscious choice of surroundings, as friends can become important teachers. To navigate Saturn’s lessons, it is crucial to learn how to structure your goals and demonstrate discipline in achieving them. Challenges in trusting others or feelings of isolation may arise, but they serve as a catalyst for developing inner strength.

It is beneficial to cultivate teamwork skills without fear of taking on leadership roles or responsibility for group projects. Moreover, it is important to realize that true freedom comes through conscious limitations and the proper allocation of energy. Regular self-development, awareness of your role in society, and a willingness to reassess your beliefs about friendship and collective work will help you navigate this period harmoniously.

Saturn in the 12th house

Saturn in the twelfth house indicates the need to work through deep subconscious fears, hidden limitations, and karmic debts. To pass the lessons of Saturn in this position, it is important to embrace solitude as a means of inner growth rather than isolation. Practicing meditation, mindfulness, and spiritual self-discovery will become powerful tools for personal development. Patience, humility, and the willingness to let go of the past, including resentments and inner regrets, are essential. Saturn demands discipline and structure, so even in spiritual practices, it is crucial to maintain consistency. Reading, self-analysis, and helping others through charity or volunteer work can help harmonize the influence of this planet. Taking responsibility for subconscious reactions and working through deep emotions such as guilt or shame will aid in removing internal blocks. The lessons of Saturn in the twelfth house may be challenging, but they bring strength, wisdom, and the ability to live more consciously, freeing oneself from illusions.

[devilish-cherry]

nanami relationship headcanons ♡

ᨳ♡₊➳ nanami x reader

ᨳ♡₊➳ crack, fluff

ᨳ♡₊➳ my other works

ᨳ♡₊➳ a/n: this post is just me projecting my need for someone emotionally mature and capable through nanami. please clap. 🙂‍↕️

₊⊹. nanami unironically has reminders set for relationship milestones. not because he's forgetful, but because he's practical. he'll deadpan tell you, "it's our anniversary tomorrow. expect a dinner that's slightly nicer than usual, but please keep your expectations reasonable."

₊⊹. you bought him novelty socks once. he said they were "childish." he now wears them every friday. they have little croissants on them. he doesn't talk about it. but when you pointed it out, he just said, "i was low on clean socks. coincidence." lies.

₊⊹. you once complained about him texting like a customer service chatbot. now, you'll get messages like "Dinner at 7. 👍" and after questioning him, he'll calmly explain, "i thought the thumbs up would indicate enthusiasm."

₊⊹. he respects your weird little hobbies like it's a full-time religion. you told him you liked collecting novelty erasers and now he's like, "i found this one shaped like a sushi roll. seemed appropriate. it's from a limited set." you don't even know where he finds these.

₊⊹. you once texted nanami "u up?" at 10:42 p.m. he responded at 6:00 a.m. the next day with, "I was asleep. As all sane adults should be." you then received a forwarded link to a sleep hygiene article and a reminder to hydrate. the man loves you, but sleep comes first. always.

₊⊹. on a particularly rough day, you find him staring dramatically out the window, murmuring, "this world continues to test my patience." when you ask what's wrong, he answers solemnly, "they discontinued my preferred rye bread."

₊⊹. he might complain about meaningless small talk, yet he listens patiently and intently whenever you excitedly ramble about your latest hyperfixation. later, you catch him quietly googling random obscure facts just so he can casually drop information into future conversations. "did you know," he'll begin flatly at dinner, "the specific species of salamander you adore has regenerative capabilities?" this is peak romance for him.

₊⊹. nanami keeps a grocery list in his notes app. it is secretly 80% just things you casually mentioned once.

₊⊹. if you have long hair, you notice he starts wearing your hair ties on his wrist. he vehemently denies sentimentality, claiming instead that it's practical, in case of "unexpected wind conditions."

₊⊹. he never says he misses you outright but texts random things like, "The house seems unnecessarily spacious today." you translate these awkwardly formal messages as "i miss you." and tease him relentlessly for it.

₊⊹. nanami looks so intimidatingly polished at all times, people assume he's naturally graceful. in reality, you've seen him bang his shin on the coffee table at least twice a week. each time he just quietly, painfully mutters, "fantastic."

₊⊹. the first time you suggest watching a cheesy romantic drama together, he provided dry commentary on unrealistic plot developments, muttering things like, "yes, because sprinting in heels through an airport is totally practical." with such seriousness you almost choke on your popcorn laughing.

₊⊹. despite being cool and collected, he's hilariously competitive at random things. he's calm until someone mentions board games. monopoly nights at home become overly serious. he mutters under his breath about property taxes, income inequality, and irresponsible fiscal policies as you nervously remind him, "nanami, it's fake money." he glares softly, "principles aren't fictional."

₊⊹. if you oversleep and panic, he watches calmly as you sprint around. when you complain, he sips his coffee and deadpans, "it’s simple: wake up earlier, or master teleportation."

₊⊹. nanami calls you by your name 95% of the time. once he called you "dear" and gojo materialized from the drywall like a poltergeist to scream about it. nanami now refuses to say anything remotely affectionate within a five-mile radius of gojo.

₊⊹. he is 100% the boyfriend who texts "Can you talk?" and immediately stresses you out, only to call and calmly ask, "which type of cereal did you want again?"

₊⊹. despite being generally indifferent towards animals, nanami somehow attracts stray cats. you regularly catch him sternly lecturing a cat, saying flatly, "i’m not feeding you again," while simultaneously sliding food toward it discreetly.

₊⊹. he openly claims he doesn’t nap. he merely "rests his eyes aggressively" on weekends, fully clothed on the couch, for precisely forty five minutes exactly.

₊⊹. he secretly enjoys watching documentaries about marine life but insists he's doing "important retirement research."

₊⊹. even though he seems eternally composed, when you get sick, nanami panics silently. he googles symptoms discreetly, sighs, then calmly states, "according to the internet, you either have a mild cold or twenty four hours left to live. please let me know which one so i can adjust my schedule accordingly."

₊⊹. he hates pda in theory, claiming it’s "inappropriate and disruptive," yet has zero hesitation holding your hand tightly when crossing busy streets, rationalizing it as "accident prevention."

₊⊹. nanami tries his absolute hardest to hate all forms of modern slang and phrases. until one day he overhears you calling gojo "a walking red flag" and suddenly he's very supportive.

₊⊹. you catch him watching cooking competition shows with intense seriousness, critiquing plating skills and muttering, "no self-respecting chef serves food smeared randomly like abstract art. are we dining or painting?"

₊⊹. despite his stoic demeanor, you catch glimpses of softness: like the slightly awkward way he offers his coat when you're cold, muttering, "don’t make a fuss, just wear it." or how he carefully holds the umbrella slightly more over you in the rain, grumbling about your poor planning yet never failing to protect you from a single raindrop.

₊⊹. he walks on the side of the sidewalk closest to traffic. holds doors for you even if it means awkwardly power-walking to get ahead. refills your water without being asked. the kind of love that’s low-volume but high-resolution.

[astrologydray]

…Pallas in the houses…

Pallas through the houses shows how and where your brain naturally sees patterns, solves problems, and defends what matters. It’s your built-in strategist, often working in the background through intuition, logic, or observation—this is the part of you that “just gets it.”

1st House – The walking strategist

You naturally read situations fast and lead with sharp instincts—people may feel like you’re always five steps ahead. Your mind and identity are fused; you can spot the game, make the move, and stay calm under pressure.

2nd House – The value-based problem solver

You’re great at figuring out how to make things last, make things make sense, or make money. You’re wise when it comes to worth—whether that’s self-worth, price tags, or how to build real security.

3rd House – The verbal pattern genius

You’re sharp with words, ideas, and reading the room—you could probably win a debate with your eyes closed. You solve problems by talking it out, explaining it clearly, or connecting dots no one else sees.

4th House – The emotional strategist

You instinctively know how people feel and how to protect what’s sacred. You’re the person who can sense emotional patterns in family, memory, or childhood dynamics before anyone else picks up on them.

5th House – The creative chess master

You use art, humor, flirting, or performance as tools to read and shift energy. You solve problems by shining your light in smart ways—and you’re great at making others feel seen or outwitted, depending on your mood.

6th House – The low-key expert

You’re a behind-the-scenes brain who knows how to fix, tweak, heal, and improve things quietly but powerfully. Your mind thrives in routines, systems, health practices, or jobs that require smart efficiency.

7th House – The relationship whisperer

You can see through people, understand dynamics instantly, and know exactly how to handle conflict without making it a war. You’re a master at reading between the lines in partnerships—business or romantic.

8th House – The emotional hacker

You’re psychologically sharp—you just know what’s going on under the surface. Your intuition is next-level, and you often solve deep, taboo, or emotionally messy problems like it’s nothing.

9th House – The big-picture thinker

You’re gifted at seeing patterns in belief systems, cultures, or worldviews. You solve things with a zoomed-out view—philosophy, teaching, spirituality, or calling out BS with facts and faith.

10th House – The public mastermind

Your wisdom shows up in how you move through your career, reputation, or leadership role. You’re seen as someone who “has it together,” because you apply smart strategies to your goals and grind.

11th House – The visionary connector

You’re brilliant in groups, ideas, or future plans—you just get networks, friendships, and what society needs. Your brain is wired for innovation and creating smarter systems for collective growth.

12th House – The intuitive mystic

Your wisdom comes from dreams, subtle energy, or divine downloads—you solve problems through gut feelings, not spreadsheets. You might not always explain how you know things… but you always do.

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[hearts4pbaz]

The Eras of a Dream

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Words: 5k

Warnings: None

Synopsis: Before the roar of the crowd, there were pivotal moments of self-discovery, defining relationships, and relentless dedication that paved the way into an extraordinary future for Paige Bueckers.

Notes: this is unlike anything ive ever written before so idk if it's any good or if i'll write anything like it again but hope you enjoy

Era 1: The Hopkins Spark 

The Minnesota air, crisp even in summer, carried the rhythmic thud of a basketball long before Paige Bueckers truly understood its siren call. In Hopkins, a suburb that hummed with the quiet energy of family life, five-year-old Paige was a blur of motion. Raised by her single father, Bob, their small world was built on routine, laughter, and an unspoken understanding that they were a team. Bob, a man whose own athletic days were fond memories, juggled work and fatherhood with a steady, loving hand. He was the fixed point in Paige’s universe, the one who made a scraped knee feel like a minor inconvenience and a good day at kindergarten feel like a triumph.

It wasn't any single moment that marked Paige as different, but a collection of small observations. On the playground, while other children her age were still mastering the art of not tripping over their own feet, Paige moved with an uncanny grace. She could outrun, out-jump, and out-maneuver most, her small frame surprisingly agile. Bob noticed it first, a quiet pride swelling in his chest as he watched her scamper up climbing frames or effortlessly catch a wayward ball. He saw the flicker of something special, a raw, untamed athleticism.

The true awakening, however, began with a bright orange sphere. Perhaps it was a hand-me-down, or a birthday gift, but once a basketball found its way into Paige’s small hands, it rarely left. Their driveway, modest and unassuming, became her first court. Bob, often weary from a long day, would find a second wind watching her. Initially, it was pure, unstructured play. Paige would chase the ball, hurl it towards the rusty hoop he’d installed, her tongue poking out in concentration. There was no technique, just an intuitive connection. The ball, almost too big for her, seemed to listen to her.

"Like this, Paigey?" Bob would demonstrate a clumsy (by his own admission) dribble or a simple chest pass. He wasn't a coach, not then, but he was an encourager, a rebounder, a steady presence. He’d praise her efforts, the wild shots that sometimes, surprisingly, swished through the net, and the determined way she’d retrieve the ball after a miss, her brow furrowed.

Her knack for basketball became undeniable. 

By six, she wasn't just throwing the ball; she was aiming it. She started to mimic players she might have glimpsed on TV at a neighbor's house or in snippets from games Bob watched. A little crossover dribble, a hesitant jump shot – her body seemed to instinctively understand the movements. The joy she found in these moments was palpable. It wasn’t a chore; it was an extension of her being.

Life in their single-parent household had its unique rhythms. Dinners were often simple, conversations flowing easily between father and daughter. Bob helped with homework, read bedtime stories, and always made sure Paige felt secure and loved. There were challenges, of course – the occasional pang of wishing for a mom at a school event, or Bob’s tired sighs after a particularly demanding week. But their bond was a fortress. And basketball was becoming a cornerstone of that bond. The driveway sessions weren't just about sport; they were about connection, shared laughter, and the quiet pride of a father watching his daughter discover something she loved.

As she neared eight, the playful interactions began to take on a more focused edge. She’d pester Bob to play "one more game" of H-O-R-S-E, her competitive spirit already fierce. She’d practice dribbling around imaginary defenders on the cracked pavement, her movements becoming smoother, more confident. Sometimes, other neighborhood kids would join, and Paige, though still small, would often surprise them with her skill and tenacity.

Her early dreams weren't yet of WNBA stardom or championship trophies. They were simpler, more immediate. She dreamed of the satisfying swish of the net, of making a shot Bob thought was impossible, of the feel of the worn leather in her hands. She dreamed of the sun setting over their Hopkins driveway, the orange glow matching the ball she cradled, her father's encouraging voice the soundtrack to her burgeoning passion. Basketball wasn't just a game; it was becoming a language she understood, a place where her natural talents could sing, nurtured by the unwavering support of the most important person in her world. The spark had been ignited.

Era 2: The Blueprint of a Dream 

The transition from playful driveway games to the more structured, demanding world of competitive youth basketball was almost seamless for Paige Bueckers. By nine, the raw talent that had blossomed in Hopkins was being sculpted, refined. Her movements on the court, once instinctive, were now imbued with a burgeoning understanding of the game's geometry, its rhythm, its subtle deceits. She wasn't just a kid who could shoot; she was a player who could think.

In Hopkins, as Paige moved through late childhood, her name began to circulate beyond the local playgrounds. Bob, ever her steadfast supporter, navigated the burgeoning world of youth sports, seeking out opportunities that would challenge and nurture her growing abilities. This often meant joining travel teams, facing tougher competition from across Minnesota and eventually, the Midwest. The squeak of sneakers on polished gymnasium floors became a familiar soundtrack to their weekends.

It was in these more competitive arenas that Paige truly began to distinguish herself. While other players her age were still mastering fundamentals, Paige was executing no-look passes that threaded needles, her court vision almost preternatural. She developed a lethal crossover, a quick release on her jump shot, and a defensive tenacity that belied her still-slight frame. She wasn’t just scoring; she was making everyone around her better. One savvy travel team coach, a grizzled veteran named Coach Henderson who’d seen hundreds of hopefuls pass through his program, pulled Bob aside after a particularly dominant tournament performance. "That girl," he’d said, pointing a calloused finger towards Paige, who was already back on the court shooting free throws, "she’s got it, Bob. The kind of it you see once in a decade, if you’re lucky."

This external validation only fueled the fire within Paige. Around the age of ten, a new, specific dream began to take root, nurtured by grainy TV broadcasts and stories of legendary players: the University of Connecticut. UConn wasn't just a college basketball team; it was an institution, a dynasty. She’d watch their games with her father, mesmerized by their precision, their teamwork, their relentless pursuit of excellence. The idea of wearing that Huskies jersey, of playing for Geno Auriemma, became a powerful magnet, pulling her aspirations into sharp focus.

And beyond UConn, a grander ambition shimmered: the WNBA. It was the pinnacle, the ultimate stage. The thought of playing professionally, of making basketball her life, was no longer a vague childhood fantasy but a driving force. This ambition shaped her days.

Her training regimen intensified, though Bob was careful to ensure it didn't consume her entirely. Early mornings before school often meant ball-handling drills in the driveway, cones set up under the pale dawn light. After school, it was team practice, followed by more shooting, more drills, sometimes just her and her dad rebounding for each other until dusk. He taught her the importance of fundamentals, of repetition, of outworking everyone else. He wasn't just her father; he was her first coach, her chief motivator, and her unwavering believer.

Balancing this burgeoning athletic career with schoolwork and the typical activities of a pre-teen was a constant juggle. There were missed birthday parties for out-of-state tournaments, homework completed in the backseat of the car on long drives to games. The pressure to excel wasn't just internal anymore; coaches expected her to lead, opponents targeted her, and the whispers of her prodigious talent created a subtle weight. Yet, through it all, Bob ensured she had space to just be a kid. He made sure there were movie nights, trips for ice cream, and time for friendships that weren't centered around basketball. He understood the pressures, having been an athlete himself, and his calm, steady guidance was her anchor. He’d remind her, "Play hard, have fun, be a good teammate. Be you. Be great."

By twelve, Paige Bueckers was no longer just a promising local talent. She was a young athlete with a clear vision, a blueprint for her future meticulously drawn in her mind. The courts of Hopkins had nurtured her, her father’s unwavering support had fortified her, and the twin dreams of UConn and the WNBA were now the stars she navigated by. The journey was just beginning, but the trajectory was undeniably upward.

Era 3: The Crucible of Adolescence 

The leap from late childhood to the precipice of teenage years was, for Paige Bueckers, like launching from a well-worn local court into a roaring arena. At twelve, her basketball trajectory was near-vertical. Hopkins remained home base, but her name was echoing far beyond Minnesota’s borders. Tournament MVPs, highlight reels that buzzed through youth basketball circuits, and the growing whispers of "future star" became commonplace. The dreams of UConn and the WNBA were no longer quiet internal hums; they were bold declarations, sometimes voiced by coaches, sometimes by Paige herself with a newfound, albeit still youthful, confidence. Local sports reporters occasionally sought out Bob for a quote about his prodigy daughter. The spotlight, once a distant flicker, was now undeniably brightening.

But beneath the polished veneer of the rising basketball phenom, a more complicated, internal drama was unfolding. Puberty arrived, unceremonious and awkward, bringing with it a cascade of changes that felt both alien and intensely personal. For any young girl, this is a period of upheaval, but for Paige, navigating it without an older female figure in the household added layers of bewilderment. There was no mother or older sister to confide in about the strange new landscape of her own body, no one to ask the embarrassing questions that burned in her mind.

Her dad, bless his heart, tried his best. He was a rock, as always, but this was uncharted territory for him too. There were clumsy conversations, initiated with a well-meaning but flustered, "So, uh, Paigey, things might be... changing a bit for you soon?" He bought books he thought might help, fumbled through explanations gleaned from pamphlets, and made awkward, solitary trips to the pharmacy for "girl things." Paige, though she appreciated his efforts, often felt a profound sense of isolation. She’d retreat to her room, feeling a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and a longing for a kind of understanding Bob, for all his love, couldn't quite provide. The locker room, once just a place for pre-game chats, now sometimes felt like a minefield of whispered conversations and shared experiences she wasn’t part of.

Adding to this internal maelstrom, new, unsettling questions began to surface regarding her own identity. As her peers started to navigate the tentative world of crushes and early adolescent romance, Paige found herself on the periphery, an observer rather than a participant. The typical boy-girl dynamics didn't resonate with her in the same way. A quiet, persistent voice in the back of her mind began to wonder why. This wasn't a clear understanding, just a nebulous sense of difference, a subtle disharmony with the narratives unfolding around her. It was another secret to hold, another layer of introspection in a mind already crowded with basketball strategy and adolescent angst. The word "sexuality" wasn't one she would have used then, but the nascent stirrings of questioning her orientation created a quiet undercurrent of anxiety.

The mounting pressure of her basketball success intersected sharply with these personal turbulences. Expectations were sky-high. Every game felt like an audition, every practice a test. Coaches, while supportive, also pushed hard, recognizing the once-in-a-generation talent they had. Peers sometimes viewed her with a mixture of awe and envy. And Paige, her own harshest critic, felt the weight of her own ambitions keenly. The court, often her sanctuary, could also feel like a pressure cooker. There were days when the joy of the game was overshadowed by the fear of not living up to the hype, of disappointing Bob, her coaches, or herself.

The balancing act was immense. Schoolwork demanded attention, intense training sessions ate up hours, and travel for tournaments consumed weekends. Her social life, already impacted by her dedication to basketball, became even more constrained. Friendships were often forged on the court, but the deeper, more vulnerable connections that adolescent girls often build were harder to come by when so much of her energy was focused outward, on performance, and inward, on navigating profound personal shifts.

Her dad remained her constant. He saw the shadows under her eyes, the moments of frustration, the flashes of vulnerability. He couldn't fix everything, couldn't magically make puberty easier or untangle the knots of her internal questioning, but he could listen. He could offer a hug, a reminder of how proud he was, not just of Paige the basketball player, but of Paige the person. He’d encourage breaks, try to inject normalcy with pizza nights or a silly movie, moments where she could just be a kid, not a phenom.

These pre-teen years in Hopkins were a crucible. Paige was being forged in the fires of intense competition, adolescent change, and nascent self-discovery. She was learning not just how to execute a perfect pick-and-roll, but how to navigate a world that was becoming increasingly complex, both on and off the court. The girl with the dazzling smile and effortless game was also a young soul grappling with the profound, often confusing, journey of growing up, all while the world began to watch.

Era 4: The Meeting

By the time Paige Bueckers stepped onto the polished hardwood of the Under-16 USA Basketball tryouts, she had already begun to understand that talent wasn’t enough. The gym at the U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center in Colorado Springs buzzed with intensity – every girl here had been the best player in her city, maybe even her state. Now they were all vying for the same red, white, and blue jersey.

At 15, Paige had just started to feel the burden of potential, of expectations. She carried herself with a quiet fire, not the loudest or most physically imposing, but undeniably magnetic on the court — her court vision, her creativity, her sheer command of the game. Still, this was different. The stakes were higher. She needed to prove herself all over again.

That’s when she noticed the girl from Virginia.

Azzi Fudd, just 14, had the kind of shot that made coaches stop talking mid-sentence. Everything about her form was immaculate – smooth, effortless, almost surgical. Rumors had preceded her: daughter of Tim and Katie Fudd, a basketball family through and through. But Azzi didn’t walk around like a prodigy. She was focused, head down, eyes fixed on her own goals. Still, there was something quietly intimidating about her – precise, controlled, and deadly consistent.

Paige found herself watching Azzi more than she meant to. She noticed the way Azzi never reacted to pressure, how she laughed only when she meant it. And Azzi, for her part, had certainly noticed Paige – the intensity in her passes, the fire behind her competitive streak, how her personality seemed to stretch wide enough to fill a room but shrink down in quieter moments, like when no one was watching.

They both made the team. That wasn’t surprising.

What was surprising – at least to Paige – was being assigned the same room for the duration of the training camp. The U.S. Olympic & Paralympic Training Center didn't offer much in the way of privacy, but the two girls found a rhythm. At first, it was basic courtesy: rotations for the bathroom, playlists on low volume, mutual respect. But high-stakes proximity has a way of collapsing distance. And the space between them began to vanish.

Late nights after grueling practices turned into quiet conversations about more than basketball – about families, injuries, what it meant to be seen only for what you could do, not who you were. Paige, always a little louder, found herself grounding in Azzi’s calm presence. Azzi, guarded and meticulous, felt safe letting down her walls with Paige’s warmth.

They started finishing each other’s thoughts on the court. Off the court, the walls between their beds became less symbolic and more real – Paige’s socks on Azzi’s side, Azzi’s phone charger always missing, the smell of eucalyptus from Azzi’s lotion becoming part of Paige’s memory of the room. There was no clean break between teammates and friends. And before long, there was no line at all between friends and something more.

It happened slowly and all at once. A hand held too long. A shoulder leaned on after a hard day. Laughter that dissolved into silence that neither of them wanted to break. The first kiss was quiet – nervous, charged, and unforgettable. They didn’t talk about it right away. But they didn’t need to. Something had shifted.

For Paige, who had spent months, maybe years, trying to name feelings she didn’t yet understand, this changed everything. It didn’t solve all the questions about who she was, but it gave her a new one: What did it mean to be in love – real, heart-thudding, can't-look-away love – with the girl sleeping four feet away?

They had games to win, drills to survive, reputations to uphold. But in that small Colorado room, under fluorescent lights and beside scuffed luggage, they found something unexpectedly fierce and tender.

Paige would never forget the feeling.

And neither would Azzi.

Era 5: Navigating New Realities 

By the time Paige Bueckers turned sixteen, she and Azzi Fudd were no longer just teammates or summer-camp sweethearts – they were something deeper. Something steadier. Something tested. Even from opposite ends of the country, they were still very much “attached at the hip,” as Bob liked to half-joke, though now their bond lived mostly in texts, FaceTime calls, and carefully coordinated visits squeezed between brutal practice schedules and school obligations.

The long-distance wasn’t easy.

Paige was in Hopkins, juggling her rising stardom, schoolwork, and a growing awareness that the eyes of the entire women’s basketball world were firmly trained on her. Azzi was back in Virginia, going through the same thing – though with her own quiet intensity. Their phone calls were often the only calm in the chaos: stolen hours late at night, earbuds in under blankets, voices low. They talked about everything – bad games, awkward interviews, coach drama, algebra tests, the unshakable pressure to be perfect.

There were fights. Of course there were fights.

Missed calls. Misread texts. Misplaced jealousy. At times, the distance carved valleys between them. But the reunions – God, the reunions – those made it worth it. Whether in hotel rooms during Team USA events, or during carefully orchestrated weekend visits, when Paige would hop a flight to D.C. or Azzi would show up in the bleachers at one of Paige’s home games, the gravity of their connection always snapped them back together like magnets.

They talked – often, and seriously – about college.

The dream, once whispered at fifteen, took on new weight now that recruiters were knocking down doors. UConn loomed large in Paige’s heart, a goal she’d carried since before she could drive. Geno Auriemma called. He made it clear: she was the future of the program.

Azzi had her own courtship, with her own list of elite programs. Coaches wanted her, not just for her insane shot, but for the way she moved – disciplined, unshakeable. It wasn’t just her game that drew attention anymore. She and Paige had become a kind of phenomenon. Fan accounts popped up overnight. Grainy game clips went viral. Articles speculated about their next steps. Rumors swirled about their relationship, sometimes lovingly, sometimes cruelly. The internet, with all its power, saw them. And it didn’t always look away kindly.

They tried to shut it out. Mostly, they succeeded. But they were still teenagers.

Some nights, Paige would scroll too long, lingering on comment threads she knew better than to read. "Overrated." "Too emotional." And other more negative words that caused that slimy type of anger to fester deep in Paige’s soamach. Not because people were saying those things about her per se but because they had the gall to throw those names towards Azzi. Her Azzi. 

The doubts, of course, found cracks, even in her titanium self-belief. Azzi had her own demons, her own critics who questioned her composure, her durability, her leadership. But they leaned on each other, as they always had. They reminded each other who they were when the world tried to write new definitions.

When Paige finally committed to UConn, the moment was a mix of joy and ache. It was everything she had worked toward – everything she had dreamed. Azzi was the first person she called.

"I'm proud of you," Azzi said. And she meant it. But the pause after hung heavy.

They had talked about it – about being a package deal, about chasing greatness side-by-side. But in the end, they each had to make their own choices. Azzi wasn’t sure yet. She needed more time. More clarity. Paige understood. She had to.

The distance between them, once just measured in miles, began to feel like a countdown clock.

And yet, through it all, the bond held.

Senior year brought more chaos. Media days. Honors. McDonald’s All-American announcements. Zoom interviews. Public personas had to be shaped, honed, protected. But in private, they were still Paige and Azzi. Goofy. Tender. Ridiculously competitive in ways that made their friends roll their eyes. They found each other in group chats, in shared playlists, in Polaroids taped to bedroom walls.

They were figuring out how to be young women in the spotlight – and in love.

It wasn’t always graceful. But it was real.

And when Paige finally zipped up her suitcase for Storrs, Connecticut, there were tears, of course. Not just from Bob at the airport, but from Azzi, who pressed a note into her hand before she left. Paige read it on the plane. It said:

“No matter where we go, I’ll find you. You know that, right?”

Paige did.

Era 6: Becoming 

The moment Paige Bueckers stepped onto the Storrs campus, it felt like stepping into a dream – one shaped by a decade of driveway drills, highlight reels, and whispered ambitions. UConn wasn’t just a college. It was the pinnacle. It was Geno. It was legacy. It was everything she’d worked for.

But dreams, she quickly learned, could be heavy.

College life hit fast. There was barely time to settle into her dorm before the reality of Division I basketball set in – 6 a.m. lifts, double practices, film sessions that dissected every missed rotation, every lazy closeout. Coach Auriemma expected excellence – not potential, not flashes – consistency. Paige, always the competitor, rose to the challenge. But the pressure was unrelenting. She was no longer just the girl with handles from Minnesota. She was The Next One.

Classes were another gauntlet. Managing deadlines between national TV games and recovery sessions felt like a second sport. Her days were a blur of movement, her nights a quiet race against exhaustion.

And then there was Azzi.

They’d made it – together.

After all the uncertainty, the dream of playing side-by-side in college had somehow materialized. Azzi chose UConn, too. Maybe for Paige, maybe not solely – but whatever the reason, the result was the same: they were finally sharing the same court, the same jersey, the same grind.

But being together didn’t make things easier. In some ways, it made them harder.

There were new eyes on them now – more invasive, more entitled. Whispers about their chemistry, their “closeness,” spilled into online debates, message boards, even press questions. They never made a public statement. They didn’t need to. But the scrutiny added pressure to something already so precious.

They learned, quickly, to protect it.

Some nights, they’d crash onto one of their beds, not talking – just letting the silence between them do the healing. Other nights, they’d sneak out for late walks near campus, hoodies up, fingers brushing. They knew they couldn’t outrun the spotlight. But they could at least claim pieces of privacy, moments that belonged only to them.

On the court, they were electric.

Paige’s game matured – her vision sharper, her leadership undeniable. She became the heartbeat of the team, balancing flare with discipline, swagger with sacrifice. Every pass had intention. Every game was a building block toward something bigger.

Azzi, as always, was the cool counterbalance. Her shot as pristine as ever, her movements honed like a dancer’s. Together, they played with a rhythm that was almost telepathic – years of trust distilled into basketball instincts.

Still, even greatness wasn’t a shield.

There were injuries. Slumps. Articles that praised one while questioning the other. Days when neither felt good enough, despite what the stat sheet said. Paige, especially, wrestled with the growing disconnect between who she was and who people believed her to be. To the world, she was the golden girl, the flawless star. Inside, she was just trying to stay afloat.

Azzi reminded her who she was.

Not with big speeches, but in the little things. A hand on her knee during a tough film review. A dumb meme texted at 3 a.m. The quiet knowing that came from being loved completely, even on her worst days.

Together, they kept dreaming.

The WNBA loomed ahead like a distant shore – tantalizing, inevitable. Paige felt its pull, especially after big games, when scouts would linger and fans would chant her name. But she also knew: this chapter mattered. UConn was more than a stepping stone. It was shaping her – teaching her how to lead, how to lose, how to rebuild.

And beyond all that, she was growing into herself.

As a student. As a partner. As a woman figuring out how to live boldly in a world that kept trying to define her.

By the time Paige reached the tail end of her sophomore year, she was no longer just chasing greatness. She was becoming it – in her own way, on her own terms. And whether the road led to championships, draft nights, or something entirely unexpected, one thing remained true:

Azzi was always there, in the crowd or on the court, still steady. Still home.

They had made it through adolescence, distance, doubt, and the roar of rising fame.

Now, in the glow of early adulthood, they were building something real.

Something that could last.

 Epilogue: Draft Night

The lights were brighter than they’d ever been. The kind of brightness that seemed to blur the edges of everything, making even the sharpest memories feel like dreams. Paige sat near the front of the room, dressed in a crisp black suit that made her look every inch the professional athlete she’d fought to become. Her name was everywhere – on mock drafts, on banners, on the lips of analysts filling airtime with praise and predictions.

Next to her sat Azzi, also in black to match – classic, understated, radiant. She looked calm. She always did.

But Paige knew better. She could see the slight tension in Azzi’s jaw, the way her hands were folded too tightly in her lap. They were both waiting. Both holding their breath.

A flashbulb popped. Cameras swept across their row. Somewhere on a nearby stage, the commissioner took her place behind the podium. The room hushed.

It was finally happening.

The journey that had started in Colorado Springs – two teenagers with duffel bags and nerves – had led to this moment. All the 6 a.m. workouts, the torn ligaments, the championship runs, the nights spent cramming for exams after practice, the long talks whispered under dorm blankets… it all pulsed beneath the surface now, a silent electricity in the air.

Azzi reached over without looking and found Paige’s hand. Their fingers locked like they always had, like they always would.

“With the first pick in the 2025 WNBA Draft…”

The name rang out and the room erupted. Cheers, applause, camera shutters. Paige barely heard anything. Her heart was pounding too loudly.

She stood slowly. Smiling, stunned, trying to breathe.

She glanced at Azzi, who mouthed, “I love you.”

And those three words hit Paige harder than they ever had.

She walked onto the stage, hugged the commissioner, held up the jersey for the cameras. Her face beamed out on the big screen, and for the first time, she wasn’t chasing anything anymore. She was here. She had arrived.

Back in her seat, Azzi wiped away a tear.

But it wasn’t sadness. It was pride. Pure, fierce, aching pride.

Later that night, after the interviews and the handshake gauntlet, after Paige had posed with her draft cap and answered questions about leadership and expectations and the “legacy she hoped to build,” they found each other again in the quiet backstage hallways.

No lights. No cameras.

Just them.

"You did it," Azzi whispered.

"So did you," Paige said. "You're next."

They stood in the soft hum of the arena's back corridor, arms wrapped around each other, two futures unfolding side by side. And for a moment, time slowed. The noise faded. It was just like it had been in that room in Colorado Springs – two girls trying to figure it all out.

But now, they weren’t trying anymore.

They knew.

Whatever came next – different teams, new cities, more pressure – they would navigate it the same way they always had.

Together.

[lovelyyandereaddictionpoint]

Yandere Hare and Bunny Hybrids (1)

Inspired by the Hare and Bunny Drawing by @aevris

For creatures with such similar appearances, they couldn’t be more different 

When you first went to the shelter that housed poor hybrids you found the two wrongfully grouped as bunny hybrids 

Rather than separated from one another as bunny and hare respectfully

Though your future hare hybrid couldn’t look more bothered

Your future bunny paid no attention lovingly squishing into the hare’s side 

“And here we have our bunny hybrids! Aren’t they cute cuddling each other?”

“The um bigger one doesn’t look too happy to be there…”

“Don’t mind him, he can be a little grumpy! That's all!”

When you finally got to meet them their acceptance of you was widely different

Where the bunny hybrid practically launched himself into your arms

The hare only plopped next to you, ignoring you when you finally freed an arm to hold him too

“Oh my gouda!” 

“W-what?”

“That’s the closest he’s stood next to anyone in that form! This must be a miracle!”

You didn’t mind taking two, you’d make it work

Especially with the discount they were offering you with an oddly worded contract

“By signing this you agree to take both of the store’s bunnies for over 10 days despite incident, injury, or suspicious decline in health?”

“Oh just filibuster! Just go ahead and sign right here, yup. Quickly please.”

When you finally have them both home, they’ll settle into their routines, more than happy to finally make themselves at home

Your hare hybrid - Jared was pleased to have a room to himself 

Finally allowed to embrace the solitude that comes naturally to a hare

“This is sick. Thanks short-stack.”

“Uh, you're welcome.”

Your bunny hybrid–Cryst on the other hand is appalled 

Falling to his knees he’s full-blown crying because he’s all alone in his room

“Nooooo! Do you want me to die all alone!? Stay with me, Master please!”

“Okay okay you can stay with me, just don’t call me Master. Hey! And please stop pulling on my shirt!”

This fear of loneliness never stops 

Cryst cries when you tell him the concept of a job 

He cries even harder when you tell him you have one

Jared on the other hand is relaxed he knows you’ll come back you better

Until then he’ll try to keep Cryst calm

After all, he doesn’t need the bunny ruining his stay with you not after all those other times

Granted he’s never agreed with Cryst’s choices until now 

And he’s more than used to cleaning up after him at this point

Bloody or otherwise

But that shouldn’t need to happen as long as you stay focused on them

Right?

Part 2

[bakubrattt]

Getting Used to Forever

-Zayne x reader

A week after moving into Zayne’s house, a tipsy Friday night of making him dinner while he sets up your shared gaming corner turns charged with playful banter and unchecked desire. Somewhere between the laughter, the heat, and the way he worships you—you realize you’re not just getting used to the space, you’re building a life you could stay in forever.

word count: 13k

genre/warnings: 18+ explicit content--no minors!--fluff, smut, tipsy reader, domestic as hell, living together, Zayne fucks you on the dining table

🩵My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 link🩵

The rich, savory aroma of braised beef drifted from the kitchen, wrapping the living room in a comforting warmth. Zayne sat cross-legged on the plush rug, his brow furrowed in concentration as he untangled a web of cables. The new gaming console, freshly retrieved from one of the labeled cardboard boxes lining the wall beside the couch, rested before him. Setting up the new system was a priority—a mutual decision made as you settled into his home together. You had pitched the idea, emphasizing its importance for unwinding after exhaustive days of unpacking. Beyond practicality, you were eager to see your envisioned gaming corner come to life—a cozy nook adorned with different gaming systems and the myriad of plushies collected over the past two years from countless arcade visits, each a testament to shared moments and victories.

Pausing his meticulous work, Zayne’s gaze wandered to the assembled plushies. Each one held a story: the quick triumphs where a single attempt secured a prize, and the hard-fought battles where repeated efforts led to exasperated sighs and playful pouts. He fondly recalled those instances when your frustration peaked, prompting him to return secretly and master the claw machine, later presenting you with the coveted toy as a surprise. Those plush companions now stood as tangible reminders of laughter-filled weekends and the sweet tradition of post-arcade ice cream runs.

His eyes then drifted to a particular corner of the entertainment system, where delicate ice figurines resided—miniature animals he had crafted using his Evol over the years. Among them, two seals held a place of honor. The first, a clumsy creation from your shared childhood, bore the innocent simplicity of youth. You had mistaken it for a snowball since you were kids—a mortifying revelation that prompted the creation of the next one Zayne made you as an adult, just before your romantic journey began a little over two years ago. These seals, side by side, symbolized the intricate weaving of your past, present, and the unwritten future—a silent narrative of a stoic boy’s enduring affection for a silly girl who evolved from childhood friend to patient, and ultimately, to the love of his life.

As he pleasantly got lost in this reflective reverie, Zayne’s fingers unconsciously shaped another ice sculpture between his palms; of everything he always compared your beauty to. It was only the familiar cadence of your voice gently pulled him back to the present.

“Zayne?”

He turned to find you leaning against the living room’s entryway, amusement dancing in your eyes as you observed him. The sight of you, clad in one of his oversized sweaters with its long sleeves rolled up to your elbows, sent a flutter through his stomach. The sweater’s hem grazed your bare knees, and a gentle flush from the kitchen’s warmth—or your wine—colored your cheeks—a vision of domestic intimacy that made his heart skip a beat. In that moment, his hands stilled, cradling the freshly formed ice sculpture as he basked in the simple, profound joy of sharing his space, his life, with you.

“Dinner’s ready, hun…” You called gently, your voice trailing into the living room like the scent of the food still simmering on the stove. You caught sight of something between his elegant hands and stepped forward, curiosity flickering in your eyes, “what did you just make?”

Zayne blinked as if coming back to himself, looking down at his palms like he’d only just realized he’d been sculpting anything at all.

“…A jasmine,” he said, his voice soft as he watched you pad across the wooden floor until the rug he sat on silenced your footsteps, “I thought it’d look nice next to our picture here.”

The picture in question was a tiny Polaroid, propped neatly in a minimalist black frame at the corner of the shelved entertainment system. It was a photo of the two of you, taken at his last med school alumni gathering. The memory hit all at once—your dress, his tie, the laughter, the music, the air electric with reunion chatter and shared glances across the room.

You watched him delicately place the crystallized flower beside it, the ice glinting faintly under the dim light, its petals intricate, fragile, beautiful. As you came to kneel beside him on the plush rug, you caught your breath. The memory of that night swelled in your chest, a quiet warmth blooming at the center of you. It filled your belly, deeper and more comforting than the wine you’d been sipping while cooking dinner.

“It does look pretty there…” You murmured, your voice a smile. You reached out, fingers barely grazing the cool, perfect edges of the little ice blossom, “you know…I can never look at that picture without blushing a little.”

“Why is that?” Zayne asked. But that knowing, subtle ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth said he already knew. Said he wanted you to say it anyway.

You leaned in closer, eyelashes fluttering up at him, your voice dipping low, soft, conspiratorial. Like you were sharing the world’s most scandalous secret, “well, between you and me…” Your hand slid over to grab his thigh, deliberate, “I totally thought you were gonna do me on the pool table that night…”

Zayne’s laugh came out quiet, breathy, the sound catching at the edges like he couldn’t quite believe you’d said that out loud. A faint pink dusted the tips of his ears, the flush creeping upward like a secret, “at an alumni gathering of all things?” He said, tilting his head, amusement tugging at his gentle voice, “you must take me for quite an unprofessional professional.”

“Oh no,” you purred, your fingers squeezing his thigh a little tighter now, slow and purposeful. That wine-glazed glimmer in your admiring eyes gave you away. You were tipsy. And teasing. And beautiful. And his, “your exclusive tutorial was super professional, Doctor Zayne,” you added, your tone sinfully sweet, “so professional, in fact, and thorough, that if I recall correctly, I was begging for you to continue tutoring me all night when we got home…”

A delicious shiver of desire coursed through him at the vivid memory of his gloved hands on your naked skin, a warmth pooling low in his belly, tightening with aching intensity between his legs. The tantalizing sensation was amplified by the teasing dance of your fingertips kneading gently yet provocatively up his inner thigh. You, his irresistible, playful temptress—inebriated yet fully aware of the sweet torment you inflicted upon him—held his attention effortlessly, ensnaring him entirely in your playful seduction.

“You’re the best student I could ever ask for,” Zayne murmured, a slow, affectionate smile curving his lips as he reached out, encircling your wrist tenderly. His touch was a feather-light claim, sliding smoothly upward along your delicate forearm as he gently drew you closer.

“Am I?” You responded, a soft, alluring giggle escaping you as your breath, warm and sweet from your indulgences, brushed enticingly across his parted lips, “and what makes you say that?”

His gaze lingered on the curve of your throat, pausing at the charming little smear of food on your jaw—an innocent oversight during your solo drinking session. You were captivatingly vibrant, endlessly endearing; your presence alone enough to steal the breath from his lungs and the rhythm from his heart as he stared.

“…You are,” he whispered, brushing the soft pad of his thumb across your lips, smiling as you instinctively pressed tender kisses against his palm, your heated cheek nestling comfortably into the coolness of his hand, “very attentive…Very passionate about demonstrating your many talents…”

He noted with satisfaction the way your breath caught, how your eyelids fluttered closed, your hand kneading up the muscles of his thigh—boldly, tantalizingly, inching dangerously close to the hardened arousal swelling beneath his sweats.

“A bit clumsy at times,” Zayne teased affectionately, gently pinching your chin to tilt your face aside, deliberately exposing the small droplet of savory sauce you never caught. Leaning in, he pressed slow, deliberate kisses to your jaw, savoring the warmth and sweetness of your skin far more than the taste of the lingering food, “but I enjoy your many surprises…”

His soft chuckle vibrated gently against the tender column of your throat, his warm breath sending a delightful shiver cascading through you. He captured your wrist with a low, indulgent sigh when your bold hand ventured toward the hardened mass he struggled valiantly to contain, conscious of the dinner waiting patiently for you both.

“And how could I possibly forget,” he whispered teasingly, emerald eyes twinkling with playful intent, “just how eager you always are to take in everything I have to give you?” His innuendo sent a fresh surge of desire through you, your free hand instinctively moving to grasp him again. Yet, Zayne anticipated your move perfectly, pulling back just enough to savor the desperate hunger flickering in your eyes, prompting a frustrated groan from you. With gentle amusement, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead, gently binding your wrists together with one hand as his other lovingly tousled your hair, “however, perhaps you could stand to learn a bit more patience, my love. Good things come to those who wait.”

You let out a playful yet frustrated huff, frowning in response to his infuriatingly sweet smile, “yeah? Well, I don’t like waiting.”

“Who does?” Zayne conceded softly, releasing your wrists with a gentle squeeze and adjusting his clothing, subtly pulling the fabric of his sweats away from his body to ease his discomfort, “I certainly don’t, when it comes to you…I prefer indulgence, in that matter. But you’ve gone through so much trouble preparing a lovely dinner—we should enjoy it while it’s still hot.”

He was right, as always. You had dedicated the past couple of hours to creating a hearty, nourishing beef stew, carefully choosing ingredients that would replenish Zayne’s strength and energy. It was your way of caring for him, knowing how demanding his role as a cardiac surgeon was, compounded by sleepless nights filled with insomnia and haunting nightmares, not to mention the long evenings spent tirelessly helping you unpack following your recent move. You knew he recognized your efforts, felt deeply your gratitude and love through every thoughtful gesture.

“Fine,” you conceded reluctantly, rising unsteadily to your feet, “but only because I know you must be starving—Woah!”

Immediately, Zayne’s arms wrapped securely around your thighs, stabilizing you effortlessly before you could stumble in your intoxication. Your hands instinctively grasped at his silky hair and broad shoulder for support, clutching him tightly.

“Please, be careful,” he urged softly, lifting his gaze to yours, genuine concern evident in his emerald eyes beneath your clumsy grip, “are you alright? And I’m the supposed lightweight who can’t handle alcohol…”

“I had two whole glasses of wine, not a tiny piece of liquor-infused chocolate!” You griped, your cheeks warming with embarrassment as you suddenly became aware of how intimately close Zayne’s face was positioned near your core.

His large hands remained securely anchored to your bare thighs beneath the comforting shelter of the oversized sweater—his sweater—that you had slipped on, with nothing beneath but underwear. The warmth of his breath, the silken texture of his skin, and the quiet, protective strength radiating from him sent tantalizing shivers rippling through your body.

You released a soft whine, feeling the surge of frustration intensify at the sight of him gazing upward at you beneath those dark, thick lashes, his expression a familiar blend of stern caution and tender concern, “Zayne…”

“…Yes?” He raised an inquisitive brow, his grip loosening ever so slightly as he tenderly squeezed your thighs—part affectionate reassurance, part cautious assessment of your stability. He hesitated to rise too suddenly, ensuring you wouldn’t lose balance the moment he stood.

You whined softly again, gently pushing him away with the hand tangled affectionately in his hair as you reluctantly nudged his wrist, “you’re like two inches away from making me pin you down on the couch, you damn tease!”

You knew full well he hadn’t meant to fluster you, and that awareness made your desire burn even hotter. Zayne never really deliberately tried to drive you mad—it was simply his nature, effortlessly alluring. He didn’t try to seduce you. But as a man, he was a giver, a worshiper, a dutiful protector, a devoted lover who revered you as though you were a goddess, someone who’s way of loving you alone was the driving force that always made you so feral for him; eager to offer yourself up entirely to him without hesitation for him being so wonderful. Indeed, his green flags were what made you want to drop your panties more than anything else about him.

Zayne chuckled softly at your playful accusation as he rose carefully from the rug. Immediately, his hands found your hips, steadying you with gentle assurance. The way he towered over you sent another rush of warmth through your body, making your head spin deliciously as you took him in. God. That beautifully gentle giant. Your big snowman. Every detail about him seemed meticulously crafted to set your pulse racing. For a brief moment, you wondered if your tingling desire was amplified by the wine, or perhaps your body’s natural rhythm was to blame—whatever it was, it had you thoroughly intoxicated by him.

“Mm,” Zayne hummed with a barely suppressed smirk, amusement sparkling in his soft green eyes, “I’d like to see you try—”

He had barely uttered the words before you took them as an irresistible challenge. In the same instant, he realized his mistake, noticing the mischievous glint in your gaze as you quickly glanced over at the couch behind him. By the time a triumphant grin lit your flushed face, Zayne’s agile hands intercepted yours mid-air, stopping your playful attempt to seize his shoulders. Your delighted shriek filled the room as he effortlessly spun you off balance, gently yet decisively tackling you instead. You landed softly on the couch, bouncing lightly as your laughter rang out, wrists pinned securely above your head by his firm yet tender grip.

“Zayne!” You cackled, tickled by the fan of his laugh.

Your playful struggles gradually ceased under the gentle, soothing pressure of his lips pressing warmly against your heated cheek. The affectionate kiss, accompanied by his comforting smile, calmed you into sweet surrender underneath him.

“That was such a short show,” he whispered, his fingertip trailing languidly down the length of your inner forearm, leaving a deliciously ticklish path that sent shivers cascading through you. He rendered you breathless beneath his captivating gaze, “it happened so fast I’m afraid I missed your attempt entirely…Now, are you going to behave if I decide to let you go?”

“Oh, not at all in the slightest,” you laughed, playfully rolling your eyes and shaking your head in exaggerated defiance, “especially not when I have you all to myself at this angle…”

Before Zayne could form another playful retort, the moment his thumb brushed tenderly against your cheek, you suddenly captured it, drawing it into the suction of your warm mouth. His breath faltered, eyes widening slightly at the sensation of your plush lips wrapping gently yet firmly around his knuckle, your tongue swirling as your cheeks hollowed. Heat surged mercilessly through him, his self-restraint hanging precariously by a thread; even more so when you gazed up at him with that blissful expression of submission that melted his heart into a helpless puddle.

“…Calls me a tease,” Zayne finally managed to remark, feigning sternness as best he could, though his voice held an unmistakable tremor of desire betraying the composure he desperately tried to maintain, “proceeds to suck my entire thumb into her mouth…”

You grazed your teeth against his skin, releasing him with a mischievous giggle as he withdrew his hand, shaking his head in mock resignation, “what? It’s just your thumb…”

“Just my thumb, she says,” he pretended to chide, moving carefully off you before helping you sit upright. Despite his mask of composure, he couldn’t conceal the undeniable, prominent evidence of his arousal tenting his sweatpants. With an inward sigh, he silently cursed his choice of clothing around you at that moment, “as if it’s not a less than subtle hint alluding to what’s really going through her imaginative little mind…”

“Or yours, Doctor Zayne,” you teased with a lighthearted chuckle, leaning forward to plant a playful kiss against his temple as he crooned closer to help you rise.

“I have no idea what you’re implying, Y/n,” he answered smoothly, taking your hand in his own and guiding you carefully across the living room, avoiding any lingering boxes or misplaced cords, “my mind is as sterile as the OR. Yours, on the other hand, could use some terminal cleaning…”

You couldn’t decide what cracked you up you more—his bone-dry humor, the casual way he tossed out medical terminology about post-surgical sanitation, or the outright absurdity of his claim that his mind was even remotely pristine.

“yeah right, that’s bull!” You laughed brightly, playfully swatting his firm bicep before slipping your arm through his, your fingertips lightly tracing along the familiar, raised scars that marked his skin—evidence of his Evol’s cruelty, “what, did it remind you of something else in my mouth?”

Zayne opened his mouth, a witty retort poised on his tongue, but instead, a brief pause settled over him as you both stepped into the kitchen. A faint, contented smile blossomed across his lips at the sight of the simmering pot of stew, the delicious aroma intensifying, tantalizing his senses as he had patiently awaited for hours.

“It did, as a matter of fact…” He murmured thoughtfully.

“Oh yeah?” You pressed yourself affectionately against his side, intertwining your fingers with his while your other hand teasingly trailed up to caress his chest—his most sensitive erogenous zone, “what, exactly?”

Zayne halted before the stove, lifting the lid away from the steaming stew pot and carefully placing it down on the countertop beside your half-filled glass of wine you had indulged in while cooking. He took up the wooden spoon you’d thoughtfully left nearby, inhaling deeply as the rich aroma and inviting heat enveloped him in mouthwatering warmth. But before you could open your mouth to keep teasing him, Zayne outpaced you in your intoxicated state, swiftly guiding a spoonful of the savory stew past your lips. His other hand came prepared beneath your chin, ready to catch any stray droplets.

“Food,” he finally responded with a soft, amused smile, thoroughly entertained by your exaggerated expression of mock outrage, which quickly dissolved into laughter. You nearly spat the stew out amidst your giggles, your chin dropping gratefully into his waiting hand as you composed yourself enough to swallow as he wiped your lips for you.

“I’m gonna kill you,” you laughed softly, shaking your head with amused disbelief as your fingertips subconsciously traced his scars, a tender gesture filled with quiet affection.

Zayne gently cupped your face between his warm, sturdy hands, leaning down to press a tender kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered briefly, a soothing caress that sent gentle warmth radiating through you, “you’ll do no such thing, you silly woman…But you will have some water with your wine. Cold water.”

You peered up at him through your lashes, chuckling quietly as his imposing height shielded your sensitive eyes from the glaring warmth of the kitchen lights, making the scene before you softer, dreamlike in your tipsy state, “doctor’s orders?” You teased.

“Doctor’s orders,” he echoed, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he pinched your flushed cheeks with utmost tenderness.

You both moved in quiet harmony, filling your bowls and carrying them together into the intimate space of the dining room. Hunger clearly gnawed at you both, evident in your eagerness to savor the meal. Your heart swelled with warmth and satisfaction as you watched Zayne enjoy your cooking, his eyes closing briefly in appreciation, giving you a pleased, approving nod. The dining room felt subtly transformed now—no longer merely his space. It was yours as well. The knowledge that you were making a home together here, sharing every corner of this sanctuary, filled you with a delicate blend of excitement and disbelief. Though Zayne insisted with gentle conviction that everything here belonged equally to you both, you still felt the lingering shyness of adjustment. Whenever you’d teasingly remind him, “but we’re not even married,” he’d simply shrug, an affectionate certainty lighting his eyes as he’d respond softly with, “we will be one day.”

The idea of marrying Zayne lingered sweetly in your tipsy, pleasantly hazy thoughts as you gazed lovingly at him across the table, utterly captivated by the subtle charm he exuded even in such a simple act as eating dinner. He remained blissfully unaware of your silent admiration, completely immersed in savoring the rich flavors you’d cooked with care. You couldn’t suppress the soft laughter that bubbled up inside you as you took a slow sip of your unfinished glass of wine, causing Zayne to glance up curiously, suddenly aware of your amused scrutiny.

“What?” He asked, swallowing his food as his curious eyes met yours from across the table.

You shook your head, a tender smile playing at your lips, “nothing, nothing…”

“Tell me,” he urged softly, setting down his spoon and fixing you with an amused, inquisitive gaze, “something clearly has you entertained.”

Entertained—if only Zayne knew the truth. It wasn’t mere amusement that warmed your heart; it was an overwhelming, blissful love, so profound that at times it bubbled up into laughter at the simplest moments.

“…Do you think you could get used to this?” You asked, tracing your finger idly along the delicate stem of your wine glass, eyes lowered yet brimming with quiet affection, “living together…You come home after a long day of some crazy life-or-death heart surgery to my hopefully amazing cooking, I spend the night on the Switch in bed while you read next to me and play with my hair, you give me some lame excuse about how blue light is bad for my eyes and tell me to put the video games down, and then all of a sudden your book’s barely hanging on the edge of the nightstand with your glasses and you’re on top of me and I’m lightheaded in the best way possible…You think you can get used to it?”

Zayne chuckled softly, eyes sparkling with warmth and amusement at your vivid description. You laughed too, charmed by his endearing expression as you sipped your wine, watching him carefully dab at his lips with his napkin.

“Hmm,” he murmured thoughtfully, picking up another spoonful of stew and pretending to consider deeply, “well, I’d say it depends.”

“On?” You prompted, smiling as you propped your chin on your hand, thoroughly captivated by the gentle anticipation of his response.

Zayne reached over, his fingertips softly nudging your bowl closer, silently reminding you to keep eating. His gesture was tender, a subtle reassurance woven with quiet care, “a lot of things.”

“Liiike?” You giggled softly, lifting your spoon again, warmth bubbling within your chest as you awaited his explanation.

He paused thoughtfully, emerald eyes reflecting an affectionate warmth as he met your curious gaze, “…If you stare and smile at me the way you always do when you wait for me to take my first bite.”

“Huh?” Your laughter was light and flustered, tinged with playful embarrassment as warmth crept up your cheeks, “I don’t stare at you!”

“Yes you do,” Zayne replied softly, his lips curving into a subtle, knowing smile as he swallowed another bite of stew. His voice held an affectionate certainty, the gentle teasing only amplifying the intimacy of the moment, “it’ll also depend on you bringing the Switch to bed so that we can be near each other when we unwind, even if we’re not engaging in the same activity together.”

Realization dawned upon you, a tender understanding blooming in your chest. You knew then—Zayne wasn’t only speaking about shared routines; he was revealing how deeply he cherished every quiet, simple moment you shared together.

“And then of course,” he continued, reaching for his cup of water, eyes full of sincerity, “if I have to put my glasses on the nightstand because I know I won’t be picking my book back up until the following night.”

He was talking about love—about the comfort and certainty of a shared life.

“I could get used to it all,” he confessed quietly, his gaze soft and steady, a delicate tenderness warming every word, “not that I’d ever take any of it for granted, or have those expectations of us both without making sure you’re just as used to things as I am.”

A radiant warmth filled you, extending far beyond the fuzzy intoxication of the wine as you drained the last drops from your glass, “Mm…And how would you make sure that I’m still used to it, too?”

“…Reminding you to eat and get proper nutrition when you’re distracted by all else and need my help with staying on task,” he answered, his voice a velvety caress as he reached out once more to your bowl, tapping it lightly until your spoon resumed scooping the hearty stew, “spoiling you when you ask for five more minutes of scalp scratches while I read beside you…Paying close attention to your body’s signals when you need to catch your breath before I steal it again.”

Your pulse quickened, your skin erupting in a pleasant wave of goosebumps. Dear God, Zayne had a remarkable ability to turn simple, caring conversation into irresistibly sensual promises, his words making your heart swell with warmth even as desire stirred vividly within you. His genuine tenderness, the protective and nurturing nature underlying each carefully spoken word, somehow managed to make your heart feel full while simultaneously setting your senses aflame with longing. How did he always manage that? Even for a doctor—someone naturally skilled in attending to the needs of others—Zayne had an astonishing talent for seamlessly blending gentle caretaking with undeniable sensuality, making you feel perpetually desired, cherished, and utterly, passionately loved.

“So, get used to it,” Zayne teased gently, his fingertips squeezing your bare knee beneath the table, sending a pleasant shiver through your body, “you live here with me now, after all. You might as well see this as just the beginning of something you’ll eventually grow so accustomed to, that one day, you’ll find yourself in the middle of the vegetable isle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew.”

You nearly choked on your stew, laughter bubbling uncontrollably as Zayne’s dry humor caught you entirely off guard. Your hand swiftly reached for the glass of water he thoughtfully pushed closer, relief washing over you as the cool liquid soothed your throat.

“Thank you,” he sighed softly, a relieved smile curving his lips, his eyes filled with quiet affection as he watched you recover, “for never adding carrots to your cooking. I love you dearly.”

Warmth blossomed in your chest, fueled by endearment, amusement, and the gentle intoxication from the wine, “I love you too, Zayne,” you managed between lingering chuckles, feeling delightfully flushed.

After dinner, the two of you moved in sync to clear the table, the simple act of cleaning together feeling natural and intimate. Domestic. Zayne watched you quietly from his position near the stove, hand still resting on the cool, digital surface as he paused his wiping to admire you. Unbeknownst to you, he studied you with quiet reverence, captivated by the way you stood there in your own little world on the kitchen mat, sleeves of his oversized sweater continually slipping down as you washed the dishes. You hummed softly, completely absorbed in your task, creating a serene atmosphere that he cherished.

Finding every excuse to draw closer, Zayne eventually stepped up quietly behind you, his warmth enveloping you before you even registered his presence. His hands reached around, gently pushing your sleeves higher up your arms, and he leaned down to pepper tender kisses on your head, “it’s a bit late for chores, isn’t it?” He whispered into your ear, his voice deep and inviting, “you should leave the rest for me tomorrow; we have the day off together. You’ve done enough today. Come relax with me, now.”

A knowing smile curved your lips as you felt the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing insistently against your lower back, igniting a familiar heat deep inside you, “what’s the rush, huh?”

Zayne’s hand moved slowly down your arm, urging you to set aside the pan and allow the warm water to rinse the soap from your skin.

“In truth,” he murmured softly by your ear, his words almost inaudible yet clear by every consistent, his presence overwhelming as he reached past you to shut off the faucet, “it’s the order of things I’d like to prioritize finishing tonight, starting with the most important…”

“Oh, what’s first on your list?” You asked playfully, arching subtly against him, relishing how it made his fingers tighten reflexively around your wrist as you tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

Without warning, Zayne lifted your arm and ducked beneath it, scooping you up effortlessly into his arms. You gasped in delighted surprise, clutching instinctively at his sweater as he lifted and spun you away smoothly from the sink.

“What you started earlier,” he said with a warm smile, looking down at you tenderly as he walked confidently from the kitchen.

“Oh, right,” you murmured teasingly, drawing yourself closer and lightly tracing your finger along the collar of his sweater, your touch brushing provocatively close to his chest, “I was trying to get some playtime in, but somebody insisted on being responsible first…So tell me, oh responsible, sensible one,” you punctuated playfully, poking a finger against his cheek, “are you gonna be able to keep up with me?”

“You know I always leave myself plenty of room for dessert,” Zayne teased back, carrying you toward the large, inviting couch, “and as much as I’d prefer to eat at the table—”

“—Wait!” you exclaimed suddenly, a mischievous light flickering in your eyes, the clarity of your tipsy revelation surprising even yourself, “the table!”

He halted abruptly, confusion knitting his brows as he glanced toward the coffee table, “…What about it?”

“The dinner table,” you clarified urgently, gripping his sweater tighter as you leaned closer to whisper excitedly, “take me back there!”

“Why do you-…I thought you wanted me to—”

“—Zayne, hurry!” You urged impatiently, enthusiasm overtaking your voice, a fervent anticipation coloring your words.

Zayne listened despite his evident confusion, swiftly changing direction as he carried you toward the dining room, his strong arms cradling you securely against his chest, “…Alright. Just what are you up to, anyway? Is the wine getting to your brain?”

“You know it is,” you responded playfully, a mischievous smirk gracing your lips, “just trust me!”

He chuckled softly in surrender, moving obediently to your desired destination without further protest, “if you say so…Though, blind faith is a lot to ask for from a man when his girlfriend becomes such a spirited, intoxicated minx.”

“That’s okay,” you murmured teasingly, gaze fixed intently on the dining table as it grew nearer with each step, “you’re an ever-flowing fountain of faith with how devoted you are to certain things about me…”

Gently, Zayne lowered you onto the polished wooden floor, his hands lingering on your waist, steadying you as he gazed down at you with curiosity, his brow arching, “such as?”

You offered him a seductive, knowing smile—one that instantly set his heart racing—as you firmly grasped his hand, guiding him towards one of the dining chairs. Without hesitation, you gripped Zayne’s broad shoulders and decisively pushed him down, watching with satisfaction as he obediently sank into the chair. Poor, irresistibly vulnerable man.

“So aggressive,” he playfully reprimanded, “it’s a good thing I’m not your patient, with the way you enjoy handling me the moment you have a glass or two of alcohol in your system…”

“Shhhh,” you silenced him softly, placing a fingertip against his warm lips.

You swung one leg over him, standing over his seated form. Your fingertips cupped his chin, lifting his gaze to meet yours. You didn’t need to check for the tent between his legs to know how eagerly his body responded to your proximity; his green eyes, darkened with desire, revealed everything even before his hands slid reverently up your bare thighs, drawing the sweater higher to expose more of your smooth, enticing skin.

“The one time I’ve seen you drunk, the first time we had sex, you held me up against the wall in the kitchen whispering to me that it was because of me that everything was spiraling out of your precious control,” you whispered, voice rich with seductive nostalgia as your fingertips tenderly traced the contours of his handsome face.

Heat suffused your body at the vivid memory, relishing the intensity of his uninhibited passion. Your breath caught slightly as Zayne’s hands traveled higher, pulling you closer by the backs of your thighs, eyes roaming hungrily over your body. Slowly, you raised the sweater to your waist, allowing his gaze to settle shamelessly on the delicate, translucent, blue lace panties he had bought for you on Valentine’s Day, a symbol of his adoration and intimate desire. His thumbs pressed insistently into your thighs, a clear reflection of his escalating need. A surge of heat blossomed between your legs in response, igniting your own fervent desire as you watched his composure unravel entirely, savoring the exquisite power you held over him, the intoxicating knowledge of how deeply he revered and craved you.

“And if my memory is correct,” Zayne murmured as he traced the delicate lace, brushing against your most sensitive places, your fingertips sweeping back his dark hair to give yourself an unobstructed view of his expressive eyes, heavy with longing as he admired the enticing sight before him, “you enjoyed that side of me quite thoroughly that night…”

“God, I really did, honey,” you giggled softly at the memory, the warmth of it pooling low in your tummy.

Your fingers traced over the scars on his forearm, those familiar ridges of skin your hands knew by heart. He was pushing your sweater higher, slow and purposeful, until his face nuzzled just beneath your breasts. His skin was warm against yours. He pressed a few playful, ticklish kisses along the soft flesh, making you exhale a shaky breath somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. You cradled the back of his head, your fingers buried in the damp, soft strands of his hair, encouraging him. His lips were everywhere, scattered like devotion across your skin, and his hands…God, his hands were reverent—tracing over your feminine curves like you were sacred, like you were something to be worshipped, not touched.

“Like I was saying…” You tried to finish the thought, but the words were half-laughed, half-slurred with affection, “your devotion as a man is unmatched…”

He hummed into your skin, slow and indulgent, his nose pressing gently into your sternum. You felt your eyes threaten to roll back from the sheer intimacy of it, that unmistakable feeling of being adored.

“You always have this way of touching me…” You murmured, voice dropping to a whisper, low and aching, “loving me like it’s worship or something…”

The confession left your lips like a prayer. Honest. Unfiltered. His hands had moved again, slow and sure as they mapped the length of your spine, pushing your sweater up until you understood what he was asking. You didn’t hesitate. You peeled it off, flushed skin rising into the open air, sighing as it cooled your heat. You tossed the sweater blindly behind you—onto the dinner table, maybe. You didn’t care.

Your hands found his hair again, curling into it as you guided him. And the way he responded—burying his face into your breast, mouth open, lips parting around your nipple, tongue swirling with a slow, wet press that sent a bolt of heat through your core—you damn near moaned at the sound of it; the wet pull of his mouth, the low, husky sigh he gave as he sucked with care and focus, like this was the only thing he ever wanted.

“I know you asked me that night,” you whispered, your voice shaking as the memory unfurled like a ribbon in the sultry haze, “how I could pretend I was unaffected…”

You reached for him, found his wrist behind your back, and guided it between your bodies—between your legs. You lowered his hand, slowly, deliberately down your front, breath catching as you pressed his palm against the soft mound of heat between your thighs. A sharp, shaky sigh escaped you. His hand squished against you, his skin meeting the soaking fabric of lace that had long since failed to hide anything from him. The sound of it—wet, needy—was unmistakable.

“But I was affected,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “I was so, so affected…”

Your breath came faster now, your thoughts fogging, unraveling. Every time he kissed you. Every time he touched you. Every quiet moment where his love was too gentle to be noticed by anyone but you.

“I’m always affected,” you choked out, the words coming faster now, each one a piece of the storm building in your chest, “even when you’re doing something mundane—just setting up the gaming corner while I’m cooking us dinner—I’m always so damn affected by you, Zayne…”

And that was it. The moment the last of Zayne’s restraint snapped. He moaned—honest, desperate—as if your words physically undid him, his fingers tightening where they took an indulgent squeeze of your core, as if he couldn’t stand the barrier of lace anymore. Your body surged into his as his thumb hooked under the soaked fabric and pulled it aside, finally baring the heat he’d been aching to touch. He groaned into your breast, low and reverent, as his hand cupped your bare flesh and his middle finger slid into you with a slow, satisfying push. You whimpered at the depth, hips twitching as your walls clenched around him, fluttering, gripping his knuckle with raw need.

Your hand found his shoulder, clutching, practically clawing into the firm muscle under the heavy warmth of his sweater. The other hand tangled tighter into his black hair, pulling him closer as you arched into his embrace, wanting Zayne everywhere, wanting more. You could feel the heat of his breath, how wet his tongue was as it circled your nipple. The way he kept swallowing, like he couldn’t stop it, like your taste and your voice and the way you fell apart in his arms had made his mouth water, his body burn.

There was desperation in your hands, in your breath, in the trembling of your voice that said you needed him—needed his touch, needed to be worshipped the way only he knew how. He was undone completely by the way you craved him—by the way your touch pleaded for more without needing a single word. Zayne was dizzy from it. Dizzy from how easily you unraveled him. His breath hitched as he savored the squishy heat radiating through his palm. Nothing could hide the way you were completely undone by him, could silence the truth his fingers had known the moment he touched you—that you had been desperately craving him, already a needy mess for him.

“I know that by now,” he murmured, voice muffled by the indulgent smother of your breast.His lips never stopped moving, never stopped adoring you with reverent smacks pops of your sensitive nipple as he guided you backward, step by step.

He rose from the chair as you moved with him, still inside you, his finger never slipping free, cupping you the whole way as he coaxed you toward the edge of the dining table. You stumbled a little, your hand fumbling for something to brace yourself against. But Zayne was already there. His hand caught yours, steadying it, pressing it flat against the wood before guiding you down, coaxing you to lie back as he crowded your space, hovering over you with the cast of his shadow.

“I also know,” he added, voice lower now, tinged with something dark he looked down at you—so eager, so wrecked, so his, “that you’re as addicted to stepping out of line as I am.”

You were absolutely addicted to the intoxicating high of giving in—of relinquishing restraint, of letting go completely and letting yourself be seen , consumed, devoured by him. Especially on nights like this, where the excuse to indulge had come easily—a Friday, a glass or two of wine, the soft hum of domesticity between you. It didn’t take much. Not when it came to Zayne. Not when you were so deeply, helplessly, maddeningly drawn to him. Sometimes, your love for him felt like worship, too. A craving that burned hotter than mere affection. A hunger to merge, to lose yourself in the way he touched you, the way he held you, the way he drank in your pleasure like it was a need he could never fully satisfy.

Your head spun. Your eyes fluttered shut. Every inch of you melted. You felt him—his strong arm wrapping around your thighs, hugging them to him as he leaned in, his lips brushing over the slope of your calf, tenderly, intimately. Then came the shift—the hook of his finger curling into the strap of your underwear, the urgency in his movements humming like electricity against your skin. You sighed in pure relief as he pulled the soaked lace down your legs. He didn’t fumble. He didn’t pause. He drew them off your ankles with practiced ease, like it was natural to him now, like the act of undressing you had been engraved into his muscle memory.

When your eyes fluttered open to witness his passion, you found Zayne holding your underwear in one hand, lifting it to his face, inhaling deeply with his lashes low in indulgence, the expression on his face somewhere between reverence and something primal. And then—he discarded them with a casual flick to the side, as if they were nothing but a wrapper to something far more precious, his sweater following suit as he tossed it off his pale frame like an afterthought. Good Lord. Love wasn’t enough to describe what Zayne felt for you. It was beyond affection, beyond obsession—it was something deeper, something flooded with devotion, worship, hunger. The kind of love that made a man forget his name and remember only yours.

Your heart pounded, full and frantic, echoing through your chest and into your throat as you heard the chair scrape across the floor. The sound grounded you, startled you into the present. He hooked the leg of the chair around his ankle and yanked it forward, dragging it close as he took his seat like it was his throne for a feast. He reached for you, tender and certain, folding one of your knees aside, the soft bend of your thigh resting flat against the table. The other leg he lifted higher, guiding it over his shoulder, settling it there like it belonged. His palms were wide on your skin, possessive, spreading heat as they slid along your calves and thighs in one long, deliberate motion. He scooted forward, closer and closer—his breath warming the inside of your leg as he moved in, up to you. Up to your soaked, flushed, trembling core. Up to his dessert.

Oh God. That man was insatiable when it came to his sweet tooth—and he never once denied that his favorite indulgence wasn’t chocolate or cake or anything store-bought. It was you. Always you. You reached back, fumbling blindly for his discarded sweater, bunching it beneath your head and using it like a pillow to prop yourself up, just enough to see him. Blood rushed between your ears, pulsing loud, your body alive with an unbearable prickle of heat that lit every nerve aflame. And then—you watched him. Watched as he crooned down over you, his lips parting as he pressed soft, deliberate kisses along the inside of your thigh, slow and torturous, each one closer than the last. You could feel the warmth of his mouth, the faint trace of his breath skimming your skin, the reverence in every kiss as if he was preparing himself for something holy.

Your pulse was pounding between your legs, so strong it was almost audible. You felt it throb with each slow press of his mouth, felt it jump beneath his hands when he spread them up your thighs to hold you open. Then, the pause. That familiar stillness. That sacred, quiet moment you’d seen only in the most intimate seconds with him—when he took a beat to look. To truly see you. Not just with hunger, but with something aching in his eyes. Reverence. Desire. Love. The kind that quieted the whole world. He stared at your body like it was made just for him, like it was an exquisite feast and he was trying not to devour it too fast. His gaze traced over every inch of soft skin, every curve that still trembled for him. And Zayne—he didn’t just look. He witnessed.

You saw it in the way his breath hitched as he let his fingertips trail down the twitch of your abdomen, soft and slow, until they reached the center of you. With gentle pressure, he pressed your folds apart, holding you wide, open for himself, watching the way you glistened, slick and swollen, your body aching under his touch. He took it in—the proof of how you responded to him, how wrecked you were already. He let go of a deep breath, and then—one last glance up. His eyes met yours, pleading and glazed and full of love, and that was the final thread. He bowed, his brows knit, his mouth met you, and the first taste pulled a groan from his chest so low, so guttural, it made your thighs twitch.

You always watched him eat, whether your cooking or your body. You always waited to see if he liked it. You always searched for that subtle flicker of pleasure in his eyes, that hushed appreciation on his face. That quiet, sacred pause where he savored something just for him. And it was no different now. Because you watched this too. You couldn’t not watch. You needed to see the way his mouth opened, the way the flat of his tongue dragged through you, slow and hot and so intimate it made your vision blur. You watched the way he lingered, the way he buried his face between your thighs and let out a quiet, helpless sound when your clit met his tongue again, warmer this time, wetter, hungrier. The flick of it was indulgent, precise, so tender and possessive all at once.

Your eyes rolled back before you could stop them. Your spine arched off the table, body seizing with a high, unfiltered cry as your hand flew into his hair, yanking, anchoring him there. You held him like you were drowning. And Zayne—willing and eager—groaned into you, smothering his face into your heat like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. Like he had no intention of coming up for air. Like he would eat forever if you let him.

“God, Zayne,” you breathed, voice broken and uneven as fireworks bloomed behind your fluttering eyelids. Your hips twitched beneath his mouth as another slow, devastating drag of his tongue rolled up your core, the heat of it lighting every nerve on fire, “honey, it’s so good…”

You trembled, your body jerking in a soft, uncontrollable spasm at the way his lips sealed around your clit. He sucked—not too hard, not too fast, but with that perfect, rhythmic pull that he knew would wreck you. The wet smack of his lips parted from your slick skin with a quiet pop that made your toes curl. Then he sighed, like he was drinking you in, like he’d never tasted anything better. That sound, that raw note of satisfaction—that ignited something deep in you.

You barely had time to catch your breath before you felt him again. His finger slid into you with a slow, easy glide, your walls welcoming him back with a desperate flutter as he moved with confidence, with certainty, already seeking out the spot he’d memorized by heart. He found it instantly. A moan tumbled out of you, loud and sweet, as your head tilted back and your free hand clutched his shoulder. The other was still tangled in his hair, tugging gently, encouraging him like he needed it—like he wasn’t already worshipping you like you were the center of his universe.

“R-right there…” You slurred, voice thick with pleasure. A lazy, delirious smile pulled at your lips, “yeah, right there…”

And then—another finger. Zayne slipped it in beside the first, curling both upward toward the swell inside you, and your entire body responded at once. Your jaw fell open, your breath hitched, your back arched off the table once more as a jolt of pleasure shot through your spine. His fingers moved expertly, massaging the sensitive spot with slow, circling pressure. His lips alternated, suctioning and releasing over your clit, applying firm, steady attention that made your thighs twitch and shake for him.

The air filled with the wet, obscene sound of your arousal, each squelch of his fingers met by the deliberate drag of his tongue. And Zayne—he was completely immersed. Eyes half-lidded, brow furrowed, breath pouring through his nose as he lapped at you with devotion so intense it felt like the rest of the world had gone still. A cry tore out of you as the pleasure surged, hot and blinding, flooding your body with electricity. Your hands gripped him tighter, buried in his hair as your voice pitched higher with each movement of his hand and mouth.

“Yes!” You gasped, “Zayne, I’m already so close…!”

He’d suspected as much. From the dew of your skin. From the tension in your thighs. From the wine earlier and how hydrated he knew you were, how your body was primed to burst for him. He took the cue immediately, adjusting your position with practiced ease—his arm curling around your thigh to tug you slightly closer to the edge, tilting you downward just enough. Your breath caught in your throat at the realization, that weightless moment just before impact, like the pause at the top of a rollercoaster.

Then—he began punching his fingertips into that swollen sensitive spot inside of you that sent your mind spinning. His wrist tensed, his grip locking around your thigh as his brows knit deeper with an intense need. His lips parted from you with a ragged, husky breath, and the next thing you knew—he was lapping at your clit in the open, expecting how much you would start to jolt and writhe soon enough. The rhythm of his fingers, the wet slap of his tongue—it was relentless. Your voice shattered into pieces, echoing through the dining room as fire rushed through your veins faster than you could ever hope to keep up with, voice rising in time with the furious pace of his movements.

“I’m gonna cum!” You cried out, helpless, frantic, your limbs trembling under the intensity of his effort, under that relentlessly building pressure each punch of his fingers threatened to burst, “oh my God, Zayne, don’t stop! Keep going, baby! Keep going! I’m-! I’m-…!”

Your whole body seized with an unbearable tension possessing your every limb, your spine locking up off the table as your pelvis tilted, your mind dissolving into blinding white. A scream tore through your throat, mouth wide, eyes squeezed shut as your vision exploded in color behind your lids. You gushed. It hit hard. Sharp. Immediate. A hot burst of liquid spilled from you, splashing over Zayne’s chin, his wrist, all over him, soaking his arm as he kept going, his tongue still lapping at you ceaselessly, riding you through every wave of euphoria. Your body convulsed under the weight of it, every muscle spasming as he held you down, unshaken, committed.

You writhed beneath him, knuckles shaking between fistfuls of his hair, your scream still echoing, breath stuttering between sobs of his name, “Zayne! Zayne! Oh God, Zayne!”

And still—his mouth didn’t stop. His fingers only slowed. He worshipped you through the aftershocks like you were the only thing that had ever mattered. And God, in that moment, to him—you were. For you, it was like falling from heaven—but instead of crashing, you were caught. Caught by the man you loved more than anyone, held in his reverence and blanketed in that tingling warmth that only Zayne ever made you feel. The kind of warmth that slowed your heart and sped it up all at once, that wrapped around you like soft light and pulled you gently, reverently, back down to earth. You were shaking. Gasping for breath. A wreck of breathless giggles as you melted beneath him, your fingers relaxing with a trembling tenderness into the roots of his damp hair. His mouth hadn’t left you—not really. Now, he was kissing you gently, lovingly, dotting slow smooches along your inner thigh, his tongue licking up the dripping aftermath of your euphoria, savoring the mess he’d made of you.

The ceiling spun above you as your eyes finally blinked open, lashes heavy, breath slowly catching up with you. You inhaled deep and let out a weak laugh, light and giddy, filled with a joy too big for words. Zayne didn’t move until you did—he never did. His devotion lived in the way he waited, the way he let you set your own pace, the way he respected that. But when you shifted, when you lifted just slightly onto one elbow, he stood. He rose from his chair in one fluid motion, pushing it back with a scrape of wood against wood. And that’s when you saw it—really saw him. His sweats were tenting, stretched and darkened where your orgasm had flowed off the table across the front, the wet patches blooming low on his abdomen. You watched, transfixed, as he curled his thumbs beneath the waistband, and in one swift, fluid movement, yanked them down his pale hips, letting them fall to the floor in a heap.

You forgot to breathe. The lean muscles along his torso shifted as he stood tall again  before he brought a fist to his mouth and gave his chin a single, efficient wipe—cleaning the remnants of you from his lips. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing; but seeing Zayne absolutely drenched from you? It was everything. Your breath hitched again as your gaze dropped between his legs, heat sweeping over you in another full-body wave. His cock stood hard and flushed, the tip glistening with a bead of precum that gleamed in the soft, golden light.

He gripped himself, fngers curling tightly around his girth, giving himself a slow, needy squeeze like he had to. Like the intensity of his desire was too much to bear. Like he needed to hold on to something and ground himself before he could give himself to you. You couldn’t wipe the smile off your face, couldn’t stop the way your lips curled up in that blissed out, dazed expression you always wore when he looked like that.

He stepped closer and you welcomed him, lifting up your calf with a soft sigh, curling it over his shoulder. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you watched him. Studied him. His face, his body, the way he watched you with the same kind of reverence. Your gazes fell in unison to the shrinking space between you, to the slow inevitability of your bodies joining again. He hugged your thigh tighter, leaned down, and pressed a kiss into the soft flesh like it was his way of thanking you for being there; for choosing him. For letting him in.

Then—he pushed. A slow, deliberate thrust, not rushed, not frantic. Just deep and purposeful. You watched, helpless, awestruck, as your body gave for him, your folds stretching open to accommodate the thick, perfect shape of him. The way the plush head of his cock parted you was almost too much, too intimate, too breathtaking. Your breath caught, eyes wide, and his did too. His brows furrowed, lashes fluttering down, cheeks flushed as his mouth fell open with a gasp. That first flutter of you wrapped around him, and it wrecked him. He held still, gripping your thigh like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment.

You reached for him, hand finding his waist, pulling. And he obeyed. He pressed in deeper, both of you sighing in perfect sync, the stretch, the heat, the pressure between you winding so tight it was impossible to tell where your pleasure ended and his began. Your fingertips dug into each other’s skin, your bodies locking together in a silence so charged, so intimate, it made your eyes burn. You were his. And Zayne—God help him—was utterly, completely yours.

He moved slow, each thrust deep and drawn out with the kind of indulgent patience that only made the tension worse. Worse, because every motion of his body said he wasn’t done worshiping you, not even close. Every time he pulled back, your body mourned the absence, your skin squelching quietly from the contact of his groin to your lips, the sticky sound echoing between you with every retreat of his chiseled hips. And then, he’d return again, sinking back into you with a thick, solid push that buried him so deep you swore you felt it in your lungs.

Each time Zayne filled you, you clenched down helplessly, your body holding him like it was terrified of letting him go. Like you needed to keep him inside you just to feel whole. You were already undone—tipsy on wine and him, already floating in the hazy pleasure of being so fully, so tightly wrapped around him. But watching him like this? That made it worse. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t stop your eyes from devouring the sight of him as he moved above you, his face flushed, lashes low, the corners of his mouth slack with open-mouthed pleasure. You traced a droplet of your own slick with your eyes, watching it glisten as it slid slowly down the tense dip of his abs—following the trail up, over his chest, where sweat from earlier still clung to the smooth skin of his throat. Your touch followed. You reached out, brushing that drop as it passed his stomach, and God, the way he shuddered at your touch made heat bloom behind your ribs.

His fingers tightened around the calf he held braced over his shoulder, squeezing like he needed something to ground himself. His other hand spanned wide over your torso, fingers grazing softly along your sternum, sweeping over your breasts—slow, reverent, indulgent. You reached for him as well, trembling fingers curling around his wrist, and with a firm tug, you brought his hand up to your face. You didn’t ask. You didn’t speak. You just parted your lips and took his thumb into your mouth.

The wet sound of the suction made Zayne inhale sharply, a sigh pouring from him, ragged and wanting. His hips reacted before he could rein them in, snapping forward with a gentle, but firm smack of his pelvis against yours. The sound of his groin meeting your splayed folds—wet and intimate—echoed louder in the stillness of the room. You gasped, the surge of heat coursing through you instantaneous, breath catching as your walls fluttered around him. Without thinking, your hand slid down between your bodies, your fingers finding your slippery, swollen clit and pressing into a soft, needy rub.

Zayne froze—just for a second. Then his breath shuddered. The sight of you—fingers on yourself, mouth wrapped around his thumb, eyes glazed and locked on him through hooded lashes—snapped something inside him. His hand tightened again around your calf, the grip firm and possessive, his hips rolling harder, the next thrust deeper, more urgent. Your mouth swirled your tongue around his thumb, and he groaned low in his throat, hips flexing with renewed intensity.

“H-harder,” you begged, the word broken and breathless around his thumb.

There was a glimmer of something unhinged in your gaze—lust, love, desperation—and you watched the way it wrecked Zayne. He was torn between watching your face—cheeks flushed and dewy, brows drawn in rapture—and the sight just below, where your own fingertips moved in frantic circles over your glistening clit. Each pass was faster than the last, slick and obscene, the sounds wet and intimate, and God, the sight alone made his pulse thrum in his ears.

“Harder…” You whimpered again, impatient, growing needier by the second, “Zayne, go harder already!”

That did it. He snapped. His hips slammed into you with a force that knocked a gasp straight out of your lungs. Your breasts jolted forcefully with the first thrust, bouncing from the sudden impact, and your body arched off the table like you couldn’t bear the pleasure of his divine zeal as he continued.

“Yes!” You cried out, voice ragged, your hand moving furiously between your legs now, matching his growing intensity, pushing yourself higher with every thrust, “mhmm, just like that! Yes! Just like—ohh!”

Zayne groaned, the sound guttural and strained as your walls fluttered wildly around him, tightening in sharp, uneven pulses. The sensation had his jaw clenching, sweat trickling down his temple, slipping past the tension in his vocal chords as he pistoned his hips faster, harder. He was addicted to this. To stepping out of line. To you. To the way you took him in, gripped him, held him like your body never wanted to let go. His hands were damp with sweat, the skin between your bodies slick and heated, sticking together with every powerful slap of his hips against you.

Zayne couldn’t look away. You were still sucking on his thumb, your lips flushed and glistening from drool, tongue flicking over the pad with slow, sultry pulls that made his head spin. Your other hand never stopped moving, fingers slick with arousal as you circled your clit faster, chasing release like it was life itself. He was watching you fall apart beneath him—for him—and God, it was too much.

“Say you’ll get used to this,” he panted huskily, voice cracking with the force of his thrusts.

His thumb pressed harder against your tongue, massaging the soft muscle as your eyes fluttered open just barely, gaze hazy and glazed with pleasure. He was staring down at you—starving for you—his expression dark, his pupils wide and burning with hunger. Your moan vibrated against the pad of his thumb, and he felt it in his bones. The rhythm of his hips faltered for a breath, then picked up again, harder, deeper, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the air between you, mixing with your desperate, breathy gasps and the wet squelch of your slick beneath his thrusts.

“Say it for me, Y/n,” he begged, voice sharp and desperate, almost unrecognizable, “I want to hear you say it…!”

God, that did it for you.

“I’ll—I’ll get used to this!” you slurred, voice cracking around the edge of a shout, your words muffled, wet around his thumb until they finally burst free.

Your chest heaved with ragged gasps, each breath sharper than the last as the pounding in your ears merged with the pulse of blazing heat curling tight in the pit of your stomach. It wasn’t just the feel of him—though heavens, that alone would’ve undone you. It wasn’t just the way he slammed into you with feverish, unrelenting rhythm, hips snapping against you in greedy, hungry thrusts that shook the table beneath your back. It wasn’t just the slap of skin meeting skin or the heat soaking every inch of your body. It was him. It was the way Zayne looked at you. The way his eyes, half-lidded and dark with awe, stared down at you like you were something holy, something sacred. The way his desire wasn’t just in his body—it was carved into his face, written in every shudder of his breath, in every twitch of his jaw, in the tension of his muscles as he tried, and failed, to keep himself from falling apart.

“I’ll get—so, so used to—God!!” You screamed, the words spilling from your lips in a flood of pure, unfiltered ecstasy as your hand flew to his forearm, gripping him, your fingers digging into his scars as if it was the only thing anchoring you to earth, to reality. His thumb slipped free from your mouth, and suddenly your words echoed—unmuffled, raw, every syllable ringing through the air between you, searing into his skin like brand marks, “I’ll get damn used to you pounding me completely senseless on every last surface of this—ahh! I’m cumming! Zayne, I’m—!”

“—Cum with me!” He broke, voice splintered, a ragged plea full of breathless desperation.

He grabbed your hand—found it, gripped it—his fingers interlacing with yours just as your bodies reached the edge together. Your eyes locked in the chaos, and there was nothing else. Just him. Just you. And the fire you were about to fall into, hand in hand. You both came undone in the same blinding moment. It was loud, helpless, a raw, visceral surrender to the tidal wave of euphoria that overtook you both, so all-consuming it rattled through your bones. Your bodies trembled, shook, legs trembling and hands gripping, desperate for something to hold onto as the euphoria hit, slamming through you in white-hot pulses that made your thoughts fracture apart like glass. Heat rushed through your veins, singing through your limbs as the final snap of tension detonated inside you. You cried out, hips twitching as you drenched him, your core slick and pulsing beneath your own touch while he bucked deep into your heat, his thrusts erratic, wrecked. Zayne spilled rope after thick rope deep inside you, your walls fluttering, sucking every drop from him with a hunger neither of you could ever seem to satisfy. It was earth-shattering. Soul-stripping. Blinding. There were no thoughts. Only him. Only this.

When the crashing waves of pleasure finally began to pull back, you both stilled, dazed and silent, as if you’d fallen from some celestial place, breathless from touching something beyond human. Zayne’s chest was flushed and heaving, glistening under the warm light, the air burning in his lungs as he slowly came down with you, his hand still gripping your thigh, trembling as he guided your calf down gently from his shoulder. You were jelly, twitching with leftover pulses of pleasure. He was soft and spent, the strength drained from him, every movement labored and delicate.

Zayne pulled out with a broken whimper, his jaw tightening as the friction of parting from your overstimulated body sent a final, shivery wave through him. The slick, heady mess between your thighs clung to him, but he didn’t look away—not from your body, not from your face. He leaned over you, folding down, and you wrapped your arms around him immediately. He pressed into you—hot, sweaty, real—his body collapsing over yours with a soft exhale against your neck. You held him there, lips meeting his before he even had the strength to find you first.

He kissed you like he needed to. Like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. And you returned it just as hungrily, your lips sticking to his with every breathless press. Again. And again. You could taste the faint salt of sweat on his upper lip. Feel the radiating heat of his skin against yours. Hear the ragged breaths that still shook in his chest as you clung to each other. You broke apart only when your eyes met—his half-lidded and heavy, yours glazed with affection—and the two of you laughed, soft and dizzy, over a few more lazy kisses. The laughter was quiet and intimate, like you’d just shared some sacred secret between your bodies.

Your legs gave a wobble the moment you tried to push yourself up, arms threatening to buckle under the aftershocks still humming in your limbs. The table had long since cooled beneath your thighs, but your body remained too warm, too loose, too thoroughly unraveled to stand on its own just yet. But Zayne was already there—of course he was. Ever the insistent gentleman, ever the protector even after wrecking you beyond coherence. He caught you before you could do more than shift, arms scooping around your waist as if it were nothing, as if you hadn’t just barely survived the way he’d loved you.

After cleaning you and himself off with his discarded sweater and fetching the one you donned earlier, he carried you with careful steps into the kitchen, his grip gentle but unyielding, before setting you down with all the delicacy of something fragile onto the cool surface of the counter. The cold marble met your thighs and made you shiver, and within seconds, he was pressing a chilled glass of water into your hand. You held it like an anchor, fingers curling around the condensation-slicked glass as you brought it to your lips with his help. He made you drink it all, giving you a moment before you nodded that you were done and set the glass aside.

“Here, you’ll catch a cold if you’re naked for long,” Zayne murmured, already moving to tug the sweater he fetched over your head.

You let him. You always did. He was so quietly stubborn in moments like this, so unshakably him. He guided your arms through the long sleeves with patient care, flipping your hair out from the collar and fixing it back, his fingers grazing along your nape like he couldn’t quite stop touching you.

“Just stay put, alright?” He said, voice soft but edged with that familiar firmness that made your chest flutter, “don’t exhaust yourself any further. Save your energy for a shower with me before we test out the new game console.”

Your breath caught a little on the laugh that followed, light and breathless, “okay, okay, fine…Thank you.”

Zayne only shook his head with that quiet, affectionate chuckle of his, lips twitching at the corners as he stepped back from you. You watched him as he strolled toward the fridge, the slow, grounded pace of his walk so casual, so domestic, it made your chest ache in a different way. He paused in front of the magnetic whiteboard, eyes scanning the surface before lifting a hand to thoughtfully rub his smooth-shaven chin. There were your seal doodles, drawn in a sleepy haze the night before. Silly, lopsided, you. Right beside them, the short list of reminders he’d left himself for next week—smog check, order contacts, change out air filter. He stared at the board for a moment longer, then grabbed a black marker and uncapped it with a soft click.

You tilted your head as you fixed your hair as much as you could, your curiosity rising slowly as you watched Zayne begin to jot down something new beneath his reminders. He was writing…Numbers?

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Then he added words next to each.

1. Bed

2. Couch

3. Bathtub

4. Desk

5. Dining table

6.

And without hesitation, he began to check them off. The marker squeaked slightly as it pressed into the surface, but your breath was louder—shallow, caught between a stunned laugh and the rush of warmth that spread down your spine. You couldn’t even bring yourself to speak. You just paused at a twirl of your messy hair and let the moment hang there, undeniably his.

“…Uh, Zayne?” You giggled, your voice soft and breathy as it broke the quiet hum of the fridge.There was still a slight rasp in your throat, a rawness from how loudly you’d screamed his name not long ago.

You caught the curl of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth—subtle, mischievous, utterly him—as he kept writing, pretending he didn’t hear the way you laced your words with curiosity. He didn’t look at you right away. Just kept his eyes on the board as he scribbled one last word with casual precision, the black ink catching under the warm lighting.

“What are you doing?” You finally asked.

“Making a list,” he replied simply, still so composed, so calm, as if he hadn’t just torn you apart on the dining table minutes earlier.

You tilted your head again, the arch of your brow quirking as your gaze flicked down to the last thing he’d written.

6. Kitchen counter

And it was…Unchecked.

“Of?” You prompted that cleverly humorous man you called yours, crossing your arms as the smirk tugged at your lips.

“Surfaces,” he turned his head then, giving you his full gaze. Calm. Steady. Smiling with just enough self-satisfaction to make your heart flutter and your stomach knot all over again. He capped the marker with a soft click, “you know,” he added, his tone smooth, his words so effortlessly dry it made your cheeks flush, “to help you get used to us living together.”

Heat tinged your face instantly. It rose up your neck and bloomed across your cheeks as you burst into another giggle, smacking your own forehead in disbelief at the audacity of this man—your man—and the deadpan honesty in the way he said things that left you breathless. Still floating, still only half-dressed in his oversized sweater, you carefully slid off the counter and slowly padded toward him, your bare feet nearly silent against the cool tile. Zayne didn’t move. He just watched you come closer with that infuriatingly calm composure of his, like he already knew you were going to meet him there. You reached for the marker in his hand, plucking it from his elegant fingers with a smirk that mirrored the one he tried—and failed—to hide from you.

“To the point that one day…” You began quoting him, lifting the marker to the board, uncapping it with a dramatic little flourish, “I’ll find myself in the middle of the vegetable aisle at the grocery store wondering whose diabolical idea it was to add carrots to beef stew…”

Zayne laughed. Really laughed—the low, quiet, genuine kind that warmed your chest. His gaze dropped to the little side-note you added beneath his unchecked “kitchen counter.”

While dinner’s cooking ;)

“Precisely,” he chuckled, pulling you into his bare chest with one easy motion, like your place was always meant to be there.

He kissed the top of your head, and you let yourself melt fully into him, breathing him in deep. You stood there for a long, peacefully silent moment, swaying gently together in the quiet hum of the kitchen. His heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek, your fingertips affectionate as they mapped the breadth of his sweat-damp shoulders. Your mind drifted into unobstructed vulnerability, then, pleasantly tumbling into the sweetest, unguarded warmth. It was a feeling that reminded you of when you and Zayne were children, him the quiet boy who could always be found nose-deep in a book, you the lively girl who laughed the loudest and spun in your light up sneakers too fast—When you’d go knocking on his parents’ front door after school, asking if he was done with his homework so you could drag him out to play with you, to roll down that little hill behind his childhood home together, the one hidden  just past a field of jasmines—until the sun would set and he’d insist on walking you back to your porch.

Maybe I’ll get used to a lot of things. Sharing a fridge. Filling his dresser drawers. Slow dancing in the middle of meal prep. Maybe I’ll even get used to the idea of marrying him one day. Maybe it wouldn’t be too crazy to be real. Maybe it’d be just perfect. Maybe I even deserve it. Maybe I’ll really marry him. Maybe he’d be the best girl dad. Maybe I’ll proudly brag to Tara and Jenna that my husband would never force our child to play an instrument or go to med school.

Yeah.

I think I’d like that.

I could get used to this.

I want to marry him. I want to marry Zayne.

You didn’t say it out loud. Not yet. But as you smiled peacefully into his chest, it was already there, warm and certain, tucked somewhere deep between your ribs where all the important truths liked to live.

[nobodygotyoulikehoshina]

LOOK BACK | Hoshina Soshiro

Chapter II

➢Summary: You weren't one to stick to tradition. Never were you, and never will you be. And if it meant following Hoshina Soshiro even to the pits of hell, you wouldn't hesitate on breaking any custom or practice. Too bad he never bothered to look back, where you always were.

➢Content: romance, angst, friendship, humour, violence (cw: mentions of death, fighting, blood, injuries, alcohol, cursing, possible mental distress from the characters, some gender stereotypes). will expand with the story.

➢ Pairing: Vice-captain! Hoshina x Platoon Leader! Fem! Reader

➢Genre: childhood best friends to lovers

➢Wc: 4352

➢notes: y'all are amazing. the first chap got 150+ notes in a few weeks. thank you so much for all the good, and i'm sorry for the bad. i'll try to improve as i work on my first series ever, so thank you in advance if you decide to stick around for that. comments, likes, reblogs, and DMs are always appreciated

anyway, i hope you enjoy once again!!

Your father never really liked your friendship with Hoshina.

He was a conservative man, very tradition-bound. In his mind, the Hoshina family stood on a pedestal that was never meant for him to reach, and he advised you to never try as well. The Hoshinas were meant to lead, and your family to follow. They were in the front lines, you stood in the back. They are the Captains, and you the Vice-Captains. That was the natural order of things.

But your five year old self couldn’t comprehend that. How come you were never meant to play with the kid with the bowl-cut hair with training garments way more expensive than your clothes? Why was it forbidden for him to teach you the cool sword moves that he had learnt from his father and relatives? It just never made sense to you.

But your fifteen year old self did understand better your position in the clan. Despite that, you had remained friends with Soshiro despite the disapproval of your parents and continued mastering the art of the sword in spite of all the clan’s tradition. But your awareness is what prompted that conversation with your father on a hot July morning.

“(Y/N)” he called out to you as you both sat on the edge of the tatami floor, facing the small garden of your house. “Do you understand our way of life?”

It was a heavy question for a fifteen year old, but you still answered. “Yes…I do”.

“Then you understand why I don’t like your friendship with the Hoshina kid, right?” It wasn’t the first time he had told you this. In fact, it was a recurrent theme between the both of you. But he had never looked so serious.

“Yes, father. I understand”. You wanted to say more but he spoke before you could.

“I know you do.” Then why did he ask?. “You aren’t like your brother, (Y/N). You are very smart and driven, as well as excellent with the sword. That is why I want you to understand something; your future is better away from the Hoshina clan”.

That statement felt like a sledgehammer to the head. Up until that moment, you had never considered a future without the Hoshina name attached to it. Not when you and Soshiro had dreamt for so long for a life together, side by side.

“What…what do you mean, father?,” you asked, voice trembling slightly.

Your father, ever so stern, tightened his face a little as he faced the sight of tree leaves rocking with the wind. “The Hoshinas don’t care about us the same way we do for them. Our family is strong, that is why we have survived for this long, but they do not exist in the same way as us. They live the true path of the warrior, the firsts to arrive at the battlefield and the last ones standing. While we protect the back, they continue moving forward. And moving forward means not looking back. Not even at us, their allies”.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You stood behind a thick wall of bulletproof glass. The buzzing of the Operations Room set up behind you was proof of the excitement this particular trial test brought to the Division. Since the Number 10 suit was developed for Hoshina to wear, along with Officer Ichikawa’s Number 6 weapon, the level of the Third Division’s subjugation proficiency had increased tenfold. Everytime Hoshina had to put on the suit for a programmed exercise, it produced great excitement among the Operation officers, but you had to admit it did worry you a little.

Platoon leaders were never called for this type of trials, but Hoshina had personally requested for you to be there for some reason. So here you were, surrounded by dozens of people in charge of collecting data or supervising the whole ordeal. You weren’t sure what to do, as Hoshina’s request had barely anything other than the requirement of your presence during the programmed exercise, so you just stood there, looking through the glass to the empty area below you.

“Security authorizations for Number 10 Numbers Weapon release” one of the officers shouted into the room.

“Authorizations, cleared,” Operations Leader Okonogi declared. “The suit is fully on. Release Vice-captain”.

From one of the walls of the enclosed training ground opened a door, letting a small figure clash with the bright gray walls. It was Hoshina clad in the purple and green suit of the Number 10 Numbers Weapon (simultaneously, his proudest achievement in his military career and the bane of his existence).

“Number 10, on field,” one of the officers announced.

“Vice-captain Hoshina, can you hear me?” Okonogi called out to Hoshina through the earpiece channel.

It took him a moment to answer. “Loud and clear, Okonogi dear”.

You started rolling your eyes at the pet name, but stopped yourself at the last second.

How unprofessional, you thought, unclear if it was directed towards yourself or your long time friend.

“How are you feeling, Vice-captain?,” Okonogi asked.

“Perfectly fine, Okonogi, if not for the fact that this monster brat won’t shuddup”.

You quietly chuckled from that statement. No matter how many times they had fought together, Hoshina and Number 10’s relationship remained the same.

“Vice-captain, please activate synchronization with the Number 10 suit,” Okonogi requested.

“Roger that”.

A load of numbers and metrics appeared on the large screens, way too fast for you to comprehend it. An image of Hoshina’s vitals showed everything in order, including the percentage of Unleashed Combat Power extracted from the suit.

 81% synchronisation, a robotic voice announced to the room.

“Not a bad start,” you muttered to yourself.

“That is perfect for us to start with, Vice-captain,” Okonogi declared, typing away some data into her screen. “Allow me to explain today’s exercise, sir.”

More people started to move inside the Operations Room, polishing the last details of the experiment Hoshina was about to be subjected to. Being truthful, you felt a little awkward and a little useless there, just watching as everyone did their jobs.

“The present trial will consist of two exercises,” Okonogi began explaining. “The first one is to test the level of synchronisation we can achieve with Number 10 during simulated battle, so we’ve recreated a holographic replica of the kaiju captured with a 6.1 fortitude”.

You opened your eyes a little. 6.1 fortitude? That was a whole squadron with a platoon leader needed to defeat that monster. 

“The second exercise will be testing the Vice-captains new combat abilities once we reach the desired synchronisation percentage. For that, we will be engaging in actual combat with the original captured kaiju”.

“What?” you couldn’t help but ask out loud. You clasped your hand over your mouth, hoping that no one had heard you. Unfortunately for you, the operations official besides you apparently did, so he turned to you.

“Don’t worry, ma’am” he assured you, “the room we are in is designed to withstand a 10.0 fortitude and there’s other officials on standby in case the Vice-captain needs it”.

“Is everything ready for the order, sir?” Okonogi asked.

“Ready if you are, dear Okonogi,” Hoshina answered with his usual happy tone. He turned to look directly into one of the cameras. “(L/N), please watch me with care”.

You scoffed at him, crossing your arms. “That’s why you called me here, didn’t you, sir?”

“Very well,” Leader Okonogi declared. “Vice-captain Hoshina in position. Cameras and sensors activated. Shields open. Initiate simulated combat”.

From behind the bulletproof glass, you could see a huge figure appear. It was a lizard-type kaiju of around six meters of height. Kaiju of its size was Hoshina’s specialty, but even 6.1 fortitude felt a little too harsh for a start.

“Vice-captain Hoshina and Number 10 Numbers Weapon initiating honju subjugation,” Hoshina announced through his mic, and you could hear Number 10 screaming a couple of things in the background.

Through intense battle, Hoshina began subjugating the fake kaiju. Well, Okonogi had called this simulated battle, but you could still feel and hear the rumbles of the training room from the intensity of the confrontation. No matter how many times Hoshina had slashed through the fake monster, it never died simply because the Operations Room kept reviving him to force the Vice-captain and the suit to synchronise.

“Okonogi, dear, I believe it’s a little cruel to keep us fighting like this, don’tcha think?” Hoshina commented while skillfully dodging an attack from the kaiju’s tail.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to keep you like this for a little more, sir” Okonogi sounded apologetic.

You observed your friend fight against the monster. With the Number 10 suit, he was faster than he already was with the regular suit, almost becoming a blur in the air. To the untrained eye, it looked like a piece of cake for Hoshina. A walk in the park even. But to you, who had been present for most of the time he spent crafting his seamless techniques, it didn’t seem that way. You could see the strain on his muscles and the heavy amount of concentration required to subjugate an enemy time and time again. The drive of victory gleamed on his focused eyes.

“Miss Okonogi,” one of the operations officers exclaimed, “Vice-captain has achieved 92% Unleashed Combat Power!”.

“No sign of extreme fatigue or strain on his vitals!” another one informed.

“Raise the body limiters!” their leader instructed. “Prepare for the second phase release! Do not let the Unleashed Combat Power drop below range.”

“Roger that!”

Okonogi grabbed the mic and spoke. “Vice-captain Hoshina, please retreat from the target. We have reached the desired synchronisation level and will be initiating phase two of the trial. Please take a few minutes of rest while the new target launches”.

Hoshina backed up to one of the room’s corners, although Number 10 didn’t seem too happy about that, shouting "Where did it go?”, "Where did it go?”. The holographic kaiju disappeared, leaving your friend alone once more. You could see his chest rise and fall with every breath he took, waiting to continue with the battle. 

“All vitals are stable and no significant injuries have been detected, sir,” Okonogi informed Hoshina. “How are you feeling, Vice-captain?”

“As great as I can be with this brat on me,” Hoshina flicked the eye on the center of the suit, eliciting a series of complaints from Number 10.

“That’s good to hear, because the next phase will start in about 30 seconds.”

From one side of the test room opened a huge door. A big shadow emerged from the opening, making the test site shake with each of its steps. Soon, a big lizard-type kaiju stood towering over your best friend, who, at that moment, looked like nothing more than an insect cornered against a wall.

“Second phase: activated,” Okonogi declared, “prepare shields in case of danger or malfunction. Deploy the special weapons”.

The word danger activated something in you. Watching Hoshina move and slash all around the kaiju made you miss the weight of your own weapon on your hip.

Minutes stretched long with the kaiju proving more difficult to subjugate than initially thought, especially with the bothersome acid it would spit in every direction. Nevertheless, your fearless Vice-captain dodged every attack coming his way, retaliating with a few of his own. Finally, when you thought the fight had gone on for way too long, Hoshina’s demeanor changed. His stance was no longer playful; he now looked ready for the kill. Taking hold of his dual blades as well as an extra katana for Number 10’s tail, he lunged forward in a deadly attack.

“Seventh Form: Twelve-layered Strike,” you heard him mutter.

The clash of blades slashing at one point filled the room. Then, the dull thud of a falling body. Hoshina had defeated the kaiju.

For one breath, the whole room stood silent, in awe of what they had witnessed. The prodigy of the Hoshina family had unveiled his ultimate technique; an attack only he was talented enough to achieve, far surpassing any warrior who had mastered the blade. Then, having processed that majestic ending, cheering exploded inside the Operations Room, momentarily forgetting the point of the job.

You mildly cheered on your friend, who was now struggling to make Number 10 let go of the katana. Laughing at the funny sight, your eyes wandered to the replays of the fight that the data analysis team was going through. For a couple of seconds, a video of that last move and a close-up of the dead kaiju popped up on the screen.

Oh.

“Well, how did it go?” Hoshina had finally freed the sword from Number 10’s tail and returned it to its corresponding capsule. “Anything worth tellin’ me?”

Okonogi’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Congratulations, Vice-captain! This has been our best trial yet. The metrics show an increase…”

She began explaining the numbers and statistics that certainly interested Hoshina, but not you. Moving from the corner you had occupied during the whole trial, you started making your way out of the room, figuring that you hadn’t been of much use.

I guess he just wanted to be a show-off, you thought, although you knew it didn’t fit Hoshina’s style.

A voice stopped you on your tracks. “Well, Platoon Leader (L/N), how was it?”

You were confused. Was he really asking you what you thought? You expressed your confusion. “Are you asking me, sir?”

“Yes, (L/N),” he clarified. “Whatcha think ‘bout my skills?”

That question brought you back many years to when you both used to train with smaller and much safer swords in the yard of his house.

You thought a little before answering. “Sloppy at best, sir”.

A couple of people behind you gasp. The temperature in the room seemed to drop a couple of degrees with the following silence. Hadn’t Operations Leader Okonogi said that this had been Hoshina’s best results so far? So who was this random Platoon Leader to contradict what the data clearly showed? Even Number 10 seemed offended by your comment, shouting “Sloppy? Sloppy? Where is this human who dares call us sloppy?”.

Well, I fucked up, you mentally slapped yourself.

Hoshina’s lighthearted laugh cut the tension in the room. “I know I could count on ya to be blunt about this! Go on, tell me more!”.

You cleared your throat, feeling more confident to speak. “Personally, sir, I don’t believe your technique is good enough to manage some of your skills, especially those involving the use of the Numbers Weapon limb. Your swordsmanship was not adequate, that’s why I considered your attempts sloppy”.

“Oh, how so?” Hoshina continued questioning you.

You paused for a moment before asking. “Sir, may I request permission to approach the target?”

Your friend seemed taken aback by your request. “Permission granted, come here”.

As quick as you could to avoid the stares from the Operations team, you got out of the room and climbed down the stairs as fast as you could. The brightness of the white light in the trial room blinded you at first, but soon enough you adjusted to the light. There stood Hoshina, clad in the armour made to suit him and no one else, along with the mangled corpse of the lizard kaiju. You approached both of them, feeling the piercing gaze of the wine-red eyes of your best friend.

“Well, little expert,” he teased you with no malicious intent, “where did ya say I went wrong?”

You pointed at the cuts that surrounded the damaged core of the beast. “Please look carefully at the wounds around this area, sir. If my vision is correct, we can observe four cuts that appear to be shallower and messier than the rest, indicating bad swordsmanship. These correspond to cuts number 3, 6, 9 and 12 in striking order of your ‘Twelve-layered strike’ attack. While watching your fight, I realized that these are made using the Numbers Weapon tail. The lack of strength and precision evident in the injuries are proof that the attack has not been brought to its most efficient form”.

You had gotten carried away by your expression, so it shook you off balance to see Hoshina smiling widely at you when you turned to look back at him. It wasn’t a kind smile but a teasing one, almost making fun of you. But with Hoshina, nothing felt like mockery. No, with him, it was his way of expressing proudness in a weird but endearing way.

“I am impressed by the depth of yer analysis, Platoon Leader,” he congratulated you, hands behind his back, “and ya did that merely by watchin’. Now, do you have any suggestions for improvement, (L/N)?”.

Your eyes gleamed at the question. You could never pass on an opportunity to speak about blades. “Yes, sir, I do”.

You started your explanation, analysing the pros and cons of Hoshina’s  blade technique. You had seen it hundreds, no, thousands of times. It felt as familiar as your own, so it was easy to spot the defects that even experts of the Operations team could never pinpoint. When you finished giving your recommendations, Hoshina’s smile widened. He took a couple of steps in your direction, and threw an arm around your shoulders to bring you closer to himself.

“I knew I could count on ya, (L/N)” he slightly ruffled your hair.

You tried to push yourself away from him. You felt your skin burn even though he barely touched any of it. From your distance, you could smell his natural scent mingling with the stench of sweat and metal from the suit.

“Please refrain from unprofessional contact, Vice-captain,” you finally distanced yourself from him. Hoshina didn’t seem to take your actions personally.

“Yes, yes,” he admitted in defeat. Hoshina turned back to the observation glass above. “Okonogi dear, I guess this concludes the trial, doesn’t it?”.

Okonogi’s voice came through both of your in-ears. “Yes, Vice-captain. We have collected the data we needed. Thank you for your service”.

“My, my,” he answered, “it’s not me ya have to thank. Let’s wrap this up quickly and go take a rest”.

“Roger that!”.

Sensing that your duty was now completely fulfilled, you saluted at your Vice-captain and dismissed yourself. He didn’t say anything, worried about something being said over his in-ear. He just half-heartedly saluted back and left you to your devices. On your way out, you met a clean-up crew waiting to take away the corpse to wherever they took dead kaiju for disposal. You looked at your wristwatch.

It’s still early afternoon, you thought, I still have time to catch up on training.

That way, you busied yourself for the rest of the day, trying to forget about the faint feeling of Hoshina’s arm on your shoulder and his intoxicating smell.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Shoot, it's late.

That’s what you thought as you scurried away through the halls of the base. It was late at night and lights would be shutting off soon. You had lost track of time during your training session by yourself, so now you had just an hour to take a bath and do a couple things in your room before going to sleep.

You were leaving some training area when you saw that the lights of a room were still on. 

“These rookies never learn…,” you muttered to yourself. Going out of your way to turn the lights on, you heard some noises coming from inside. Ready to scold some newbie for staying late, you poked your head through the door.

“Hey…” you started saying, but suddenly your mouth went dry.

Standing in the middle of the training room, Hoshina was a sight to behold. His black compression shirt and dark training pants proved to be more deadly than the twin blades in his hands. Every single muscle in his body had been sculpted to perfection, witness to the hard work your best friend put into his training. His closed eyes allowed you to admire how lethal his face card was, every single feature looking like it had been created with care and love.

On the count of two focused breaths, Hoshina started moving. Calculated slashes of his blades against the air were part of the image training he liked to practice on his own. He was meticulous like that. Watching Hoshina fight was always one of your biggest pleasures. He was a real warrior but, unlike most people, he didn’t treat the sword like just a weapon. No, to him it was more than just a slab of metal. Hoshina held his blade like an artist would hold their brush. With confidence and practiced reverence.

You sat down on your knees at the far edge of the tatami, watching him just like you had done thousands of times back at the Hoshina estate. You observed the deadly dance carried out by your friend’s mind, captivated by every move and gesture. Not daring to break his concentration by uttering a word, you remained in silence.

It didn’t take long for him to notice your presence. Finally ending his mental simulation of the battle–which you recognised as his earlier fight during the test–he turned to the door, catching you waiting for him.

“Oh, (Y/N)” he stopped on his tracks, “didn’t hear ya comin’ in”.

You raised from your kneeling position, now sitting criss-cross applesauce. “You were deeply focused and I tried to not make silence, sir”.

“I see,” he replied while putting away his blades. “And what brings ya here?”

“I thought some newbie was still in here and came to scold him”.

He chuckled at your answer. “What a diligent leader, thank ya for yer service. It is pretty late though”.

You sat in silence. If this conversation kept on, you would have to take an express cold shower instead of your nice warm bath.

Fuck it, I don’t care.

“So,” you broke the silence, “why are you also here so late, sir?”.

“I could ask ya the same,” he shot back teasingly.

You looked down at your training clothes. “I had to push back my personal practice time to attend the programmed exercise this morning, sir”.

“Oh right. Sorry ‘bout that”.

“It’s okay,” you shrugged your shoulders. “But you didn’t give me an answer, sir”.

Hoshina’s playful smile crept up to his face. “Ya ask as if ya didn’t grill my sword technique just earlier, huh”.

You shot an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, sir”.

You truly were. Your words must’ve had a deep effect on Hoshina if he had started working on improving his form right away. Although, being the perfectionist he was, it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

“Ya didn’t look an ounce of sorry back then, didn’cha?” he continued teasing you. “But it’s okay, that was why I called ya up there”.

You gulped. “I think you would’ve been fine without my input, sir”.

“Nah,” he dismissed your claim, “Okonogi and the others are good at their job, but sometimes ya really need someone who knows what they’re talkin’ ‘bout. A real pro.”.

“That is very kind of you to say, sir,” you bowed slightly in gratitude, “but I’m nothing compared to a master of the Hoshina blade style. There’s nothing you can’t accomplish with a sword if you learn it properly”.

Hoshina waved his hand in dismissal. “Nonsense, (Y/N). Ya could beat anyone’s ass with a blade any day of the week. That’s why ya are my Platoon Leader”.

Even though it was pretty late, Hoshina didn’t appear any tired. Quite the contrary. He fidgeted around the room, grabbing and moving training gear, putting away towels, and even changing the bottle on the water dispenser. You looked at him with amusement, although he didn’t seem to notice.

“Now that ya mentioned blade techniques,” he turned back at you with his arms crossed over his chest. You willed yourself to focus on his face and not on his muscles, “as far as I remember, yer family also comes from a long line of warriors. Don’t cha also have your own fighting style?”

You took a couple of seconds to answer. “Yes, we do”.

“Then why have I never seen it?!” he questioned you.

“Because it is not as refined as the Hoshina style and a little outdated to be honest”.

Hoshina gave you a puzzled look. “And why does that matter? I want you to show it to me”.

“Nop,” you replied to his request, “no need for that”.

The Vice-captain became whiny. “But why? Aren’t best friends supposed to tell everything to each other”.

“Well, you said it, Hoshina-kun. I told you about it, but I don’t have to show it to you”.

“Ugh, fine” he conceded, “that’s lame but I accept it for now, but one day I’ll make you show it to me”.

“Sure, sure”.

This time, you both finally wrapped up whatever you had been doing in the training room and headed for the showers. You continued your conversation with Hoshina, which consisted of him mostly speaking and you listening. You appreciated these little moments with your friend, which lately had been more scarce due to your busy agendas. Finally reaching the communal baths, where your dreaded cold shower awaited you, you turned to each other to wave each other goodbye. 

“So,” he started, “did ya forget your promise?”

You looked confused for a sec before it clicked. “Drinks at my place?”. He nodded. “Of course I haven’t, but that won’t be until a couple of weeks”.

“I know,” a smile adorned his lips, “but I wanted to make sure ya had added it to yer calendar”.

You rolled your eyes at him. “How could I forget, sir?”

“Shuddup.” He brought you closer to himself, and started ruffling your head like a little kid. After a little struggle, you managed to free yourself from his grip and scurried off to the showers, praying he didn’t catch the deep blush on your face.

next chapter ➢

taglist: @hana-patata @kokoiinuts @floweringdaisie @saru-93

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[pearlprincess02]

dating & dates (virgo version)

virgo: (virgo venus/mars/5th house/7th house)

when dating someone with virgo venus, virgo mars, virgo in the 5th house, and virgo in the 7th house, expect a relationship built on thoughtfulness, consistency, and deep emotional investment. they may not be the most overtly romantic, but they show love through acts of service, attention to detail, and genuine care. they appreciate reliability, intelligence, and a sense of purpose in relationships, valuing partners who are grounded and communicative. while they can be reserved initially, once they trust you, they become incredibly loyal and attentive. virgo venus expresses love through small but meaningful actions. they value stability and practical support over grand gestures, wanting a relationship that feels productive and secure. virgo mars is intentional in their desires, preferring a slow-burn attraction that builds over time. they enjoy a partner who stimulates them mentally and shares their appreciation for effort and routine. virgo 5th house finds joy in structured fun, intellectual activities, and anything that engages their analytical side. they prefer dates that involve learning, improving, or experiencing something meaningful together. virgo 7th house seeks a dependable and communicative partner. they want a relationship that feels like a true partnership, where both people actively contribute to growth and success.

date night ideas

cooking a healthy meal together at home, going on a scenic nature walk with deep conversations, visiting a farmers’ market & picking out ingredients for a meal, touring a botanical garden/greenhouse, going stargazing with a telescope & a cozy blanket, finding a cozy hidden gem restaurant with fresh, clean ingredients (virgo venus, virgo 5th house) organizing a cozy home spa day for each other, volunteering together at an animal shelter/community event, trying out a meditation/yoga class together, planning & organizing a fun weekend getaway, taking a day to declutter & reorganize a space together, attending a wellness retreat/self-improvement seminar, having a detailed planning session for future goals & dreams, taking a budget-friendly yet well-organized road trip (virgo venus, virgo 7th house) taking a skill-building class (cooking, pottery, coding, etc.), a bookstore date where you pick books for each other, going on a quiet coffee shop date with a good discussion, visiting a museum/historical site, working on a creative project together (scrapbooking, diy home decor, etc.), spending a quiet evening at home doing puzzles/brain games (virgo mars, virgo 5th house)

over 18+ spicy bonus🔞

virgo: (virgo mars/cupido/eros/lust/amor)

someone with virgo mars, virgo cupido, virgo eros, virgo lust, and virgo amor approaches intimacy with a mix of precision, attentiveness, and sensuality. they might not seem outwardly wild at first, but behind closed doors, they are deeply invested in perfecting pleasure, ensuring that every touch, movement, and sensation is intentional. they value a strong mental connection and are highly responsive to subtle cues, making them incredibly intuitive lovers. cleanliness, control, and technique are essential—they want to master their partner’s body and take pleasure in both giving and receiving satisfaction. virgo mars has a methodical and skillful approach, ensuring that every encounter is fulfilling and satisfying. they enjoy a mix of control and service, focusing on their partner’s pleasure as much as their own. virgo cupido thrives on subtle seduction, teasing, and the build-up of tension. they love the game of attraction and are most aroused when there is an element of anticipation. virgo eros seeks perfection in intimacy, valuing detailed exploration and sensual precision. they have a refined, almost ritualistic approach, making every experience feel like a masterpiece. virgo lust enjoys controlled indulgence, balancing restraint and release. they might have a fascination with discipline and delayed gratification, savoring the anticipation before fully giving in. virgo amor ties love and devotion to intimacy, needing an emotional connection alongside physical passion. they express care through touch and are deeply attuned to their partner’s desires.

kinks you might have

intellectual foreplay (dirty talk that stimulates the mind) (virgo mars, virgo cupido, virgo eros) teasing & edging (prolonged pleasure, slow build-up), power dynamics (soft dominance, service-oriented roles), silent control (giving subtle, non-verbal commands), discipline play (controlled restraint & release) (virgo mars, virgo cupido, virgo lust) sensory play (blindfolds, temperature play, textures), oral fixation (both giving & receiving with precision), perfected technique (enjoying skillful execution of pleasure), positioning & precision (strategic movement for optimal pleasure), analytical experimentation (trying different methods to maximize pleasure) (virgo mars, virgo eros, virgo lust) obsession with detail (memorizing partner’s body & reactions), aftercare & nurturing post-intimacy rituals, clean & sensual experiences (pristine sheets, freshly showered bodies), erotic massage (using touch as a form of foreplay & connection), hypersensitivity to partner’s needs & reactions, private but intense (intimate settings over exhibitionism), ritualistic intimacy (structured foreplay, setting the perfect mood), loyalty kink (exclusive devotion to one person, deeply personal intimacy) (virgo mars, virgo eros, virgo amor) lingerie & visual appeal (aesthetic presentation matters) (virgo cupido, virgo eros, virgo lust) heightened sensitivity (breath play, light feather touches, whispered words) (virgo cupido, virgo eros, virgo amor)

all observations are done by me !!! @pearlprincess02

main masterlist

[dreamdragonkadia]

My Christmas saga continues.

p.jackson x reader

Being here really was bad for the wallet. New York had a way of draining it without mercy, and even worse, your two suitcases—already bursting at the seams—weren’t faring much better. You and Percy had only been here for a little over a week, and you’d both been dragged into the gravitational pull of every little boutique and holiday pop-up shop you passed. The logic was airtight, at least on your part. There were so many cute things that would look perfect in your West Coast apartment, and obviously, you were already planning ahead for the bigger picture: the house you two kept daydreaming about, one that would be bought in a few years.

The city was magic this time of year, snow clinging to sidewalks like dusted sugar, the streets humming with holiday cheer, and Sally Jackson’s apartment warm and cozy in comparison to the chill outside. It felt like you’d blinked and the week had flown by.

Still, there were a few more days to soak it all in.

Percy’s head was heavy on your stomach, one arm draped lazily across your hip as he refused to acknowledge the start of the day. You were half-sure he was still asleep, but you caught the way his lips twitched when Sally, ever the wonderful host and future mother-in-law, walked in and handed you a cup of coffee. “You two are worse than Estelle when it comes to waking up,” she teased with a smile, cradling her own mug.

“I’m awake,” you defended with a grin, careful not to jostle Percy too much. Your free hand absently combed through his unruly dark hair, which, in hindsight, probably wasn’t doing him any favors in the motivation department. He groaned in response, though you could feel his smile against your sweater.

Sally chuckled softly, sitting down on the arm of the couch with a content sigh. “What are the plans today? Or is it another day of convincing Percy to do more shopping?”

At that, Percy groaned dramatically, muffled into your stomach. “I didn’t sign up to carry this many bags on my vacation,” he grumbled. You nudged him with your elbow.

“You signed up when you became my fiancé,” you reminded him cheerfully. “It’s in the fine print.”

“That’s unfair. No one reads the fine print.”

“You should’ve,” you teased, grinning as you tugged gently on his hair. He finally looked up at you, sea-green eyes groggy but warm, his lopsided smile peeking through. Sally watched the exchange with that soft, knowing expression only mothers seemed to master, and you felt your cheeks heat up just a little under her gaze.

“Well, if you’re asking for input,” you said, turning to Sally, “we were thinking about heading into Midtown today. Percy wants to check out the LEGO store because he’s basically a seven-year-old in disguise.”

“I heard that,” Percy mumbled, though he didn’t even try to deny it.

“And then we’re grabbing lunch somewhere,” you continued, ignoring him. “After that, we can go ice skating if you’re up for it?”

Sally’s face brightened at the suggestion. “Oh, I’d love that! Estelle’s been asking about skating for weeks.”

At the mention of her name, Estelle Jackson herself came running into the room, still in her pajamas, her hair a curly mess of bedhead. “Did you say skating?!” she squealed, practically bouncing as she climbed onto the couch to tackle Percy’s legs.

“Whoa there, kiddo—personal space,” Percy whined, though he reached out to tickle her sides, sending her into fits of giggles.

You smiled as you sipped your coffee, watching the scene unfold. There was something so good about being here—about the way the Jackson family took you in like one of their own without hesitation. Sally always insisted you two stay with them when you visited, never taking no for an answer. And as much as you teased Percy about being glued to his childhood bed, it was nice waking up to the smell of Sally’s cooking and the sound of Estelle dragging her brother into another one of her games.

A yawn escaped Percy as he finally sat up, ruffling his hair like a sleepy golden retriever. “Fine. Skating it is. But if I wipe out, you’re buying dinner.”

“Deal,” you said quickly.

Estelle grinned wickedly. “Percy always falls!”

“I do not!”

“You fell last time,” Sally chimed in helpfully, sipping her coffee with an innocent look.

You bit back a laugh as Percy shot his mom an incredulous look, clearly betrayed.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of jackets, scarves, and laughter as you all bundled up to head into the cold. The city seemed to sparkle as snow flurries fell, dusting the streets in white. Percy tried to grumble about carrying your shopping bags, but you caught him sneaking a glance at one of your purchases—a tiny ornament shaped like a sea turtle—and knew he secretly loved it.

Midtown was as busy as ever, lights and sounds blending together into something magical. Estelle tugged on Percy’s arm at every window display, practically dragging him to the Rockefeller Center tree. You caught Sally watching the two of them with a soft smile, her eyes glimmering with pride.

And later, when you were all lacing up ice skates, Percy leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear. “For the record, if I fall, I’m taking you down with me.”

You grinned. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The day stretched on, full of stolen moments like these—Percy stumbling on the ice and pulling you into his arms to steady himself, Estelle clinging to both of you as she skated ahead triumphantly, Sally laughing harder than you’d ever seen as she tried to keep up.

By the time you made it back to the apartment, rosy-cheeked and exhausted, it was nearly dark outside. The glow of the Christmas tree filled the living room as you all collapsed onto the couch, Percy pulling you close to his side with a content sigh.

“This,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, “is what makes all the shopping worth it.”

You laughed softly, snuggling into him. “I told you so.”

From the other end of the couch, Estelle chimed in sleepily, “You two are gross.”

You and Percy exchanged a glance, smiling as you both leaned over to ruffle her hair.

“Get used to it, kid,”

[august-anon]

jason damian and tim arent gonna let dick get away with that im sure... 3v1 revenge STAT

Brother Wrangling series: 1 - 2 (you are here)

___________________

based on when this came in and what I had published at the time, i just assumed that it was meant as a revenge sequel prompt to Brotherly Duties, so I hope I got that right sdkjfhs I actually had some ideas in my head jangling around for a sequel to that fic already, but I think this prompted fic works well as a bridge between the first fic and my own idea! so in the future there Will be a third installment to this series lol

_____________________

Brotherly Revenge

Fandom: Batfamily (no specific source material/continuity)

Ship(s): Gen!!! Platonic!! Familial!! No batcest here

Characters (lee/ler): Lers!Jason, Damian, and Tim & Lee!Dick

Word Count: 4684 words

Summary: Dick's brothers decide that he's gone unchecked for too long. They decide to team up and take down their tickle monster.

[ao3 link]

____________________

Dick practically skipped up the front steps of the Manor, humming some earworm pop song that had been playing on the radio before he’d slipped out of his car. Alfred would probably chastise him for parking out front instead of the garage, but the main entrance was so much closer to the family den than the side entrance, and Dick didn’t have the patience for that extra minute, short as it was. Because it was movie night.

Movie nights were far harder to coordinate than family dinners, but Dick lived for them. He got to force as much of his family as he could onto the couches — or maybe even cajole them into building a blanket fort — wrap himself with blankets and cuddles to chase off the chill, and spend time with his far-too-busy family for a well-needed night off patrol.

Of course, one of the downfalls of a far-too-busy family that worked nights was that movie night rarely had a full house, just like tonight. Bruce was off in another country with the JL, the girls had a big case they couldn’t afford to take the night off for, and Duke was on a weekend-long school trip to Metropolis. Dick just hoped the remaining Birds of Prey were able to handle Gotham that evening – if another movie night got interrupted by an Arkham breakout, Dick was going to scream.

As he ventured deeper into the Manor, the buttery smell of popcorn filled his nose. He could hear his brothers talking, but miraculously, there were no arguments. They must have already argued out the movie pick before he got there. He nearly ran smack into Alfred as he rushed down the hall, knocking half his armful of bedding to the floor. He grinned sheepishly as Alfred raised an eyebrow, leaning down to pick up the mess.

“Welcome home, Master Dick.”

“Hey, Alfred. They starting without me?”

“I believe they were growing impatient, sir. Something about you ‘always being late?’”

Dick gave an exaggerated gasp, whirling around to head towards the den. Alfred followed behind at a more sedate pace. He tossed his armful of blankets aside when he got there.

“I am not always late!” Dick grabbed for the nearest brother – Tim, as it happened, and trapped him in the tightest tickle-hug he could. “You try driving in all the way from Blud – I’m perfectly on time!”

Tim shrieked with laughter, trying to fight his way out of Dick’s arms. “I wasn’t even the one who said it!”

“Who said it then, huh? Tell me!”

“Jason! Jason said it!”

“Wow,” Jason said, sprawled in an armchair across the room. “What a wuss.”

Dick chuckled and stopped tickling, turning his hold into a real hug that Tim easily slumped into. “Watch out, Little Wing – you’re next.”

Damian tossed a throw pillow in Dick and Tim’s direction. “We are already behind schedule. Save your childish games for later.”

Dick released Tim, giving him a hair ruffle for good measure. “Maybe Dami wants to be next instead, hm?” He formed his hands into claws, allowing a mischievous grin to spread across his face. “Maybe all the Gotham grumps need a visit from the tickle monster before we have movie night.”

“I would suggest being cautious trifling with your siblings today, Master Dick,” Alfred said as he entered the room, adding his stack of bedding to a neat pile being formed on one of the sofas. Looked like it was a blanket fort night.

Dick snorted. “And why’s that?”

“Jay’s been on a rampage,” Tim stage-whispered.

“Indeed.” Damian glared at Jason. “We’ve already had to endure such foolish activities once tonight.”

Dick raised an eyebrow in Jason’s direction.

Jason raised one back. “Someone had to win the movie pick argument. I got sick of listening to them sniping at each other.”

“And I’m sure you did no sniping of your own.”

Jason bared his teeth in an aggressively fake smile. “Watch it. You’re more than deserving of comeuppance, Dickhead.”

Dick tilted his head to the side, bringing out his innocent, puppy-dog eyes. “What do you mean, Little Wing? I’ve been stuck in Bludhaven for weeks!”

Complete bullshit. Dick knew he probably deserved a healthy dose of revenge, seeing as he often went full tickle-monster whenever he dropped into Gotham. He’d avoided getting a taste of his own medicine so far, but he knew it would only last so long before one of his siblings — or even Bruce — took him down.

Tim and Damian both perked up.

“Richard is ticklish?” Damian asked.

“I figured he had to be,” Tim said, frowning. “I just can’t catch him.”

Jason checked his wrist, despite the fact that he wasn’t actually wearing a watch. “You know, I think we’ve got time for one more round.”

“Whoa, hold on—“

“What for?” Jason casually stood from his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “It’s not like you wait to attack, say, during Mario Kart.”

“You’re a cheater! What am I supposed to do?”

“What about when you drag me away from work?” Tim asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Someone has to make sure you don’t run yourself into the ground. At least I do it in a fun way!”

Damian stepped forward, his arms crossed. “And your interruptions of my training?”

“You’re a kid! You should not be training that much.”

Jason stepped forward, his steel-toed boots thumping heavily against the carpet. “Maybe you need a taste of your own medicine, Big Bird.”

Dick started backing out of the room. “You know what, I’m pretty sure I heard Alfred call for help–”

“No he didn’t,” Tim said. “He just left, he’s not that far away. We’d hear him.”

Jason rolled his neck. “Sic ‘em, kiddies.”

Tim and Damian charged him. Dick couldn’t help the fond laugh that escaped him as they barrelled into his middle, trying to wrestle him to the ground. Unfortunately for them, Dick was well-versed in playful roughhousing. He scrubbed at their hair to knock them off balance, then darted backwards to make them lose their footing. While they were disoriented, Dick managed to twist them both around so their backs were to his chest. He hugged them tight, laughing at their sudden panicked struggling.

“Should’ve known better.”

He started clawing at whatever tickle spots he could reach. Tim was easy — his ribs were far too accessible in this hold, and he lost himself to desperate cackling almost instantly. Dami took a bit longer, squirming and thrashing in stubborn silence as Dick clawed over his sides and tummy until — there, that little patch of skin next to his belly button that always got him giggling like the little kid he was.

Dick couldn’t help but laugh along with them. “Did you guys really think that would work? Come on, it’s me we’re talking about.”

Jason stepped forward again, eyeing Dick thoughtfully. “Looks like your hands are full there, Big Bird.”

Dick narrowed his eyes.

“I wouldn’t count yourself the winner just yet.”

“Jason, help!” Tim screeched, frantically trying to tug Dick’s hand away from his ribs.

Dick was gratified to see Jason’s mouth twitch up at the corners as he looked at the boys laughing away in Dick’s grasp. “Yeah yeah, Timmers — hold your horses, I’m getting to it.”

For a moment, Dick actually thought that the Older Brother Instinct might win out, that Jason instead might join him in tickling the snot out of their baby brothers and forget about revenge. That hope was dashed as Jason met his eyes again, smirking deviously. He should have known. Jason had always been good at holding a grudge.

With Jason still advancing, he didn’t have much time to think. In a moment of panic, Dick launched Damian in his direction, forcing Jason to catch him. Dick wrapped both arms around Tim then, brandishing him like a shrieking shield.

“Dick, no! You jerk!”

Jason set Damian aside like a disgruntled cat. “Arms are still full, asshole.”

Dick cocked his head. “Are they?”

Once Jason got close enough, Dick thrust Tim in his direction too. Jason, the secret softie, paused to steady Tim to make sure he didn’t fall flat on his face. Dick should’ve taken the opportunity to run. Instead, he darted around his brothers and hugged Jason from behind, digging his fingers into Jason’s stomach.

Jason doubled over with a strangled chuckle. Tim and Damian, after being subjected to more than Jason’s fair share of tickle attacks, eyed him as prey just as much as Dick for a moment. At least until Jason got an elbow solidly into his solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him.

“I’m not letting this go,” Jason said, twisting around in Dick’s now-loosened grip. “You’re going down, Dickface.”

Dick saw eight different escape routes from where he stood. Six different ways he could easily take Jason to the ground. He knew he could defend against Tim and Damian’s attacks if he took Jason down – he knew all their moves, had taught them a lot of them himself. Dick knew how to win a fight that was stacked against him, especially against such familiar enemies. He was Batman’s first and oldest student, after all.

Dick let Jason tackle him to the floor.

He put up a bit of a struggle against having his hands pinned, but in a straight-out grapple – especially when Dick was already downed – Jason naturally had the upper hand. His wrists wound up pinned to either side of his head, grip tight enough that even with all his dexterity, he would have a difficult time twisting out of it. He was well and truly trapped. The anticipatory butterflies started swarming around in his stomach.

“C’mere kiddies,” Jason said with an absolutely vicious grin. “Let me show you just how to take Big Bird down.”

Dick growled, pretending to put up a fight to preserve his own pride. He squirmed under Jason’s weight, bucking slightly as if trying to throw him off. A twinkle sparked in Jason’s eyes and Dick had to fight down the flush that immediately wanted to crawl up his neck.

Jason knew he wasn’t really trying to get away. He knew Dick was letting this happen. Dick was never going to hear the end of this again. The mocking was already ringing in his ears now.

“I’m not a kid,” Tim grumbled, but kneeled at Dick’s side anyway.

Damian kneeled down on Dick’s other side. “How do you know where Richard is ticklish?”

“I saw Bruce tickle him down to the mats enough times when I was a kid. I know all his weak points.”

Dick gave him a mischievous smile. “Just like how I know all yours.” He kneed Jason in the back.

Jason grunted, narrowing his eyes, and he let go of one of Dick’s hands just to reach back and squeeze at the offending joint. Dick choked on his suppressed laugh, ripping his leg out of Jason’s grip. His free hand gripped Jason’s shirt, not able to reach his hand to pull it away.

“See? Goldie’s ticklish as all hell.” Jason’s grin turned predatory.

“Where do we begin?” Damian asked, shuffling even closer on his knees.

“Nowhere!” Dick said, playing up his squirming a bit more. “Get off!”

“Where’s his tickle spot?” Tim asked, scanning his torso.

“From what I remember, he’s a walking tickle spot – almost as bad as you, Baby Bird.”

Okay, he was actually going to kill Jason later.

Scowling, Dick kneed Jason in the back again, harder this time. He straightened out his leg quickly, trying to avoid Jason grabbing at it again. 

“Still not as bad as you,” Dick said, a saccharine smile on his face

Jason stared him down. “You’re gonna regret that.” He glanced up at their brothers. “Ready, kiddies?”

Tim glared at him. “Call me ‘kiddie’ again and we’ll team up against you instead.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.”

“No, you’re onto something, Timmy. You knock him over, and I’ll–”

“Damian, start tickling. Shut him up.”

“Wait, no–”

Damian, for once, did as he was told. Hesitant fingers started spidering against his stomach and the side closest to Damian, where his shirt had ridden up in his struggles. Dick bit his lip on a smile, jerking away from the touch. The reaction seemed to give Damian the confidence he needed, as he started to dig into Dick’s stomach in search of the laughter Dick was holding back. Being the youngest of all of them, whether it be the Wayne clan or the full Bat clan, Damian had the least amount of experience being on this end of the tickling. It seemed he was going to take advantage of this opportunity for all it was worth.

“There you go, kid,” Jason said. “You wanna get him real good, go up near–”

“No!” Dick shouted, actually putting some effort behind his squirming now. “Giving away spots is against the rules!”

Jason laughed. “Since when are there fucking rules to tickling?”

“Since now!” He whipped his head back and forth, giving his two youngest brothers a desperate look. “I’ve never told Jason any of your spots!” He looked back up at Jason. “And I never told them yours!”

Jason raised an eyebrow. “So?”

Dick gaped at him. “What happened to loyalty?”

“There is no loyalty in war,” Jason said. “Only casualties.”

Tim and Damian leaned forward again, as if on queue. 

“Let’s start him off easy. Domain – start up again on his stomach. Tim – armpits.”

Dick squawked as his brothers shifted into position. “That’s easy?”

“What’s wrong, Dick?” Tim asked. “Can’t take your own medicine?”

Dick wasn’t given a chance to reply. Immediately after the words left Tim’s mouth, Damian’s fingers were digging back into his stomach, clawing clumsily into his abs. Despite that, it still tickled pretty well. He was clearly unpracticed, but he was doing his best to mimic the torment all of them had inflicted upon him.

Then Tim started in on his underarms, and all hope of Dick keeping his composure was lost. Tim was always nothing if not precise, and apparently that carried over to tickling, too. His fingers travelled slowly around his designated space, paying attention to every tug of Dick’s arms or twitch of his torso.

Dick couldn’t help but burst into laughter, tossing his head back and finally squirming for real. He never could hold still while tickled, even if he tried. Everyone always seemed to find it hilarious; Bruce teased him about it to no end, and the Titans had a habit of teaming up to pin down every limb and tickle him breathless. He wrenched at his arms, but even when Dick wasn’t weakened from laughter, Jason was stronger than him. It would take some tricky Bat shenanigans to get out of his grip, and that was something that being tickled didn’t exactly leave him the brain power for.

“You’re all gonna regret this!” Dick called out.

Jason scoffed and muttered, “Yeah, right.” He raised his voice to direct their brothers. “He can still talk – time to kick things up. Timmy, ribs. Dami, sides.”

Confusion flashed through Dick as they switched spots, his laughter trailing down into giggles. Stomach and sides, they were pretty similar for the most part, but moving from armpits to ribs? How was that meant to be worse for Dick? Then as Tim’s fingers spidered down his ribs and Damian’s fingers crawled up his sides, Jason’s plan hit Dick like a truck.

“Don’t you dare–”

Jason grinned down at him, toothy and mischievous – a spitting image of the grin Jason wore whenever he donned the Robin costume as a teen. For a brief moment, Dick’s heart ached. 

“Boys, focus just on the side closest to you, keep up exactly what you’re doing.” 

The heartache was swiftly replaced by excited panic.

Tim and Damian exchanged a confused look but obeyed Jason nonetheless. It was the easiest he’d ever seen either of them take orders – maybe he should let them team up against him more often, if it would make them this agreeable. Team bonding and all that jazz.

And then Damian’s fingers hit that horrible spot just beneath his ribs and Dick lost all coherent thought. He shrieked with laughter, rolling his upper body away from Damian’s fingers as far as he could. Both Tim and Damian jumped at the sound, pulling away briefly. Then, Tim gave him an absolutely evil grin.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

“Timmy–” Dick said, wriggling like a worm under Jason as Tim and Damian shuffled back into place. “Timmy, you don’t have to do this.”

“You’re right, I don’t.” Tim made eye contact. “But I’m going to, anyway.”

Dick yelped and jolted to the side as Tim’s fingers approached. He turned his pleading look on Damian. “Come on, kiddo – you had your fun. Let’s just watch the movie, yeah?”

Damian raised his eyebrows. “Do you think me a fool, Richard?”

Jason leaned down, looking Dick in the eyes. “You deserve this, asshole.”

Tim’s fingers latched onto that awful spot, and Damian’s fingers weren’t far behind. Dick shrieked again, arching his back to try and escape, but with Jason sitting across his thighs, he had nowhere to go. He collapsed back onto the carpet, cackling like a madman.

Tim continued to be methodical in his exploration, feeling out the exact boundaries of the tickle spot by gauging Dick’s reactions. Once he’d figured that out, he went to town with every tickle method in the books: spidering, massaging, wiggling, tracing, squeezing. He was probably trying to find the most effective way to pick Dick apart, but Dick didn’t think it really mattered. Every single one of them made Dick lose his mind.

Damian, though he would likely stab Dick for saying so, was a bit more clumsy – but that didn’t mean it tickled any less. He started with pokes and prods, feeling out the tickle spot similarly to Tim, before going in with quick, sporadic squeezes that were absolutely ruthless on his hypersensitive nerves. Every once in a while he switched to wiggling his fingers deep into the muscles there, something that made Dick jolt every time, but he seemed more partial to the squeezing than anything else.

And the whole time Jason just watched, a taunting grin on his face. Sometimes, if Dick made a particularly amusing sound, Jason (and the boys) would laugh along with him. In other moments, Jason teased him, and Dick knew if the laughter hadn’t already stained his cheeks red, Jason’s words would’ve done the trick.

“What’s wrong, Dickie? Can’t take your own medicine?”

“Whoops, that one really tickled, didn’t it? Dames, do that again, he jumped like, a fucking foot in the air.”

“Timmy’s fuckin’ ruthless, huh? Bet you regret tickling the shit outta him. How’s revenge feeling, Big Bird?”

“God, if only Bruce were here. You think he’d break out the Bat-camera, take a picture of his golden child getting the snot tickled out of him? Seems like something the old man would do, the damn sap. I bet he’d put it on his desk in the study, and then you’d have to see yourself getting tickled to death every time you went down to the Batcave.”

This was it. This was how Dick died. He could barely even protest or call out threats of his own, he was laughing so hard. His brain had turned into absolute mush, though the space between his ribs felt lighter than he had in a while. Goddammit, this was fun, and that was something he could never let his brothers know – at least, not more than Jason already knew. They’d never let him live it down and he’d never go another Gotham visit without one of them trying to stage an attack. Not that he’d exactly be complaining, but he was the oldest sibling, it was kind of his job to tickle the shit out of the rest of them.

“Let ‘im breath for a sec,” Jason said after an eternity. “Just a quick break.”

Dick gasped for air as Tim and Damian pulled their hands away, looking far too smug for his liking. Dick breathed out a threatening chuckle. “Oh, you’re all so going to regret this, later. I’m gonna tickle you until you cry.”

Jason hummed. “Big talk for someone still pinned to the carpet.”

“Can’t keep me pinned forever, Little Wing.”

Jason narrowed his eyes. “No, but we can provide plenty of discouragement.”

Dick matched his expression, twisting his hands in Jason’s grip. Whatever was coming, it was about to tickle like hell. The butterflies returned to his stomach in full-force, feeling almost ticklish in their own right. Totally not fair.

“Do your worst,” Dick said.

“You heard him, boys.” Jason gave his wrists a quick squeeze, whether reassurance or a threat to behave, Dick wasn’t sure. “Do your worst.”

Damian immediately took that as incentive to begin again, Tim following not far behind. They tickled everywhere they could reach – armpits, neck, ribs, stomach, hips. Expectedly, though unfortunately for Dick’s sanity, they both seemed rather keen on returning to that soft spot just beneath his ribs, over and over and over again.

As Dick cackled and snorted and wheezed, just generally laughing his lungs out, Jason gave his wrists another squeeze.

“Alright – keep an eye out for flying limbs.”

“Todd – what?”

“Jay, don’t let him go!”

Jason didn’t listen, freeing his wrists after just a moment more. His hands flew to Tim and Damian’s tickling fingers, but the laughter and ticklish sensations had made him so weak and feeble that he had no hope of actually pushing them away. All he could do was hold on for dear life, only letting go when they started to crawl up his ribs or try to sneak into his underarms, snapping his arms to his sides as his last line of defense.

Jason only gave him a few moments to process his newly freed limbs before making his own attack. The moment Jason’s fingers touched down on Dick’s thighs, he screamed. Tim and Damian’s fingers faltered, but they didn’t pull back this time, apparently getting used to Dick’s dramatic reactions. Jason squeezed at the muscles, massaging into pressure points just right to turn the touch unbearably ticklish. Whenever he found a weaker spot, somewhere that really made Dick squirm and his legs jolt, he honed in with dangerous precision until Dick’s laughter was almost silent. Tears of mirth were beading up at the corners of his eyes, his lungs burning with the force of his laughter. It was almost euphoric.

“Home stretch!” Dick heard Jason call over his near-deafening laughter.

Dick had no time to mentally prepare as the three of them honed in on every worst spot imaginable. Damian and Tim returned full-force to those spots under his ribs, using all the knowledge they’d gained from their experimentation to drive him mad. Jason, somehow having memorized all those hyper-senstive little spots on his legs from his own brief exploration, narrowed in on them with a marksman’s precision.

Bruce had never gotten Dick this bad in his life. The man only had two hands, after all – not six. While he was known to jump between the sweet spots on his sides and his ridiculously ticklish legs, he could really only get one side and one leg at once. Between Jason, Tim, and Damian, they could tackle every debilitating tickle spot with ease.

He didn’t even think the Titans had ever gotten him this bad. Sure, they would make a game of pinning him down and tickling him breathless, but even they had never been this ruthless. They didn’t shy away from his worst spots, but they’d never targeted them like this before. Probably because they didn’t want to kill him. His brothers had no such reservations.

The tears finally leaked out of the corners of Dick’s eyes. His laughter grew hoarse, starting to fall silent from the intensity. His lungs and abs burned from the workout. The sensations started to overwhelm him, almost more than he could handle.

“Okay!” Dick called with the air he had left, slapping one hand repeatedly against the carpet. “Okay, okay!”

Jason pulled back immediately, Tim and Damian quickly following suit. Jason’s weight left his body, but Dick barely noticed. He melted into the carpet and shut his eyes, his body completely boneless. Every limb felt like overcooked pasta, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own right now if he tried. Dick wanted to be annoyed at them for going so far, he really did, but… as much as he hated to admit it, he’d had a lot of fun.

“I warned you not to trifle with them, young master,” Alfred’s voice rang from the doorway. 

Dick coughed a little between his leftover giggles, trying to clear his throat. “You know me, Alfie. Never was all that good at listening.”

Alfred sighed, though it sounded distinctly fond. “Quite so, Master Dick.” His footsteps grew closer, so Dick peeled his eyes open, seeing Alfred hold out a chilled bottle of water. “I suppose it’s too much to think that you might’ve finally learned your lesson.”

Dick gave him a tired grin, reaching out one jellied arm for the water bottle. It seemed to be answer enough, because Alfred just smiled and shook his head.

“I’m sure your father will enjoy seeing you boys getting along.”

Dick’s eyes went wide and he shot up into a sitting position, immediately getting a headrush. Damian and Tim rushed to steady him, while Jason snatched the water bottle out of his hands to crack it open.

“Did you send him pictures?”

“Perhaps next time, if you’d like to remain undetected, avoid screaming.”

Dick’s face, which had finally begun cooling down, flushed with warmth again. Alfred’s eyes twinkled with good humor as he turned to leave the room.

“Are you quite alright, Richard?”

Dick groaned, quickly returning to his floor time with a controlled collapse. A moment later, his now-open water bottle was pressed into his hand.

“I’m fine, Dami. Just tickled out.”

Jason snorted. “Serves you right.”

Dick rolled his eyes and chugged some of the cool water, careful not to choke since he was still lying down. Tim screwed the cap back on as he pulled it away from his mouth, having somehow stolen it off Jason already.

“Maybe you’ll think twice before you tickle me next,” he said.

Dick flicked him on the forehead. “Not a chance, Baby Bird.”

“We made him beg–”

Dick squawked, slapping at Jason’s knee. “I did not beg! I just said I had enough!”

“– he’s definitely gonna make sure we regret it.” Despite his words, Jason ws remarkably relaxed.

Tim and Damian on the other hand, eyed him warily. He let out a weary chuckle. “Don’t worry – you’re all safe at least until the end of the night. Now, somebody carry me to the couch. I’m not moving again until tomorrow afternoon.”

His brothers rolled their eyes, but twenty minutes later, Dick was half-dragged, half-carried into Tim’s very structurally sound pillow fort as Jason set up the movie. Damian helped Alfred carry in some snacks (and Alfred definitely looked constipated at the sight of all the junk food) before immediately cuddling up to Dick’s side without even a complaint. Five minutes later, he had a pile of brothers on top of him while some period piece played on the TV.

It was nice. Dick was warm, surrounded by his brothers, and eating his weight in pizza and popcorn while he still could. His chest still had that light, airy feeling, though it felt like something was melting between his ribs at the same time. The feeling only intensified as Damian snuggled into his ribs and Tim rubbed his head under Dick’s chin like a cat.

But even still, Dick thought as he watched Jason stack snack cakes on a half-asleep Tim’s spine, no matter how sweet his brothers were being now… he would make certain that his revenge against them was just as ruthless. They didn’t deserve anything less.

[satoruhour]

HE PLAYS BASS !

a/n: modern au bc i cant handle any angst rn. i ramble a lot in this to set the scene teehee. not beta read, gn btw / tagging @crysugu @slttygeto @getousex :3

wc: 3k ish

warnings: bass guitarist!geto, soft dom!geto, he is respectful of your boundaries, both geto and reader smoke weed, shotgun kiss, sexual acts under the influence, fingering, clit stimulation, implied second round, implied cunnilingus, dry humping, praise, n*sfw under the cut

bass guitarist!geto who has had an interest in music and its instruments since being a little boy, practically begging his parents to enrol him in some guitar classes. with fingers strumming the nylon strings alongside complicated chords on the frets felt so right that since then he and his guitar have been inseparable since.

bass guitarist!geto who gets to know the guitar so well that he masters guitar solo after guitar solo, playing songs by ear in his free time and thought lead guitar was all there was to music until the age of fifteen where he stumbles across a song with a bass line that sounded absolutely heavenly — through the 240p quality of the youtube video, he watched the bassist dish out the heavy beats, always in the background yet detrimental to making the band sound complete.

bass guitarist!geto who leaped at the opportunity to buy a bass guitar with whatever money he had to purchase a Squier bass — it was a little shitty in sound but it was cheap, something affordable for a middle schooler. suguru didn’t care. he perfected the use of his bass guitar, already having the basics down from playing guitar; his room is filled with posters, picks, pieces of displaced lyrics.

bass guitarist!geto only has the chance two years later to ask his new friends if they wanted to jam out together and down the line, if they wanted to form a band. it was a clueless band of boys (with shoko of course) in some room of gojo satoru’s luxury house where his parents don’t care to ask him to keep the noise down like suguru’s parents do.

bass guitarist!geto fights to get a spot to audition for one of tokyo’s biggest music festivals a few months later. if they won they would get more recognition, more support, even if they haven’t figured out the specifics of how to operate a band. with gojo as the singer, shoko on the lead and nanami on drums, they would find out what they had.

bass guitarist!geto who breaks that stereotype of the bassist being ignored throughout a performance. he thinks it could be because of his longer hair and his newly bought gauges, and he thought he didn’t look too shabby himself — although he isn’t surprised to see most of the girls fawn over gojo as he sang lyrics of an original song, courtesy of the joint effort between geto and shoko.

bass guitarist!geto who gives judges the finger after they said they couldn’t perform originals at an audition, blacklisting them for future performances — but gojo sees it as a win when he has a hoard of new fans waiting outside to get a photo with him with autographs that differed from each paper his pen made contact with. later, he bursts out laughing when gojo says he hadn’t even thought of a proper signature yet and just ‘did whatever on their paper’.

bass guitarist!geto whose band gained popularity fast because of everyone’s good looks, singing at that same place they auditioned at, but now with repertoire under their belt. it’s then that they’re already all in university, and yet everyone’s still incredibly passionate.

bass guitarist!geto who spots you in the crowd together with your friends, jamming out to their set, but while your friends’ eyes are locked on gojo who’s loving the attention, nanami who can’t give a shit and shoko who’s too focused on her solo, you manage to draw geto’s eyes to you. he spends the rest of the set locking eyes with you, amidst other things like sending you winks and licking his lips until you’re under his spell. all throughout he doesn’t lose the rhythm, but he does slip-up from time to time and there’s a panicked look that nanami sends to geto for messing up his rhythm.

bass guitarist!geto who sees you at his next show alone, smiling up at him right at the front row while he’s trying not to mess up after the last time. this time he has a chance to show you what he’s got in a bass solo, losing himself in the music until even you fades off and you’re truly seeing the bassist for who he is. he’s easing back into the main melody of the song but not before leaning over the speakers with a knee on the floor, hovering right over you before shoko takes over and he’s back to his heavy beats.

bass guitarist!geto who brushes off the teasing after the set ends, only to be bombarded with more of it when he sees you on campus — no way you’re in the same school as him, walking around with your cute outfits and laughing along to your friend’s joke with no care in the world.

bass guitarist!geto who doesn’t have much trouble charming you into hanging out with him, already recognising him from far away when he’s got his long flowy hair and gauges and tight black shirt and tall stature — you aren’t realising he’s asking you if it’ll be okay for you to head over to his dorm room. you’re getting pushed by your friends behind you to say yes with giggles and gossip, and of course you weren’t going to reject the hot guy you missed class and ditched friends for.

bass guitarist!geto who shows you his room and tells you to let him know if he’s made you uncomfortable in any way. in the background, there’s a faded, soft song that continues to play that really completes the dorm, immediately hitting it off until he starts to roll a joint a while later, offering it to you with a raise of his eyebrow.

“oh— n-no it’s fine, geto-san, i don’t really smoke…” you sheepishly turn down the weed, settling instead to watch him and his beautiful side profile, letting him explain to you about bands and guitar and chords.

“thank you for having me, geto-san,” bowing, you’re nothing like the person in the bar that day, geto thinks it’s the lack of alcohol but he doesn’t mind, simply leaning on the doorframe as he nods down at you. his smile is intoxicating and so goddamn attractive you would’ve buckled to your knees if not for the deep breaths you were taking.

“next time, pretty?” geto smiles, a little high from smoking. his eyes are lidded (they usually are anyway) and smile lopsided. his hair’s almost out of the bun.

“yeah, next time,” it sounded so breathy, you bit your lip. “i guess you’d have to find me on campus, though.”

bass guitarist!geto who mutters how you’re a little tease to himself later when he closes the door. he swears to himself he’d get your number next time, but it’s not difficult to find you the next time, hanging around the same place at the same time. it’s like you wanted him to find you — he’s not opposed to it. it’s a few weeks down the road now, and the second time is watching him curiously as he smokes, too. you take a hit and embarrass yourself completely in front of him though, and while you’re fighting for your life, you’re not opposed to the buzz it gives you.

bass guitarist!geto who’s opening the door to you the next time, surprised to see your dishevelled state and a pillow between your arms, walking almost a block like this to the next building where his dorm was. he offers to make you some tea and you shake your head, feeling a pounding headache already coming on just from explaining that your roommate was an asshole.

“you can sleep here if you want to, okay?” you sigh, thanking him immensely because even after knowing him for such a short period of time, you’re comforted by his presence.

“at least satoru’s not here,” you laugh at that, nodding tiredly before you’re settling on gojo’s bed after insistence from the other. he wouldn’t care, he’s always going back home anyway, don’t know why he wanted to share a room with me. but before you can get settled in, you hear the familiar crinkling of the paper and the click of the lighter and the smell of weed fills the room again.

again, his hand is outstretched, holding an ashtray below him as the tip of joint glows a red, calling out to you yet reminding you of the way you coughed the other night.

you crawl off his roommate’s bed, snatching the cig out of his hand in a way to prove something to yourself before taking a big puff. this time you’re better, letting the drug flow through your system, but tolerance is another thing, because it only takes another hit for you to be smiling drowsily at the other while geto is a little high, too, eyes rolling to the back of his head when your hand traces over his arms and you giggle.

“you w’nna kiss?” geto asks quietly, a little soberly, having talked late into the night while you hang off his arm and slur your words. but now you know you’re feeling a little more sensible when you can feel your heart pound and your eyes widen despite their need to close.

“i meant it, doll. you’re fuckin’ stunning,” suguru mumbles, the coldness of his rings sending a chill down your body, but also a spark to your core, “you look exactly like the day i discovered bass.” and it’s like cupid fully shoots his arrow through your heart — because have you heard the man play? you’re speechless at his point, only mustering a nod before you’re leaning in.

he hums drunkenly as a way to ask you to wait a min, manoeuvring you onto his lap before he’s taking the almost vanishing joint into his hands. two more puffs are perfect for the cigarette to be discarded and so with a gentle hand, he holds onto your nape while he tries not to get hard from having you on his lap. slowly, your lips wrap around the other end of the joint, taking in another influx of the drug before he does too.

bass guitarist!geto who pulls you towards his lips a little roughly but he doesn’t give you what you want (what he has in mind is much, much better), rather leaving his lips ajar as he exhales the smoke from his mouth into yours, your own smoke already dissipating. weirdly, this burn is more prominent, probably because all you can focus on are suguru’s dazed eyes and the way they burn through your skull. you inhale the smoke before you feel his soft lips on yours.

geto hums into your lips, coming off of them periodically to allow the smoke to disperse, but the moment is so intimate and hot that you blow away the smoke and lunge forward to wrap your arms around his neck.

“no more pullin’ away, geto-san…” you’re trailing off, words messily whispered against his lips and you burn at the chuckle he sounds out, muttering back a question of consent. you’re nodding, reeling at the speed at which he places his hands on your thighs, dragging you further up his front until you rested on his pelvis.

“kissing me like you can’t breathe and you’re still calling me by my last name? i’m wounded.” geto pulls away and defies your rule — you think he’s the only one who can do that. pouting, suguru pushes away the hair enclosing your face. “c’mon, drink, sober up a little.”

“...i like it like this,” you murmur, ashamed as to how readily you leaned into his touch. his stare is piercing though, not budging until you’re gulping down half the cup.

“throats turn dry when we smoke, princess. we can do it more when you’re more used to it, alright?” geto explains, patting your thigh and ignoring the tensing of them around his own. he’s trying so hard to act nonchalant, but he can’t get the image of you parting your lips for the smoke out of his head. the way your eyes flutter close, how you wanted more of him.

“alright… suguru,” you sigh out the name and geto wishes he could hear it somewhere else, “but can we—” the high is getting to you, making your hormones go into a frenzy and you’re grinding on his lap. geto hisses at the feeling, of your cunt brushing against his bulge. your hips are inexperienced, but you’re going by feel, drawing little circles and moving back and forth; whatever that brings you pleasure.

“baby— f-fuck…” geto swears when you pair it with the lips tha kiss down his cheek and jaw and neck, hands on your hips guiding you as you try to chase your high. but a whine from you draws geto out of his daze and he almost cums hearing your needy voice, begging him for something, anything.

“’m tired, suguru,”

he knows, grinding is a tiring thing, so rather he opts for you to lie on him with your back to his chest. by now, the room’s filled with the smell of weed and arousal, asking once again if he could take off your pyjama shorts. geto smiles at the lack of underwear but he says nothing, eyes latched onto the strings of juices that connect your pussy to the shorts.

“my baby ready to be touched?” he feels you nod, loving the way your stomach contracts and expands at the hand that travels over your clothed tits. there, he squeezes them, rubbing fingers over the hardened nub but soon creeps towards your centre. his hand and fingers are so much larger than yours, covering your whole core easily when he cups it and the contact is enough to make you mewl.

“hurry,” your hips hump the air.

“patience, darling,” geto’s gravelly voice cuts through to your ear before he finally draws languid circles upon your clit, rubbing and pressing on your bundle of nerves. his whole body burns from seeing you react so cutely, all cause your eyes couldn’t leave his on that stage. now your eyes were rolling up and over, little moans leaving your lips just from his hands.

bass guitarist!geto who seems to know all your pleasure points in one night, kissing the spot under your ear, to talking you through your orgasm. you were enamoured by the guitarist that you’d let him do anything to you, obsessed with the way he never missed questions of “is this okay?” and “tell me to stop”. geto is just as besotted by you, the arch of your back, the call of his name. god, he was going to write so many songs about you.

“think you can handle a finger, baby?” suguru whispers, caressing your twitching thighs from your first orgasm. with a shaky “yes”, geto plays with your hole, smearing your juices around your sex and getting it all on your thighs. the bashful suguruuu! has him laughing, taking your lips into another kiss as an apology.

“sorry, sweetheart. love teasin’ ya,” muffled words are said, “goin’ in.”

your jaw drops even more when geto first inserts a finger, so much wider and longer that a long moan escapes you. the stretch is so good, everything you’ve ever imagined after watching his fingers travel over the bass strings, and you’re already asking for a second finger. when he does oblige, your hands fly to grab at his wrist.

“feel good?” he chuckles at your lack of an answer, rather responding by clenching around his fingers and leaning back more into his hold. geto sets a pace, thrusting his fingers in and out of you. he thinks it’s enough of staring at you and almost gets whiplash when his head turns to his hand — from the way he disappears into your dripping cunt, he thinks he’ll cum untouched, although your desperate hips also would play a part.

“feel s’good, suguru— shit…” geto groans lowly into your ear when he feels your hand replicating the circles he’s made on your clit, juices starting to collect in his palm from how wet you were.

“you keep clenchin’ around me, baby, you w’nna cum?”

your body is more vocal than your voice, twisting and thrashing from how his fingers already feel so good. the haze and the smell of geto suguru and the weed in your system is all overloading on you at the moment, but in between you’re able to nod, fingers rubbing at your clit while geto’s speed picks up a little.

your legs naturally spread, each slap of his palm against your pussy paired with the lewd noises only making the whole thing better. it’s not long before you feel that familiar feeling, using your right hand to direct him to you once more and it’s here you see the man you saw on stage before: focused, flushed, small smirk on his face. “gonna cum.”

“yeah? are you?” geto asks against your lips, still tasting the faint aroma of the joint. your eyes are so heavy and your limbs feel like lead; it’s a wonder how both your hands are moving on your soaking wet pussy.

“yeah, sugu, s’sensitive—!” geto coos softly at your whimpers before capturing your lips, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip and your orgasm comes crashing down on you. suguru effectively swallows your moans, groaning on his own end when he can feel your cum running down his hand. slowly, he lets you ride through your orgasm, pressing pecks on your skin and shoulders.

“attagirl. so much cum, hm?” your chest is heaving, whining when he removes his fingers and there’s a cute little squelch from the juices, gasping softly as geto separates his fingers and there’s strings connecting his middle to ring finger. “dirty girl.”

you scoff softly with a smile, eyes following how his fingers make his way into his mouth. the other only hums before carrying you bridal style to the shower with a sweet smile on his face. geto suguru was certain he’d worship you.

“gotta taste that cute little pussy next time.”

[hinge]

Hinge presents an anthology of love stories almost never told. Read more on https://no-ordinary-love.co

[yanderestarangel]

HEADKANONS MK1 - TRIO LIN KUEI + FRIEND!READER | SFW

TW: gn reader, sfw, headcanons in general, spoilers about mk1, platonic relationship, little angst.

˚｡⋆.☆Do you want to make a request? Read my blog rules in the pinned post, comments and reblogs are welcome♡

A/N: I'm just used to writing smut things, but here's something softer. Maybe I'll do a part 2 after Bi Han's betrayal with his brothers and his reign of tyranny, what the relationships would be like, but just maybe.

You were friends with all of them, since you were a teenager. The first to bestfriend you was Kuai Liang, he was always the most communicative of the trio of brothers - he saw you training with other newly arrived ninjas and decided to welcome you into the clan, you were friendly towards him, which Liang was Unaccustomed, he really liked you so he invited you to dinner at one of the local restaurants - perhaps Mrs. Bo's - You really didn't want to bother him, after all, he was the grand master's son but he was extremely simple and humble, even offering to pay for the meal, so you accepted.

When you got there you met the shy Tomas, sitting alone at a table and eating in silence, he got a little clumsy when he saw you - the poor boy had no social interaction skills, he still doesn't have any to this day - so he stays quiet, just watching you talk to the his brother but soon he starts to loosen up more, laughing and talking to you too - and the two of you become closer than you and Kuai -

Over time, you became so friendly with the two that you started visiting their house, meeting their father and mother and being welcomed as their son too, but Bi Han looked at you crookedly and coldly - as he did with everyone - however he began to see potential in you, a future ally and skilled ninja and also you miraculously made him laugh even if a little, it was the beginning of the three of you's friendship.

You train with Bi Han, and he goes hard on you not because he hates you but because he sees you as a future ally, even his right-hand man after you prove your loyalty to him - even more loyal than Kuai Liang - "-You have a lot of potential (Y/N) just don't fall." -Bi Han is serious, however, offering you his hand after knocking you to the ground in one blow, lifting you up and helping you shake off the dust from your body.

Kuai Liang likes to talk and ramble with you, he would sometimes skip class with you to stroll through the cherry blossom gardens or just practice fighting in other places - once Bi Han caught you two skipping class and almost killed you both, Kuai ran with you on his back across the roofs of the houses in the local village -

Tomas likes to sleep with you and this was a habit he got used to doing even after he was an adult - on the days you went to sleep at their house you always slept between Tomas and Kuai Liang, Bi Han would stay in a separate bed in the same room . Tomas hugged you tightly and the next thing you knew he was clinging to the ninja's arms with him accidentally suffocating you with his chest and Kuai sleeping crookedly next to you, drooling on the pillows and with his leg over you, accidentally - Bi Han also snores at night, meaning he gets used to the loud noise.

On summer days you played games... Not very conventional - one of them being you, Tomas, Liang and Bi Han on a calm day doing a mouth-watering challenge, whoever smiled first would pay for the other's dinner, you all got dirty of water because of Liang who tickled you, making everyone laugh and lose the challenge, the last one to laugh was Bi Han who was extremely competitive, but after being spat with water in the face by Kuai Liang, laughing and then doing an ice dagger to run after his brother - while you and Tomas watched Liang laugh as he ran from his older brother -

Speaking of competition, Bi Han likes to play fights with you, but please don't go any further, he is very competitive and will end up putting you in a headlock and really hurting you - without meaning to -

On missions, everyone will be super protective of you, especially Tomas and Bi Han, in different ways. Tomas wants you 100% safe, without a scratch even if it's impossible sometimes. "-You're my best friend, I don't want you to get hurt (Y/N)." -Vrbada spoke worriedly as he followed you with his brothers.

But unlike his younger brother, Bi Han liked to see you in challenges, obviously he cared about you but he knew that evolution came from competitions. "-You are my best ninja and... Friend, come back alive (Y/N) I know that you are capable of many great feats, because I trained you." -Bi Han spoke seriously and arrogantly as always, but with a little concern in his dark irises, a reminder from him for you to return alive to the Liu Kuei clan and into his arms.

You, Tomas and Kuai wear friendship bracelets, the bracelet was made of strong fabric with the colors yellow, gray and blue mixed. The only one who didn't wear it was Bi Han - but he kept the bracelet in his pocket, he always put his hand in his pocket and brushed his fingertips against the accessory, smiling slightly behind the sub zero mask, it was good to know that he and his brothers They had you as a friend.

One day, when you and Kuai had no training he let you touch his hair, ending up with Liang with two braids in his hair, Tomas also wanted to do it but his hair was too short to style.

"-You can't do it on mine because it's too short?:(" -Tomas said sadly as he lowered his shoulders in defeat - he let his hair grow after that, just so you could style it - Bi Han said that was nonsense , but soon ended the day with two braids raised with colorful clips, arms crossed and sighing "-I'm only doing this because (Y/N) insisted a lot" -He said, looking at himself in the mirror irritated, it was a lie, he himself had offered to be your hairstyle "model".

You and Kuai had a game of slapping each other's asses, but one fine day, you confused which ass you were going to hit by slapping Bi Han's ass hard - he was on his back and wearing neutral clothes, you saw his round ass and gave a hard slap, soon seeing Bi Han jump and look at you with a murderous look, you had to use all your skills to run away at full speed to escape the grand master's attack, then you only came back at the end of the day seeing Bi Han with an ice complex on his ass. -

"-YOU WILL PAY ME (Y/N)!!!" *starts saying something about being the grand master and needing to be respected and about the honor of the Liu Kuei, typical boring talk from Bi Han* -He shouted pointing to you while Kuai Liang walked in between the two of you, trying not to smile, while Tomas was practically laughing, crying with laughter while Bi Han was still holding the ice on his ass.

(Y/N): "-Pikmin:3"

Bi Han : "-I'LL BREAK YOU (Y/N) I'LL DESTROY YOU I'LL-"

(Y/N): "-Pikmin:3"

When you had a birthday, everyone gave you a gift. Tomas gave you a little letter about how important you were to him, with some detailed drawings of the two of you together - Vrbada knows how to draw very well, with his favorite pastime being drawing you or the two of you together. "-I hope you know how important it is to me (Y/N)." -Tomas said while smiling, giving you a chaste kiss on the cheek, blushing to see that you were moved by his letter.

Kuai presented you with an outfit that you had wanted for a long time, a fine fabric from the best store in the village and the best seamstress of the Liu Kuei clan, it was fabrics in your favorite color, a luxurious and soft silk. "-I knew you had your eye on this outfit, so I decided to buy it for you (Y/N), I hope you like it, it will look beautiful on you." -Liang speaks with a soft voice and a smile, ruffling your hair.

Bi Han pretends not to remember that it's your birthday but obviously he does, he's a serious man and cares about you - so, when everyone goes to sleep he calls you into his living room giving you a custom-made and personalized katana, with purple blade and your name engraved, along with a phrase: "From: Grandmaster Bi Han, To: (Y/N) (L/N)". - you are extremely happy as you saw Bi Han cross his arms and also smile a little. "-This is a useful gift for you (Y/N), which will remind you how important you are to the Liu Kuei clan." -He speaks in a confident and happier voice, as he walks towards you, placing a hand on your shoulder "-And important for me too, happy birthday little one." -Bi Han gestures with his head, while smiling, it was one of the few times he showed feelings, on your birthday.

Every time you see a kitten in the windows of the tallest houses, Tomas will help you pet them, easily lifting you on his shoulders while Kuai and Bi Han watch, Kuai would laugh at the cute moment while Bi Han would say "-that was silly." but deep down I also thought it was adorable, even if I would never admit it out loud.

One time Bi Han saw you, Tomas and Kuai watching some random cartoon on television, rolling his eyes while giving a lecture about "You're too adults and too old to watch silly children's cartoons." In the end, Bi Han was also sitting on the couch with the three of you and focused on drawing - yes, it was my little pony and he marathoned everything with you that afternoon -

When you went shopping in the city, the four of you would stay on the sidewalk in the late afternoon, sitting on the asphalt curb, watching the cars pass by, with the joke of "that's my car", Tomas would always stay and point to the white ones in the city, Kuai for the red ones and you for the colored ones (which rarely passed), Bi Han just said "this one", pointing to the black cars, it was a silly joke, but you liked it.

When the betrayal happened, you were torn between helping Bi Han or your other two friends Kuai and Tomas.

If you chose Bi Han's side, you would have his approval and pride and as you always believed in your potential to be his right-hand man in a new era of the Liu Kuei, you would be treated like royalty, having respect from everyone, but leaving Kuai and Tomas extremely sad and swearing to themselves that they would rescue you one day from Bi Han's clutches - even if it had been by their own choice -

If you chose Kuai and Tomas' side, they would welcome you with open arms telling you how you would make a new clan without Bi Han's tyranny, but Bi Han would be extremely disappointed in you, even if he masked it with anger and hatred. In his speech, deep in his eyes you would be able to see his pain at not having you around anymore, he would swear to take revenge on his brothers and get you back to the Lin Kuei clan and to him.

©YANDERESTARANGEL 2023