#this is just to help me find somewhere to start

[sugxto]

power play - eddie/volt/reader

⋆syn: Eddie only has one rule: no fucking in the bar. And of course, he finds you and Volt breaking it. He can't have that.

⋆wc: 3.3k

⋆cw: m/m/afab threesome, light dom/sub undertones, erotic electrostimulation, mentions of alcohol consumption, blowjobs, finger fucking.

⋆notes: reader insert uses g/n pronouns and is not described with feminine attributes. AFAB genitalia, mention of breasts, terms used include hole, entrance, cunt and clit. no spoilers for any of the routes, I suppose, but it is a more established relationship. the first 65% of this is volt/reader, with eddie/volt/reader in the later half. other e/v one shots.

⋆snippet:

“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” Eddie’s voice is harsh, methodical, but level. He usually only sounds like this when he’s kicking out Kristof for starting a fight, or when he notices you doing something even mildly off-kilter when fixing up the club. It’s a dangerous tone.

Neither of you speak immediately. You can't even bring yourself to meet Volt’s eyes; you’re focused solely on Eddie, and how still, how charged he is.

“Are either of you going to fucking say anything?” His grip tightens on Volt’s hair, and Volt nearly stumbles back.

power play

“Does he have to perform every night, though?”

You’re wiping down the bar, Volt expertly throwing a shaker around before grabbing two glasses for the concoction he’s crafting. The liquid fills the tumblers, and he starts to pluck out some cherries from a bowl.

“We have an open-mic policy, darling,” Volt says as he pushes a glass in your direction. Nevermind that it pulls a few drops of spilled whiskey over where you’d just run your rag over.

You sigh, eyeing Volt with annoyance, but he ignores you in favor of having a long sip from his glass. “But it’s almost like you need a sign for him,” you say as you round the bar to sit. You punctuate your words with a wave of the hand, like you’re envisioning a marquee. “Johnny Splash: The Breaker Box Residency.”

Volt downs the whiskey sour, and you can’t help but catch a glance at how his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. “After that disaster of his American Maestro audition,” he says, popping another cherry in his mouth, “I think he ought to still have somewhere he can feel comfortable performing, don’t you think?”

You nod, stealing a taste of your drink. “I just hope he’s not taking space from anyone else wanting to perform, is all.”

“Aww, spark,” Volt hums, shrugging off his overcoat and pushing his sleeves up like Eddie does for work. “What a darling thing you are.” He props his arms up against the bar, leaning towards you, mischief crackling in his white eyes.

You shrug as you swallow the cherry from your drink. “Don’t worry, I’m not going soft on you two.”

“I perish the thought.” He grins like a cat who’s finally cornered the canary. “I adore when you crackle around the edges like we do.”

You bite back a grin, and reach out to the bowl of cherries for another, when your hand is smacked away.

“Hey! I was -”

“I know, darling,” he breathes, impatience on his lips. You watch his long, silver fingers procure a cherry, and red juice drips down his thumb. “Allow me.”

His lightning brows quirk expectantly, and you fight back an eye roll as you open your mouth, protrude your tongue only a hint. When he places the cherry on your tongue, your lips wrap around his fingers, tingling your mouth. Daring a glance at his eyes, you run the tip of your tongue over his thumb, ensuring no juice is wasted, before pulling away with a lick of your lips.

The ends of Volt’s hair buzz and spark, and his eyes glisten.

(You’ve noticed, between your partners, their similarities and differences - where Eddie’s steel eyes will darken with want, Volt’s dial up their shine, like a lamp when you remove its shade. It’s noticeable enough even to an untrained, unknowing eye.)

“Enjoy that, live wire?” He rubs the pads of his thumb and finger together, making the smallest of sparks.

You say nothing, just take another sip without breaking his gaze.

“Hm,” he muses, standing upright again. “Shall I make you another cocktail?”

You blink in confusion, glancing down at the half-finished tumbler. “I haven’t finished yet.”

“No matter.”

His voice tells it is most certainly some sort of matter. “Volt -”

He turns, rummaging at a few bottles before deciding on a few, putting them to the side. When you finally catch a glimpse of his profile behind his shock of hair, his smile is saccharine.

“Yes, here we go,” he mutters to himself as bottles of simple syrup, bourbon, and lemon juice appear in front of you. No shakers, no strainers, just a grin that sends a shiver down your spine.

You gulp. You know that grin. You say again, a little harsher, “Volt -”

“Now now, live wire, no need for that. I’m just going to make you a cocktail, hm?” Volt cocks his head like he’s explaining a trick to a dog, trying as he might to play innocent.

“Yes but what do -”

Your voice stops with a gasp as, quick as lightning, Volt’s fingers find your jaw and press down on your cheeks to force your mouth open. The pressure is harsh, almost bordering on painful, and Volt’s palm rests fittingly under your chin. You find, almost instantly, your breath comes easier through your nose, and it’s unsteady when it comes out.

His hair is alive, bursts of light sparking close to your skin, and his eyes are wild. “Fear not, spark.” You see him reach for a bottle, his eyes not leaving your face. “I’m just making a cocktail.”

The tip of a bottle is cool on your lips, and sweetness flows into your mouth - but not too much, no no, just enough to cover your tongue.

“Very good, darling.” Volt coos, placing the bottle back on the bar and deftly grabbing the next. This one’s bourbon, you think, and the unmistakable scent wafts to your nostrils. It mixes with the syrup on your tongue, and this time, a few drops escape from the corners of your lips. You feel them, slowly, casually, journey down your chin, your neck, down the center of your chest and between your breasts, leaving a cool streak in their wake.

Volt chuckles approvingly as he allows a few drops of lemon juice to enter your mouth, resulting in even more spillover, and you moan, pleadingly, as your jaw starts to ache.

“Impatient, are we?” He licks his lips, leans forward across the bar so there’s only a hair of space between your lips and his. “You, live wire, look delectable.”

He cuts off your moan with his tongue, intruding on your rigidly held mouth, swiping long, hungry licks over the roof of your mouth, your tongue, lapping at the mixture of liquids he poured like a man parched. You whine, you moan, you plead with the only small sounds you can make. The taste is overwhelming, the liquid dribbles out of you rapidly now, and the combination of the droplets’ wet streaks and nearby electricity elicit goosebumps along your skin.

Volt’s fingers relax as he pulls away, releasing your jaw from his grip but keeping his hand on you (always on you). He sucks at your bottom lip, and you finally have enough control to swallow the remnants of the drink Volt missed. You whine again, still physically prevented from forming words.

He stops, and you swear you can hear the buzz of his charged eyes when they meet yours, white hot with lust. His thumb pets your chin, the tips of your noses kissing. “Did you want something, darling?”

Fuck this man.

Fuck this man.

Hm. That sounds like a good idea, actually.

You lunge forward, your whiskey-laced lips starving for Volt’s, and you grab at his vest with white-knuckled fists. He lets out a growl, a sound of pure want, and you feel his arms snake around you, encircle your waist, and you’re being hoisted forwards across the bar. The stool you sat in clatters to the ground, and you allow Volt to settle your ass on the bar, you lips never separating more than a breath.

Volt’s large hands singe at your waist, a delicious burn as he grips you tightly. You loosen your grip on his vest and wrap your arms around his neck at the same moment your legs lock around his hips, pressing his warm body to you. He rocks his hips between your thighs, and you gasp at how hard he already is, straining against his slacks.

“Fuck, Volt,” you sigh when his tongue journeys down your chin, your neck, licking up the trail of his “cocktail.” Your nails claw at the back of his neck, needing purchase wherever possible. He sucks at a spot at the base of your neck, and a shock surges from your spine straight to your clit. “Oh, oh, fuck…”

His voice reverberates in your neck when he hums in satisfaction. “Live wire,” he says, strained with lust, “I have to have you. Now.” As he says it, his hands deftly find the button of your pants and tug, and they’re gone in a lightning flash, your bare skin hitting the cold wood.

Yes, yes of course, who were you to say no to such need? You need him, needed this, right now, right here on the -

Bar.

Oh no.

You two were breaking Eddie’s one rule.

Your eyes fly open, and you try, feebly, to push Volt away. “Volt. Volt, the bar, Eddie -”

“Fuck Eddie.”

You groan, and you both love and hate that his voice makes you wetter. “He says no sex at the bar -”

“Last time I checked,” Volt’s hands palm the flesh of your thighs around his waist, sparks igniting at every inch they move, “this is our bar. And you, little spark, are ours as well. So, why shouldn’t I enjoy my share, hm?”

You weren’t going to win, you knew that, you rarely ever did with Volt, and the rational part of your brain had clocked out when you locked up after Johnny left. Because yeah, the boys were yours, and they always said the bar was just as much yours now too, so…

You’d just have to be extra attentive when you cleaned up, was all.

You swallow, trying to find whatever liquid courage might remain in your mouth, and start to grab at Volt’s belt. “Fuck it.”

Volt’s grin is tiger-like as he helps you free himself, and you unconsciously lick your lips at the sight of his cock, long and curved with the faintest tinge of blue. Amps sake, how lucky were you that both of your boyfriends had such pretty, pretty cocks?

You trail your fingers along his length, watching as a droplet of pre forms at the tip. Volt hisses, and he grabs your wrist suddenly, and you look up at his white eyes, scared you’ve done something wrong.

But no anger or hurt is evident on his face, just that familiar mischief. He pulls your wrist and hand close to your face, and looks expectantly at your open palm. “Spit.”

Your hole clenches at the word, and you fight back a whimper. You gather the spit in your mouth, letting the glob drop onto your hand.

“Again.”

You don’t think twice.

Satisfied, Volt leads your hand back to his cock, and you wrap your grip around him, glazing your spit over the hot skin, coating him as best you’re able as he maneuvers your wrist. He makes a hum of content after a moment, and you rest your hand on your waist when he releases you.

There’s hardly anymore preamble before the head of his cock is pressing at your entrance, but you know Volt, and you know -

Your jaw falls open in a silent cry as Volt enters you, white hot and slick and everything you need. He gives you a moment, just a moment, to relax into the fullness, before his hips snap, and he thrusts.

So. Fucking. Lucky.

Strings of moans, strings of “yes, yes, yes, fuck yes” fall from your lips each time Volt bottoms out, and you bury your face into his shoulder, the burning heat of his skin and the cool wood a beautiful contrast.

You can hear the sparks of Volt’s hair, feel the puffs of his breath, and you hang on to every curse, every “my spark, fuck, good little spark,” that he groans.

It’s maddening, almost, just how good he makes you feel, how they make you feel. You moan something incomprehensible when he bites your neck and lick the marks. “Volt, volt, yes -“

There’s a surge, a flicker, and you’re empty, and Volt’s weight is missing.

You open your eyes, suddenly terrified from the loss, and you think to scream -

But the sight that greets you isn’t one that’s… entirely unwelcome.

Eddie’s hand has a death grip on the currents of Volt’s hair, tugging hard enough to keep Volt’s chin tilted back, unmoving.

(You think, in the recesses of your fucked our mind, that you wish you could do that, but it seemed to be a skill reserved for literal electrical conduits personified.)

You blink, aligning yourself to this new situation, to this unexpected twist, because when did Eddie -

Eddie.

Eddie.

Uh oh.

“What. The fuck. Are you doing?” Eddie’s voice is harsh, methodical, but level. He usually only sounds like this when he’s kicking out Kristof for starting a fight, or when he notices you doing something even mildly off-kilter when fixing up the club. It’s a dangerous tone.

Neither of you speak immediately. You can't even bring yourself to meet Volt’s eyes; you’re focused solely on Eddie, and how still, how charged he is.

“Are either of you going to fucking say anything?” His grip tightens on Volt’s hair, and Volt nearly stumbles back.

“Eddie, my darling,” Volt finally offers, trying the voice he uses to introduce the next act. The listen-to-what-I’m-about-to-say voice. “My, did we miss you -”

“Volt,” his voice is clipped, and Volt doesn’t try again. “I have one fucking rule. And you know that.”

You haven’t seen the ice that’s in Eddie’s eyes in weeks, and now it’s your turn to try. “Eddie, it was my -”

“Absolutely not.” Titanium eyes stop your words in your throat, and Eddie points a finger at you. “You are not in a position where you wanna lie to me.”

He’s right, and you know it, and you close your legs in an effort to take up less space on the bar.

Eddie turns his attention back to Volt, flexing his grip and pulling his partner’s head closer to him, turning him so their eyes meet. You feel the hum, the charge in the air that flows between them. “No. Sex. In the bar, Volt.” Eddie cocks his head, studying Volt’s strained white gaze. “Or did you not learn the last time when I caught you with Amir?”

Volt’s laugh is shakey, raising his hands in surrender. “It was only a broken mirror, Eddie, and look at me now! We’re being very careful to -”

Eddie cuts him off with a kiss you can only describe as forceful, teeth tugging at Volt’s lips, and keeping him in place as he twists his hand in Volt’s hair. You swear you hear a growl from Eddie’s throat when he harshly tugs Volt away again, and there’s a flash of something in his steely gaze as you watch his free hand start to fumble with his pants zipper.

Sometimes, you’re almost certain there are times that Volt and Eddie don’t communicate with words, that there’s something deeper between them that lets them move in a singular, tandem pace, synchronized. As Eddie unzips, and Volt placidly drops to his knees before him, you think this is one of those times.

“You,” Eddie groans, when Volt, unprompted, places a chaste, quick kiss to Eddie’s thick, angry cock, “need to shut. up.”

He says nothing more, but on instinct, Volt’s jaw goes slack, and nearly his entire cock slips into Volt’s mouth with practiced ease.

Your body tremors as you watch them, notice with interest how a small fuck falls from Eddie’s lip, and he throws his head back, steeling his jaw with bared teeth. He’s so still, letting Volt do the work on his cock, and - and you can’t help it, your thighs press together, and your nails scrap along the wood as your hands turn to firsts.

Eddie notices.

Eddie always notices.

Eddie’s eyes are nearly black with lust, hunger, and barely controlled rage. “You,” he says, voice rough in his throat. “Open your legs.”

You do, and the air is cold where your slick hasn’t dried.

Eddie reaches out his hand, extends his ring and middle finger, and lays them at the very edge of the bar. Still. Waiting.

You blink, unsure, but you’re not sure if you’re allowed to speak.

“Fuck yourself or don’t, live wire, I don’t care,” he says. “He’s - fuck - in more trouble than you. He’s not getting off tonight.”

Lucky, lucky, lucky, your mind chants, and your heart might just explode from electrocution if you’re not careful.

You scoot yourself to the edge of the bar, position your legs under you, line your entrance over where his fingers are raised and waiting. You grip the curve of the wood to steady yourself, and lower yourself down onto Eddie’s fingers, as far as you can, and your mouth falls open in a curse at the feeling of fullness finally returned to you.

Eddie only watches, his fingers knotting in Volt’s hair, trying with his entire willpower not to fuck all his fingers into your cunt. You feel so hot, so slick, and the currents racing through his cock are already dangerously close to shorting if Volt keeps his pace. He knows if he so much as catches a glimpse of those white eyes that he’ll blow like a fuse. So, he watches you, bouncing up and down as best you can, trying to grind your clit on his thumb. Angry as he is at catching you two in the one place you shouldn’t be, he has to admit, he thrives off the power you and Volt are feeding him.

You’re close, so close, and you moan Eddie’s name in want and frustration. He makes no sound, but Volt hums around Eddie’s cock, and you can’t tell whose slick, depraved sounds are whose.

Volt moans again, his grip tighter on Eddie’s hips, and you somehow know he’s warning you that Eddie won’t last long. You quicken your place, angling to find how Eddie’s thumb hits your clit. It’s just right, and you close your eyes, white bolts of lightning behind your eyelids as you climb, higher, higher -

“Yes, yes, Eddie Eddie, fuck, Eddie!” You cry as your orgasm hits like a surge, tingling and coursing through all your limbs, and your legs quiver as you force yourself to slow.

Eddie hisses through his teeth, knowing he has only seconds, and Volt only speeds up. “Fuck,” he grunts, and finally flicks his eyes down to watch Volt work, if only for a moment, but the second those knowing, loving, burning eyes meet his -

He short circuits.

Volt sucks him dry as Eddie groans, curses through his climax, even swallows him down with his nose pressed to the coils above Eddie’s shaft. Doesn’t let a single drop spill, Volt, and Eddie loves him for it.

You all are finally, somehow, able to relax, as you extricate yourselves from your slightly incoherent, slightly precarious positions. Volt, back on his feet, pulls you into his arms, hoists you up as you wrap you legs around them - none of you trust them to hold you up.

Eddie rubs his hand over your back, presses adoring kisses to your shoulder. “You alright, little wire?” He asks, in the softest voice you’ve heard him use all night.

You nod, turning your head to find his face. “Of course, Eddie. Always.”

A corner of his lip tugs up into a smile. “Good.” He plants a warm kiss on your cheek and tucks a hair behind your ear. “Like I said, you’re not in trouble. I know how dangerous Volt’s tongue can be.”

“Hey,” Volt quips, his fingers pressing into your thighs. “A moment ago you liked my dangerous tongue.”

Eddie pays the jest no mind, but still looks up at him. “You’re on close for a week. Alone. And - nope - don’t you ‘Eddie’ me. Alone. One week.”

Volt groans, and you don’t have to see his face to know he rolled his eyes too. “You already didn't let me cum, so I get the message." He, too, presses a small kiss to the top of your head. "But who’s going to keep our spark busy then, hm?”

Eddie smiles, seeing the mischievous glint that just appeared in your gaze. “Well, luckily, they have more than one option, don’t they?”

Lucky, lucky, lucky.

[scannainscanrula]

shadowed corners

remmick x reader (18+ mdni)

You're a romance author suffering from insomnia, writer's block, and strange nightmares. Your publisher offers to send you to Maine for a short sabbatical to clear your head. It's a quaint town with charming locals, and a mysterious man running the lighthouse that nobody seems to know much about... [part two here]

author's note: well well here we are again. this is MUCH longer than my other fic and i intend to have at least 3(?) chapters for it, so strap in girlies. no smut just yet yous have to earn it first by sitting through all this fucking exposition. grma enjoy! warnings: horror elements, discussion of animal death, discussion of shark attacks, sexual themes

You sit at your desk in front of an empty document, the cursor blinking at you mockingly. Your eyes are tired and your head feels heavy, and the last time you fell asleep at your desk you had drooled on your keyboard, and you really don’t want to find a place to get it fixed. 

“An old-school computer always helps me when I have writer’s block,” one of your colleagues had told you at a cocktail party when you lamented about your publisher’s insistence on a new concept.

You had a very embarrassing and uncomfortably visible breakdown in her windows-only corner office. You began word-vomiting all over her sleek carbon fibre desk about your writer’s block and insomnia– leaving out the extra embarrassing detail of your recurring sexy nightmares– and she had patted your back and attempted to comfort you with corporate jargon. When the tears started she lowered some blinds and lowered her voice, sitting against the edge of the desk in front of her.

“Look, kid. You’re a hell of a writer, okay? Nothing sells like your stuff. I mean, I don’t get it, but the girls love this… creepy vampire stalker shit.”

Dark romance, you want to correct her, but it’s futile after four years working together. 

She sighed, crossing her arms.

“How about… I give you a company card and you go… rent on the coast somewhere for a few months? We have some contracts to draft because these streaming services are just chomping at the bit for rights to adapt. So you go pack your things and take a break. Get an Ambien prescription, fuck a fisherman, whatever you need to do.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll bankroll it.”

She taps her manicured acrylic nail on the cover of your most recent title, Shadowed Corners. It was a total and complete success, where your first two were mafia romances set in the same universe, SC was a dark romance with a vampire love interest stalking your adorable main character. You love red flags, and Milo was covered in them.  

“You’re a money-printing machine, babe.”

So here you are, not relaxing, not on sleeping pills, and completely unfucked by any hot guys. You press your fingers to your temples and sigh, closing the pages and pushing the circular off button for the computer. You slide back and lean forward, stretching your creaky back. You miss your cozy little setup at home, your comfortable chair and the souped-up gamer style keyboard. You sacrificed comfort hoping it would make you work harder, but you think you’ll just finish this little sabbatical with more lower-back pain than usual. 

You fill your water bottle with the filter in the fridge, admiring the stickers all over it. Among the logo of your publishing house and the ones about writing, you have fanart of your books and quotes from your own characters. Ones you’ve found at book fairs and second-hand stores as well as online. A handful were sent along with fanmail. Your laptop and idea notebook are covered too, because it drove you mad to know people liked your stuff enough to make art out of it. 

You huff and trudge up the stairs, feeling exhausted and dreading the next day. You sit in your bed and look at the sticker of Milo with his signature phrase I’d like to see you stop me, babygirl. 

You turn the bottle away from you as you open the bedside drawer. Inside of it are two options. A scent-proof bag that holds your pipe, grinder, and bud, a vape, and a few edibles. The other is a vibrator. You wonder what the point of this vacation was. You could get high and get off at home in the city. And at least there you could order munchies for delivery after you’d fucked yourself silly thinking about the made-up vampire in your head.

You just shut the drawer, rolling your eyes as you lay back. 

Two hours later, you can’t sleep. You’re “jerking off your ego” as your friends would call it, looking through positive reviews of your last title. You know you have detractors, people who think your work is trash or anti-feminist. It’s a little trashy, but it’s just for fun. And you’ve had your share of shitty boyfriends like any girl your age, you know the difference between right and wrong. God forbid a girl wants a hot vampire to follow her home, you think. 

You sit up and put your phone face down. You need fresh air. You need a walk. So, you bundle up and stick in headphones for a brisk, freezing, 7 PM wintertime mental health walk. The New England air isn’t just cold, it’s thick and wet with the marine layer from the ocean, which you’re a short walk away from. It’s not nice, but it does invigorate you as you follow the path from your little cottage down to the beach. It’s pretty private, tucked away in a little alcove– which you were warned not to enter when the tide is too high. You peek over to see it’s not. So you climb down and skirt around the rocks to walk on the main beach, which is empty. Obviously. The recently released audiobook of one of your peers’ newest titles plays in your ears, narrated by a sultry English man. You should have gone somewhere else for inspiration. You vaguely remember hearing someone at a book release party talk about how inspiring their trip to France was, and another person responded about their time in Ireland. You’ve mostly just met fishermen and townies, and none of these men had the Milo quality about them. 

Milo was inspired by a stunning man you saw while at a nightclub in New York City. You were very, very drunk on espresso martinis, but you saw him and his adorable girlfriend– who also served as your muse for Annmarie, SC’s protagonist– at the bar together. His arm was around her waist in a way that was possessive but romantic, his hand rested over her tummy, and you saw his thumb rubbing circles into her skin lovingly. 

“Oh my God, girl, are you seriously drooling? You are so drunk,” your friend had half-sighed, half-laughed as you wiped a little drool from your chin with the back of your hand.

“We have got to get you some dick, queen,” another friend joked.

“I am perfectly fine being single,” you protested.

“Nuh-uh, I read that last book of yours. All work and no dick makes you fucking crazy. How did you come up with that shit anyway?”

“She’s totally sick in the head, that’s how.”

Your back straightens up as you think you hear a voice.

“Miss!”

You pause the book and turn around to see a man jogging behind you, holding something in his hands. You freeze with terror until you realise it’s your notebook he’s holding.

“You dropped this,” he says, handing it over. He stays a nice distance away from you.

He has some sort of Southern accent, not New England. 

And he is very, very attractive. He wears a tight black t-shirt and black athletic shorts. His short hair is semi-dark, and probably reddish from the way it looks in the blue moonlight. He smiles politely at you, his dark eyes are hard to see. There’s a scruff of facial hair on him.

“Thanks.”

“Sorry, I… I woulda tapped your shoulder, but I was worried you’d sock me in the nose if I scared you.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Are you uh… you okay? It’s pretty dark out here.”

“Yeah, I know. I was just clearing my head.”

“Right.”

You take a breath and introduce yourself quickly.

“I’m Remmick,” he says.

“So, what are you doing out here, Remmick?”

“Well, I work at that lighthouse. Just takin’ a jog before I head up there.”

“Oh.”

Hot lighthouse worker. That could be a love interest.

“You on vacation? I think I’d remember your face if I’d seen it before.”

Charming lighthouse worker. 

“I’m uh… on a sort of sabbatical.”

“You a doctor or something?”

“God, no. I’m a writer.”

“Yeah?”

The tone and timbre of that yeah have your head spinning. 

“Books or what?”

You nod.

“What kind?”

You hesitate.

“Can I guess?”

“Go for it.”

He thinks for a second, his tongue darting out to wet his lips as he does, which makes you flush. 

“Are they scary?”

“Parts of them are scary,” you admit. 

You remembered researching for SC and finding out that a lot of people only have a little over one gallon of blood in their bodies. You felt lightheaded and queasy at the visual of a plastic gallon bottle full of blood.

“But they ain’t all scary, huh?”

“Nope.”

He eyes you and smirks.

“Are they dirty?”

You hesitate and suck in air through clenched teeth.

“Yeah. They’re pretty dirty.”

“You must make good money, huh?”

He chuckles and you shrug.

“I do alright.”

“Yeah, I bet you do. Where’re you stayin’?”

You pause and he holds up his hands.

“That probably sounded creepy. I only meant… there’s some nice places, and there’s a Holiday Inn.”

“Well, it’s not the Holiday Inn.”

He looks at the watch on his hand.

“Shit. Well, I gotta get goin’.”

He says your name and your chest fills up with a weird feeling. Half-elation, half-dread.

“Nice to meet you.”

“Yeah. You too. I’ll see you around,” you respond.

“Only if you keep walkin’ at night. Boats don’t need a lighthouse in the daytime,” he explains quickly, jogging off toward the beacon.

Hot lighthouse worker who’s charming and funny. Now that could work.

You go home and open the fridge. Time for boxed wine in a mug as you power-write for the next forty-five minutes until your hands cramp up.

You put the notebook down and pull out your favorite pen. You need certainty when you put book ideas down. You write in quick, messy bullet points, only getting down little ideas. You heard that coastal New England towns are famous for gruesome murder. Your instincts take you to the mafia but one glance at your water bottle has you thinking otherwise. SC was such a success, and you’re the vampire girl now. 

So you begin to pen the vague outline of a dark romance with a steamy, stalkery vampire lighthouse worker. A man in thick knit sweaters with a messy beard– that could get messier covered in blood or buried between a writer’s thighs–

You pause and see you’ve written writer on the page. You cringe and scribble that out. You had your humble beginnings with composition notebook self-insert fanfiction as a tween, but you’re a big girl now. And you’re already writing prose over a guy you just met, you really don’t need to make it any weirder. Your mind goes through some humble, wholesome occupations to compliment a love interest like that. Baker? Too cliche. Schoolteacher? Too male gaze. Big city corporate lawyer? Too Hallmark movie.

You tap back of the pen against the page rhythmically and sit up. Investigative journalist. Still technically a writer, but the only things you investigate are late-night Twitter links on a private spam account not even your best friends know about. 

Your pen dashes across the page, scrawling wildly. There’s not even any music playing, just the not-so-distant sound of the ocean, the radiator, and your own hand brushing against the paper. Soon, you’ve filled five pages without realising and that doubles in a blink. Shit! Your hand cramps up and you lift the pen finally, massaging your other thumb into your palm. It’s time for bed now, as three hours have passed and your back is killing you. 

You ascend the stairs again and just go to sleep, hand and wrist sore and content with your productivity.

You wake up surprisingly early the next day, and decide to go into town to get some groceries. Your fridge is looking sparse and the pantries are basically empty. You buy some frozen stuff and some supplies to make coffee. You see the honey is placed on the highest shelf you’ve ever seen and huff. No workers around. You can probably get it on your tiptoes. You strain to reach it and hear a man’s voice.

“Can I help you with that?”

You almost fall dropping to your feet again, and a shooting pain goes up from your heels.

“Ow, shit.”

“I’m sorry.”

It’s a man in a lifeguard’s hoodie with red swim trunks on. Maybe you hit your head and you’re having some sort of insane Baywatch fantasy.

“Yes. Please.”

“Yeah, I honestly don’t know who puts this stuff up there. The lady who owns this place is like, four-eleven.” You laugh at that as he hands you the honey.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. I’m Chris, by the way.”

You give him your name and shake his hand. Fucking hell this guy is strong. 

“Are you visiting?”

“Yeah. For a few months though. I’m working on a book.”

“You write horror?”

“Sorry?”

“Um, Stephen King’s from Maine. I feel like horror writers are always trying to… come out here and get some of that inspiration.”

“I think the inspiration he had was-”

“Cocaine?” he says at the same time as you. He shrugs. “At least you can recognise that. Half the other writers are ready to climb into the sewer.”

“Shit, well there goes my day at the rock quarry,” you joke. 

He laughs at that and you grin. 

“I’m a lifeguard on the beach for the next six hours, if you um… feel like you need some fresh air. Sunlight isn’t really a November specialty.”

“Are people really swimming this time of year?”

“Oh, they are. But so are the great whites, so, I’m mostly on seal watch.”

“Right.”

“I’m in tower Four,” he tells you eagerly. It’s like the words just jump right out of his mouth. “It’s right by the lighthouse. Nobody swims there, so… if you wanna tell me about your book or something… my job is pretty boring.”

“I’ll see you out there, Chris.”

“See you.”

You check out and ride the bike the homeowner left for guests back to the cottage. You feel insane. Maybe you were hospitalized after that breakdown and this is all some elaborate, drugged-up daydream you’re in. You pull out your notebook after the groceries are put away and flip to a new page. You click your pen and write HOT LIFEGUARD at the top of the page. 

A love triangle sounds awesome.

Later on, after you actually manage to type some words on a new, more permanent outline document, your vision drifts out the window. It is actually kind of a nice day, even though it’s overcast and windy. You stand and squeeze your hands together, stretching out. It is time for another brisk walk, this time to Tower Four.

Chris sits up there, slumped in his chair and holding his rescue tube in his lap. His tanned, toned legs are wide as he sits back.

“Would it scare you really bad if I started yelling ‘help’?” you joke, peering up at him from the ground.

He chirps your name, sitting up and sliding his sunglasses on top of his head, pushing back his hair. 

“You made it.”

“I brought you a snack,” you say, handing up the small bag of chocolates.

“Wicked,” he says, taking it from your hand. He swings down like a monkey and sits with his feet dangling off the side of the tower. You share the candies and look out on the water.

“So, you gonna tell me about your book?”

“Yeah, I’m not a horror writer.”

“What do you write?”

You hesitate. You know this song and dance, the divulgence of your career and the weird stares and uncomfortable shifting that follows. It’s ruined all sorts of dates and first impressions. Fuck it. You’re on sabbatical.

“Um… dirty romance books.”

“No shit? Is it like that crazy mafia stuff online?”

“Yeah, it’s exactly that.”

“Killer. You make a lot of money?”

“Enough to stay here and not work for three months.”

“So… you’re not writing a book?”

You shake your head.

“My creative well is completely dry. I came out here for-”

“Don’t even say it.”

“-some inspiration.”

“You are such a liar,” he teases. “You’re just like all those Stephen King wannabes,” he jokes, turning away from you.

You laugh at his silliness. You remain for a while, chatting about life and the town.

“The city is wild. I’m getting used to the silence, I think,” you tell him, having moved to– illegally– sit on the tower with him.

“Is the crime really so crazy out there?”

“Yeah, I mean… most of that is just there’s so many people crammed into such a small place. People go nuts.”

“Damn.”

“No crime here?”

“Not here, no, but um… about twenty miles north there’s this beach town, it’s a complete tourist getaway, but they got rocked by some shark attacks a few years back.”

“Some shark attacks?” you repeat his casual wording, shocked.

“Sorry. That sounded insensitive, it was really scary. That place is on its last legs now.”

“Well, yeah. Who wants to stay at the Jaws resort?”

“Bull shark, probably. The same thing happened in nineteen-sixteen. It was pretty gruesome.”

“Are you fucking with me?” you question him seriously, eyes squinted.

“I’m being serious, look it up.”

“Huh. Shit.” You sit back, eyes wandering to the lighthouse.

“Have you ever met the person who works up there?”

“Yeah, he’s fucking creepy.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“You met him?”

“Mhm. Last night.”

“Remmick? The lighthouse guy? You met him?”

“Yeah…? He was jogging.”

“Fucking weirdo,” Chris mutters. “He’s a complete shut-in.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Couple years? I don’t really know when he got here, he just… was there one day.”

“Weird.”

“Yeah, well. We used to have a night lifeguard, and– listen, I can admit having a girl out here on her own was pretty stupid– not that girls are… incapable or something-”

“I get it.”

“Right. And… full disclaimer, this girl really liked shrooms, but she swears up and down that she saw that guy covered in blood and eating a seal.”

“Whoa.”

“I mean, there was a dead seal on the beach, she was right about that.”

“Great white?”

“Oh, for sure. I’m think he was probably just doing that creepy-ass night jogging by the tower when that seal washed up, and… sometimes the sharks don’t fully kill the things-”

You grimace.

“I know, it’s pretty sad. Anyway, probably it was yowling and her fucking shroomed out brain conjured up that pretty picture. But he’s just a weird guy. He’s totally nocturnal. I’ve never seen the guy in the daytime. I’ve probably seen him six times and talked to him like… two, maybe?”

“Jeez.”

“Yeah. Anyways, sorry. That was a lot. I’d just stay away from the guy if you can. I don’t know what his deal is.”

You swiftly change the subject to movies and TV, which is good, because you two seem to share the same interests. Strangely enough, vampires are among them.

“I have sisters, so, I’ve seen Twilight about a hundred times? Maybe more?”

You laugh at that. You see him grinning and you check phone, seeing that two hours have passed.

“Shit. I have got to get back.”

“Right.”

“Thanks for the company. And the advice,” you add, nodding to the lighthouse.

“Um… would you want to grab a drink, tomorrow?”

“Oh. Yeah, sure. Um… where?”

“It’s called The Weasel. It’s definitely a townie bar, but… the drinks are cheap.”

You are fiending for an espresso martini, and you fear you’ll have to settle for an old reliable at a dive bar. 

“Alright.”

“Cool. Um… eight o’clock sound good?”

“Eight o’clock sounds great.”

“Awesome. See you there.”

“I will see you there.”

Your back hits a tree as you pant, unable to run anymore. Your lungs burn as you gasp for cold night air in a dark, damp forest. You’re barefoot, in a wet nightgown that sticks to your skin and you’re terrified. 

You tremble, feeling the looming presence of something evil and ancient, rising up in front of you. Met with words in a language you don’t understand, a clawed hand grips your jaw. They’re wet and sticky, hot with something you realise is blood. The creature laughs at you cruelly and on the other hand grabs a handful of your nightgown, claws ripping through the fabric as it tears a strip down the center. The hand cups between your legs. It splits your lips carefully– almost reverently– brushing a knuckle between your folds, claws away from your most sensitive skin. You gasp and shiver, hands against the tree. You’re wet, though. Soaking the creature’s hands as it coats your skin in blood. It’s so dark and your vision is blurry with tears, you only see two red spots staring at you, and the glint of pearly fangs as the jaw of the creature opens and lurches forward.

You shoot up and sigh, panting as you try to catch your breath. You’ve been plagued with these “psychosexual night terrors”, as your therapist calls them, since you finished writing SC. Some weeks they’re sparse and other ones you can’t sleep without waking up sticky and horrified. Your cortisol levels are through the roof and your sex drive is in the stratosphere. The running theory is that your frantic writing for the deadline of SC drove you just a little bit crazy, and your panic and arousal from writing about Milo’s sexy antics while your publishing house breathed down your neck combined and manifested as the scary void creature in your nightmares.

You take a cold shower that morphs into an everything shower when you remember your date with Chris. Not a date. Just grabbing a drink. Could be a date.

You feel like a kid again, having a cute summer fling with a boy at sleepaway camp with the distant bitter sweetness of knowing you’ll leave in three months. Except you are an adult woman and if you do fall in love, you could just move here forever. 

But that’s wishful thinking.

You wait at the bar patiently. You’re a punctual girl, your agent adores that about you, so you are a little early. You chat with the bartender. She’s an older woman with a thick Mainer accent. 

“Let me guess-”

“Not a horror writer,” you joke back. 

She laughs at that. Her laugh is creaky but comforting, and you can tell she’s a smoker.

“You look nervous.”

“I’m meeting somebody?”

“Yeah?”

“I won’t say who, because I’m guessing you know everyone.”

“Well, I also know who’s single and who isn’t. If you’re worried he’s married, just give me a name.”

The bar is quiet, some men play pool and a group of vacationing dads drink beers and watch some sports on an outdated television. 

You order another drink as you watch the clock behind the bar tick on.

By eight thirty, you’re sufficiently buzzed. You didn’t even get his phone number to text him.

By nine, you decide you should go home. You thank the bartender and leave her a generous tip. You’ll be too embarrassed to come in here for a while.

You take the bike home, slumping on the sofa in the living room as you kick off your heels. You feel tears pricking at your eyes and rub them away, not caring about your smudged eyeshadow or makeup. You wipe it off in the bathroom and change out of your clothes. You need another walk. Maybe you’ll run into the allegedly very creepy lighthouse man and you’ll get some inspiration. 

“I’ll show you Stephen King wannabe, dickhead,” you mutter to yourself, pulling on your coat and shoving your notebook in your pocket. 

You follow the familiar motions, down the path, out through the alcove, and down the beach. You have some angry music playing this time as you stomp down the beach and pass the lifeguard towers. Shrooms girl better thank her lucky stars she’s off night shift, because you look pissed off right now. You stalk all the way down to tower four and roll your eyes. This is a tantrum. You’re an adult.

“I thought I might see you again,” a voice calls. Remmick is on a ledge above you, leaning on the wooden railing. 

“Can I come up there?”

“I’m not gon’ tell you what to do, sweetheart.”

You try to ignore the fire that lights in you and climb the sand and rock stairs, joining him on the ledge. He sits on a bench and pats the seat next to him.

“I heard a lot about you today, from a couple locals,” you tell him, lying about it.

You get the feeling Chris was being insecure, or maybe Remmick’s stolen one too many girls from him. 

“Yeah, I’m a seal-eating nightwalker, you got me,” he jokes, his hands up in mock surrender.

You exhale through your nose. You wish you could laugh harder.

“I’m just a solitary kinda fella. People here, shit, they tight knit like fishin’ nets. They think everybody’s gotta know everybody’s business. Nobody knows mine, so they’ve been makin’ things up for the past three years.” 

“Sorry I brought it up.”

“Hey, I’d rather you hear it from me.”

He looks at you for a moment and rubs a hand over his knee.

“You look upset.”

“Yeah. I uh…”

You hesitate, and see him lean forward, actively listening.

“It’s stupid.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for you to speak.

“I got stood up,” you admit.

“For a date?”

“Not exactly. Just drinks.”

He clicks his tongue.

“That’s no good. Must be a pretty dumb guy, to stand you up.”

“Yeah. That was a dickhead move. I’m just hoping it was more of a… ‘oh shit, I totally forgot’ kind of thing.”

He eyes you and you cross your legs.

“Still. You musta gotten all dolled up for it.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I uh… I’m not so much a bar kind of fella, but if you wanna come out here sometimes all dolled up…” he leans in, “I got some good whiskey and two glasses.”

You lean in too, close to him.

“I might take you up on that, Remmick.”

“I gotta get up there,” he murmurs, looking at your lips as he speaks.

“Right.”

He doesn’t move, locked in place for a moment. He seems to shake off the spell and sits back, scrubbing a hand down his face, wiping his mouth. It almost looks like he’s wiping away drool. He stands up.

“You uh, you alright to walk home on your own?”

Words flash in your mind, the scene from SC where Milo promises to stalk Annmarie home, which results in him watching through the window as she touches herself. You’re drunk, you realise, as the neurons in your brain flicker out and blood rushes down your body.

“Yeah, I should be fine.”

“Right.”

He starts to walk away and turns back.

“I mean it. You come up see me sometime.”

“I will.”

You mean that, too.

Remmick thumbs through your notebook. How can you even understand this stuff? Your messy handwriting is charming. He reads through descriptions of vampire lore and fangs and turning that make him chuckle. He thinks of the smell of you, that hot scent of desire and the buzzing of your intoxicated body as you sat together. He’s so fucking cold in Maine, and he hasn’t been touched in years. He imagines you’d be hot to the touch. He knows you’re frustrated, you’ve been dissatisfied with pleasuring yourself. The descriptions of sex scenes have him biting back groans and palming himself through his pants. 

He flips to the final page.

HOT LIFEGUARD

His eyes narrow as he realises who it was that stood you up. He turns the page back over, scanning through your previous writing. 

LIGHTHOUSE VAMPIRE LOVER. CLAIMS TO KILL FOR HER. STALKERY? MILO PART II. LESS TENDER. MORE EVIL.

Oh, you’re fucking crazy. 

He grins, his fangs sliding down.

He can make do with crazy.

You wake up early, painful early. You dress groggily and decide to get some air on the beach before the dickhead lifeguard starts his shift. You’re slightly hungover as you traverse down the path and through the alcove to walk on the beach. 

The light is pale and you have to watch your step for kelp as you walk down. You see something up on the sand, and your heart sinks.

It has to be a seal. It’s not breathing, so you look at the nearest lifeguard tower for the animal control. You dial the number and wait patiently.

“Hello?” a voice that sounds just as groggy as you feel answers.

“Hi, I’m um, I’m on the beach right now and I think there’s a dead seal by the first lifeguard tower.”

“Oh, hell. Sorry, miss. It’s too damn early. Do you see any marks on it?”

“It’s hard to see with the fog. Is it safe to get closer?”

“Seals aren’t half as aggressive as sea lions, miss, so go ahead.”

You step closer, squinting with the fog. It’s absolutely dead, not moving at all. You approach it cautiously, worried about what other creatures might be lurking around.

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach.

This is not a seal.

This is Chris the lifeguard, and he’s missing an arm.

[charles-leclerizz]

wrong room

on the runway : lando norris x fem!reader

inspiration ( warnings ) : Smut !!! (male receiving!oral sex, (un??) protected p in v sex , light dominance, Lando being a little possessive, mutual pining, soft dom!Lando energy, swearing, teasing, light voyeuristic vibes (friends nearby), mild praise kink, overstimulation), and lots of suggestive jokes.

VIP's in the front row ( taglist ) : MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @ksthegreat, @ccupcakqs]

before the show begins ( synopsis ) : What starts as a summer getaway at a friend’s villa turns into something a lot hotter when Lando walks into the wrong room - and finds you in his old hoodie, watching F1 replays. You’ve always been friendly, never close. But maybe the hoodie wasn’t the only thing you’ve been holding onto.

designer notes : well, hopefully it was worth the wait <33 . would ya'll be mad at me if I told you I haven't started chapter 3 yet? nah, cause I'm feeding you guys so well?? ok anyway, remember to wear your seatbelts. love you

The villa is carved into the hills of Côte d'Azur like a dream - terracotta tiles, arched windows, the sea glittering just beyond a blur of lemon trees and white parasols. It smells like salt, sunscreen, and freshly crushed mint. Laughter carries from somewhere deeper inside the house, floating up and over the vines crawling across the exterior walls. 

You shift your bag higher onto your shoulder and knock on the already - slightly - open door. It creaks as it swings wider. 

“Hello?” 

No answer - just music thumping softly from an unseen speaker, and the echo of distant conversation. 

You step inside. 

The marble beneath your sandals is cool. Someone’s kicked off flip - flops by the stairs. There’s a bikini drying over the back of a chair. You already know this isn’t going to be some luxury hotel - style getaway. It’s a shared house. A friend - of - a - friend kind of trip. Half of you doesn’t even remember who invited you - just that you needed the break, and this was close enough to what you craved so you said yes 

“Hey! You made it!” 

A voice - familiar - cuts through the quiet. You turn just in time to see your friend Luca come down the stairs in a pair of swim shorts and sunglasses pushed back into his curls. 

“Finally,” he grins. “You’re the last one here. Thought you bailed.” 

“I almost did.” You lift your bag with a huff. “Traffic was disgusting.” 

He helps you with your things, leads you into the living room where it smells like watermelon and something vaguely alcoholic. A few people are sprawled out on couches or clustered around the pool deck visible through the wide - open French doors. 

And then - of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

He’s leaning back in one of the lounge chairs, a beer dangling from his fingers, legs stretched out in lazy confidence. Tan lines on his thighs, sunglasses pushed low on his nose, jaw still sharp even in the golden hour haze. He looks over when he hears your name. 

You haven’t seen him in maybe six months. You’ve never really been friends, but you’ve always hovered in the same social circle. Occasionally at the same parties, invited to the same post - race get - togethers, orbiting each other without ever really connecting. 

But now he’s looking at you like he recognizes something new. 

He nods, subtle. Gives you a half - smile. “Didn’t know you were coming.” 

You shrug. “Didn’t know you were either.” 

“Good surprise, then.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to that - so you just smile, polite, and follow Luca further inside. 

Your room’s upstairs, small but bright. There’s a ceiling fan and a tiny ensuite and just enough room to dump your suitcase across the bed without tripping over it. You unpack slowly, letting the noise of everyone else filter up through the open window. Somewhere below, Lando laughs - low and lazy - and you feel it like a fingertip dragged down your spine. 

You should be immune to him by now. He’s Lando Norris. A walking thirst trap with dimples and the most unserious sense of humour known to man. But there’s something about here - the off - duty version, the sun - drenched version, the one who isn’t surrounded by engineers or cameras - that makes it feel… different. 

Less like a boy on posters, more like a man below your window, dipping his feet into the pool. 

You shake your head and change into something breezy: cotton shorts, a crop top. When you finally go back downstairs, the sun’s just beginning to dip below the treeline, casting long shadows across the pool deck. 

People are already drinking. Someone’s pulled the Bluetooth speaker out again. There are half a dozen towels draped across every surface. 

Lando’s still by the pool. This time, he’s in the water, arms resting on the ledge, talking to someone. His wet hair curls a little at the ends. His back is freckled from the sun. You shouldn’t be looking. You are. 

He glances up just as you sit down. 

You pretend not to notice. 

Later, when you’re carrying two Aperol's back to your lounge chair, someone bumps your arm on purpose - gently, just enough to make the glasses slosh. 

“Careful.” 

You turn. 

Lando again. 

He takes one of the drinks from you before you can say anything. 

“That was for me,” you lie. 

“Too slow,” he grins, and sips. 

You narrow your eyes. “Are you always this annoying, or is it just the heat?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t love it.” He takes another sip, gaze drifting over your legs where you’re standing in the late - day sun. 

You cross your arms over your chest, aware of how the top you're wearing hugs tighter now that it’s clung to your sun - warmed skin. 

“Is this your game? Steal drinks and flirt with every girl who makes eye contact?” 

“Only the ones who used to ignore me at parties.” 

You blink. 

“I didn’t ignore you.” 

“You never said more than two words to me.” 

“I didn’t know you,” you protest weakly. 

He smirks. “You still don’t.” 

There’s something in the way he says it - open - ended, inviting. Like he’s offering a chance. 

You roll your eyes and sit down, forcing the tension in your jaw to loosen. “You’re trouble.” 

“I try.” 

He settles into the lounge chair next to yours, shoulder brushing yours briefly before he tilts his head back to the sun again. 

The rest of the evening blurs into the kind of contented, alcohol - soft haze you only get on the second night of a trip like this - just enough comfort to start relaxing, not yet enough routine to feel bored. 

Dinner’s grilled and eaten outside. Someone plays bartender and makes the drinks far too strong. You laugh more than you expect. Lando doesn’t hover, but every time you glance over, he’s already looking. 

You should go to bed early. 

You don’t. 

You stay long enough to watch him light sparklers with a lighter he shouldn’t have, teeth catching on the cap of another beer. Stay long enough to feel the way his laugh drags across your skin from halfway across the patio. Stay long enough to admit - to yourself, at least - that maybe this time, you do want to know him. 

By the time you’re back in your room, showered and curled up on the bed with your phone in one hand and your sleep playlist in the other, you’re warm from more than just the heat. 

The last thing you see before you shut your eyes is the faint blue light of a replay clip of Lando’s onboard from Monaco. You didn’t even mean to open it. But your vague connection the world of driving means that you, just like the drivers, are addicted to watching race replays like a lullaby. You let it loop anyway - quiet, steady - as you fall asleep in a hoodie you stole from a driver party two years ago. 

You barely remember that it’s his hoodie. 

It’s hotter the next day. The kind of heat that makes everything feel heavy - time, clothes, thoughts. 

You wake up in the late afternoon, the bed tangled with your sheets and limbs, your skin still warm from the residual heat of the day before. The villa is quieter now. Most people must already be outside, and when you crack your window open, you catch the sound of a speaker playing something bassy and upbeat, mixed with the distant splash of pool water and a few hollered laughs. 

You take your time getting ready, pulling on the only clean swimsuit you packed without thinking. It’s cute, functional enough - but maybe a little revealing. Maybe not what you’d wear if you didn’t know who else would be outside. Maybe it’s stupid how long you spend in front of the mirror tugging the straps into place. 

When you finally head downstairs, the sun hits you like a wall - too much too fast, and all of it golden. The pool glimmers. Someone’s set out snacks, there’s a melting bowl of fruit beside a stack of half - read paperback books, and a cooler full of drinks wedged under the shade. 

And of course - he’s there. 

Lando. 

Lying on a towel just at the edge of the pool. Board shorts low on his hips, eyes squinting up from behind his sunglasses. He’s propped up on one arm, lazily sipping something bright orange through a paper straw. He’s laughing at something someone’s saying off to the side, curls stuck to his forehead, skin flushed just enough to tell you he’s been out here a while. 

You try not to look. You fail. 

He notices. Doesn’t say anything - just tips his chin up in a sort of wordless greeting. 

You set your towel down two chairs away. Not beside him. Not directly across. Just… within view. 

“Someone’s late to the pool party,” he calls after a moment, voice lazy from the heat. 

“I needed sleep.” 

“You needed to make a dramatic entrance, you mean.” 

You roll your eyes but smile. “You think everything’s about you.” 

“Everything is about me,” he says, deadpan. 

You stretch out on your towel, trying not to notice the way his eyes drift down your legs, then flick quickly away again when you catch him. The air feels thicker than before - or maybe it’s just your skin, suddenly too aware of every inch of exposed surface. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re already sweating. The sun beats down mercilessly, and you sit up, digging through your bag for your sunscreen. You squirt some into your palm and reach for your shoulder - and that’s when his shadow falls across you. 

“You’ll never reach your back,” he says casually. 

One minute Lily and Kika where beside you, the next they weren’t.  

You blink up at him, “Thanks for the concern.” 

He holds out a hand. “Give it here.” 

You hesitate. Then place the bottle in his hand, trying not to think about how broad his shoulders look from this angle. He kneels behind you on the towel, the lotion cools against your overheated skin. 

His touch is… careful. Gentle at first. He smooths the sunscreen between your shoulder blades with slow, deliberate strokes, his thumbs brushing the curve of your spine before dragging back up again, just before the thin tie of your bottoms. His hands are warm and wide, fingers pressing slightly harder with each pass, until you're leaning into the sensation without even realising. 

“This, okay?” he asks, voice low - not teasing anymore, just… close. 

You nod, barely trusting your voice. 

He doesn’t stop. Works the lotion into your shoulders, your neck, fingertips grazing the strap of your swimsuit before pulling back just shy of scandal. You feel your whole - body hum, strung tight like a wire. 

And then - just as suddenly - it’s over. 

“All good,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. 

You exhale. Try to swallow. 

“Thanks.” 

He shrugs, tossing the bottle back toward your bag. “Don’t want your burning. Would ruin your dramatic entrances.” 

You laugh, light but shaky. “Wouldn’t want that.” 

You stay in the shade for most of the afternoon, half - reading a book you can’t focus on. Every time Lando walks past - dripping wet from a dive, towel slung around his shoulders, alcohol bottle in one hand - your eyes follow him before you can stop them. 

You don’t talk again. Not properly. But there’s something shifting now. You feel it in the way he looks at you longer than he should. In the way your fingers brushed his wrist earlier when he handed you a strong cocktail and didn’t pull away. In the way you can still feel his hands on your skin, hours later. 

Something’s changed. 

And you’re not sure which one of you is going to do something about it first. 

You can’t sleep. 

The villa’s quiet now - except for the creak of floorboards, the occasional pipe knocking in the wall, and the soft echo of wind sliding through open windows. Everyone else is either passed out drunk or tangled up in someone else’s sheets. The hallways feel like a lull, soaked in summer and moonlight. 

You’re curled up in bed, too warm to get under the covers, wearing nothing but the old, oversized hoodie and a faint sunburn still blooming across your thighs. You didn’t mean to put this one on - it was just at the top of your bag. Familiar, soft, slightly too big. 

Lando’s hoodie. 

You don’t even think he knows you kept it. One of those late - night party things - he tossed it to you on a balcony and never asked for it back. 

You’re not planning to see him tonight. Not thinking about the way he touched your back earlier. Not thinking about how he looked at you like he wanted to touch more. 

Your phone’s propped up on a pillow, volume low, screen lit with one of his old Silverstone onboard replays. There’s something soothing about it. The smooth rhythm of the track, the flick of the steering wheel in his gloved hands. He’s in control. Sharp. Focused.  You wonder what it’s like to make him lose that focus. 

The door creaks open. 

You sit up fast, yanking your blanket over the bottom hem of your hoodie. “What the - ” 

“Shit - ” a familiar voice mutters. “Sorry. Fuck.” 

Lando. 

He’s shirtless, in just sweats, hair a little damp like he showered but didn’t bother to dry it. His eyes are slightly wide as he sees you, as if his brain’s still catching up with what he just walked into. 

“I thought this was - ” He looks over his shoulder. “That’s not - yeah, this is definitely not my room.” 

You should say something - ask why he’s even trying to come in when most people are already knocked out for the night. 

But his eyes are stuck on your hoodie.  His hoodie.  You’re half - curled up, one leg bare up to the thigh, the hem bunched at the top of them, collar slipped low enough to show your collarbones and just a hint of skin underneath. 

“You wear that often?” he asks, voice a little hoarse. 

Your heart kicks up, fast. 

“You gave it to me.” 

“Didn’t think you kept it.” 

You shrug, hoping your face doesn’t give too much away. “Didn’t think you wanted it back.” 

He steps further into the room - slow, quiet - until he’s leaning against the inside of your door and shutting it softly behind him. 

You look at him.  He looks at you. 

Then, finally, he speaks - quiet, but direct. 

“You’re not telling me to leave.” 

You swallow. 

“Do you want me to?” you ask. 

His voice is lower now. “No.” 

You shift on the bed, pulse starting to hammer in your ears. “Then don’t.” 

He stands there for a second longer, like he’s giving you a moment to change your mind. And then he’s walking forward. 

He stands at the edge of the bed, eyes dark in the low light. One hand lift - slow, deliberate - and pulls at the blanket until he brushes your knee from where it peeks from under the hoodie. 

“You look good in that,” Lando says, voice soft, hoarse. 

You smile, lips parted. “Thought you said it wasn’t yours.” 

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Was trying to stay sane.” 

“Why?” 

He leans in, fingers tracing up your thigh, grazing higher until your breath catches. “Because if I thought about you in this hoodie too long, I’d do something stupid.” 

Your hands fist into the sheets. “Like what?” 

“Like this.” 

He kisses you hard - not rushed, but urgent. Like he’s been waiting, wanting, and now that he has you, he’s not wasting a second. You meet him halfway, fingers threading through his damp curls, hoodie riding up over your hips as he shifts between your knees and deepens the kiss. 

His hands slide up your bare thighs, slow and reverent, thumbs dragging soft circles. You gasp into his mouth when one hand cups the back of your thigh, spreading you further apart so he can settle between them. 

“Still not telling me to leave,” he murmurs against your skin, lips trailing along your jaw. 

“I’d kick your ass if you tried.” 

The room is barely lit by the faint glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows drape the corners, but the air is thick with heat - your heat, his heat - heavy enough to make every breath feel sticky and urgent. 

Lando’s sitting on the edge of the bed, bare chest rising and falling slowly, muscles tense as he watches you. The oversized hoodie you’re wearing - his hoodie - hangs loosely, but every inch of skin you show feels like a dare. 

You flip over his lap to kneel in front of him, heart hammering hard against your ribs. His cock is already hard, proud and aching beneath the loose sweats he’s left hanging low on his hips. His breath catches when you reach out, your fingers warm as they close around him over the fabric. 

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice low and rough, eyes dark and hooded with want. 

You smile, cheeks flushed and lean in closer, tugging down his waistband, “You’re the one who walked into the wrong room.” 

His hands find your hair before you can even move - gentle but insistent, threading through your curls as you lean forward, mouth parting to tease the tip of him. He groans softly, air escaping through his clenched teeth, and you know this is going to be slow, deliberate. 

You take him into your mouth, starting light - teasing with your tongue, lips barely brushing the sensitive head. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails grazing your scalp, holding you in place even as you pull back, just enough to make him desperate. 

“Fuck, you’re driving me crazy,” he rasps, his hips pressing forward instinctively. 

You hum around him, licking a slow stripe from base to tip, sucking just enough to pull a deep moan from his throat. His hands tighten, gripping the sheets as you bob your head slowly, tasting him, swallowing every hitch of breath he makes. 

When you take him deeper, your throat tightens, the stretch delicious and thrilling. He gasps, hips jerking up just a little, and you feel it - the pulse of his arousal, steady and strong. You slow down, using your tongue to circle the head, flicking the underside with precision that sends shivers through him. 

“God, you’re so good,” he mutters, voice barely above a whisper. 

His free hand slips to your waist, pulling you up close, and you wrap your arms around his thighs, holding him steady. You want to hear everything - every ragged breath, every curse falling from his lips. 

The way his hips start to grind forward against your mouth, desperate for more. 

His fingers dig into your hair, tugging lightly, and you take it as permission to go deeper - slow, steady, careful. You feel his body tense, muscles flexing as he rides the wave you’re building, his breath hitching in ragged bursts. 

When his hips jerk sharply and he releases a low growl, you swallow him down fully, holding him there as long as you can. He curses your name, gripping your hair harder, and when he pulls away, his lips are swollen, breathless. 

You look up, cheeks flushed, and meet his eyes - glazed, heavy with want and need. 

Without a word, he reaches out and pulls you to your feet, hands on your waist firm and sure. His mouth is back on yours instantly, a kiss that’s both desperate and possessive, teeth grazing your lower lip as he pulls you backward onto the bed. 

His hands roam your body with purpose, sliding beneath the hem of the hoodie, fingers finding bare skin with reverent curiosity. You arch into his touch, heart pounding as he trails kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, whispering soft promises between each press of his lips. 

He moves with slow, sure confidence, pushing the hoodie up over your head and tossing it aside like it’s been burning him all night. 

“You’re all mine,” he breathes, voice thick. 

You shiver, overwhelmed by the warmth of his hands, the heat radiating off his body as he trails down your stomach, palms flat and sure. His fingers brush the waistband of your shorts, hesitating just a second before sliding beneath. 

Every nerve ending in your body sings as he removes your shorts and panties in one smooth motion, exposing you completely. 

He kisses the inside of your thigh, lips soft and warm, fingers tracing lazy circles around your hip bones. 

When he finally parts your legs, his eyes darken, focused, hungry. 

He leans in and presses a kiss to your clit, teasing with his tongue in long, slow flicks that make you bite back a moan. 

His mouth wraps around you, warm and wet and demanding, and you clutch his hair, hips rocking forward into him without thinking. 

“Shh,” he murmurs against you, voice low and serious. “Gotta keep it down.” 

You bite your lip, nodding, desperate to keep quiet but drowning in the sensation of his tongue and mouth working magic. He hums, flicks his tongue faster, and you feel the coil tightening deep inside you. 

His hand slides between your legs, fingers teasing your entrance, brushing just the tip before pulling back to focus on your clit again. 

You’re trembling, breath coming in short, desperate gasps, hands grasping at his shoulders as he pulls you closer. 

When you come, it’s a shattered, stifled cry buried in his neck, fingers digging into his scalp as your body clenches around his mouth. 

He holds you through it, slow and steady, until you’re shuddering and soft again. 

Then, gently, he pulls back and grins up at you - wild, messy, utterly undone. 

“You taste like everything I want.” 

You laugh breathlessly and push him down, straddling him as his hands settle on your hips. 

You take your time, rolling your hips, sinking down slowly, savouring every inch. 

His hands grip your waist tight as you ride him - slow, deep, unrelenting. 

The only sounds in the room are your gasps, his moans, and skin sliding against skin. 

You lean down, kissing him hard, teeth clashing, tongues tangling as you move together - a perfect, messy rhythm. 

When he’s close, you bite his shoulder, smile against his skin, and whisper, “Not so quiet now, huh?” 

He laughs low and growls, “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

You pick up the pace, bouncing harder, nails gripping his chest as he buries his face in your neck, fingers clutching your hips. 

And when he comes, it’s explosive - deep, guttural, his body trembling beneath you as he spills inside you. 

You ride out the waves together, panting and slick, limbs tangled. 

When it’s over, he pulls you close, pressing kisses along your jaw and whispering, “That was worth walking into the wrong room.”

The morning spills into the room like warm honey. 

Golden light streaks across the sheets, catching on dust suspended in the still air. Outside the window, someone’s already put music on too loud - something distant and summery and muffled by the thick villa walls. But in here, it’s all quiet. 

You shift under the covers, muscles pleasantly sore, skin warm from where Lando’s body presses into yours. He’s still half - asleep, one arm flung over your stomach, curls mussed against the pillow. You breathe him in sunscreen and sweat, salt and something softer. Like linen and heat. 

His hand tightens slightly at your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly against your hip bone. It’s the kind of touch that says he's still here, even in his sleep. 

You turn toward him, nose brushing his jaw. 

“Lando,” you whisper, low and quiet, just to see if he’s awake. 

Lando hums sleepily as you kiss his chin. “Mmm, you’re up early.” 

“Not really,” you mumble. “I think it’s nearly noon.” 

He groans. “We should hide. Stay in here all day.” 

You smile. “You drooled on my pillow.” 

He growls softly, burying his face in your neck. “Could be worse. Could’ve been your chest.” 

You laugh, legs tangling with his. “You’re disgusting.” 

“Last night you said I was talented.” 

“I said you were decent.” 

He grins sleepily against your skin, voice still thick. “You came twice. At least give me ‘skilled.’” 

You roll your eyes, trying not to smile too hard - but you’re glowing, skin flushed from more than just the heat. 

His hand slips lower, resting over the swell of your ass, fingers tracing lazy shapes again. You’re not doing anything, not going anywhere. It’s rare - to feel like this. Not just satisfied but settled. 

Until -  

“OH MY GOD.” 

The door slams open, and you flinch, instinctively yanking the blanket up to your chin. 

Lando groans so loudly it’s borderline feral. “No. Nope. Out.” 

Oscar is standing in the doorway, already in swim trunks and a bucket hat, holding a protein shake in one hand like a fucking trophy. Squinting into the light like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. 

“I KNEW IT,” he yells, pointing at you both. “Fifty bucks, bitches!” 

You blink, dazed. “What - ?” 

“I told Lily it would happen before the weekend was over,” Oscar continues, stepping just one inch further into the room like he’s inspecting evidence. “She said you’d pussy out. Guess who was right.” 

You blink. “Wait, you two - bet on us?” 

Oscar shrugs. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. And then you started wearing that hoodie again. It was obvious.” 

Lando rolls over and shoves a pillow over his head. “Oscar I swear to God - ” 

“Hey, don’t blame me, you could’ve been subtle. But noooo, you had to be all hoodie and eye fucking by the pool.” 

You groan. “How long were people watching us?” 

Oscar snorts. “We have eyes.“ 

“Congrats, by the way,” he says, like he’s handing out a wedding gift. It’s when he sips at his gym bottle and hisses, you realise there’s probably tequila in there, “Try not to traumatize the maid staff.” 

And then he’s gone. 

The door clicks shut again. 

Silence. 

You both stare at the ceiling for a second before bursting into laughter. 

Lando turns toward you, dragging you under him again, smirking like an idiot. “We are never living this down” 

“I kinda don’t care” 

He hums, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “You gonna wear that hoodie again?” 

You grin. “Only if I want everyone to know what I let you do to me last night.” 

He pauses. Smirks. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m not wearing it next.” 

You shove him lightly, laughing, as he tackles you back into the sheets, messy and warm and unbothered - a little wrecked, a little teased, and a whole lot in trouble. 

But somehow, it feels kind of perfect. 

meet the models after the show ( epilogue ) :

It’s the last morning at the villa. 

People are packing. Doors opening, zippers skimming across tile. Half - melted iced coffees line the kitchen counter, and someone’s already yelling about who stole their charger. 

You’re still in Lando’s bed. 

Still in his hoodie. 

Still not ready to move. 

He walks back into the room with two mugs in hand - both his. One is basic ceramic with your initials scratched in red nail polish. The other says World’s Fastest Slut in hideous bubble font. 

He doesn’t even flinch when he hands you that one. 

“You’re really still wearing that thing?” he says, nodding to the hoodie swallowing your frame. 

You raise an eyebrow and sip your coffee. “You say that like you weren’t staring every time I wore it.” 

He shrugs, dropping onto the bed beside you. “Just surprised you never took it off.” 

You smirk. “Why would I? It’s comfy. Smells good. Annoys Oscar.” 

“Ah,” he nods, mock serious. “You stayed in my hoodie out of spite.” 

You hum. “Mostly. Partially because it makes my legs look good.” 

His gaze drags down. “Can confirm.” 

You blink. “You gonna tell Oscar that ?” 

“Absolutely not. He’s been insufferable since he ‘won’ a bet that didn’t exist.” 

You laugh, and he leans forward, catching your chin gently with his fingers. You try not to smile, but he leans forward and nudges your knee with his. 

“You’re still coming back to mine after this, right?” he asks, casual, but his tone softens halfway through. 

You blink. “Did I say I was?” 

He gives you that look - head tilted, lashes low, mouth twitching like he’s holding back something cocky. “You didn’t have to.” 

You take another slow sip of coffee. “Hmm. That so?” 

He leans in closer, fingers brushing the hem of the hoodie as he murmurs, “Only condition is… if you keep stealing my clothes, I get to start stealing your time.” 

You snort. “That was corny as hell.” 

“Did it work?” 

You meet his eyes, and yeah - it did. 

You set the mug down and pull him toward you, letting him kiss you slow, like the world isn’t about to start moving again. His hand curls over your thigh, his smile warm against your lips. 

When he pulls back, you sigh into his shoulder. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come back with you.” 

“Knew it,” he says smugly. 

“On one condition,” you add. 

He raises a brow. 

“I keep the hoodie.” 

Lando grins, eyes half - lidded. “Deal.” 

You settle back into the bed, sun rising behind you, the sound of car engines and goodbyes faint in the background. But here, it’s just him. You. And the hoodie you’re never giving back. 

[glowettee]

⋆˚࿔glowettee hotline 6: finding peace after studying.ᐟ

hey lovelies! 🤍i'm finally back with glowettee hotline

abbey sent in the sweetest question to the glowettee hotline about something i think so many of us struggle with. that persistent anxiety that whispers "you could do more" even after you've literally been studying for hours and hours? yeah, i know that voice all too well.

i was literally up until 3am last night reorganizing my color-coded study guides even though i'd already finished them, so trust me when i say i understand that perfectionist energy. there's something about academics that brings out that need for control in all of us, right?

first, i want you to know that what you're experiencing is actually super common among high-achievers. that anxiety isn't a sign that you're doing something wrong - it's actually your brain being a little too good at wanting to succeed. your brain has basically created this false equation that anxiety = productivity, when actually they're totally different things.

when i was in my worst perfectionist spiral last semester (we don't talk about the great midterm meltdown of 2024), my academic counselor shared something that literally changed everything for me. she called it "productive completion" versus "perfectionist completion" and the difference is everything.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ why your brain keeps doing this ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

your brain has been rewarded for being anxious in the past. every time you've pushed yourself to do "just one more thing" because of anxiety, your brain logged that as a win. it doesn't realize how exhausted and burnt out you're becoming.

also? uncertainty is literally uncomfortable for our brains on a neurological level. your organized nature (which is actually a superpower when balanced!) means your brain craves that feeling of "doneness" - but perfectionism keeps moving the goalpost so you never actually reach it.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ practical things that actually help ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

create a "done list" instead of just a to-do list. physically write down everything you've accomplished in a study session. when anxiety says "you've done nothing," you have literal evidence to the contrary.

implement a physical "closing ritual" to signal to your brain that work time is over. i close my laptop, put my books in my bag, and light this little vanilla candle that's only for post-study relaxation. your brain needs these concrete transitions.

use time-based boundaries rather than task-based ones. "i will study for 2 focused hours" is better than "i will study until i feel done" because perfectionism ensures you'll never feel done.

try the 5-4-3-2-1 grounding technique when anxiety spirals hit. name 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, and 1 thing you can taste. it literally interrupts the anxiety pathway in your brain.

create a "worry hour" where you give yourself permission to stress about academics - but only during that designated time. when anxious thoughts come outside that hour, tell them "not now, i'll think about you at 4pm."

practice self-compassion statements that feel authentic to you. mine is "being imperfect doesn't mean i'm ineffective." find yours and repeat it when that voice starts up.

⋆.ೃ࿔:･ the deeper work ･:࿔ೃ.⋆

here's the thing about perfectionism that took me forever to understand - it's often a protection mechanism. somewhere along the way, you learned that being perfect kept you safe from criticism or failure or whatever scary thing your brain is trying to avoid.

the real question to gently ask yourself is: what would happen if you did "just enough" instead of everything possible? what are you afraid would occur? usually when we dig into this, we find some core beliefs that need updating.

for me, i realized i had this weird belief that if i wasn't constantly anxious about academics, it meant i didn't care enough. which is obviously not true! you can care deeply about your studies while still having boundaries and rest.

abbey, i want you to know that your worth isn't measured by how exhausted you are at the end of a study session. your organized nature is a gift - but it should serve you, not control you.

sending you the warmest thoughts and a reminder that you're doing so much better than you think you are. your anxiety is lying to you about how much is "enough."

xoxo, mindy 🤍

leave a message after the tone…

submit your questions here!!

[karusthings]

.⋆˚࿔ s t a r i n g - t. fushiguro ࿐˚⋆.

ꎫ��─[ husband au ; one shot ]

character dynamicꎫ── husband!toji x f!reader

summaryꎫ── you weren't expecting him to react like that to the news.

content warningsꎫ── fluff, he's your husband, that's probably not how he'd react to it but fiction is fiction right, let me dream, pregnancy.

wordsꎫ── 1.5k

¡! ❞ masterlist jjk.

Toji is sprawled across the bed, taking up most of the space. You're laying next to him, with your head on his bare arm, eyes tracing the sharp lines of his beautiful face.

It's late —really late—, somewhere around three in the morning, but no matter how hard you try, sleep won't come to you.

Then, in the quiet night, your husband's voice cuts through the air: low, husky, sleepy. "Ya horny or what?"

You smile, caught off guard that he's even conscious after the heavy snore he let out just minutes ago. "No."

"Then why won't you stop staring at me?"

Before your deep silence invades the room, his throat reveals a deep but quiet laugh, leaving the trail of a little smirk on his lips.

"How'd you know...?"

"Sixth sense, ma'am. Remember? deadly hitman and all of that." He turns his face slowly towards you, eyes half closed but still burning your skin like fire itself. "So, what's on your mind? Why can't you have some rest like the rest of human beings in this house?"

"I've been... thinking." you murmur, voice low.

"Your biggest problem."

"Come on," you can't help but laugh softly, shifting into your back. "Something happened".

"You're pregnant."

"What?" You blink. It can't be.

"Just tried to be a smartass. But go on, yap about what's on your messy head, I hear ya." he yawns, while you're dead silent. Then, he adds, "Don't mind me if I start snoring. I'm just readjusting my lungs."

You don't say a single word, and for the first minute he assumes you just drifted off. That's until he glances over and sees you still, staring at the ceiling.

"Hey, you dead?"

He moves closer to your body, wrapping his big arm around you. His hand finds your stomach, and his fingertips start touching playfully the edge of your summer top. You cover them with yours, guiding him slowly towards your lower belly. Then, you lay your eyes on him again.

"Oh shit," he seems to get it, even though you think that he's asleep enough to not catch a single fly. "I am a smartass."

You nod softly, looking into his blue eyes —now much wider than before—.

"Holy fuck, really?" 

He's almost fully awake now. The way he looks at you with surprise, love and a bit of possessiveness is making you close your legs. "No shit".

You nod again, and he sits up in bed. He's slowly running a hand through his messy hair, those dark eyes —lost on the wall in front— don't fully tell you if he liked the new, or hated it. But when he fully processes, he looks at you with a crooked smile, and something inside your heart melts when you see it. You return the gesture over his excitement, and you suddenly don't know why you were worried to tell him in the first place.

He leans down without warning and pulls you to him with his big, rough hands, mouth crashing with yours in a kiss that's messy, hungry, and almost desperate. His hands start tracing a circuit on your skin, from your back to your waist, and at the end one of these rests on your hip while the other finishes tangled in your hair, holding you in place as he devours your lips feverishly.

"Fuck, I love you... so fucking much." He doesn't usually talk between kisses —because, according to him, you shouldn't talk with your mouth full—, but now he needs to tell you.

"I'm gonna... be a dad again... fuck" and he's groaning against your mouth.

"I didn't think... you'd like it that much".

"You kiddin'?"

His elbow digs into the mattress as he lowers his weight over you, body half-naked just millimeters from yours. His hand doesn't stop grabbing your hip, trailing heat as it moves. 

He pauses only to breathe, pressing your foreheads together. His voice gets lower, rough against your skin. "Megumi's gonna have a little sister."

"Or a brother." You murmur, intertwining the fibers of his hair between your fingers.

"Yeah, no. Not sharing you with another little guy. One's enough." His lips start tracing a way through your collarbone, carefully going down towards your belly.

You laugh at his words, looking at him while he starts kissing your skin once again.

"Why were you strugglin' so badly to tell me?"

"I don't know. We don't have much money, I'm not sure we can af-..." He silences you with a hand over your mouth, gaze burning from where he rests near your hip.

"I’ll take more jobs. I want that kid. The only problem would be if you don’t. Do ya?"

You nod, showing a smile under his hand. He smiles back at you, nodding, whispering before kissing your belly again. "Good."

"How long have you known?" he asks after a few quiet minutes..

"About two days," you reply, with your eyes closed, and a hand over his soft hair. He was lying on your abdomen, making small circles on your skin with one of his fingers. "I was waiting for the right time."

He snorts softly, sending a chill through your body. "You mean any time when I wasn’t snoring like a fuckin' bear?"

You chuckle against his skin. "Basically."

He climbs your body again, tilts your chin up with two fingers and kisses you again, slower this time.

"Not gonna lie," he murmurs against your mouth, "the idea of another baby scared the shit outta me for a second."

"I know."

"But then I looked at you. And I thought, fuck it. And now 'm... 'm fuckin' excited." A soft laugh echoes in his throat as he confesses to you.

You close your eyes as he kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then down to your jaw again. “And Megs…”

After a few moments, he replies, murmuring "Let me be the one to tell him."

"You sure?"

He nods, more serious now. "Yeah. I want to see his face."

He’s restful for a while after that, but his fingers never stop moving over your skin, tracing idle shapes: sometimes pausing on your hip, sometimes brushing your thigh or cupping your breast. All this until he heard your peaceful breathing.

“At last you can sleep peacefully.”

. . .

The scent of coffee drifts through the apartment, and you feel yourself more awake as soon as you smell it. The sun hits your face —quite annoyingly— and you cover it with your hand, just to see him.

Toji stands shirtless by the glass-ceramic cooker, flipping something in a pan. His grey sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his hair’s still messy from sleep. Although you wouldn't mind mussing it up again.

You're now at the table, grabbing the mug he prepared for you. Not a chance you’re taking your eyes off his muscular back.

“Still starin’, huh?” he tilts his head while he smirks. “So you are horny?”

You roll your eyes while taking a sip of your coffee. “You’re the one cooking shirtless, I wouldn’t blame me.”

“Yeah, well, gotta feed the whole damn family now.” He makes you feel loved and claimed. Flips the eggs and plates the food quickly, bringing it over to you. “You think he’s awake?”

He takes food off your plate, and you were about to complain until you realize he had actually made enough for both of you. Toji looks up, mouth full, waiting for you to answer.

“No idea.” But while you’re speaking, Megumi walks into the kitchen, hair a mess, shirt half tucked, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. He freezes when he sees both of you looking at him.

“...What?”

“Sit.” He gets up, walking towards the fridge to take out the milk. Then he jerks his chin towards the meal. “Eat. You want some chocolate milk?”

“Yeah, sure.” He starts eating some of the eggs his father made. He had no michelin star, but they were edible.

“So, kid, got somethin’ to tell ya.”

Megumi looked at him mid-bite, raising an eyebrow like he already knew something was off.

Toji brought in his chocolate milk, sliding it across the table to him. He leans forward, resting his arms on the table. “You’re gonna be a big brother.”

Megumi freezes, and there’s a long quiet pause. Then, flatly: “Seriously? Like a real baby?”

“No, a metaphorical baby. It cries in Shakespeare quotes and needs diaper changes every time Mercury is in retrograde.”

You both look at him, whispering a little “Toji?” so quietly you almost only hear it yourself.

“Sorry, yeah, a real baby.”

Megumi just looks at him, swallows, blinks twice, and grabs his milk. “Huh. Okay.”

You stare, sincerely surprised “Okay?”

“Yeah. ‘m good with it.” Toji barks a laugh at his response —and your shocked face—. “Is it gonna be loud?”

“It’s… a baby. So yeah, probably.”

“I’ll have to buy some earplugs. Thanks for the breakfast.”

And as easy as that, he gets up and walks away. As he disappears back down the hall, your husband looks at you, grinning across the table “See? That went great.”

You stare at him. “Did it?”

And he just leans back, coffee in hand, looking far too proud of himself. “Hell yeah, it did. So, any names?”

¡! ❞ masterlist jjk.

¡! ❞ little note; Well not exactly how I was expecting this to turn out and it's kinda short, but I'm not complaining either. I've been kinda obsessed with toji nowadays SOOO there u go <3.

ꎫ¨.｡ © I have full credit on every artwork in my profile, all rights reserved. Please, do not repost, edit or use any of it.

ꎫ¨.｡ © 2025 all rights reserved, karusthings on Tumblr. Please, do not repost, edit, use or translate any of my projects.

[myjjongie]

THREE .ᐟ ── my little tsundere

SYNOPSIS: another casual grueling day at your job lands you to reunite with jake sim—your hallway crush who moved away in high school. not wanting to hope for more from the chance encounter, you end up being paired with jake for a semester-long project. knowing deep down things will never happen, your only goal is to be friends with jake. while on the other hand, you haven't left jake's mind since he moved away.

word count; 611

“hi welcome in!” you chimed hearing the opening of the cafe door.

too busy dealing with something at the register, you didn’t look up to correctly greet the customer. you could faintly hear low mumbling from the customer—sounding as if they didn’t know what to get. finishing up the minor task at hand, you raised your head to truly greet the customer.

yet not the usual “did you need some help” or anything of the sort came out. in truth you were shocked. the person standing at the counter was familiar, like you had seen his face somewhere before.

then it hit you, you know this face. you’ve come to find yourself staring at him in the hallways, across the cafeteria hall, and even in your classroom.

it was jake sim.

but what was he doing here? you haven’t seen or heard of him since your second year of high school. before you could even think, you were already speaking.

“jake?!” your voice came off surprised.

“yeah?” he let out that soft laugh you always adored hearing.

“what are you doing here? haven’t seen you since high school.” you could feel yourself stiffen from awkwardness. unsure of how to go about the convo.

“i just moved back from australia for the new term.”

“oh! so you went to australia! that’s so cool!” as you kept speaking you felt your voice get higher.

jake let out a small laugh, finding your reaction cute as well as amusing. yet too you, you felt like you wanted to die right then and there.

“so what did you wanna get?” letting out a awkward laugh, trembling hands finding its way to the register screen.

“i was trying to see what drink is sweetest. but honestly i might just get my friend whatever, he didn’t specify. you know?”

you awkwardly laughed once more. “no yeah! totally get that! if anything i recommend the strawberry and banana float!” at this point you felt like you were saying whatever. hoping it would end the interaction sooner than later.

“yeah that sounds pretty good. i’ll get that then! and can you add on three iced americanos?” once jake confirmed his order he pulled out his card to pay.

“of course! okay so your total is twenty seventy-five.” retrieving his card to help finish off the payment.

“wait the americanos were four bucks?” jake was surprised by the insane price difference.

“yeah. one of the reasons i like working here. the coffee is so much more affordable.” you let off a quiet laugh turning around to get started on his drinks.

once facing the espresso bar did you truly want to just smack your head against it. through out the whole conversation you felt like one big idiot. did jake even remember you? you never gave him your name, and you sure as hell weren’t going to give it to him now.

you soon finished the four drinks in the span of 3 minutes when it would’ve taken you twice as long, or if not even more. in truth you really wanted jake out of the cafe, feeling far too embarrassed to try and keep up the casual conversation.

“okay here you go!” forcing out a customer service smile.

“wow that was really quick!” jake felt truly impressed by your quick work.

“haha. yeah. well see you around.” you faintly smiled toward jake, hoping he’d let this be it—allowing you to wallow in embarrassment.

“thank you again! i’ll see you around!” jake beamed a smile you oddly seemed to miss.

as jake turned away to leave, you immediately ducked behind the espresso bar. mentally cursing at yourself in the process.

prev | m.list | next

evie's note: okay some people know. but this shit actually happened to me. like obviously it’s changed A LOT. but a guy i did like in HS pulled up to my job at random. like shout out to him cause we wouldn’t have this smau tbh

out of my league taglist ... ( if interested leave a reply ! )

perm tag: @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @ancnymcnzjy @lvvrikss @treasureteez @delirioastral @izzyy-stuff

@rairaiblog @izzyy-stuff @thing89 @cinnamqnki @viagumi @zyvlxqht @wonzzziezzzz @manuosorioh @hizhu @soobundle1009 @right-person-wrong-time @vvenusoncasual @letwiiparkjay @jayhoonvroom @djikeu @aineest4r @wenomakiluvr @jaysguitarstring @heejamas @haechology @kukkurookkoo @ilovhoonie @trsrworld @ilovewonyo @luhvletters @wonuziex @p1hbrook @qtke @remgeolli @hunnyuwu @starniras @lovenha7 @stayar1 @miszes @ilovejakealot @hoonieyun @jakeznii @ikeuheartz @jakesbabymomma @starfallia @kiribirien

©myjjongie 2025

[bwobgames]

Interruption!

A gay couple has arrived, thus unearthing a hidden truth.

Simon wants to be a Marine Biologist.

The ones with many benefits.

(He didn’t tell me that. He told his mom, which is obvious but-

Weren’t we supposed to go to the same university? If he’s serious about this he’s gonna study somewhere close to the coast

And we have to look at which college has both of our careers!

Ah. Well. I guess it’s fine if he gets ahead, it’s not like I have anything decided yet.

Actually, this is better! That way I just have to choose between the careers Simon’s university has!)

Interruption again! Miss Marigold and Miss Nina have arrived!

He gets ready to get some pondering juice but, my god you would not believe it but

Interruption!

Interlopers.

Also known as the other VIP passengers, one of them has a cool guitar! He even got to touch it!

The stranger grabs his own guitar with a delicacy he himself does not have, must be some type of special connection with the craft.

He once again wishes for living in the fairy world where his talent gets chosen on birth. He also thinks having wings would be cool as fuck.

As the strangers get chatting, they slip the forbidden H word. He can tell it’s largely forbidden by the way everyone seems to freeze up at it.

At that, Owen’s insides light up.

This time he will not be a mere bystander, a mere toiletsitter!

He might’ve failed helping Nadia and Simon and Mr. Beebo in that stupid house but not this time!

He grabs Simon and goes to their shared room, he tried to get Nadia’s attention, but it seems she’s busy with the adults. The adultier adults. Adulterers?

“What”

“You heard what they said! This place is haunted!”

“Why are you happy about that”

“I’m not! But like, we can stop it! We are almost experts on this!”

“I don’t know… I don’t wanna grow weird animal ears… What if it’s not my chosen fursona”

“I think is a risk we have to make. For everyone’s sake.”

“Even if you end up with bear ears?”

He hesitates.

“I… I’ll borrow your hat”

“But anyways! Let’s get geared up! Maybe the dart set could w-“

“Ah”

“Oh no”

Seems like it wasn’t closed all the way.

“There’s one missing. Man.”

“Maybe some of the staff put it in lost and found”

“You’re right! Let’s gear up and then look for the missing gear!”

“Wait, what are we even doing”

“Unhaunting! Something about a heart, right? We need to find an object to destroy!”

“But if we get it wrong, we’ll have to pay the damage. And you just bought a Switch.”

“It’s- It’s fine! I can sell it for money!”

“Isn’t the market a bit saturated with them?���

“Well-! Well then we just won’t get it wrong! Which is why: the gear”

“Ooh that makes sense”

“What do we take then”

“Whatever you think might help!”

“Yeah! Being hydrated is key!”

<PREV START NEXT>

[clockwayswrites]

@wandixx

Either of them come across lost kid in the crowd

When Auntie had suggested going to the park for some fresh air, Carry had agreed. Of course he had. She could have suggested he throw himself into the water and he probably would have done it. (Assertiveness was still a work in progress.) He didn’t think, though, that she knew about the festival going on.

Or maybe she had?

Carry doubted anyone really knew what sort of things were part of her plotting or just her good luck.

It was just that… now he was in the middle of a festival. There were people and a cacophony of noises and bright colors and people. Carry took a breath and let it out slowly. He counted to ten. He didn’t know how much it helped, but he walked into the crowd anyways.

Maybe he could find somewhere in the shade to sit, and, if not, he could at least say that he tried. It was just people. He used to have no issue with crowds of people. He even used to enjoy them! But he used to be a lot of things, hadn’t he? Before he was a failure.

Carry shook is head, trying to get rid of that thought.

It was a festival.

Be happy.

Carry squeezed past people, dodged small children, pet a few dogs, and finally made his way to where he could hear the band currently playing in the pavilion. They weren’t bad, in an inoffensive way, so Carry found a spot of shade to sit in and listen.

The life of the festival ebbed and flowed around him. Kids went off and came back with hands full of cotton candy or balloons or large off brand stuffed animals. Young couples kissed. Old couples dragged each other out onto the makeshift dance floor.

It… it was nice.

Simple.

Happy.

Carry was just considering actually getting himself a churro when the unmistakable sound of a kid’s sob broke the air. That wouldn’t mean much, not at a busy festival, but there was no comforting parent voice following the sound up.

“D-daddy? M-mommy?” The sob came again.

Carry looked into the crowd. No kid. Right, left… then behind the tree. A kid—little enough that Carry figured elementary school was an okay guess—was rubbing at their eyes. A balloon was clutched desperately in their other hand, as if it was the only thing keeping them safe.

Carry crouched down to the side of the tree. “Hey. I’m Carry. What’s your name?”

“H-harper.”

“Nice to meet you Harper. I love your balloon,” Carry said with a smile. “The confetti in it is really cool.”

“Thank you,” Harper mumbled. They finally peered out at Carry from over their tear stained fist.

“You’re welcome. Are you okay? Did you lose your parents?”

Harper nodded. Their lip wobbled.

“That’s okay, we’ll find them,” Carry said with more confidence than he ever had. He’d make sure someone did, even if they ended up needing to go to security. “Do you remember where you last saw them?”

“The b-balloons,” Harper mumbled. Slowly they found their voice. “Daddy got me my balloon and then Mommy called over by the… um… the lemon ice! I tried to hold his hand I promise!”

“I’m sure you did. But there’s so many people it can be a little hard,” Carry said. “How about you hold my hand for a little bit, and we’ll go back by the balloons, okay? If you’re ever lost, you should stay where you lost your parents or teacher so they can find you.”

“Okay, thank you,” Harper said. They rubbed their hand against their t-shirt, smearing tears over the pink dinosaur, before they reached out and took Carry’s hand in theirs.

The hand felt almost impossibly small as they started off into the crowd. Carry was very sure to not let go as they moved rather slowly towards the balloon stand. Which at least was easy to see even with the crowd.

The balloons were looming close when a shout cut through the noise. “Harper!”

“Daddy!” Harper yelled back.

Carry still didn’t let go until the man was right there, dropping to his knees in from of Harper and pulling them into a hug.

“Oh baby, I’m so sorry that I let go! I didn’t mean to,” Harper’s dad pleaded into her hair as he hugger her close.

“It’s okay Daddy! Carry helped me! They held my hand the whole way!” Harper said, cheerful in the way that only a little kid could be after something traumatic.

Their dad looked up. “Thank you so much—”

“Harper!”

“She’s here!” the Dad said. He hoisted Harper up onto his hip as he stood.

The woman who had called out ran up and kissed Harper on the forehead, talking frantically to her in a language that Carry could only barely recognize.

“Carry here helped Harper find us,” the dad said, with a little wave of his fingers towards Carry.

“Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you,” the mother said as she took Carry’s hand.

“It was nothing—”

She let go of his hand after another squeeze before she dug around in her cross body bag. “Please, take this.”

“No, it’s okay,” Carry said, waving away the offered money. “I’m just glad that we found you so quickly.’

“We insist,” Harper’s dad said.

“Really, it’s fine!” Carry said. “ Remember Harper, if you get lost again stay near where you were lost, okay?”

“Yes Carry!” Harper chirped.

“Thank you again, really,” their dad said.

“Yes, thank you,” their mom urged with another shake of Carry’s hand.

When they disappeared into the crowd, Carry was left with a twenty dollar bill in his hand and a feeling of exasperated bemusement. He was getting some churros he guessed and maybe even a frozen lemonade. He could stay a little longer.

Just a bit.

---

AN: Sad Puppy got a name! (Carry, short for Carson. Might become Cary?). And was more anxious than expected? This is probably pre-story but ㄟ( ▔, ▔ )ㄏ. Hopefully you like him.

[bts-preference]

14. When he realizes you're the one

Anonymous request

Namjoon: The realization comes in the form of a late-night bike ride along the Han River. What starts as a slow ride, wanting to just clear your minds, quickly becomes a challenge to a race when you see the bike path void of anyone else. You talk trash to one another as you line up at the imaginary starting line, before adjusting your helmets and counting down together. And somewhere between the wind whipping through your hair and clothes from pedaling so fast; him initially being in the lead ("too slow," he calls over his shoulder); and then you somehow beating him ("better luck next time, loser," you boast), the words "right person, right place, right time" crosses his mind.

Jin: The realization comes in the form of a late-night visit with you, after a stressful rehearsal leaves him feeling on edge, and a little self-conscious. "Jin, take a breath," you finally say after he launches into a rant; his ears progressively getting redder, his voice progressively getting louder. He stops and looks at you with wide eyes, trying to regain his breath. "Hey, what do you call a sad strawberry?" you ask, trying to distract him, "A blueberry!" Your joke seemingly breaking the tension, he rolls his eyes and tells you what a terrible joke it was - but deep down, suddenly feeling relieved, knowing he found a person like you, who can help him find the perfect balance in everything.

Yoongi: The realization comes in the form of a first pressing of one of his all-time favorite albums - when he tears away the gift wrapping from the album, he is left speechless for a moment. "How did you get this?" he finally asks, turning the record over gently in his hands. "A violent bidding war on eBay - don't really want to talk about it," you reply, simply. "Come here," he smiles, setting the album aside before reaching for you, pulling you into his lap. He tries to thank you, but suddenly he can't find all of the words needed to describe how he feels in that moment - to feel understood; and to feel loved; and to want to love you right back.

Hoseok: The realization comes in the form of you finally allowing him to teach you one of his dance routines. "I promise I won't shift into my scary, dance teacher mode," he vows as he guides you into the dance studio. Keeping his promise, he watches you proudly instead when you try the routine by yourself, despite tripping at one point and then improvising for nearly half of it. While still looking in the mirrors at the end of the routine, your eyes meet, and he feels a sudden shift within him. Is this love? Not knowing what he is thinking, you ask, "How did I do?" "That was amazing, baby," he says, promising himself he would return to that thought sooner than later.

Jimin: The realization comes in the form of threats of violence (sort of) after he reads more hateful comments online. "Jimin, you can't listen to them," you insist, taking his phone from him. "I know," he says, quietly, leaving you less than convinced. "Jimin?" you ask, only getting a hum in response. You sigh. "What do you want me to do? Do you want me to fight them all?" you continue, shadowboxing the air, "Because I will if that would you make feel better." He cracks a smile, reaching for your raised fists, "You're going to hurt yourself." In that moment, he feels a mixture of emotions - hurt, guilt, but also a sudden, undeniable sense of love and admiration for you.

Taehyung: The realization comes in the form of being alone in a darkroom, developing photos he took of you. The actual process is automatic for him so when he finally looks at - really looks at - the drying photos, he feels like he suddenly can't breathe. "I love them," he repeats in his head as he bursts out of the darkroom, slamming the door behind him. As if on cue, his phone begins ringing in his pocket. "Hi," he breathes, "(Y/N)." You giggle. "Everything OK, Tae?" you ask, but not waiting for an answer, "I was wondering if you wanted to grab dinner together?" "That'd be great," he says when he realizes you can't see him nodding his head. "Great! See you soon, Tae," you reply.

Jungkook: The realization comes in the form of a surprise, one Sunday morning when you are about to leave his apartment to do errands together. "Keys, wallet, (Y/N)," he mutters to himself, patting down his pockets, before reaching for your hand. He finally looks at you, and a large smile spreads across his face, "Are you wearing my clothes?" The sight of you in a borrowed sweatshirt and pair of cargo pants makes his pulse race, not because he is upset, but there is something about shared clothing and doing mundane tasks together that feels oddly intimate to him - something he hopes to experience with you for the rest of his life.

Author's Note: We're just going to pretend I haven't been MIA. Thank you for the request! It was a lot of fun to write.

[theemptywallet]

Huzzah!

Okay, so, may I have a Chicken Rice but with Poached Chicken, and with Medkit, where the reader is too kind and caring for their own good; volunteering in an orphanage, helping the elderly, and caring for the sick, much to Medkit's dismay. So now Medkit has to deal with a sick reader who keeps denying that they're sick.

No rush! Just take your time (⁠✿⁠^⁠‿⁠^⁠)

–★

Little body, big heart.

Medkit and reader platonic fluff

It started small.

An itch in your throat, a chilly feeling that wouldn't seem to go away and an ache behind your eyes that you blamed on a lack of sleep. It's nothing serious though,nothing you couldn't work through, right? A little cold was no reason for you sto stop. Especially not when the twins at the Crossroads orphanage were counting on you to read them a bedtime story, or when your old Inphernal friend was still recovering from their fall or when you needed to deliver medicines to a bunch of sick demons and definitely not when you had already agreed to helping Zuka deliver goods. There were too many people in need, so why stop for something like a little chill? So you pushed on like you always did, running around to complete errands. And it worked. For awhile.

But now, you find yourself slouching on your couch, shivering in your hoodie, head down like a wilted plant and sniffling like a leaking faucet. You felt like a truck had ran over you. Or maybe a million trucks. You looked at the calendar on your phone. Volunteer shift at the Crossroads orphanage in a few hours. How where you going to help the kids out if you were sick? Oh! That's okay,because you can cancel that but still help to deliver soup to that elderly Inphernal. You'll just put on a mask, pass the soup really quickly and all will be well! And after that you will help Zuka.Then by tomorrow you would be fine and you can go help out at the orphanage…

Suddenly, you heard keys jingling outside your door and knew that it could only be that one person you've given your keys to. (Close friends yknow) You bolt upright, wiped your nose on your sleeve. Quickly clearing the unholy mess of tissues on the couch, you shove the blanket you had been using aside. Definitely how a not sick person would look like now.

Medkit stepped in just a second later and locks the door behind him. His eyes dart around the room and finally fixes themselves on you.

“Hi!” you gave him your best innocent smile.

He doesn't reply. Instead, he walks over to the coffee table and sets down his bag, squinting his eyes and scanning your body up and down in what can only be described as diagnostic judgement.

“You didn't answer my calls.” He said flatly.

“Heh…sorry, was probably asleep…” you grinned sheepishly.

“Yeah, sure.” his tone was dryer than sandpaper. “You sleep in jeans and I see you sitting up straight the moment I step into your house?”

You laugh weakly. “What? I'm just…uhm…chilling.”

He points at you. “Sniffling,pale, sweating. Not a very ‘chill’ look to me.” he says as a matter of factly.

“I'm just a little tired.”

“Yeah, and I'm a sfoth deity.”

You sniffle again and quietly curse at your body for betraying you.

His hand-gloved, icy cool-rose toward your face with purpose. You didn't flinch, just blinked as his fingers brushed against your temple and then your forehead. He exhales sharply like he was trying not to say something he'd regret.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, crossing his arms. “Allow me to guess.You were probably out delivering cold medicine while you yourself have a cold. Or volunteering somewhere again with no help whatsoever like you're on a solo mission. Am I right?”

You slumped.”I just don't wanna disappoint anyone who needs my help…plus I don't wanna worry anyone.”

He threw his hands up, exasperated. “I knew you'd say that. That's why I broke into your house when you suspiciously didn't respond to my calls! Okay, not broke in. Let myself in. But my point still stands!You're too kind for your own good.” Medkit then kneels down in front of you, checking your entire body for any other telltale signs of illness. The corners of his eyes crinkle slightly in concern. Or maybe frustration. After all, it was pretty much impossible to read this guy sometimes.

Medkit shoves a thermometer in your mouth.

“39 degrees Celsius. Fantastic. You're boiling alive.”

“It's not the worst I've had.”

Medkit side eyes you. “That isn't as comforting as you think it is.”

He then slowly pulled you up, bringing you into your own bedroom like he lived there (at this point he does lmao). “You're on house arrest. Doctor's orders,” he said. “Don't you hate being called that?” you teased.

He doesn't reply, but you see a soft, almost imperceptible curve to his lips - a smirk that was more a reminiscent smile than anything else.

Medkit tucks you into bed, pulling the blanket tighter around you and places a wet cloth on your head.

"You can't keep doing this," he muttered. "You run around fixing everyone else, but what about you? Who's taking care of you, huh? I've ought to call every place you volunteer at and tell them to ban you from ever entering again,”

You look up at him with a weak smile.”I have you, don't I?”

That shut him up. For a few seconds at least.

“Tch…”

Later, you were nestled in a bundle of blankets and Medkit was fussing over something like hydration or whatever. You sit up and reach out to check your phone to see if the orphanage had enough volunteers. Medkit immediately pulls away you phone and gently pushes you back to bed with his finger on your forehead.

“Nope. Lie down. Rest.”

“But I-”

“No buts.Do you want me to sedate you?” he asked, deadpan.

Medkit stood up and crossed to the kitchen, boots quiet against the floorboards. You listened to the soft clatter of a mug being placed on the counter. Medkit comes back with a cup of tea.

“Drink your tea before I replace it with cold medicine.”

He brushes your forehead with the back of his hand. “Never do this again.You're lucky you're my favourite patient.”

“I'm your only patient.”

“Exactly," he said with a smirk, "And I'd like to keep it that way.”

· · ─────── · ☾· ─────── · ·

this one is a bit shorter cuz I bum

also im prepping for artfight lmao

I added too much dialouge idk LOL

[kings-highway]

48 or 43 with ushiten mayhaps<33 i recall u mentioning a pokemon trainer au at some point as well🤭💕

AAHHhhehehe I sure do have a Pokemon AU 😁 and Ushi and Tendou are two of my favourite characters from that AU so this was a delightful excuse to show them and the 'mons off. Did I answer the prompt? Only barely. Hehehehehehehehehe. Do you know I have a many-page google docs with pokemon teams laid out, including levels, moves, natures and other applicable details? I am currently deeply in love with Pokemon. (Sidenote I recently started playing HeartGold and am wondering why they ever got rid of the pokemon running around behind you that is the best feature ever.)

I'm not going to explain the worldbuilding too much but I lean heavily on satirizing and including game mechanics 😁😁

“Satoshi cap, or the black and white one?” Tendou says, swapping between two different ball caps that seemed relatively similar function wise. He’s focused on the mirror, checking himself out and seeming a little bit indecisive. 

“Black and white, it’s more distinctive to you,” Ushijima replied. He, however, is not getting ready to go out. He’s sitting on the floor, with his back against the bunkbed, playing with the paws of his Wigglytuff like a stuffed animal. It seems to enjoy this very much, trilling back at him with a smile. 

“You didn’t even look,” Tendou complains, turning to face him. 

“I don’t need to look, I know what you and both caps look like.” 

“You’re useless.” 

“Mhm.”

“I need a jacket as well,” Tendou says, turning in a circle for a bit before suddenly finding himself getting his usual school jacket thrown in his face. Infernape was a wonderful partner pokemon, and also completely disregarding of his physical safety. Tendou pulls the jacket off his face, looking down at the singed and somewhat destroyed fabric. “You’ve burned this,” he says, glancing up at his pokemon. “Bad monkey.”

Infernape screams back at him, which makes Wigglytuff flinch in alarm, which triggers Ushijima to scowl up at the monkey scoldingly. Infernape has the sense to look embarrassed, and slink back on the top bunk to avoid being looked at by Ushijima.

Tendou stares up at him for a moment, before saying: “Anyhoo, I don’t like wearing my school jacket anyway, it makes me look like a kid. I am not a kid, I need a better jacket.” 

“It is going to be fairly warm today,” Ushijima comments. “Are you sure the jacket will be necessary? I do not like to imagine you overheating.”

“It is necessary,” Tendou says. “The single-battle trainer spots are all in the damn woods and deep in the shade. It’s so chilly. You know, if you came along, the double-battle spots are located across the park and have more direct sunlight. I’d be nice and warm then, and I wouldn’t need a jacket at all.” 

Ushijima frowns. “I am not a trainer,” he says, lifting his hands up to play with Wigglytuff’s ears. “I would not qualify to be a route trainer even if I wanted to."

“Look, I heard Birch is back in the lab, we could walk down there tomorrow and get you signed up, he probably wouldn’t even make you take a starter. Then you could come be a doubles’ trainer with me, and we’d wipe the floor with every wannabe champion that came through our eyeline. And do it somewhere I’m not freezing to death.” 

Ushijima shakes his head, patting down Wigglytuff’s fur. “No, no,” he says. “Wigglytuff doesn’t fight.” The fluffy pokemon makes a trilling noise of agreement, wiggling around to look at Tendou has if offended at the mere insinuation it do any kind of combat. 

“Oh, please,” Tendou says. “You’ve helped me train before. I know you’ve got Solar Beam on that thing, you blasted Slowbrow into Giratina’s dimension.”

Ushijima sets his chin down on top of Wigglytuff, shrugging. “You should not have set up Sunny Day.” 

Tendou scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’m just saying, work would be a lot more fun if we could go stand and spin in circles together. In the sun. You know, I hear some days, Sunny Day takes effect in the double trainer spaces no matter what. You could do a lot of damage.”

“This seems like a lot of work to avoid standing in the shade.” 

“It’s cold.”

“You have a fire monkey.”

“We’re not allowed to have our partners out while at work!”

Ushijima stares at him for a moment, before moving Wigglytuff off his lap and pushing himself up to his feet. “Okay,” he says, wandering over to their tiny, shared closet, to pull out his own jacket and offer it to Tendou. “Use this, then.” 

Tendou pouts, then reaches over to snatch the black jacket. “It does fit with the hat,” he says, before adding: “But it’s like three sizes too big, you massive man.”

“It’s a cute look.”

Tendou scowls at him. “I’m not going for cute.”

“Then be cold.” 

Tendou scoffed, before tugging the jacket over his shoulders. “You’re annoying.” 

Ushijima reached forward, adjusting Tendou’s hat on his head and brushing hair back from his eyes to tuck it away properly. 

“I’ll come keep you company after I finish the schoolwork I have,” he says. 

Tendou groaned, but nodded. “Fine. Okay. I’ll hold you to that. But bring lunch.”

“I’ll bring lunch.”

Infernape barks, hanging off the edge of the bunkbed and getting ready to leave with his trainer. 

“Yes I will bring lunch for you too,” Ushijima replies. “Don’t light my bed on fire.”

[lalacliffthorne]

a summer storm and movie night with the whole gang 🍿💕

(this is so long it might as well count as a one shot, but it's also just so wholesome and cosy)

"Cass?", I yell, my voice slightly muffled. "Help!"

I hear the creaking of the couch and heavy steps closing in quickly. Then they falter, followed by a loud snort.

"What the fuck -"

"Hlep," I mumble softly.

There's a deep, barely suppressed laugh somewhere on the other side of the mattress that I've been dragging from Cassian's room and somehow managed to get stuck in the doorway. Then a tattooed hand appears above me and pats my head.

"It's okay, sweets, I got you." Cassian sounds like he's grinning widely, and I grumble and somehow manage to flip him off.

"Get it off me!"

There's a tug, then the mattress drops forward, and I plummet forward with it, barely managing to catch myself in the doorframe.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Cassian holds out a hand, and when I grab it, he pulls me over the mattress and catches me before I can faceplant. There's a grin on his face as he holds me upright until I find my footing, squeezing my waist before looking down at the mattress, and I huff and straighten, blowing a strand of hair out of my face.

"Want to set up the living room before the others get here, and your mattress is the biggest, so -"

"Why didn't you say anything; I would've helped you, you little shithead." Shaking his head, Cassian leans down and easily lifts the mattress off the ground, propping it against the doorframe.

"I don't know, you were busy," i grumble and straighten my t-shirt.

"Never too busy for you, sweetheart." Cassian crunches his brows dramatically, then breaks into a wide grin when I kick his shin.

Chuckling under his breath, Cass nudges my side, creases forming in his cheeks when he nods towards the living room. "C'mon, let's move the coffee table out of the way before we get this thing in there."

Sighing, I slip past him, and Cass follows me.

The living room is dunked in warm light, the door to the balcony open. The first summer storm is brewing outside, thick dark clouds are covering the sky and the air smells sweet and faintly like rain.

Cass and I carry the coffee table over to the windows, then we push the armchairs together so they form a backrest. I squint at the now empty space between the couches, then I lean myself against the right one to move it to the side a little.

"Hrghhh..."

My feet slide over the hardwood floors, and there's a snort behind me. Then Cass starts laughing, his shoulders shaking and head tipping back.

"Stop laughing and help me," I whine, barely holding back the giggle beginning to bubble in my own chest, and Cass shakes his head with a wide grin, dimples digging into his cheeks when he helps me drag the couch a few feet back.

Together, we pull his mattress into the space between the couches. Then I go and get the blankets and array of pillows from my own. I can barely see over the big heap as I carry it back into the living room, but I manage to not run into any doorways. Cass disappears into his bedroom to get his own blanket before carrying Azriel's and Rhys' duvets into the living room.

When the pillows are finally arranged and the duvets cover the couches, I'm fanning myself. "Fucking hell, please make it rain soon."

Cassian plops down with a groan and stretches out in the middle of the mattress, his muscles bunching for a few seconds before he relaxes and drops his head onto one of my pillows, brows crunching. "Why don't we just always have it like this; this is fucking amazing."

"I don't know." I climb over the couch and happily plop down next to him. Shuffling around until I can rest my head on his stomach, I relax dramatically and exhale.

Slowly, my eyes slide shut. The scent of Cassian's cologne rises into my nose, mixing with the heavy scent of coming rain and a slightly cooler breeze brushing in through the window. Cassian's torso moves under my head with his slow, even breaths, shifting when he props his head onto his arm. Outside, the first raindrops hit the stone of the balcony.

The peace is abruptly interrupted when there's a deep call of my name.

I grumble, and Cassian's chest vibrates when he chuckles under his breath.

"Oi."

A pillow lands on my face, and I jump.

"Rhys!"

Cassian starts laughing properly, his body shaking mine and head tipping back, and I grab the pillow to pull it from my face, craning my neck and glaring, even though I can't keep a pout from forming on my face. "What the fuck was that for?"

A feline smirk is gracing Rhys' face as he rests his hands onto the back of the couch. "Gently waking you from your slumber, princess."

Cassian's deep chuckle shakes my head, and I flip Rhys off.

"What do you want?" Huddling in again, I blink sleepily. "I'm comfy."

"Oh, I can see that." A dimple digs into Rhys' cheek when he smirks at me, and I grumble, closing my eyes and flipping him off again.

"We're doing quality control." Cassian's voice vibrates through me, deep and lazy, the light smirk on his lips audible.

"Of what, your own mattress?" Sarcasm drips from Rhys' voice.

Cassian shifts, the movement making my head roll to the side lightly when he shrugs. "Hey, we need to see if it's still comfy when it's on the floor."

"And?" Rhys raises an eyebrow drily.

"Come and find out." Cassian grins shit-eatingly, and Rhys huffs.

"You know you want to..." I sing sang, patting the mattress next to me without opening my eyes, feeling a wide smile slowly spreading over my lips.

For a second, I can feel Rhys stare. Then he exhales deeply and pushes off the couch. "Whatever. You won't move anyway."

"Nope." I can hear the light smirk in Cassian's voice and giggle.

A second later, the mattress dips; the smell of something dark and expensive washes over me, then Rhys drops his head onto my stomach and sighs. "You two are an awful influence."

"Shhhhh...", Cassian and I mumble in unison, Cassian's face splitting into a wide grin while I reach out to blindly pat Rhys' chest.

"You love us."

I can feel him huff, but there's the trace of a grin in his voice when he mumbles: "Yeah, yeah."

Beaming softly, I exhale and bury into the blankets.

Outside, rain slowly starts pattering against the sandstone of the balcony. I can feel Cassian's chest rising and falling steadily with his breaths, and Rhys' hair tickling my skin where my shirt has ridden up. Warmth radiates from both of them, and something swells gently in my chest.

I'm a few seconds away from truly dozing off when the floorboards creak and a deep voice brushes over my skin, low and smooth and lazy.

"Do I want to know?"

My heart swells against my ribs until it feels like they might crack open, and a beaming smile spreads over my face.

"Quality control," it echoes from three mouths in unison, a giggle bubbles in my throat, and my lids flutter open.

Both Rhys' and Cassian's eyes are still closed. Rhys is smirking, and Cassian is grinning, creases forming in his cheeks.

Another giggle shakes my body softly, and I crane my neck. My gaze finds the doorway, and my chest swells.

Azriel is leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest, one dark eyebrow arched slightly and a smirk tugging at his lips. The planes of his face look like carved from marble in the soft, warm light, his eyes filled with lazy amusement as they pierce mine, and my breath catches.

"Wanna join?" I send him a wide, cheeky smile.

The crease in Azriel's cheek deepens with his smirk, and he raises an eyebrow, his low voice vibrating through me lazily. "Didn't you want to finish your cake?"

Rhys exhales before pushing himself up with a soft groan. "God damn it, he's right." He pats my calf. "Alright, come on, princess; nap time's over."

I whine, and Cassian's chest shakes with his deep chuckles when he stretches out his hand. With a sigh, I grab it, and Cass pulls me up into a seated position.

"Thank you." I press a smacking kiss onto his cheek, then I laboriously push myself to my feet and climb over his legs. Rhys smirks and flicks my nose, and I huff and flip him off. Then I slip past him, and my eyes meet Azriel's, deep and amber and twinkling.

The doorbell rings, and I press the last blueberry into the cream I've spread over the homemade sponge, then I slide over the kitchen floor into the hall to buzz the downstairs door open.

Unlocking the front door to the flat and leaving it standing ajar, I pad back into the kitchen. Rain patters steadily against the window, and the candles on the table flicker. The air smells like petrichor, berries and chocolate when I lean down to pull the tray with little warm tartes from the oven.

I hear footsteps on the stairs out in the hallway when I start cutting the cake into big slices. A few seconds later, there's a happy groan, and when I look over my shoulder, Mor drops her umbrella onto the floor dramatically and closes her eyes as she breathes in deeply. Then she opens them again and grins widely.

"God, I love you two."

Rhys snorts, and Mor beams and throws her arms around me in a tight hug. She's wearing pyjamas as requested; a deep red satin set, her hair gathered in a messy bun at the top of her head that wiggles happily when she presses a smacking kiss onto my cheek before squeezing past me.

Behind her, Feyre closes the front door with her shoulder and sends me a wide smile. "Hey." She holds up two big paper bags. "Snacks, as requested. I brought you caramel popcorn."

"Mhmm..." Mor sniffs at the chocolate tartes cooling on the counter before beaming at the cake next to them. Then she blinks and raises her head, frowning. "We're still ordering pizza though, right?"

Rhys smirks. "Oh, yeah, I know this isn't feeding you nor Cass."

Mor grins and pats his cheek, raising her brows with a happy sigh. "You know us too well."

Feyre appears next to me, pulling me into a tight hug and beaming softly at me. She's also wearing comfy clothes; a hoodie I feel like I know from somewhere and a pair of soft wide pyjama pants.

I giggle and squeeze her back, then I raise my brows. "What else did you get?"

Feyre raises her brows and plops the bags onto the counter. "So, we bought two more kinds of popcorn, pretzels, crisps, chocolate -"

"Did somebody say chocolate?" Cass appears in the doorway and sniffs the air, brows crunching inquisitively. He has showered, his hair half dried and haphazardly pulled back, and changed into a wide t-shirt and loose joggers.

Mor bounds over to hug him happily, and Cass chuckles, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing.

"Alright, there are bowls over there, just put whatever you got in there." Rhys sends Feyre a feline smirk. "Darling -"

Feyre huffs, but her cheeks tinge pink even as she glowers at him, and Rhys' grin widens as his eyes pierce her face.

Clearing my throat softly, I pull one of the bags with shopping towards me and gently bump my elbow into Feyre's back. She hastily turns around, and I send her a cheeky grin. "Bowls please?"

The blush on her cheeks deepens, and she glares at me and pulls the bowls towards us.

Over her head, I catch Rhys' staring at her, a small crease forming in his cheek.

A giggle bubbles in my throat, and he blinks, tearing himself out of it and meeting my gaze.

Whipped, I mouth, widening my eyes and sending him a bright, mischievous smile.

Rhys huffs and clears his throat, turning. "Alright, Mor, can you get me the whipped cream out of the fridge?"

Giggling under my breath, I start dumping popcorn into a bowl.

Feyre helps me unpack the snacks, handing the bowls to Cass who takes them into the living room. Then she picks up the rest of the plates Mor has carefully placed big slices of cake on, and Rhys follows after her.

Pulling open the fridge, I stack cans with soda into my arm, then I reach for the jug with homemade lemonade and call over my shoulder: "Hey, can somebody -"

A chest brushes against my back, a hand catches the soda can nearly slipping out of my arm, and a low voice mumbles somewhere above my head: "Keep you from trying to carry everything and risking dropping something?"

My heart swells against my ribs, and I start beaming softly.

Without looking, I hold the jug up over my shoulder, and long, scarred fingers brush against mine as they accept it. I grab some more sodas before moving back, my back presses into a warm chest, and a tattooed arm appears above my head, closing the fridge.

Turning around, I grin mischievously, crunching my nose. "Keeps me from going twice."

There's a low huff, and my heart leaps gently against my ribs when my eyes meet Azriel's, piercing my face and twinkling lazily. There's a crease forming in his cheek, a light smirk tugging at his lips, and I smile up at him, squinting. "We need glasses."

Azriel places the saved can in my arms and waits until I have tucked it under my chin before pulling his hand away. is knuckles brushing a strand of hair out my face. "I got it."

My breath catches gently when his rough fingers tuck an escaped strand of hair behind my ear, and the crease in his cheek deepens. Then Azriel dips his head, and my heart gets stuck in my throat when his fingers lightly hook under my chin, tipping it up. His nose brushes against mine, my breath hitches, and Azriel's lips curve when he slowly presses them against mine.

A soft noise escapes my throat. My fingers tremble around the cans when Azriel's rough fingers brush against my throat, then they slide into my hair, and I stretch lightly and kiss back.

Azriel makes a rough sound deep in his chest, his body pressing closer, flush against my side, fingers threading through my hair and pulling gently, then he lazily deepens the kiss. His tongue swipes against mine, and I cling to the cool cans in my arms, spine shuddering and something bursting low in my stomach.

Azriel exhales against my cheek, then he slowly pulls back, his thumb slowly brushing over the side of my neck. His breath grazes my lips, and my heart pounds against my ribs.

"Oi," Rhys' deep voice calls from the hall, and my heart missed a beat, swerving sharply. "Did you two get lost in the fridge or what's taking you so long?"

Azriel and I roll our eyes in unison, and he straightens, stepping to the side. His palm gently cups the side of my neck when he presses one last warm kiss against my temple, then it slides down my side, and I squeeze past him.

The living room smells like candles and chocolate. The window to the balcony is still wide open, letting in cooler air and the scent of rain and wet earth. Rain is splattering onto the balustrade, and the candles on the window sills flicker.

Mor helps me put the cans into the big bucket with ice while Feyre fills some glasses that Azriel brings in, his elbow brushing against my back gently. Then we curl up on the mattress, Mor on my left, Feyre huddled in on my right, burying into the pillows and blankets. The bowls with snacks are distributed evenly around us, and I snag the one with the caramel popcorn. Azriel stretches out on one of the couches, stuffing pillows into his back, and Cass flops into the armchairs behind us, draping his long legs over the arm rest.

Rhys is last, handing out the plates with cake and chocolate tartes that are drowning in whipped cream before stretching out on the second couch, grabbing the remote and smirking lazily.

"So, who picks first?"

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I snuggle into my blanket, feeling Mor's elbow nudge against mine when she lifts a piece of pizza out of the box balanced on her knees, eyes glued to the screen of the TV.

We're halfway through the second movie of the night. The pizza arrived a lil less than half an hour ago, and the greasy scent makes my stomach grumble happily when I help myself to another slice. Rhys is lazily reclined on his couch, sipping from his drink. Feyre stretches to grab a napkin, and Mor fights with a string of cheese.

Over her head, amber eyes meet mine, and something swells gently against my ribs when a lazy twinkle flashes through them.

Behind me, Cassian shifts. Then he groans and grumbles: "Jesus fucking Christ, can you girls scooch, my back is killing me."

Mor snorts a laugh, and I crane my neck to grin up at him. "You okay?"

Cassian huffs, brows crunched. "No, sitting like this makes me feel like I've aged like a couple hundred years. I don't think I've ever felt my ass like this before."

Feyre's shoulders shake with silent giggles, and grinning, I dig myself out my blanket. "Alright, come on, old man, you can take my place."

Cass whines when he lifts himself out of his seat, making a face when his back cracks, and giggling, I climb over Mor's legs, squeezing past two bowls with crisps. Then I raise my head, and my eyes meet Azriel's, twinkling lazily in the warm light.

The corner of his lips curves, and he shifts, dropping his knee to the side and raising a brow.

My heart swells against my ribs, and slowly starting to beam softly, I climb onto the cushions, dropping into the space between his legs. Azriel huffs dramatically, and I elbow him, feeling his grin against my temple when he slides his arms around my waist and pulls me into his body.

Warmth spreads through me, and I melt into his chest, leaning my head against his jaw. Azriel's hand slides under my shirt, and my breath catches when his rough skin brushes over mine, cupping my side. His breath grazes my temple, then he drops his head to bury his nose in my hair. His knees come up to box me in tightly, and his thumb slowly starts to sweep back and forth over my skin.

My heart leaps high, and something starts thrumming under my ribs until a ridiculously wide smile threatens to spill over my lips.

I wake up with a slightly achy neck, my body curled against something warm and solid and a familiar scent filling my lungs that makes my heart swell slowly and gently against my ribs.

Curling closer, I force open my tired eyes.

Beyond the window, the sky is glowing warmly, the sun just starting to peak over the horizon. Birds are chirping, and the breeze brushing through the window smells like summer.

I yawn, then I raise my head, blinking against the sleep in my eyes.

A soft giggle nearly bubbles from my throat.

Cass is spread out belly down over the middle of the mattress, his face smushed against a pillow. Somehow, while asleep, he has gotten rid off his t-shirt. Mor's foot is hanging off the edge of the mattress, her hair unravelled around her face, and Feyre lays with her back to them, curled into a ball under her blanket. Rhys has turned her way on the couch, his arm hanging off the cushions.

Feeling my chest swell and a wide smile slowly spreading over my face, I drop my head again and curl into Azriel's body.

For a while longer, I stay smushed between him and the back of the couch, feeling Azriel's chest rise against my body with his slow, even breaths and the way his scent fills my lungs. Then the need to pee gets too strong.

Slowly, I peel myself out of Azriel's grip. His hand twitches against my ribs, and something tips over in my chest when his dark brows crunch gently.

Leaning down, I softly press my lips onto his cheek and whisper: "Be right back."

Azriel's lips curve just barely. Then his grip slowly loosens, and I slide off the couch, wincing at the way my back cracks.

I climb over empty bowls and Mor's feet to get to the door. When my gaze flickers over my friends, my eyes get caught on Feyre. Her hand is stretched out towards where Rhys' arm is hanging off the couch.

His fingers are brushing her palm.

Something swells gently against my ribs, and feeling my lips curve into a soft, beaming smile, I turn around and quietly slip out into the hall.

When I get back a few minutes later, Azriel's spot on the couch is empty, and I hear quiet clanking from the kitchen. Rubbing my eyes, I pad through the hall, raising my head, and my breath catches gently.

Azriel looks over his shoulder. The first golden sun rays spill around him, breaking through the tousled dark strands of his hair and reflect in his eyes, making them glow like liquid caramel.

One corner of his lips curves, and he lightly raises an eyebrow.

"Morning." His low, deep voice vibrates through me, lazy and hoarse with sleep, and something swells against my ribs.

Slowly, I start to beam back gently, starting to trudge towards him and crunching my nose against the light. "Hi."

The crease in Azriel's cheek deepens, his head dipping as his eyes follow me, and I slide under his arm and lean into his side. "Coffee?"

Azriel's chest vibrates with a low, soft laugh; something catches in my throat, and when I raise my head, I just catch the way his eyes crinkle.

My heart swells until it feels like it might burst.

Quickly, I stretch, and Azriel's arm slides down my back when I press my lips onto his jaw. His hand curls around my ribcage, and when I slowly pull back, he turns his head until his nose brushes against mine.

My breath hitches, and the corner of Azriel's lips curves. Then he dips his head and kisses me, slow, lazy, until my fingers curl into his t-shirt and my heart thrums against my ribs.

We only break apart when there's no breath left between us, my body is buzzing and my head is spinning. Azriel's thumb brushes slowly over my ribs, his nose gently nudges mine. Then he gently pulls his head back just enough to raise a dark eyebrow at me, his eyes twinkling lazily in the golden light. "Coffee?"

I blink up at him before mumbling: "Right, yeah."

Azriel grins, a slow, lazy thing that makes me breathless all over again like his scent filling my lungs, and I grumble softly, feeling my heart swell against my ribs.

Comfortable, warm silence settles over the kitchen as we start to move around each other in an easy rhythm. The sun slowly begins to rise over the roofs on the other side of the street, shining through the kitchen window, making Azriel's eyes glow like molten amber as he puts on a kettle and lets me pass him, his hand brushing against the small of my back, settling there for a moment. I pull the cups from the cupboard and the milk from the fridge and place them on the counter, my elbow brushing against Azriel when he fills coffee beans into the grinder. Then I pad over the cold kitchen tiles and slide my arms around his middle.

My heart swells at the feeling of his tall, solid body, and I slowly let myself sink into him, resting my cheek against his back and blinking sleepily.

I can feel Azriel turn his head to look over his shoulder. Then he turns back ahead, and his palm gently wraps around my forearm for a moment, his thumb slowly brushing back and forth. The warmth of his skin starts seeping through the soft fabric of his t-shirt, and I make a soft noise and curl into his back, feeling the muscles in his shoulders shift.

I stay like this until the coffee is done. Only then I slowly pull back, rubbing my eyes and accepting the gently steaming cup Azriel hands me, his rough fingers gently brushing some hair behind my ear before pressing against my back, softly guiding me towards the couch.

I climb onto the cushions, crunching my nose to suppress a yawn when I carefully place my cup onto the table.

The couch dips when Azriel slides in next to me, then his arm slides around my waist, and I make a soft noise when he pulls me into his body until my back is pressed into his chest. Curling into him, I reach out to grab my coffee, wrapping my fingers around it and blinking sleepily, and Azriel reaches for his own cup.

The golden rays of sunlight slowly wander over the kitchen floor as I sip my coffee, feeling Azriel's chest slowly rise and fall in my back, his arm sliding tighter around me and lips occasionally brushing against my temple. The quiet is sleepy and warm and comfortable, making my lids flutter gently.

The coffee is long empty and I've curled into Azriel's chest, my fingers slowly brushing back and forth over his forearm, feeling his thumb trace over my hip where his hand has slipped under my t-shirt when the others wake up.

Rhys is first to trudge into the kitchen. Azriel lifts his head from where his nose was buried in my hair, looking over his shoulder, and when I crane my neck gently, Rhys blinks into the morning light, brows scrunched and hair messy. Then he mumbles, deep voice raspy from sleep: "Coffee."

Azriel's lips quirk lazily, and I giggle softly into his t-shirt.

Feyre appears next, hair half fallen out of her braid and eyes tired. She flushes a little when her eyes find Rhys leaning against the counter, staring at the coffee machine like he's willing it to speed up.

Mor pads through the door a few minutes later just as Rhys hands Feyre a cup. There's a bit of smudged mascara under her eyes that she wipes away with her sleeve as she flops onto the nearest chair, blinking tiredly. Then she mumbles: "Hunger."

Rhys chuckles and places a steaming cup in front of her. "Pancakes?"

Mor slowly reaches for the coffee and takes a long slip. Then she nods slowly. "Pancakes."

Rhys smirks and pats her shoulder, then he turns around. Feyre climbs off her chair and joins him at the counter, and Mor gets up, slowly trudging past the table to plop down onto the other end of the couch, curling up against the arm rest and tangling her legs with mine, rubbing her eyes.

Slowly, the kitchen begins to wake. Mor sips her coffee, giggling under her breath when she bumps her ankle against my leg. Rhys and Feyre mix pancake batter and banter quietly, shoulders bumping as they move around each other like they have been doing so for years. Rhys' eyes start to twinkle every time he looks down at her, his smile growing until dimples dig into his cheeks, and even though Feyre huffs at him and shoots him glares, I can see her skin flush gently and the way she tries to hide a smile.

When Cass finally trudges through the door, bare chested and eyes sleepy, the sunlight paints streaks through the dusty air that smells sweet and greasy and Rhys is placing a plate with big stacks of pancakes on the table.

"Morning." Cassian's deep voice is so raspy, it sends a gentle shiver through me and makes him clear his throat and mumble: "Jesus."

Mor giggles and pushes herself up, and Feyre sets a plate with bacon next to the pancakes as Cassian flops down onto a chair, blinking tiredly.

Little by little, soft chatter starts filling the air. I stay curled into Azriel's chest, warmth pulsing through my chest as I watch Feyre and Rhys' bump elbows, Mor's concentrated frown as she meticulously assembles her second cup of coffee, and Cassian's sleepy nose wriggle when he starts piling pancakes onto his plate.

Rough fingers slide between mine, linking them together slowly and squeezing, and I squeeze back, reaching for my cup and hiding my slowly growing smile behind the rim.

@azrielshadows1nger @waytoomanyteenagefeels @icey--stars

@stayinglow-exploringworlds @secretlyhers @knmendiola

@luvmoo @azriels-mate2 @bookishbroadwaybish

@maybe-a-winchester @harrystylesfan2686 @ssmay123

@kalulakunundrum @brekkershadowsinger @acotar-lover

@xadenswhore @ailyr92

[kabr0ztrousers]

Kabr0z Writes Episode 155: Single mother to-be

Find the rest of the Kabr0z Writes anthology here!

Ao3!

CWs: group sex; giving and receiving oral sex; knotting; degradation; impregnation/breeding kink; enthusiastic consent

A/N: This one was easier to write than I predicted! Thanks Red Anon for some really excellent fic suggestions that helped get the creativity flowing

#############################################

The two lupines stood over you. One was a tawny brown, the other a glossy black. You didn't know their names. What's the point? You were only interested in one thing from each other, and as you sat on your bed looking from one slavering wolf-man to the other, you were looking forward to taking it.

The wolves watched you, predatory eyes fixed on your body as you stripped in front of them. You took your time, feeling their gaze as you slowly removed your t-shirt, then your shorts, showing off your midriff. You stretched as you took off your socks, wiggling your toes while they stared at you.

They closed in on you, you feigned resistance as the black one undid your bra, the brown one peeling off your knickers. They were careful not to rip anything, hands at once rough and gentle. You let yourself be handled by them. Their tongues passed your lips as they kissed you, one after the other, groping hands squeezing your waist, your belly, your tits. They were all over you. Occasional brushes past your crotch made you shiver. Nobody wanted this over too quickly, and having a pair of lupines worshipping every inch of you is certainly one way to get in the mood.

You let them push you to your hands and knees, down on all fours with the black one behind you, the brown one in front. Somewhere in the jumble of limbs and tongues they'd both found the time to strip off too. The three of you stayed for a moment, panting, taking in the scene. Letting the fantasy wash over you.

The brown one ran his fingers through your hair, absent minded. His dark eyes stared down at you as you struggled to keep your gaze off his thick red cock, gently hardening in front of your face. He let your head, soft touches almost tickling your scalp.

Then he remembered what you wanted.

You yelped as his grip tightened on your head. A fistful of hair becomes a handle with which to pull you in. You couldn't keep the grin off your face when his balls dragged across your face. Your hand strayed between your legs, opening your lips to the wolf behind you.

He didn't need any more instruction. A wide, flat tongue slid over your slit, tasting you as it slid over and around your crotch. His attention made your toes curl, your clit pulsing and throbbing. Waves of static pleasure lapped against your mind as his tongue worked. You could feel how wet you were, leaking directly into his mouth as you mumbled your satisfaction into the lupine ballsack occupying your mouth.

“Damn, you're eager, aren't you?” The brown one muttered “Tell you what, if you ask me really nicely, I'll fuck your face. Would you like that?”

He hadn't pulled your face away from his balls. You tried to nod, pulling your hair against his fist, feeling yourself throb as you did so.

“Beg”

A soft moan leaped from your lips as he yanked you back. His cock was poised at your face, just out of reach of your outstretched tongue.

He repeated himself “Beg, slut”

“Please” you looked up at him. Your voice wavered with the distraction of the other one still relentlessly tongue-fucking you “Please fuck my mouth”

He leaned down to you, his other hand stroking your cheek as his eyes came level with yours “Good slut. You know what good sluts get?”

He stood rapidly, guiding his cock into your mouth “Rewards”

He started slowly, letting you get accustomed to the thick rod in your mouth. You ran your tongue over the tip, teasing the hole. Every eager suck was rewarded with a jet of salty-sweet precum, thin and warm, coating your tongue, rolling down your throat. You sighed in satisfaction, tracing the ventral tube with the tip of your tongue, trying to beckon him onwards, urging him deeper.

Instead he pulled out. You whined, the heavenly tongue leaving your aching, leaking quim, your fingers rubbing against your clit, desperate for stimulation.

The black one spoke “I'm going to rut you. Do you want that?”

“Yes” you whined

“Tell me what you want, slut”

“Please” you were gasping, your mind only able to focus on how much you needed it “I want your cock”

“Good enough”

You almost cried when his cock parted your lower lips. He filled you beautifully, gliding in on an ocean of slick. Your eyes crossed and your tongue lolled, your thoughts just a jumble of sensation. You stared at the cock in front of you, dripping with your spit and precum

“P-please” you managed “Wanna suck”

“Good girl” The brown-furred lupine let you take his cock into your mouth, suckling on it while the black one’s hips slapped against yours.

Sweat dropped off you. Your toes flexed and clenched. You moaned and sighed your orgasms into the cock in your mouth. All you could do, all you wanted to do, was grip the bedsheets for dear life. You let the lupines use you, silently urging them on.

You felt the black one's knot swelling, pushing against your cunt. You slid a hand between your legs. Your fingers gripped behind the thick ball of throbbing flesh, pushing it into you.

“You want my knot? Huh?” He was panting. His words came breathy and growling “you wanna be a single mother?”

You nodded, the cock slipping from your mouth “cum in me” you begged him “knock me up” another moan as you neared your peak again “please”

The brown one pushed his cock back into your mouth.

The black one pushed harder.

Both knots slipped into you. The brown stuck behind your teeth, the tip squirting thick cum into the back of your throat. You spluttered and gagged. Wolf cum dripped from your nose as you struggled to swallow it.

That's not the one that was making you shake. The black wolf’s cock was buried in your cunt. The entire length stretching the tight, muscular walls. You could feel it throb. Swelling as pulse after pulse of virile wolf seed flowed directly into your fertile womb. You thought you could feel it. Millions of swimmers finding your eggs, lodging themselves in your baby-maker. You couldn't, of course, but just the idea of it was making your head spin.

You touched your belly, the clammy, sweaty skin slick under your fingers. Still plugged up with wolf-knot, leaking cum from your hole, you wished your dreams into being.

[bwobgames]

“Alright, I got the portable charger, a piece of gum, 500 pesos, a small sachet of salt…”

“Shouldn’t you bring your thingy?”

“The worm wind up toy?”

“No, no. Well, maybe actually. I mean the little machine you made. You brought it right?”

“I did… but do you really think it would help?

“We don’t know what type of overcomplicated puzzle this thing could be hiding in. It could help. Even if it’s just to dismantle it for its parts”

“WHAT?”

“You hurt me. You hurt us. You want to dismantle your own godchild??”

“I think of it more of a beautiful metamorphosis. Kafka-esq in nature”

“You’re a cruel man. An evil scientist. A modern Frankenstein”

They finish their small bags of useful adventure items and go ahead.

As they reach the entrance, they find it empty of people, but a certain item still waited for them.

“My guitar!”

“Will the guitar help?”

“Maybe! It would be cool if we could defeat it with the power of music!”

This is not the medium for that

“Actually, before we go, uh, wherever we are going”

“How do we know its Haunted and not, well. Just haunted”

“Whar”

“What if instead of. Evil house. It’s Ghost house”

He takes a seat to take it all in

“So like, Monster house? Like the movie you couldn’t watch because your mom deemed it inappropriate?”

“That uvula joke changed me in ways I still don’t understand”

“But I mean, it could just be ghosts. Not the house itself being some kind of. Creature”

“A creature feature… like some sort of snake…”

“What? No. A train creature would be a whale. It’s gigantic and ca fit many creatures inside, yet relatively harmless”

“I see your point but a train is literally snake shaped. It doesn’t even have legs. It can even fit the Garden of Eden metaphor”

“I don’t think haunted houses care much about the bible.”

“Just because they are house that doesn’t mean they can’t enjoy literature”

“No, no, I believe that. I just don’t think they would be able to understand more nuanced themes in writing. I don’t think a house has enough media literacy for Ulysses.”

“But a snake might”

“Snakes can be deadly though; we don’t want this place to be deadly.”

“Whales can be deadly too! But on accident, just by being big and hungry. Isn’t that worse for us here?”

Interruption! Beebo attack.

For a supposed professional house hunter, he sure is bad at deciding if a whale or a snake is deadlier.

“Anyways, I was thinking that we should also check the possibility of it being ghosts.”

“So we play Phasmophobia in real life?”

“We must.”

With a new determination, they march to the supposed lost and found. Which a quick talk to a worker confirmed to be the very end of the VIP part.

“Hello! Have you seen a dart anywhere? Around this tall? Pointy? Has great dreams and ambitions? Has not tasted blood yet?”

“Ah, yes! I brought one here, let me check…”

The worker looks around, opening and closing different little cabinets

“… I think it fell somewhere”

“It’s lost^2?”

“Someone might’ve taken it, we’ll ask around”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, its crimes were too great, it won’t be missed.”

“If uh. If you say so”

Once the worker leaves, they begin their scheme.

“Alright, let’s become amateur mediums. Larges, even.”

<PREV START NEXT>

[velvetghoul]

Say It Like You Mean It

✦ One-Shot

M!Reader x Utahime Iori | 18+ MDNI

cw: explicit sexual content, age gap (reader is younger adult), male reader, flirty/dominant reader, brat tamer dynamics, oral sex, semi-public tension, teasing, fingering, reader is a zenin, Utahime being soft but trying to act strict, praise, light hair pulling, begging, rough sex, creampie, slightly unprofessional setting, reader is a menace

⸻

It starts after the mission.

The cursed spirit was nothing. Barely a warm-up.

But the two of you are covered in sweat, adrenaline high, standing too close in the old abandoned school building they’d used as the scene.

You brush past her in the hallway, letting your fingers graze her lower back.

“Nice work, sensei.”

She grabs your wrist before you can pull away. Her grip is firm. Her eyes are dangerous.

“Don’t. Start.”

You tilt your head, leaning in so close your lips almost brush her ear.

“I think you like when I do.” She doesn’t answer.

But she doesn’t let go, either.

You're kissing her before she can pretend otherwise—back pressed against a dusty wall, your mouth hot on hers, hands sliding up her shirt like you’ve been dreaming about it.

She gasps into your mouth when you tug at her waistband.

“This is a mistake,” she pants.

“And yet,” you say, grinning, “you’re already wet for me.”

She tries to glare, but then your fingers slide into her panties, and her head tips back with a moan that ruins her whole act.

“You’re so tense,” you murmur, dragging your fingers through her folds, slow and easy. “Let me help, sensei. Let me make you feel good.”

Your thumb finds her clit and circles it gently, teasing, coaxing her open until she’s grinding into your hand, breathing like she’s about to come undone.

“Say it,” you whisper. “Say you want it.”

She doesn’t speak.

So you press harder, two fingers easing into her, your mouth at her neck.

“I know you do. I can feel it.” When she moans, it’s wrecked.

“Fuck—okay. Yes. I want it. Just—shut up and fuck me.”

You smirk. “Gladly.”

You turn her around against the wall, hiking her skirt up around her hips, pushing her panties to the side. You drag the tip of your cock along her slit, teasing again—just enough to make her squirm.

“You’ve been thinking about this,” you whisper, guiding yourself in. “Bet you touched yourself after I flirted with you last week.”

She groans. “You’re so fucking cocky—”

You push in, slow and deep, and her sentence dies on a moan.

“Oh, fuck—”

You don’t start pounding into her. Not yet.

You stay close, your hand wrapping around her waist, your mouth brushing the shell of her ear.

“You take me so well,” you breathe. “I could stay in you forever.”

She reaches back, nails digging into your thigh, silently begging you to move.

So you do.

You fuck her hard—your hips snapping against her ass, your name spilling from her lips like a broken chant. Her legs shake, her moans sharp and needy, her pride completely gone.

When she comes, it’s with a choked sob, clutching the wall like it’s the only thing holding her up.

You chase your own release seconds later, spilling inside her with a deep groan, your body pressed flush to hers, breathing like you just ran miles.

After, you help her fix her clothes in silence.

When her hands tremble, you gently button her blouse for her. She watches you, still flushed, lips parted.

“…You’re trouble.” You wink. “But the kind you keep coming back to.”

She shakes her head—but she doesn’t walk away.

Instead, she sighs, leans against you, and mutters:

“Next time, we’re doing it somewhere clean.”

You grin. “So there is a next time.”

She groans. You’re already planning it.

The conference room at Jujutsu High smells like coffee, ink, and Gojo’s overuse of whatever obnoxious cologne he’s picked this month.

You sit across from Nanami, one chair down from Utahime, legs spread lazily, slouched back like the meeting is the most boring thing you’ve suffered in months.

Utahime’s voice was stern walking in, her posture professional—but now her fingertips graze your thigh under the table.

Innocent. At first.

You glance over—her face is calm, focused, nodding as Gojo explains the mission brief like he’s hosting a game show. Her hand, though? It’s drifting higher. Slow. Intentional.

You raise a brow. A slow, crooked grin forms on your face.

Oh? So that’s how she wants to play.

Without a word, you slide your hand under the table, grab her wrist, and guide it higher—higher—until her palm is pressed right against your cock, already semi from the way she kept brushing against you.

You don’t move. She tries to pull away but you just thighten your grip.

Just lean back in your chair, looking forward like you’re paying attention. Smug as hell.

Her breath stutters. Only barely. But you feel her freeze.

You turn your head slightly, your voice low enough for only her to hear.

“Go ahead, sensei. Don’t stop now.”

She glares without moving her head. Her cheeks are a little pink. Her hand tries to pull away—but you keep it right there, your palm flattening hers over the hard bulge beneath your uniform.

“You started it,” you murmur, “you finish it.”

Gojo is still rambling about travel logistics. Nanami is silent, pen scratching notes.

You keep her hand there for another few torturous seconds, then finally let go, brushing your thumb over her knuckles before withdrawing completely.

She snatches her hand back under the guise of grabbing her cup, lips pressed into a firm, murderous line.

You smirk.

Eventually, Gojo claps his hands. “That’s it! Mission briefing complete. Nanami, don’t kill anyone unless it’s necessary. And you, try not to flirt with the entire country. Utahime, you’re in charge of making sure these two idiots don’t get arrested.”

You stretch, voice honey-smooth as you stand.

“Understood. You all have a good evening.”

Gojo waves you off. Utahime doesn’t look at you. Not directly.

You walk out of the room slowly, letting your fingers run along the wooden frame of the doorway like you’re bored. Just before you disappear down the hall, you glance back and catch her watching you, trying not to.

That flustered little edge still in her eyes.

Outside, the sky’s turning that soft, stormy blue. You lean against the wall near the courtyard, flicking your lighter open with one hand, cigarette between your lips.

The flame flares. The ember glows. You inhale. Exhale slow.

Let the smoke drift upward as your mind drifts right back to her face—her hand, her pride, the way she flinched when you made her feel how hard you were, right in front of her colleagues.

You grin to yourself, tongue running over your teeth.

The first drag of your cigarette hasn’t even burned halfway when you hear the door swing shut behind you.

You don’t look. You already know it’s her.

Utahime’s heels click softly across the courtyard stones—measured, restrained—but when she stops behind you, the silence stretches.

You smirk without turning. Blow a lazy stream of smoke into the sky.

“You forget something, sensei?” A beat. “You’re a bastard.”

You chuckle. “Not the first time I’ve heard that today.”

Finally, you glance over your shoulder.

She’s standing there with her arms crossed, lips drawn tight, but her eyes—those sharp, beautiful eyes—are burning.

“You can’t just—do things like that. Under the table. In a meeting.”

You flick the ash from your cigarette, eyeing her. “I didn’t do anything you didn’t start.”

Her jaw tightens. She looks like she wants to slap you and kiss you.

You step closer.

“You gonna punish me for it?” you ask, voice low, teasing. “Bend me over a desk? Spank me till I say sorry?”

She glares—but her cheeks flush. You grin. “Thought so.”

You back her up slowly, until her spine hits the wall of the stone arch near the training field. Your hands settle on either side of her, caging her in. The cigarette dangles from your fingers, smoke curling lazily between you as you lean in.

“Y’know…” you murmur, eyes dropping to her mouth, “you’re cute when you try to act like you don’t want it.”

“I don’t—”

You press your knee between her thighs. Just enough pressure to remind her. She gasps quietly.

“You’re wet right now, aren’t you?”

“Shut up—” You tilt your head, whispering hot against her ear. “I can feel it.”

Your free hand slides down her hip, brushing between her legs, pressing over her covered heat just enough to make her shiver.

“Bet you’re aching for it. Bet all you’ve thought about since that meeting is me bending you over your desk.”

She whimpers—barely—but it’s enough.

You smile against her ear. “There she is.”

Her hands fist in your shirt. “I hate you,” she breathes.

You take the cigarette from your mouth, toss it to the ground, and crush it with your boot.

Then your mouth crashes into hers. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s filthy.

Teeth and tongue and heat. Your hand grips her jaw. Her back arches against you, hips grinding into your thigh like she needs the friction.

“You hate me,” you groan into her mouth, “but you’re dripping through your panties.”

She gasps when you push her leg up around your waist.

You drag your hand up under her skirt, teasing her, not quite giving in. You feel the heat there. The proof.

“You’re soaked.”

“F-Fuck—”

“You want me to fuck you right here? Against the damn wall where anyone could see?”

“I—I can’t—”

“You could. You’d let me. If I told you to beg for it, you would, wouldn’t you?”

Her breath catches. “I—I hate you.”

You smirk. You don’t say a word. You just grab her hand.

And she lets you—lets you lead her across the darkened hallways of Jujutsu High, past classrooms, past storage closets, down to her office where the lights are off and the silence hums like a warning.

You shove the door open. Pull her in. Lock it with a soft click.

Then you turn. And she’s already on you.

She kisses you like she’s starved—like the teasing, the games, the risk of being caught has her throbbing with want. Her hands claw at your shirt, and you grab her hips, lifting her onto the edge of her desk like she belongs there.

She gasps as you press between her thighs, lips wet and swollen from the kiss.

“You’re a fucking menace,” she breathes.

“And you,” you growl, pulling her closer by the hips, “are five seconds away from begging.”

You yank her panties aside. She trembles when you drag two fingers through her folds, slow and lazy.

“You’ve been dripping since that meeting, haven’t you?”

You curl your fingers into her, just enough to make her moan and collapse forward into your chest.

“I’ll be smug when you’re coming on my fingers,” you mutter into her ear. “When you can’t even say my name right.”

She grabs your collar, kisses you hard, panting into your mouth as your fingers fuck her slow, knuckle-deep, wet sounds echoing through the quiet room.

You whisper filth between kisses.

“Touch yourself thinking about me?” “Think about how I’d bend you over this desk?” “You like the way I talk to you, don’t you? You need it.”

When she shudders against you, whispering your name like a confession, you pull your hand back—earning a whimper.

“Turn around.” “What?”

“You want to come?” you say, voice rough as your belt comes undone. “You’re gonna take me bent over this desk. Just like you’ve been fantasizing about.”

You press her chest down flat onto the wood, skirt bunched at her waist, your hand between her shoulders holding her in place as you line up behind her.

“Tell me to stop,” you growl, lips hot at her neck. “Tell me now, or you won’t get the chance later.”

“…Don’t stop.”

You push in. One slow, thick inch at a time.

She cries out—soft and broken—hands clutching at the edges of her desk.

You bottom out with a groan, your palm sliding down her spine.

“Fuck, sensei—so tight. So goddamn perfect.”

You start to move. Hard, deep strokes that make her moan into the desk, legs shaking. Your grip on her hips bruises. Your other hand tangles in her hair, pulling just enough to arch her back.

She’s gasping. Begging. Cursing you through clenched teeth.

And you love every fucking second of it.

“You gonna come for me like a good girl?”

“Y-Yes—please—!”

“That’s it,” you hiss, voice ragged. “Let them hear you. Let the whole damn school know who’s making you fall apart like this.”

She comes with a strangled cry, shaking under you, and you don’t let up—fucking her through it until you spill deep inside her with a groan, hips stuttering as you fill her up.

The room is quiet.

Your chest rises and falls against her back as you catch your breath. You kiss her shoulder—softer now.

“You okay?”

She nods, dazed. “I hate how much I needed that.”

You pull out slowly, help her stand, straighten her skirt for her.

“I know,” you smirk. “But lucky for you… I’m not done with you.”

The next time she sees you—it’s at your apartment.

You're in a T-shirt, boxers, no shame whatsoever, leaning in the doorway with a cocky smirk like you expected her to show up the moment her heat died down.

You did. She storms in without waiting to be invited.

Slams the door shut behind her.

You whistle. “Didn’t know you missed me that much, sensei.”

“Shut. Up.” You raise a brow. "Oh, feisty."

Her hand grabs your collar. Shoves you backward until your spine hits the wall.

You grin. “Mmm… what’s this? Sensei’s gonna punish me?”

“Yes,” she hisses, dragging your shirt up and off. “And you’re going to shut the fuck up for once.”

Your mouth twitches. “Doubt it.” She pushes you onto the couch.

Straddles you like she owns you—like she’s the one with all the power now.

Her hands slide up your chest, over your throat. Her fingers curl lightly around it, not squeezing—just reminding.

You look up at her through your lashes, smile lazy and wide.

“You're shaking,” you murmur.

“I’m going to ruin you.”

“Good.” You lean in, about to kiss her, but she grabs your jaw.

“No. I’m in charge now.” You groan. “Fuck, I like you like this.”

Her hands push your boxers down just enough to free your cock—already half-hard, eager, shameless.

“Oh? You like being used, Zenin?”

“No. I like you using me,” you mutter. “Come on, sensei. Make me behave.”

She sinks to her knees.

You don’t even get to smirk before her mouth is on you—hot, wet, demanding. She swallows you down with no patience, lips dragging, tongue curling around the head like she’s punishing you with pleasure.

“Shit, Utahime—”

She pops off with a loud, wet sound. “Be quiet.”

You groan and throw your head back.

She doesn’t give you a break. Keeps going until your thighs are shaking, fingers tangled in her hair, your voice cracked from biting back moans.

Then she stops.

You blink, breathless. “You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

Her eyes glint as she climbs back onto your lap.

“No. I’m going to ride you until you forget your own name.”

She sinks down onto your cock in one smooth motion, mouth dropping open in a gasp as she takes every inch.

You clutch her hips, but she slaps your hands away.

“No touching unless I say.” You moan.

“God, you’re so hot when you’re bossy.”

“Shut up.”

She rides you rough, deep, rolling her hips with wild, frustrated rhythm—like she’s punishing herself for how good it feels. Her hands grip your shoulders, her pace relentless, skin slapping, your moans tangled together in the air.

And yet—you keep smiling.

Even as your head falls back. Even as you start to tremble beneath her.

“You trying to break me, sensei?” you pant, biting your lip. “You might have to try harder.”

She snarls and grabs your hair, pulling your head back until your eyes meet hers.

“Then take it,” she growls. “Take it until you can’t speak.”

She bounces harder, deeper—her breath shaking, her voice breaking—and finally you lose it.

You come with a groan, body spasming beneath her, her name spilling from your lips like worship.

But even as you pant through the aftershocks, even as she collapses over your chest, you drag your fingers down her spine and whisper:

“You’re gonna have to do that again, y’know.”

She groans into your neck. “I will.”

You grin. “Good. I’m not done misbehaving.”

໒꒰ྀི ˶• ༝ •˶ ꒱ྀི১ hope you like it!!

be sure to check out my other stuff too <3

[fanfic-obsessed]

Crack Grude Match

I had an idea for an undeniably crack grudge match. Consider this:

Ra’s Al Ghul vs. The Joker…but

Not for the reasons you would think.  Just bare with me. Also no cannon was consulted in the making of this. 

When Tim Drake is ten years old he is abducted by Joker and Harley Quinn, who turn him into Joker Junior. They hold him captive for 6 months, no one notices (a series of unfortunate computer errors saw him dropped from the teachers roster so his absence is not noted).  However Tim is not quite as broken as The Joker or Harley thinks he is and when they try and get him to kill a random man he shoots The Joker and escapes. Then Tim, 10 years old, found a sketchy shady doctor to pay to fix the damage The Joker did and, for Sketchy Shady Doctor reasons, did not report that he had to do plastic surgery on a 10 year old. Tim deprogrammed himself. 

The bats did not know that there was even a boy who had been turned into Joker Junior until years after the fact. After Harley left the Joker for good, she mentioned it to Bruce and Dick. Neither she nor Joker ever knew the real name of the boy they took.  Nor did Tim, later, let her get a good look at him. 

History continued on. Jason was killed by Joker. Tim became Robin. Jason came back. Bruce was lost. Tim brought Bruce back. 

All without anyone but Tim ever knowing what happened to the little boy who was tortured into becoming the Joker’s son. Then at some point post Bruce Quest the Joker escapes Arkham and gets a good look at Red Robin, somehow recognizing the young adult as Joker Junior.  Joker goes to recapture his son, and bring him home.  All the Bats are there, as is Harley (because I want her there for this). Unfortunately Ra’s with his ninjas also attack, aiming to capture Tim.  Ra’s says something to Tim that is very decidedly creepy and sexual.

I do want to note here, Joker does genuinely love both Junior and Harley. He is an abusive, toxic piece of shit and his love is equally toxic but he does love them in the only way he is capable. 

Joker hears the comment made by Ra’s.  Now Joker has precisely one(1) paternal instinct. That instinct is ‘creepy old dude is hitting on my son. I must attack’

So very abruptly this went from like a four way fight (The Bats, The Joker and his Gang, The Sirens, and Ra’s and his Ninja’s) to the Joker snapping around to where Ra’s was standing going “What the fuck did you just say about my son” and signal his goons to curb stomp the Ninja’s (The Ninja’s are highly trained, but the Goons are very high on Joker venom and no one goes to work for the Joker who is well adjusted). In the confusion Ra’s exits stage left. 

Joker turns to Red Robin, “Sonny boy, we’re gonna hafta catch up later. Papa needs to go dismember an old pervert. Don’t worry though, Papa’ll find you and we’ll get you looking healthy again in no time.” Then the Joker stalks off to hunt down Ra’s Al Ghul. 

Everyone else stares at Red Robin awkwardly. Red Robin has gone really pale. Then Harley takes half a step toward RR and goes “JJ?” 

Tim jerks at the sound (like he had been electrocuted) a quiet ‘Mama’ and half a giggle escapes before Tim claps his hands over his mouth to muffle the sound (hard enough that there would be bruises along his upper lip). It is now time for Tim to have a massive breakdown as he contends with the simultaneous panic attacks coming from the idea that the Bats will know about JJ, The Joker knows he’s Red Robin and seems to want him back, and the realization that he is not as healed from his childhood trauma as he thought. 

The Bats and the Sirens get Tim somewhere safe and quiet.  Tim is hyperventilating, trying not to start laughing or fall into a JJ mindset.  Harley visibly longs to pull Tim into a hug and comfort her son. She is also deeply aware of the fact that, even if Tim wanted comfort from her its because she helped torture him until he began to associated her with being a mother. 

I have no idea where this would go from here. I just wanted the Joker’s one redeeming quality to be ‘Going to have a grudge match against a creep old man for hitting on Tim, his teenage son’