#writing for slash is always fun :))

[tennessoui]

Me, a dumbass, reading the hanahaki update, not realizing the chapter count was updated: Wow, Anakin hasn’t even shown up yet. He’ll have a lot to do to fix all of this in just one chapter

honestly the second chapter was gonna be anakin’s pov but I figured obi-wan needed another one to really establish his narrative, his motivations, his priorities, and his emotional state

meanwhile anakin can survive with only one and a half chapters in his pov his motivations are very easy it’s just “obi-wan obi-wan obi-wan obi-wan obi-wan”

[chernabogs]

I made this post yesterday which @/hanafubukki and @/rayroseu and I kind offfff got inspired to actually write something LMAO

Labours Gained

Inc: Malleus, groundskeeper, nanny, briefly Maleficia WC: 2.2k Warnings: None, except swearing Summary: Consequences for your actions come in many forms. For some, it's a time out. For others, it's mucking around in mud all day.

Eirnan was a man who has endured many challenges in his life. Over 600 years of employment as head groundskeeper at Black Scale Palace meant he had faced wyrms, blight, drought, tenebrae boars which had torn up the root vegetables, and the odd employee who nicked a few carrots for their own personal use. He had served during Queen Maleficia’s first reign, and then the wars, and now her second reign. He knew which plots of land were most fertile for which plants, he knew of companion flowers and the medicinal benefits of the herbs, and his mind was an almanac of its own right. 

Eirnan was a learned man… until it came to the matter of child-care. He never knew how to act around children, nor did he have any interest in interacting with them to begin with. 

But now it’s a beautiful cloudy day in Black Scale Palace, and there is a very, very miserable boy standing before him. 

He’s poorly dressed for the occasion—fine garments in the fields are a recipe for disaster—and the eight o’clock hour shows residual glossiness in those green eyes. His arms are crossed firmly over his chest and his lower lip is jutted out in a pout. 

Crown Prince Malleus is a temperamental boy—everyone in Black Scale knows this. His latest explosion of emotion regarding an off-handed comment a tutor said (it was a jest! the man had cried while diving for cover behind trees to avoid furious lightning bolts) had resulted in a complete annihilation of the palace gardens. Eirnan had spent much of yesterday repairing the damage while mumbling about how ‘some things truly are genetic’ under his breath. 

Then he had received a missive. A missive, which led them to this moment, in which he stands before the prince with his own arms crossed over his chest and his own equally unimpressed expression on his face. At a glance, one would think the two are related with how mirrored these looks are. 

Eirnan pulls out a pocket watch and raises an eyebrow. “On time today, hm?” 

“I was told not to be late,” Malleus bites back, attitude in his tone as he glares up at the groundskeeper. He doesn’t want to be here. Eirnan doesn’t want him here either. It’s Queen Maleficia who has shoved them together like two children in a time out. 

Eirnan can’t help but wonder if he may have slighted her in the past and this is her round of revenge. 

“Right, well, you’re on time but you’re certainly not dressed right.” His gaze skims over the boy's proper attire before raising to look at his nanny instead. The woman ducks her head and focuses intently on the book she holds, making it obvious that no aid will be given. This earns a scoff from Eirnan as he reaches up to rub the back of his neck. 

What exactly can he make the prince do? Queen Maleficia made it clear that a lesson was to be learned today for his actions. Malleus was barred from using any magic, and the nanny was here to ensure that this was followed through. The prince knew no loyalty or secrets were kept by his staff—a sad reality for a seven year old to face. 

“It isn’t like I just have clothes to get dirty lying about.” Malleus retorts again while continuing to glare up at him. There is little to no remorse present—just sheer grouchiness. “I don’t usually muck in mud.” 

“Well, you’re mucking in it today.” Eirnan can’t help but have his own bite in his words as he turns and treks towards the nearby gardening shed. Malleus stands rooted in his spot for a moment before following, having to run a little to keep up with the older man's long strides. 

The inside of the shed contains the extra attire that the staff wear when working the fields in the on-season. Although the prince is significantly smaller than many of Eirnan’s employees, he does manage to scrounge up some pants, a top, and gloves for the boy to wear. 

The shoes are a lost cause. There are no boots that can fit the boy without making him goose walk around the field.

“Put these on then, either over your clothes or not, and then meet me back outside.” He tosses the fabric into the prince’s arms, making the boy stumble back with an oof! of surprise. Malleus looks down at the clothing before his lip curls in disgust. Eirnan does his best to stifle the satisfaction he feels about that as he steps out of the shed and slams the door shut. 

It’s a beautiful cloudy day in Black Scale Palace, and this is going to be a long ordeal.

_____________________________________________________________

Twenty minutes of protest later finds Eirnan and Malleus standing before a re-soiled plot of garden near the edges of the palace. The boy's act of destruction yesterday had uprooted a majority of the roses that had been planted there, but a few bushes still remained standing—albeit charred and drooping from the assault. Near their feet are bundles of rose plants that Eirnan had been soaking in the greenhouse overnight in preparation for what was to come today.

The nanny had followed them to this area and is watching with interest from her position on a nearby bench. Malleus looks significantly less intrigued. His gloves are lying discarded on the grass along with his shovel and there’s a distinct air of boredom about him. 

“So, what we’re going to do is use our shovels to dig up some holes, ‘bout 18 inches deep, 18 inches wide, yes? Then I need you to mix compost in there—”

“Compost?” Malleus’ head snaps to look up at Eirnan wide-eyed. “But I read that compost has—”

“Shit. Yes, there’s shit in there. Do you still want to fight about putting on those gloves?” Eirnan leans against his own shovel as he looks down at the young boy. Malleus’ brow furrows and his lower lip trembles before he’s grabbing the gloves and shoving them on his hands. He looks ready to cry or throw another tantrum. Eirnan tenses in case that does happen, the memories of the tutor running through the gardens yesterday still fresh in his mind. If Malleus’ does snap, that means he’ll be out here tomorrow, too.

Tough lesson. 

“Anyway, mix the compost, and then we need to loosen the roots and put them in the mound. Keep the bud union—that’s the little knob there.” He pauses to squat down and point at the bud on the root. Malleus leans down to look at it as well before Eirnan continues. “About 1 to 2 inches below the ground. Briar Valley has a colder climate, so if we keep it up, it’ll kill the plant.” 

“If a plant can’t survive the weather, should we really be planting it?” Malleus’ question is fair. Most of the time, one wouldn’t try to grow plants that can’t acclimate well. 

“They can survive, they just need a little help. Princess Meleanor herself was an enormous admirer of roses—it’s her notes of how to plant them that we’re following right now.” Eirnan clears his throat before re-focusing on his explanation. He misses the flicker of interest in the prince’s gaze at the mention of his mother’s name. “As I said, keep it below ground. Then we refill the hole ‘bout three quarters with soil and pat it down. Water it a little, let it soak, and then water it again.” 

“There are too many steps.” Malleus grabs at the shovel with an apprehensive glance at the dirt. “Can’t we use a little magic? We don’t need to use it for all of the steps, but one or two? I can just make all the holes appear—” 

“No magic. Her highness’ strict orders. Unless you want Queen Maleficia to come out here and watch you herself, which I’m sure is the last thing you want, I’d advise listening to instructions.” Eirnan grabs at his own shovel before tapping it on the back of the prince’s heels, making the boy step forward. “Hop to it, then. This will take up a good part of your morning.” 

___________________________________________________________

The first few plantings are painful. The boy doesn’t dig deep enough, and then he digs too deep, and then he buries the plant too deep, and then he doesn’t bother burying it at all. The process reminds Eirnan why he never had any children himself as he carefully explains and fixes all of the prince’s errors. Despite his complaints, the boy actually does listen to his advice, and soon the two fall into a quiet pattern of dig-plant-water. 

The compost part is still met with many vocalized protests, though, and Eirnan soon does relent to doing that himself. 

“How long does it take to grow?” 

Malleus’ question disrupts the silence they had fallen into, causing Eirnan to pause and lean on his shovel again. “Three or so years for these ones. The one’s that are still rooted are fully mature, but I’m not too sure they’ll be blooming this year. The buds got damaged.” 

Malleus, who has been sitting cross legged on the dirt with a bundle of rose plants in his hand, stares at the bushes for a moment while his thumb plays with the stems. “Did my mother plant those ones?” 

“Before she left, yes. She used to plant new ones at least once every few years. When she got her own palace, she had an entire garden there as well.” Eirnan digs another hole as he speaks. He had been in service long enough to see Meleanor weaned off of Queen Maleficia. The girl had sat where Malleus sits now, and their near identical likeness strikes Eirnan as unnerving, as though he’s been projected into the past and is witnessing those spring days once more. 

He clears his throat. “They’ll recover. Roses are hardy plants. Strike ‘em down, and they’ll get back twice as strong.” 

“Are you sure?” Malleus looks up at the groundskeeper, his green eyes squinting against the light. Eirnan doesn’t look back as he keeps digging. 

“Mhm.” 

At the affirmation, the prince returns to planting, now with significantly less attitude than before. He’s almost enjoying the rhythm after a while. Despite his status, in the end the boy is still a boy, and it’s hard to keep a child from loving messing around in dirt. 

It’s when the nanny clears her throat and brings over a basket of food that the two finally take a break from their labours to sit in the nearby grass. Eirnan rarely gets to appreciate the fine foods served to the nobles, so he’s indulging himself heartily in the miniature sandwiches that are present when Malleus begins to speak again. 

“How long have you been doing this?” 

Eirnan pauses, ham sandwich halfway to his mouth. “647 this spring.” 

“647 years?” The boy's voice is incredulous as he looks at him. “You’re old.” 

“And you’re a baby.” Eirnan grumbles back as he wraps a few of the sandwiches in a napkin. 

His comment causes another flash of annoyance to cross the prince’s face. “I’m not! Grandma says I’m very mature for my age!” 

“Did she say that to you before yesterday, or after?” He challenges back. Malleus’ cheeks flush as he grabs at a sandwich and takes a bite. After a few more, the scowl on his face softens before he continues his questioning. 

“Why do you do this? The manual work? It’s easier with magic.” 

“Keeps my stress down.” Eirnan chuckles. The nanny gives a sound that might be mistaken as a laugh, which is quickly covered by a cough while she begins packing the extra food. He mourns the finger sandwiches being lost to the basket. “There’s always something to do for these gardens, and when you’re planting, you can let your mind just fall quiet. Watching something that you worked hard to grow get appreciated by others is a rewarding feeling. Magic takes away from that. The instant gratification fades faster than the long-term that labour brings.” 

Malleus falls quiet again as he finishes his sandwich. He then fiddles with his gloves, which are still too big for his small hands. He has dirt on his cheek and his chin that he seems entirely unaware of. Eirnan offers him a napkin to wipe it off, albeit gruffly.

“It isn’t bad.” Malleus finally mumbles when he accepts the napkin and hastily wipes his face. 

“What, using magic?” 

“No, planting.” Then Malleus looks up quickly with another furrow in his brow. “Except the compost. The compost is bad.” 

“It’s shit.” Eirnan shrugs his shoulders and ignores the sharp look the nanny gives him. Malleus’ lips do twitch slightly into a smirk. 

“It’s shit.” The boy repeats, causing the nanny to say his name in a scolding tone, which finally does draw a laugh from the prince. “How many more do we need to plant?” 

“Three, maybe four. Shouldn’t take long.” Eirnan rises with a grunt and brushes a few spare crumbs off of his pants. The prince is quick to scramble to his feet as well. He seems oddly reinvigorated as he pulls his gloves on and grabs his shovel. He then cranes his head back to look up at the taller man with a spark of challenge in his gaze as that cheeky smirk continues to play on his lips. 

“Let’s hop to it then, shall we?”

Eirnan snorts in amusement as the two return to the dirt patch, both unaware of the figure watching from the windows of the palace above, a pleased smile present on her lips.

[pangyham]

been thinking about the liyue gang and how id draw their physical builds so here are some thoughts i had for xy cy and gm in particular

- xingqiu, unsurprisingly, would be quite lanky. i like to think he has broad-ish shoulders, like a thin athlete's build? hes a long boy to me haha, long face, neck, limbs, fingers etc, so naturally hes stands (comparatively) tall at 5'6" or 5'7"

i like to think hes most physically attractive one and has that handsome princely and boyish charm to him because it adds a lot to his fuckass duality LOL

- chongyun is a lot like xiao imo! short stature but with muscular arms. he seems nimble and flexible because of his normal attack animations (which bears a lot of similarities to xiao's actually! this + the fact that chongyun's normal attacks create gusts of wind further reinforces my hc that xiao trains him). sometimes i watch high energy choreography vids on youtube and some dancers look incredibly light on their feet, almost like their body is inherently bouncy? and i imagine chongyun to have that agility to him. chongyun has a delicate face and aura and i let that bleed into my hcs for his fighting style and physical capabilities hahaha. hes kind of like a cat who's deceptively strong. as for height.. just a few inches taller than xiao, so perceptibly short at 5'4"

- ga ming my new beloved. pretty much similar to chongyun but more muscular and stronger just because he wields his claymore with ease. theres a noticeable weight different between cy and his claymore the way he lugs it up after he swings (or even other claymore users like razor who, on his last hit, bounces from impact). meanwhile ga ming literally slams his to the ground LOL. i love his movements though hes very swift and expressive and radiant.. if cy has delicate movements then ga ming's is fierce and (charmingly!) assertive

ga ming is wonderfully charismatic though, i know hes not well known in liyue harbor yet, but he seems like the type to gain a reputation from his friendliness. how could no one adore him hahaha. 5'5" for height! just between xy and xq

[ruvviks]

solana...

[vulpinesaint]

Hi your patron saint quiz still lives rent free in my brain, your prose was so stunning to read!!! Do you have a book or any books that’re similar to your writing? It’s so evocative and scratches my brain just right!!

hi darling! thank you so much! i answered a similar question on inspo for my writing style a few days back (link here) and there should be some authors that are really wonderful on there, if not similar. i have to admit that i don't have anything that's distinctly similar to my writing, at least not that i'm aware of... if anyone can think of anything though. let me know. sounds like something i would want to read too :)

if you wanted more of my writing in a slightly longer form, i can gently hold out my twine project aromanticism. not quite the same vibes, but it is notably longer than my usual poems and interactive like a quiz <3

[moonfromearth]

- Scary movies are so easy to survive. They never think to just move out or call the cops or something.

Day 4 - The Outcast

"Responsible and level-headed, they're often perceived as a 'Debby Downer.'"

from @windbrook's Slashed Challenge.

[potatobugz]

*t-shirt that says "ask me about my bfdi high fantasy au*

[lacy-oh-lacy]

i genuinely need you to write something for rio vidal plzzzzzz i’ll take anything but your writing is perfect so id love for you to write something *cough* dominant jealous rio *cough*

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ 𝑫𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉'𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒑

𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

𝑨/𝑵: Omg thank you, Anon. You're too sweet 𖹭

𝑪𝑾: Fem!Reader, Dom!Rio, Jealous!Rio, Soft domming, knife play, biting, magical G!P, possessiveness

Contrary to all common sense, the quickest way to find yourself on Death’s radar was not through an act of death itself. Not by losing your life or taking another's…

No, it was through her girlfriend.

A stranger's lingering gaze or a friend's pda never escaped Rio’s attention, and a repeat offender, like oh say… that coworker of yours you were talking to at that very moment…

Well, they managed to make an enemy out of the force of nature that could usually pride herself on her indiscriminate apathy.

Rio lurked in the shadows outside your workplace, eyes darkening as that fool made you laugh.

She wasn't even two minutes late to pick you up, and already that snake was curling around you. Unbelievable.

You didn't think anything of it, Rio knew, but she could see in that man's eyes every disgusting thought he was having about you.

It made her sick, it made her burn.

Well, if the shades of purple littering your neck didn't clue him in to the fact that you were taken, she was beyond willing to do it herself.

Under the cover of darkness she shifted her attire with a thought, striding over in a new, clean-cut suit that made his own look like ratty hand-me-downs.

You perked up as soon as you noticed her and it made her heart leap. Your bright smile, your appreciative eyes taking in her new look…

He could never make you glow like that.

“Hey, Baby.”

Rio couldn't help a quick smile reserved only for you as she joined you under the streetlight, arm wrapping around your waist. “Hello, my love. Sorry I'm late, work was murder.”

She turned to face your companion, with a cold and withering stare. A look that could take years off a life.

“Who's your friend?”

You could never truly estimate the depths of Rio's jealousy but you knew that look well enough to know you had to get her out of there.

And you knew it well enough to not be surprised by the intensity she brought to the bedroom that night.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

“I missed you today.”

Rio replied in her softest tone, someone less attuned to her might not have even heard the boundless resentment living within it, “You seemed like you were enjoying yourself.”

Leisurely, she traced her knife from your jaw, down your neck, applying a spine-tingling pressure just short of breaking skin.

“Yeah well, that new guy I work with is pretty fun.” You said breathily, not biting. Her blade caught on the collar of your shirt, lingering above your hammering heart, and Rio laughed.

Never before had such stubborn brattiness looked so good on someone, but you were just something else… teasing her even with a knife to your chest…

She cut through the fabric in one rough slash. “Careful, Lover. Wouldn't want to shorten such a fun man's life span, would you?”

“You wouldn't do that.” you challenged

“Try me. I'd do anything to keep you.”

The sincerity of the statement should have frightened you, but it was intoxicating. To be the object of such devotion from Death herself was a head-spinning high that no drug, spell or new lover could match.

“You'll always have me, Rio.”

There was a pain to the look she gave you in return, a wound behind her eyes, but she found a smile for you before she circled behind you.

“I’d better.” She breathed in your ear, pulling the tatters of what used to be your shirt from your body.

The tip of her knife traveled down your spine, barely grazing your skin on a trail to your skirt, which she skillfully cut open, baring you to her completely.

“My pretty girl…”

Her hand smoothed over your ass-cheek with near reverence before disappearing between your legs.

You gasped, skin aflush, but all too soon you realized she wasn't done playing with you yet.

“Please.” You whimpered as her fingers slid across your folds, just short of where you needed them.

“Say my name.”

“Rio, please, I need you so bad.”

She drew a lazy circle on your clit and your breath hitched, “Well how can I say no to that?”

A tingling warmth followed her hand on your back as she pushed you forward, forcing your chest onto your dresser and you into a bend.

You barely noticed the hardness of the surface against your breasts. You couldn't concentrate over the thought of being so exposed to her, and even that died with your last remaining brain cells as you felt the tip of her cock against your entrance.

She could've gone right in, you were wet enough for her to, but she slowly dragged up and down your slick folds, cock head catching on your clit every time and setting your nerves ablaze.

“Rio.” You whined.

“So impatient.” She laughed. “Don't worry, Baby, I'll take care of you.”

With that she pushed through your centre, slowly and gently sinking inside of you, savoring every blissful moan you let out.

She very nearly lost herself as you jerked against her but she resisted the rough thrust you were so clearly asking for. Your pathetic, little mewls, music to her ears.

She bottomed out inside of you, letting you adjust, letting you enjoy being filled. Then quicker than you could process she pulled out and slammed back in.

You cried out, but Rio wasn't slowing down this time, pounding you again and again with deep, unapologetic thrusts.

“You're mine. You hear that? Say it.”

“I'm yours, Rio.” You choked out, voice bouncing with her pistoning hips.

“Yeah, you’re mine. My good girl.”

She leant forward, her breasts flush against your back, as she sank her teeth into your shoulder, leaving behind a delightful sting.

Rio wasn't usually one for quickies but tonight she'd make an exception. There was a desperation inside of her stronger than mere lust. She had to see you cum.

She twisted her arm around your hip so she could work your clit, rubbing in a frenzy. “Tell me you want me.”

“Want you. Need you.”

“Then cum for me Baby, I know you can do it.”

Rio was nothing short of amazing. The concentrated skill on your clit and the near supernatural speed of her thrusts unraveled you like only she could.

Your mouth fell open and your walls clenched around her in a strangling hold as lust threatened to burn you alive.

“God! Rio!”

You came all over her and right on cue she emptied her cock inside of you, filling you to your very core with what felt like neverending ropes of cum, trapped inside of you by her refusal to pull out.

“I'm never gonna let anyone else do this to you, baby.” She breathed out, mouth returning to your shoulder to lick over the bite mark she left. “Never, for all eternity, I'm yours, and you’re mine.”

[cressidagrey]

Aquatic Adventures

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Summary: Oscar is gone for a Double Header. Felicity builds a sanctuary. 

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂 I should have been writing something useful, that brings the plot forwards, but instead you get Felicity and one of. her "projects". It was very fun to write though. I am living vicariously through a character that has pretty much unlimited funds and is more productive than I could ever dream to be.

It started with Bee’s tears.

The kind that didn’t come with wailing or tantrums. No, those were easy. Manageable. A juice box, a cuddle, a nap.

But this was different.

This was the quiet, trembling-lip kind. The kind that crept up after hours of pretending she was fine. The kind that meant something had sunk deep — words or looks or loneliness that a three-year-old didn’t quite know how to explain.

Felicity sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, Bee curled into her chest like she was trying to fold herself into her mother’s ribs, breath hitching in little bursts. She smelled like sunscreen and finger paint and exhaustion.

“They didn’t want to play with me,” Bee whispered.

Felicity closed her eyes. “Baby…”

“They said my lunch was weird. And I wasn’t funny. And one boy said I was bossy. But I wasn’t even talking to him.”

Felicity kissed the top of her daughter’s head and didn’t say anything for a long time. Just rocked her, slow and rhythmic, like it would fix the cracks.

She  felt that slow, cold fury spread through her chest. The quiet kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made her want to set fire to the entire concept of “socialization” if it meant protecting her daughter

Oscar was on a double header. Back to Back races. Italy, then Monaco. He’d FaceTime in a few hours, would listen and be gentle and say all the right things. 

He always did.

But right now, there was just Felicity. And Bee. And the ache in her ribs where her daughter’s grief lived.

By the time she got Bee to bed — two stories, one lullaby, and a full-body cuddle that ended with Bee curled into the duvet like a sea otter — Felicity was pacing barefoot through the kitchen.

The house was silent. The kind of silence you only got in the countryside, where the world pulled back and left you alone with your thoughts.

That had been part of the appeal.

When she and Oscar first bought the farmhouse, it had been for the space. The privacy. The outbuildings — old structures lined up like forgotten train cars behind the main house, tucked among the trees. Oscar had called them “rustic.” Felicity had called them potential.

One became hers — a workspace-slash-garage-slash-creative bunker where she could weld, sand, build, and paint without anyone breathing down her neck.

The second was the gym-slash-ballet studio-slash-sim room, because apparently their household only functioned on wildly specific, multi-use spaces. Felicity had added the barre herself. A space for her to stretch, to remember what it was like to move for herself.

A third had been left alone. It had once housed horses, long before the property had been theirs. Now it was just empty, echoing structure of exposed beams, weathered wood, and potential.

Felicity already knew what she was going to do.

The pool wasn’t a new idea — just one she’d shelved while life took priority. But now… now it felt like something necessary. Not indulgent, not aesthetic, not Pinterest-fluff luxury. No, it felt like armor. A gift. A promise.

Warm water. Floating. Movement without pressure. Gentle light. No sharp echoes. No mean boys. No group dynamics to navigate.

Just Bee. Just peace.

Felicity would build it herself if she had to.

She’d already started the mosaic months ago, half by accident. Ceramic tiles, soft sea-glass colors, arranged in what would become a leaping dolphin. It was supposed to be for a backsplash or an outdoor table. But now she knew exactly where it belonged.

She padded into the spare room that doubled as storage and gently rolled out the canvas — the dolphin, tail sweeping upward, water droplets in pale aquamarine and cobalt. She touched one of the tiles absently, her fingers steady.

Bee would love this.

She always loved dolphins. Said they were the smartest. The kindest.

That night, Felicity opened the plans she’d drawn up nearly a year ago. A fantasy project. Something she hadn’t told anyone about. Not even Oscar.

It wasn’t going to be a sleek, marble-lined infinity pool. Not some Instagram-glossy wellness sanctuary.

It was going to be Bee’s.

Quiet. Safe. Warm all year round. A sanctuary with soft lighting and temperature-controlled floors. A place where she could float and splash and forget the world existed. A pool built like a hug.

It hadn’t been real until now. But that night, with Bee’s breath soft and even in the room beside her, Felicity started making calls.

Permits. Contractors. Heating systems. A specialist in skylights.

She didn’t tell Oscar.

Not yet.

Because this wasn’t about practicality, or budget, or even architectural ambition.

It was about Bee.

It was about building something so full of love that it drowned out the noise of the world.

***

Felicity Piastri did not throw tantrums.

She’d been raised not to. 

She had been born a Leong. 

She had been raised to wield silence like a scalpel, money like a weapon, and intellect like a blueprint.

 Felicity did not raise her voice. She did not beg. She planned.

She might have stepped away from the world she was born into — from the emerald heirlooms, the art collction, the social calendars managed by secretaries — but that world had trained her.

And when she needed it, she still spoke its language fluently.

The pool was going to be built in ten days.

Not estimated. Not quoted.

Done.

She had the property. She had the design. She had the permits already prepped — half because she liked being prepared, half because, deep down, she’d known something like this might happen.

She started with one contractor.

He told her twelve weeks minimum.

She said, “No,” and called his boss.

The boss said the same thing.

So she called someone else. Then someone else. And then she made a few international calls — to a construction firm her aunt’s interior designer once used back in the day for a rooftop terrace in Dubai.

By 8 a.m. the next morning, there were three project managers in her driveway, holding reusable coffee cups and measuring tapes.

She wielded her iPad like a weapon. Spreadsheets color-coded. Timeline stacked. Materials sourced from three different suppliers. Overnight shipping arranged. When one contractor so much as suggested that “it might be more realistic to give it a few weeks,” Felicity smiled sweetly and said:

“Would you like me to call someone else?”

Felicity didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t threaten. She negotiated.

She offered more money up front. 

She offered bonuses for every milestone completed ahead of time. She cross-referenced three local contractors to cover shifts in 24-hour rotations. She arranged permits to be processed at double speed — because it turns out, local councils moved very quickly when the right legal phrasing and legacy donations were involved.

She even hired a private catering service to feed the crew. 

By the second day, the old concrete had been ripped up. On day three, the beams were reinforced. On day four, the heating system was being installed and a special-order shipment of light blue tiles had landed from Italy.

Oscar texted once from Monaco asking how things were going at home.

She sent back a photo of Bee asleep in her lap and didn’t mention the fact that there were currently four men digging a trench for the overflow piping system just outside the window.

Her phone never left her side.

She paced the hallways in socks and one of Oscar’s hoodies, laptop under one arm, toddler on her hip, telling one man where to reposition the skylight and another which grout colors were acceptable and which were absolutely not. 

She FaceTimed a mosaicist in Vienna to double-check adhesive drying times and personally called a logistics company in Dublin to charter a truck for the filtration system.

On day seven, she brought in fresh pastries for the entire crew and reminded the night shift foreman about the performance bonus.

On day eight, she caught one worker trying to substitute the dolphin mosaic placement.

She handed him a cappuccino and then gently, systematically, explained why that dolphin was going exactly where she wanted it — because her daughter had once drawn a picture where the dolphin was jumping just there.

The man never argued again.

By day ten, the pool was done.

And not just finished. Perfect.

Temperature-controlled. Skylit. Lined with handmade mosaic tiles. Soundproofed. A shelf for toys. A warm rinse-off shower with custom water pressure controls. A soft corner bench where Felicity could read while Bee splashed.

An oasis.

A fortress.

A love letter carved in glass, water, and tile.

***

It was quiet.

Not silent — there was a hum from the heating system, the soft ripple of water against the tile, the occasional creak of timber beams overhead — but the kind of quiet that felt sacred. Like the world had taken a step back to let them breathe.

Bee stood on the edge of the shallow shelf, wrapped in a tiny robe with a dolphin embroidered over the heart. Her hair was pulled into a lopsided ponytail, still sleep-soft, and she was clutching her purple goggles like they were a magic talisman.

She blinked up at her mother.

“This is ours?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Felicity crouched beside her, brushing a curl from her daughter’s cheek. “All ours.”

Bee took another step closer to the pool, bare toes curling against the warm tile. She was still in awe, still trying to process it, eyes wide as saucers as she took in the soft blue tiles, the underwater lights casting golden ripples across the ceiling, the dolphin mosaic swimming in joyful motion across the far wall.

“He’s jumping,” she said, pointing to the dolphin. “Like in my drawing.”

Felicity smiled. “Exactly like your drawing.”

Bee looked down at the water. Then up at Felicity. Then back again.

“Can I go in?”

Felicity didn’t answer. She just held out her arms.

Bee squealed — a real, unburdened sound — and wriggled out of her robe, revealing a bright swimsuit with little yellow fish all over it. She clambered onto the first step, then the second, and then launched herself into her mother’s waiting arms like she’d never had a bad day in her life.

The water welcomed them. Warm, clean, still.

Felicity caught her easily, arms strong, body steady as she sank into the shallow end with Bee held against her chest. Her daughter’s giggles echoed gently off the walls — not loud, not wild, just happy.

The good kind. The healing kind.

“You made this,” Bee whispered after a long moment, eyes full of wonder. “For me.”

Felicity kissed her wet hair. “For us.”

Bee kicked gently, floating with Felicity’s hands under her back. The skylight above filtered in soft afternoon light, catching in the beads of water on her cheeks.

“I don’t think it’ll ever feel bad in here,” Bee said after a while.

Felicity blinked back something sharp behind her eyes. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”

Bee didn’t say anything after that. Just floated.

And Felicity, for the first time in days, let herself breathe.

She held her daughter close. She watched the light dance over the water. She ran one hand through the still-warm surface and felt the ripple carry all the way to the walls — like a promise.

They stayed there until the light changed.

Until Bee’s hair was damp and curling and her eyelids fluttered and she murmured “mama, carry” in a drowsy voice that made Felicity’s chest ache with love.

***

Oscar Piastri was used to coming home to chaos.

Not bad chaos — just the kind that came with Felicity and Bee. Small socks everywhere. A kitchen that looked like it had hosted a baking competition. Doodles taped to the fridge. A Sim rig covered in stickers. A house that was clearly lived in — loved in.

It was his favorite thing in the world.

But this time, the house was… quiet.

He rolled his suitcase down the hall and dropped his backpack by the bench in the entryway. “Fliss?”

No answer. Just the soft hum of the air vents and the smell of lavender and something faintly like salt. His brows furrowed.

He checked the kitchen — no one. The living room — empty, except for a plush dolphin wearing sunglasses.

Then he noticed it: the sliding doors at the back of the house, the ones that led toward the old stables.

One of them was slightly ajar.

Oscar stepped outside, following the faint sound of splashing water. The air was warm, windless. The gravel underfoot shifted as he walked across the path between the outbuildings.

He hadn’t been in the third one in months.

Last he checked, it was still full of unused storage crates and the old treadmill Felicity swore she’d list for pickup.

But the door was open.

He stepped inside.

Stopped.

And blinked.

The stable was gone.

In its place was a pool.

A full, glowing, indoor mosaic-lined oasis with warm lighting, soft acoustics, and — holy shit — was that a skylight!? The air was warm and damp in that gentle, spa-like way, and the walls looked like something out of an architecture magazine.

In the water, half-floating and curled together like sea otters, were his wife and daughter.

Felicity looked up first. She was sitting in the shallow end, hair braided over one shoulder, wearing one of his old t-shirts knotted at the waist and a black bikini bottom. Bee was curled into her lap, her damp curls sticking to her forehead.

Oscar blinked again. “I’ve been gone for two weeks.”

Felicity smiled. “Hi, love.”

Bee perked up immediately. “Papa!” she chirped, scrambling up and doggy-paddling to the edge like a very determined duck.

He dropped to his knees as she launched herself into his arms, wet and squealing and happy.

“We have a pool,” he said, slightly stunned.

Bee beamed. “Mama built it!”

Oscar looked past her, over her shoulder, toward Felicity — who had stood up, water lapping at her calves, and was walking over with that serene, slightly guilty expression she always wore when she’d pulled something massive off and hadn’t warned him first.

“You built a pool,” he said again, a little dazed, like repeating it might make it make more sense.

Felicity reached the edge and leaned her arms on the side, the water rippling around her. Her braid dripped onto the tiles. Her expression was unreadable — half sheepish, half composed, like she knew exactly what she’d done and was only 50% sorry.

“I had the plans ready,” she said. “And the permits. And the contractor contacts. It was going to happen eventually.”

“But you did it in… what, ten days?” Oscar looked around again, like the room might vanish. “There’s a skylight, Fliss.”

Bee, still wrapped around him like a koala, nodded helpfully. “And there’s dolphins!”

“There are dolphins,” Oscar repeated, mouth dry.

He caught sight of the mosaic — the dolphin mid-jump across the far wall, surrounded by sea-glass tiles that shimmered like actual sunlight on water.

Oscar blinked again. “Jesus Christ.”

Felicity’s smile curved slightly. “That’s not his name, love.”

Oscar just stared at her. At her damp hair, her flushed cheeks, the tiny tired lines at the corners of her eyes that only ever showed up when she’d done something monumental and wasn’t sure if she’d get away with it.

He looked at Bee, who was now patting his cheeks with both hands and saying, “It’s warm and it smells like clouds,” which made absolutely no scientific sense and somehow still felt like an accurate description.

He swallowed.

“You built a sanctuary,” he said quietly. “While I was gone.”

Felicity didn’t say anything for a moment. Just rested her chin on her arms, her eyes soft.

“She was having a hard week,” she murmured. “And I couldn’t fix the world. But I could do this.”

Oscar pressed his lips to Bee’s hair, held her closer, and closed his eyes for a second.

Then he looked back at his wife.

And said — with all the love and awe and overwhelmed, dizzy affection in the world:

“I love you so much.”

Felicity blinked. Her mouth twitched. “Even though I didn't warn you?”

“Fliss,” he said, laughing, “you built a pool. In secret. With heating and acoustics and mood lighting. For our three-year-old.”

She tilted her head. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s a hell yes,” he said. Then looked around again and added, “I mean, I thought the bathroom reno during a triple header was bold, but this…”

Bee tugged his sleeve. “Daddy? Can you come swim?”

Oscar kissed her forehead. “Absolutely, sweetheart. Just give me one second.”

He set her down gently, watched her paddle happily back to the steps, then turned to Felicity and offered a hand. She took it, confused — and he pulled her up, wet and blinking and surprised, straight into his arms.

He kissed her like they were back at Haileybury. Like she’d just walked into the common room in his hoodie and undone him with one look.

“I can’t believe you,” he said against her lips.

She smiled. “You always say that when I surprise you.”

“This isn’t a surprise. This is a Bond villain level plot twist.”

Felicity shrugged. “You married me.”

He shook his head, completely smitten. “Best decision I ever made.”

Behind them, Bee was making dolphin sounds and trying to do somersaults.

Oscar grinned, forehead resting against Felicity’s. “Next time you secretly build a swimming facility in ten days, just… I don’t know. Text me first?”

She laughed softly. “Deal.”

“Also—” He kissed her again, warm and slow. “I love you. Have I mentioned that?”

Felicity’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Not recently.”

“Right,” Oscar said. “I love you.”

Then he toed off his socks, pulled off his shirt, and cannonballed into the pool like a six-year-old.

Bee screamed with delight.

Felicity covered her face with both hands — but she was laughing.

And Oscar, floating on his back in the water she built with her bare hands and brain and fury-love, thought:

This is what home feels like.

 Her. Bee. And everything they build together.

[tennessoui]

Kit!! I’ve reread all your fics cause I was missing you during your break and was wondering — what occupies your brain more? One shots set in the GFFA or multi chapter aus? I love when you post what seems like spontaneous one shots of a silly little moment in the GFFA, but then you’ll have these long elaborate plots of obikin set in another universe that you slowly work through chapter by chapter

you missed me during my lil break ? 🥺 🥺☺️

you reread all my fics during my lil break?? 😯😵 that’s a lot of words!!!

and this is a really good question!! I think for me, the way my brain works is that I’m not thinking about a fic unless I’m actively about to write it or am writing it—that’s why it feels like such a big deal to me when an ao3 fic/au gets a Google doc because if it’s not literally open as one of the tabs in my browser or im not actively answering an ask about it, I’m liable to forget, no matter how interested I am in the prompt/fic

(this is also why my browser is a mess with like 6 or 7 open Google doc tabs right now tbh)

so the silly oneshots I have, both gffa and not, definitely consume my time and mind when I’m writing them but then after they’re done, I don’t think about them as much because it’s posted and over — and I’m writing something else. The longer, multi-chapter fics probably take up more room in my mind because they’re something I have to plan or at least something I have to continuously write

And in general, I think writing a chapter update for a fic takes me longer than writing a one shot (especially a silly one shot) because I do want the tone to match the rest of the fic & the characterization to track & I want to make sure that I’m setting up action for the next chapter/that there’s filler but that in general we’re moving forward with the story

[sceletaflores]

KILLING ME ANY WAY BUT SOFTLY...

|| masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader x Tommy Miller

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 5.5k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, DDDNE W/ NON-CON & DUB-CON THEMES, no outbreak au, some pov switching, smoking, drinking, large age gap, unspecified but still brought up, joel and tommy are NOT good men, drugging, somnophilia, fingering, oral sex (f/m!receiving), nat writing a blowjob scene? the world must be ending, dacryphilia, more finger sucking (i can't stop…), p in v, unprotected sex, hair pulling, biting, blood, pain kink, creampie, mentions of prior assault, it's just super gross and super perverted yk, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT’S NOTE: i thought of this like halfway through my frankie fic but i was good and didn't start it until i was finished writing. be very proud of me because that never happens...anyway i've never written a dark fic before so this was very interesting slash fun in like the most morbid way possible. this was also partially inspired by angel @pedgito! PLAYTHING altered my brain chemistry so badly that i needed to partake in the depravity or i would die, like it was medical. everyone go read it and shower her with so much praise and love! once again please please please heed the tags and take your own personal triggers into account before reading. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! special shoutout to @iamasaddie for the icons!

you spend a night with the miller brothers…

You're too pretty to be at a place like this. Too soft. Too young.

That's what Joel Miller thinks the second he sees you.

All done up in short little cutoffs, sipping at something fruity and colorful out of a sweaty glass. Your legs are crossed neatly in front of you like you’re pretending to be grown, pretty white teeth idly chewing on the plastic straw as your eyes bounce around the room curiously.

This bar is too old, too dirty, too mean. The kind of place with dark, sticky floors and crude words carved into the tabletops. Joel’s probably been coming here since before you were born, since before you could walk, talk. 

You’re the youngest in the room by well over a decade—and that’s not lost on anyone. Not on the bartender who checked your ID twice, not on the group of bikers throwing dirty leers your way from the pool table, and sure as hell not on the two men at each end of the bar.

Tommy would call you jailbait, all dewy cheeks and big dumb eyes. Joel clocks you as one of those college girls from the next town over, still clinging onto that teenage naivety and misplaced hope that the real world won’t chew you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

The kind of girl who lies about her age to older men because the attention makes her feel special. The kind who doesn't even realize she’s being hunted until it’s too late.

You're still sweet, Joel thinks. Sweet and soft and stupid.

And he’s right, he always is.

You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.

But Joel? Joel knows exactly what he’s doing.

He catches Tommy’s eye from across the way, jerks his head in your direction discreetly. Tommy follows his eyeline, his face sparking with interest at the look of you. Hungry eyes rake over the expanse of your body with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast, lingering on the soft swell of your breasts through that flimsy top and the bare skin of your thighs.

Tommy cuts his eyes back to Joel after a good long look, brows raised in obvious approval. He nods once, a winner, before his gaze wanders back to you and he’s shifting impatiently in his seat. A moth to a flame.

Joel huffs over the rim of his glass, unamused. He should’ve figured, they haven’t found one as pretty as you in a while. His brother’s bound to get a little rowdy, a little eager.

Out of the two of them, Tommy’s always been the more excitable one. That’s why it’s Joel’s job to set the bait. Tommy’s certainly prettier than Joel, he’s got a safer look to him. He’s just too damn trigger happy, comes on too strong too quick. It can raise red flags.

Joel’s better at playing it down, at taking it slow. He can butter girls like you up and still feign just the right amount of disinterest to keep them wanting his attention. He can tell you’re one of those types, one that’ll preen under anything he gives you. You want someone like him to come over and fawn over you.

You want to feel mature. Powerful. Sexy.

You’re practically begging to be used. He sees it in the way your thighs squeeze together, in the way your glossy lips leave smudges along the rim of your glass.

Joel smiles to himself. 

If you only knew.

Joel waits until you finish off your second drink. He sips at his whiskey and watches the way your tongue swipes along your bottom lip to chase a drop of syrupy liquid. You’re tipsy now, giggling at something the bartender says, the dazed glow of your eyes giving away just how sweetly warm you feel.

You’re still in your right mind, not drunk enough to be sloppy, not yet. That’s how he wants you—pliable, loose, thinking you’re the one still in control. 

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, the familiar burn coating his throat and settling in his chest as he slides off his stool. It takes nothing to make his way over, a few long strides and he’s leaning up next to you. Not too close, just close enough to smell the perfume you’re wearing—something bright and sugary that has his cock stirring behind his fly.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice as deep as molasses and twice as slow, Southern charm oozing from every word.

You turn, blinking up at him, pupils a little too blown to be from two drinks alone. It makes him grin. You’re sensitive, easy. This might be a hell of a lot simpler than he thought.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you chirp, voice sugarcoated, a little too bold for your own good. “A place like this seems kinda…grungy for someone wearing flannel.”

That bright little smile of yours is like a hook in the roof of his mouth, tugging something dark and mean loose behind his teeth.

Joel chuckles low in his chest. “You sayin’ I look outta place?”

You shrug, all coy-like, swirling the last few sips of your drink. “A little.”

Joel leans in then, just enough for it to mean something. His eyes pin you down like a thumb over the belly of a butterfly, giving you a little once over that has your breath hitching. Your lips part, showing off the teasing pink of your tongue. Joel thinks about pushing into that sweet little mouth, getting that gloss all messy on his cock. 

“Maybe I was waitin’ on somethin’ worth comin’ out for,” he says, voice gone low and smoky.

You giggle, that tipsy, flirtatious little sound. You don’t notice the way Joel signals the bartender with two fingers and a single nod. He already knows what he’s ordering—something that’ll go down smooth but hit you fast. A new drink is slid in front of you before you can blink, warm amber liquid swirling in a clear tumbler.

You look confused. “I didn’t—”

“On me,” Joel says, voice slick. “Try it.”

You hesitate for just a second before bringing it to your lips, eager to please. Eager to prove you can keep up. You make a face when the smell hits you, strong and punchy. Joel just grins, already amused by the way you wrinkle your nose like it’s cute to be difficult.

“C’mon now, can’t drink that sweet shit all night,” he drawls, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Gotta learn how to hold your liquor, baby.”

You giggle again, your fingers dainty around the tumbler as you mimic his movement. He watches you sip and watches your throat bob as you swallow. Watches the little wince, the tremble in your lips as it hits your system.

“Good girl.” Joel smiles around the rim of his own drink, eyes wandering over to where Tommy was sitting. He’s long gone now, a few bills shoved under the empty glass sitting on the bartop.

Joel turns back to you, clueless and sipping slowly at your whiskey. He drops his hand from the bar, lets his fingers brush against the soft skin of your thigh. You don’t flinch, hardly even bat an eye. You just smile up at him, lashes low and lazy against your cheeks, body heat rising with the alcohol laced through your bloodstream.

Your thigh twitches under his knuckles, but you don’t move away. If anything, you lean in a little, nudging your shoulder against his arm. Your shirt slips down a few inches, showing off the lacy trim of your bra snug over your breasts. Joel sets his drink down, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip at the sight.

“You always this friendly with strangers?” he murmurs, voice quiet enough that only you can hear it, eyes dragging up to your face.

Your lips part again, catching the low bar light. “Only when they’re buying my drinks.”

Joel laughs—deep, rich with something secret. 

And he orders another round.

It takes almost nothing for Joel to get you off your stool and obediently following him out of the bar. A few sweet words and lingering touches is all you needed, liquor clouding your good judgement when you agree to come home with him.

It’s still warm, even with the sun long gone and the moon casting a white shine over the two of you. Crickets sing in the grass as you walk together, Joel’s hand splayed out across the small of your back, thumb slipped up under the hem of your shirt to rub soft circles over the notches of your spine as he gently steers you towards his truck.

The drive to his house isn’t long, a little less than ten minutes. Joel’s knee bounces impatiently as he watches the road, window rolled down so he can flick the ash of his cigarette out. It gives him something to do with his hands, something to chew on before he can get at what he really wants.

You’re sitting pretty in the passenger seat, giddy as you swipe even more sticky gloss on in the truck mirror, asking dumb questions like “Is that your guitar in the back?” and “You live all the way out here?” 

Joel grins around the filter and exhales slow, smoke curling through the cab like a warning.  “Mhm. I like it quiet.”

You laugh, all honeyed sunshine, no idea that you’re being carted out into the woods like a lamb prepped for slaughter.

His house is tucked back further in the trees, down a road so far out it turns from asphalt to dirt. Not a neighbor in sight, nothing but grass and dark skies for miles. The porch light is already on when he pulls in, gravel crunching under his tires loud in the quiet. Another truck takes up the space next to his, red with the paint peeling like a nasty sunburn.

You peer up at the place with shiny, awed eyes like you’re some damn princess and this is your castle. It makes him want to ruin you even more.

The truck’s barely in park before Joel’s out and striding over to your side, opening the door for you to keep up his Southern gentleman act. You thank him with a bold little kiss on the cheek before making your way to the door. Joel rubs at the sticky mark you left behind with his thumb, flicking the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

He tosses the keys on the counter after you step inside, booted feet dragging heavy across the floor as he watches you wander around, fingers trailing over worn furniture and sun-bleached curtains. It’s not much, but you look impressed anyway.

“Cute,” you hum, bending over to peek down the hallway. He can see the way your shorts ride up the curve of your ass, lace peeking out just like before. Your turn to him, arms crossed behind your back as you sway on the balls of your feet. “This isn’t the part where you murder me, right?”

It’s light, teasing. An innocent joke.

Joel’s smile is tight as he walks to the kitchen. “Not unless you ask me real nice.”

You laugh again, that breathy little sound, and Joel listens for the faintest edge of unease. He’s gotten good at that—spotting the cracks before they show, gauging how much of a fight this might be.

You’ve been good since the bar, and Joel hopes it stays that way. He wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face because you tried acting out.

Joel busies himself in the kitchen, back turned as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a couple glasses. He grabs some things out of the fridge, well aware that you can’t see the little silver tin hiding in his armful of honey and bourbon.

“You like it sweet, right?” he calls over his shoulder, masking the rasp in his voice. “Figured you’d need a chaser after that whiskey.”

“Aw,” you say from your spot on his couch, clearly drunk on attention, “you’re taking such good care of me.”

Joel laughs as he rounds the corner, handing you a glass. “Only fair, since you’re bein’ so good for me.”

“I’m already in your house, Joel. You don’t need to lay it on so thick anymore.” You take the drink with a smile, clinking it against his own before bringing it to your lips.

He watches the slow press of your lips to the rim, the way your throat moves when you swallow, how you down half the glass in one long pull. It has him shifting in place, his cock straining against the rough denim of his jeans. He sets his glass down on the coffee table, untouched, and leans back against the cushions. 

You turn to him, your gaze languidly roaming over his body. Over where his shirt is stretched tight across his chest, where his arms rest on the back of the couch, where his legs are spread wide. Your eyes are hungry, pupils blown wide and dark as midnight.

Joel lets you look, waits until you make it back up to his eyes to jerk his head in an obvious invitation. “C’mere, baby.”

You bite your lip, setting your glass down next to his and crawling over to him without another word. Your arms loop around his neck, knees on either side of him as you settle in his lap. His hands fall to your hips, thumbs sliding up and down the waistband of your cutoffs.

Your lips part under his like they were made to, your soft sigh swallowed up by the hot press of his mouth. He kisses you hard, slow and deep, like he’s been starving for it. You taste like lemon and honey, the sharp bite of his bourbon buried somewhere beneath all the sweetness.

Joel’s hands tighten on your hips, dragging you closer as he nips at your plush bottom lip. “Feels good, doesn't it, sugar?”

You nod, moaning as you bury your hands in his hair. Your lips part easily for his tongue, letting him claim your mouth. Joel groans, pressing the hard line of his cock over your clothed cunt, chuckling darkly at the high whine you breathe into the space between you both.

He lets you have your fun, necks with you on his couch like a couple of horny teenagers while he waits. 

Sure enough, after a while, he can feel the first few signs trickling in. Your grip on his hair goes slack, your lips grow lazy and slow against his own, your posture slips into something more relaxed and hunched over, leaning on him heavily.

Joel pulls back, a single strand of spit connecting your lips before it dips and breaks under the weight of gravity. You’re panting, mouth slick and swollen as your chest heaves with every breath. Your chin is red and raw, scratched up from his beard. 

It takes a second for you to open your eyes, blinking at him sluggishly. You look nice and fucked, pupils so big he can hardly see the color around them anymore, glassy and unfocused in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol filling up the half empty glass on his coffee table.

“Joel…” It’s hardly a whisper, so soft and breathy. “Feels funny…tired…”

“Poor thing,” he tuts, squeezing your hips once. “Let’s get you on your back.”

You go easy enough, let him push your shoulders down until you’re splayed out across the couch. Your eyes slip shut again, your breath evening out as it finally sinks its claws in you.

Joel grins, wastes no time before he’s on his feet and sliding his arms under you. You don’t make a sound as he lifts you, your body completely pliant, head lolling to rest on his chest.

He starts down the hallway to his bedroom, the light on and bleeding through the bottom of the door to shine dimly over the carpet.

And like a ship being led safely to port by the fiery orange glow of an old light house, Joel walks, and he whistles as he goes.

You feel like you're floating, mind groggy and filled with the cloudy haze of sleep. The bourbon must have hit you harder than you thought.

The air is cold but your skin is so warm. Your limbs are heavy when you try to move, like you’re suspended in a thick, syrupy water.

Your fingers twitch against something soft. Sheets. You’re in a bed now. That much registers. You can feel the give of the mattress beneath you, the press of a pillow behind your head, the way your legs are bare.

Were you wearing shorts earlier?

Were you?

You pry your eyes open, barely having enough energy to. The world is warped, stretched at the edges like a funhouse mirror. Your vision swims, and all you can make out is light—the orange cast of a bedside lamp. The bulb buzzes faintly in your ear, the sound low and persistent, like it’s drilling into your brain.

That’s when you feel it, featherlight pressure making its way down your bare stomach. It’s soft, almost ticklish.

It takes your mind a few long seconds to catch up, to realize what’s happening.

There are hands on your body.

A slow, possessive drag over your thigh. Calloused fingers part your legs, thumb dipping just beneath the hem of your panties. You try to shift, try to close your legs, but you barely twitch.

You stir, a soft sound pushing out of your parted lips as you grip the sheets harder than before. 

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, pressing wet kisses down your neck. “You were beggin’ for it all night, remember?”

Joel. 

It comes flooding back to you in stages. The bar. The whiskey. The truck. 

It goes fuzzy after that, you can’t remember anything past sliding onto Joel’s lap. 

You whimper, body moving sluggishly under him. You try to twist away but it’s useless—he’s strong, and you’re dizzy and weak and pinned.

“You said I could fuck you,” he whispers, calloused fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit. “Said you wanted it bad. Don’t back out now, sweetheart. That’d be real mean.”

You sob, but your body betrays you—hips rocking forward against his hand, chasing the teasing pressure of his touch. Your eyes screw shut, tears burning hot and wet in your waterline. 

Joel hums, fingers spreading you open like he’s flipping through pages of a well-loved book. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “Fuckin’ leaking through these sweet little panties. This sweet pussy’s just beggin’ to be filled.”

You don’t hear the footsteps at first.

Not until the floorboards creak by the door.

A new voice filters in from somewhere far away, piercing through the cotton in your ears. It’s different from Joel’s, that same Southern twang but just a little lighter. A little smoother, like honey laced with iron.

“Thought I heard you gettin’ started without me.”

Your eyes snap open.

There’s a man in the doorway.

He’s shorter than Joel by a few inches, leaner too but just as broad in the shoulders. Another strong, blue collar looking type—a man that works with his hands.

Joel lifts his head with a lazy grin, glancing over his shoulder. “Not my fault you took your sweet fuckin’ time, Tommy.”

You try to move, try to push at Joel’s chest, but your arms are still too heavy to listen. “I don’t—” you start, but he hushes you again, thick fingers still sliding up and down the wet seam of your pussy over your panties. 

“I know, sugar,” he murmurs, all mock sympathy. “S’too much to think about, huh? Why don’t you let us help you feel instead.”

The bed dips behind you, and a new warm breath ghosts over your neck. You flinch at the sudden weight pressing beside you, and when you tilt your head, you finally see his face—Tommy, lit in the glow of the bedside lamp.

He looks at you like you’re a gift. Something precious and shiny, wrapped up just for him.

“She’s pretty,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over the sweat beading on your brow with a touch gentler than it should be. “Damn, Joel. You always know how to pick ’em.”

“Wait—” Your voice is hoarse, small and cracked. You start to sit up, but Joel stops it with a heavy hand to your chest, keeping you pinned to the mattress.

He leans in close, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers against your skin. “Don’t be rude, babygirl. You’re gonna be real nice to my brother, ain’t you?”

Brother.

Brother.

Your stomach lurches and you’re shaking your head before you even realize it. “No,” you whisper. “No, please—”

“Easy now,” Tommy coos. His hand is warm as it strokes over your cheek. “Ain’t no need to fight. We’ll be real good to you, sugar.”

Joel leans back, peeling your panties down your legs with a reverence that would almost be sweet—if you could move. If you could say no. If you weren’t so dizzy that you can’t tell if the ache building in your core is from fear or the sick twist of arousal.

The cool air hitting your core is a shock to your system, you gasp as it nips at the skin of your thighs, slick and gleaming. Your legs twitch, trying in vain to snap shut, but Joel holds you spread open with wide palms.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes glued to your bare pussy. His thumb runs along the seam of you, his touch slow and light. “Look at that.”

“Please,” you gasp, even as your hips twitch up off the bed. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Tommy asks, dragging his lips down your neck. “Didn’t mean to make us hard? Didn’t mean to spread your legs the second Joel smiled at you all sweet? Don’t play innocent now, babydoll. You knew exactly what you were doin’, didn't you?”

“She knew good and well.” Joel says, sliding off the mattress, big hands keeping you pinned as he settles on his knees near the edge of the bed. He shoulders his way between your thighs, dipping his head down to blow cool air over the expanse of your pussy.

“So damn pretty down here,” he mutters, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips. “Bet you taste as good as you look.”

Then his mouth is on you.

He dives in with a hunger that knocks the breath from your lungs. His tongue is practiced and hot as it drags through your folds, the groan ripped from his chest as you flood his tongue is more animal than man.

The sound vibrates through you, and your spine arches off the mattress, another tear sliding hot and fast down your temple.

Tommy brushes it off your cheek, but instead of wiping it away, he licks it from his fingertip. His eyes flick down to yours, and his smile is soft. Mocking. “Aw,” he coos. “She’s cryin’ already, Joel. Thought we’d have to work harder than that.”

“She’s fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans, nosing at you like a man starved. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, coaxing—then he seals his mouth around it and sucks. Hard.

Your hands fist the sheets beneath you so tight you can hear the distinct sounds of seams ripping under your nails. It’s an onslaught of pleasure, an attack. There’s nothing kind about the dull scrape of his teeth against your sensitive clit, but it has your thighs clenching around his head all the same.

Joel’s fingers slide into you without warning—two of them, thick and rough and curling just right as he keeps his mouth working on your clit. The stretch punches a sound from your chest, a high, keening noise that has both brothers groaning in tandem.

“Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Joel grits out, dragging his fingers in and out lazily. “You’re gonna milk my cock just like this, huh?”

You couldn’t answer him if you tried, pure ecstasy racking your brain in all the wrong ways—burning through your veins like kerosine—too garbled and confusing for you to even think of speaking. You can only whimper, a pathetically desperate noise that’s drowned out by Joel fucking his fingers into you impossible faster.

The sound of it is loud, the wet slap of his palm and the dirty, slick sounds of your pussy sucking him in bouncing off the walls to echo back at you mockingly. 

Your hips shift helplessly, held down by Joel’s strong forearm as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. You can feel your own slick mixing with his spit start dripping down between your legs, soaking the sheets, and he groans like he loves it, nose bumping your clit as he moans into your cunt.

Tommy’s fingers start to trace the outline of your lips, dragging down to your chin before forcing them into your mouth. You choke, gag a little, but he doesn’t flinch—just presses them deeper, twisting his wrist slowly as he watches your throat bob.

“Pretty mouth,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your tastebuds. “Bet you give real sweet head, huh?”

You cry out around his fingers, your pussy fluttering around Joel’s tongue. Before you can think, you sink your teeth into Tommy’s thumb, hard. Hard enough that you feel the skin break under it, the unmistakable taste of iron spreading across your tongue. Maybe it’s a last ditch attempt to make him stop, maybe it’s a sick way of making him stay.

“Fuck.” Tommy groans like he’s been shot, chin dropping to his chest. His eyes go dark, something wicked swimming in the brown of his irises. His mouth slips open, soft pants falling from between his slick lips.

Joel chuckles darkly from between your legs, he raises head to catch your bleary gaze. The whole bottom half of his face is drenched, beard wet with your slick. “Biting won’t do you any good, honey. Tommy likes that shit.”

Tommy hums in agreement, low and vicious, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop. “Look what you did, darlin’,” he murmurs, holding it up for you to see, blood dripping down his skin in a thin stream of red. He drags it across your lips to smear it along them like warpaint. “So mean. That’s alright, sweet thing. Joel and I like 'em a little mean, it’s more fun to put you in your place that way.

He leans down and kisses you, soft at first, then deep—tongue sweeping over the inside of your mouth, sucking his own blood off your tongue. His fingers grip your chin hard enough to bruise as he keeps you still, mouth moving hungrily against yours until you whimper, struggling to breathe around the heat of it.

Joel still hasn’t stopped.

His fingers keep dragging against that spot deep inside you, stretching and curling until you’re clenching around him. His mouth sucks another bruise onto your thigh before pulling away with a low moan.

“She’s close,” he growls, sitting back on his haunches. “C’mon, Tommy. Let her mouth do some of the work.”

Tommy pulls back without another word, and reaches for his belt. Silver clinks softly as he undoes the flashy buckle with nimble fingers, never taking his eyes off you. He pops the button of his jeans, pulls his zipper down slowly, making sure you see every inch of it slipping open.

His cock springs free, hard and flushed an angry red at the tip. He takes it in his hand, pumping himself in the tight grip of fist—once, twice—before he’s tracing the drooling head along your lips. “Open up for me, beautiful.”

Joel chooses that moment to curl his fingers again, pressing right against the swollen spot inside of you, and your body reacts on instinct.

Your mouth falls open with a gasp, and Tommy takes the invitation, pushing inside until your lips are stretched tight around the thick head. He doesn’t ease in—he sets a rhythm fast, shallow thrusts that drag over your tongue, just enough to make you choke a little. 

Joel chuckles at the sound, giving your ass a quick swat before he’s standing. His jeans are already undone, his own cock just as hard and straining against his stomach. It’s flushed and leaking, veins bulging, too big for someone as stretched as thin and soft as you feel right now.

He takes your ankles in one hand, the other wrapped tight around the base as he drags the sticky head through your spit soaked pussy to rub it over your clit torturously slow.

You can’t even protest as he lines himself up to your clenching hole, Tommy filling your mouth so much you can only let out a broken whine around him, your legs straining in Joel’s firm grip.

Joel hushes you gently, like a lullaby. “It’s too late for all that, baby. You’re already open for me.”

And then he pushes in.

The stretch is sharp and immediate, your back arching as your walls struggle to take him. There’s no patience, no easing in—he feeds you inch after inch, his hips not stopping until they’re pressed flush to yours, his cock buried deep.

You sob, overwhelmed by the burn, the pressure, the way your body is forced to accept every bit of him.

“Christ,” Joel groans. “She’s grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice. Could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

You can feel every throb, every twitch. The way he shifts slightly just to feel you react—your body spasming around him. The rhythm he sets is savage from the start. Rough, unrelenting thrusts that slap your skin raw where his hips meet yours. 

“Shhh,” Joel soothes as you mewl, bending low to press a kiss to your cheek. “You're takin’ it. You’re takin’ me so good, baby. Feels like you were made for this cock.”

The bite of sharp teeth nip their way down to your sternum, his mouth moving along the skin of your chest, sucking until deep bruises bloom. His hands wrap around your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed as he fucks into you harder, groaning with every wet slap of skin against skin.

Tommy isn’t gentle either. He fucks your mouth with slow precision, moaning every time your throat flutters around him. One hand strokes your cheek, the other twisted in your hair, tugging hard enough to make your scalp burn.

Your eyes roll back, spit running down your chin, tears streaking your cheeks—and they moan at the sight.

Every thrust is a jolt, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs as Joel fucks you deeper, each stroke driving the breath from your lungs, his heavy balls slapping over your sensitive clit. The pace is brutal, all the more suffocating with Tommy fucking your mouth in tandem, the obscene sounds of spit and slick filling the room.

“Jesus,” Tommy laughs, breathless and mean. “She’s perfect. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Joel fucks you harder, one hand slipping around your throat to pin you in place. “Gonna pump you so full, babygirl,” he pants. “You’ll be drippin’ for days.”

You feel it building, that terrible, traitorous heat pooling deep in your belly, curling tight like a fist.

You're caught between them, nothing but a warm, wet hole for them to use—your body split open, trembling and full.

“You’re ours now, honey,” Tommy pants. “Say it.”

You can’t. You choke, mouth stuffed full, brain scrambled.

Tommy pulls out, stroking himself fast. “C’mon, sugar,” he murmurs. “Tell us. Tell us you’re ours.”

Joel hammers into you, hand on your belly to press down and feel the outline of his cock. “Say it.”

You sob, the words tumbling out broken and wrecked. “Yours. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

Joel groans loud, hips slamming forward one last time as he spills inside you, hot and thick. You feel it fill you, warm and endless, leaking out around his cock.

Tommy’s not far behind, fisting his cock roughly until hot spurts of come stripe across your cheeks, your lips, your tongue. He lets out a ragged groan, hand still tight in your hair.

It’s too much, the dual sensations finally snapping the fragile rubber band of sanity that held you together. You shatter—mind blanking out under the weight of it all, pleasure and pain entwined so tightly there’s no telling one from the other.

Both men stay still for a long while after they’re done, suspended in the aftermath.

Tommy’s hunched over you, chest heaving as he rubs his come into your skin like a filthy sacrament. His voice is wrecked, as soft as you’ve heard it all night. “Pretty girl.”

Joel doesn’t move off your spent body, his softening cock twitching in your abused pussy as he presses his face into your sweaty throat, breathing hard.

Then he leans back, watches his cum slowly drip from your abused cunt. “You took us so good, babygirl.”

Tommy brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, gaze soft again. “Think she’s got one more in her?”

Joel chuckles darkly. “Only one way to find out.”

MINI NAT'S NOTE: it's literally seven in the morning. i'm posting this and then i'm passing the fuck out. thank you to chronic insomnia but mainly to my geek bar and addison rae's new song drop for giving me the energy to power through this. also ofc thank you to baby @ebodebo (cause she was mad i wasn’t going to mention her and threatened to hit me...someone save me...call 911…) for listening to me complain about this and not telling me to shut up even though i probably deserved it. most of all, thank YOU so much for reading! love you, mwah <3

[dandelionjack]

the Doctor has always been a terrible person but it’s really funny how 15 is pretty much the same But Worse since he believes himself to be Healed. i don’t know if it’s intentional or just bad writing but i’ve seen somebody describe him as “a narcissist who learned therapy speak and now congratulates themselves on unlearning bad behaviour” and it’s EXACTLY how he acts

0 self reflection 0 questioning whether he may be in the wrong at all, ever, just deflect and mete out justice. torture a man and say you were triggered. trap a woman on your TARDIS and stockholm syndrome her into “having fun adventures”. all that stuff he used to do before Healing, dialed up to 11 15, this time with 15x more “babes” and “yasss” and 15x less self-awareness

previous incarnations used to be the snappy left-brain narcissist, the pretentious intellectual, better than everyone else because he’s smarter, trying to be as kind as he can but fully aware that he’s not nice. performing cleverness for the audience. charm, sure, but a different kind. 15 performs charisma. he hasn’t got a trace of autism left, he oozes self-assured BELONGING in any situation, the actor, the drag queen, all eyes on her. flamboyant. perfect in every way — even his weirdness no longer sticks out like a sore thumb, you’d never catch him saying things like “sorry about the deaths of your family member slash pet” or scooping jam from a jar with his fingers in a stranger’s kitchen. he’s *got it together*. or, well, that’s the impression he learned how to cast

the reckoning is going to be so painful. you show up out of nowhere, scare a neglected child with talks of fate and luck, and cause him him to grow up believing he is destined to unmask you and bring you down … your uneasy allies lock him in prison, you prophesy doom… what do you think is going to happen, silly man?

[surielstea]

Dancing With Fate

Original request.

Pairing: Nyx Archeron x Tamlin’s Daughter!Reader

Summary: While struggling with her relationship with her father, Reader goes to her first ball and stumbles upon a male she has never met, but feels a distinct connection to.

Warnings: slight angst with a parent, mostly fluff between Reader and Nyx

A.Note: I apologize for how long this took me to get out, I really struggled with how to format her back story but I ended up fairly happy with it, let me know if y’all want more of these two I’d be happy to write a few one shots of their dynamic as well as all the family drama since I’m such a sucker for the forbidden love trope ;)

6.4k word count.

"Can you do that again for me, my sweet?" my mother whispered, her voice trembling as she crouched down to my height. I watched her eyes fill with a glassy shine that I didn't understand. She reached out, her hands shaking as they wrapped around my small wrists. I blinked up at her, wide-eyed and oblivious, only feeling the warmth of her touch and the tremor of her fingers.

I balled my hands into tiny fists, scrunching my face with all the concentration I could muster. I wanted so badly to make her proud, to show her what I could do. I willed the claws beneath my skin to surface, squeezing my fists tighter until, with a soft tearing, they slid out, small and sharp, shining like new silver. Her breath caught, and her eyes went even wider as she stared at the claws that had split through my knuckles. A single tear slipped down her cheek, and I tilted my head, wondering why she was sad. I reached out, my claws joining the action as I moved, but she stumbled back, evading the sharp silver, her hand pressed over her mouth.

"What's wrong, Momma?" I asked, my voice tiny. I tried to reach for her cheek, to wipe the tear away like she'd done for me so many times, but she shook her head, forcing a small, shaky smile.

"Nothing, it's alright, my sweet," she whispered, her voice soft and a little broken. "I just... didn't think you'd be able to do this so soon." Her fingers lingered on my cheek, warm and tender. She looked at me like she was memorizing my face, like every part of me mattered.

I gave her a proud smile, lifting my hands. "Isn't it cool?" I grinned widely, my innocence unbroken. I had no idea what my claws really meant, or the sorrow that darkened her gaze as she watched me slash the air with them, filling the quiet night with soft, sharp swishes. She just sat there, quiet and sad, holding her own hands close to her chest as if they couldn't bear to let me go.

It was a late night, much too late for me to be awake. I clung tightly to my mother's hand as she led me through a garden filled with roses that gleamed under the moonlight. The flowers were tall and beautiful, and I wanted to reach out to touch them, but my mother's grip kept me close. She moved so fast, her cloak wrapped tightly around her, like she was hiding from something.

"Where are we going, Mom?" I asked in a small voice, but she didn't answer, her steps quickening as she pulled me along. The roses seemed to shiver in the breeze, their petals brushing against us as we passed, and the moon above us was high and cold, casting everything in a silver glow.

Ahead of us was a huge mansion, bigger than any house I'd ever seen. It loomed in the night, dark and quiet, like it was waiting for us. My mother slowed as we neared the porch, her breathing heavy as she crouched down in front of me, her face serious in a way that made my heart beat faster.

She pressed a folded piece of paper into my hands, her fingers cold and firm around mine. "We're going to play a game, okay?" she said, forcing a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Her fingers brushed my cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

I nodded eagerly, happy that she wanted to play. Games with Momma were always fun. She pointed to the paper, her hand gentle but urgent. "Whoever opens that door," she said, her voice steady but quiet, "you give them this paper, okay?" Her gaze held mine, as if she was trying to pour a message into me with her eyes. "And, my sweet," she paused, swallowing hard, "I'm going to hide now. And no matter what they ask you, you can't tell them I was with you. It's a big secret."

I blinked up at her, not fully understanding, but I nodded anyway, like a good girl. She reached out, her fingers lingering on my cheek again, her eyes shimmering with something I couldn't name. "I'll meet you at the window, okay?" Her voice cracked, and a tear slipped down her cheek. "It'll be fun, I promise."

I reached up to brush the tear away, but she was already rising. Before I could say anything else, she knocked on the tall doors, and with a last, lingering look, she turned and melted into the shadows. Just like that, she was gone.

Suddenly, the night felt enormous and empty, the shadows stretching out around me, dark and cold. The noises from the forest grew louder, like the trees and animals and everything hidden within the dark were whispering all around me. My heart pounded, and I almost wanted to cry out, to beg for her to come back and take me home. But before I could make a sound, the massive doors creaked open, casting a sliver of light onto the porch.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and fierce, with wild red hair and eyes that seemed to cut through the darkness. One of his eyes gleamed gold, like a piece of metal, and he looked down at me with a frown, his expression stern and sleepy. "Excuse me, Mister," I squeaked, trying to remember my mother's instructions.

His gaze softened just a bit as he took in my tiny figure. "And who might you be?" he asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

"I'm supposed to give this to you." I held up the paper, my hands trembling as I waited for him to take it. He knelt down, eyeing me carefully as he unfolded the note, his expression unreadable. I gave him a polite smile, remembering my mother's lessons, but his gaze flicked from the note back to me, his eyes narrowing.

"Where's your mother?" he asked, his voice soft but sharp.

I shrugged, fidgeting under his gaze. "I don't know," I whispered, my heart thudding in my chest.

"But she brought you here, didn't she?" he pressed, his gaze steady. I swallowed, unsure of how my mother would want me to answer. After a long, quiet moment, he sighed, opening the door wider. "Come inside. You shouldn't be out here alone."

I followed him into the mansion, the silence thick and heavy as he led me up a grand staircase. My shoes clicked against the cold, polished floor as we climbed up and up, stopping finally at a pair of wooden doors wrapped in ivy. I was too small to open them, so I just waited, feeling very small in the middle of the enormous hallway.

"Wait here a moment," he said, giving me a nod before stepping through the door. I looked around, mesmerized by the golden chandelier hanging above me, its glow casting strange, twisting shadows that moved as the lights flickered.

"I already told you I'm not in the mood to talk, Lucien." A deep, heavy voice sounded from beyond the door, and I jumped, hugging my cloak tighter around me.

"It's not that," Lucien replied, his tone shifting in a way that sounded unsure, even a little nervous. "You have a visitor."

The other voice was silent for a moment, and my stomach knotted up as I realized they were talking about me. "Tell them to leave," the man said finally, his tone cold and final.

Lucien sighed, and I heard the soft rustling of paper. The silence felt like it stretched forever, but then footsteps approached. The door swung open, and I looked up to see a tall man with golden hair, his eyes dark and sharp as they fell on me. I could tell by the way he looked at me that he wasn't used to children, that maybe he didn't know what to do with me.

But he crouched down slowly, his gaze softening just a bit as he held his hands up, like he wanted me to know he wasn't going to hurt me. "What's your name?" he asked, his voice low and gentle.

I told him, my voice a quiet whisper, but he nodded as if he'd heard every word. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, tilting his head, and I shook my head, looking down at my hands.

"I'm the High Lord of the Spring Court," he said softly, his tone proud but his eyes sad. My eyes widened, a little smile pulling at my lips. I'd heard of a High Lord in my mother's stories, someone powerful and magical.

"But, more importantly," he continued, his gaze searching my face, "I'm your father."

I blinked up at him, the words hanging in the air like they were something heavy, something I didn't yet understand. I wanted to ask him what it all meant, but all I could do was stare up at him, my fingers curling around the edge of my cloak, wishing I was safe in my mother's arms again.

———

Ever since that night, I've been confined to this estate on every special occasion, under the watchful eyes of my father's maids, lest I sneak away the moment I'm alone. Tonight, like many others, I'm left looking out the window of my bedroom—the same spot where I'd waited endlessly as a child, hoping my mother would come back for me.

But tonight was going to be different. I'd make sure of it.

I storm out of my room, my heels clicking with determined steps as I march down the hall. I swing open the doors to my father's study without knocking. He looks up from his papers, brow creased, clearly taken aback by my abrupt entrance.

"I'm going to the Dawn Court tonight," I say, my tone leaving no room for discussion.

"Absolutely not," he replies, shaking his head and dipping his quill back in the ink, dismissing me with the kind of finality he's used to exerting over me.

"All the courts are invited," I argue, stepping forward. "I'm obligated to go."

"No," he says again, his tone colder. "It's a high-profile ball. You're not ready."

I draw in a sharp breath, struggling to keep my temper in check. "Not ready? Father, I'm nineteen. If not now, then when?" This age had been difficult for him for some reason, I don't know why but ever since my birthday he's been acting strangely, started keeping me shut out and less involved—I may as well have just been imagining it or it was a coincidence it started happening after I turned nineteen, but once I got the thought in my head it was hard to get it out.

His expression hardens, his voice annoyingly calm. "Just, not now."

A chill spreads through my hands, and I have to resist the urge to bear the claws that hide beneath my skin. "I'm so tired of having every decision made for me," I say, pressing my palms to my temples as frustration wells up. "Of being treated like a prisoner in this house."

He stands, his temper fraying. "And I'm sick of you thinking you know best," His voice rises, echoing in the silence of the study. "You don't understand half of what's at stake."

"No, maybe I don't. But neither do you, apparently," I snap back. "Or maybe it's just that you're afraid to lose the only company you have left in this house. Is that it, Father?"

His hands ball into fists, metal-like claws gleaming from his knuckles. Mine slid out as well, a metallic gleam in the dim light.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he snarls, eyes darkening.

"Maybe I do," I bite back. "I hate this house." It came out as more of a confession than a retort, but his face falters, pain flickering through his eyes before he regains his composure.

"You don't mean that."

"I do," I insist, voice shaking with anger. "I hate this house, and I wish my mother never abandoned me here." The words are barely out of my mouth before I turn on my heel and stride out, slamming the door behind me so hard the walls shudder, my claws snagging on the wood of the door and scraping the paint off, revealing the bare, slightly rotted wood beneath. It felt like a metaphor, in a strange way.

I make my way to the garden, desperate for air. The night breeze is cool as I step out onto the deck, and I close the glass doors behind me a little more gently this time. Taking a few deep breaths, I walk along the garden path, letting the silence and cold soothe my frayed nerves. Winter's grip is finally loosening, and the garden is starting to come alive with buds and leaves. My favorite time of year.

I reach for one of the rosebuds, my claws retracting ever so slowly, my skin morphing over the hideous metal that gleamed in the moonlight. I forget the feeling of the power my father gifted me and remember the feeling and comforting warmth of my mother's power flickering beneath my fingertips. The flower blooms in my palm, reaching out toward me, and I smile faintly as I coax the other buds open along the path. Flower by flower my frustrating emotions ebb, and by the time I've reached the stone bench, my anger has cooled, replaced by something heavier, more complicated.

I sit, feeling the familiar weight of regret settle over me. I don't hate this house, not really. I hate the way I'm trapped in it.

The glass door opens, and I know without looking that it's him. My father takes a seat beside me on the bench, and I shift away, making it clear I'm not ready to forgive him just yet. We sit in silence, watching the newly-bloomed flowers sway in the night breeze. Finally, he sighs.

"You can go to the Dawn Court tonight," he says quietly.

I turn to him, my eyes wide with surprise.

He hesitates, looking down at his hands. "I'm..." He struggles around the word. "Sorry that you feel like you can't make your own choices," he mutters, his voice filled with a vulnerability I haven't heard ever before. "I'm trying to do better. And, you're right. I am afraid."

My heart softens, and the walls I've built up slowly crumble. "Afraid of what?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Of losing you, in turn losing everything." He looks up, his eyes—a shade of green I've always found comfort in—filled with an emotion that makes my heart ache.

Without thinking, I wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me close, his hand gently stroking my back. "I'm sorry, too," I murmur into his shoulder.

He shakes his head. "Don't be. You're my daughter. You're allowed to be angry with me." He pulls back to look at me. "Just promise me one thing," he says. "Promise you won't run away tonight."

I give him a small smile, the request so obscene that u couldn't help it. "I'll be perfect. Thank you, Father." I reassure.

He nods, satisfied, and rises from the bench. "We leave in an hour. You'd better start getting ready."

———

My dress is a soft lavender that hugs my waist and fans out into a beautiful, flowing skirt, the slit running up my thigh edged in delicate embroidered flowers. The open back crisscrosses with delicate ties, and the neckline is just low enough to be elegant without being too revealing. One of the maids has styled my hair in a half-up, half-down look, a few braided strands framing my face. For once, I feel exactly how I want to feel—elegant, feminine, and free.

I leave my bedroom and make my way down the hall to the marble staircase, where my father waits at the base. As I descend, his eyes widen, his mouth opening slightly as he takes in my appearance.

"Well?" I do a small spin, laughing at his awestruck expression.

He swallows, a proud smile slowly spreading across his face. "You look beautiful," he murmurs, pulling me into a hug.

I hug him back, letting him hold me close, and in that moment, it feels as if all the tension of our earlier argument melts away. We're just father and daughter again.

———

The Dawn Court ballroom is bathed in golden light, warm and inviting. I've barely stepped inside when a tall, dark-skinned man in white robes approaches, a halo of gold atop his head.

"And who is this lovely lady?" he asks, his voice rich with curiosity.

"My daughter," my father answers gruffly, his protective tone unmistakable.

The man blinks in surprise before offering a sheepish smile. "Ah, well then." He turns and makes a quick exit.

"Who was that?" I ask, amused by his reaction.

"High Lord of Day," my father mutters, a hint of irritation in his voice. "He has a reputation."

I raise an eyebrow, smiling as I unlink my arm from his. "Are all High Lords so... pretty?"

"Careful," he growls in warning.

A cheeky smile appears on my lips as I unhook my arm from his. "Only observations." I shrug. "I'm going to get a drink." I take a step away and he takes it with me. "Father, I'm only going to the refreshments table, not war. I'll be fine." I promise and he solicits a sigh.

"No wine." He demands and I shake my head in disbelief.

"Yes sir." I mock salute before spinning on my heel and walking across the ballroom, I make my way to the refreshment table and pour myself a glass from the fountain of cider, admiring the way the bubbles shimmer in the golden light. My father had said no wine but mentioned nothing about spiked cider. I take a long sip and begin to explore the ballroom, watching dancers swirl in gowns of blue and pink that mirror the sunset outside.

Lost in thought, I wander past an indoor garden filled with gardenias and evergreens. I couldn't help myself but slip inside, a few guests were inside, admiring the flowers just as I wished to do, so I deemed I was allowed to. I approached an arch of budded flowers, standing beneath the green vines that soon would be sprouted in color. I reached out, gently brushing a bud with my fingertips, watching as it blooms in reply.

"Your touch has improved since the last time I saw you," a familiar voice murmurs from behind me.

I turn, eyes lighting up as they land on a tan-skinned male with striking red hair. "Lucien!" I throw my arms around him, grinning.

He chuckles, pulling me into a warm hug. "You look stunning, little Fawn," he says, holding me at arm's length to take in my dress. "How did you manage to get out of the house?"

I smirk with a casual shrug. "Whipped out the claws."

He raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Like father, like daughter." He mused and I chuckled, looking down at the flowers reaching towards me, asking for my attention again.

"You want to dance?" His hand comes to my shoulder and I shake my head.

"You go ahead, I think I'll need a few more glasses before I step foot on the dance floor." I scoff and he shakes his head.

"Nonsense, you're a terrific dancer." He bumps my shoulder.

"I'm okay uncle, really," I reassured and he clamped his lips shut.

"Okay, find me if you need me." He presses a kiss to my temple and I nod.

He saunters away towards a group of friends I didn't recognize and I continue exploring, sipping my champagne as I wander through the crowd.

My gaze is caught by a group of strangers dressed in dark clothing. There's a woman in deep maroon, a honey brunette who smiles at me softly, and beside her, a tall man wearing a black-jeweled crown. I study them curiously, trying to place who they might be.

Distracted, I accidentally walk straight into someone's chest.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I stammer, stumbling back. I trip over my heels, but a pair of strong hands catches me, steadying me before I fall.

"You alright?" an unfamiliar voice asks, deep and soothing.

I look up—and up—and up—at a broad-shouldered man with rugged features and half of his shoulder-length hair tied back. He has a friendly, easy-going smile that immediately puts me at ease.

"Yeah, sorry," I mutter, flushing slightly.

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "No need to apologize. I should have been watching where I was going. You'd think five centuries would be enough time to figure that out." He snorts, red siphons gleaming on his chest and hands.

I blink in surprise. "Five centuries?"

He grins, raising an eyebrow. "Hey, no need to make me sound ancient."

I laugh, feeling unexpectedly comfortable around him. "Right. Apologies again." I clamp my lips shut, embarrassed.

"Who's the lucky person that brought you here tonight?" He asks, sensing my embarrassment and switching the topic, shifting to face towards the crowd.

"Couldn't I have come on my own?" I counter, crossing my arms.

He laughs again. "Touché. But I'll bet that doesn't mean you'll be lacking for dance partners." He gestures to the dance floor.

"Maybe," I say with a smile, "but that depends on who asks."

"Well, I would, but my mate would probably have my head if I danced with anyone else," he says, feigning a solemn look.

"Pity," I replied playfully. "But it's alright—you don't seem all that familiar with your feet anyway."

He gasps, feigning insult. "Hey! I'll have you know I'm a world-class dancer!"

"Oh, really?" I raise an eyebrow. "Shame, then. You missed your chance."

He chuckles, backing away. "Well, it was nice talking to you—mystery lady."

"Likewise," I call after him with a smile, watching as he disappears into the crowd.

The music is lively, filling the ballroom with a vibrant energy as dancers swirl and laugh under the golden chandeliers. I sip the last of my cider, feeling a pleasant warmth spread through me. For the first time in ages, I feel, free. Maybe my father had been right to keep me close all these years; maybe I wasn't ready for this world of strangers and their sharp eyes. But as I watch the colors and movement around me, I know I wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

Lost in my thoughts, I wander past the terrace doors and step outside, onto a balcony that overlooks a sprawling garden filled with glistening fountains and delicate white flowers. I take a deep breath, savoring the crisp night air, and let my fingers trace the cool stone railing wrapped in ivy.

Then I hear it—a quiet, amused hum from just behind me. I turn, startled, and my gaze falls on a young man leaning casually against the doorway, watching me with a slight, crooked smile.

He's tall, with jet-black hair that falls in tousled waves, and eyes that are strikingly, disarmingly blue. He wears a dark, impeccably tailored suit, with a midnight-blue shirt beneath, the top buttons undone enough to reveal tan skin beneath. There's an effortless elegance to him, a quiet confidence, like he belongs in every corner of this glittering world.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says, stepping forward with a charming half-smile. "But I had to wonder what you were doing all by yourself out here. Parties like these are hardly tolerable alone."

I raise an eyebrow, feeling my cheeks warm under his gaze. "And yet here you are, all by yourself."

He chuckles, eyes gleaming with a mischievous glint. "Fair, though technically, I'm not alone anymore, am I?"

I laugh, feeling my earlier irritation with my father melt away as I look at him. "I suppose not. Though I doubt you're here to keep me company."

He raises a hand in mock innocence. "You wound me. I've been nothing but kind since we met."

"Have we met?" I ask, tilting my head. "I think I would've remembered," I say with an angled head and something flickers in his sapphire gaze that I can't quite place.

He seems to consider this, tilting his head thoughtfully. "No, we haven't officially met," he concedes. "Which feels like a shame, honestly."

The corners of my mouth lift in a smile. "So, are you going to introduce yourself, or are we just going to continue being strangers?"

His eyes sparkle with something like amusement as he extends a hand. "Strangers sounds nice," I say flippantly, looking out at the Dawn Courts skyline, a sliver of the sun barely visible. This party was supposed to last until dawn, until the sun returned and the entire court could watch the outmatched sunrise of this court.

I wasn't ready to commit to making any friends, I had just gained my freedom, I wished to revel in it for a few moments longer, nameless was my way of doing it.

He laughs, a rich, genuine sound that makes my heart skip. "Alright, stranger," he says, leaning casually against the railing beside me. "What brings you out to the edge of the ballroom?"

"Some air," I reply with a shrug, looking out over the garden. "I hadn't expected to feel so claustrophobic."

He nods, understanding flickering in his eyes. "Parties can be exhausting. All the faces, all the names. It's nice to step away."

I glance at him. "You sound like you've been to one too many of these."

"Oh, you have no idea," he says with a grin. "I think I've been to so many I could navigate them in my sleep."

"And here I thought you looked like you were having fun," I tease.

"Maybe I'm a good actor," he says, his tone playful. "Or maybe I just needed a reason to enjoy it."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the smile that tugs at my lips. "Does that line actually work for you?"

"More often than you'd think," he says, laughing. "But since you're clearly immune to charm, let me try a different approach." He holds out a hand, bowing slightly. "Would you do me the honor of a dance, stranger?"

I hesitate, glancing back at the ballroom, but something about his easy smile, the spark of humor in his eyes, makes me want to take his hand. I place mine in his, letting him lead me closer.

The music inside changes as his lithe fingers make contact with my waist, shifting to a slower, softer melody. He adjusts my stance, guiding me with a gentleness that surprises me. There's a warmth in his gaze that makes my heart pound just a little faster as I look up at him.

"So, princess," he murmurs as we begin to move, his voice barely audible over the music echoing from inside. "Are you here with family? Or did you sneak away to attend the most boring ball of the season?"

I laugh, looking up at him with feigned offense. "Boring? I'll have you know I'm having a wonderful time."

"Are you?" he asks, eyes twinkling. "Or are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Maybe a little of both," I admit, a smile tugging at my lips. "And you? Do you always call balls like these boring?"

"Only when my mother's not here to overhear," he replies, grinning. "But tell me, how did you get here?"

I hesitate, wondering how much to tell him, but there's something about his gaze that makes it feel safe, to be honest. "My father brought me," I say, keeping it vague. "He doesn't let me out much."

"Really?" The stranger's eyebrows lift in surprise. "I would've pegged you for someone who went wherever they pleased."

"I'd like to think so," I reply, laughing. "But apparently, my father has other ideas."

He raises an eyebrow, curiosity in his eyes. "What does he think you'll do? Start a rebellion?"

"Maybe," I say with a shrug, a playful glint in my eyes. "He's probably right."

His laughter is warm, and he holds me a little closer as we spin across the marbled balcony floor. "Well, if you ever need a partner in crime, let me know. I'm an excellent accomplice."

I arch an eyebrow, smirking. "How do I know you're any good at sneaking out?"

He grins, leaning down until his voice is a soft murmur in my ear. "Trust me, princess. You don't survive my family without learning how to slip away now and then."

I glance up, meeting his gaze, intrigued by the way his words hold a hidden depth, a story he's not telling. "Your family sounds, interesting."

"That's one way to put it," he says with a chuckle, eyes flickering with a momentary shadow. But it's gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his easy charm. "Let's just say they have certain expectations."

"Well, then maybe we have more in common than I thought," I say, softening.

"Seems that way," he murmurs, his voice softening too. There's a gentleness in his gaze now, and I feel his hands hold me just a little more securely as if he's anchoring me.

We dance like this, quietly, for a few moments, simply enjoying the music and each other's company. He spins me once, drawing a soft laugh from me, and when he pulls me back, I'm closer than I realized, his breath warm on my cheek.

"Do you think we'd have met otherwise?" he asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

I blink, a little caught off guard by the question. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"Fate has a funny way of working, doesn't it?" He's still holding me close, his gaze warm and thoughtful, and I feel the world fade away a little as we look at each other.

"It does," I reply, almost breathless, my heart pounding in my chest.

He's quiet for a moment, his eyes glimmering with something I couldn't place. "I hope—I hope fate lets us meet again."

For a moment, I forget about the ballroom, about my father's rules, about everything except him. I don't know who he is, or why he's here, but something about him feels achingly familiar, like we're old friends, like I've known him in some other life.

When the music fades, he slowly lets me go, and I feel the loss of his warmth, his presence. He steps back, bowing with a playful, courtly gesture.

I scoff a laugh and give my best attempt at a curtsy. "You're a natural," He muses as the music dies down and I sidle closer to the balcony, eager to look out at the world beyond that I had never witnessed before.

The balcony feels almost timeless as we stand there, his presence beside me grounding in a way I hadn't expected. We talk as if there are no constraints, just the night around us, a quiet space carved out in the world. His words flow easily, a mix of humor and teasing, sometimes dipping into moments of gentleness that make my chest tighten.

I can't help but keep stealing glances at him, trying to memorize the sharp line of his jaw and the warm, playful gleam in his eyes. And every time I meet that gaze, I feel the strange, unshakable familiarity tugging at me—a whisper in the back of my mind that insists I know him, that maybe I've known him far longer than this one night. But I can't let myself get swept away in that feeling. Not yet.

We talk for hours about anything and everything, I tell him about the flowers below us, and what they symbolize, and in return, he tells me of the stars in the sky, the constellations, and each of their names.

We talked about things that I never voiced before, but there was a steady comfort in his presence that made me feel like I could confess even my deepest mistakes and he'd nod with understanding in his eyes, not a flicker of judgment.

We didn't go into the ballroom the entire night, had taken up the small seating area that curved around the side of the building I hadn't noticed before.

"So, princess," he says, smirking as he leans his back into his chair, arms folded in a lazy, practiced ease, "if you weren't here, what kind of trouble would you be getting yourself into?"

I think for a moment, letting my fingers graze the ivy-covered stone. "Trouble? I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I'm sure you don't." He smirks, an amused glint in his eyes. "I pegged you for the rebellious type the moment I set eyes on you." He goes on.

I shrug, glancing out over the shadowed garden below. "Well, clearly you don't know me very well," I reply in a snarky tone, my lips curling into a teasing smile. "Perhaps I'm a perfectly obedient daughter who follows all the rules."

His laugh is low and rich, sending a pleasant shiver through me. "Now, I find that hard to believe," he murmurs, tilting his head to meet my gaze. "A wildflower like you, growing in a gilded cage? No, I think you're meant to be out there—" he gestures to the dark mountains beyond the garden, "—living on your own terms."

My cheeks warm under his gaze, but I lift my chin. "And you? What about you, oh wise stranger? Surely you're not the type to follow anyone's rules but your own."

"Oh, I'd follow them," he says, his voice dropping to a playful murmur, "if you were the one making them."

I feel my face flush at his words, but I can't resist matching his grin. "Be careful what you wish for. I'd hate to ruin that roguish charm with a few boundaries."

"Boundaries?" He raises an eyebrow, laughing. "I don't believe you’re the kind of girl to put them in place, life's far more interesting without them, don't you think?" He cocks his head in an all too demeaning fashion, as if he knows me better than to even suggest such a thing. I can’t help but smile at the familiarity, of being truly seen and known, it was foreign, but welcomed. “More than you know,” I reply, a softer atmosphere taking over with the tenderness in my voice.

"So, what does someone like you dream of seeing?"

It's a simple enough question, but I find myself hesitating, surprised by how much I want to answer, how easy it feels to open up to him. "I want to see everything," I admit, my voice almost a whisper. "Every corner of the world. The mountains, the seas. I want to taste the air in different places and feel the ground under my feet where no one else has walked. I want to be free."

It's more than I've ever shared with anyone, especially someone who doesn't even know my name. I swallow, feeling suddenly vulnerable, but when I glance at him, his gaze is warm, and understanding. As if he knows exactly what I mean.

"I think freedom suits you," he says softly like he's revealing a secret. "It's in your eyes—the way they look past this place, like you're already somewhere else entirely."

His words send a shiver through me, and for a moment, I can't find any words at all. So instead, I look away, watching as the sky shifts from deep indigo to a paler shade, hinting at the dawn. "Maybe one day I'll get to see it all," I say, more to myself than to him.

"I have a feeling you will." His voice is quiet, almost wistful, and I glance back to find him watching me with that same, unsettling familiarity, as if he, too, feels this strange pull between us.

We fall into an easy silence after that, leaning against the railing side by side as the stars start to fade. Occasionally, he says something that makes me laugh, and I find myself telling him things I'd never tell anyone else—about the books I love, the dreams I've buried, the way I crave a life that's different from the one set out for me.

He listens, really listens, his attention never wavering. And in return, he shares pieces of himself, though I sense he's careful, holding back just as much as I am. He speaks of a family that has expectations, a life lived beneath a weight that isn't always visible. I don't pry, but I nod, letting him know I understand.

The sky lightens, a faint glow spreading over the horizon, and I can't help but feel a pang of regret as the world around us starts to wake.

"You know," he murmurs, his voice low, "I think this might be one of the best conversations I've ever had."

I laugh softly, though my heart aches a little at the thought of this night ending. "You don't get many opportunities to talk with strangers on balconies?"

"Not like this," he says, glancing down at me, his expression unreadable. "Not with someone like you."

There's something so earnest in his gaze that I feel my resolve waver. I want to tell him who I am, to share every piece of myself, but a part of me resists, clinging to this fleeting anonymity.

"Thank you," I say softly, and I mean it more than he could ever know.

"For what?" he asks, his tone warm.

"For reminding me that people can be kind. That they can listen." I smile up at him, feeling a strange mixture of sadness and hope. "I think I needed that."

The first light of dawn glimmers on the horizon, casting a soft glow over the garden. Slowly, he reaches out, taking my hand in his, his touch warm and steady. I feel his thumb brush gently over my knuckles, and it sends a wave of warmth through me, a silent promise in his touch.

"Maybe one day," he says softly, his voice barely a whisper, "we'll meet again. Maybe fate will give us that."

I can't bring myself to say anything, so I simply nod, letting myself savor the feel of his hand in mine for just a moment longer.

As the first rays of sunlight touch the garden below, he releases my hand, stepping back with a soft smile. He gives me one last, lingering look before turning, disappearing through the terrace doors and back into the world from which he came.

I stay there, watching as the light fills the sky, feeling like I've lost something precious and found something rare all at once.

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[ohangeleyes]

⎯⎯ ETHICS OR DESIRES (PROFESSOR WINCHESTER)

ahh i'm very proud of this one. before we begin, I do not support home wrecking in any way, this is just a fic, have fun and don't take it too seriously :) spicy slow burn

edit: part 2 ; part 3

late afternoon. lecture hall. ethics - 302.

sun had dipped low. golden slashes of light through the tall windows lining the classroom walls.

you sat in the second row, legs crossed in your dress pants, the fabric hugging your hips just enough to feel intentional. black blouse tucked in at your waist, elegant, modest. but the kind of modest that knew what it was doing. you leaned forward slightly in your seat, one elbow perched on the desk, fingers ghosting your lower lip.

it was hard to focus on Kant when temptation was wearing a button-up and rolling his sleeves up to the elbows like it was some sort of academic striptease.

your eyes were locked on him.

professor winchester moved like thought lived in his body. measured, precise, commanding. you sat there pretending to listen, notebook open, pen between your fingers, but not a single line had been written in the last twenty minutes.

every time his voice dipped, your thighs clenched beneath your desk. every time he dragged his fingers through his hair, your chest tightened with want and something hot and secret that curled deep in your belly.

you weren’t just distracted. you were drowning.

you watched the way his shirt strained against his back as he leaned to write on the board. the way his fingers flexed around the chalk. the strong curve of his forearm when he shoved his hand in his pocket and tilted his head, that head tilt, he could crack you open with a single thought.

you imagined what it’d be like if he looked at you the way he looked at old philosophy. like you were meant to be dissected. studied. argued with. held under his full attention until you gave in, piece by piece.

your thighs pressed tighter together.

you shouldn’t be staring. not like this. not when something solid, golden wraps around his ring finger.

his wedding ring.

you should look away. that ring should remind you of boundaries. commitments. things that should make him off-limits.

but instead, it stirs something darker in you. because the way his fingers clench ever so slightly around the chalk, the way he doesn’t look at you when he knows you’re watching makes it worse.

“…so, when Kant talks about moral duty detached from personal desire,” sam said, turning, chalk still in hand, “he’s insisting that true ethics aren’t about what we want. they’re about what we ought to do.”

he glanced over the room casually. then his eyes landed on you.

you didn’t look away. you tilted your head, gave him the faintest smile.

his gaze held for half a second too long, then flicked away. and still, that half second fed every fire in you.

he looked down. kept talking. his throat bobbed with a tight swallow. “that’s- uh. that’s the… foundation of deontology.”

you caught it. the little fumble.

you smirked.

sam cleared his throat. he could feel your eyes on him. you were always watching. listening. too damn closely.

and he hated that it thrilled him.

you wanted him. you wanted to test every ethical theory he’d ever taught by making him choose you when he shouldn’t. you wanted to unravel him. leave him shaking.

and you hated yourself a little for it.

but not enough to stop.

"...If your action stems from duty and adheres to universal law, it’s moral. even if it feels… unnatural to do the ‘right’ thing.”

your hand lifts slowly, like your fingers are holding something fragile. your question, your game, your knife wrapped in velvet. sam’s eyes flick to you, just for a second too long before he clears his throat.

“yes?”

you tilt your head, the corner of your mouth softening into something innocent enough to pass. but there’s heat in your eyes, and your voice cuts through the quiet.

“so… what if the person knows the act is wrong, but they still choose it, because resisting would hurt more?”

the classroom is still.

sam blinks. there’s a pause. tight, sharp, almost unnoticeable.

then you keep going. softer, but deadlier.

“does choosing pleasure over principle make them immoral… or just honest?”

there’s the smallest twitch in his jaw. he sets the chalk down a little too carefully. his eyes meet yours, and in that moment, you feel it.

the shift, the burn under his skin.

he knows exactly what you’re doing. and worse, he doesn’t stop it.

“well- Kant would say that emotion has no place in moral reasoning. if you’re driven by desire, even if you’re aware of the consequences, it’s still… not moral.” he clears his throat, glances away briefly. “but honesty isn’t always synonymous with morality. in fact, it can reveal how far someone’s willing to go to justify what they want.”

“but isn’t that still a form of integrity?" you spoke, quiet but deliberate. "knowing the line… and deciding to cross it anyway?”

the air in the room thickens. his fingers tremble.

the split-second crack in his composure was everything. and not nearly enough.

“it’s a dangerous slope." his voice was firmer now. "just because you understand your motives doesn’t make them virtuous.” his eyes briefly meet yours before looking back at the book. “we’re not judged only by what we feel. we’re judged by what we do with it.”

he looks down at the book in front of him, jaw tight, brow furrowed in forced neutrality. you can practically see him swallowing the heat that rises to his throat.

but it’s too late.

because you saw it.

the twitch of his fingers. the hard blink. the quick glance. almost shameful. at your mouth.

and then, lower.

you shift in your seat, slow and composed, like you don’t notice the way his eyes track the subtle sway of your legs. your blouse is buttoned modestly, but the fabric clings in the right places when you lean forward with feigned curiosity, resting your elbow on the desk like a girl just trying to understand ethics.

but you do understand it.

and that’s what rattles him.

you speak softly now, your voice honey-laced and controlled. “right. actions, not thoughts. even if the thoughts are impossible to ignore.”

his head lifts. barely. his eyes meet yours for the briefest second. you see it. plain as day.

the guilt. the curiosity. the want.

“exactly,” he murmurs. low. flat. barely audible.

but it lands.

the class returns to silence for a moment too long. sam clears his throat again and turns toward the board, reaching for his chalk as though it’s something to anchor him.

“alright,” he says. his tone is clipped now, tighter. “let’s move on.”

you lean back in your chair, fingers toying with your pen as you glance down and allow yourself the smallest, most satisfied smile.

but not before catching one last flicker in your periphery.

his right hand trembling around the chalk, the gold of his wedding band catching the late afternoon light.

he doesn’t look at you again.

he doesn’t have to.

because you’ve already gotten to him.

the lecture hall slowly emptied, the clatter of backpacks and the low hum of student chatter fading into the corridor. chairs scraped, a few pages flipped, and then silence.

sam kept his eyes fixed on the open book in front of him, as if he hadn’t just spent the last hour dissecting its dense text. his posture was composed, but the white of his knuckles around the edge of the podium gave him away. he didn’t look up, not even when you lingered near the front row while others trickled out.

you took your time gathering your things. adjusted the strap of your bag. waited until the last body left the room.

then- “professor?”

his shoulders tensed. he cleared his throat quietly, flipping a page he hadn’t actually read.

“yes?” he asked without looking up.

you stepped forward, your shoes quiet against the floor, stopping just short of his podium. “I had a question about the assignment... the essay on moral conflict.”

he finally looked at you. briefly. eyes sharp but cautious. “yes, of course,” he said, voice even.

you offered a polite smile. “you mentioned we could reference literature, if it supports the theory?”

he nodded, keeping his gaze on the book again. “as long as it’s directly connected to the ethical argument.”

you tilted your head slightly. “I was thinking of using Lolita. or maybe The Picture of Dorian Gray. they both deal with morality… but not in a clean, textbook way. they’re messy. personal.”

that made him glance up.

just a flicker.

his expression didn’t change, but his fingers stilled against the book’s edge.

you kept your tone curious, unbothered. “they explore the space between knowing something is wrong… and wanting it anyway. it feels relevant to the prompt.”

there was a pause. barely a breath.

“that’s a… bold angle,” he said finally, carefully. “it could work, if you handle it thoughtfully.”

you nodded, stepping just a little closer to the edge of the desk. “I plan to.” a small smile. “it’s always more interesting when the line between right and wrong is blurred. don’t you think?”

his jaw flexed. his eyes flicked to yours, but you were already shifting your weight, readjusting your bag on your shoulder, ready to leave, like it was just a normal conversation.

you gave a polite nod. “thanks, professor. have a good night.”

and with that, you turned and walked out. measured, calm, unbothered. but not before he caught the faintest glint in your eyes.

something unreadable.

or worse—almost readable.

he didn't say anything back. but he didn't need to.

not when his silence spoke more volumes than his words.

he stood there long after the door clicked shut, staring at the page he hadn’t absorbed, pulse tight in his throat.

and for the first time since the semester started, sam winchester didn’t feel like the one in control.

he got home late that evening. the sun had long dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky a murky shade of blue. fitting for the way his head felt. heavy, clouded, suffocating.

sam tossed his bag onto the hallway bench and ran a hand down his face, fingers pressing hard against his eyes like he could wipe the guilt out of them.

he hadn’t said more than a few words during his drive. not even to himself. every time his mind tried to drift, it was you it landed on. your voice echoing back in that near-empty classroom, the way your gaze lingered, calm and knowing. every look you gave felt like a challenge. a confession disguised as a question.

he told himself it was wrong. he knew it was wrong. and yet…

he walked into the bedroom with that slow, tight tension in his chest. she was already in bed, reading, one of her legs lazily draped over the covers. she smiled when she saw him. “rough day?”

“something like that,” he muttered, loosening the top buttons on his shirt.

she reached out to touch his arm as he leaned down to kiss her, but his lips barely brushed hers before he pulled away. “turn around,” he said softly, but his voice held an edge. a command.

she obeyed. he didn’t undress all the way. just unbuckled his belt, shoved his slacks down. she gasped when he entered her, no foreplay, no preamble. just need.

but it wasn’t about her.

he pressed her face into the pillow with one hand on the back of her neck, his wedding ring cold against her skin. his other hand gripped her hip tight, guiding every thrust deeper, rougher.

it wasn’t even about pleasure. it was about control. about shutting something out.

your voice still lingered.

“but isn’t that still a form of integrity? knowing the line… and deciding to cross it anyway?”

he squeezed his eyes shut, but your image bled through anyway. your mouth, the tilt of your head, the way you looked at him like you already knew.

he went harder.

the mattress creaked beneath them. she whimpered his name. but he wasn’t listening.

he was picturing that slow smirk you gave him when you left his classroom. the swing of your hips. the way your words dripped with implication he couldn’t escape.

by the time he came, he wasn’t even sure whose name he was thinking.

he pulled out without a word. she turned slightly to face him, breathless, still expecting a kiss or a touch, maybe something soft.

sam just stood, grabbed his pants, and walked to the bathroom without looking back.

the sound of the shower starting was the only thing that filled the silence.

turns out he wasn't the only one drowning in thoughts.

the second you made it to bed, you're already slipping your hand in the waistband of your pants. slow and smug.

not because you’re desperate. but because he is. you can still see the way his jaw clenched when you asked that question, how his eyes darted from the page to your mouth and back again, trying to act unaffected.

you imagine it’s his hand in the dark, not yours. his mouth pressed to your neck, voice wrecked and whispering how wrong this is while his body betrays every word. you’re not ashamed. if anything, the thought of him fighting himself while you give in makes it hotter.

he’ll break. you know he will.

MASTERLIST

WOOOOO. I love this.

dw y'all. I'm making 2 more parts.

maybe more ;)))

[psformybss]

could u write an interview fic w drew n an actress reader or costar

Wired Chaos

drew starkey x actress!reader

warnings: sarcastic chaos, emotional exposure, lie detector mess

an: i had so many ideas but i decided to do a wired interview because i honestly love these. i went a little too extra with this one tho and it’s lowkey chaotic af.

You’re not nervous.

You’re just strapped to a machine that monitors your pulse, breathing, and capacity for deception, sitting across from your real-life boyfriend-slash-former nemesis while cameras roll and a complete stranger watches for signs of romantic weakness. Totally normal. Very chill.

Drew’s already grinning like he’s been waiting his whole life for this. His legs are sprawled out in that irritatingly confident way, and he looks like someone who definitely still texts “u up?” for fun.

“Try not to lie,” he says, tilting his head. “I hear the machine hates liars.”

You blink once, slowly. “Good luck, then.”

The technician gives a thumbs up. The camera starts rolling. You resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they leave orbit.

It begins politely. Names. Roles. Basic stats.

Then Drew gets cocky. “Would you say I’m your favorite cast member?”

“No.”

The needle stays flat.

He gasps. “Cold-blooded.”

You smile sweetly. “You’re top five.”

“There are six of us.”

“Exactly.”

Your turn.

“Did you or did you not call my character ‘forced’ before ever speaking to me?”

Drew shifts. “Allegedly.”

The machine screams LIE like it’s offended on your behalf.

You hum. “Interesting.”

“In my defense,” he says, “you walked into that readthrough like you’d already fired half the writers.”

“And you looked like you hadn’t slept since 2017.”

Someone off camera chokes. You don’t look. Drew’s trying not to smile. He’s failing.

You get off track quickly.

“Be honest,” he says. “You rehearsed your Truth or Dare roast, didn’t you?”

You pause. “Maybe.”

The machine beeps loud enough to make the intern flinch.

Drew laughs like he’s just caught you cheating on a test. “Knew it.”

“You told the entire table that I looked like a ‘girlboss-themed Bond villain.’”

“Yeah, and that was improv.”

“That’s what concerns me.”

You try to sabotage him next.

“Did you know you liked me when you sent that stupid meme about Rafe needing therapy and a father figure?”

He stares. “No comment.”

BEEP.

You press your lips together. “Joseph Andrew Starkey. You caught feelings over a shitpost.”

He mutters, “It was a good meme.”

It spirals from there.

“Did I annoy you during season two?”

“Yes.”

“Do I still?”

“Yes.”

“Are you in love with me?”

“Shut up.”

Truth.

You raise both brows. He looks like a man deeply regretting his life choices.

“Say it again?” you ask.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll make it your ringtone.”

He’s not wrong.

Eventually, the technician cuts in, trying to regain order. You and Drew both ignore him completely. Someone behind the camera whispers, “Just let them go.”

You’ve lost all structure now. It’s just chaos and bad decisions.

“Have you forgiven me for the hoodie I stole in Atlanta?”

“Which one?”

He closes his eyes like he’s praying.

“Would you trust me to act opposite Timothée Chalamet?”

He blinks. “Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d fall in love and I’d have to fight him.”

“…You think you could win?”

A long pause.

“…Emotionally? No.”

You nod solemnly. “That’s fair.”

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, you stop remembering this is for Vanity Fair. That millions of people will see it. That you’re both supposed to be promoting a show and not emotionally exposing yourselves on camera like two feral raccoons in love.

Drew looks at you like he always does—like you’re either going to kiss him or ruin his life. (It’s always been both.)

You cross your legs, lean back, and say, “So… still think I was a bad fit?”

He smiles, slow and sheepish. “No.”

Truth.

You lean forward, elbows on the table, voice low. “Did you fall for me before or after I told you to grow up on set in front of the sound guy?”

He grins. “Right then.”

Truth.

You hum, pleased. “Knew it.”

When it’s over, you both stand at the same time. The technician is sweating. The producer looks like he needs a drink. The footage will need a thousand disclaimers.

Drew bumps your shoulder with his. “You gonna be nice to me now?”

You eye him. “Define ‘nice.’”

He leans in, smirking. “You’ll text me later.”

You scoff. “You’ll text me first.”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.”

The machine would call that the truest thing he’s said all day.

[nikkento-writes]

Toro! Toro!

We're waking up the people down the hall, you're a bull and I can't help but say, "Toro! Toro!"

Pairing: Aoi Todo x f!reader

Rating: Explicit - MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Word Count: ~3.3k

cw: canon universe, popstar!reader (stage name Luna Lux), all characters are 18+, explicit language, explicit sexual content, smut – cunnilingus, blow job, vaginal fingering, nipple play, spit play, PIV sex – doggy, cowgirl, pet names, dirty talk, multiple orgasms, creampie

Summary: Breaking news! International up-and-coming pop princess Luna Lux is causing quite the stir with her alleged boyfriend! Witnesses say the two were having loud sex well into the night until hotel staff had to take matters into their own hands. But who is this mystery fellow? Despite multiple accounts of being heard doing the deed behind closed doors, the pop star’s supposed boy toy continues to elude being seen by both the media and even her own manager! With his knack for disappearing into thin air, it sounds like this stud is a real sorcerer!

Author's Note: Completely and unabashedly based on the song “Toro” by Remi Wolf. This SCREAMS Aoi Todo to me. This was so much fun to write! I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! Divider credit to the wonderful @/cafekitsune.

It’s past midnight by the time you and your manager make it back to your hotel room, exhausted from tonight’s rehearsals. With only a protein bar and a few handfuls of popcorn as your dinner, you’re desperate for a proper meal before calling it a day. “Can we please, please order room service?” you beg her, collapsing onto the bed, too tired to change out of your sweaty clothes. “I’m starving and I won’t be able to sleep unless I get some real food in me.”

Kina doesn’t respond, the room phone already up to her ear, ordering the usual. When she hangs up, she snaps at you to get up, crinkling her nose. “You stink.”

“Aw, thanks K. Always the sweetest,” you grin at her, rolling on your stomach to rest your chin on your hands, kicking your feet back and forth in the air. 

She rolls her eyes, feigning annoyance as she retrieves one of the bath robes in the closet for you, laying it on the nearest armchair. “After we eat, you should shower then go straight to bed. You need all your rest for tomorrow’s show.” 

Manager K is right; it’s the last show and probably the most important. After tomorrow, you can officially say you’ve completed your first tour. It hasn’t been an easy journey; years and years of practicing your craft at malls, local fairs, small stages in front of people who had no clue nor cared who you were. You’re finally here with your best friend slash manager right alongside with you. Not only that, you’ve amassed quite the following of fans who cherish you, so much that they’ve made your debut tour a massive success. You appreciate every single one of them. 

However, there is one that you are particularly fond of, and his name is Aoi Todo. 

Todo’s been to almost every show since the start of the tour, with the exception to a few he absolutely couldn’t attend due to work obligations. He’s been to all of your meet-and-greets and is the current president of your fan club online. Most of his wardrobe is merchandise with your face on it, always proudly wearing it like a badge of honor. He even keeps a locket with your picture in it, next to a photo of his brother, Yuji, which you surprisingly find very endearing. 

It just so happens that he’s also your boyfriend. Your very hot, massively ripped boyfriend. 

You met a little over two years ago, when you were opening for your good friend Nobuko Takada, famously known in Japan as Tall-Idol Takada-Chan. At the time, Todo was her biggest fan, so much so that he considered her his future wife. Somehow, someway, he found his new obsession in you. You’d normally tend to avoid fans like this, but Todo is different. He’s the exception. You find his presence comforting. Even when you mess up the lyrics to a song, experience bouts of stage fright, miss a step in your choreography, Todo always gazes at you with the brightest stars in his eyes, as if you’re the most talented, beautiful person he’s ever seen. He loves you with every fiber of his being, whether you’re on stage as Luna Lux the popstar or offstage as you. And you love him right back. 

That being said, his prowess in the bedroom is an added bonus. He knows all the ways to help you relax after an especially grueling day of practice and rehearsals. Just like tonight. 

You’ve become notorious now for sneaking your boyfriend into your room when you’ve been explicitly told not to, specifically by Kina. It’s not that she dislikes him; in fact, she hasn’t even met him yet. You and Todo decided from the start that your relationship would remain a secret to protect his identity. Being a highly ranked Jujutsu Sorcerer already comes with its own risks and adding an extra spotlight on him will only cause more stress. Besides, it’s quite fun seeing how far you can push against the boundaries until you’re actually caught.  

On the other hand, Manager K doesn’t find it fun at all. Her expression is somber, voice stern when she states your real name, talking to you directly and not to your pop persona Luna Lux. That’s when you know she means business. “Do not meet with your boyfriend tonight. Understand?”

You knew this was going to come up. Playing dumb, you respond, “What boyfriend?”

One of her eyes twitch, clearly fed up with your antics. “I’m serious.”

She stares you down until you give in, flipping over on your back and groaning. “Why not?!” you whine, purposefully being an annoying little shit. “You know I perform way better after a good fuck.”

Kina makes a face, disgusted by your vulgarity. “Gross. Seriously, though. There are reporters all over this hotel, on this very floor even. They would have a field day with this.”

“Yeah. If we’re caught,” you add. “Which won’t happen.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, smirking. “You do realize how close you’ve been, right? The two of you have been getting more and more reckless. It’s bound to happen soon.”

You raise a brow at her. “Sounds like you’re hoping for it.”

She eases up, sitting at the edge of the bed beside you. “I’m getting real tired of running around and doing damage control for you two horny freaks. And I’ll admit, I’m curious. What’s so great about this guy that you can’t reveal his identity, even to me?”

You sit up, smiling at her. “Kina, as much as I want to tell you about how amazing he is, I just can’t. Not yet at least. I want to protect him from this craziness for as long as possible. You just have to trust me for now, okay?”

Kina has your best interest at heart, you know that. She wants to make sure that this guy is really worth it, is not some crazed fan only interested in Luna Lux and not the real person behind the popstar. At the same time, she can’t force you to give up his anonymity. She knows better than anybody how insane the other fans will get once he becomes known. So, she has no other choice but to relent. “Fine. But please, for the love of god, can you just keep it in your pants until tomorrow night, after the show is over?”

You give her a sly grin, wrapping your arms around her in a big hug. “Whatever you say, Manager K.” She’s totally unaware that you’ve got both your fingers crossed. 

After the two of you scarf down a late dinner, Kina bids you goodnight, warning you once more not to do anything reckless, though you have no intentions of following through with that plan. As soon as she disappears down the hallway into her own room, you lock the door and send out a text to Todo:

The hawk has left the nest.

Setting down your phone on the nightstand, you strip completely out of your sweaty clothes, leaving you stark naked, except for the locket around your neck. You feel it, tracing the edges before unclasping, laying it neatly on the bed. Leaving the robe Kina laid out for you on the armchair, you head straight for the bathroom, door ajar, running the shower on hot. 

Even with the loud splash of the shower, you hear the faint Boogie Woogie clap from outside the bathroom, the exact one you’ve been looking forward to all week. Smiling to yourself, you continue to lather soap onto your body, letting the water stream down to rinse off the suds. The creak of the door grabs your attention and through the shower’s glass, you see Todo walk in, wrapped in the robe that barely fits him. When he catches your eye, he smirks and the butterflies in your belly flutter. “Hey there, handsome,” you greet him, your pussy already throbbing with arousal.

“Hi, gorgeous.” He steps towards the shower, stopping to admire you, wet and dripping. 

You open the door for him, giving him a better view. “You look good in my hotel robe.”

“Yeah?” He’s practically drooling over your naked form.

Beckoning him in, you reply, “Yeah. But you’d look even better without it.”

He chuckles, slipping out of it, completely naked underneath. You move to one side of the shower, making just enough room for him. Water splashes off his massive chest, down his bulging biceps, dripping off his huge cock sprung hard against his six-pack. God, how you love having this himbo as your boyfriend. He watches silently you as you rub him with the bar of soap, lathering him up, a good reason to get your hands all over him. “How’s my baby doing tonight?” you ask him, spreading the suds across his shoulders.

“Fine. A bit tired from work. Missed you like hell.” His eyes follow your fingers as you graze his nipples. He holds you by the hips, pulling you closer. “How was rehearsals?”

“Exhausting.” You set the bar of soap aside, smiling as your hands travel farther, past his navel. “Luckily, I have a super sexy boyfriend to help me relax.” 

You surround his cock, slick and slippery with suds on the shaft. He shudders from your touch, grip tightening on your hips. “Fuck,” he mutters, looking down between you, resting his forehead on yours. “I’m the lucky one. So fucking lucky.”

You tip your head up to meet his lips for a kiss, cupping his balls and stroking his cock. He moans into your mouth, his fingers squeezing at your ass, spreading your cheeks apart. You turn around, teasing his cock between your butt, craning your neck to keep kissing him while he rubs at your clit, water still drizzling over the two of you. So clean and yet so dirty all at once. 

He makes you come with his fingers, tapping and massaging your sensitive bud until you’re gushing for him. “You want my cock now, baby?” he asks, mouth hot on your ear, his erection throbbing against you. His other hand plays with your nipples, pinching them with the precise amount of pressure to have you mewling.

As much as you’d love to get fucked in the shower, there’s simply no room for that with Todo’s massive body taking up nearly the entire space. It’s better for the two of you to move this onto the bed. You face him, shutting the shower off, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Let’s do it on the bed. More room for us to get nasty.”

He grins, lifting you up and hoisting you over his shoulder easily. “Got it, boss.” 

You giggle, punching his back playfully as he wipes you with a towel. “You’re a brute, you know that?”

When it’s dry, he slaps your ass, staring at it in the mirror as it jiggles from the contact. “You love it.” And he’s right, you do.

He carries you all the way to the bed, tossing you onto the mattress. As soon as you’re spread out for him, he positions himself between your thighs, eating you out sloppily, slipping two fingers in your wet cunt. “Fuck!” you whine, already sensitive from your first orgasm. He doesn’t relent, pumping his digits in and out of you while he flicks his tongue on your swollen bud, sending you into your second climax of the night, body in total bliss now, still greedy for more. “Fuck me, Aoi. Please,” you beg him. “Need your cock.”

“Not yet,” he muffles, sucking hard on your clit, causing you to cry out louder in pleasure. “One more for me, baby. I know you can do it.” He adds a third finger inside you, bucking his hips into the bed, desperate for any type of friction against his rock-hard cock. The sound of his fingers squelching with each pump is obscene. He hums into your skin, the vibrations adding to the sensation, encouraging you to give him another, which you do. 

You’re practically a puddle in the sheets now, your entire body slack, ecstasy coursing through you. He can do whatever he wants to you. You’d yield to his every desire, so fucked-out and intoxicated for him. Legs spread even wider, you reach for your pussy, spreading your cum on your clit. “More,” you whimper, touching yourself. 

“You’re extra greedy today,” he teases, pulling out of you to suck on his cum-coated fingers. He hawks a frothy wad of spit on your cunt, watching you rub it into your clit.

“It’s been a long day, I deserve it.” You stare at his cock, the tip leaking with precum now. “Can I get a taste, too?”

He obliges enthusiastically, moving up the bed to straddle your face, your favorite way to take his cock. You lick your lips, using your free hand to stroke him, taking his balls in your mouth first. “Fuck,” he curses, gripping onto the headboard. 

You smile, enjoying the way he’s unraveling above you. After a little more teasing, you guide the tip into your mouth, sucking on it. He swears again, his eyes shut, the sensation too much for him. You eventually make your way down the rest of his cock, taking him deeper until you’re to the hilt. 

“God, you’re so fucking sexy drooling all over my cock like that.” He slowly fucks your mouth, your lips smacked to the base of his dick with each thrust, swallowing him all the way down to the back of your throat. Your eyes water as you resist the gag reflex, too eager to satisfy him like this. When you reach your limit, he pulls out of you, panting softly as you guzzle all the saliva pooling in your mouth. Once you catch your breath, you give him a smile, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip. 

“You are such a dirty fucking girl,” he growls, crawling back down to peppers soft kisses along your body. “Sucking my cock while you touch yourself. What a naughty slut you are.” He pauses at your pussy once again, spreading his tongue on your clit for one more taste. You grab onto his hair, not bothering to contain the moans pouring out of your mouth. 

“Flip over,” he mumbles, eyes hazy with lust and desire. You can tell by the tremble in his voice that’s he’s trying his best to control himself from going absolutely feral on you, which makes you want to bring it out of him even more. 

You obey his command, yelping when drags you to the end of the bed, legs hanging off the edge, feet planted on the soft carpet. His thumb teases your slit, soaked and slippery from all of the previous orgasms. Carefully, he guides himself inside you, gradually making his way until he’s all in. “Fuck,” he purrs, staying still until you’ve fully adjusted to his size. “You feel so fucking good, sweetheart.”

It's like electricity all over your body to finally have him inside you like this, to be so full of him. You twist your neck to get a glimpse of him and when he meets your gaze, he grins. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

You smile back at him, clenching the sheets to brace yourself for the ride. “Fuck me hard.” 

Unlike before, he’s rough now, pounding into you like his fucking life depends on it. “Oh god, right there! Right there, fuck!” you encourage him, not bothering to cover your mouth. You’re sure by now the neighbors can hear, but you don’t care. All you care about is Todo and his cock pummeling into you. 

Once you come in this position, he slows the pace, increasing the severity of each thrust, fucking you so hard that the bedframe slams against the wall every time he plummets into you. “You love taking it like this, don’t you?”

“Yes!” you cry out, choking on your own spit as it dribbles out your mouth. You hear your phone start ringing on the nightstand; you ignore it, too lost in euphoria to give a damn.

Before you know it, Todo changes positions again, laying himself out on the bed. “Ride me, sweetie. Ride this fucking cock. Fuck me too.”

Desperate to be full of him again, you hop on top of him, teasing your pussy along his shaft before sinking down. He grips your hips firmly, rocking you back and forth on his lap until you’re able to muster the strength to ride him. You swallow thickly, finally able to speak coherently. “You should change your name from Todo to Toro,” you joke, grinding yourself against him.

“Huh? Like fatty tuna?” he asks, sweat dripping off his forehead, his expression genuinely confused.

“Toro is a bull in Spanish,” you explain, grinning at him, gyrating your hips for a deeper angle. “And you, big boy, are most definitely a toro with the way you’re pounding into me.”

He laughs, tightening his grip, wanting to regain control. “It’s fine, you can call me that if you want.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You lean down to kiss him as he wraps his arms around you, planting his feet on the bed to fuck up into you. The phone keeps ringing beside you, and even through your incessant cries of “Toro! Toro!”, you can hear the buzz of excited chatter on the other side of the door. It’s the reporters Kina warned you about, getting another juicy story for the tabloids.

Todo continues to fuck you like this, his own moans louder now as he approaches his orgasm. The room phone starts to chime too, the staff trying to get a hold of you after noise complaints, something you’ve gotten used to since being with your incredibly sexy and voracious boyfriend. Still, no matter how hard they try to catch you in the act, they never will. And that’s what makes this so much fun. 

When he comes, you kiss him sloppily, clenching around his cock to keep his load inside you. You hear a familiar voice amidst the chaos on the other side of the door. Manager K shouts, “Luna Lux! Open the door. Now!”

Todo looks spent below you, in complete bliss, unfazed by the ratchet going on outside. “I should probably leave, huh?”

“I guess you should,” you pout, nuzzling your nose to his. “I miss you already.” 

“I miss you too. I’ll see you again in a few minutes,” he reassures you, caressing your cheek tenderly. “When the coast is clear.”

There’s pounding on the door, upper management getting involved to give you a stern talking to. “You better hurry back.” You lean closer, grazing his ear with your lips. “I want you to fuck more of your cum inside me.” 

He sucks in a breath, squeezing your ass cheeks with his big hands. “Fuck, baby. I promise I won’t make you wait long. Keep it in until then, okay?”

You kiss each other passionately one last time before he claps behind your back. Like magic, he’s gone, the shiny locket replacing him on the bed. 

The door opens, getting caught on the chain, your manager yelling your name through the tiny crack. “I know he’s in there! There’s no escape! I finally caught you two!”

You put on the locket then quickly slide into a robe, checking your reflection briskly in the mirror. Not that there’s anything that can reverse the damage done at this point. Reluctantly, you go to the door to unlock the chain. Kina barges in, staving off all the reporters and staff from bombarding you with questions. She searches the room for Todo, checking each nook and cranny for any sign of him, but no luck. Finally, she faces you, expression awe-struck. “Where is…how did he…?”

“I told you.” You flash her an innocent smile, crossing your legs and fiddling with the locket around your neck, fondly thinking about Todo who’s just two floors below you. “You just have to trust me.”