#you're Nightmare so ofc

[libraryraccoon]

HELLO!!! 😁 I wanted to make a request, I was thinking of nightmare!reader (as in sans au nightmare sans)

They were once a angel who protected the tree of positivity and negativity alongside their sibling, but after a incident in which they consumed one of the apples of the tree after years of being tormented by the humans they became corrupted and fallen and took the title of king of negativity, living as a recluse in a castle in hell with his subordinates.

Practically no one knew about him except for Charlie, who surprisingly became his friend, no one knows how but now he visits the hotel with his subordinates from time to time and chaos ensues

Raccoon's Note : You... Are you stalking me ? How did you knew I was back in my Underverse phase ?? I just change the human part for the angels because it was more easy to write. It's a mix between fanon and canon Nightmare (because, being real here, Canon!Nightmare would not care about Charlie)

Gender : GN

Pronouns : They/Them

TW : ENGLISH IS NOT THE AUTHOR FIRST LANGUAGE; Mentioned cannibalism; the Bad Sanses Gang; murders mentioned, Beta reader who ? Re-reading who ?

A long time ago, two guardian angels were in charge of guarding the Tree of Positivity and Negativity. One was in charge of guarding the positivity and the other the negativity.

The Guardian of Positivity was loved by the other angels, praised for bringing positivity back to Heaven. But, on the contrary, the Guardian of Negativity was bullied by the other angels, blamed for all their misfortune.

One day, tired and angry, the Guardian of Negativity got fed up and ate an apple from the Tree. It was one too many, one that contained all the negativity of the Tree, corrupting them.

There was a fight, a long and bloody fight, between the angels and the Guardian of Negativity. A fight that destroyed the Tree of Positivity and Negativity. In the end, the angels won, and the Guardian of Positivity was forced to banish their sibling to Hell.

It's a story that everybody knows. A story changed by the angels to make themselves appear as the victims who had only been kind to the selfish and malicious Guardian of Negativity.

But you know the truth. How could you not ? You were at the center of this whole story after all, Guardian of Negativity.

Scared of all, the Guardian of Negativity is as scary as Lucifer is to demons.

You are known to be ruthless; often haunting the dreams of demons of all circles, turning them into nightmares.

As a born angel who became fallen, you have the power to go into all circles of Hell, allowing you to spread negativity throughout all circles.

The Circle of Lust hates to see you coming; you and Asmodeus have fought before but there was no winner because Lillith intervened.

You have a small group of killers tasked with spreading negativity, including: A demon haunted by the ghost of his brother he killed; a cannibal; and a demon you can control if you wish. All three have a contract with you, preventing them from escaping.

Your meeting with Charlie was… Predictable, actually.

She wanted to know more about heaven and angels, and her father kept avoiding her questions… So what better way to answer them than another fallen angel ? (She studiously ignored the words 'corrupted,' 'negativity,' and 'danger not to approach' written on the paper)

You didn't beat around the bush, you criticized heaven and angels throughout the discussion. In the end, Charlie wondered if demons were perhaps better than angels because you portrayed them in such a bad light and in a tone filled with anger against them that had been repressed over the decades.

In the end, Charlie opened her hotel anyway, and you decided to help finance it.

Why ? Because it will allow you to permanently destroy the dreams and hopes of some demons and spread more negativity for longer.

You studiously ignore the voice that tells you it's because you see your siblings in Charlie.

When you are bored you like to visit the hotel.

It's always fun to see the fear in the eyes of the hotel demons when you appear out of nowhere and when they realize who you are.

You still remember the first time you came, Angel Dust falling off the couch before hiding behind it in fear, Vaggie shaking while getting into an attack stance, Husk choking on his drink, Alastor trying to act like everything was okay but was shaking and had a defensive stance, Niffty and Sir Pentious hiding behind Alastor, and Charlie coming to hug you like you were her long-lost uncle she was finally seeing again.

You really liked the negativity you brought out of that day.

The hotel always brings you a little negativity every time you visit, they are always afraid of you and that won't change, you can assure yourself of that.

The only ones who don't fear you are the Morningstars and most of the Deadly Sins (only two of them fear you a little).

When Lucifer learn that you and Charlie knew each other and were friends, he got a heart attack.

He wanted to stay at the hotel just for being sure you weren't hurting his daughter.

It took a lot of persuasion to get him to leave you alone and not be there for every conversation you had with Charlie.

Sometimes, you come to the hotel with your subordinates... And oh dear Lucifer is that a show to watch !

Killer's favorite thing to do there is to make 'prank' to the hotel residents; the screams of terror that follow his pranks are always music to your ears.

Horror and Alastor love to cook and eat together, expected of two cannibals; although the smell that follows their cooking is not always the best. Especially if they are cooking a demon that has been dead for several days.

And Dust... He's just standing there. Talking with his brother and planning to kill the hotel residents.

"Don't worry, he won't really do it." "You're sure ? I mean, he's now planning where to hide the bodies-" "I'm sure he won't. Exept if I tell him to do it." "Please don't."

They also like to chase the hotel residents when Charlie isn't here, especially Alastor and Sir Pentious. These are the best moments.

When the battle of angels and demons of the hotels (and others) took place, Charlie asked you for help because as many people as possible were needed.

So you and your gang got into the battle.

Your gang has a lot of combat experience and so had no trouble fighting, escaping with a few minor injuries and a lot of dead angels.

You silently judged the angels for being so bad at dodging.

When you saw Adam enter the battle, you immediately attacked him.

Remember the hatred I mentioned you had against angels ? Yeah ? Well, some of it came out when you saw and fought Adam. The reason ? He was one of the leaders of the harassment you suffered as an angel.

You ripped off his wings without warning and beat him more and more violently as the 'fight' progressed, even though at this point it was just a public execution.

You ended up killing Adam, and he was completely disfigured after his death. But you also ended up with injuries, one of which was quite serious to the chest.

No angels could intervene because your gang killed them before they could. And the demons stayed away because of the fear of being next.

At the end of the battle, you returned with your gang to your castle to rest and let your injuries heal themselves (regeneration is really useful when you are injured).

The battle was televised, and since then no one has made fun of it because of the fear of having to deal with the Demon of Negativity (or Demon of the Night; the title changes depending on the circle).

Even the Vees were scared of what you would do to them if they decided to attack the hotel.

Lucifer thanked you and your gang for helping Charlie defend the hotel.

You were tempted to say that the only reason you decided to participate was because you wanted revenge and not because you cared about Charlie and/or the hotel, but you decided not to and to end the discussion as quickly as possible because you were still a little hurt at that moment (it was the day after the fight, at 5am).

BONUS : Adam as a demon

No one recognized him at first because his demon form was so disfigured.

He went straight to Lucifer, his enemy, for help against you. He was angry and traumatized, and his only option was his archenemy, Lucifer, because Charlie and the hotel were on your side.

Lucifer took pity on him and decided to make him stay while telling him that if you asked for Adam, then Lucifer would deliver him to you without hesitation.

In the end, you didn't ask Adam, preferring to torment him in his sleep and sometimes at Lucifer's castle.

It was really funny to see Adam have so many negative emotions, he who at the time radiated positive emotion although malicious.

It was a beautiful thing made by the karma it-self.

Oh, and you and Lucifer became friends.

How ? I don't know, but one day he gave you a rubber duck that looked just like you, and it was only then that you realized you had somehow become friends.

Lucifer also made rubber ducks for your gang, and the ducks were looking like them.

Raccoon's Note #2 : I tried okay, I tried- but it's been a long time since I have write + I'm sick rn so.... Yeah, not perfect- sorry. Also, I'm thinking of maybe doing a FAQ, but I doubt anyone would want to ask me questions. Should I do it ? Anyways, hope y'all have a great day/night !

[shiawasekai]

Playing WotR after BG3 (which I think is perfectly capped at 12, given one of the worst bosses is an admittedly very powerful Cambion) is very wild. As in, the power levels are wild.

I repeat. One of the worst bosses in BG3, the one people use to test builds!!! He is a Cambion!!! There is also the avatar of a God which was very cool. But it's all within the power levels expected of very skilled humanoids.

Meanwhile in WotR I have already "killed" 2 Demon Lords, who count as full-on demigods by Pathfinder's rules on divinity. I got 2 ex-Demon Lords slotted for murder time later (there is no respawning for those, so actual murder) and I'm expecting more Surprise, New Demon Lord! moments given the requisites for the Secret Ending.

Whenever I stop to think in it compared to similar games in the genre, BG3 being the most recent example, I get an aneurysm. No wonder NPC are terrified and/or in awe of the Commander and their Inner Circle. Having recently played a game in a similar setting really puts in perspective for me how absurd their power level is.

[yuriyuruandyuraart]

She can't be doing this to me goddamn,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

drawing this made me feel like a third wheel HGHGASH so enjoy the night smoochies while you can >:')))) <33333

[deadly-fruit-punch]

a friend just told me that i have the vibes of someone who would attempt to kill god and honestly

they get it 😭

[grugruel]

ok hi! I woke up in the middle of the night and I had this amazing idea and I immediately thought about you, anyways.

We/reader?? Are married to Jayce and we wake up in the middle of the night because we are sweating and shit, so we take off our shirt and are now completely topless, Jayce wakes up and tries to persuade you to lay back in bed, so you turn around and he notices we are topless and boom! Evolves into smut.

I deeply apologise if this is too vague or too detailed…

Yes ofc! It's kind of short, and I took some creative liberties since the smut wasn't specified. But I hope you like it!😩

Taking Care of You

Pairings: ruined!jayce x wife!f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: After waking up from a nightmare, your husband comforts you. But as the bedroom grows cold, he finds himself in need of warming you up.

Wordcount: ca 1.3

Warnings: shower sex, pinv sex, petnames (honey, baby), creampie, praise ish, I love you's, domestic bliss.

AN: I've never been a "baby" girl, but this did sum.

Images flash by her eyes. Warped, iridescent structures and faceless humanoids devoid of mortality.

Crowding, they gather around her. Like schools of fish, no space, no breath. Stripped of flesh and blood, porcelain hands reach for her as they clank and clatter freakishly. She can feel their cold on her body, tearing and yanking, some steadying while other strive to push her off balance.

Suddenly, gold bejewled fingers lunge from the masses and lock around her throat. Small beauty mixing in with the cold horror. The fingers sinch, squeezing until-

She gasps, and her body acts in pure reflex. Throwing herself up, she scans the darkness surrounding her, chest heaving in panic.

But within a mixture of drowsyness and disorientation, her mind hasn't caught up. She doesnt know whats real. Her ears are ringing and cold sweat covers her body, drenching her top as the walls close in around her. Its suffocating her, she claws at her chest. She cant breathe, she cant breathe.

Amidst the confusion, her top pulls off and a touch and ice traces her skin. Her eyes widen in fear and launch into blind defense, mirthlessly slapping and pushing the creature away from her.

The streak of cold runs along her arms and cheek. "Hey, hey . . . It's okay," it says, voice finally reaching her as the buzzing of her mind dampens and her eyes adjust to the darkness. "You're alright." The cold brushes her skin, and as reslisation sets in, the sensation anchors her. "Breathe," the voice reminds her, and she does.

Her surroundings begin to materialise. The sheets beneath her, the wallpapered walls, and in front of her . . . Jayce. There are no pale faces, no lifeless fingers clasping at her throat. There's only Jayce.

"It was a nightmare," he whispers. "Nothing more." Strong hands slide down her shoulders, a touch of cool following in their wake. The wedding ring.

"It was-- the hexcore . . . I-" She shakes her head, trying to make sense of the things she'd seen. Looking down, she's notices her hands clasped around Jayce's wrists. Holding him so hard that her fingers turn white from the supression of bloodflow, so hard he might bruise.

But he doesn't complain, he doesn't even flinch.

In horror, she releases him, stiffly unlatching her grip. Like a statue reluctantly discarding a piece of itself.

With soft eyes and knitting brows, he pulls her into his lap, embracing her bridal-style. "Its over, you're safe." He kisses the top of her head.

Resting against his muscular shoulder, she feels the icy ring rub circles into her thigh, soothing her impossibly. "It felt so real," she murmurs.

Jayce nuzzles his face into her hair, taking a deep breath. "I know, honey," he sighs empathetically. The cold slides up her thigh and torso to then finally cradle her head, holding her steady against his chest.

Her gaze fixated on the gentle light billowing in through the windows and the dust particles it illuminates. A cold breeze chills her damp skin, sending a shiver down her spine and hardening her nipples. Following the stream of light, she finds the window noticeably ajar.

"It's cold," she whispers, looking up at him.

His eyes drift along her body, observing her raised skin, then begins to move. "I'll close the-"

"No," she stops him, unable to think of anything worse than leaving his lap in this moment. "Make me warm, Jayce."

He smiles softly. "You'll have to trust me, then."

She nods, and he lifts her off of the bed. There is truly nobody she would trust more.

-

Dimming the lights, candles have been lit and he enters the shower.

The water trickles down her body, running over and in-between every curve, washing her free of foam after Jayce has lathered her up.

He has taken his time to massage the soap into her skin, paying special mind to her breasts, waist and thighs. His hands gentle but firm, working through every knot and washing away every memory of her nightmare.

Lazily, she drapes her arms around his shoulders. "Get me any wetter and you'll have to bathe me," she jokes, and pulls him closer. Leaning in to whisper in his ear. "Now, are you going to do anything about that?" Her hand slips between their bodies, palming the rock hard member beneath his happy-trail.

Meeting her eyes, they glint with mischief. "Yes," he breathes, and she watches the way the water trickle from unkempt hair to his forehead as he pushes her against the wall.

How it makes paths down his face and follows the length of his nose, dripping from it's tip as he kisses her passionately.

How it rolls down his temples, the inside of his cheeks and finally pools beneath his chin as he hooks a hand beneath her leg and lines himself up with her entrance.

How beautifully he glistens in the warm, dim light as he thrusts inside of her, nearly knocking the breath out of her lungs.

Her nails come out, clawing at his back as he sets a steady pace. "Deeper, Jayce. Please," she begs, lips parted and breathless. Water droplets glossing her lips.

Dutiful as he is, he obides. Sliding his arm further through the hollow of her knee, he hooks her leg over his arm to raise it higher, gaining better access to her core, uterus even. Bracing his forearm against the wall next to her head, he pushes himself deeper. Expelling shudders all over his body in the process. "Fuck." He nuzzles his face against her profile. "You feel so good, baby," he whines, kissing the shell of her ear.

The pulse in her abdomen tightens at his words, she could never tire of the way he makes her feel. "More," she manages between moans, she just needs more of him, she wants him beneath her skin if possible. "You're doing so good." Her hand wraps around the back of his head, locking him in her embrace to keep them as close to one another as possible.

At her words, Jayce really puts his back into it. Thrusting ever harder, ever deeper into her body. It scratches her skin against the tile behind her with every thrust, but she doesn't care. A little pain was surely needed to balance out the ungodly pleasure he provided her with.

"Fuck, honey," he moans. "I love you, y-- do me so good."

"Mmm," she hums. Its high pitched, signaling her coming climax. "Almost there, love you too." She knits her brow in concentration and kisses Jayce's temple, purely out of gratitude for being the man he is.

The water pours over them as the pressure snaps and her wall breaks, her orgasm tearing through her like a giant wave. "Yes," she whimpers, tilting Jayce's head to face her. Their lips meeting in a greedy kiss as her exalted moans spilled into his mouth.

Feeling her pulse around his member, hearing her so satisfied. His thrusts go rigid and he spills inside her. With diminishing strength, he slowly lowers her leg and steps back, giving her a final neck on the cheek. "Warm?" He asks, waiting for the judgement of a job well-done or not.

"More than," she kisses his shoulder.

Turning the shower off, he steps out and spreads a towel between his arms expectantly, waiting for her to turn around. As she does so, he notices the scratches on her back. "Shit, Im sorry," he whispers, kissing the red, irritated skin before wrapping her in his embrace. He folds the towel around her like a gift, and rests his chin on her shoulder.

"It felt good, I don't mind."

"Oh?" He raises his eyebrows, a sly smile on his lips.

"Oh," she confirms.

-

[yoiisa]

Hello! So glad to see your requests are open again! This is my first time requesting from someone lol I’d really love a windbreaker one (especially with Sakura, Kaji, Ume and Togame but however many you feel comfortable doing is fine) with a reader who is struggling with really bad nightmares to the point that they’re either avoiding sleep or just can’t get any rest. But reader is trying to hide it because they feel like that’s a stupid reason to be scared or unable to sleep. And the windbreaker boys are super worried and don’t know what’s happening until somehow or another they finally see one of the readers really bad nightmares, and comfort ensues?

ofc love! i am a sucker for nightmare hurt/comfort so this is a dream lol

➜ sakura haruka is dense, but he's not obtuse ➜ he clocks the fact that you're having trouble sleeping pretty early on into your string of nightmares, but you're stubborn and brush him off ➜ this just ends up annoying him more, because he can literally see you're not doing well, why won't you talk to him, and all that jazz ➜ ends up pseudo-intruding your house and sleeping on your couch while you take the bed, just to be a nuisance that you can't get rid of ➜ his plan is to babysit you the whole night to find out why you're not sleeping. his plan is quickly chucked out the window when you wake up screaming from another nightmare ➜ he ends up sleeping with you in the bed, warding off any more bad dreams for the time being

Don't scream . . . Don't scream . . . Don't. Scream! It'd been your motto before you'd fallen asleep. You'd been staring up at your ceiling fan, watching it whir in circles while you were whispering to yourself that mantra. As long as you didn't scream, Sakura would let your troubles go. The walls were thin, so all you had to do was not scream. Of course, things would be different when you actually fell asleep. Sakura was curled up on the sofa, which conveniently happened to be pushed up against the wall that bordered your bedroom. He had his limbs flung all around him like starfish, and his mouth was wide open. He was lost deep in his sleep when the nightmares started in your mind. Of course, you shot up in bed and screamed. Sakura was up in a second, skidding across your floors and racing into your bedroom. His entire body was taut, and he was frantically glancing about your room, trying to find whatever monster he needed to fight. There was nothing there though, just you shivering and sobbing in your bed. "[name]! [name]! H-hey!" he sits next to you on your bed and gently pulls you closer to him by your wrists. "Haruka," you croak, resting your head against his shoulder. "I . . . I'm sorry." "What the hell are you talking about?" he asks, his voice gruff. "How many times have you had nightmares like this? Is this why you're so tired all the time?" Your silence is all the answer that he needs. He sighs and pulls you back from his shoulder, staring deep into your eyes. "[name], why wouldn't you tell me?" "Because there's nothing you can do about it," you sigh, wiping your eyes completely dry. "I mean, I can't even manage to calm myself down enough to not have them. You can't beat up a dream." Sakura bristles, before a shiver runs through his body and allows him to relax. He groans and shakes his head, "Y-yeah, but I could . . . I could've helped in other ways! I could be there for you!" You stare down at your lap, your hands still trembling slightly. "Can you be there for me now then?" you ask quietly. "Is that even a question?" he lays you back down gently, before reclining next to you. He pushes a strand of hair behind your ear before grumbling, "Now go back to sleep. Good night. I . . . I love you." " . . . love you too."

➜ kaji ren is completely lost on how to help you ➜ like sakura, he notices how sleep deprived you practically immediately, but he unlike sakura he doesn't say anything about it ➜ then you pass out in front of him and all bets are off. he practically pries your troubles out of you while you're sobbing, it's a whole mess ➜ he wants to so badly, but he can't punch a dream. he can't yell at your nightmares or punch something non-tangible, so he does the next best thing: sleepover at furin ➜ with the help of some other kids, on a weekend he completely clears out a classroom and makes it into a makeshift bedroom ➜ he hardly gets any sleep himself, too busy watching over you and making sure you're not troubled

"Ren, what are we doing at Furin?" you ask, a little nervous as to what's happening right now. "It's the weekend." "I know that," he responds, gently tugging on your hand to bring you inside the graffiti stained building. "Just trust me for once?" "I do trust you!" you pout and fall silent as he leads you through the school. Finally, you get to the second year classroom. The sun has completely set outside, the world thrust into darkness. Even the halls of the normally comforting school feel ominous and haunted. You squeeze Kaji's hand and ask again, "Babe, what are we doing here?" Kaji drops your hand and comes up behind you. He lifts his hands to block your eyes and says, "Trust me. You'll like it, I promise?" "Really? Because right now, I feel like I'm being dragged to my death." "This is why I don't do nice things for you," Kaji mutters, and you feel him guiding you forward, into the classroom that the two of you stopped in front of. You hear him kick the door to the classroom closed behind you and then he says, "Okay, open your eyes now." "Ren, your hands are in front of my eyes," you giggle, and then they fall away. You blink a few times, noting the room's dim lighting. "What-" When you turn your head, that's when you finally see it. A . . . pillow fort? Cushions that look like they got harvested from different houses/couches, a massive white crocheted blanket, a few of those glow in the dark stick-on stars, and pizza. "What's all this?" you ask, running your hand along one of the cushions. "I know you haven't been sleeping all that well," Kaji says, coming up behind you. "I . . . I thought a change of place might help." "So we're having a slumber party at Furin?" you ask, your smile widening. "I mean, if you wanna call it that." You look over at Kaji and wrap your arms around his neck. "I do. Thank you so much, Ren." Kaji looks off to the side, his ears turning red. His hands find you waist and he pulls you closer. "Hmm."

➜ umemiya hajime takes no bullshit from you ➜ oh baby, you can try to wave off your exhaustion with "oh it's nothing, don't worry about it," but this man is taking none of that ➜ if his loved one is actively hurting, he is not fucking around at all ➜ needless to say, he cuts your nightmare streak off pretty quickly ➜ he's just such a ray of sunshine. those horrific images can't last in your brain while he's there, being a constant beacon of hope and love

You truly do not know how you ended up on the roof of Furin. Somehow you were here, sitting across your boyfriend, a cup of tea cooling between the two of you. "Why did you lie to me?" he asks, his voice stern but somehow still gentle. "Lie to you?" "You told me you're fine but you're clearly not," he says, his blue eyes burning into your soul. "Well, I mean technically-" "[name], we're not going on technicalities," Umemiya sips his tea and then sighs. "I wanted to be someone that you could come to when you're troubled, but if you won't, then what's the point of even having me?" "Are you saying you want to break up over this?" you ask incredulously. "Of course not!" Umemiya takes your hand in his, brushing over the back of it with fingers. "It's just that I feel like you don't trust me enough to help with your problems! I want to help though!" You stare at him for a while before your shoulders slump and you give in. "I've been having pretty bad nightmares," you tell him. "I thought they'd go away on their own, but they haven't. I didn't tell you because I didn't think they were that big of a deal. Not to you, at least. After all, you can't do anything about it." Umemiya listens intently, his expression softening as you talk. "I could hear you out, couldn't I? I could listen to your problems and comfort you when you get scared." " . . . yeah." "So then next time, what will you do if you have the nightmares?" he asks, a smile beginning to form on his face. "Come to you." "Good girl," he grins and moves to sit next to you. He kisses the side of your head and nuzzles into your hair. "Finish your tea real quick, okay? I made it with lots of love~" You giggle and nod, taking a sip. "It's good." "I'm glad."

➜ two words: comfort. food. ➜ at first, togame jo mistakes your exhaustion for one stemming from you not eating properly so he starts making you cute little bento boxes (hand delivered by choji, of all people) ➜ but then one day, as you're having a sleepover, you start squirming and whimpering and sweating and jo wakes you up in a panic ➜ he ends up making you some instant ramen with some random other things and the two of you talk about it while you eat ➜ from then on, this man keeps your kitchen stacked with instant ramen cups, and whenever you have a nightmare, he's already got a meal ready to go

You get shaken awake in the middle of the night by a heavy hand on your shoulder. You blink a few times, adjusting to be awake again. Togame is hovering over you, a soft smile on his face as he stares down at you. "You okay there?" he asks, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "You're kinda sweaty and shaky. Were you having another nightmare pretty?" You nod, sitting up and rubbing your eye. "I think so?" Was I really bad?" "There were worse times," Togame says, reaching over to the night table. "Here, have this." You look down at the instant ramen that he seemingly procured out of nowhere. "Where did you . . .?" "I made it before I woke you up," he explains, grabbing his own cup. "I wanted to make sure you had something to have immediately after waking up. Eat up now." You laugh quietly as you begin slurping the noodles from the cup. Togame's made better tasting things before for sure, but there's something nevertheless comforting about the generic, cheap taste of the insta-ramen. Togame finishes his entire cup before you've even gotten through half of yours. He lets out a content sigh and stretches his arms. One of them wraps around your shoulders and he pulls you into his side as you continue eating. "Slow poke~" he teases, nuzzling into your hair. "It's not my fault that you inhale food," you giggle, picking up some more noodles in your chopsticks. "Mmm, but it comes in handy in other times, doesn't it?" he asks, his breath tickling your cheek. You squeal and lean away. "Pervert!" "I'm just teasing!" "Get away from me!" "Not even a thank you for the noodles?" You shake your head, a bright smile pulling at mouth. "Thank you, Togame Jo, for these delicious noodles." "You're welcome," he grins kissing the tip of your nose.

a/n: i just KNOW togame's pet name game goes CCCRRAAAAZZZYYY

[greedbent]

Baizhu’s laugh was always different.  That, or Kaz just paid more attention to it.

When facing the common populace and all their pointless driveling, whining, and never-ending problems needing a kind and generous doctor there at their beck and call to readily provide (Kaz often wondered how he did it), that cordial demeanor of his was as thin as a gossamer drape . . . to anyone who wasn’t an idiot. In other words, very few. It wasn’t that Baizhu held animosity toward his patients, nor was it that he didn’t care. Clearly, truthfully, with the heart of a man who chose to heal more often than hurt (despite having a talent for the latter, given Kaz’s current reason for being here), he found joy in his work. That wasn’t the issue. The issue was that his work still technically counted as customer service.

Which meant all smiles. All pleasantries. All fake chuckles at that one patient who found himself hilarious and had to make the same joke every other time he visited. Those were the chuckles Kaz passively observed from the side, distantly noted their lack of integrity beneath that veil that so easily fooled the rest. And maybe if those were the only laughs one heard, they’d have no reason to think otherwise. Kaz had the advantage of a bigger sample size.

So when he heard the latest fluttering amusement escape the doctor’s lips, he had the passing thought: That one’s genuine. He had an equally passing thought: That one’s for me. But much like that clever little snake’s keen observation being filed away, Kaz too moved on. And yes, in the same way. In the sense of that not being something he’d ignore, but something he’d come back to.

(He couldn’t help it.)

Dutifully, Kaz followed Baizhu farther behind the counter, half-tempted to inquire—challenge, rather—as to what Changsheng could have going on in her life that was so important they returned swiftly, but he did little more than give her a look. And then, the two of them were alone. Kaz was distinctly aware of how seldom this occurred. It shouldn’t have meant anything. It didn’t. But somehow, nonsensically and utterly beyond his control, it also did.

“So, in other words, don’t give it to Jesper,” Kaz noted. “Or do.” Archons knew the sharpshooter could do with sitting still every once in awhile. As he claimed the vial from the doctor’s careful fingers, a thoughtful frown set into his lips. He stowed it away in his pocket, hesitated. Until, somewhat tightly and drifting out along the roof of his mouth in a soft breath, he said, “Thank you.”

And briefly, there was that dilemma again: the dilemma that shouldn’t have been a dilemma but somehow still was. He’d gotten what he came here for, after all, and so had absolutely no reason to stay, but once more . . . his legs were uncooperative (both of them this time instead of the usual one). As if remnants of that earlier slip in his composure remained, Kaz’s fingers twitched rather uncomfortably atop his cane head: stunted and stiff . . . He needed to work with a deck of cards, lockpicks, something to loosen them up again—

“It can’t be cured, can it?” His tongue loosened instead. But Kaz didn’t stop it, much less put any effort into stopping it as he pinned Baizhu beneath an unwavering stare: not to trap the other, but almost as a means of steadying himself. “You’re a doctor. You would’ve figured it out by now. And that’s the reason for your obsession with immortality. You’re desperate.”

Luckily for his oh-so-secretive company, Baizhu was always too preoccupied to notice any reaction he gave when an attack crept up on him like that. It was difficult to focus on anything else while struggling to breathe.

Unluckily for his company, however, the same didn't apply to Changsheng.

Though she said nothing as conversation resumed, her tongue flicked playfully against the shell of his ear with a hiss too low to carry, yet recognizable by the doctor as stifled snickering. Rather rich of her to laugh when her gift was the cause, but Baizhu resisted rolling his eyes. Best to let the moment pass.

In the wake of what had just happened, the irony of Kaz's comment on tea spurred a laugh from the doctor's own lips. As if tea deprivation would be the reason he keeled over. If only he would be so lucky. "How considerate. Not to worry, though; while there are plenty of health benefits, I wouldn't impose it on you if it's not to your taste."

But his amusement faded as Kaz's tone went quiet. When he offered a smile, it was equally soft with sincerity. "I look forward to it," he said, a simple truth that fueled the ridiculous little flutter in his rib cage. Before evidence of that weakness could show, Baizhu set his tools down and cleared the air with a short huff. "Well, I think your prescription should be ready by now. Come on back; then we can discuss the more sensitive details." Then, to the snake upon his shoulders, "Would you please inform anyone who comes in that I'm consulting with a patient and will be with them shortly?"

Changsheng sniffed haughtily, but she was too accustomed to the request to argue. Someone had to watch the storefront, after all, and Gui's absence left no other options. "Fine," she sighed. Begrudgingly, she slithered down Baizhu's arm and settled in a pile of coils on the counter. "But make it quick."

With that, Baizhu pivoted on his heel and gestured for Kaz to follow. Passing through the curtain behind the counter that led into the clinic, he immediately veered into a storeroom. Moving aside a crate full of dried sweet flowers revealed a vial of cloudy, deep purple liquid.

"It's non-lethal, as always, but just a few drops ingested by mouth will completely paralyze the body for about two hours." He picked up the vial and gave it a swirl, scrutinizing the color before flicking the side of the glass. Tiny sparks danced through the tornado within: evidence of successful Electro infusion. He hummed in satisfaction.

"Now, I must caution you: contact with your skin won't have the full effect, but it can cause numbness and significant lack of coordination." Thus the great care he employed when holding the vial out for Kaz. "If anyone else will be handling it, I'd advise them to wear gloves, as well."

[nagaytoe]

Got a req! Howlw about some angst? What would happen after the bad end?

Evanescent

(Adj.) Soon passing out of sight, memory, or existence; quickly fading or disappearing

Solivan Brugmansia X Reader

TWs: Murder, attempted murder, weapons, just a lot of death in general, loss of loved one, shifting blame, like one mention of necrophilia

Word count: 2.3k

I am currently cooking up 3 more scenarios of what could've happened after the bad end on day 2 but this is the first one that's actually finished (there were just too many ideas popping into my head so ofc i have to write for all of them lmao)

Requests: open

Disclaimer: i tried my best to proof-read it and tried using they/them pronouns but when i first wrote it i used she/her, i just hope i got all of 'em lol

Also, apparently 'whose' can also be used for objects as well and not just for people??? Sounds wrong to me but if the internet says it's right then lets hope its right haha

SPOILERS FOR DAY 2 OF THE KID AT THE BACK

Sol was inconsolable, his face buried in your neck, tears staining your shirt. His arms were wrapped around you but you didn’t reciprocate the gesture. How could you anyways? You were dead. Stabbed by Sol's only friend, Hyugo, who was currently cleaning up the gory scene.

---------------------------------------------------

Just a few moments ago you stumbled upon a horrifying view: Your friend, best friend, and your first love, Jericho Ichabod, laid on the dirty ground of a shed of which door you just broke down, his head barely attached to the neck.

Your knees gave in beneath you as soon as you gazed upon Crowe, grabbing his body, shaking it and willing him to wake up again. How could this happen? He was well liked, nice to everyone he met, who would think about taking his life? You barely registered footsteps behind you because of how loud you were sobbing, but the clanking of metal on the ground didn't slip past you. Turning around, your eyes are met with the sight of someone you didn't expect. You expected a gang leader, a thug, everyone but the one who actually stood in front of you.

Solivan Brugmansia

Just yesterday you befriended the seemingly timid boy and now he was soaked in blood, his red eyes wide as your gazes met.

“[____]...?” Tears of his own started to well up in his eyes which currently roamed over your hunched figure.

“What are you doing here? You're not supposed to be here, you need to leave!” By the end of his sentence he was yelling, tears streaming down his face.

Truly a miserable, pathetic sight.

“You killed him, you killed Crowe, didn't you?” Anger was bubbling up in the pit of your stomach. On the inside you were praying to whatever god was watching from heaven above, if there even was one to begin with, that all this was nothing more than a bad dream, hoping insistently to wake up. However, this was a nightmare you were not permitted to ever wake up from.

“I only did what I should've done years ago.” His words caused you to huff in disbelief, “You're not even gonna deny it, huh?”

“I would never lie to you, [____]” Was he fucking serious? He just killed someone, but at least he's not a liar? What the hell was wrong with him?! You were enraged, he had no reason to kill Crowe, to play god by ending his life and taking your love from you.

“Why? Why did you kill him?!”

"BECAUSE I LOVE YOU! I LOVE YOU AND HE TRIED TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME! I COULDN'T SIT BY AND LET THAT HAPPEN… YOU'RE MINE! MINE ALONE!” he finally snapped, showing his true colors. Was everything he showed you before just a facade? It had to be.

The words he just spoke left a disgusting taste in your mouth. Love? Love?! How dare he use this sweet word in such a disgusting fashion? How dare he taint it in order to justify his vile actions? It made you sick to your stomach and you were blinded by rage as you lunged at him.

“YOU MONSTER!”

You unbuckled the strap of his choker and pulled on it, strangling him in the process.

“YOU LOVE ME?! I LOVED HIM! HE WAS EVERYTHING TO ME! MY BEST FRIEND, MY FIRST LOVE, MY SAVIOR! YOU ARE NOTHING TO ME, I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU! DON'T YOU DARE IMAGINE YOU KNOW ME IN THE SLIGHTEST! I WILL MAKE YOU PAY FOR WHAT YOU'VE DONE!”

Sol was clawing at your wrists by now, but it was no use, every action of his seemed slow and heavy, as if it took a lot of effort, almost as if he was paralyzed.

His hands fell to the side and just as you thought you managed to avenge your love something sharp pierced through your chest.

--

Here you were, taking your last breaths in the arms of the person you despise most.

“[____], please… please stay with me… don't leave me [____]...” his pleas were a stark contrast to what he is screaming at the person who stabbed you.

“HOW COULD YOU!? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!”

Then he went back to sobbing into your shoulder. He seemed completely out of it, switching between grief and anger every other second.

You couldn't seem to make out the words your killer was saying, everything they said was incoherent, except for the last two words:

“No witnesses.”

---------------------------------------------------

“What do you plan on doing? Hold them until they start rotting?”

Hyugo was standing in front of Sol, who was still sitting on the ground, sobbing and cradling you in his arms. After he managed to clean up the scene, the only thing left to do was the disposal of your corpse.

“Just kill me alongside them.” Sols voice was quiet, barely above a whisper and it was strained from crying and screaming so much. It hurt Hyugo to see his best friend like that.

“You know very well I can't do that.”

“YOU WERE ABLE TO KILL THEM THOUGH! I JUST GOT THEM BACK AND YOU TOOK THEM FROM ME!”

Hyugo couldn't hold back his anger anymore. How could Sol still fail to see that this would've never worked out either way?

“THEY TRIED TO KILL YOU!”

Hyugo sighed deeply in an effort to calm himself before continuing, “Even if I had only knocked them out, do you think they would’ve forgiven you for killing Crowe-”

“Don't you dare bring up that bastards name. All of this is his fault anyways. If it hadn't been for him… me and my sweet [____] would still be together now…”

Sols voice was laced with venom as he gripped your body tighter. You have stopped breathing by now, the color has long drained from your face and the warmth of your skin has vanished. All that was left was an empty shell of who you once were.

Just yesterday, you were breathing, talking, laughing. Now? Now you will never be able to do any such thing again.

“It was you or them, Sol. I need you to understand that. Do you truly believe they could've loved you back after finding out you killed someone? Do you think the two of you would have lived happily ever after?” The blue haired man was trying his best to reason with his best friend, but to no avail.

“We could've made it work, I know that we would have… We were destined to be together, there wouldn't have been any other way…Maybe I should just keep them…”

“Sol.” Hyugo put his hand on the taller males shoulder, who was still sitting on the sheds ground. “We need to bury them.”

Sol seemed to be pondering for a moment, the hold he had on your body relentless.

“I can't… I can't let them go. They're gonna be really scared if we bury them and leave them in the darkness forever…”

“Sol, I'll repeat myself one last time. We need to bury them. What else are we supposed to do with their body? Keep it?” Hyugo put his hands on his hips, his patience wearing thin.

“I see no reason to not keep it…” the males words were muttered, but his friend was still able to hear them.

“You can't be serious! Do you know what happens to a body when it decays? They'll have 2 weeks at best before there's nothing left of them, except for the bones.”

Sol knew his friend was right, but how was he supposed to let go of you?

“They deserve a gravestone… a funeral… they deserve a memorial and not to be buried in the woods like some dead animal…”

Hyugo sighed. He knew that there is pretty much nothing he could do right now to convince Sol to do the right thing, he will keep arguing until he gets his way.

“What's your plan?”

Sol considered his options for a few moments before responding,

“Let's call the cops, make it look like an accident or shift the blame onto someone else”

Hyugo scoffed, “And what do you plan to tell them? We don't exactly have an alibi and there aren't that many families with Katanas either, you know? The only other family I can think of right now is Subarus.”

Red eyes met Hyugos teal ones, it's obvious an idea struck Sol. “That's right…”

Hyugo immediately cut Sol off before the latter could finish his sentence.

“Absolutely not! I will not drag my brothers family into this.”

“He doesn't even like you!” Sol retorted.

The shorter males eyes grew wide for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.

“You know what? Do whatever you want. Keep their body like some necrophilie if that's what you desire.” Turning on his heel, Hyugo began walking off. He already took care of everything necessary, cleaning the scene and disposing of the weapons alongside Crowes body. He was not in the mood to argue with someone whose judgment was clouded and wouldn't even listen to him in the first place.

Sols rage grew stronger by the minute. How dared he? Hyugo killed his one and only soulmate in cold blood, like they were nothing and now he walked off just like that? No… No, he won't. Sol won't let that happen. He couldn't let him disrespect you like that. Carefully lowering your body to the ground and standing up, just as Hyugo walked out of the cabin, Sol quickly lunged at the shorter, unsuspecting male.

If there was one thing he knew, it was that Hyugo might be good with weapons but he wasn't all that strong physically.

Well, at least he was weaker than Sol. Since Hyugo buried his katana alongside any other evidence all he can fight with were his bare hands.

“SOL, GET OFF OF ME!”

Sols hands wrapped themselves around Hyugos throat, just like yours were wrapped around his not even half an hour ago. Pressing his friend's head into the dirt ground, Sol is blinded by rage. Hyugo clawed at the taller males wrists, kicking him but Sols grip won't loosen. Letting go of the hands that were wrapped around his throat, Hyugo felt the dirt ground around him for something he can potentially defend himself with and sure enough - he managed to grab ahold of a rock, swiftly smashing it against the side of Sols head.

The taller male staggered and collapsed on the floor next to Hyugo, who hit the exact right spot to knock someone out.

Hyugo stood up, dusting off his clothes and sighing. What a mess. He knew that he needed to get rid of the body, even if it'll drive Sol further into madness.

So that's what he did. He buried [____]s body deep in the forest before sitting down by Sol's side, waiting for him to wake up.

—————————

Sol didn't attempt to kill Hyugo again after the first time, though part of the reason might be the ax Hyugo found in the shed and kept on him afterwards for self-protection. Either way, Sol acted like Hyugo didn't exist. To him he was dead anyways.

He tried his best, tried to go to school but the next days there were hell. People talked, gossiped, conspired as to what could've happened to [____] and Crowe. Were they kidnapped by the mafia? Did they commit suicide together? Did they run away together? Did they join a cult? People made up all kinds of stories in order to make sense of the situation, but only Sol and Hyugo were the ones who knew the truth.

After a few days, Sol stopped going to school. He couldn't handle it any longer.

Every time he sat in his classes he would draw you, instead of paying attention to what the teacher was saying.

Every time he sat in art class he was met with the sight of your unoccupied seat.

Every time lunch break rolled around he would go to the library where the two of you met and sit down in the seat he sat in on that day.

After school he would go to your apartment complex and break into your apartment to lay down on your bed, hugging your sheets and pillows, pretending they were you.

Hyugo never told Sol where he had buried you, too anxious about what Sol might do were he to know where you've been buried.

Not even a week passed before Sol decided what he had to do next.

On monday, almost a whole week after your death, Sol went back to school. The place where he first saw you, where he fell for you and in of which proximity you had died. Though, instead of attending class, he walked up the stairs to the school roof. The cool november breeze brushed over his face, twirling his hair and swaying single strands from side to side.

He climbed over the fence, briefly sitting down on it.

There was no further purpose in living, that, he was sure of. He lost his only purpose and what meaning does life have if it has to be spent without you, his darling?

All he could do was atone for his sins.

His mind is occupied with memories of you as he leapt forwards, clutching his fist to his chest where his heart resided.

“See you soon, pumpkin.”

Everything went dark as his body met the ground. There was no pain, there was no afterthought. All that's there is nothingness.

Of course, to the people now surrounding his body there was a gruesome scene, perhaps they would prefer nothingness as well. But if there was nothingness, there would be no note either, tucked away in his fist.

“In the forest”, the note read.

Sol promised to atone for his sins and he would never lie to you, remember?

[gor3-hound]

don't hold your breath(nobody's home)

ft. leon kennedy x fem!reader

cw: 18+ content, dead dove, uncle-niece incest, non-con, loss of virginity, very minor blood description, forced alcohol consumption, alcoholism from leon ofc, reader gets slapped, age gap, guilt, one threat, fingering, p in v, non-consensual creampie, crying, idk leon feels entitled cause his brother sucks, reader hinted at having nice tits idk

a/n: sorry if this sucks ass... my motivation for writing has been non-existent w real life stuff n all the drama so... i feel like this is awful but here we are. title from razzmatazz by idkhbtfm... not proofread i'm sorry </3

word count: 1.9k words

Leon knew he had a drinking problem. He just hadn't realised it had gotten this bad. He couldn't even get his dick up with viagra anymore. He frowns as he looks down at the brunette he was planning to fuck, tempted to try and just push it in soft.

He ends up just kicking her out to drown his sorrows. He wasn't dealing with this shit tonight, not when he was seeing his asshole brother tomorrow. Pretty wife, perfect kids. His job pays better than Leon's ever will, and he didn't need to undergo years of trauma. Lucky bastard.

Leon does what he does best that night and drinks enough whiskey so he can pass out without worrying about the nightmares coming to ruin his night. 

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

He hasn't seen you in a good six years. You were still playing with dolls and shit when he last visited. Makes him feel stupid when he brings you a plushie as a gift. Clearly he forgot how time worked, cause he still expected you to be thirteen. You still hug him and say thank you, sweet as ever. When his brother said he'd be watching the house and looking after you, he didn't expect to see you so... grown. Too old to need a babysitter, really. Even if your parents are gonna be gone for a week.

He gulps as his hands settle on your hips, trying to prevent you from pressing against his hardening cock. Down boy. At least his dick still works. It just took his college-aged niece to get it up. Doesn't help that you've got your tits smooshed against his chest.

Therapy was gonna be a doozy this week.

He could only pray that this doesn't turn into anything. The last thing he needed was his dick being the thing that got him thrown into prison for doing something stupid to you, no matter how cute that body of yours is. That's a new one, he thinks, mentally slapping himself for even thinking about touching you like that. He'd never do it, of course. That's sick, and he knows it. He's just so frustrated. And you're hot. A total babe. Somehow, you managed to get a better rack than your mom. Must be the Kennedy genes coming in. Leon's got tits for days.

He knew he had a drinking problem, but he never thought he'd lose himself this much. He never thought about hurting anyone. He's not a bad guy. It's just that every time he tried to be with someone, he just couldn't get his body to react the way he wanted. That's what the oxytocin was for, he thought, already thinking about taking a swig of whiskey from the flask in his pocket. If only that fucking stuff worked on him. The part of his brain that controlled his cock seemed to be permanently on vacation, and his wires clearly got crossed somewhere if he wants to fuck his own blood.

Whatever. He could get through a week alone with his niece without any trouble. He's faced worse monsters than the ones making themselves present in his mind right now. He'd keep his distance, and all would be okay.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

That didn't work. Of course it didn't. You were just as clingy with him as you were when you were a kid, following him around like a lost puppy. He's convinced he's clutching the glass of whiskey in his hand hard enough to shatter it as you curl up against his side. His cock is throbbing, and he seriously hopes you don't notice how the fabric of his jeans is getting a little strained.

You really need to stop with those tits. He's gonna lose it if they brush his arm one more time. He's not sure what it is about you, particularly, that has him acting like a teenage virgin again, but his self-control is wavering by the second. He hasn't paid a single second of attention to the movie he was meant to be watching to keep his mind off of you.

Fuck this.

He takes a swig of whiskey that drains half the liquid in his cup in one gulp. Liquid courage and all that. Maybe he'd drunk a little too much while he was here, ‘cause his brain clearly isn't working right. Not when he's pinning you to the couch, kissing your neck despite your protests.

“Leon… Leon, what're you doing?” You force out, small hands pressing at his chest as if you'd be able to knock him off. Cute. He'd fought creatures six times your size. You didn't stand a chance. 

He starts undressing you, and you start writhing and crying, hitting his chest with clenched fists. He swallows the lump that builds in his throat, wiping the tears that fall down your cheeks.

“Shh… it's okay, I'm… I'm gonna take care ‘f you.” He murmurs, his voice slightly slurred from how much he'd drunk. You cry even harder when he presses a finger into you, making the guilt rise up faster in him. That's not fair. He's being nice. God didn't bless him with much, but at least he gave him a fat cock. You should feel lucky he's prepping you. Not making him feel bad.

“Hey.” He warns, shoving another finger in just to shut you up. You finch when he scissors you open. Poor thing. “That's enough. One more complaint for you, and I'll just force myself in.”

Shit. Now he really does feel like a monster. He's not drunk enough to handle the pure terror on your face at his words. He fumbles on the coffee table with his free hand as he lazily pumps into you with the other. Glass? No. Bottle.

Maybe you need some, too. Get you nice and pliant so you'll take his dick without bitching. Not a bad idea. He twists the cap off with his teeth, gulping some of the liquid down himself. He takes another mouthful before leaning down to kiss you, spitting the liquid into the back of your throat. He keeps your mouth on yours even as you try to jerk away, making sure you swallow it.

You really are adorable as you start coughing and spluttering. Such a sweet thing, you probably hadn't even drunk before. He lifts the bottle to your mouth, pouring some more into your mouth before setting it down, covering your mouth. “Swallow.”

He starts thumbing at your clit as he fingers you, relishing in the ways your whimpers turn into soft moans, your hips bucking against his hand. He manages to coax an orgasm out of you with a few more touches, a big smile spreading across his face.

“There we go, sweetie. See, that wasn't so bad, was it?” He coos, unbuttoning his jeans. The sound of the zipper has your eyes widening in horror, and he tuts softly. “What're you giving me that look for? It's your turn to take care of me now.”

There goes the begging and pleading again. It has his brows pinching together as a frown tugs at his lips. You really are his brother's kid. So goddamn ungrateful. He just took care of you, and now you just want him to… what? Fist his dick in the guest room?

He smacks you so hard your head snaps to the side, your breaths coming out in short gasps. You look better like that, tears stinging your eyes but your body completely limp. He can see the fight draining out of your eyes.

“I was gonna be nice.” He mumbles, brows furrowing as he lines his tip up with your entrance, forcing himself inside in one thrust. He groans loudly, shuddering as your tight heat envelops him. His eyes look down, locked onto your cunt as he fucks into you with long strokes. He freezes when he notices blood. He's not sure if he's happy or disgusted that he's your first. No wonder you put up such a fight.

You keep weakly begging him to stop, but your pussy is gushing all over him. It's not his fault he can't stop – you're giving him the hottest look he's ever seen, and your puffy cunt is so fucking greedy for his cock, sucking him back in everytime he starts to pull out.

“S-sorry… I'm so sorry…” He grunts, picking up the pace of his thrusts, groaning at the sound of your punched out moans as he drives into you with as much force as he can muster. You almost sound like you're enjoying it, but you're still fucking crying and he can't take it. His heart hurts.

“Baby, please…” He whispers, squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the betrayal on your face. His arms tremble as he holds himself up, sloppily fucking into you. “I'm sorry… just stop cryin’, please…”

Every time his hips smack the fat of your ass, you're moaning out a ‘please’. With his eyes shut, he can pretend you're begging for more. That you like this. That is, until you start saying ‘stop’. He winces, but the movement of his hips doesn't falter.

“Fuck, baby… please stop begging.” He pleads, throwing his head back as his tip kisses your cervix. He whimpers as it makes you tighten around him, angling his thrusts to hit that spot each time he fully sheaths himself inside of you.

“I-I can't stop…you feel so… fuck. So fucking good. M'so close.” He groans. He can't even find the strength to pull out anymore. He buries himself balls deep in your cunt, grinding himself into your tight heat.

“L-Leon… please.” You say weakly, chest heaving with heavy breaths as panic sets in, your hands pushing at his chest. “Y-you gotta pull out, you can't… you can't.”

“What?” He breathes out, cracking his eyes open to look at you again. He looks genuinely confused. Why would he ever pull out when you felt so good? He can't bring himself to. “Baby, no. I'm cumming inside of you. Can't pull out now.”

That seems to bring your fight back. You start struggling under him again, punching him with all your strength. Luckily, that's not a lot. Especially when you're sluggish from your first time drinking and getting fucked. It's Leon's lucky day.

“Shit, baby. Don't look at me like that.” Or do. He's gonna cum if you keep staring up at him with that wide-eyed expression. “No need to be so scared, princess. I just… shit. Can't help myself.”

Doesn't take longer than a minute after that for him to finish. He buries his face in your neck, whining as he cums. His cock kicks inside of you, the warmth of his release filling every inch of you. You start sobbing all over again, slumping weakly against the couch.

He lies on top of you, his weight pressing you down into the couch. He pets your hair like you're a doll, his fingers carding through your hair.

“I'm sorry, baby. Forgive me. I'll be so good. Do whatever you want. Didn't mean it.” He murmurs, kissing your cheek over and over as if he's trying to get you to relax. He keeps it up until you fall asleep, wrapping you up in his arms.

When you wake up in the morning, you're fully dressed in your bed. You almost think it's a dream until you feel the dull throbbing between your legs.

[jambalaya-enthusiast]

𝐃𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐑𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍𝐒/𝐇𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐄𝐖 𝐌𝐄𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑𝐒 ;

warnings: woooooh long time no see huh? I was just craving some jimmy fluff but then i was like, eh might as well make these for all the characters. very self indulgent, maybe a little suggestive? some toxic behaviour from jimmy ofc.

sidenote: divider by @saradika-graphics

JIMMY

while people might think this guy is an unhygienic fuck, he's actually far from it. a complete and utter neat freak. he's obsessively cleaning the kitchen at every opportunity that he gets, washes his hands rhe millisecond he touches anything wet.

he wears your hoodie allll the time, but for some reason, doesn't let you wear his. his excuse? "they won't fit you". he doesn't ever disclose why he doesn't want you wearing his clothes, but his justification of wearing your hoodies is always "it just feels right".

he leaves the bathroom light on in his room before he sleeps at night, his reasoning is that he might wake up groggy and hit something, but you already know that he is in fact, very much afraid of the dark.

flinches every time you raise your voice, even when you're laughing. doesn't ever say why.

cooks for you every change he gets, he never boasts his cooking skills, but he's always making sure you smile right while eating it.

sleeps with the TV on static whenever you aren't at home, he reasons by saying the white noise helps him sleep, but it's really to block out the thoughts in his mind.

hums old radio songs while cooking. doesn't like anyone to be in the kitchen when he's cooking.

talks in his sleep a lot, your name more often than not, apologies, and other people's names sometimes.

CURLY

Has a subconscious habit of mirroring your movements, if you're stressed out he's pacing, if you're quiet, he's quiet, if you're sitting with your arms crossed, best believe he's doing it as well.

whenever he is at work and you're at home, he texts you random pictures throughout the day like, "look i saw a bird". "having a sandwich rn". "I'm heading home" with an image of the road.

does not like opening up about his emotions, there is a very big distance between you and his internal turmoil. you can be begging, wailing, and screaming for him to be honest and he'll just be like "don't worry about me".

apologises a lot, even mid sentences, "sorry- do you wanna go to this restaurant? they have sorry- seafood I think?".

from before the two of you started dating to even your 10 year anniversary, he has never ever thrown out/lost a single thing which you've gifted him.

has a bad habit of tapping his feet at a rhythmic motion, sitting, standing, sleeping.

similar to jimmy, has a habit of humming songs.

when he's overwhelmed, he just goes out for a walk, doesn't matter if it's below freezing temperatures, "it just takes his mind off of things".

whenever you guys are walking outside, he gently pushes you away from railings, stairs, lamp-posts. as if you're a glass doll, who can break at any little pressure.

ANYA

sometimes you hear her cry in the bathroom due to work related stress, but absolutely doesn't want you to know, she doesn't want you to think she's 'weak'.

whenever she has nightmares, she doesn't wake up gasping, or yell, or cry, just wraps herself around you as if it's the last day on earth.

leaves sticky notes on the fridge with reminders like, "take ur meds". "the milk is spoiled". "Love you so much".

strictly makes you go to routine doctor appointments, be it the dentist, ophthalmologist, the freaking bone doctors. ( el oh el )

keeps every single prescription bottle as if they're her personal trophies.

she chews the end of pens and pencils, you've tried to knock her out of it, but she tends to resume the habit rather fast.

she takes unusually long, and extremely hot showers whenever she's overwhelmed.

tunes her voice to match your comfort level, if you're stressed, she'll talk very softly, if you're excited, her voice tone will rise.

despite knowing about the human psyche, she gets extremely scared whenever she feels there's something off about the way you looked at her, or said 'I love you'.

SWANSEA

extremely afraid of being vulnerable with you, fixes your electrical appliances without you ever asking, but doesn't ever say 'i love you' first.

kisses you as if it's the first and last time ever, as if he won't get another chance.

builds you stuff, shelves for your books, maybe counter tops, bookshelves, a whole ass wooden closet.

when you're putting on makeup or getting ready, he likes staring at you. there's this deep sense of love and adoration in his eyes that he will never ever admit.

always forgets one of his mechanical tools in the kitchen, you'll always find a screwdriver or hammer laying around while trying to make breakfast.

sleeps on the couch during arguments, but checks up on you in the middle of the night to make sure you're sleeping alright.

sometimes, he lets out a grunt instead of answering, you've learned to translate it over time.

he always, ALWAYS. let's you have the last serving of food, doesn't matter if he's still hungry, he says that he's full. this is due to his years of unemployment due to alcoholism, he's seen the lack of food on his plate, doesn't EVER want to let you feel that way even when you guys are financially stable.

opens tight jars and cans and closes them a bit loosened, you think you've gotten stronger, you haven't.

he cuts conversations short if he notices that you're overstimulated, takes the hint and leaves the room.

will never EVER let you see him break.

DAISUKE

He's the kind of partner that gives you all of him, yet thinks he's not doing a good enough job, says 'I love you' like it's his full time job, because he's afraid the silence might steal you.

unknowingly bottles up his resentment because he doesn't know how to confront you about something, this usually results in outbursts with him yelling "am I not doing enough for you?!'.

texts you every time he finds something cute and says, "this reminded me of you :)".

had picked up a nasty smoking habit, he swears to you that he has quit, but chews bubblegum to mask the smell, you find out every time tho.

leaves cabinets and drawers open, you scold him every time but he somehow always forgets.

picks at his lips whenever he's nervous.

he checks the room for your reaction first before he speaks, you approval matters the most to him.

starts wearing the colours of clothes you compliment him in. oh you think pink looks good on him? guess who has a closet full of pink hoodies and t-shirts now.

[roetrolls]

Sleepy goddess and her friend :)

Get Judged by the Cowhand

Possum doesn't get a lot of opportunities to meet other trolls, but I think he deserves to. So! Judgement time! Fair warning, he's not friendly, especially to highbloods, and he doesn't always have a lot to say

As always, 18+ muns and muses only, one troll per reblog, but multiple reblogs allowed, and judgebacks are definitely appreciated, but never required! Thank u <3

[pomefioredove]

Hiii!! Could you possibly do headcanons of overblot boys + adeuce with a s/o who likes to collect figures or like manga or something along those lines? Also I love your writing you’re awesome sauce. feel free to delete or ignore if you don’t wanna do it!! I understand :3

<3<3 ofc

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ collector! reader

type of post: headcanons characters: riddle, ace, deuce, leona, azul, jamil, vil, idia, malleus additional info: romantic or platonic, reader is gender neutral, reader is yuu

looking at... [vaguely gestures to Heartslabyul] all that, I can't imagine Riddle has any grounds to complain about knick-knacks or clutter. he literally lives in a minimalist's worst nightmare. he also gives the impression of a collector of odd trinkets. like stamps or antique tea cups. grandma vibes. probably gets you a nice display cabinet for your things

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Ace is a sixteen year old boy who balls and thinks of himself as a lady's man. and, I mean, he loves you, but you can tell what he's about to say before he even opens his mouth. weeeeeeb... then he saves up all year just to gift you that one ridiculously priced figure for your birthday. like I said, he loves you, he just has a very... defensive temperament

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I feel like Deuce is a really good listener (or, at least, he knows how to be quiet when you're talking, unlike a certain other Heartslabyul first year), even if he doesn't quite get it. besides maybe Jack, he's the most willing to watch your favorite shows with you, read your mangas together, hear about each individual trinket you own... even if he still doesn't understand. it makes you happy <3

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Leona is more of a meh guy. "what do you want, a cookie?" is probably in his top ten favorite expressions. things to say when he doesn't care about something. and. listen. he cares about you, he does, but he's not really the type to pretend. he'll let you talk about your collection, though. as long as you're happy with him, you won't seek out Idia and become completely intolerable (his words, not mine!)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

Azul is having flashbacks to all the junk that Jade and Floyd hoard. but, hey: at least your collection isn't of broken toasters or wild mushrooms. he can respect the pride you take in your hobbies, and the care you... wait, how much does all this cost?

...yeah. okay, he understands. definitely not toasters or mushrooms. your room is practically a museum

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[Jamil voice] "once you're done playing with your toys will you come help me clean up the lounge"

no, he doesn't get it. you haven't said how much all of this costs because you think he might have a heart attack if he saw the numbers, and you keep your belongings tidy enough for him not to stress. so he doesn't complain

(and also because he knows they mean a great deal to you)

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

[Vil voice] "once you're done playing with your toys will you clean up the lounge" lol

he's not exactly jumping for joy when you spend all your allowance on plastic merchandise and picture books. I mean, he's already had to lend you his winter coat, and there was that week you had to stay at Pomefiore because the water at Ramshackle was out... but making purchases seems to make you happy, so he begrudgingly accepts it

there are worse hobbies to have, after all. [side-eyeing Rook]

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

I don't even want to write Idia's part. I'm afraid he'll materialize in my room and start fangirling over this (rip idia shroud you would have loved x readers)

but seriously, he's been recommending you his favorite mangas and animes and games. he probably buys you authentic figures that are thousands of thaumarks on a whim 'cause you kinda like the character. very sweet. very thoughtful. when should I book your wedding. etc

*ੈ✩‧₊˚

you'd think that Malleus would be astonished? WRONG this guy lives with Lilia "hip with the kids" Vanrouge. who is not only a hoarder, but someone who most certainly has a shelf of manga and figures from his favorite games somewhere in the cavernous hole he calls a room. Malleus has probably gotten him one for his birthday (after the 5 hours it took for him to figure out how to buy things online). so like. it's no big deal to him. if you ever mention wanting new manga or figures or... anything... he will give you twice the amount of thaumarks necessary. he's like that

[urno1luv]

being ningrina's innocent little roomate🦋men and minors dni

- coming home with them after going to university, your arms linked together, while ningning talks about her tiring day, you and karina laughing at her exaggerations

- cooking in the kitchen and you suddenly find yourself trapped between the counter and ningning. is she rutting against your ass..?? she tells you not to mind it, she's just playing!! that's what friends do, no?

- ningning always insisting that you sleep in her room because she often has "very vivid nightmares", so you just abandon whatever you're doing and sleepover

- feeling karina's hands caressing your inner thigh while seated on her lap. turning to look at her and seeing an expression of deep yearning and lust which made you feel... uncomfortable. and turned on...? you were so confused :(

- karina joining ningning and you one night (obviously in ning's room) and that's when the predatory duo makes their move

- karina's hands encircle your tits, with the excuse of massaging them, because they seem "so sore", while ning's head lays between your thighs, sighing into the soft skin. "y/n, are you okay? you seem bothered by something..." ningning would say in mock worry, observing the red blush coating your face. ofc she knows what the problem is, and don't worry, she'll make sure it will be solved!!!

- you don't know how you got here, but you find that... maybe sex isn't so scary? certainly not with karina and ningning, the pleasure was nothing like anything you've ever experienced in your life. the very convenient strap that they were wearing under their clothes came in very handy. it's as if they knew what they were going to do tonight🤔

- rina and ning fucking you at two different speeds, the heavy breathing in your ears sending shocks to your engorged clit. you never thought that they would both fit in your pussy, but they did. rina's sudden intrusion into your pretty asshole made you mewl, ningning laughing in your face at the reaction :( they're so cocky and mean, giving you "i told you so" looks.

"sweet y/n, you should listen to us more."

"we very clearly know what's best for you, angel."

karina's deep voice contrasting to ningning's melodic tone makes you excited, goosebumps appearing on your bruised skin. you were definitely going to have more fun with your morally grey unnies😼

[nocturnewidow]

hiya!! i love your blog theme, it’s so pretty.

I was wondering if you are willing to write nicknames/petnames the moon boys would call you?? :3

anon ily omg tysm !! and yes ofc, i'd love to <33

What petnames the moon boys would call you ⋆. 𐙚 ̊

Jake Lockley⋆˚࿔

petnames: mi vida, hermosa, mamita, baby girl, preciosa, corazón >_<

scenarios:

“Mi vida,” he murmurs low, the words brushing your ear as he pulls you closer in the backseat of his cab, the leather creaking under you both. “You tryin’ to drive me crazy, wearin’ that little thing?”

When you’re annoyed with him for sneaking out during the night for a “job,” he leans in with that smug little grin and a bouquet of half squished gas station flowers: “Aw, don’t look at me like that, mamita. I missed you.”

You’re sitting on the counter in his apartment, wearing his shirt and swinging your legs while he makes cafecito. He slides the cup to you with a wink. “Preciosa,” he says like it’s a fact, like it’s your name. :33

___

Steven Grant ✶⋆.˚

petnames: love, darling, sweetheart, treasure, my dove

scenarios:

“Careful, love,” he says as you reach for the top shelf, hands instinctively ghosting over your waist. "Wouldn't want you fallin' for me-er—I mean, off the stool." >_<

He’s rambling about ancient Egyptian artifacts, eyes lighting up with excitement, but then he stops mid sentence and smiles softly at you. “You’re brilliant, y’know that? Honestly, my little treasure.”

When you come to visit him at the museum, and he spots you from across the gift shop in that outfit he likes: "Bloody hell, my dove-you're gonna give me a heart attack."

___

Marc Spector⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧

petnames: babe, sweetheart, angel, beautiful, baby

scenarios:

After a mission gone wrong, you’re patching up a gash on his arm. He winces but smirks. “You’re tougher than you look, babe.”

When he pulls you into a kiss after weeks apart, all rough hands and desperate sighs: “Missed you, sweetheart. So damn much.”

You’re training together and manage to pin him for once he huffs a laugh, brushing hair from your face. “Not bad, angel.”

When he’s holding you after a nightmare, grounding himself in your heartbeat: “Still here, baby. You and me.” <33

[zaynessbeloved]

Hung like a Masterpiece

Synopsis: You're an award-winning artist. He’s an arrogant painter with a god complex. Forced to share a gallery, your rivalry turns into something messy, physical, and addictive. But beneath the sharp words and slow-burning stares, something unexpected begins to take shape—something neither of you can frame, contain, or walk away from.

Content warnings: Enemies to lovers, forced proximity, rivals in love and art, slow burn, gallery AU, he falls first, she denies it longer, mutual pining (but in denial), smug flirting as a love language, rough sex with feelings, porn with feelings, teasing, wall sex, “say please” energy, power dynamics, foreplay, biting, sexual tension, power play, praise kink, degradation kink, oral sex, semi-public sex, orgasm control.

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 10.8k

A/n: I set out to write artistic rivalry and somehow ended up with wall sex, ruined reputations, and feelings haha. Honestly? This vision fits Rafayel a little too well haha. He’s dramatic, he’s cocky, and of course he’d fall for someone who bites back just as hard. (bcs ofc he would) Enjoyyy<3

A/n: this is divided into 2 parts. the next part is already posted and you can check it out at the end!

Part 1

You met Rafayel at an art gala you weren’t even supposed to attend.

You were covering for your boss—an emergency trip, a last-minute cancellation, whatever excuse got you shoved into a too-tight dress and sent to charm donors and scout new talent for your gallery. You’d barely stepped into the room before you heard his name.

Rafayel Qi. Sculptor. Painter. Prodigy. Nightmare. 

You’d heard the rumors—about the temper, the ego, the way he tore down critics with a smile on his lips and a knife hidden in the sweetness of his words. But you hadn’t expected that. That smug little smirk, that lilac shirt half-unbuttoned like he owned the room. And those eyes, violet and glittering like they knew every terrible thing about you already.

He caught you staring.

You looked away first.

"You're from Callahan Gallery, aren’t you?" he said later, swirling wine in a glass like he cared more about the liquid than you. "The one with the overpriced taste and underwhelming catalog." 

You smiled. "And you’re the one who thinks a splash of blue and a tortured past makes him a genius."

He laughed. Actually laughed. Like he’d been waiting for someone to bite back.

The rest of the night spiraled from there.

You ran into him again two weeks later, at a museum event where you were actually on the guest list. He was leaned against a marble pillar like it was a throne, hair tied back, wearing a jacket that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

"You follow me now?" he asked as you approached the same installation.

"Please," you scoffed. "I have taste."

"Do you?" he murmured, eyes sliding over you with maddening calm. "Still wasting it on this museum’s third-rate curation?"

Another stare. Another dare. 

It became a pattern. You’d see him at events, gallery openings, even on the steps outside a café one afternoon—like the universe was playing a joke. Every time, the same routine. A cutting remark. A sharper comeback. A look that lingered too long.

Once, he brushed past you in a crowded hallway, and your shoulders touched. He stopped walking. So did you. Neither of you said a word. Neither of you moved.  The tension crackled like static. 

And then he smirked, low and lazy. "Careful, cutie. I might start thinking you like me."

"You’d have to be delusional," you replied.

He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “That makes two of us.”

It kept happening.

You’d walk into a room and feel him before you saw him—like the hum of a storm building in the distance. Always too polished, too smug, leaning against something he didn’t belong to like it belonged to him. Eyes scanning the crowd like he was bored by the world but waiting for you.

“Tell me,” he murmured once at an artist showcase, lips brushing the rim of his wine glass, “do you always look this miserable at events, or am I just lucky?”

You didn’t bother looking up from the sculpture. “I save my real expressions for people who matter.”

He clicked his tongue, amused. “Then why are your eyes always on me?”

That earned him a full-body stare. Up. Down. Cold.

“I’m usually trying to figure out if you're part of the exhibit,” you said sweetly. “Or if someone just dragged in another pretentious installation.”

He grinned like it thrilled him. “And yet, you always come back for more.”

Another time, he caught you in a bookstore downtown, reaching for the same worn art theory volume. Your fingers brushed. You snatched your hand away like he’d burned you.

He didn’t flinch.

“You read this?” he asked, lifting the book between two fingers like it was a rotting peach. “I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

You turned your head slightly. “Says the man who paints in the dark and sculpts until his hands bleed.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve been reading about me.”

“I was researching red flags.”

He stepped closer. Too close. Your breath hitched.

He noticed.

“Then you must’ve found all the right ones.”

You refused to back down, even when his voice dropped, even when the silence between you felt like an inhale before something dangerous.

That time, you were the one to walk away.

But the gallery was different.

It was yours.

You’d spent weeks curating the proposal. A modern, immersive exhibit that would bring in sponsors, press, and the kind of attention your name deserved. You were already picturing your name on the placard outside the entrance when the director invited you to the meeting.

You didn’t expect him to be there.

But of course—there he was, lounging in a chair at the end of the long table, legs crossed, fingers tapping lazily on the armrest. He didn’t even glance up until the director said your name.

Then those violet eyes locked onto you.

And stayed.

You took the seat directly across from him, spine straight, jaw tight.

“Didn’t know we were accepting proposals from narcissists this year,” you said under your breath. 

He smirked. “Didn’t know gallery girls could bite.” 

The director cleared his throat. “We’ve received two strong pitches for the same space.”

You didn’t need to look to feel Rafayel’s gaze press into the side of your face.

“Oh?” he drawled. “I assumed mine was the only one worth reading.” 

You let out a soft laugh—no humor. “You mean the one with six paragraphs of metaphor and no actual structure?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Structure is for people who don’t know how to feel.”

“And feeling,” you snapped, “doesn’t pay rent.”

The director looked deeply uncomfortable, flipping through notes like they could save him. But it didn’t matter. The meeting went on around you. Neither of you blinked.

And when it ended, when the director mumbled something about “needing time to decide,” you rose from your chair and—

“Do you really think you can win this?” Rafayel asked, voice low behind you.

You turned, your face inches from his. The air between you taut and brittle.

“I don’t think,” you said. “I know.”

He tilted his head, lips barely parted, eyes gleaming like you’d just given him a gift.

“I love it when you lie to yourself.”

The stare lingered.

Hot. Breathless.

And then you both turned away at once.

As if it had never happened at all.

Two days later, the email hits your inbox like a slap in the face.

“We were so impressed by both your proposals, we’ve come to an exciting decision…”

You don’t even finish reading before you're dialing the gallery.

By the time you storm into the office, the director is already holding up both hands like he's trying to ward off a very specific hurricane.

“Before you yell—”

“You want me to collaborate with him?”

“He’s one of the most well-known artists in the region.”

“He’s a menace in designer clothing.”

The door opens behind you, smooth as a sigh. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“Cutie,” Rafayel drawls. “You’re going to give the poor man a heart attack.”

You do turn then. Slowly. Like your spine is made of steel and every inch of you is ready to strangle him with the gallery lanyard around your neck.

He smiles like he enjoys it.

“You knew,” you accuse, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Let’s just say I have a gift for seeing the inevitable.”

“Or you bribed him.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You think I’d waste a bribe on you?” 

“Enough,” the director cuts in, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen. You two are firecrackers. Separately, you’re explosive. Together… you might actually change the damn game.”

You stare at him. Then at Rafayel. Then back again. 

“This was supposed to be my exhibit,” you say tightly.

“And mine,” Rafayel adds, not missing a beat.

The director throws up his hands. “Then make it yours. Together.”

You know when you’ve lost a battle. Doesn’t mean you’ll lose the war.

So you turn to him, meeting that smug, infuriating gaze with every ounce of disdain you can muster. 

“Stay out of my way, and we’ll survive this.”

He steps closer, too close, voice a soft, venomous purr. “Why would I ever do that, when watching you squirm is the highlight of my week?”

You exhale through your nose. 

“And when this all crashes and burns?”

Rafayel flashes a slow, lazy grin. “Then at least it’ll be beautiful.”

The director sighs again, rubbing his temples.

You don’t look away from Rafayel.

Neither does he.

Because this is how it always starts—with fire on your tongue and a stare that says just try me.

The shared studio space is large—vaulted ceilings, warm natural light, blank walls begging for something loud. But it still feels too small the moment he walks in.

“Already marking your territory, cutie?” Rafayel’s voice echoes as he eyes the table you’ve half-covered in sketches and mock-ups. “How bold of you. I thought we were playing nice.”

You don’t look up from your pencil. “Nice? That word doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.”

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like a lion circling prey he has no intention of killing just yet. “Oh, I can be nice. But where’s the fun in that?”

You finally lift your head and meet his gaze. “Fun isn’t what this is supposed to be.”

He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, head tilted just enough to make it infuriating. “Speak for yourself. I find your little temper tantrums incredibly entertaining.”

You stand, spine straight. “I’m here to build something real. Not… whatever tortured ego project you’re planning to smear on the walls.”

“Tortured,” he muses, tapping a finger to his chin. “You have been reading my reviews. I’m flattered.”

You walk past him toward the paints, brushing too close just to make a point. “You’re not a mystery, Rafayel. You’re a cliché wrapped in silk shirts and paint stains.”

He watches you, lips curled. “Careful, cutie. You’re starting to sound obsessed.”

You whirl on him. “You wish.”

He steps in, now just a breath away. “Oh, I don’t have to wish. You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

Your heart skips—but your expression doesn’t change. “I look at fires too. Doesn’t mean I want to get burned.”

“But you still look,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

The silence that follows crackles. And then you snap out of it, brushing past again.

“I’m not here to play games.”

“No,” he says behind you, “you’re here to win them.”

The next few hours are war.

You argue over layout. Color palettes. Where to place the central piece.

He insists on raw chaos. You demand clean execution. You clash like fire and oil, feeding off the friction, daring each other to snap.

At one point, you reach for the same brush. Fingers brush. He doesn’t pull away.

You do. Barely.

“Don’t get in my space,” you mutter.

“Then stop making it so tempting.”

The day ends with nothing finished and everything burning.

But you leave with your chest full of adrenaline and something else you won’t name.

And when you turn around at the door, his gaze is still on you—leaning against the window frame like he’s been there his whole life, watching you unravel.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, cutie,” he says with a slow grin.

“Not if I see you first.”

You arrive late.

Not that he comments on it—but his smirk when you walk in says plenty. He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained with deep crimson paint. A fresh canvas looms behind him like a threat, unfinished and chaotic—just like him.

“You’re late, cutie.”

You drop your bag onto the nearest stool. “You’re still insufferable. Some things never change.”

He steps back from the canvas, wipes his hands with a rag that does nothing, and saunters toward your side of the room.

“You’ve been dodging my ideas,” he says, eyes flicking down to your neat layout sketches. “This—this is all control. Precision. It’s not art. It’s an instruction manual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And yours is just therapy with a brush. We’re not building chaos. We’re building a show.”

His eyes gleam. “Ah, but chaos sells.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe to people too distracted by your eyes to notice the lack of substance.”

He grins, slow and lazy, stepping even closer. “You like my eyes?”

“I said other people.”

“But you noticed.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to your layout, hoping that’ll end it. It doesn’t. He circles around you like a cat with too much time on its hands. And then—

A flick. Warm, wet, cold.

You freeze.

You look down. A smear of crimson paint stains the side of your white blouse. Centered. Bold. Obvious. You inhale sharply, your jaw clenched. “What. The hell.”

“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all, holding up his brush like it slipped from divine grace. “You moved.”

You spin to face him. “You did that on purpose.”

His voice drops, soft and mocking. “Prove it.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “This isn’t funny. I’ve dealt with a lot of arrogant artists, but you—”

“You what?” he cuts in, stepping forward again. “Can’t handle me?”

“You’re unprofessional. You’re childish. You treat this like a game—”

“And you’re so tightly wound,” he growls, close enough now that your anger folds into something else, something hotter. “It’s a miracle you haven’t snapped.”

“I’m this close.” You raise a hand, index and thumb inches apart.

He glances at them, then back at your face. “Then do it.”

Your breath catches.

He’s right in front of you now—too close, heat radiating from him like a fire you can’t outrun. Paint-stained fingers twitch at his side, lips parted slightly, gaze locked on yours like he’s waiting for a detonation.

And god, you want to.

Not just to scream. Not just to hit. To grab him by that stupid open collar and pull.

But you don’t. And neither does he.

The tension coils like wire between you, humming with unsaid things and things you can’t afford to feel.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper.

His voice is like velvet over blades. “And you love every second of it.”

Neither of you move. The air is thick enough to drown in.

And then the director’s voice echoes from down the hall, distant but just close enough to break the spell.

You step back first. But not before his eyes drop to the paint still staining your shirt, his smirk returning like a promise.

“You should wear red more often,” he murmurs.

--------

It’s late.

The gallery is quiet, lights dimmed to a low golden glow. Outside, rain streaks the windows like the sky itself is exasperated. You’re standing in front of the main display wall, arms crossed, frustration boiling just under your skin.

He strolls in ten minutes late, of course.

Paint still smeared on his wrist, a cocky half-smile pulling at his lips. “You’re early,” he says, dropping his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Or maybe I’m just fashionably—”

“Don’t start.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. The weight in your voice cuts clean.

Rafayel pauses, blinking once before that infuriating smirk returns. “Someone’s in a mood.”

You finally spin to face him, jaw tight. “I don’t have time for your shit tonight, Rafayel.”

His brow arches. “Oof. Full names now. That’s how I know you’re mad.”

“I’m beyond mad,” you snap. “We’re two weeks out and we haven’t locked in a single final layout. You keep redoing your pieces, scrapping mine, and refusing to collaborate. This whole thing is going to fall apart because you can’t stand not being the center of attention for five seconds.”

He chuckles darkly. “No, cutie. It’s going to fall apart because you’re so obsessed with control you can’t see anything beyond your own vision.”

You step forward. “At least I have one.”

“And yet you keep circling mine like a moth to a flame.”

You shove past him toward the sketches pinned to the corkboard, snatching one off. “These are useless. We’ve reworked the same five pieces and none of them fit.”

“Because you won’t take risks,” he fires back, following you. “You want clean, safe and digestible. But art—real art—isn’t meant to be easy.”

You whirl on him, voice rising. “Not everything has to be chaos and bleeding hearts, Rafayel! You act like pain is the only valid form of expression. Like you're the only one who's ever felt anything!”

He stops. Just for a second. Then steps closer, gaze sharpening like a knife drawn slowly.

“I am the only one who’s honest about it,” he says, low and deadly.

You clench the paper in your hand, your whole body shaking. “No. You’re just loud about it. There’s a difference.”

His laugh is sharp. “Still pretending you’re above it, huh?”

“I’m not pretending anything!”

“You are,” he says, stepping so close you feel the heat of him. “You’re pretending this doesn’t get to you. I don’t get to you.”

“Because you don’t!”

You don’t realize how loud it comes out until it echoes off the gallery walls.

Silence crashes down like a wave.

You’re breathing hard, your chest heaving. His expression flickers—just a second—before the grin returns, slow and infuriating.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to lose your mind every time I get this close?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because he is close—so close your elbows almost brush, the smell of paint and cologne and whatever that scent is that clings to him like sin filling your lungs.

“You’re not special,” you say, softer, sharper.

He tilts his head. “No?”

“Just a spoiled artist with a god complex and a pretty face.”

His breath hitches, almost a laugh. Then: “Careful, cutie. You’re making it sound like you’ve thought about this face more than you should.”

You exhale—shaky, unsteady. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re addicted to fighting me.”

Your back hits the wall behind you without even realizing you were stepping away. He cages you there without touching you, arms braced on either side of the wall, violet eyes burning.

“You hate me so much,” he whispers, “but you never walk away.”

Neither do you speak.

And neither of you back down.

“Back off, Rafayel.”

You shove his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. He barely moves, but he laughs—low and delighted like you’ve just played into his favorite game.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s the real you.”

Your chest rises and falls like you’ve been sprinting. “Don’t you dare pretend like you know anything about me.”

“I know you’re full of it,” he snaps. “You act like you’re above all this—above me. But every time I push, you push back harder. Every time I get close, you break.”

You take another step forward, your voice sharp as a blade. “Because you never stop pushing! You walk in with your paint-stained hands and your perfect little smirk like the whole world owes you something.”

“I never asked for the world.”

“No. You asked for me. You push because you want me to break. You want me to come undone so you can feel like you’ve won.”

His mouth parts slightly, expression flickering—just for a second. You press in before he can regain the smug mask.

“Well guess what?” you breathe. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fight dirty.”

He grins again—but it’s different this time. Twisted. Almost desperate.

“Then hit me where it hurts, cutie,” he dares. “Let’s see what you’ve really got.”

Your hands are trembling at your sides—not with fear. With fury. With fire. With everything that’s been boiling since the very first time he called you cutie with that goddamn smile on his lips.

You take another step forward, so close now your words crash directly into his breath.

“You want to be the storm, Rafayel? Fine. But don’t be surprised when I burn your whole gallery down.”

“Oh, burn me, baby,” he growls, voice rough and low. “Set the whole damn thing on fire.”

You slap a sketch from the table beside you—it flies across the floor, pages scattering like ash. Neither of you looks away. “You think this is fun for me?” you shout. “That I like wasting my time arguing with you every goddamn day?”

“You never walk away.”

“Because I thought maybe—maybe—somewhere beneath all that arrogance there was someone worth working with!”

He steps in again, chest brushing yours. “And you haven’t walked out yet. So what does that say about you?”

“Maybe I’m just stupid.”

“Or maybe,” he says, voice like crushed velvet, “you’re just as fucked up as me.”

The silence that follows is violent. Loud. Too much. His eyes drop to your mouth. Yours flicker to his. Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

You’ve spent months tearing into each other like this. Fighting like it’s foreplay. Speaking in weapons. Daring the other to be the first to crack.

And now? Now, you’re both staring down the edge.

Still breathless. Still burning. Still not backing down.

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten.

His breath is warm against your cheek, and your voice is shaking—not with weakness, but with rage. With adrenaline. With everything he’s pulled out of you and everything you’ve refused to give.

“God, you’re impossible,” you snap, pacing a few steps and then turning on him again, throwing your hand toward him. “You think the world revolves around your paint-smeared tantrums and tortured artist ego—”

“And you think you're better than everyone because you hide behind structure and control,” he snarls back. “You pretend you’re composed, but you’re one bad day away from burning it all to the ground.”

You scoff, sharp and bitter. “At least I don’t walk around acting like every pair of eyes is here to worship me!”

He laughs—a sharp, furious sound. “Oh, cutie. You do. You just hate that mine don’t.”

You throw your hands up. “You’re so full of shit, Rafayel!”

“And you’re obsessed with hating me!” he roars, stepping forward.

“Because you make everything harder!”

“And you love it!”

The words crash into silence. The space between you sparks. Neither of you blink.

Your hand flies up again in some wild, angry gesture—but it doesn’t make it far.

Because suddenly his fingers are gripping your wrist—not harsh, not soft either—just enough to make you stop moving. Just enough to hold you there, suspended in the heat between you.

Your chest is heaving. His eyes are locked to yours like he’s afraid to look away, like if he does, the entire world might fall apart.

“Let go,” you whisper, though there’s no bite behind it now.

But he doesn’t. And neither of you move. And then—

Then the dam breaks.

Your lips crash into his like fire meeting gasoline, reckless and wild and furious. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s months of biting and resisting and pushing. His hands are in your hair. Yours grip his shirt, pulling him in like you hate him and want to crawl inside him all at once.

He growls against your mouth, and you bite his bottom lip just to spite him. He pulls back half a second, panting, eyes wild. “I knew you’d taste like trouble,” he breathes.

“Shut up,” you hiss—and kiss him again.

Harder.

This time, neither of you pull away. And maybe this doesn’t fix anything. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll scream at each other all over again. But right now—

Right now, the gallery is quiet except for the sound of colliding mouths and gasping breath, and the sound of two people finally giving into everything they’ve tried so hard to fight.

Neither of you backing down.

Not even a little.

Your hands slam against his chest, pushing him hard enough that his back hits the edge of the gallery table with a dull thud.

But you don’t step away.

Not even close.

His grin flashes, breathless and wild, hair tousled from your fingers, paint smudged on both of you like war paint. “Didn’t think you had that in you, cutie.”

You don’t answer.

You crash your mouth against his again, teeth scraping, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt like you’re trying to rip it open—or rip it off. Every part of you is flushed, trembling with heat that has nothing to do with anger anymore and everything to do with the way his body fits against yours like it always belonged there.

He groans into the kiss, hands sliding to your waist like he’s trying to anchor you—but you don't want to be held still. You want to burn.

"You’ve been driving me insane," you gasp against his mouth.

“Good,” he mutters, voice rough, pupils blown wide as his hand curls around your hip and pulls you in harder. “I was hoping I’d get under that pretty skin of yours.”

“You’re infuriating,” you hiss, tugging at his shirt. “Condescending. Cocky. Arrogant—”

“Keep going,” he growls, tilting his head to mouth at your jaw, down your throat. “It’s turning me on.”

You shove him again—he stumbles a step back, catching himself on the edge of the table, but you follow.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you breathe, chest heaving, eyes ablaze as your hands pin his hips to the wood.

He lets out a breathless laugh, mouth brushing yours. “Oh, cutie… I think we both just lost.”

And then his lips are on yours again—hungry, unrelenting.

The argument becomes touch. Becomes teeth and tongue and nails. The gallery space fades into dim walls and drying canvases and the heavy sound of breath between kisses.

Your back hits the wall this time—but not by accident.

He cages you there, panting, forehead against yours. His voice drops, low and wrecked. “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

You look at him. Really look at him. Paint in his hair. Lust in his eyes. Your rage still burning somewhere between your ribs, tangled with desire.

You don’t say a word. Instead, you pull him in again.

And this time, neither of you stop.

You don’t stop him. You pull him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

His mouth crushes yours again, and your fingers claw at his shirt, yanking it from where it’s tucked—fingertips slipping under warm fabric, nails dragging against skin like you want to hurt him, mark him, make him feel everything.

He growls into your mouth, low and primal, and then his hands are on your thighs—gripping, lifting, pinning you back against the gallery wall like it’s the only thing keeping either of you upright. You hook your legs around him without hesitation, dragging him closer until there's nothing left between you.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters against your lips, biting the words into your skin. “All those fights, all that heat—was this what you were begging for?”

You drag your mouth to his jaw, then his neck, teeth scraping as your hands fist in the fabric at his back. “Shut up and feel it.”

He slams his mouth back onto yours—no tenderness, just fire. Months of tension unraveling with every desperate press of your bodies, the taste of paint and breath and rage clinging to your tongue.

You grind against him like you hate him, like you want to break him apart and leave your fingerprints on every inch of him.

And he lets you.

No—he loves it.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, holding you in place as he rocks against you, groaning low and dark when your hips meet his with brutal intent. Every movement is a fight. Every touch is a dare.

You break the kiss to breathe, gasping, lips swollen, eyes locked.

“You’re still infuriating,” you whisper.

He licks his lips, eyes glittering. “And you’re still pretending you don’t love this.”

You dig your nails into his shoulder. “I never said I didn’t.”

“Good,” he breathes, mouth brushing yours again. “Then don’t hold back now.”

And you don’t.

You kiss him again, bruising and breathless, with every ounce of fury and heat that’s been building since the day you met. His body crushes yours against the wall, his hands tangled in your clothes, your hair, you, as the fight turns to something else entirely.

Something unstoppable. Something inevitable.

And in that moment, there is no gallery. No exhibit. No winning.

Just two people—burning. Together.

You feel him.

Hard. Hot. Pressed flush between your legs, every roll of his hips making your breath stutter, making your fingers dig into the muscles of his back. His shirt is half-torn, hanging off one shoulder, and yours is bunched around your ribs, twisted in the frantic chaos of limbs and mouths and months of repressed need.

There’s no good place for this—not in a gallery full of delicate pieces and paint-slicked surfaces.

And neither of you gives a damn.

Rafayel growls low against your mouth, then pulls back just long enough to adjust your weight in his arms, turning sharply with you still wrapped around him.

“Where the hell are you going?” you pant against his jaw.

“Finding a spot that won’t collapse under us,” he mutters.

“Oh?” You grin, breathless and cocky. “Getting worried about breaking something, artist?”

He throws you a look over his shoulder, wild and flushed. “Only worried about breaking you, cutie.”

“Keep dreaming.”

He spins you into the small hallway by the storage room, the low track lighting catching on the curve of his jaw, the sweat at his temple, the paint smudged where your fingers dragged down his neck.

And then your hands are in his hair. Tangled. Tight.

You grip it like you’re trying to pull the arrogance straight out of him—fists tight in the soft strands as you tilt his head back and bite at the skin just below his ear.

He groans, deep and raw, grinding against you like he’s punishing you for it. “Fuck—”

“Sensitive?” you taunt, lips brushing the red mark you’ve left.

He shudders under you, hands gripping your thighs harder.

“You don’t shut up even when you’re wrapped around me,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours.

“And you don’t stop running that smug mouth even with my teeth in your neck,” you shoot back, dragging your nails up his spine.

His smile breaks into something darker—his hips slam forward in a slow, punishing roll that knocks the breath right out of you.

“You gonna bite again, cutie?” he murmurs, voice a rough whisper against your cheek. “Or just hold on and take it?”

Your response is a moan, swallowed against his mouth as you kiss him again—rough, aching, furious. Your bodies slam against the wall behind you, picture frames clattering off their hooks, and still—still—you’re clawing at each other like you’re trying to win something.

Like this is still a game.

Like neither of you can admit how badly you want this. How badly you want him.

How badly he wants you.

Your nails dig into his chest, dragging down the exposed skin just beneath the half-open shirt hanging uselessly off his shoulder. You feel every tense muscle shift under your touch, the way he shudders when your fingers rake down over his abs—mean, rough, like you're daring him to lose control completely.

He growls against your mouth, not from pain, but from the way your touch fuels him—makes him hungrier.

“You always this dramatic?” you pant against his lips. “Or is this just your usual way of losing arguments?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

He grabs you by the waist and pulls—harsh and fast—your back slamming into his chest as he drags you with him through the narrow hall.

"You're not winning this, cutie," he bites into your neck. "Not tonight."

You laugh breathlessly, eyes flashing with heat and challenge. “Please, I’ve had better competition from wet paint.”

He turns sharply, pushing you against the nearest wall hard enough that your breath catches. “Keep talking.”

Your shirt is half off, riding high up your stomach, and his hands are already underneath—roaming, greedy, sliding up your ribs, mapping every inch like he’s sculpting you from memory. He palms your waist, your stomach, your chest, like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

You rake your nails down his abdomen again, and he hisses against your throat.

“I bet you paint with less intensity than you’re touching me,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, lips swollen from kissing you like it was war. “You want intensity?”

His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping tight, lifting you just enough for your legs to hook around his hips again. He grinds against you—slow, brutal, and unrelenting. You moan, low and involuntary, and his grin returns, vicious and smug.

“There it is,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Sounded a lot like surrender.”

Your hand grips his hair hard enough to sting. “If you think that was surrender,” you growl, “you haven’t even started the fight.”

“Then fucking prove it.”

And gods—you do.

You yank his hair hard—hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his head tilting back just the way you want it. The way he wants it. That perfect line of his throat exposed to you like a dare.

You take it.

Your mouth crashes against his neck—tongue licking a hot stripe up his skin before your teeth sink in, biting down hard enough to bruise. He groans, loud and raw, fingers tightening under your thighs like he’s seconds from slamming you through the wall just to get deeper.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice ragged, hips bucking up into yours in a sharp, filthy rhythm.

You suck at the skin beneath his jaw, leaving wet, angry kisses in your wake, biting again when he presses against just the right spot.

“Still think you’re in control?” you pant against his pulse.

He snarls, one hand sliding up your back to twist in your hair, dragging your head back until your mouths crash again—sloppy, biting, too much teeth. “You think this is control?”

His hips roll against yours, punishing and perfect, grinding into that spot that makes your breath stutter. His other hand slips beneath the mess of your shirt, gripping your bare waist hard enough to leave marks.

You moan against his mouth—low and furious. He swallows it with a grin.

“You manhandle me like you’re winning,” he breathes against your jaw, “but you’re the one moaning in my mouth, cutie.”

You dig your nails into his back. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You do.

Your teeth scrape along the edge of his ear, biting down. His whole body shudders against yours, and he pins you tighter to the wall, his hips driving against you like he’s trying to undo every breath you have left.

The gallery fades. Time doesn’t exist. There’s only skin and teeth and breathless groans tangled between gasps and growls.

Neither of you back down.

Not an inch.

You don’t want to win.

You want to ruin each other.

Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his lower back as he groans against your neck, struggling to keep you pinned and upright at the same time. His muscles twitch under your hands, jaw clenched, breath coming fast.

You lean in, voice like silk over embers.

“Getting tired already?” you murmur, biting the shell of his ear. “Didn’t think I’d wreck you this fast.”

He lets out a low, disbelieving laugh—but it’s strained. And you know it.

“I can feel your arms shaking,” you add, tilting your head with a mock-pitying smirk. “Want to sit down, pretty boy? Or maybe admit I’ve got the upper hand?”

He growls—a real, guttural sound—and suddenly his grip shifts, tightens, and he drops you.

Not carelessly. Deliberately.

One swift movement and your feet hit the floor, the cold rush of air barely registering before he grabs your hips and spins you hard—until your front hits the gallery wall, palms braced on the cool plaster.

Your breath catches. His body presses against your back, chest to spine, heat to heat, his mouth brushing your ear now, voice molten and wrecked.

“You want to wreck me?” he hisses. “Then take it. But don’t you ever think I can’t hold you.”

His hands are everywhere—sliding up your bare waist, teeth dragging along your shoulder as your shirt slips further. You arch back against him instinctively, but he doesn’t give you an inch. He cages you there, hips pressed into yours, teasing, grinding, overwhelming.

You throw a look over your shoulder, eyes lidded and dangerous. “Still sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t handle my legs around him.”

He smiles, all teeth.

Then he leans in and bites your shoulder—hard enough to make your knees tremble.

“You talk too much, cutie.”

“And you—” your voice breaks when he rolls his hips again, slow and bruising “—don’t talk enough.”

“Then let me show you.”

And he does.

He rolls his hips against you, slow and unrelenting, grinding into the curve of your ass with a precision that makes your eyes flutter shut. You meet his rhythm instinctively, arching back, matching him thrust for thrust like you were built for this.

His breath stutters behind you.

You smirk, just barely over your shoulder. “That what you wanted?” you breathe. “Me bent over and breathless after all that barking?”

But you don’t fight him this time.

You stay right where he’s put you—hands braced on the gallery wall, back arched, hips tilted. You let him have it. Let him guide the pace. Let him feel exactly how much this has undone you.

And oh, he feels it.

His hands slide down your sides, rough and reverent, slow like he’s savoring every inch. When his fingers find the hem of your skirt, he curses low under his breath—gripping the fabric, pushing it higher until it bunches around your hips.

Then his hand finds its way beneath.

You hear the hitch in his breath when his fingers slide between your thighs and meet heat.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice nearly ruined. “You’re soaked.”

You tilt your head with a wicked little grin. “Still think I talk too much?”

His hand tightens on your hip, the other still buried between your legs, fingers testing just how wrecked you are.

“All that yelling,” he murmurs against your ear, “all that attitude… and this is what you’ve been holding back?”

His fingers move again and you gasp, your forehead hitting the wall. He chuckles darkly. “You love fighting me. Admit it.”

You bite your lip, barely able to breathe. “Only because I know how it ends.”

“Like this?”

He thrusts his hips again—harder now. Deeper. Your moan breaks sharp against the gallery walls.

“Exactly like this,” you pant.

And this time, you don’t mock him.

Because there’s nothing left to say—just the rhythm of hips and hands and hot breath against skin, every movement crashing louder than words ever could.

His fingers trail slowly, deliberately, over the thin fabric between your thighs—barely touching, just enough to make your breath hitch. He could ruin you right now, and he knows it. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans in, voice a rough whisper against your ear, smug and dripping with heat.

“Lace?” he breathes, fingers brushing again, slow and taunting. “You wore lace to the gallery, cutie? That for me?”

You let out a breathless laugh, curling your fingers against the wall, hips arching back into him just enough to tease.

“Please,” you pant, turning your head enough to glance at him over your shoulder, eyes burning. “Don’t flatter yourself. I forgot you’d be here.”

He presses harder, the heel of his hand grinding against you through the soaked lace, fingers trailing slow circles that make your legs threaten to give.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, mouth at your throat. “So this wet little mess I’ve got my fingers on—that’s just from the art, then?”

You moan before you can stop it.

His grin is devastating.

You growl, voice wrecked and cocky. “You’re such a smug bastard.”

“And you’re dripping all over my hand.”

You snap your hips back into his, hard enough that it knocks the air from both of you.

“You talk too much,” you pant, breath shaking. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

His fingers slip beneath the lace.

“I am.”

Your breath catches hard—your hand slams against the wall, nails scraping the paint. You hear him chuckle low behind you, wicked and satisfied and so, so arrogant.

And you love it. You fucking love it. Because this is how it’s always been with you and him. Fighting. Biting. Pushing.

Only now, your battleground is skin and heat and breath.

And the war is still on.

He knows it now. Exactly how you like it. Not careful. Not sweet.

Combative.

His fingers move with purpose now—no more teasing. No more slow circles or gentle brushes. He works you the way you argue: hard, relentless, like he’s proving something with every movement. And you meet him step for step.

Your hips grind into his hand, your moans low and ragged, your head tipped back so your breath hits the wall and bounces back to meet your gasps.

“You like this, don’t you?” he growls, fingers curling just right. “Me taking control. You don’t want slow—you want a fight.”

You claw at the wall, body arching into every stroke, voice sharp and breathless. “Then fight me.”

His free hand grabs your hair, not too hard but hard enough, dragging your head back until your mouth opens in a gasp. His lips are at your neck again, biting this time, really biting, as his fingers work faster, rougher, perfectly ruthless.

“You’ve been begging for this since the first time you mouthed off to me,” he grits out, breath hot against your ear. “You just didn’t know it.”

You laugh, wrecked and shaking. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me,” he snarls, pressing his hips against you, letting you feel all of him, hard and ready, his fingers never stopping.

You shudder, legs trembling. “Cocky asshole.”

He thrusts two fingers deeper. You moan.

“Say it again,” he pants.

“You’re a cocky, arrogant, smug—fuck—” your sentence collapses into a moan as your body tightens under his touch, nails scraping the wall, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Just like that. Come for me like you fight—loud.”

And you do.

It rips through you like lightning, sharp and blinding, your body shaking with it—your moan long, breathless, broken. And he holds you through it, fingers steady, the other hand tangled in your hair, holding you in place like he’s claiming victory.

When it finally settles, when your legs threaten to give out, he leans in close—smug, panting, lips brushing your ear.

“Still think I can’t handle you, cutie?”

You laugh through the high still humming in your bones.

You’re not done. Not even close.

You twist in his arms, eyes glittering, mouth swollen, and shove him back against the opposite wall with a wicked grin.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

And just like that—the fight begins again. You turn on him, your body still pulsing with aftershocks, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.

The buttons don’t stand a chance.

They snap open one by one under the force of your hands, the fabric yanked apart so violently it leaves threads hanging. His chest is exposed now—paint-smeared, sweat-slick, flushed from head to toe—and your breath catches.

He laughs—chuckles, like he lives for this.

“Of course you’d tear it off,” he mutters, half-wrecked, hair wild, grin feral. “You just can’t help yourself.”

“I warned you,” you pant, pushing him back against the nearest surface again, your palms splayed across his now bare chest. “You like control. So do I.”

He groans as your nails drag down his chest—no softness in your touch, only fire. You suck a mark into the skin beneath his collarbone, biting until he hisses, grabbing at your hips in retaliation.

“You fight dirty,” he growls.

You grin against his skin. “So fight back.”

Your hand dips lower, unceremonious, hungry, clawing at his belt like you’re trying to rip it open with sheer frustration and lust. You fumble once—he notices—and of course he fucking smirks.

“You need help, cutie?”

You shoot him a glare, then finally yank the belt free with a satisfying snap, gripping the leather like a weapon.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you growl, leaning into his ear.

He exhales a shaky laugh, hands gripping your waist tighter. “Then why do you look like you’re starving for it?”

Your only answer is your hand sliding lower, possessive and unapologetic, fingers curling around the heat beneath his clothes.

His head drops back with a curse, his laugh dissolving into a groan. “Fuck—”

“Still cocky?” you murmur, biting his shoulder again, fingers tightening. “Still think I’m the one who’s losing?”

He grabs your wrist, not to stop you—but to ground himself. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good,” you breathe. “Then die begging.”

And that’s it.

He’s had enough.

He pulls you in—hard—kissing you like he’s trying to shut you up, but your moan only fuels him. It’s war all over again—teeth, hands, hips, heat.

And this time, there are no rules left.

You don’t warn him.

You slide your hand inside with a sharp, purposeful movement—no hesitation, no mercy—and wrap your fingers around him.

He gasps, hips jerking forward instinctively, his hand flying to your wrist like he might stop you—but he doesn’t. He can’t. His grip only tightens, not to resist, but to endure.

Your lips curl into a smirk against his throat.

“Still feeling in control?” you whisper, fingers tightening just enough to make his breath catch in his chest.

“Fuck—” he growls, jaw clenched, body shivering against yours.

“You always have something to say,” you murmur, licking the corner of his jaw. “So say it. Tell me what you want.”

He bites his lip, refusing. Pride warring with the pulsing heat in your hand.

So you start to move—slow, deliberate strokes, your palm working him with maddening confidence. His hips twitch again, knees bending slightly under the weight of it.

“You want it?” you breathe, voice all fire and sin. “Then beg.”

His laugh is wrecked. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re hard in my hand.”

You tighten your grip slightly—just enough to make him groan, head falling to your shoulder.

“I can stop,” you whisper against his ear. “You want that?”

His breath stutters.

“I didn’t think so.”

Another stroke.

He curses again—louder this time—his hand sliding up to your waist, gripping hard like he needs something to hold onto.

“I want—” he grits out, voice raw, teeth bared.

You slow your hand. “Say it,” you hiss. “I want to hear you say it.”

His head snaps back up—violet eyes dark, wild, burning. And he finally snaps.

“I want you,” he growls. “I want your mouth. Your hands. Your goddamn fire. I want you to ruin me.”

You smile—sharp, victorious, wicked. “Now that,” you whisper, pumping your hand again, “wasn’t so hard.”

He shudders—completely at your mercy now, undone by your grip and your grin and the heat still crackling between your bodies like lightning before the storm breaks.

And you're just getting started.

You feel the shift in his breath before you even move.

He thinks he’s won something—thinks your body pressed against his, your hand still stroking him slow and merciless, means he has the upper hand again.

So you smile—that smile. Devastating. Dangerous.

Then you drop to your knees.

Right in front of him.

His breath catches, and you look up through your lashes, fingers already dragging his waistband down, exposing all of him inch by inch like unwrapping something you earned.

“Shit,” he breathes, chest rising and falling like he’s already halfway undone.

You grin wider. “Still think I don’t know how to handle you?”

He groans, head tipping back for half a second before he catches himself—before the cocky bastard returns.

“You know,” he pants, his hand sliding into your hair, not guiding, just there, “this is going to fuel my ego for months.”

You kiss along his hipbone, lips ghosting just above where he needs you, slow and maddening. “Let me guess,” you murmur, breath hot against his skin. “You’ll make a sculpture of me on my knees?”

He lets out a wrecked laugh. “I might. Haven’t decided if I’d need to exaggerate the attitude or not.”

You nip at his skin, just enough to make him twitch. “Careful, Rafayel. I am the one holding your entire dignity in my hands.”

“Cutie,” he groans, voice ragged. “You’ve been holding it since the moment you opened your mouth.”

You lick a slow line up his length just to shut him up—and it works. His breath stutters, his hand tightening slightly in your hair, hips rolling forward before he catches himself.

You don’t look away as your mouth closes around him.

And that—that’s when he forgets how to speak.

His hand fists in your hair now, no longer teasing, and he moans your name, low and desperate and completely wrecked. And still, he tries to fight for control, hips jerking, voice sharp.

“You don’t get to—fuck—you don’t get to win this.”

You pull back just enough to smirk, hand stroking him again, slick and steady.

“Watch me.”

And then you take him deeper.

He chokes on a curse, thighs shaking now, every muscle coiled like he’s trying not to fall apart right there. Like he’s trying not to give you everything.

But it’s already too late. Because you have him. Right where you want him.

And no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise—he loves it.

You love this. The way he gasped when you dropped to your knees. The way he twitched when you wrapped your mouth around him.

But what you love most—the part that drives heat between your thighs—is the way Rafayel, arrogant, cocky, insufferable Rafayel, is finally too wrecked to speak.

You take him deeper, your fingers curling against his hips to hold him still, your mouth hot and unrelenting. His groan rips through the air, low and broken, head tipping back as his hand tightens in your hair like he’s barely hanging on.

He tries to stay in control—of course he does.

But you feel it. The way his thighs tense. The way his breathing shatters.

You pull back just enough, mouth flushed and slick as you glance up at him, still stroking him slow and merciless.

“You gonna break for me?” you whisper. “Or are you still pretending you’re in charge?”

His chest heaves, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “Cutie…”

You smirk, wicked and electric. “Lose it, Rafayel. I want to see you fall apart.”

And then you take him again—all the way this time, deeper than before, your throat tightening, tongue pressing just right.

That’s it.

That’s the moment.

His hand fists in your hair, hard now, dragging your mouth against him as his hips buck forward, needy, wrecked, real. His other hand finds your shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck—fuck,” he gasps, head bowed, hair falling into his eyes as he watches you ruin him. “You’re gonna make me—shit—”

You moan around him—on purpose—and his whole body jerks, his control unraveling in your hands like silk threads being pulled loose.

He’s not cocky now. Not smug. Not teasing.

He’s yours—breathless, broken, bucking his hips into your mouth like he can’t help it anymore. Like he needs this. Needs you.

And god, you love it.

You hold him steady, guiding every movement, letting him use your mouth as he loses himself entirely—grunting, moaning your name, curses falling off his lips like prayers.

Until finally, finally, he breaks.

And you don’t let up until he’s trembling, panting, and ruined—body pressed to the wall, hand still in your hair, breathless and completely gone.

When you finally pull back, slow and deliberate, your lips are swollen, your eyes dark with satisfaction, and that smirk—

That smirk could kill a god.

Rafayel looks down at you, chest heaving, hair wild, eyes blown wide. You lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Well,” you murmur, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “That shut you up.”

He laughs—wrecked and ruined and loving every second of it.

He’s still gasping, still flushed and ruined from your mouth, but you don’t get a moment to gloat.

Not really.

Because his hand is already under your chin, yanking you upward with a growl, dragging you to your feet so fast you barely register the motion.

And then your back slams against the gallery wall again, hard enough to make you gasp—but not from pain.

From heat. From need.

“You smug little brat,” he breathes against your mouth, teeth flashing in the low light. “You think that was enough to shut me down?”

You grin, breathless. “Didn’t hear you complaining—”

He cuts you off with a brutal kiss—biting, deep, all tongue and teeth and possession. His hands claw at your hips, dragging your skirt higher with impatient fingers. Your own hands are already tangled in his open shirt, then sliding up his bare back—scratching, digging deep as he grinds against you.

He hisses into your mouth.

“Fucking hell, cutie—”

You tug his hair, hard, dragging his head back so you can bite at his throat again.

“I told you not to call me that when I’m on top.”

“I told you I’d take it back,” he growls, and then he does.

His hips press hard into yours, hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you again. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, your head falling back against the wall as his teeth catch the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” you pant, voice shredded with heat. “You’re not done fighting.”

His hand slips between your bodies, rough and hot against your thigh.

“Oh, I’m not done,” he rasps. “Not even fucking close.”

And then you’re clawing at him again—hands on his shoulders, his back, tangled in his hair. You pull him into you like you’re trying to rip the smugness out of his body, gasping when his hips roll up with dizzying precision.

His grip bruises.

Yours leaves marks.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

“You gonna break again?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear, dragging your nails down his spine.

He growls, thrusting hard. “Only if I take you with me.”

“Good.”

Because this—this mess of sweat and fire and biting mouths—isn’t about losing or winning.

It’s about how far they’ll go to destroy each other.

And how badly they want to come undone together.

Your head is spinning, hair tangled in his hands, your thighs bracketing his hips as your back hits the wall again—hard, hot, perfect. His mouth is all over you, kissing, biting, breathing curses against your skin, and your hands are pulling at him like you want to climb inside him and tear his soul out.

You want this.

You both do.

You can feel it in the way his body trembles against yours, the way he growls when your nails dig too deep, the way he gasps when you roll your hips up to meet him.

And still—you fight.

“You’re holding back,” you bite out, clawing at his shoulder. “Scared?”

He grins against your collarbone, breathless. “Scared you’ll start begging.”

You growl, dragging him down into another kiss—furious and messy, teeth clashing, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. You rut against each other like you’re already there—like it’s already happening—and it almost is.

Your fingers slide between your bodies, tugging at the last barrier between want and need, and you don’t care anymore how wrecked you sound when you whisper against his mouth, “Do it.”

He still hesitates.

So you spit fire.

“You’re all bark, Rafayel. All talk. You don’t have the nerve—”

He growls. And that’s the end of it.

He grabs your hips, manhandles you into place—like you weigh nothing, like you’re his to lift and hold and take—and lines himself up, eyes burning into yours as he finally, finally thrusts in.

Not brutal. But controlled.

Intentional.

Like he wants you to feel it.

You cry out, fingers digging into his back as he fills you inch by slow, deliberate inch, the stretch dizzying, the heat unbearable. Your head falls forward, your forehead hitting his shoulder as he presses in deeper—steady, devastating.

He groans, low and wrecked. “Fuck, cutie...”

You grip his hair again, tugging hard, gasping. “More.”

“Always so greedy,” he pants.

“Then give it to me.”

And he does.

With every slow, grinding thrust, he claims more of you. And you take it—arching, trembling, whispering curses into his ear as he moves just right, just enough to keep you teetering, but not falling. Not yet.

His hand slips beneath your thigh, pulling your leg higher, angling deeper. You both moan—raw, unfiltered, desperate.

“You feel—” he can’t even finish.

You chuckle darkly. “Speechless again?”

He bites your shoulder. “Not for long.”

And just like that—you’re fighting again. But now it’s skin on skin. Now it’s hips and moans and hands clawing for more.

And the war between you?

It’s never felt this good.

You don't ask. You demand.

Your nails dig into his back, your thighs tighten around his waist, and your voice—hoarse, wild, wrecked—snaps into his ear like a whip.

“Harder.”

He growls, the sound primal and guttural, and answers the only way he knows how—with a sharp, brutal thrust that makes your head hit the wall, your gasp punching out of your lungs like he’s knocked the breath out of you.

“Like that?” he pants, voice low, rough, feral.

You don’t answer.

You ravage.

Your mouth finds his neck and you devour him—licking, sucking, biting, leaving red, blooming marks down his throat like you want the world to know exactly what you’ve done. He groans, hips snapping into you harder, faster, his control fraying with every grind of your body against his.

“Fuck—” he hisses, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your ass, keeping you anchored as he drives into you like he can’t stop even if he wanted to.

And he doesn’t.

Neither of you do.

You move with him, against him, for him—grinding down, gasping, your body slick with sweat, nails leaving trails across his bare skin. You tear at him like you’re starving. Like this is the last time you’ll ever breathe.

“You wanted control,” he groans, lips at your ear. “You wanted more—”

“I want everything,” you spit back, clenching around him as you pull his hair, dragging him closer, deeper, harder.

“You fucking have it,” he growls, and then he thrusts again—so deep, so perfect, your vision goes white.

Every snap of his hips drags you closer to the edge. Every panting breath, every curse through clenched teeth, every bite—pulls you into oblivion.

And it’s coming fast.

You feel it.

He feels it.

“You close?” he rasps, biting your jaw, the line of your throat. “You gonna come for me, cutie?”

You grip his face, force him to look at you—your eyes wild, your lips swollen, your whole body trembling as you grind against him like you own him.

You throw the words at him like a blade, voice shredded with lust and defiance.

“I’ll come when I’m—”

But you never finish the sentence.

Because Rafayel’s eyes flash, and in a split second, his grip tightens—hands sinking into your hips, fingers bruising, holding you in place—and then his thrusts change.

Faster. Deeper. Harder.

He slams into you like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of you—and god, he’s succeeding. Your head tips back with a gasp, your nails clawing at his shoulders, scraping down his back as his pace grows brutal, relentless.

“You were saying?” he grits out, voice rough, breath wrecked as his hips piston into you over and over again.

You choke on a moan, your mouth open, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure inside you coils too tight, too fast, too much.

You try to hold it.

You try.

But he knows. He feels it. The way your legs shake. The way your walls clench around him like you’re already falling.

His lips find your throat, biting hard as he growls, “Come for me.”

And then—

You break.

It hits like a wave crashing straight through your core, tearing the air from your lungs. Your back arches, your cry sharp and loud as your body shudders violently against his. You clench around him so tight he groans, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

You’re breathless, wrecked, trembling.

And still, he keeps going—dragging you through it, refusing to let you fall alone.

“That’s it,” he breathes, panting against your ear. “God, you feel—fuck—”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is his name—rasped, broken, desperate.

And he loves it.

Because he won this round. But you’ll make him pay for it.

Later.

You’re still shaking—legs locked tight around his waist, body flushed and burning, mouth open as you suck desperate gasps of air. But your hands don’t stop moving. They claw into his shoulders, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin, dragging him closer.

Your lips find his neck again—biting, growling against his pulse.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you rasp, voice raw, breathless, trembling. “Finish what you started.”

And god, he does.

Your walls pulse around him, still tight, still clenching like you’re daring him to lose it. His thrusts grow messier now—less control, more need, more of that beautiful chaos that lives between you.

“Fuck—fuck, cutie,” he gasps, eyes squeezed shut, head buried in your shoulder.

You squeeze around him again—tight, hard—your body urging him on with every flutter, every trembling aftershock still rolling through your core. Your nails rake down his back. Your voice drips into his ear, half growl, half command.

“Come for me.”

That’s it.

He chokes out a moan—deep, hoarse, wrecked—his rhythm falters, then crashes completely. His whole body jerks as he drives into you one final time, hips pressed flush to yours as he comes undone.

You feel it in the way he shudders, the way his fingers dig into your hips like he needs you to keep him grounded. He groans your name like a curse, like a confession, like he’s been holding it back since the first fight you ever had.

His body collapses against yours, panting, gasping, trembling.

And you just hold him there—your hands still in his hair, your lips brushing his neck, both of you slick and ruined and still burning.

Neither of you says a word.

Not yet.

Because there’s no need to.

Not when your bodies have said everything.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body buzzing in the wake of everything he just did to you—and what you did right back.

You feel him slowly, carefully pull out, and you wince, just a little—still sensitive, still shivering. His hands stay on your hips, steadying you. And then, unexpectedly, gently, he lowers you back down, settling you against the wall as your feet find the ground again.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of ragged breaths and the drip of paintwater in the distance. His forehead leans against yours, and his eyes—still a little dazed, still blown wide—search yours for something he doesn’t dare ask for.

You smirk.

“Wow,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Didn’t think the great Rafayel Qi had a soft touch in him.”

He huffs a laugh, that same ruined chuckle from earlier, but quieter now—less cocky, more real.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “So the bruises on my hips were just for decoration?”

“Oh, no,” he grins, “those were entirely intentional.”

You laugh, breathless and raw.

His fingers graze your waist, light now—absent of heat or hunger. Just there. A quiet tether in the silence.

And then, without thinking, one of you says it: “Well... I think we finally found the gallery aesthetic.”

The other snorts. “Chaotic passion?”

“Unresolved sexual tension in acrylic and sweat.”

“‘Artistically combative,’” he offers, mock-serious. “‘With expressive use of biting.’”

You both laugh—real laughter now, the kind that shakes your chest and steals the weight from your bones.

You’re still tangled. Still flushed. Still bare.

But something has shifted.

And neither of you wants to say it out loud yet.

So instead, you stay there—back against the wall, his hand resting at your waist, your finger idly tracing a line down the buttons you ruined.

And for the first time, there’s no need to win.

Not yet.

© zaynessbeloved 2025

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST HERE AND ON MY AO3.

.ᐟ✧ translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or other sites ARE NOT permitted. please do not ask. do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own. thank you!

taglist: @syluslittlecrows

next part

[shelbgrey]

Heyyy can i get a smutty fic with older Johnny Lawrence 😩 it is so hard to find good fics of him and i love the ones you wrote. I’d like something with an age gap (as in reader being much younger but legal ofc) but anything you’re okay with! Please and thank you 💕💕

The great outdoors(Johnny Lawrence)

Paring: Johnny Lawrence x LaRusso!Reader

Summary: Miyagi-do and eagle fang go out for a weekend of camping and luckily for Johnny, Daniel's baby sister tags along to help. The two have been dancing around each other for months, ignoring their feelings - or Johnny has. But what will happen when Chozen forgets to bring the extra tent and y/n and Johnny end up sharing.

Warrings: SMUT, one bed trope but with a tent, oral(F receiving), unprotected sex, rushed ending, age gap(10 years are mentioned), slight orgasm denial, language, not edited, not my best work - sorry pookies.

MasterList ML2

Daniel had this idea to take the members of Miyagi-do or eagle fang, whatever they decide to be that week out camping. Y/n always help both Johnny and Daniel out rather it be with classes or tournaments. She went even though she hated camping with a passion, she kept telling herself it was to help Daniel out, but part of her was aching to spend the weekend with Johnny. Then to make matters worse, Chozen forgot to get the extra tent from Daniel's garage. The tent y/n was supposed to sleep in.

“I'm sorry, y/n-San. I had forgotten you'd be joining us this weekend” Chosen said sheepishly.

“It's alright,” y/n tried to reassure Chozen, the both of them had become pretty good friends over the last few months, but she was pretty frustrated and she had become comfortable enough to put him in his place without anyone getting butt hurt. “But where the hell am I sleeping this weekend?”

“It's alright, you can share a tent with Amanda and I'll bunk with Chozen” Daniel said, trying to defuse the situation. Part of him was glad both Amanda and Johnny were too occupied helping the others set up or else he'd have their two cents too.

“no, share a tent with your wife,” y/n told her brother then looked over at chozen. “but I ain't sharing a tent with him, he snores”

“I don't not snore!” Chozen scoffed.

“dude, I could hear you all the way in my room when you were staying with us” y/n shot back.

“then I guess you're sharing with Johnny-San, so ha!” Chosen said in a way a child tried to win an argument.

“Wait what?” y/n paused, not realizing she was already turning red. Daniel missed his little sister's genuine reaction.

Then Johnny looked up from the tent he was helping Robbie set up. “Who am I sharing what with?” he asked, making Robbie snicker.

Daniel sighed, shaking his head. “the three of you can just figure it out,” he walked off to help Amanda and the girls, as he did he passed Johnny. “if she's staying in your tent, keep your hands to yourself”

Johnny rolled his eyes. This was his worst nightmare. Or was it? He really liked y/n and this would be torture, or it could be amazing. Daniel's scolding stayed on repeat in his head, making himself promise to behave.

“Seriously, you don't have to” y/n said to Johnny, trying to hide the inner excitement and nervousness she felt at the thought of being in that little tent with him.

“What are you gonna do? Find a cave to sleep in?” Johnny raised an eyebrow. “you can stay with me, it's only for two nights”

“Thanks Johnny” she smiled.

“Yeah, yeah, don't mention it” he smirked, leading her over to his tent with her stuff in tow.

Y/n raised an eyebrow, trying to hide whatever she was feeling with sarcasm. It's not the first time the two of them teased and gave each other crap. “pretty small, how do you expect the both of us to fit”

“Well, excuse me, princess. I wasn't expecting company” he said, unzipping it and grabbing her backpack to toss it in with his.

Later that night the kids - well, can't really say that now, so the members of Miyagi-do went stargazing or something, I wasn’t paying attention and all I knew was Daniel and Chozen left with them. Some hours earlier, Demetri had gotten sick and Amanda left to take him home. I think she was thankful that she had a reason to leave. So that just left me and Johnny at the campsite.

Johnny had left to get some wood for the fire and y/n sat next to it, poking at it and trying to stay warm. Johnny came back moments later, setting down the fire wood before sitting down on the fallen tree next to her, but not too close. The fire was giving her a beautiful glow and only made her more attractive. Johnny cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the thoughts.

“Cold?” he asked, shrugging off his flannel and wrapped it around her shoulders before she could actually answer.

Y/n tried not to blush, putting her arms through the holes and wrapped the soft, thick material close to her body. It was warm and smelt like him, best of both worlds. “thanks” she smiled softly, hiding how much the tiny jester affected her.

Johnny couldn’t help but look y/n up and down in his flannel, it was big on her, but it looked cute. He had only imagined how she would look in one of his t-shirts. Johnny shook his head and looked at the fire, getting flustered and trying to distract himself.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re welcome.” He mumbled, awkwardly running a hand through his hair.

Johnny looked back at her out of the corner of his eye. She looked great under the fire’s light, it made her eyes look brighter, the shadows were highlighting her curves. Johnny quickly looked away from her, before his mind could wonder any farther. Johnny was fighting himself internally, trying to stay focused.

“So, umm” she said softly, breaking the silence. They were always so comfortable with each other and ever since the knowledge of them sharing a tent this weekend hung over their heads it's been kinda shy around them. “You wanna roast some marshmallows or something?”

He immediately nodded, glad for the distraction. Anything to keep his mind off how attractive she looked in his flannel. “Hell yeah” He reached for the bag of marshmallows, trying to keep his hands steady.

Johnny could literally feel the heat radiating off her as she sat close to him. He could feel her arm brush against his as they held their marshmallows in the open flame. couldn’t get enough. He wanted to reach out and just touch her, hold her, but he was fighting the urge the best he could. His arm would brush against hers and he’d feel electricity run through his body. As Johnny tried to distract himself he watched her roast the marshmallow, noticing how she bit her lip in concentration, a small habit he found adorable.

“You're gonna end up burning yours” y/n said, pulling hers away. It was golden brown, perfect.

Johnny failed to notice his marshmallow turning black. He pulled his burned treat from the fire, cursing at the sight of it but then chuckled. “Damn” he mumbled, flicking the peace of coal off the stick.

Y/n let out a soft laugh. Johnny glanced up and watched her lips wrap around the marshmallow, biting into the gooie, roasted treat. Her eyes met his blue ones as she swallowed, not realizing there was a small string of marshmallow on the corner of her lips. “something on your mind?”

He then noticed the small string of marshmallow on the corner of her lips. He almost groaned at how hot that was. He willed himself not to lean over and lick it off. He was fighting the urges hard again.

“What?” she asked softly, raising an eyebrow.

Johnny was just staring at her, the way she bit her lip, even the way she swallowed was driving him crazy. Then he noticed the marshmallow on the corner of her lips again and without a second thought his thumb was swiping it off. Johnny’s thumb was now right on her bottom lip, his hand still cupping her face. Y/n’s eyes shot up, staring into his blue eyes. Her cheeks heated up from the feeling of his rough, warm palm against her face.

Johnny didn’t even realize he did it, it was completely on reflex, but now he was stuck. He tried to take his hand back, as he realized the situation but he couldn’t move. She was so close. The fire danced in her eyes, she was so beautiful. Johnny’s thumb moved back and forth on her lip almost subconsciously.

The silence was deafening. The only sound was the crackling of the fire and you could cut the tension with a knife. Johnny’s eyes traced down to her lips, and he had to fight every urge not to lean forward and capture them in a kiss. But their age difference was the only thing keeping him back.

It was only ten, ten useless years. Johnny was pushing late 40s and y/n was in her 30s, past grown adults. So, instead of admitting his feelings he just went for a playful banter and he tried to convince himself he wouldn't go after her in respect for Daniel. Even though that's total bullshit.

“Johnny” she said just below a whisper as she went too close in the gap, but he pulled away.

“y/n, we can't” Johnny trailed off. He didn’t want to upset her or hurt her, he wanted to tell her how bad he wanted this, wanted her, but he needed to stay strong and keep the distance between them, even if it killed him.

“But we can” she said softly, inching closer again.

Johnny’s resolve was weakening. Her soft words and gaze was making his willpower waiver. He could only hold on to his argument for a few moments longer. “I’m just so much older than you” Johnny felt like he was grasping at straws with that excuse.

“ten years,” y/n couldn't help but let out a chuckle, it was ridiculous. We were adults. “Is that really the issue here?”

Johnny’s excuse crumbled when y/n laughed at it and he knew he was in deep. His argument was terrible, he could only use one more argument against this, the only one he still was holding on to. “I still have enough common sense not to flirt with LaRusso's sister”

“Ooo, what's Danny gonna do?” she rolled her eyes, she knew what he'd do.

“Beat my ass, that’s what. Daniel’s still got a hell of a kick.”

Y/n stared up at him, moving closer. “since when did he make you such a, In your own words a 'pussy'?”

He was right up to her now looking down to keep eye contact to avoid being obvious. “You know how Daniel is, if he found out the way I want you he’d throw me through a wall.”

“And how do you want me?” y/n whispered, lust and love clouding her eyes.

Johnny’s mind flashed through all the different ways he wanted her but he didn’t let it show on his face, he was too stubborn. “Stop asking stupid questions you already know the answer to” He grunted out, trying to ignore the shiver that ran through his body.

“Okay, then stop saying stupid things and do what you want like usual”

That was the plan. Johnny no longer tried to hide it and let his inner voice take over. He moved his head to the back of her neck and began pulling her closer, closing the space. His eyes were still on hers, giving her a way out, but the way she looked at him was telling him what he wanted to hear. Johnny’s face was only an inch away from hers as he spoke softly. “Are you sure?”

Y/n grabbed his shirt, pulling him against her and smashed her lips against his, gripping his black thermal in her fists tightly. Johnny wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer as she kissed him back roughly, all the bottled up desire finally exploded. They both knew the line they were crossing should be handled with care, just like how you'd handle a firework. It's badass if you're smart and you light it with caution, but if you're stupid it will blow up in your face.

Johnny's hands roaming down to her lower back as he deepened the kiss. He broke away only to breathe and look into her eyes, making sure they were still on the same page. Y/n pressed her lips back against his, moaning softly and climbed into his lap without breaking the kiss.

Johnny groaned at the feeling, his hands instinctively gripping her hips. The kiss intensified, tongues tangling as he lost himself in the moment. Years of pent-up desire unleashed, he tilted his head, kissing her deeper, more urgently. Y/n cupped his jaw, moaning as their tongues tangled together. She pressed her chest against his and Johnny lost balance on the fallen tree he was sitting on at the campsite.

Johnny stumbled backwards, taking her down with him. He landed with a grunt, hitting the forest ground first before she landed on top of him, both of them laughing breathlessly as they laid there in a tangle of limbs, trying to regain their balance. Y/n shifted, sitting back a bit to look at him. He was laying on the soft pine needles and dead leaves covering the forest floor and his legs were still draped over the log he was once sitting on. “you alright?”

Johnny had to take a moment to find his words. His eyes traveled down her body, she was on top of him, straddling his waist, in one of his flannels and it was the most amazing thing he’s ever seen. Without hesitation he grabbed her face, pulling her fully on top of him, kissing her fiercely. Y/n let out a soft moan against his lips, cupping his jaw as their lips moved against each other in a rushed pace.

Johnny’s hands were all over her. One was on her face, holding her in place and the other was on the small of her back, keeping her as close as possible. His body was reacting to everything she was doing, every small sound she made was enough to make his pants feel a little tighter. His hand on her back slowly dipped down, grabbing a handful of her ass, his hand squeezing and gripping her in a possessive hold.

Y/n pulled away from the kiss, their noses brushing against each other as she let out a small moan and rutted against him, making his hips bucked up to meet hers. His strong arms wrapped around her to pull her flush against him. He nuzzled his nose against hers, his breathing growing heavier as he whispered, “Dammit, you gotta stop moving”

“or what?” she teased softly.

Johnny growled, his eyes flashing open, he murmured huskily. “Or I might just pin you to this fucking ground and show you exactly what happens when you tease me like this”

“Nope, I rather not wake up with splinters on my ass and thighs”

Johnny chuckled darkly, his hands moving to her hips to stop her from moving. He squeezed them possessively, his thumbs brushing the crease of her inner thighs. “Then get your ass in the tent” His voice was hoarse, his face flushed, his pupils dilated.

Y/n scrambled to her feet and he grabbed her hand, walking quickly towards the tent they were sharing for the weekend. Johnny was still holding her hand as he unzipped the tent door, and guided her inside. The space was a little small, considering it was only made for two people, but they could make it work.

Y/n pecked him on the lips then layed back on the air mattress that was in the middle of the tent, it was barely big enough to hold two people. He watched her body stretch out on the small air mattress. He took off his thermal slowly, throwing it on the side. He was left with his jeans, his chest visible. He saw her watching him, her cheeks were pink. He smirked slightly.

Y/n sat up, smirking. God, he was perfect. The way his arms flexed when his hands gripped her waist and how his frame easily towered over hers. Y/n's hands traveled down his chest to his stomach. He was the perfect mixture of muscles and fluff. She brushed her fingers down his torso to his jeans as her core throbbed for him, soaking her panties. She grabbed the front of his jeans, guiding him down towards her.

He didn't need an invitation. Johnny fell down on top of her, his large frame pinning her down to the air mattress. He caught himself on his elbows, looking down at her with hooded eyes. His lips parted, breathing heavily. “Fuck, y/n. You're playing with fire here”

“Good thing I don't mind being a pyromaniac” she said softly, carding her fingers through his hair.

His hips jerked down against hers at her words. He let out a low growl, his hands moving to either side of her head. He nipped her jaw softly, his body slowly moving down hers. His lips found her collarbone, placing open mouthed kisses there making her moan softly as her head fell back in pleasure.

His eyes darkened as he saw her neck arch back. He took the chance to suck on her neck softly, his teeth nipping lightly. His hands traveled down her sides slowly. He was careful with her, his touch feather soft. He unbuttoned the flannel he gave her slowly, his thumbs brushing her stomach softly.

Y/n shivered softly when the chill breeze hit her skin. “you know how cold it is?” she said softly, of all the nights Daniel picked to go camping it happened to be freezing.

He chuckled softly against her skin, his hands moving to warm her waist. “I'll keep you warm, baby” His voice was a husky whisper as he trailed kisses down her exposed stomach. Y/n shuddered, carding her fingers through his blond locks.

His smirk deepened as he unbuttoned her pants slowly, his thumbs hooking in her panties too. He pulled them down her legs slowly. He threw them somewhere in the tent then spread her legs slightly, his eyes watching her body carefully.

“J-Johnny” She shuttered in anticipation.

He hummed against her stomach, his eyes flashing up to meet her for a moment before he moved lower. “Shh, just relax,” His voice was thick with desire as he settled between her legs, pressing a feather-light kiss to her inner thigh, making her moan. “Fuck, you're perfect”

He smiled against her skin, placing one more kiss before slowly trailing his tongue up her thigh. His hands gripped her legs firmly, keeping them open for him. His breath was hot against her core. He looked up at her one more time before pressing a soft, purposeful kiss right above her sensitive spot, making her gasp.

He growled softly as she arched her hips and tugged at his hair, his tongue finally flicking against her core. His hands moved to grip her hips firmly, holding her down. “Fuck,” he muttered against her, then started slow, deliberate licks. “Stop trying to rush me” His voice was strained with desire.

Y/n whimpered. “J-Johnny”

He slowly slid one arm under her leg, lifting it over his shoulder. This new position allowed him to bury his face in her core, his fingers parting her folds as his tongue flicked against her clit. “Shit” He murmured against her, his free hand sliding up her body to pinch her hard peaks.

“Fuck, stop teasing” y/n moaned softly and breathlessly, tugging at his hair and pulling him closer.

He groaned against her, the vibration sending shivers through her body. He intensified his efforts, making her gasp as he sucked and licked her clit with more fervor. His fingers dug into her hips, holding her firmly in place as he devoured her. "Someone's eager”

He curled two fingers inside her suddenly, finding that spot that made her head fall back against the pillow in pleasure. He hooked them upwards, hitting her g-spot over and over as he sucked on her sensitive bud. He could feel her tensing up, trying to pull his hair to get him closer.

“I'm so close” y/n said softly and desperately.

He felt her body trembling, his fingers curling deeper inside her. He could feel her release building, ready to break. He looked up at her through his lashes, his eyes filled with mischief as he slowed down his movements, denying her the release she so desperately needed.

“D-dammit, Johnny” y/n shuddered softly.

He chuckled softly at her frustration, the sound vibrating against her sensitive skin. His blue eyes twinkled with mischief as he slowly withdrew his fingers, making sure to brush against her g-spot teasingly one last time. Y/n moaned desperately, holding on to his shoulders as he kissed up her stomach.

He trailed kisses up her body slowly, taking his time to explore her soft skin. He bit softly at her neck, sucking lightly to leave a mark. He grinned against her neck as he felt her body shudder with pleasure. “Shh” He whispered against her ear before kissing her jaw.

Y/n moaned softly, hooking one of her legs over his waist and pressing his hips against his. She moaned, grinding desperately over his erection. The roughness of his jeans gave some sweet relief, but it wasn't enough. He groaned loudly, his rigid length throbbing with need. He gripped her thigh tightly, pressing harder against her as he matched her movements. His other hand tangled in her hair, tugging slightly as he crushed his lips to hers in a heated kiss.

Y/n pulled away, catching her breath. “I need you”

He growled possessively, his eyes locked onto hers as he slowly unbuttoned his jeans with his free hand. He kicked them off along with his boxers, revealing his toned hips and powerful thighs. He wrapped her leg around his waist more securely, pulling her closer. “You sure?”

“You know I am”

“Fuck” He muttered against her lips, aligning himself at your entrance. He pushed inside slowly, making her head fall back as she cried out his name as her eyes rolled back in pleasure. “Johnny!” she cried out, gripping his shoulders. Johnny slid the rest of the way in, inch by inch, his blue eyes studying her face for any signs of discomfort. “Goddamn,” He cursed softly, completely sheathed inside her. “How the fuck are you this tight?”

He buried his face in her neck, his teeth sinking into her skin as he held himself still, trying to regain control. He felt her nails dig into his back, her hips lifting to take him deeper. He growled, pulling out slowly before thrusting back in, filling her completely.

Y/n moaned, wrapping her legs around his hips. He groaned deeply, his hips moving faster and harder against her. He could feel her legs tightening around him, pulling him deeper with each thrust. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her slightly to change the angle, hitting that spot inside her that made her eyes roll back. “Fuck”

“Oh, shit,” y/n gasped. “right there”

He smirked against her neck, feeling her body quiver with pleasure under his touch. He maintained that perfect angle, his thick cock stroking her most sensitive spots with every sharp thrust. “That's it, baby” He groaned, his voice gravelly with lust.

“Johnny, I'm gonna cum” she gasped, raking her nails down his back.

Feeling her walls tightening around him and hearing your desperate moan, Johnny lost the last shred of his control. He pumped into her harder and faster, each thrust precise and designed to push her over the edge. “Cum for me, fuck” he growled, his fingers digging into her hips.

“Johnny!” Y/n finally reached the edge, letting all her nerves relax as her vision became white and blurred, her legs tightened around Johnny's waist as her eyes rolled back for the immense pleasure while she buried her face into his neck. Johnny didn't stop his thrusts while her orgasm washed over her. She couldn't stop the moans and pants that were coming out from her mouth.

That pushed him over the edge. He buried his face against her shoulder, muffling his loud groan as he found his release deep inside her. He stayed like that, holding her in his arms and trying to catch his breath. “Damn it”

“fuck” she whispered, holding on to him like her life depended on it, like he was only thing keeping her on earth. Her head was tilted back as she caught her breath, her legs losing their grip around his hips

He slowly lifted his head, looking down at her with a mix of satisfaction and tenderness. He gently kissed her lips, still trying to catch his breath. He could feel her heart racing against his chest, matching the rhythm of his own. “Jesus Christ,” he whispered, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah” y/n whispered back, smiling.

He gently slid out of her, making both of them gasp at the sensitivity. He carefully settled beside her, propping himself up on one elbow to look at her flushed face. His hand traced lazy patterns on her stomach. “Those fucking noises you make” He shook his head, smirking.

“Oh yeah?” she asked softly, smirking. “You're into that?”

“Hell yes,” He laughed softly, his fingers finding her side. “You moan like it's the best damn thing you've ever felt. It's hot as shit” He grinned.

“Well, it kinda was,” y/n grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck. “the best thing I've ever felt” she admitted softly.

He chuckled, a deep, warm sound that resonated through his chest pressed against hers. His eyes softened as he gazed down at her, one hand coming up to gently caress her cheek. “Flatterer” he teased softly, his thumb brushing lightly over her lower lip.

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her lips. It was soft and tender, a stark contrast to the rough, passionate kisses they had shared earlier. He nuzzled his nose against hers, his eyes fluttering closed. “I fucking love you,” he murmured against her mouth.

Y/n pulled away, her eyes shut up to his and she swore her heart skipped a literal beat. “you do?” she asked softly with hope in her eyes.

Johnny's eyes snapped open, meeting her gaze. He saw the genuine question in her eyes. He realized that she might not know how serious he was. He captured her lips softly before answering. “Yes, smartass. I do,” His thumb grazed her jawbone.

“Like, a lot”

“I love you too” y/n said softly.

His face broke into a genuine smile - the kind that lit up his entire face - and he pressed his forehead against hers. “Thank fuck,” he whispered, his voice carrying a mix of relief and pure emotion. “Because I'm pretty sure I'm addicted to you”

“Me too”

Johnny kissed her forehead. “get some sleep, who knows what Daniel is gonna make us do in the morning” He said, making y/n chuckle. He rolled onto his back, pulling her with him so that she was lying on his chest. His fingers gently combed through her hair as they fell asleep to the sound of the great outdoors and their hearts beating as one.