#A Guide to Bad Business Practices

[bowtiepasta]

FLUFF 𑣿 SUKUNA RYOMEN: “FOR A LIFETIME”

grumpy x sunshine thoughts I cooked up tonight hehe. put it in this format since it’s a little longer than a blurb ! written for an irl of mine (cw: nicknames, reader wears shorts, touchy, suggestive)

sukuna being grumpy doesn’t stop him from also being clingy when he needs wants you. he grumbles if you try to leave the bed, even to get a glass of water. his arm will shoot out and slip under the shirt you’re wearing (his), wrap around your waist before you can escape — pulling you back into the sheets.

“where do you think you’re going?” he scowls, wrinkle between his brows despite his eyes still being closed. you try to wriggle free, but his grip tightens, not letting you go anywhere until he’s had enough of you being in his space. “I didn’t say you could leave.”

“you’re so needy, ‘kuna.”

he also has a habit of following you around when he’s in a bad mood. like a shadow with an attitude.

you’re in the kitchen, washing dishes? he’s there. “when did I say you could walk around like that?”

you roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “didn’t know I needed approval to be comfortable in my own house.”

his eyes drop to your legs. more specifically, to the boyshorts barely covering anything, paired with the oversized shirt (his. again.) that does nothing to hide the fact that you’re wearing basically underwear.

he clicks his tongue but doesn’t argue. yet a warm hand slides over your hip, kneading into it. his other hand follows suit, trailing lazily from your waist to the bare skin of your thigh as he comes up behind you.

you laugh into a kiss on his cheek. “all yours.”

-

predictably refuses to admit he likes being taken care of, yet the moment you start doting, even in tiniest of ways, he melts.

you find him lounging on the couch, shirtless, one arm slung over the backrest, the other lazily draped across his stomach. his brows furrow as you approach with a plate of food, setting it down on the coffee table.

“tch. what’s this?” he squints at it while he shifts to make space for you. here he goes.

“dinner. you barely ate today.” you grab the remote from him and bring your knees up to your chest, humming as you flip through the channels.

he exhales through his nose, side-eyeing you. you pick up a piece of chicken and bring it towards his lips.

“I’m not a damn kid,” he clicks his tongue, torn between pride and instinct. but when you don’t move your hand away, he takes the bite, no further protest.

he stares while he chews, and then he grabs your wrist, guiding your hand back toward him, letting his teeth scrape against your fingers as he licks the sauce off.

“might as well keep feeding me if you’re so insistent.”

-

you’re standing by the couch, minding your own business, when he suddenly tugs you down, effortlessly maneuvering until you're straddling him. his hands settle on your knees from behind, rubbing as he leans in. “you were in the way.”

“I was literally across the room?”

he ignores that, as one does, hand sliding up your back, resting between your shoulder blades. His other hand squeezes your thigh, like he’s testing the way you feel against him, satisfied by the weight of you there.

“too far.” his voice is gruff — irritated with himself for even admitting it.

you shake your head, but you don’t move. neither does he. his fingers trace hearts from your shoulders down to your lower back, grip never loosening.

and when you shift to get comfortable, his hold tightens — warning and wanting all at once.

yeah. you’re not getting up anytime soon.

-

his fingers hook into the edge of your blanket, tugging insistently. “move.”

you blink. “move where?” “you know where.”

before you can argue, he grabs you — arm snaking around your waist, yanking the blanket away so he can pull you flush against him. his chin finds its place atop your head, body practically caging yours in.

“quit acting like I don’t exist, brat.” (more to himself than to you) he says, nuzzling into your hair, grip tightening as if he’s punishing you for it.

you lace your fingers into his. “ask, next time.”

he won’t. he won’t ever, in fact. he’s planning on being like this for the rest of your lives. plural — because he refuses to believe the two as separate anymore. you’ll have to deal with him being grumpy, stubborn, and clingy altogether. but you don’t really mind. not if it means you have him all to yourself, for a lifetime.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

Practical Demonstration

Kinktober Day 3: Exhibitionism Yandere Male Alpha Professor x Gender Neutral Omega Teacher Assistant CW: Noncon, public sex, exhibitionism, abuse of authority, knotting, musk, scent kink, biting, claiming bites, pheromones, overstimulation, a/b/o dynamics, slick, suppressants, manipulation, praise kink, general yandere behavior Word Count: 1.6k (Okay guys, hope you enjoy this given how long you have waited for it! PLEASE comment, comments feed me <3)

You were the teacher's assistant for the renowned and well-regarded Professor Reid Sullivan. He had degrees involving anatomy and physiology as well as the psychology of alphas and omegas, and the college he taught at was prestigious.

Professor Sullivan was a bit of a prodigy, already being a highly respected academic despite only being in his early-thirties. His unkempt shaggy hair, dark circles around his eyes, and slight stubble made him appear older. His classes were popular, though he refused to teach large crowds. They reduced his efficacy. At most, he would teach 24 students at a time. This class, though, was limited to 20.

This meant students were always clamoring to sign up before all the slots were filled. Not only were people eager to watch him teach because he was so accomplished and good at educating but also because he was considered rather attractive by many students.

It didn't help that he was also an alpha, and despite his tired nerdy demeanor, he was actually quite fit.

But the main reason his classes were so popular was that he often incorporated live demonstrations into his lessons. In the past, he had omegas demonstrate heat and alphas show off knots while he pointed to and described the anatomy and the purpose for it. He even had an alpha and omega pair demonstrate mating on more than one occasion.

Working under him wasn't bad at all. You were an omega, so you were naturally pretty nervous at first. Working with an alpha superior could sometimes be rather hard. Even in this progressive age, there was still a degree of discrimination and power abuse.

Professor Sullivan was exceedingly kind to you. He even got you coffee and something to eat every morning, even though that would typically be a task more suited to you. He also let you sit in his large cushy chair and was quick to let you use his jacket as you rarely used one, and his classroom tended to be cold.

He was very patient and understanding, guiding you through lessons and helping you learn how to handle a class.

Then, on the day of the final lecture, his true colors were revealed.

He locked the door and then stood in front of it. He put on the display screen a presentation about seducing and breeding an omega.

"Omegas are instinctively attracted to mates that provide them with food. It doesn't have to be major, but a daily coffee and small bit of food will make them naturally more receptive to you..."

The lecture went into greater detail on the subject, also explaining how he microdosed the coffee to make suppressants less effective, but you weren't paying much attention. You were too busy staring at the screen that had pictures of you happily sipping coffee or nibbling on muffins or bagels. It was all so surreal.

"For a shy omega, you can't simply bombard them with your scent. It could scare them away or turn them off completely from your continued advances. Instead, get them acclimated to it..."

The screen now showed how he slightly scented his chair and jacket and gradually scented it more juxtaposed with images of you grading papers while wearing the jacket and sitting in his chair.

You were mortified. Professor Sullivan was a monster! You tried to push past him and get to the door. It almost worked as he was taken aback by your determination to escape, but the extra few seconds that you spent fiddling with the lock were all he needed to wrap his arms around you from behind.

"If your omega acts fearful before mating then the steps we took earlier will help us now."

“G-get off!”

You thrashed and squirmed, but he licked, sucked, and nibbled at your neck until the overstimulation clouded your mind and made your resistance much more feeble. After that, he turned you towards him and, after disrobing completely, pushed your head under his arm so that you got a full dose of his pheromones.

The students gave the professor their undivided attention. One or two omega students envied your place as they stared with wide-eyed fascination at Professor Sullivan's now throbbing cock. The rest were a bit uneasy because you clearly hadn't been willing. They weren't actually too shocked, though, this type of thing wasn't exactly uncommon.

"See how limp the omega is? That's because I canceled any bothersome suppressants, made them accepting of my scent, and subconsciously had them see me as a provider."

The professor had a student roll over his chair to the center of the class before locking the wheels in place. He sat you down tenderly after taking off all your clothing and setting it aside.

"Gather around class, feel free to masturbate as long as you pay attention. This is especially important for you alphas."

Some of the students rubbed their crotches. The alphas encouraged the omegas since it would be helpful later to get them all hot and bothered. After the class formed a circle around the two of you, he continued.

"Now, before an alpha inserts themself into their omega, they must make sure the omega is properly slicked up. Some was produced earlier, but we will want more."

He demonstrated the proper neck stimulation techniques as well as how to slowly stretch out and prepare an omega by inserting gradually more fingers. Then he showed them how to massage an omega’s entrance with their cocks before penetration.

Before he even slipped his cock into you, you were already drooling with a dazed expression.

"Okay class, I said today would be an interactive lesson. The 10 alpha students were each delegated an omega and as part of their final grade, they were tasked with doing everything to their omega classmate that I have done to the TA. Omega students will be granted a participation grade."

The alpha half of the class began pulling the omegas close, stuffing the omegas' faces into their musky crotches or underarms.

The omegas were all bewildered. One gladly accepted their fate, a few were shocked into inaction, and most struggled. Only one managed to escape and get out the door but was chased down and brought back.

These were all students with dreams and goals, most didn't want to be an alpha's property and cumdump. At least not before they did things with their lives.

"I made sure all of your desks were sturdy enough for this, you can prop your omegas up on them if you'd like, putting your clothes on the desk and laying your omega on that will make them more comfortable, like a miniature nest with your scent."

The alphas were all stoked and barely able to hold back.

"If you have your omega in a state like our wonderful TA here is demonstrating then you may slip your cock into them, go slowly though, at least at first."

Professor Sullivan was the first to sink in, causing you to moan softly, soon the entire room was filled with the gasps and moans of a room full of omegas mingling with the grunting and heavy breathing of their alpha lovers.

The air was heavy with pheromones, musk, and the scent of slick.

Your mind wasn't really able to process what was happening around you, though. Your nose was focused on the scent of the one mating you as you instinctively wrapped your arms and legs around him.

"Oh, don't forget to praise your omegas, they may not understand your words right now, but the tone will soothe them."

He kissed you possessively.

"You're such a good mate for me. A perfect partner. So good at helping me teach this lesson. Taking my cock so well~"

He cooed into your ear lovingly as the alpha students praised and complimented their mates. Occasionally, an omega shuddered and squealed in orgasm with their alphas not too far behind.

Sullivan sped the pace up for you, and you didn't last much longer after that. You spasmed wonderfully around his dick as you came hard. Not the only time, though, as he coaxed several more climaxes from your trembling body before he finally came himself and tied you with his big knot.

"Once you've knotted your lover you should bite their neck to mark them as yours. This is essential to making your omega feel safe and loved and will make you secure in the knowledge that everyone knows who they belong to."

The professor bit your neck hard, causing you to moan more even as you flinched in pain.

"You look so beautiful with my mark."

After all the mating had finished and all the knots had deflated, the omegas were all still pretty out of it. Mating and being claimed took a lot out of them and it would probably be an hour or two before they recovered.

"Don't forget your homework! Aftercare is ESSENTIAL!!! Take your omegas to your dorms and make sure they are hydrated, well fed, and praised. If they get cranky at today's events, they probably just need another round or two of breeding."

Which, as it turns out, is exactly what he determined you needed when you wouldn't listen to reason at his home later. He tried to explain that it was all to enhance his teaching. He had been looking for the right omega to fall in love with and help with his lessons for YEARS!

And he finally found you. A TA aspiring to work in his field! You had always wanted a career in academics, and now you had one as his permanent assistant and live demonstration participant!

[simpforboys]

Surprise! (3)

Drew Starkey x fem!singer!reader

Summary: reader and Drew celebrate the release of the ‘Perfume’ music video!

Warnings: fluff, smut, oral (f receiving), praise, swearing, male masturbation, dirty talk, missionary position, sex on couch, daddy kink, protective piv sex, boob worship (?), drinking wine, fangirling

Part one, part two, part four

taglist is full :(

Two weeks had went by.

Two long, busy weeks of you not hearing much from Drew, other than the promotions and photo stills you would send him.

It was finally the release day, and within 18 hours, the video had already reached 200 million views.

You were currently sitting on your light grey couch, flicking through Netflix movies when your phone buzzed with a notification.

Drew Starkey: Hey, congrats on the success of the video. I’m still very honored you wanted me to he apart of it. You still down to celebrate?

Oh.

In all honesty you were expecting Drew to stop talking to you after the shoot.

But within those two weeks, you were both extremely busy, so reaching out was hard.

That didn’t mean you two didn’t text at all, it was just two or three messages a day.

Drew was notorious for being a bad texter, not to mention how filled up his schedule was.

So you never took it to heart. Or, at least tried.

But seeing the notification that he actually still wanted to hang out, wanted to celebrate with you…

Your User: hi, thank you so much! i’m still so happy and grateful you said yes <33

Your User: and yes i’m still down to celebrate!! when are you free?

Maybe the double texting was too much, but you were already a glass of wine in, and texting your celebrity crush.

To your surprise, he replied pretty quickly.

Drew Starkey: I’m actually free rn surprisingly, are you?

Oh.

You were in fact free, but ready was the better question.

No, you were not ready to see Drew fucking Starkey, especially looking like how you were currently dressed.

Only wearing sweatpants, a shirt that is three sizes too big, fuzzy socks, and no bra was not exactly presentable to meet the love of your life.

Your User: yes, but i look absolutely horrible rn

Again, another quick response.

Drew Starkey: I doubt that. Can I come see you?

You typed out a message.

Your User: CNEOSHWOSHEODNEOWHSOWBSIFBEOSBAJDBDKDHOSBSKSBDJSHS😜✊👍😜🤭🔥🫶😩

That was what you really wanted to reply with, but instead went for something more nonchalant.

Your User: yeah, you want my address?

It was never good to share your address to anyone online, especially after only meeting in person twice.

But it was Drew Starkey. You would send anything to that man, no questions asked.

Drew Starkey: Yes please

You had spent the last 30 minutes frantically cleaning your apartment. Not that it was a complete mess, but you did want it to be cleaner than what it was.

A soft knock on your door was heard, heart pounding in your chest, hands shaking with nervousness.

Peeking through the peephole, seeing his familiar face was enough to make you almost back out.

Why did you have to be so fucking nervous? He was just a man.

Your fingers unlocked the door, opening it gently.

“Hey, Y/n.” Drew smiled warmly at you, holding a bouquet of flowers.

“Hi… come on in.” You grinned back, trying to hide the feeling in your chest.

Drew’s long legs guide him inside the apartment and he takes a second to look around.

It was cozy, and definitely you.

“I got these f’you.” He hums, holding out the flowers.

“Oh, these are my favorite flowers, Drew… you didn’t have to do that.” You awed, taking the bouquet as he practically handed it to you.

He knew they were your favorite flowers. He might have looked up y/n l/n’s favorite flower onto Google. Not that he would ever admit that, though.

“Really? Damn, lucky pick, I guess.” He chuckled, scratching the side of his neck a little sheepishly.

Putting the flowers in a vase, you realized that he was wearing sweats and a hoodie. It was 10:23pm on a Friday, and clearly you two were appreciating a night off.

It made you feel better about your outfit.

“Do you want anything to eat or drink? I have white or red wine, beer, vodka, soda, water…” You trailed off your options.

“What’re you drinking?” He hummed.

You nodded over to the coffee table, an open bottle of wine with a half filled glass on it.

“Wine.”

“I’ll just have some of that, then.” Drew murmurs.

You grabbed another wine glass and walked over to the couch, hearing his feet behind you.

Sitting down on the couch, you got all comfortable underneath the blanket again, then reached over to pour him a glass of wine.

“Cheers, to the success of ‘Perfume’, and to you.” Drew says softly, holding his glass out for you to clink.

Feeling your face grow a bit warm, you tapped your glass with his.

“Cheers to you being amazing.” You took a sip of the wine, your eyes locked onto his blue ones.

“You have a nice apartment, by the way. Forgot to say that.” He hums.

“Thank you, I wanted to make it as cozy as possible for those rare times I am at home.” You explain.

"Yeah, I get that. Life nowadays is just so hectic." He agrees, blue eyes trailing over your face, as if committing each feature to memory.

"Well, yeah. You're all big and famous now," you tease.

He chuckles sheepishly, his large hand running along the back of his head.

"You have any big plans coming up?" He asked you.

"Yeah, actually. I'm supposed to be preforming at the iHeartRadio Jingle Ball festival in a week," you nod.

"Really? Damn. That beats me, then." He joked.

"What do you have coming up?" You questioned.

"Variety is going to have Harris Dickinson and I do that Actors on Actors interview thing."

"Yeah? That sounds fun," you hummed.

The two of you spent an hour and a half talking about life, success, and just got to know each other.

You both finished the bottle of wine and were now onto your second bottle, the two of you tipsy as you giggled on the couch.

Your body felt warm and you weren't completely sure if it was from the alcohol or the fact that a beautiful man was sitting a foot away from you on your own couch.

Drew felt the same, and one specific joke you made had him laughing a little too hard. His eyes creased in the corner as he smiled, those pretty dimples on display.

But when his large hand went to rest on your knee, the wine in your system completely fought off your anxiety, making you more relaxed.

You found yourself leaning into his touch, your hand resting atop of his.

"Your laugh is so cute, Drew," you murmured.

"Yeah? You're cute," he responded.

You bit your lip, eyes locked onto his. "Is that the alcohol talking or you?"

He grinned, shaking his head.

"That's me talking."

Oh.

"You're sweet..." you trailed off, trying to ignore how butterflies filled your belly.

He just hummed, a comfortable, tension-filled silence falling between you two.

"So, you really had a crush on me for four years?" He teased, squeezing your knee a little.

"Oh, god. We're back at this now, huh?" You grumbled in embarrassment, although there was no real malice behind your tone.

He smirked, licking his lips. "We never left it."

"I certainly did."

"Yeah? You don't have a crush on me anymore?" He murmured, the playful tone in his voice making your stomach turn more.

"I didn't say that...." you trailed off, picking at the extra skin near your nails.

His eyes trail over your form again, taking in every inch of you he can see that's not hidden by the blanket on your lap.

"Hm? Sorry, I didn't hear you."

You rolled your eyes, face hot. "I'm sure you didn't."

He laughed, scooting a little closer to you so your legs were touching.

"'m just fucking with you," he said softly.

"I know..." you glanced over at him, eyes instinctively falling down to his pretty lips.

It had been too long since you felt them on you.

Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the boost of confidence Drew had gotten, but he slowly leaned in, his free hand going to run his index finger and thumb on your chin.

"Is this okay?" He asked quietly.

"Yeah... yes..." you breathed out shakily, heart racing.

He hummed, gently connecting your lips to his own.

Feeling that familiar, addictive spark when his skin touched yours. You immediately kissed back, your left hand going to cup his jaw.

Kissing. You were kissing Drew fucking Starkey. And it wasn't for work, wasn't for cameras. He kissed you first.

Within moments, he was laying you back on the light grey couch, the fluffy blanket being left abandoned on the floor.

His tongue was in your mouth, sculpted body hovering over yours. Your thighs were spread for him to nestle in between, left hand still cupping his strong jaw, right hand in that soft brown hair.

On instinct you pulled a little on the strands, making him grunt into your mouth. He disconnected your lips, trailing sloppy, needy kisses down your jaw and neck.

Chests pressed together, it was as if you two couldn't get any closer.

"Mhmm... Drew..." you whimpered softly when he nipped at the skin of your pulse point.

"Yeah? That feel nice, sweet girl?" He murmured, voice muffled from his attention on your neck.

You nodded, legs squeezing him in between your body.

"Can I take your shirt off, baby?" He asked, not wanting to do anything you weren't desiring.

"Please.." you breathed out, heart racing, stomach flipping.

His large hand slipped the oversized fabric off and over your head, a small whine leaving him when he saw your pretty tits.

"Fuck, Y/n... you been hiding these from me?" He mumbled teasingly, continuing his line of kisses and nibbles down your collarbone, in between the valley of your breasts.

"All you needed to do was ask," you panted. Your back instinctively arched up, your chest needing some attention from his warm mouth.

He groaned at your answer, moving slightly down your body until he was eye level with your hard nipples. He swirled his tongue around the bud, blue eyes locked on your face when he sucked your nipple into his mouth.

Your body jolted a little, making him hold your side with his left hand, his right hand massaging the other stiffened bud.

He switched sides after a few moments, relishing in the sounds of your pretty moans and pants.

But something else was throbbing and aching, desperately needing his attention.

"Drew," you whined.

"Hmm?" He hummed, still worshipping your boobs.

"Need you."

"Yeah?" He cooed, reluctantly disconnecting his mouth from your right nipple as he continued to kiss down your stomach.

You nod, breathing short and needy. He got to the waistband of your sweatpants, looking back up at you.

"You can take those off too." You gave permission, already knowing what the man was going to ask.

He wasted no time in slipping the fabric down your legs, readjusting so his face was in between your spread thighs.

"Look how you ruined these panties, pretty girl... you're so needy f'me, huh?" He murmured softly.

All you could do was whine when he pressed a tender kiss to your clothed clit, the fabric absolutely soaked. It had been way too long since you'd had sex.

His large hand slid the fabric down your thighs, leaving you completely bare for him.

"So beautiful, baby. So beautiful..." he muttered, talking more to himself than you.

Your legs twitched when he flicked his tongue against your clit, hands digging in his hair.

"Drew--"

"I know, baby. Let daddy eat this pretty pussy, yeah? Just sit back and relax."

A needy whimper left your mouth, but you didn't respond. Not that you could, as he licked a stripe from your pulsating hole to the top of your clit.

He hoisted your thighs over his broad shoulders, moaning a little at your taste. His movements became more eager, beginning to lap at your cunt like a starved man.

Right hand in his hair, left hand gripping the couch. Your eyes rolled back, hips bucking up towards his face.

He made a grunt directly into your clit, another jolt of pleasure going into your body.

"Daddy... fuck..."

His piercing blue eyes were feeding off of your facial expressions, his cock throbbing in his own sweats.

He slipped two fingers into your cunt, focusing his mouth on your clit. His left hand slid down his own pants, beginning to palm his cock through his boxers.

"Yeah? Is daddy making you feel good, sweet girl?" He coos, whining a little as his own hips buck on the couch, desperate for more friction.

His noise and hips bucking made your cunt clench around his fingers, as if trying to pull him in deeper.

The knot in your stomach was already forming, almost embarrassing how quickly he turned you into a mess.

Legs trembling over his shoulders, hips rocking against his face and chin. You couldn't even announce you were coming, mind fuzzy from the pleasure.

He hummed when he noticed you releasing, continuing to lap up all your juices as he came in his pants.

When your body calmed down, he pulled away from your pussy and kneeled in between your legs.

He peeled his own hoodie off, revealing that perfect, toned body of his again. Your eyes drank in the sight, licking your lips.

“You’re so hot, Drew…” you murmured.

His ears were ringing, need coursing through his veins as he slipped off his sweats and boxers.

You had to physically hold back a gasp when you saw his cock for the first time.

People had always written it differently in all those guilty pleasure Rafe Cameron fanfics you would read when you couldn’t sleep.

But seeing it in person was just a whole new experience.

It was long and thick, which was to be expected. The man radiated big dick energy.

Pretty mushroom tip that was still leaking, his pubic hair slightly fuzzy as if he hadn’t shaved it in a week.

“Holy shit…”

“Mhm? Better than you imagined?” He asked teasingly, a smirk on his face as he grabbed a condom from his wallet.

You couldn’t help but playfully roll your eyes, a small snicker leaving you.

He rolled the condom onto his shaft, moving to hover over you again.

“Are you sure you want this, Y/n?” He asked softly, eyes gazing intently into yours.

“Yes… please fuck me, daddy.”

He let out a small groan, nestling himself in between your thighs. He used a long, strong arm to grab a couch pillow and tuck it under your hips.

You watched as he teasingly slid his head up and down your slit, tapping it against your throbbing bundle of nerves.

“Don’t tease me, please,” you beg.

Your pretty begging weakened his resolve as he slowly slid into you.

Whimpers and noises of pleasure left the both of you at the feeling, a course of energy being shared within your two bodies.

He kept pushing until he was all the way inside, giving you a moment to adjust as he captured your lips in his.

Your hands roamed over his biceps and back, loving the way the muscles flex against your palms. His skin was burning, adding to the electric feel.

When he felt you stop tensing around him, he began to slowly pull back, before pushing in, creating a delicious rhythm.

“Fuck… you feel so fuckin’ good, baby.” He moaned.

Your legs tightened around his hips, a noise leaving you as he rubbed right against that spongy spot.

“So deep, Drew… can feel you so deep,” you whined in between breaths.

“Yeah? You take this dick so good, pretty girl.”

His movements were getting a little rougher with every minute passing, both of you needing this.

Your crush on him for four years, the sexual tension you shared in the music video, the chemistry when you first met him on The Tonight Show.

It was all so surreal and felt like you were living straight out of a fanfic or dream.

His head dropped down to your chest, clearly having a thing for your hardened nipples as he nibbled gently.

Maybe one day Drew would fuck you without the condom and be able to feel your warm, velvety walls squeezing him without the protection.

He could dream.

“Shit, shit, shit.” You swore, the pillow under your hips allowing for his tip to kiss your cervix with every thrust.

“Mhm, yeah. Good girl.” He praised breathlessly, feeling a little lightheaded from everything.

The couch creaked a little beneath you two, your nails digging into his back.

He was already close, eyes fluttered shut as he lifted his head to press a kiss to your forehead.

His calloused thumb went to rub your clit, making your legs twitch around his sculpted hips.

Your cunt squeezed around his cock, your belly on fire with your building orgasm.

“You gonna cum f’me, sweet girl?” He choked out, hips snapping against yours.

“Y-yes!” You squeak, mind hazy, body trembling.

“Yeah… that’s it… let me feel you…”

His breathy words, deep penetration, and touch on your clit sent you over the edge again.

You moaned loudly, clinging onto his body as he talked you through your orgasm.

He was also talking himself through it, feeling his cock twitch as he spilled his seed into the condom.

His body was still against yours, both of you catching your breaths from the intensity.

He pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead again, his chest rising and falling.

“You okay?” He asked you softly.

“Mhm… ‘m good…”

You kissed his lips again, more gently this time. His nose brushed against yours when he pulled away, lips connecting to your cheek.

He reluctantly slid out of you, kneeling between your legs again as his blue eyes gazed down at your cunt.

“Did you bring any more condoms?” You ask after a few moments.

He looks at your face, then reaches over to grab his wallet. He pulls out two more condom wrappers.

You grinned, licking your lips.

“So are we going two more rounds or what?”

tags!!

@slut4you @sweetlike-sugarplum @snowtargaryen @fastlovela @christinechickiee @ahgrace6 @evermorx89 @loren8818181 @eddiemuns0nl0ver @sophiesmovingcastle5 @chimchimjiminie16 @amel1ee @reader1402 @tqd4455 @rxeae @caraxes-syrax @shrimpybbq @drewstarkeysbabe @rafeswhoooreee @meropeeonmee @rafeluvrr @marvelahsobx @raeven-marie43 @fallout-girl219 @brendazzlingg @10ava01 @secretsideofbree @drewstarrrkey @p0gue420 @gibson-g1rl @kiiyomei @spiderstyles04 @sexualparkour @vinaluvsu @domainexpandme @mariadu2 @toterry @taliawz @always-reading @angvl3tears @iloveoldermenn @aesthetic-lyss @lover-girl-estxx @cadhlabear @kaiparkerwifes @herbookgarden @luvleyshif4 @caraxes-syrax @mymultiveres @reader1402 @dinnodallas @darkreymbow @vinaluvsu @sarahskywalker-amidala @christinechickiee @hoelesslyt @tincanhat @scenesofobx @james-bucky-barnackle @angvl3tears @belledawnidk @millietozier @vrsluts @chimmysoftpaws @brathwaite444 @urmanicpixieangelgirl

[lacemyimpurities]

♱ ⸝⸝ next thing i know she was feeling on me ,

cw. older brothers bestfriend!sukuna ༝ ballet dancer!reader-ish , nsfw , car sex , piv , super whipped kuna , ooc kuna cause yessss... lwky streetracer!sukuna too umm, written with the ryd by steve lacy in mind

it's 9 pm on a friday afternoon, the two of you in the backseat of his ZL1. large hands on your waist guiding you to meet his thrusts as you lay prettily like putty in his hands against his chest, he does all the work usually. and he doesn't mind it, considering he's your first and he'd do anything to stay as your last. his nose presses against your neck, the scent of florals and vanilla invading his senses. a scent he already committed to memory. a scent that reminds him of you.

his hands slide up under your dress, trying to get a feel of all of you while he listens to your whines. the prettiest sounds he's ever heard, from the prettiest girl.. your brother will definitely kill him.

you guys met when you both were in middle school, him in 8th grade and you just enrolled into 6th. you were his buddies little sister, always known as his little sister and nothing more. he tolerated you, didn't really ever make remarks towards you knowing he would have his head on a stick if your brother ever found out. so you three were peas in a pod, your brother always making sure you were with him so he can keep track of you and have you experience some sense of a normal childhood, knowing it'd be exploited soon enough by the time you reached high school yourself.

they both would walk you to school like a your personal bodyguards. since the highschool was next to the middle school, even after they went to grade 9 they stayed accompanying you. a routine, for 4 years until the two boys graduated and went to college. having to leave you behind for Utokyo, sukuna hadn't seen you after that. your brother visiting you when he was free instead of you coming to him, sukuna didn't think much of it. that was, until your brother decided to graduate early and make big moves to the states. you had just gotten into college and absolutely devastated you only had one year with your dear brother, him leaving sukuna as your guardian for his last year as a senior.

it wasn't as bad as he'd thought, you didn't really make a fuss or anything. just had his number as an emergency contact, but rarely heard from you. he'd do monthly check ups in honor to stay loyal to your brother's request, you'd say your okay and both of you would go on your merry ways. months quickly passed. and it was already sukuna's turn to graduate. you didn't have any family that was as close as your brother, since you two were the son and daughter of very busy figures. and sukuna's little brother yuuji that was the same grade as you, claimed he was busy.

you attended his graduation, cheering when he gets his name called and receiving his diploma. he was surprised, when you ran to him after the ceremony with roses and a stuffed bear just for him. (more like for you since it was the brown male version rilakkuma to your favorite bear korilakkuma) he never expressed it, but he appreciated having you around.

since then, you two had gotten closer. having a more casual relationship with occasional meet ups, you'd have performances and give him your plus one ticket. while he had his races and you'd get vip seating, sometimes even getting to ride with him during practice runs. although you like the thrill, he has only let you join a handful of times for safety reasons. it was now your senior year, with you freshly 21 it was natural you wanted to go get drinks and celebrate your coming of age. sukuna of course tagging along, muttering something about "needing to make sure you don't get laced or some shit.". you get to a booth with your of age friends, them all clearly oogling him but he'd be glancing at everything else. from the dance floor to the bar he so longingly wants to perch at, on a stool and drink his own heart away. but he stays sitting next to you, on the end to make sure no idiot gets close to you. his arm was outstretched your direction behind you casually, as you nursed at least 8 shots. your alcohol tolerance was never good, when your brother and sukuna drank in highschool, you were always welcomed to join but only ever had soju mixed in with some sprite or yakult. he knew your limits, and he knew your habits, your likes and dislikes.

you tapped out fairly early as he predicted and decided to leave, tapping sukuna's thigh and he paid your part on the check given to the table. (birthday girl privileges he explained) the two of you then made your way out to his car. he drove you back to your place, but you had asked him to stay when he was about to turn the other way. he was reluctant, but stayed standing where he was. you said to get a bag of his stuff to stay the night while you shower off the sweat and smell of alcohol. and get he did, deciding to bring a pack of beer as well so he can drink as much as he missed at the club.

you didn't seem drunk, far from it. coming out your bedroom to him watching some movie and cleaned up himself. clad in a tee and pajama pants, his cherry blossom colored hair damp. you'd settle down next to him, curious about what he's drinking. he'd give his currently opened can for you to taste, knowing you'd hate it and scrunch your face. when you scrunch your face, he'd laugh and get you some water to rid of the taste. you never liked beer, so why would you now? you always liked routine, never strayed far from what you liked, consistent. he watched as you down the glass of water, beginning to munch on one the various snacks you had on the coffee table when you felt like picking at something, something that was occasionally sponsored by sukuna. when he'd pick up groceries at the market for himself or for a friend, he'd also pluck some chips or sweets from the shelf, making sure to never have you snackless.

he knows you like the back of his hand, you're predictable.

it was the next day and you had the worst hangover ever to be recorded in the history of humans, as so you claimed. both of you had knocked out on the couch last night, but you had awoken with a wince and he sprung up. he was amused as he took in your expression, your hands rubbing all over where your could on your head in attempt to soothe the fog.

"i'm surprised, you didn't seem drunk at all." he hummed, getting up to make some sort of hangover aid with the knowledge he gained from being in the frat with your brother, that also claimed to have the worst ever human recorded hangovers.

"i was, i just.. tried really hard to keep composure i guess." you say, watching him plucking things from your kitchen. you padded over, leaning beside him to see what he was doing. "your favorite soondubu jigae you get at that korean barbecue we go to all the time is good for hangovers, i'll make it since you have the ingredients. plus an egg." he'd explain, and you always so ever attentive when he spoke.

he sets down your bowl on the kitchen island first when he's done, making sure you were seated and had a glass of water too. he settled down beside you with his portion, occasionally watching you blow on the soup.

you two finished and he washed the dishes, settling beside you on the couch once more, squeezing your calfs to soothe the ache from your heels as you laid back. you two were conversing about alcohol and it's effects, before it faded to something else.

shortly after, that new anime that came out was on the tv. then mario kart. then mario party. you both tying each time on the switch, causing you call break to shower. you go and he scrolls on his phone, hearing you calling out from your bedroom that he can shower next. he does and comes out, towel around his neck with a new tee and shorts. but instead of the tee and shorts you were wearing earlier, you wear a nightdress. red, silk. he doesn't think anything of it till you guys lounge in the dark. moonlight shining through the window, and you suddenly slide a hand up his forearm to his bicep. clinging onto him like he's one of your plushies.

he accepts it. not saying a word, not moving a muscle.

that was, before you began speaking about checking off another thing on your bucket list with him.

losing your virginity.

he spirals, brain short circuiting. you? asking him? absolutely nothing could have led him to predict that you'd ever ask him such a question, nor anything to prepare him. he had been celibate for the most part since graduating due to work, and due to male anatomy... plus his cursed imagination.

he pops a boner.

still, he refuses with every last shred of dignity he has left after that question. saying you should keep it, save it. it's something sacred. but you stay quiet, and it makes him nervous. when was the last time he felt nervous?

"am i not attractive to you?"

he feels his hand twitch.

you are. hell, you are in every damn way since you entered college that it hurts. but your his best friends little sister, and he respects that. he feels you beginning to slip away because he didn't respond, his hand quick to halt you at your wrist.

"you are, pea.." his voice shakes at the end, almost as if it burned to call you by that name. sweet pea. he had given you that name after his graduation, because you were so small and sweet as fuck with that big bouquet in your arms. you look at him with those eyes, and he sighs. "boundaries," he says vaguely, "save it for someone you love."

you both sit in silence for a moment, before you move to slip off the left strap of your night dress while your other hand rests on his shoulder. "there were never any between us, why are there now?" you murmured leaning in, and he feels his heart skip a beat.

"i think... i do love you."

everything after that was a blur, you were underneath him on the couch. the same couch your brother had left you with, before he ventured off to new york. sukuna felt guilty, his hands gentle as he caressed every part of you he could in attempt to comfort you from his size. overwhelmed you felt. and terrible he feels. but all he could really do was kiss you, distract you from what you wanted. what he had wanted.

he feels your walls contracting for the 3rd time, your endurance ever so short compared to him and it's all the more endearing. he presses his lips against yours rather harshly, his hand that grabbed your face sliding down your neck to your breasts. the ones you've been insecure about for being so small, since you were small.

but he loved every part of you. so why couldn't you?

he pulls away for you to get air, fingers rolling your nipple beneath the flimsy fabric you call a dress. you're a sight, satin dress glued to your clammy skin. in red, his favorite shade too. a color that would never have graced your pretty pink and ivory hued closet if it weren't for him. you were always eager to appease him, but he was already too enamored to ever be unsatisfied. your hair was tied into a messy bun prior by him, a habit he's gained so he can feel and see you all over without your silky hair obstructing his vision. face flushed, body trembling, and a prominent bulge in your stomach from him. your his, and he's completely yours. "you left your lip gloss in my car," he murmurs, hands moving up and down your waist a few times, before finding your hand to press kisses against your palm leading to your fingertips.

you hum, watching him kiss your fingers. worshipping, he always is with you. your finger tips lightly press against his face when he releases your hand, nails dragging down to his chest. the ones he recently paid for. "haven't you known?" you murmur, confused on why he's mentioning it now.

sukuna's eyes darken as your finger traces down his neck, his pulse jumping beneath your touch. he knows exactly what he's doing, mentioning the lip gloss now. it's a reminder, a declaration. you've left pieces of yourself all over his life, little by little, until he can't ignore the fact that you're everywhere. in his car, in his apartment, under his skin.

he rolls his hips into yours, a low groan comes from his chest as he feels you clench around him. his hands grip your waist, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. he's trying to hold back, trying to be gentle, but it's a losing battle. especially when you look up at him with those big, doe eyes. eyes just like your brother's, but somehow softer. kinder.

"i've known, pea" he murmurs, voice rough and low. he knows exactly what he's doing. just like he knows that 'pea' is his new name for you. sweet. something fragile and delicate, just like you. he leans down, nose brushing your cheek as he inhales deeply. vanilla and florals fills his lungs, and he knows it's not just your perfume. it's you. It's the way you smell after a shower, after dancing, after... this.

"it's just my buddies at work know now too,"

"oh..." is all you manage under your breath, half lidded eyes flickering between his own soaking in his words. "m'sorry... what'd they say..?" you ask, wrapping your arms around his neck as you rest your head in the crook of his neck. sukuna's eyes drift shut as your arms wrap around his neck, his face burying into your hair. his hands start to wander, one tangling into your messy bun to hold you close while the other traces down the side of your neck. he feels your pulse fluttering beneath his touch, matching the rhythm of his own.

"nothing much," he whispers, voice muffled by your hair. "just gave me shit. said i was whip cream when i used to be chocolate. that i was settling down, becoming soft."

he pulls back to look at you after you laugh a bit at his metaphor, red eyes dark and intense in the moonlight streaming through the window. His thumb brushes your jaw, your cheek, the swell of your bottom lip. he's studying your face like he's trying to memorize it. like he's trying to understand how you crept under his skin without him even realizing.

"but they're not wrong," he says softly, words almost tender. "i am different. everything's different now that you're in my life."

his hand slides down to your collarbone, fingers grazing the swell of your breasts. the thin fabric of your dress does little to hide your hardened nipples. gaze following the path of his hands, eyes darkening further. "i don't want to be chocolate anymore, pea," he whispers, ducking his head to press open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. "i want to be your whip cream. i want to be the part of your life that's sweet and perfect. that fits with everything else."

he looks up at you, expression vulnerable in a way that's completely foreign. to him. to everyone. but especially to you.

"i want to be yours," he says softly. "completely. wholly. present, and in the afterlife."

you, sensible and perfect, stare up at him with those pretty eyes that he's been seeing in his dreams. those pretty eyes that he's been waking up wanting to see every morning.

he's been thinking a lot lately. about you. about your past, his past. the two of you squished together in the tiniest apartment he could find, a bed angling out from the wall and knocking into the kitchen counter. about all the things he swore he'd never do. a relationship. commitment. the white picket fence.

but now? with you on him, around him, everywhere? your fingers tracing the shell of his ear, your warm breath hitting his neck? your thighs squeezing his waist?

he wants all of it. badly. enough to throw away every boundary line and code of honor he's ever had.

"tell me you want it too," he pleads, voice hoarse and desperate against your throat. "tell me I'm not crazy to think this could work. that your brother would kill us if he found out, but that maybe, just maybe, we could sneak glances at each other across the dinner table and steal kisses in the kitchen. that we could wake up to the smell of coffee and each other." his hand slides down from your collarbone to your waist, squeezing the dip of your ribs. holding onto you like you're something precious. something he never wants to let go. "tell me," he whispers against your throat, ears ringing. "are you mine? are we doing this, together?"

you listen to his words, head tilted towards the ceiling of the car as he hunches over to your throat. your heart beats twice as fast than it already was prior, since when was sukuna one for labels? your hands sliding up his to hold his head close, pressing your cheek against his forehead.

"you're not crazy," you breathe out with a soft exhale, pressing kisses to the side of his face. "i want that too." you whisper, pressing your forehead into his cheek and holding him closer as if you two could merge into one.

"i'm yours ryo, completely."

yours. you said it. yours. the word repeats in his mind, sinking into his brain to carve a permanent place for itself there. he wants to laugh out loud, shout it to the world, smear it across every surface until the truth of it is blaring from ten miles away.

instead, sukuna squeezes his eyes shut and presses open mouthed kisses across your throat, his hands fisting in the fabric of your dress. one hand hooks under your knee, hitching your leg up to wrap around his hip. the other finds your jaw, tilting your face towards his like a bossy, demanding lover. his mouth crashes over yours, kissing you like he's been wanting to do it for years and finally getting permission. he kisses you until your breathless. until your lungs burn for air and your head spins from lack of oxygen. until you forget that you're still in the car, still pressed up against him with miles and miles of highway stretching out before you. he kisses down the column of your throat, fingers fumbling with the zipper at the back of your dress. it's not a request. it's an order. the command of a man who always gets what he wants. his hand slides up the curve of your side, palming the slope of your breast and tweaking a stiff nipple through the thin lace of your bra. one click. ther another. halfway down with the zipper. your dress gapes open, the chill of the air making you shudder.

this is happening. you're happening. the lines crossed. the decisions made. the past catching up to the present.

you're in this now. together. no turning back.

sukuna looks at you, red eyes blazing with mischief and hunger with a possessiveness that steals the breath from your lungs. you're both panting, both flushed, desperate to unwind the desire you both been holding eachother out on. his thumb drags across your bottom lip, smearing the lip gloss that's already smeared. marking you. claiming you. he leans in close, until you can feel the heat of his breath and the weight of his stare. he's taking it all in. memorizing every detail of your face. burning it into his mind for all of eternity.

he kisses you like he's starving for it, like you're his sustenance and he can't live without you. like he'll die if he doesn't taste you, doesn't touch you.

he kisses you like he's in love with you. like he's always been in love with you. like he'll never stop.

he needs to get you under him, around him, everywhere. all at once.

[takes1]

HOORAY I just read ur bokuto x reader p4 it was really cute :3 sorry havent updated in awhile i got busy with life… but i never forget to keep u in mind 🫶 love ur work as always, very memorable writer to me -🐈🐈‍⬛

[final] bokuto teaching inexperienced!reader

only fitting to respond to you for this last one. ughhh ilysm 🥹😭💕💕

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / first time / soft kissy missionary / safe sex / BIG praise kink!bokuto / himbo!bokuto / sweet, dumb!bokuto / inexperienced!reader / possessive!bokuto / f!rec oral / guided handjob / kuroo's sister!reader / 2.3k words / last installment

links. my masterlist. my ao3. more haikyuu. part one here. part two here. part three here. part four. request box

You tilted your head, eyes narrowed a little at the generous, clear bulge in his tiny shorts.

"Can I see it?"

He fisted the sheets in his excitement that you were thinking the same thing, biting his cheek so he didn't shout. Just by the obvious elation on his face, you could tell he was in the process of holding back a million bad responses.

Instead, he let his hands talk, lips crashing against yours all rough and thirsty as he pulled it out. You didn't want his kisses, though-- you grinned as you avoided what you could, so you could see.

Propped up on your elbows, you looked from his vigilant stare, trailing down his sculpted, smooth body down to his cock between your tummies.

It looked heavy.

You quickly learned that it was hot, too, as he guided your palm around it, and used your hand to pump himself. Your heart was racing- it was so weird, and you liked it so much, and he liked it even more.

Bokuto always stood by the idea that 'it always feels/tastes/sounds better when somebody else does it.' The kind of guy to only drink out of other peoples' cups, ask other people to read things out loud to him, massage a part of his shoulder he could get but won't.

While you didn't know what you were doing in the slightest, and he was controlling your pace, even the harsh grip, it still felt 40x better than all the jerking off he usually did.

His tongue got confident, and a bit curious, diving deeper past your teeth. He was just trying in whatever way he could to be inside of you. The weight of his body became more substantial.

You loved feeling his strength falter, his lust heightening, compelling him to get closer.

When he pulled away, he looked a little crazy- like he forgot to smile, or something. It was the nature of his eyes to not look very friendly, but it gave the impression that he was really holding himself back.

"Are- you okay?"

"Just-," He takes a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut for a second, like he's recalibrating, "Feels really g-ood."

He wasn't prepared in the slightest for the smile you gave him. It was sweet, and prideful, and too cute with his cock in your hand.

That tortured look was back, briefly before he shoved his face in the nook of your shoulder.

"Fuck-! I need you s-o bad," He whined, pitiful, "Are- h-ahh, you ready yet?"

You could try.

With a question like that, asked so sweet, so sugary- you hummed against his hair, not quite understanding what 'ready' meant.

You hardly noticed how he plucked a condom from his shorts, somewhere in the mess of sheets to the left of you- and slid it on between clumsy kisses. Lots of practice must've made the process second nature.

It was difficult, to say the least, adjusting to him. His eagerness was already so spoken for, and you realized too late that you probably did need more time.

Bokuto could feel it too, though.

He could hear it in the thinly-veiled fear, making your voice waver, break, as you asked him to be gentle with you.

"Even if it takes all night," He kissed your nose while you couldn't move away, "I'll wait for ya."

Rough hands, so used to force and recklessness, practiced paying attention through running smooth lines across your skin.

Those hard kisses turned softer, slower, across your jaw and down your throat. He moved at a near imperceptible pace, just to get you accustomed to all of his size.

"Sooo pretty," He whispered to himself, forehead heavy on yours as he closed his eyes, "Fuck..."

The discomfort was just starting to be overshadowed with better, pleasurable, buzz. Your legs were slowly relaxing, a jelly-like feeling that spread from your thighs, squished comfy next to his hips, down to your toes.

Bokuto was capable of deliberate and soft sex. He wasn't always an animal, and he wasn't ignorant to somebody else's needs.

He was just excitable, and stupid. But all he needed was a whisper, a hint, or a reminder sometimes.

You kissed the tip of his nose, a way of telling him you were okay. Your fingers started to rake through his spiky hair, and the little smile on your face waited for him to he open his eyes.

"Shit--," He stole another few kisses from you, "Oh, you're so- mh- you're soo cute."

Between kisses, his tongue lagged, always proceeded by a sharp sigh. Almost like he was struggling to multitask. It made you curious when it started to get more frequent.

"Sh-it--h-ahh--," His curse broke into a shocked whine-- he stalled, deep.

Your higher, cuter sound at how good it felt did nothing to help to bring him down.

You watched him bite his own wrist, a small concern furrowing his brow.

Craving more, and only knowing one way to cheer him up, you rolled your hips up and locked your ankles around him with a squeeze.

"W-ait, waitwaitwait," He seethed, "Ahh- fuck-- stop moving babygirl- stop moving."

The person he looked down at was no longer a shy little nerd, incapable of handling his flirty second nature. Your mouth was curled into a coquettish grin, your pecks soft and affectionate and too much, scattered around his face.

He had to cum so bad that he felt sick. He had to look through you- draw blood to his palm, just to clear his filthy mind.

"Do I really feel that good?" You giggled- beyond flattered by his tortured expression.

There was no beat between the end of your sentence and his hushed response, "Yes."

You knew about vague stereotypes of guys with shitty endurance. You didn't have first-hand experience until you watched his expression shift, swirling, panic and euphoria taking one another over again and again.

He 'ruined' his orgasm by keeping your needs first. He knew you couldn't take what he wanted. His body was like iron, forced motionless, like a statue, except for the rapid, uneven rise and fall of his chest.

It looked like a delicious mix of pained and sexy as he came, almost perfectly still, so he didn't hurt you.

A kind of psychotic, intrusive desire made you tense-- the curious, hungry want to get rid of the condom between you. How much better would that have felt without it?

The sheets groaned, fabric snagging and snapping, under his grip. His body was all flexed up for you to watch. You knew he was trying to keep you in mind, so you didn't try anything too cute until he started relaxing, again.

"Hm-mmph--, fuck--," He groaned, a tremble in his arms as he slowly pulled out.

His exhaustion was short-lived, only manifested in a breathiness in his chuckle.

"Good thing I brought two."

This time you saw him take out a second one- but it wasn't just two. He had a whole row of condoms in his pocket this entire time.

You giggled at how he tore the second one off. What could he have possibly been thinking to bring seven along?

Bokuto harnessed some pornstar-like efficiency, tearing the outside open and pumping the latex onto himself with no waste of energy.

"Y'know," He cocked his head to the side, silly, despite his thumb sliding over your clit, "I've never cum that fast."

"Mmn-h-- Ah- that's- that's good--," You struggled.

A useful thing to know, sure, but it's not like you really cared- he never got soft. It was a non-issue because he was still clearly up for more.

He filled you back up so easy and slow, his thumb prodding stuttery waves of pleasure where there was once pain. He watched it with an air of pride about him. He sat up straighter, focused on where he disappeared into you. He soaked in all your twitching until he got his fill.

Only when he was satisfied did he lean down to his elbows to check on you.

Your had to fill your hands with his perfect muscles, all bouncy and twitchy at how overstimulated you got him. He was huffing, swallowing his groans so he didn't look uncool-- restrained or not, he would've looked just as cute.

He just wanted to fuck you good. For you to remember it well.

"Mmnh-! You're so big-,"

Those giant, fuck-me-harder eyes kept his shoulders tight. His hand was gripping your hip like a vice and bringing you down onto him.

His cock sank deep, a grumbly sound under his quiet, breathy whining-- your breath caught, and you had the brief revelation that you had been missing out on this for so long. How long had they been friends for? Years?

You wanted to make up for all the lost time. You locked your ankles around him for the second time, your hands pulling him back so you could put some hickeys all up and down his thick neck.

Though you had some vague idea that he loved when you hugged him close, you didn't understand the depth in which it turned him on.

It was one of those quick-affirming, sweet and wordless praises that resonated so hard with Bokuto's insatiable need to be validated.

He had to ask. He wanted more, he wanted to hear you.

"That feel good?" His hand cupped your entire jaw, forcing your eyes on his, ever so focused.

Your grip on his forearm was like an ant trying to push over a tree. It would never budge. And when it didn't, it took very little time to realize you actually liked it there. Your reflex did nothing to serve you, but you kept your hand still to prod at the muscle.

The breath you took to answer him was wasted on another moan.

"Ah-h--,"

"I want ya to tell me," His insistence was daunting, but filled with need.

"I--,"

Your nails were digging into his skin, and you were gasping, trying to tell him you were close- but none of it came out properly.

It was all just improper, uncontrollable, unmasked whining.

A bit late, he was witness to your adorable realization that you were cumming. He murmured a small, infatuated, "Aww..."

His lips pressed hard to your temple, and he let you pull him in, offering only the bulk of his shoulder as consolation for his deeper thrusts. It was a taste of what he could give you if only this wasn't your first, if you had been used to him from the start.

An orgasm had never felt so filled out, before. Like it was larger than you, stronger than anything you'd be able to craft on your own, from just your fingers. It was him. His cock, but moreso was his intensity and devotion to getting you there and fucking you all the way through it.

His hand was still cupping the bottom half of your face, but not covering your mouth. God, he wanted the entire world to know how good he made you feel. Especially Kuroo. Fuck that guy for keeping you a secret.

"Good girl, ohh- you did so good," He was slowing, still seeing those last, shallower, mellow waves through with dedication, "Sound sooo pretty."

Those eyes were softer, but still eating you up, savoring you while you were all messy for him.

Were you dating, now? It felt like you had been shot forward about ten years with this guy.

A light buzzing -the muted ring of a phone- was somewhere near you, interrupting your giggly, feel-good vibe. Again, and still just as surprising, Bokuto slowly pulled out of you and made quick work of that second condom.

He patted around the sheets for the source of the sound.

"Oh!"

He let the ringing continue- he had to get his idea out immediately: "That totally reminds me! I should get you a vibrator or something."

Jaw slack, you weren't given the opportunity to respond, before he answered. You lay there, a bit shivery and empty-feeling, as he hugged your thigh over his own.

"Hellooo?"

It was quiet. There was a faint, urgent, tone on the other side.

"Ummmm..."

His fingers tapped against your skin. He was lost in deep thought of how to respond. You were glad you couldn't hear the words being spoken, because you knew it was not going to be a pleasant earful.

"Yeah-... I mean, we were just talking... and... stuff."

Bokuto got droopier. He sank, sitting on his heels, still sitting butt-naked and hugging your thigh. You squeezed one of your blankets to your chest and frowned.

"It's nothing personal, man..."

He held the phone away from his ear as he was verbally berated, a pout making his whole face look cartoonishly sad. It was difficult, on your end, to understand that he could both be super into you and want to stay friends with Tetsurou.

"Would it make it any better iiiif I told you we were dating now?"

Bokuto winced and slid his free hand back and forth over your leg as consolation, for himself.

"Yeahyeahyeah, I gotchu, yeahyeah. Okay'bye," He hung up at the soonest crafted opportunity.

"Soooo," He sighed, distraught, instantly making up any distance between you. He dropped so much weight atop your sore body and covered you like a warm, weighted blanket, that you struggled to get air in your lungs.

"He's... not... happy."

The big dummy on top of you deflated with each word in a dismal decrescendo.

You had to wriggle around to find somewhere to breath from; room for your chest to expand at least a little.

"I thought you knew that?"

Bokuto made a high humming sound, feet kicking in the air, "Mmmmmmyeahhh, kinda, but..."

You freed one arm to wrap around him, so you could play with his hair, "He can't stay mad forever. He'll see that you're not- harmful- I guess, eventually."

He let his brow relax, shoved hard into your shoulder, and took in your new comforting scent.

Part of you couldn't blame your brother for assuming the worst. It took until incredibly recently for you to understand the full scale of Bokuto's fixation.

Despite all his sad body language, he couldn't have been that worried, because he was already back to sly, tongue-centered kisses on your neck.

♕VIP♕

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[hughes-your-daddy]

media girl

pairing: jack hughes x fem reader

summary: game day in the hughes household is a busy day for you and jack

warnings: none

you groan, flipping over in bed to turn off your blaring alarm, feeling the arms slip loose from around your waist.

“morning baby.” you hear jack mumble in his morning voice as he presses a gently but firm kiss to the back of your neck, before you turn over to place a kiss on his lips.

“morning j.” you smile before slipping away, pulling on some of jacks sweats, moving to the kitchen to make breakfast and prep lunch.

you quickly make two coffees one in an mug for you and the other in a travel cup for jack, and make some scrambled eggs when a pair of arms wrap around your waist.

“hello mrs hughes.” jack smiles, resting his head on your shoulder gently swaying yous.

after getting married a month ago, the two of you haven’t had time for a honey moon with jack still in hockey season, so for now he’s making the most of the newly wed lifestyle.

“hiya husband.” you giggle turning your head to meet his lips again.

“will you be here when i get back from morning skate?” he asks, moving to get his back ready and packed.

“probably not, it’s a home game, you know how busy these days are, especially the hughes bowl.” you sigh, a small pout on jacks lips.

“here for my pregame nap?” he asks, giving puppy dog eyes.

“i’ll try to get away for lunch.” you smile seeing the boys frown turn to a smile, before he grabs his mug, slinging his bag over his shoulder and is over to give you one last kiss

“i love you.” he smiles against you lips.

“love you too, see you later.” you smile gently patting his cheek before he’s out the door on the way to the arena.

you quickly serve up and eat your breakfast before you’re heading back to your bedroom, setting your coffee on your vanity before moving to shower and wash your hair.

you quickly finish up and dry your hair, putting a loose curl in it before starting your makeup. you decide on just a light look, throwing on a pair of jeans and a jumper knowing you’d be getting ready later one.

you quickly grab your badge and keys, tossing them in your bag before heading down to the parking garage and heading to work.

the drive isn’t too bad as it’s earlier in the day, not many fans on their way to the arena yet. you show your id at the door, allowing you to park up and head inside.

you first head to your office setting your bag down, taking out your laptop, setting up for the day, and grabbing your camera, before heading out to the rink. a little ritual you and jack had every game day, catch him at morning practice where he’d pass you a puck. a little good luck charm he created.

you stand side of rink, camera in hand next to one of the trainers eloise.

“morning y/n.” she smiles, as you send her one back.

“morning el, how they looking today.” you ask knowing there’s been quite a few injuries these past couple weeks.

“luckily nothing bad,” she smiles, as you begin to take some pictures of the boys at practice.

“ah y/n, how are you.” nico shouts across the rink, waving with a big smile like always on his face, causing jack to spin round. seeing you a smile spreads across his face as he skates over, guiding a puck with him before he gently pops it over the barrier, you catching it just in time.

“feeling good?” you ask, as he leans his elbows on the barrier.

“gonna be a good game, quinn is wanting to take us out after.” he smiles.

“i’ll try and get out as quick as possible.” you say, knowing how late you can get held up after a game.

he sends a wink your way before heading back over to the practice.

they don’t continue for much longer, before they’re heading back out into the tunnel to their changing rooms, so you head back to your office, to begin sorting out the plan for the press tonight.

since your colleague was off sick you were also in charge of photos tonight as well as interviews so you were busy.

typing away on your laptop, you don’t realise the figure at the door until he knocks, clearing his throat to get your attention.

“oh sorry, didn’t realise you were there.” you smile, watching him drop his bag at the door and move a chair next to yours at your desk.

“what you doing?” he asks, leaning over your shoulder to see.

“sorting press for tonight,” you sigh, turning to face him. his eyes scan your face before he leans in, hands on your knees and pressing his lips to yours.

“don’t wear yourself out yeh, need my lucky charm here for tonight all healthy.” he smiles, pulling away.

“i won’t.” you reassure him, before luke’s knocking at the door, waiting for jack.

“hiya, y/n, love you and all, but i need jack to take me home, i need a fat nap.” he smiles, looking exhausted.

“you ok?” you ask the younger boy.

ever since you met jack in high school, you always felt protective of luke like a mother or an older sister. if he’s not feeling great then you’re usually the first he calls.

“just need a minute to chill i think.” he sighs, sitting down in the chair opposite your desk, leg bouncing.

you look between the two brothers, luke about to pass out in the chair and concern written all over jacks face as he watches.

“grab your stuff.” you say abruptly, shutting off your laptop and packing your bag.

“i thought you had work to do.” jack asks, confused at your sudden movement, luke also feeling the same.

“i can do it from home, luke you’re coming back to ours, sleep in the spare room. im gonna make that pasta and chicken you guys like,” you say moving across to the door, a they just stare at you in disbelief, “well, are you coming?” you asks and the two rush to get up and out into the corridor.

you laugh at their behaviour, before the three of you head out to the car park, jack driving like home whilst you drive yourself.

you get home before the two boys, deciding to just get on with the food, checking the time. 11am. plenty of time, the boys don’t need to be back until 5.

you take off your coat hanging it over the back of a stool before slipping on an apron to begin cooking. you manage to get done quickly, so you just leave it on a low heat to keep it warm until the boys come in.

taking off your apron, you move around the island sitting down at the stool to get back on with your work, when you hear the door open.

“sorry we took so long, stopped off at luke’s to get his stuff.” jack calls out, before the two shuffle their way into the kitchen.

“all good, foods ready if you’d just want to help yourself.” you smile seeing the two go over to the stove getting their serving before moving over to eat on the couch some old hockey game playing in the background.

you keep on with your work, pretty much finishing the plan for tonight when luke comes over, standing beside you.

“thanks y/n for this, really appreciate it.” he says, his hoodie hood up over his head, eyes slightly brimming with tears.

“oh lukey,” you frown, standing up to wrap the younger in a hug, “you know i’m here if you need to talk yeh?” you asks, the taller boy nodding into your shoulder.

“yeh, definitely,” he smiles pulling away, a small sniffle coming from him, “just had a lot of pressure recently, fans are really blaming me for some of our losses.” he mumbles, looking down and fidgeting with the end of his hoodie.

“you know that’s not true luke, jack could even testify for that,” you say seeing him scoff, “and not because he’s your older brother, but because he’s your alternate captain who watched you train harder than anyone in that ice every day ok?” you ask and he looks up nodding.

“ok, not go take a nap, you look exhausted.” you smile, patting his shoulder as he lets out a small chuckle before heading off to your spare bedroom.

“your incredible you know.” you hear jack say from the couch, as he leans over the back, resting his head on his hand.

“i feel bad for him.” you sigh, walking over to join jack, sinking into his side on the couch.

“i know, he’s been really bad after games, not talking to anyone just getting showered, changed and then leaving. i’m getting worried.” jack frowns, his fingers running up and down your arm.

“hopefully he’ll feel a bit better after this game, seeing quinn should help.” you smile, leaving up to face jack.

“i think it’ll help us all abit,” he smiles down at your pressing his lips to yours before pulling away, “nap now?” he asks, those puppy dog eyes back on display.

“yes, we can nap now.” you say, jack excitedly pulling you up and heading to your room, not before peeking into the guest bedroom seeing luke peacefully asleep. you see his shoulder relax a bit more, as he guides you into bed.

you change into one of jacks old t-shirts as he just strips to his boxers before the two of you climb into bed setting an alarm for 2, giving you around 2 hours of sleep before getting up.

next thing you know, you sat touching up your hair and makeup, before choosing on an outfit to wear while jack was getting changed into his own suit

you decide on a black pant suit, a slightly oversized fit, with a white tshirt underneath, paired with your black louis vuittons that jack got you as a wedding present.

“i love those on you baby.” jack smiles at you through the mirror as he fixes his tie.

“special day, special shoes.” you smile back, adjusting your top slightly before turning to make sure everything is back in your bag ready for tonight.

you head out to the living room seeing luke sat, beanie on head, ready to leave.

“that sleep help luke?” you ask quickly pouring some coffee into your travel mug.

“yeh, actually really helped, thanks again.” he smiles, standing up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder, as jack comes out with his own bag.

the three of yous head out to jacks car, him driving you there before you separate from them, heading to your office to drop off your stuff before quickly heading out to meet the rest of the staff for tonight outside the changing rooms.

seeing the pre-game press build outside the changing rooms you realise how chaotic tonight is gonna be.

“y/n!” you hear shouted from down the hall, turning, you spot a certain older brother, a smile on his face.

“hey quinn,” you smile, quickly going over to hug him, “how you feeling?” you ask, pulling away.

“good, really excited. you’re coming out tonight right?” he asks, almost bouncing with excitement.

“yeh, definitely, might be a bit late but will be there.” you smile before he has to head off to get ready himself.

warmups run around quickly as you follow the staff out to the bench, taking some pictures of warmups, smiling when you see quinn meet his two younger brothers in the middle. you wave to get their attention before the come round to pose for a quick picture. you take a few before pulling the camera down giving them a quick thumbs up, the three skating off to continue warm ups.

the game finishes quickly, the devils taking a lead 4-3, and before you know it, you’re waiting outside the changing rooms with a bunch of press trying to get in.

you wait for the go ahead over your ear piece to make sure the boys are all decent and ready before you lead the press in, earning smiles and waves from the boys as you walk past, a certain pair of eyes lingering on you for a while longer than normal.

most of the press head over to jack and luke, a few wanting to see nico as well. you stay around for a bit until the beginning to simmer away having gotten the answers they wanted leaving the boys to finish getting changed. you take one last look at jack, the boy sending a quick wink towards you before leaving heading down to your office.

you settle down at your desk, sending off social media posts as well as some clips from the press that have already made it out to the media. it doesn’t take you long before jack comes bouncing in through your door.

“that was such a good game, did you see my goal? i don’t even know how i made that.” he rambles coming over behind your desk before pressing lips his to yours, before pulling away grinning.

“i did see the goal, you played amazingly.” you smile, standing up and adjusting his suit lapels slightly.

“did you know we’re matching today, i think it was a good luck charm to be honest.”

you giggle looking down at both your outfits not realising you had pretty much picked the same ones.

“mmh, we look hot.” he smirks, gently pulling you closer by your waist.

“yeh?” you ask, lips brushing his, before he nods pulling you in for a proper kiss. you pull away before he goes deeper, moving to grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder.

“come on, your brothers are gonna be waiting.” you smile, walking out jack hot on your heels before you meet quinn and luke out at the parking lot.

“good job, mr two goals.” you smile, side hugging luke, “told you you’re good.” you smile up at him seeing him laugh it off before you give quinn’s quick hug too.

quinn drives him and luke while jack drive you too off to meet their parents at a restaurant in town. you just order a simple chicken dish, the night going quickly and before you know it, yous are heading back to your apartment where luke and quinn are spending the night to make the most of the time with the oldest brother.

yous all change into some comfy clothes before piling onto the sofa to watch a film. jack on your left, luke on your right and quinn on the other side of luke, everyone bundled up in blankets, watching step brothers.

“i really appreciate what you do for us you know?” jack whispers, you leaning into his chest further.

“you guys are my family, it’s the least i could do.” you smile, feeling him press a small kiss to the top of your head.

[writeriguess]

hi.. if you arent busy can you please do a small writing of how husband katsuki would react to reader going into labor? thank you :)

Fireworks and Heartbeats

The first contraction hits like a gunshot at dawn. You wince, gripping the edge of the couch, your breath catching in your throat. The TV hums in the background, some mindless show playing, but the moment your body seizes up, everything else fades into static.

Katsuki, slouched beside you with one arm thrown lazily over the back of the couch, is mid-chew on a protein bar when he notices. His red eyes narrow instantly, scanning your face with that sharp, battle-honed instinct of his.

"The hell was that?" His voice is rough, edged with suspicion.

You exhale shakily. "I think… that was a contraction."

There's a second of silence. A dangerous, eerily calm second where his entire body goes completely still. Then—

"SHIT."

Bakugo launches off the couch so fast the cushions nearly flip. His protein bar goes flying, forgotten as he rounds on you like a man ready to go to war.

"How bad is it? Can you stand? We gotta—fuck, wait, where's the bag? Where’s the—WHERE'S MY PHONE?"

You can't help but laugh, even as another contraction rolls through you, making you groan. "Babe. Breathe."

"I'm breathing!" he snaps, though his movements are anything but calm. He's darting from one end of the living room to the other, yanking open drawers, patting his pockets, looking everywhere except for the one place his phone actually is—on the damn coffee table.

You watch as he turns over a couch cushion in sheer desperation. "Katsuki—"

"WHERE THE FUCK DID I PUT IT?!"

You sigh and pick up his phone with an exaggerated wave. "Here."

He whips around, eyes locking on the device like it's an enemy. He snatches it from your hand and immediately starts dialing. "I'm callin’ the hospital! We gotta—SHIT, the bag! Where’s the fucking bag?!"

"It’s by the door," you say, amused despite the growing pain.

He’s already bolting toward it. "RIGHT, right, I knew that!" He slings the bag over his shoulder like it weighs nothing. "Okay, okay, let’s go! Get your ass up—wait, do you need me to carry you?"

You glare at him. "I can walk, Katsuki."

"Not if it makes it worse, dumbass!" He’s already reaching for you, practically vibrating with tension.

"I'm fine," you insist, though the next contraction makes you grip his wrist for support. His free hand immediately settles on your back, warm and steady, his fingers twitching as if he’s fighting the urge to just scoop you up and bulldoze through walls to the hospital.

His voice lowers, rough but softer now. "I gotcha. Just lean on me, alright?"

You nod, letting him guide you toward the door. He’s mumbling under his breath, every other word a curse, but beneath all that brashness, his grip on you is careful, precise. His entire world has narrowed down to getting you to the hospital, to making sure you’re safe.

By the time he’s got you in the car, he’s gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered. The moment your breath hitches in pain, he snarls, "Fucking MOVE!" at a car that’s barely in his way.

"Katsuki, don’t get arrested before we even get there."

"If these extras don’t move their asses, I swear—"

"Katsuki!"

He growls, muscles tight with frustration, but keeps driving, one hand gripping the wheel while the other reaches over, fingers squeezing yours tightly. He doesn’t let go, not even when your contractions get worse, not even when your nails dig into his skin.

"You hold on," he mutters, jaw clenched so tight it could crack. "Almost there, baby. Almost there."

And as frantic as he is, as loud and explosive as he always will be—his grip in yours stays firm, unwavering. Katsuki Bakugo doesn’t fear battle. But as you groan in pain beside him, he realizes there is one fight he can’t punch his way through.

He can only hold your hand, grit his teeth, and make damn sure you get to the finish line.

[chrisissobabygirl]

☆ summer nights - c.s

c/w: fluff, making out, smut without plot ig, oral (f recieving), p in v, fingering, creampie, softdom!chris?? i think, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it y'all), etc etc

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

the moon was full and low that night, it's light slipping through the window and onto chris's bed. the air conditioning and the sound of his lips meeting yours in a frenzy filled the room like a sultry soundtrack.

you both were lost in ecstasy, in the taste of each other's lips, the warmth of each other's bodies, the friction and the sounds you created together. it had been a while since you had last seen your boyfriend and been alone with him, your busy schedules keeping you apart. but today, you were finally able to pick him, nick, and matt up from the airport after their trip to boston. as much as you loved his brothers, you couldn't wait to be alone with chris.

your nails grazed chris's chest, which was clad in his favorite pirate-girl sleeveless t-shirt—the one you liked best. you were straddling him, your legs on either side of his. his hands were sliding up and down your tank top, the one that drove him absolutely crazy, as he urgently explored your mouth with his tongue.

you let out a small whimper, as his clothed cock rubbed against your core for what felt like the millionth time. "chris," you tugged on his hair as you moaned out his name between kisses. "please."

"fuck, ma, what do you want?" chris let out a low groan, trying to control himself. if it were upto him, he would have flipped you over, buried your face into his pillow and taken you from behind hours ago, but no. you had been playing hard to get all day long, teasing him in that godforsaken top, rendering him helpless as they were around matt and nick the entire day. his cock was so hard it was painful.

"you want my cock, huh?" he mumbled from your lips. you nodded frantically as you continued to grind in his lap, the tugs on his hair getting stronger with every rock of your hips against his.

his lips travelled from your mouth to your neck. "words, baby. use your pretty little mouth." he smirked against your skin, waiting for your consent.

"chris," you whined out, stopping your movements altogether. "please fuck me, i need...need your cock... need your mouth so bad." you took his face in your hands, panting heavily.

"get up. now." he demanded, tapping your ass twice, motioning for you to do what he asked. your legs shook as you got up from his lap, now a wet patch in the centre of his plaid pyjamas, right on his cock—your arousal.

you settled down on the bed, your back lying against the headboard, as he shifted himself in front of you, the tent in his pyjamas very evident, and hooked his thumbs under the waistband of your skimpy shorts, pulling them down with ease, filling his sight with nothing except your dripping cunt.

"no underwear? so you're telling me, all day long, the only thing that's been seperating me from your sweet pussy is one fucking layer? you fucking tease." chris hissed as his cock got painfully harder, if that was even possible. in one swift motion, he spread your legs, ready to absolutely devour you.

he lowered himself, his lips tracing a slow and torturous path along your inner thighs, the heat of his breath sending a shiver through you, your clit throbbing.

that's it. you couldn't take it anymore. you grabbed the back of your boyfriend's head, and tried to guide him to where you needed him most, but he easily overpowered your attempt. he chuckled lowly, a teasing smile on his face. "so fucking needy, hm?"

"chris, please," you were practically begging now, but you didn't care. you wanted him—you needed him. you craved his touch, his lips, his cock, his everything.

chris looked up, his lustful eyes meeting your half-lidded once, and that was it. he lunged between your legs like a madman, his tongue swiping from the bottom of your slit to the very top.

a moan escaped your swollen, puffy lips as your head rolled back, your back arching off the headboard. his tongue circled your clit—once, twice, thrice—before he thrusted his tongue inside you, fucking you like it was his cock. his name fell from your lips like a chant, as you begged him not to stop.

"you're drenched." his tongue left your pussy, and without a warning, he replaced his tongue with his middle and ring finger. you let out a high-pitched whine at the sudden intrusion, his long fingers reaching all the right places inside you. his fingers curled upwards, hitting your g-spot with every thrust, sending waves of pleasure throughout your body.

chris was like a man on a mission, his tongue returning to your sensitive clit, alternating between long licks and sucking it in his mouth at a relentless pace. your thighs squeezed around his head, hands tangled in his hair, as you felt your orgasm approaching. you let out a frustrated sob, a tear running down your cheek, when he suddenly stopped, pulling his mouth and fingers away from you. his tongue came out and licked his lips clean, the taste of you making his cock twitch.

"wha-why'd you stop?" you cried. chris chuckled and brought you closer to him, his body now hovering right above yours. "as much as i love eating you out, i need you to come around my cock tonight, baby. s'that okay?" he bent down and kissed you softly.

"mhm," you nodded slowly, still recovering from the intensity of his mouth. you got up into a sitting position, and pulled your tank top off with shaky hands, along with your bra, now completely bare for him. chris groaned at the sight of his perfect girlfriend. he couldn't wait to be inside you again.

chris frantically undressed himself as well, pulling his sleeveless t-shirt up in one swift motion, and tugging his boxers down until his hard dick sprung out, slapping against his stomach. your clit throbbed at the sight, waiting to be claimed by him. he was big and thick, his head swollen and leaking precum already.

he climbed back on top of you, and his large frame enveloped yours completely, the warmth of his skin sending goosebumps down your body. he reached down, leaving a trail of kisses down your neck. he reached your breasts, enveloping your right nipple in his mouth, while he brought his hand up to play with the left one. he stopped his movements and looked down, lining the tip of his cock with your entrance.

"god, i missed this." he breathed in your ear. and with that, he pushed himself inside you with one deep thrust. he waited for a moment, letting you readjust to his size, feeling your walls stretch around his cock. his hips rocked, retreating and sliding back with more force now, elicting a cry of pleasure from you.

"fuck, you're so big, chris." you mumbled out. the thrusts kept on coming, each one harder and faster. he grabbed one of your legs, draping it over his shoulder as you locked the other one around his waist, the position giving him a better and deeper angle. one of his hands reached between your legs, rubbing your clit, as the other one held your leg up.

a loud moan escaped from your lips as chris pounded into you, hitting your g-spot, making your spongy walls clench around him. "you like when i fuck you hard? takin' me so fuckin' well, ma," he grunted, nearly out of breath. the bed frame slammed against the wall in rhythm with his pounding, filling the room with creaks.

you screamed his name out again and again, only fueling his energy further. your head spun and your back arched off the bed as his thrusts became rougher. your moans filled the room, the slapping of his skin on yours becoming louder, the both of you getting closer and closer to your orgasm.

chris clenched his jaw in effort, holding back his orgasm as his cock slammed into your cervix mercilessly. "c-chris, i think i-i'm about to.." you moaned, so overstimulated that you couldn't complete your sentence. "fuck, me too, kid," he gritted through his teeth, flicking your clit faster.

a loud cry escaped from your lips as the knot in your stomach finally snapped, thighs trembling as you spasmed around his cock. pornographic moans left your mouth as he shot his load inside you, coating your walls with his release. his movements slowed as he fucked you through your and his orgasm.

his movements stopped as he slowly pulled out, collapsing next to you, heavy pants filling the air. your chest rose and fell in a quick pace, heart beating fast.

after a few seconds, you rolled to your side, capturing chris's lips into a sweet kiss, running a hand through his sweaty hair. "i missed you so much."

"me too, kid. i love you." he whispered, brushing a few strands out of your face.

"i love you too, chris." you smiled, pecking your boyfriends lips once more.

and that's how you two fell asleep, tangled up in each other, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, his head buried in the crook of your neck.

‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊✮‧₊˚ ⋅* ‧₊

a/n: this is my first smut so please be nice or i might cry! also ilysm HAPPY NEW YEAR BITCHES RAHHH (its like 2:30 am and i CANNOT sleep)

wc: 1546

[thbbie]

༄ law x f!reader (based on this ask)

it's been hours. hours since you've gotten in bed, tossing and turning to no avail. you can't sleep, and law is still busy working away in his study late into the night.

nothing feels right, the room is too bright and too dark all at once, too quiet without laws soft snores by your side, too empty. you feels the clothing on your body and the heat of the room and and and — it's all too much.

frustrated, you slip out of bed, quietly padding over to laws study, he must have lost track of time, getting absorbed in his reading and forgetting all else. it's nothing new though that does little to change that it's a bad habit. for a doctor, he's very good at ignoring his own well being.

the rooms silent when you step in, law hunched over at his desk with a stack of books on either side of him. was he trying to get through all that tonight? in your head you add that he might be stupid next to the note about the irony of how he treats his health and being dedicated to his practice as a doctor. the mental not punctuated with a little question mark.

pushing one of the two stacks of books aside to make room for yourself, gently prying the book front of him away and replacing it with you body.

holding the book he was reading so intently in your hands, making sure to dog ear the page he was on before teasingly flipping through it. his eyes feel heavy, when you pull the book away, the exhaustion settles in all at once, it's as though he hadn't noticed it before.

laws head falls forward, resting on your chest and your hands come up to play with the dark strands. it's natural. muscle memory. your nails scratch at his scalp gentle, running your fingers through his hair, gentle twirling it in little sections.

on accident, you tug on a piece of his hair, the familiar sting in his scalp — he groans. it's natural, familiar. so is the tightness in his pants as a result. muscle memory.

you don't notice at first, and he doesn't say anything; all to embarrassed by the situation. heat creeps up his cheeks when you don't stop soothingly playing with his hair. it's so sweet, so innocent. he feels so perverse.

it happens again. law digs his teeth into his lips to muffle the sound, closing his eyes in hopes of distracting himself from his thoughts.

but it continues. again. and again. and it's too much for him to believe it's only coincidence. the sleep has left him completely.

his hands firmly planted one either side of you in the desk. law lifts his head to look at you, chin balanced in between your soft chest. oh he looks so handsome like this, with his face flushed all the way to his ears, his tan skin painted in a deep red, bitten lips pushed into a pout, his grey eyes dark and glistening.

so so handsome, and you get him all to yourself.

smiling down at him innocently, you're still tired but your energy renewed through teasing your boyfriend. "traf? you're so warm. do you feel sick?" your hands coming up to hold his face in mock worry.

"im hot" his voice hoarse.

tell me something i don't know

"oh yea?" you look down to see his hands fisted on the desk, so tight his knuckles turn white. you let go of his face to take them in yours, "you're allowed to touch me, ya know that right?"

your encouragement goes a little further than you'd anticipated, because right now, laws face is blissfully buried between your legs, his tattooed fingers holding you open for him while lapping away at you softly.

he's knows just what to do, an expert in human anatomy after all. he alternates between licking and suctioning your cute clit, twirling his tongue around it in ceasing circles and lapping away at your slit from bottom to top in broad strips the warm metal ball on his tongue only adding to your pleasure.

rolling it against your clit and law listens to your moans and lets them guide his movements, teaching him what you like and what you love. where you need him most. and when your hands leave his hair, moving to claw at the polished wood of his desk — to ground yourself, he'll take them in his and return them to their rightful place; his hair. encouraging you to tug by sliding his tongue into your crying entrance, fucking you with it nice and slow — he's savouring it. curling his tongue inside you in a way he knows you'll feel the little silver jewel in his tongue.

"tra-traf. im close. shitshit, yes~ right there. right there."

he says something in response that you don't quite catch with how far hes buried himself into you. pretty silver eyes looking up at you, wanting to watch your face as you unravel for him.

law wants to see you when you cum on his tongue.

you stare back, eyes hazy and your skin flushed, tugging at his hair to feel him moan against your core.

you come undone with one last flick against your clit, pulling him further into you as you do and law has never been happier to be dragged around, enjoying the taste of you in his tongue.

your grip on him loosens as you come down from it, he gives your glossy twitching folds a chaste kiss before standing to his full length, bending down to press a loving kiss to your temple.

"thank you."

what for-

"for coming to check on me."

the question mark from earlier disappears, he is stupid. your stupid. you chuckle to yourself at that, oh how you love him. hugging him close you whisper to him tiredly, "don't do it again. whatever it is, it can wait. your rest comes first my love"

his heart feels so full. your love. it makes him giddy. in a sweet innocent way, the kind of feeing he wouldn't except to feel with the taste of your orgasim still in his lips and yet he does.

both to tired to hull your bodies over to your room, you fall asleep together on his desk chair, it's cramped but neither of you mind the closeness. your heartbeats beat in tandem, syncing together as you're both lulled into your late sleep.

shanks ver zoro ver

whoo!! all done!! idk how i did but i hope you enjoy nonnie <3

[madewithsilk]

dealer!ellie with bimbo!reader 𝜗𝜚⋆₊˚

.ᐟ.ᐟ dealer!ellie that’s usually so sweet to you, treating you like a delicate princess who can't do anything by herself. She'll practically mansplain things to you, and when your head can't fathom anything, she'll simply chuckle and do it for you. That's how she likes it, keeping you dumb and dependent most of the time.

"What's wrong, ma', can't roll it right?" She chuckles, watching you struggle and try to roll a joint for her. She places her hands right over you, guiding yet watching you still miserably fail. "Jus' don' worry about it, lean back, 'kay?" Your little dumb nods fuel her even more.

.ᐟ.ᐟ dealer!ellie that likes keeping you high and floaty constantly to make you easier to deal with. There's very few times she'd prefer you at full force. Whether it be on a weekend that you're constantly nagging her or a day you're acting up and she wants you to be apologetic, she'll coerce you into finishing a whole joint by yourself.

“Yeah, mama? Feeling all nice n’ airy?” She whispers, kissing down your neck. Your eyes flutter, half-lidded and staring at Ellie. All that leaves your lips is mumbles and a nod. "Y-yea," Ellie simply chuckles, "Yeah, baby? Jus’ spread your legs a little wider for me?” Having you high and unaware is such easy access.

.ᐟ.ᐟ dealer!ellie that fucks you even more senseless than you already are. Strip you without any heads up, ram her strap into you, and give you a persistent pace to deal with. Or maybe she'll bend you over the counter when you're making something for her, eating you out from the back. It's slightly humiliating to be just a fuck toy for free use, but you're too dumb to even process that.

“Only good for taking my dick, huh, ma’?” She whispers, her fingers curling into your g-spot over and over again nonstop. You babble, manicured fingernails digging into her bicep, jaw going slack, little "uhn, ngh, fuckkk,"s leave your lips. Her words are always condescending with a bit of praise mixed in, she notices how much tighter you get when her insults are disguised as sweet words. "Fuckin' dumb on my cock, no wonder I love you so much,"

.ᐟ.ᐟ dealer!ellie that knows you're usually so fucking good for her, listening to her every word mindlessly with doe-eyes and a willing gaze because Ellie was just so sweet so how could you not behave! It always takes her by surprise when you don't behave, and she has to teach your little brain it's not nice to be bad. Maybe she's a little stern with her punishments, but she just wants to get it through your head! When you're both at a party, Ellie is far too busy dealing to give you any attention, and all you're doing is being bored by her side.

You huff a few times, grind against her thigh a few more, and after getting shut down each time with either a stern gaze or a "Be patient, baby. Don't make me repeat myself, 'kay?" while she doesn't even acknowledge your presence, counting her money, you finally get enough of it. You stand and walk away, ass swaying with the little miniskirt you wore, finding one of Ellie's closest friends, Abby.

Abby was attractive, that much was undeniable. But she wasn't the same as Ellie to you, yet you knew if you pretended, Ellie would still be ticked off. Your arms wrapped around Abby's neck, and Ellie's eyes darted over with a mean, mean stare. You finally got her attention, yet it wasn't the good type.

She dragged you out of there without any hesitation, hand-fisted in your hair, and a silent car drive till you both got home. It ended with you bent over her lap, squirming, crying, as she slapped your ass over and over again. “Embarrassing the fuck out of me at a party? Seriously, babe?” Your sobs and babbles were loud, spit drooling down your chin. "I'm sorry— said I was sorry!" You envisioned a different type of discipline, perhaps fucking you into the mattress, but this? Definitely not. "Too fuckin' bad, should've thought about this before you went to be a whore with Abby."

.ᐟ.ᐟ dealer!ellie who's possessive but in a bragging, show-off way. She'll pick out your outfits for you, bralette-like tops with miniskirts that expose your entire ass. She likes having people stare at what they'll never get.

She takes you to every dinner with her friends, right beside her in a booth, only speaking when spoken to with your tits out. Ellie will even play with your clit under the table for being so good to her. "Arm candy over there, Williams?" One of them will say, and you won't even think twice about the objectifying nature of the statement, merely happy you're seen as Ellie's.

[makeitworse]

DANG, IS SHE THAT GOOD?

talking ji-yong through topping you.

nsfw. minors dni. c/w: fem!reader / sub!ji-yong. glimpses of domestic life. age gap. praise. unprotected sex. soft smut. a/n: typed w one hand tbh

ji-yong always found himself under you during sex. that’s just how he liked it best.

he’s a busy man, and he’s not young anymore either. after a long day at work, he just wants to kick his feet up and let you take care of him. and that’s fine by you! you’ve got youthful energy to spend, and there’s not many sights as precious as the king of kpop himself sprawled out beneath you, completely at your mercy.

he finally has the rare chance of some free time with you— a breather amongst his packed schedule during his comeback. actually managing to get him out of bed on his days off was a rarity. but today he’s eager to take you out, dedicate a day to you; make-up for how work’s been demanding most of his focus. you shake your head when he pulls out his black card, but he’s not taking no for an answer.

later that day you found yourselves tangled on the couch in a hot flurry of kisses. he couldn’t keep his hands to himself while you were out; you had to tell him off for being so touchy in public, cameras could be anywhere.

pinning you down was the first thing on his mind once you were back home. your hands are lost in his hair, his are snaked under your top. his knee’s hiked up and digging into your core, and he mumbles a cuss as you rock yourself on his leg. you figure, since you’re already here, you may as well ask:

“ji, baby. would you be on top?”

he’s taken aback. for a beat, he hums and tosses the idea over. it’s certainly been a while since he’s had the energy to take the reins of your intimacy. the imagery of you beneath him gets ji-yong hot— sending a pulse straight to his dick. then, he kisses you with such force that your head cranes back. he’s hungry and his tongue’s on yours and he’s grinding down into your core with a newfound vigour.

you’re fully committed: you’re biting your lip, arching your back. you even encourage him with soft mewls as he sucks at your neck. he’s already panting at the sight of you. you slide a hand between your bodies to palm at him, finding his trousers damp with his arousal. ji-yong trembles over with a moan. on instinct, he’s keeling over for you to take control.

your mouth’s hot on his ear as whine how bad you need him. with that, he practically rips off your bottoms, and is too impatient to tug his own all the way off as they bunch at his knees. your hand is atop his as he guides himself in, his face scrunching as he fills you to the hilt. he stays there for a beat— dick twitching inside of you. you hum:

“fuck me, hun.”

and he obeys. ji-yong sets a gruelling pace, snapping his hips in and out of you like crazy. you egg him on by letting moans slip from your mouth, and he has to bite his lip to muffle his own. you guide his hands all over your body: fondling your breast, squeezing your neck, even tilting your own hips up so each of his thrusts hit the sweet spot.

even though he’s on top, you’re directing ji-yong through his actions: “kiss my neck there again.” “go faster, i can take it.” “put my leg up, honey.” and of course, you reward him with compliments when he follows: “that felt really good, ji.” “you’re doing so well for me baby.” he was hanging on to your every word. the noises spilling from him were diabolical— he sounded like a pornstar.

a little greedy, you tease him with a few pulses of your core. ji-yong’s thrusts turn shallow before he pauses, dick spasming inside of you. as little whines left his mouth. your hands find his pelvis, coaxing him to move, but his body falls onto yours and pins you against the couch.

he shudders, “w-wait, please..”, you can feel his muscles flexing on your bare stomach. he’s begging you to not make him cum. he has to screw his eyes shut and focus, else your naked body’s going to teeter him off the edge. he does a quick snap of his hips— but has to immediately pull out and suck in a breath between his teeth. you soothe him, caressing his sides and pressing reassuring kisses to his nape. he frowns at himself. he’s not usually so quick..

“i want it, ji. c’mon,” he huffs out a sheepish laugh. “if you couldn’t tell..” his dick twitches on time. something cruel stirs in you; you snatch his hips and pull him to thrust back into you. his hands fumble in an attempt to restrain you, and he’s out of breaths to say it with words. you’re undeterred, leading him in and out for your own pleasure, and ji-yong can’t help but take it as you grind onto him. his head’s buried into your shoulder, your ear soaking up all of his cries.

“if you keep, ah,.. i can’t—” “go on, hun.” ji-yong tried to move his own hips between your control. he’s a whimpering mess as he cums, laying lifeless on-top of you as warm ropes shoot inside of you. you hum, pleased with him, drawing lines over his back muscles.

“ah, i don’t have the back for this.” that made you chuckle. “you made me feel so good, baby.” he groans, disagreeing about his performance. “no, i’m sorry. you didn’t cum,” he pressed his sweaty forehead into your neck. “sorry, just give me a minute and i’ll, yeah..” his voice was hoarse, still breathless from his orgasm. but he snakes a shaky palm to your cunt and fidgets for your clit. you giggle, moving his hand off of you with a reassuring peck. he had no idea you were about to roll over and ride him till you came.

💌 | @emmiesoverthemoon @kam0p @gguktro @990002 @captain-ducks-swim-in-the-pond

[slytherinshua]

WITHOUT WORDS

genre. fluff. maybe a bit suggestive?? warnings. making out. they're so in love it's disgusting(ly cute). half proofread. pairing. sunghoon x fem!reader. wc. 1.1k. request. no. a/n. i don't think i've watched any enhypen content since like spring 2022... but i still wrote this just to feed @hursheys brainrot so she better thank me smh.

Perhaps the only time where you could admire your boyfriend without getting embarrassingly hot in the face was when he was asleep. You weren’t sure how it was possible for someone to be so handsome, but Sunghoon surpassed perfection in many areas, so you had grown to accept it. The first morning light had just started to seep through the window, shining softly over Sunghoon’s face.

And, god, he just looked so pretty. His hair fell over his forehead, eyelids closed, lips slightly parted letting soft breaths out. You were practically hypnotised by him. Usually you weren’t so utterly down bad for him (well, no, you were), but you simply couldn’t take your eyes off of him this morning. 

You silently brushed his hair away from his face, your touch light and gentle so as to not disturb him. The light from the window hit his now exposed forehead and eyebrows, warming up his cool toned skin and taking your breath away. You would never not be in love with him.

Your eyes shifted to his perfect nose, and the little brown mole that dotted the side of his nose bridge. You gave in to the immediate urge to press a gentle kiss to it, despite knowing that the action would probably wake him up. He was bound to wake up sooner or later from the light anyway, and you knew he always liked waking up to your kisses.

Your hand cupped his cheek, a finger softly tracing his jawline and then eyebrow, as if you were memorising his every feature. When you lifted your hand, intent on bringing it back to rest by your side, your wrist was caught midway by Sunghoon’s fingers. Although his eyes were still closed, he guided your hand back to the side of his face, a silent plea for you to continue your gentle touch. 

Instead of opening his eyes, his lip twitched, threatening to lift up into a smile. He tried to suppress it, but he too was struggling with the butterflies that your touch gave him. When it was just you two, he felt like he was floating, heart completely caught in your hold. Just when he thought he was the happiest he ever could be, you proved him wrong.

He gave in, letting the breathless laugh that was fighting to emerge, out, gracing your ears with the sound. When he opened his eyes, he was met with his favourite sight, one that he was sure he would never get tired of. Sunghoon was well aware that he was debilitatingly in love with you, but he faced the feeling with pride. He allowed you to invade his every thought, direct his every decision, and dwell at the very centre of his universe. It was where you belonged. 

There were no words needed between you two. All sentiments were delivered through your eyes, as you both could read each other like it was second nature.

Sunghoon’s ebony eyes sparkled with many messages, the most obvious of which was I love you. After years of dating him, that was one you could never miss. There was rarely a time where you didn’t see it reflected in his irises. It had become a constant for Sunghoon. Loving you was simply a part of his identity. He wasn’t himself without the love that you brought out of him. 

Your fingers danced on his cheek again, committing the feeling of his smooth skin to memory. He had a busy day ahead of him, and you knew you wouldn’t be seeing his face again until the middle of the night, so you took your time, soaking him in for as long as you could. Sunghoon was attentive to this as well, but had something else on his mind regarding how to spend the time he had left with you. He caught your wrist, this time using it to bring you closer to him, your nose almost brushing against his.

“Let me kiss you.” Came his soft request, his voice deep and slightly raspy from sleep. You smiled, meeting his lips immediately. There would never be a time when you would refuse his wish to kiss you. You sighed when he kissed you back, the warmth of his love reaching you from his lips.

You bit his bottom lip gently, making him gasp. His lips parted just enough to allow your tongue past them, the movement causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. His hands slipped to your waist under the covers, circling his thumb over your skin under your pyjama shirt (which just so happened to be one of his old t-shirts). 

Sunghoon knew he would have to break away from you sooner than he wished in order to allow time to get ready for the day. This only urged him to kiss you deeper, drowning in the feeling of you. His tongue circled yours, the dance of lip and tongue feeling as natural as breathing. He knew exactly how you liked to be kissed, years of perfecting his skills ever clearer to you as he pulled you closer.

He wished he could kiss you for eternity. He wished he didn’t have to leave you or the bed. He wished he could call the day off and stay— stay with you for the rest of his life. He was sure he would do that, but not in the way he currently wanted to right now. His work was far too important to miss, as he had several important shoots to attend. He had to cut his losses, no matter how hard it was to leave you for the entire day.

So, he pulled away, although it broke his heart to do it. You let out a quiet whine, knowing that he had to leave soon and dreading it as much as he did. He soothed you with a few quick kisses to your cheek and nose, hand squeezing your hip before he sat up, eyes lingering on your figure under the covers.

He checked the time, panicking slightly when he realized that he may have kissed you for a minute or two longer than he should have. He’d have to cut his shower short. He grabbed the clothes he had picked out the night before and rushed to the bathroom, giving you a quick smile as he closed the door. You heard the shower run for no longer than 3 minutes, and the hurried movements of him brushing his teeth and changing. 

He emerged exactly 6 minutes later, grabbing his bag and blowing you a kiss before he left. You sighed, eyes focused on a random spot on the ceiling. The taste of Sunghoon’s lips lingered on yours, making you smile slightly. You already missed him, and it hadn’t been a minute since he left. You were so down bad for him.

You rolled over to his side of the bed, squishing your face into his pillow (which smelled just like him) and falling back asleep.

↳ enhypen taglist (bolded could not be tagged): @kangtaehyunzzz,, @eternalgyu,, @ddeonudepressions,, @minholing,, @delcakoo,,

@kpoprhia,, @weird-bookworm,, @cha3w0n-hearts,, @candewlsy,, @blossominghunnie,,

@amara-mars,, @wccycc,, @seunghancore,, @heavenfilm,, @sobun1est,,

@bananabubble,, @talkingsaxy,, @sxmmerberries,, @talking-saxy,, @nicholasluvbot,,

@dimplewonie,, @50-husbands,, @hursheys,, @stannwjnss,, @gong-fourz

[cameronsbabydoll]

Omg the rafe idea is so good!! Just watching all the boys get frustrated bc they know they did it to themselves

ahh yes! sorry for the late reply i’ve been working on the sugar-coated chains series (and btw im writing chapter seven !!!)

You step out of the car, your tiny mini dress barely containing your energy, and your high heels clicking against the pavement. You latch onto Rafe’s arm with a grin, practically bouncing beside him as you head towards the beach. You're completely oblivious to how his eyes stay fixed on you, and the smirk on his lips shows he’s more than a little entertained by your presence.

You tug your phone from your bag, scrolling through it with exaggerated enthusiasm. "Rafe! You won’t believe what I found. I’m, like, reading this article on how to make your lips look even fuller. It’s, like, so cool."

Rafe chuckles, but there's something in his voice—teasing, but not unkind. “Doll, your lips are perfect already. But sure, I’m game if you wanna try something new.” His hand drops to your waist as he guides you through the crowd, completely possessive of your space. He can’t help but smile when you just nod along, eager to dive deeper into whatever random thought crosses your mind.

You continue babbling, not even noticing how Rafe’s arm moves lower, resting possessively on your ass. “Right?! So, like, if I use this trick, I’ll have, like, the most kissable lips ever!” You giggle, completely unaware of how you sound.

Rafe just smiles down at you, his smirk growing wider. "If it makes you feel better, sure. But you’re already cute enough, bunny." His voice drops lower, his tone almost teasing as he adds, "Not sure how much more you need.”

You giggle, not picking up on his sarcasm. “Aww, thanks! I’m, like, so glad you think so!” Your excitement is genuine as you continue talking about the newest beauty trend you’ve found, completely missing the fact that Rafe’s eyes are locked onto you with something more than just amusement. There's affection there.

The two of you arrive at the beach, and you’re still talking a mile a minute, oblivious to the group of Pogues watching you both from the bonfire. You don’t notice Pope’s confused look, or John B’s slightly raised eyebrow. But Rafe? He notices them.

With a glance over his shoulder, Rafe gives a little chuckle, his hand still firmly on your ass as he continues walking beside you, acting like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Hey, I swear, if you’re gonna talk about poodles for another hour, we might need to get you one,” he teases, squeezing you gently.

You blink at him, giggling again. “Poodles are, like, totally the cutest! I could totally take one around town in a pink stroller!” You pause, eyes wide. “Oh my gosh, that would be so cute, right?”

Rafe laughs, a soft, fond chuckle. “Yeah, bunny, you’d be the talk of the town. Just make sure it doesn’t outshine you.”

As you both approach the bonfire, you don’t even realize the Pogues are staring. You’re too busy holding up your phone and showing Rafe a new picture of a puppy you found, still oblivious to the way Pope, John B, and JJ are looking at you in confusion.

“Poodles?” Pope mutters, not quite sure what to make of all this.

John B shrugs. “I... don’t know what I expected, but definitely not this.”

JJ raises an eyebrow, then watches Rafe closely. “I don’t get it, man. He’s, like, all in on her. He’s holding her ass in public like it's nothing.”

But Rafe? He’s still focused on you, walking confidently with you at his side, never once pulling away from his slightly condescending, affectionate demeanor. "I swear, bunny, you're making me sound like a bad influence, but I kinda like it."

You grin, still clueless. “Like, I think I could teach the world about poodles!” You giggle, eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

Rafe just shakes his head, grinning back. “Yeah, bunny. Teach them everything they need to know. You’re really something else.”

You glance up at him with a playful smile. “You think I’m something else?”

He pulls you in closer, hand on your ass tighter now. “Yeah, you’re a lot of things, but I’ll tell you what—you’re mine.”

You laugh again, not even noticing how much he’s enjoying this, his affection clear despite his playful condescension.

As you walk away from the Pogues, you continue your carefree chatter, oblivious to the looks you’re getting. Rafe watches you with amusement, but there’s something else in his eyes—he’s not just laughing at you. He’s fond of you, and if anything, he enjoys the way you make him feel like the most important guy in the world, like he’s the one who knows how to handle you.

When you both pass the Pogues again, you’re still talking about the same thing. Your hands are wrapped around your phone, eyes wide as you go on about the “poodle craze,” and Rafe’s grin only deepens as he gives your ass another possessive squeeze.

The Pogues? They just watch, wide-eyed and silent. Rafe’s got a way with you. You’re his, and he’s so incredibly okay with that.

[joemama-2]

thinking about dating an older man.

one who’s gruff, big, never really likes to smile. his hands are rough and calloused and the stubble growing on his chin is his number one enemy. he’s always tired from work, never really has any down time. when he’s tired or stressed, he just runs a hand through his hair, sighing.

he wears some rings, specially just on his middle and pinky finger. and specially silver.

the last time he was in a serious relationship was his thirties, most people his age would be married, with kids. not him. he’s started to think it’s just a him problem, but even then, he’s not sure if he could do a relationship. he feels too old, too busy with work. his priorities are set.

but that all changes when he meets you. as funny as it is, you make him feel young again. you smile so perfectly at him, and your politeness truly makes him feel an all too familiar warmth in the depths of his stomach. he finds that he seeks you out during the day, even the simplest of glimpses will make him feel complete.

he wants to touch you so bad. just wants to feel that soft, beautiful skin you always show off to him. he starts to think it’s intentional.

and when he finally gets his hands on you, he’s in heaven. his hands can cover your own completely. cupping your pretty tit in his palm while the other splays across your stomach flat as he feels the bulge of his hard cock pounding into your all too sweet pussy.

the hand that can also wrap around your throat, squeezing gently as the words that spout from his dirty, experienced mouth are anything but gentle. the one that sometimes covers your mouth when he’s fucking you in his office that’s full of prying ears because you just can’t keep fucking quiet.

the hands that have a bruising grip on your hips while he guides them up and down, forcing you to continue to ride him even after you cried out your knees hurt, even after your third orgasm of the night.

some may think that being older will make the sex boring, shorter. not him. if anything, it’s the complete opposite. he knows what he likes, knows what women like, knows what you like. he loves to tease and edge you for as much as he could until you’re practically crying out and begging him to finally fuck you right.

maybe he’s a sadist. maybe he’s a masochist. or maybe he just loves you so fucking much that he wants to savor every last moment with you like it’s his last.

you know, it’s not really his height, the muscles, or facial expressions that intimidate you. it’s his goddamn experience.

sometimes you even get jealous and force out the image of what he does to you, to other women in the past.

the way he does things so naturally and almost nonchalantly, has you pooling in your panties, cheeks flushed. you just want to moan from what he says. he doesn’t even have to touch you to get you going.

and like the smart bastard he is, he uses this against you every single time.

—————————

jjk: toji, nanami, higuruma, getou, sukuna, choso

[mrpenguinpants]

Golden Apple [ Commissioned ]

Word Count: 13.1k

— Phainon, Mydei + Anaxa

Request: [ A Modern AU with each character as a mythological figure/being. Phainon as a guardian angel, Mydei as an undying demigod, and Anaxa as a cosmic horror parasite. ]

Note: Liberties were taken with each character's cultural/mythological backgrounds. More information at the end.

[Masterlist]

Back at it again for another season, baby! Thank you so much for commissioning me, and I hope you like it!

Phainon

Daemon (Daimon / Δαίμων) — A spirit or semi-divine guide, neither good nor evil, acting as a quiet protector or inner voice. Unseen but ever-present, it might steer fate, whisper advice, or guide you toward your destiny.

ACT I, SCENE I

FADE IN:

EXT. DINGY ALLEY BEHIND A RESTAURANT - NIGHT

A flickering neon butterfly sign buzzes overhead, sputtering in embarrassed shades of pink and red. Its failing light spills across a grease-stained back door—the kind that hasn’t closed properly in years. Rain slicks the pavement, pooling into oil-slick puddles that shimmer with distorted reflections. The air reeks of old gasoline, wet cardboard, and something burnt-out and electrical. Trash bags slump against the faded red brick walls, both deflated and bloated. You wonder if there are any dead bodies inside, just waiting to be discovered, then ignored.

And there’s the knife at your throat.

Not an assassin. Not a business deal gone wrong. Not even the aftermath of someone’s drunken spiral. Just a man—desperate, hollow-eyed, with hands that won’t stop shaking. A ratty ski mask clings to his head, threadbare and sagging, worn past the point of dignity. His jacket is soaked and sour with mildew. Cracked fingers clutch a rusty blade too tight, one wrong breath away from splitting your skin. He reeks of cheap liquor, bile, and something sweet that’s been dead too long.

“Money,” he hisses, voice brittle and raw, “Now.”

It's all so...

disgustingly boring.

What happened to the gunmetal briefcases and monogrammed bullets? To assassins who glided over wet pavement without a sound, slipping through shadow and silence with practiced ease? What happened to the paper-screen duels, where silhouettes clashed in ghostly choreography—every movement a whisper before the final blow landed in a burst of stylized violence? Even the black-and-white mafia films had flair: steel-toed boots, pinstripe suits, cigar smoke curling around sneers and snub-nosed pistols. They kicked down doors with bravado, spilled in with bad accents and worse metaphors, and died in poetic slow motion—white rose pinned to their chest, black blood on their cuffs.

But this?

No drama. No build-up. No artistry. Just another man at the end of his rope, waving a blade in the dark, praying fear would do what fate never could. The whole scene screamed low effort—like a student film with no budget, no vision. Pig slop. Bloated. Overdone. You’d seen better tension in a toothpaste commercial. It felt like every review you’d ever gotten: flat direction, overwrought, emotionally shallow. You could practically hear a snide critic’s voice echoing in your skull as your eyes rolled so hard they nearly got stuck.

“Wow. Really phoning it in tonight, huh?” you mutter, voice dry as sandpaper, “Seriously? You think I’m worth mugging? I don’t even have a coat.”

You slump against the rain-slick brick, the mortar biting through your thin button-up. Cold seeps straight into your spine as the knife presses harder—not deep enough to break skin, just enough to remind you this scene isn’t over yet. The mugger’s hands tremble like a marionette with its strings half-cut.

You sigh—long, theatrical, like a curtain call no one asked for.

“Come on. Where’s the emotion? The stakes? You’re desperate—show me that. Cry a little. Maybe scream. I’m all for authenticity, but you’ve got to rehearse your lines before curtain. This kind of improv?” You wag a finger, “It throws everyone off. Wrecks continuity. Makes for very angry sponsors.”

One hand lifts in mock surrender, the other gesturing vaguely, “Honestly, if I were running this scene, I’d cut you entirely. Maybe replace you with a mute clown. At least that’d be memorable.”

“I said money!” His voice cracks—thin, frayed, angry.

“Alright, alright—no need to get moody,” you say, lifting your hands like you’re trying to soothe a diva mid-tantrum, “I’ve got some cash. Right side, pants pocket. Not a lot, but hey—supporting roles don’t pay like they used to.”

The mugger steps in, close enough for you to smell the sour rot of his breath. The blade catches a flicker of neon as he moves. One hand drops from your collar, trembling fingers inching toward your pocket, greedy for the crumpled bills stuffed inside.

Then— A stutter. A splat.

He drops like dead weight.

You blink. You really hope he's not dead. Police on your set doesn't make for great paparazzi.

“Let’s not ruin a perfectly mediocre Tuesday night, yeah?”

The voice cuts clean through the alley’s tension. Behind the crumpled body, a man stands framed in the dim glow of the restaurant’s now-open back door. It swings lazily shut behind him, sighing on its hinges. A sliver of warm kitchen light spills into the dark, casting him in sharp streaks—city haze curling at his shoulders like smoke, neon lights stuttering across the shock of white hair. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He wears a chef’s coat, still dusted with flour. Oil stains splatter faded patterns across the front, abstract and familiar—like he’s been through worse than grease fires. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms lean, marked by old burns and kitchen scars that tell their own stories.

But it’s his eyes that freeze the moment: too calm. A bit cheeky actually.

And then—he smiles.

“You alright?” he asked, voice warm and casual, as if this were all terribly normal.

You exhaled—finally. “No. Worse.”

His grin widened—easy, lopsided, a bit cute, “Oh?”

You tilted your head, eyes narrowing, amusement curling at the edge of your exhaustion. Slowly, deliberately, you raised your hands, fingers forming two sharp “L”s in front of your face like a makeshift director’s frame. He blinked, puzzled, but didn’t move. Just stood there in his flour-dusted chef coat, letting you silently finish your odd little ritual. In the cooler light, his messy white hair almost shimmers, catching the moonlight like a soft halo. Those cyan eyes—no colored contacts could ever match their intensity—hold you with a magnetic calm. His features are sculpted—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, the clean lines of someone carved rather than born—but softened around the edges by something subtler. A kind of gentleness. There's an almost feminine grace to him, and androgyny like that is rare in this line of work.

Not bad. Not bad at all. He's got leading man energy. Stupid nickname pending already.

“Alright, you’re hired,” you say, lowering your hands with a satisfied smile, even snapping your fingers together. You reach into your pocket and fish out a slightly crumpled business card, the edges softened from wear. Holding it out with a slow, deliberate gesture, you meet his eyes, “Come to this location at 7:00 tomorrow morning. Do not be late.”

The man takes the card between his fingers, pale light glinting off its glossy finish. He doesn’t even glance at it but nods once in acknowledgment. You catch the faintest flicker of curiosity—or maybe confusion—crossing his features. Fair enough. The last few minutes have been strange. Without another word, you pivot on your heel and vanish into the wet night. The neon sign above buzzes faintly, casting an uneven glow over the slick pavement. Rain continues to fall in a soft drizzle, its quiet patter blending with the distant hum of the city.

Phainon stands for a moment, eyes lingering on your retreating form. Then, he tucks the card into the pocket of his chef’s coat and slips back through the swinging kitchen door. Inside, the kitchen bursts with life—the clatter of pots and pans mingling with the hiss of steam and the sharp calls of the night crew. The air hangs heavy with the scent of garlic, hot oil, and sweat. Phainon weaves through the cramped space with practiced ease, sidestepping a precarious stack of dirty plates and a boiling pot. He spots Mydei leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, furiously wiping down the stainless steel surface.

“Mydei!” Phainon calls out over the clatter, bursting through the swinging kitchen doors with the kind of urgency usually reserved for grease fires or health inspectors. His voice cracks slightly—a blend of panic and poorly hidden excitement, “I need to use my vacation days… like, right now!”

Mydei looks up from wiping the prep counter, rag frozen mid-swipe. He blinks slowly, a slight twitch in his eye, “…What? Why all of a sudden?”

Phainon shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his shoes squeaking faintly on the slick tile. His hands hover in the air, fingers twitching as if trying to physically pluck an explanation out of thin air, “I got hired for a new job!”

There’s a beat of silence before Mydei sets the rag down with exaggerated care, eyes narrowing, “A new—what the fuck are you talking about, Phainon? What job?”

“Uh… I don’t know yet?” Phainon says, scratching the back of his neck, white hair mussing even more. His cheeks flush pink under the harsh fluorescent lights as he avoids Mydei’s gaze. Mydei stares at him. Then, with the dead-eyed precision of someone who’s endured Phainon’s nonsense one too many times, he balls up the rag and chucks it at his face. It hits with a wet smack.

Phainon takes it in stride, sighing dramatically as the rag slides off his cheek and flops onto the floor. That one actually kind of hurt.

FADE OUT:

ACT I, SCENE I

CUT

---

ACT II, SCENE VII

FADE IN:

INT. OFFICE - MORNING

“Phainon,” he says, “Chef, part-time dishwasher. Full-time… problem-solver.”

You didn’t like working with new talent. They were either too chatty, jabbering when silence was gold, or too violent, quick to throw fists instead of listening. Too flashy, desperate to be seen and heard, or too late, showing up after the damage was already done. You’d burned through three rookies this month alone. One choked on his own ambition, pushing too hard to prove he belonged. Another took a contract that nearly tore your lungs out—an amateur mistake you barely survived. The last one vanished without a trace—along with your favorite coat, a souvenir from better days. But every now and then, you find a diamond in the rough. A raw edge of talent, hidden beneath the grime and mistakes, waiting for someone to buff, cut, and polish it until it catches the light just right. It’s a gamble, sure, but when it pays off? The spotlight shines brighter than any artificial light, and it’s worth every scar.

This one was different. For starters, you were pretty sure his name was fake—because seriously, what kind of name is Phainon? Even a pen name wouldn’t be so pretentious as to literally mean “bright” or “shining.” It sounded less like a real name and more something a self-important poet might invent during a late-night epiphany.

And the second part… well.

He was perfect. “Phainon” had no visible character flaws, on or off the set. On set, he delivered his lines flawlessly, every word crisp and natural, as if he were born to deliver. The perfect actor, as if the Grandfather of Cinema himself had accidentally dropped the wrong copy of the script straight from the heavens and placed Phainon in your lap. You’d heard of extreme method actors, but you weren’t sure you’d ever seen anyone quite his caliber. Phainon carried that same cheery, placid smile everywhere—never cracking, never faltering. It was almost eerie, as though he was permanently stuck in character, perhaps a little too comfortable living in that perfection.

It began with a crew light—an aging floodlight mounted too high, groaning under its own weight—teetering dangerously during the shoot. You caught the shift from the corner of your eye, but just a fraction too late. The metal rig wobbled precariously on its worn stand, bolts frayed and rusted from years of use. Its spotlight began a slow, deadly tilt. One more second and it would’ve come crashing down onto you. Maybe on someone else’s head too. Definitely on your budget.

Then: Action.

A flicker of white darted past the edge of the frame. A hood caught in the breeze, revealing a sun tattoo peeking just above the hem—faint, golden, a quiet hum of warmth on an otherwise cold, gray day. The hand that reached up moved with unhurried calm, catching the heavy light with ease and steadying it as if soothing a spooked animal. No grunt, no stumble—just a solid arm. You didn’t even get the chance to ask if he was okay before Phainon turned his head slightly, voice low and soft enough for only you to hear.

“Don’t flinch. You’ll ruin the shot, Director.”

There was a smile in his voice—faint, teasing, but never mocking. A soft flutter of wind caught at his coat as quiet footsteps faded away, carrying him back to his mark as if nothing had happened. You stood frozen for a moment, your throat tightening somewhere between a thank-you and a curse. Then your brain snapped back into motion.

“Places!” you bark, louder than necessary. “Everyone, back to one. Reset the track. Lights, tighten your rigging!”

The crew scrambles, rushing to their positions. The light is back where it belongs. The shot is saved. But your heart keeps hammering, a cold knot tightening in your chest. And Phainon? He never looks your way again.

It happened again on the third day of shooting, past golden hour and well into the frayed edge of everyone’s nerves. The air on set hung heavy with heat and halogen, buzzing lights above throwing sharp-edged shadows. A missed prop cue. A wardrobe malfunction. Too many takes are bleeding into each other. Tension layered thick as smoke.

Then the sponsor snapped.

“You want to run this circus? Then maybe act like it!” he barked, his voice cracking across the soundstage. You stood rigid in front of the monitor, clutching the camera like it might anchor you. Your teeth dug into the inside of your cheek. Around you, the crew shifted—some pretending not to notice, others casting you wary or sympathetic glances. No one said a word.

Your knuckles were bone-white.

Then—quietly, steadily—someone stepped up behind you. Not intruding. Just… present.

“Don't be so wired,” said a low voice near your ear. Smooth. Steady. Certain.

Phainon.

You felt him before you saw him—the calm weight of his hand closing gently over yours, adjusting your grip on the camera. His fingers were cool, the pads calloused but exact, like a pianist’s—or someone used to handling delicate machinery. Probably a knife. You keep forgetting he used to be a chef. The tension in your shoulders began to unspool, though you didn’t loosen your hold just yet.

“They can yell all they want,” he said, his eyes on the chaos unfolding ahead like it was nothing more than set dressing, “But you’re the one holding the lens.”

You blinked.

The words landed somewhere beneath your ribs, quiet but steady—reminding you what mattered. What was still yours to hold.

Still, you couldn’t help yourself.

“Are you saying I should throw it at them?” you muttered, eyes forward.

A pause. Then the faint tug of a smirk at his lips.

“Respectfully,” he said, releasing your hand with the same lightness he’d arrived with, “I don’t think you’ve got the arm strength for that.”

A breath caught in your throat—then slipped out as a crooked laugh. Small, but real.

Your shoulders eased. You raised the camera again, adjusted the lens with new focus, and called out to the crew, “Reset. We’re going again.”

No one argued.

And when you looked back, Phainon was already across the set—sleeves rolled, calmly discussing lighting with a grip. Just another cog in the machine. Seamless. Unbothered. But you knew. He’d been there—in a moment no one else had dared to step into. Quietly, without fanfare, he’d drawn a line around you. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just enough. Just present.

Another time, it was water.

The shoot had dragged into its twelfth hour. Your eyes were dry from staring at monitors too long, your neck stiff, brain fogged over. You hadn’t moved from your chair in what felt like days. Around you, the set buzzed with quiet urgency—stagehands murmuring, the distant clatter of equipment, the steady hum of overhead lights. You didn’t notice the footsteps approaching. You barely noticed anything anymore. Then, as quietly as a breath, a bottle of water landed beside your elbow. Cool against the warm metal of the table. Condensation slid down its side, catching the light. The cap was already cracked open, like someone knew you wouldn’t have the energy.

“You forgot to hydrate again, Director,” Phainon said—his voice barely rising above the ambient buzz. Not a scold. Not exactly concern. Just… not letting it slide. He didn’t wait for thanks, didn’t even look at you. Just placed the bottle there like it belonged, lingering a moment longer before turning away.

You blinked down at it, then up at him—already halfway across the set, his white sleeves a blur in the chaos.

“Thanks… Phainon,” you called after him, his name slipping out like an afterthought, a little awkward on your tongue. He didn’t stop walking, but the corner of his mouth tilted upward. And you swore, even without turning back, he looked pleased all the same.

And in the quiet, long after the shouting had died down, the lights had dimmed, and most of the crew had gone home, you sat alone, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed on the monitor. The same take played for the fifth time. Then the sixth. You weren’t even sure what you were looking for anymore. Every shot blurred into the next. Maybe it had never been good. Perhaps none of it was working. Your hands hovered near the controls but didn’t move. Self-doubt crept in like mold—slow, patient, and relentless. Then, a soft shuffle of footsteps—quiet, not meant to be noticed. But you noticed anyway. Phainon paused behind you. No grand entrance, no forced comfort—just the faint rustle of fabric as he leaned in slightly, arms crossed.

“It’s starting to feel real, Director.”

His voice was gentle, barely more than a breath against your shoulder. It cut through the fog in your mind sharper than any shout ever could. Never intrusive. Never loud. But always there—flipping the switch, setting the shot, grounding the chaos—until, without meaning to, you realized: your story was unfolding.

“Don’t look away now.”

It didn’t happen all at once. It never does. First, it was the way the sunrise hit the coffee steam just right during a late rewrite session. Then, how an offhand line an actor improvised during rehearsal rang louder than anything you wrote. A casting mishap landed you a last-minute extra whose face—wrinkled, worn, honest—became the heart of the scene. The rain started the second the camera rolled, unplanned but perfect. The crescent moon in the sky reflected in the growing puddles. A location scout tripped into a forgotten alley that looked exactly like the one from your dreams. A song on the radio—static-filled, half-familiar—stitched your ending together like thread through old film. And somehow, by the time the final cut played in front of a blinking crowd, you realized you’d made something. Something real. Not just a movie. A moment. Yours.

Your short film, after more than a decade of nothing, was an instant success.

ACT III, SCENE X

FADE IN:

EXT. OAK FAMILY BUILDING BALCONY - NIGHT

“Isn’t this a non-smoking area?” Phainon asked, his tone light as he watched the rumpled man in a too-tight dress shirt, a wine-red tie slung loosely over one shoulder, spark his lighter and take a long drag from a cigarette. A puff of smoke curled slowly into the air as the man—Gallagher, if Phainon remembered correctly—threw him a sideways glance.

“You gonna tattle on me, boy?” The man’s voice was raspy, but not as deep as Phainon had expected. He chuckled, shaking his head.

With Gallagher positioned right out in the open—perfectly visible from both the celebration hall and the balcony—Phainon figured the old man’s employer, the grey-haired patriarch of the Oak family, had a clear view of him lighting up. Maybe that was the point. Maybe Gallagher wanted to get caught. The man took another drag, the cigarette burning low. Smoke curled around his fingers, lazily drifting upward like something alive and indifferent. His gaze flicked to Phainon again—sharper this time—not just annoyed or amused, but knowing.

“You’re a long way from your post, halo-boy,” Gallagher mutters, exhaling a slow stream of smoke through his nose, “Daemons don’t usually hover around like lost puppies. Unless you’re planning to break the rules.”

Phainon doesn’t answer at first. His hands slip into his coat pockets—those subtle pockets the waitstaff never quite notice. His stance is too casual for someone standing so openly exposed. But his eyes-those unnervingly still cyan eyes—remain fixed on the city beyond the balcony, as if he’s watching the future unfold frame by frame.

“I didn’t break any rules,” Phainon says softly, voice steady as ever, hands folded neatly behind his back, “Not yet.”

The smoke curling from Gallagher’s cigarette wavers. He lets out a low, wet chuckle—gravel and tar caught in his throat.

“Yet,” he repeats, amused. His sharp teeth flash beneath the city’s sodium haze, “So it’s true. You’re attached to them. The ‘Director.’”

He drags the title through the ash with mock reverence, “What’s the game here? Some divine redemption arc? Guilt? Or just bored of the clouds and decided to babysit a trainwreck?”

Phainon doesn’t flinch but he exhales slowly through his nose, thoughtful. The damp night wind tousles loose strands of his white hair. There’s a flicker in his eyes—not irritation, not offense—but something older. Resigned. He hums softly, tilting his head as if Gallagher’s question were nothing more than a passing breeze instead of a loaded jab. His gaze drifts past the demon, toward the ballroom doors, where your silhouette slips out of sight, shoulders heavy but still moving forward.

“Is it so wrong...” Phainon says at last, voice dipped in something quiet and certain, “to have a little hope?”

For a beat, Gallagher goes still, the ember of his cigarette burning just a little too bright in the dark. He snorts, smoke curling from his nostrils, “Doesn’t sound like a good ending.”

The wind tugs faintly at their coats. The city hums below the balcony—distant honks, the low thrum of a passing tram, neon reflected in puddles like half-forgotten memories. Phainon doesn’t answer at first, only glancing over with that strange, unreadable stillness about him. A ghost of a smile, barely there, plays on his lips. Not joy. Not mockery. Something in between.

“It never is,” he murmurs, his voice quieter now, as if the truth might shatter if spoken too loud.

Gallagher’s jaw works. His fingers twitch, the cigarette burning dangerously close to the filter. He doesn’t look at Phainon—just stares out into the night, as if searching for answers buried in the rain-slick skyline. The weight of those words settles between them, heavier than the smog hanging in the air. A silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, only witnessed. Gallagher flicks the cigarette over the railing. Sparks trail behind like dying fireflies.

“Hope your miracle’s worth it,” he says, quieter now. Not a sneer. Almost… reverent.

Phainon doesn’t respond.

His eyes are already elsewhere, drawn past the smoke, the streetlamps, and the flickering signs, back to the celebration hall doors. The faintest hint of movement. A silhouette. You. His charge. His burden. His reason.

And he watches, as if you’re the only real thing in this world of false lights.

Mydei

Warning: It's quite brief, but just in case: Guns, death, fighting, mission gone wrong, PTSD, panic attacks, and blood.

Apotheosis ( ἀποθέωσις ) — The process by which a mortal is elevated to divine status, becoming a god or a divine being. This transformation often occurs after death or as a reward for extraordinary deeds, heroism, or favor from the gods.

/////CONFIDENTIAL MILITARY REPORT

REPORT #: 0319-AMPH/CK DATE: 08 APR 2X25 TIME: 15:01 LOCATION: Outpost 7, Sector 9A, Hospital Room 201 REPORTING OFFICER: CPL. [REDACTED], CALLSIGN: TRIGGER ASSOCIATED PERSONNEL: LT. MYDEIMOS, CALLSIGN: LIONHEART STATUS: SURVIVAL / EXTRACTION COMPLETE CASUALTIES: KIA (8), SURVIVORS (2)

HEPHAESTION [REDACTED], PERDIKKAS [ REDACTED], LEONNIUS [REDACTED], PTOLEMY [REDACTED], PEUCESTA [REDACTED], LEONIDAS [REDACTED], CLITUN [REDACTED], HYLES [REDACTED]

DETAILS TO FOLLOW IN EXTENDED REPORT/////

The sterile white walls closed in around you—a cold, suffocating cage. Your ribs throbbed painfully with every shallow breath, each inhale sharp enough to steal the air from your lungs. A persistent beep echoed steadily from the heart monitor—an unrelenting reminder that you were alive, but barely. You sure didn’t feel like it. Your fingers twitched restlessly beneath the thin hospital blanket, the fabric rough against your skin. Your mind churned with memories you dared not speak aloud.

The door opened abruptly with a sharp knock. For a moment, you were terrified it was Jing Yuan—but a stranger stepped inside, eyes sharp and unwavering. His uniform was crisp, his presence commanding, as if the weight of the entire military bore down on his broad shoulders. A few other men flanked him quietly, their hands folded behind their backs.

“What happened out there?” he demanded, his voice cold and unyielding. You’d never seen this man before, but just from his tone alone, you knew he held a higher rank—probably a corporal. Your throat tightened painfully. The truth felt like a heavy stone lodged in your chest: Mydei falling, the battlefield descending into chaos, and something impossible stirring beneath it all. Swallowing past the lump, you forced your voice into a steady calm. You were secretly relieved it wasn’t Jing Yuan—he would have known you were lying just from your breathing.

“It was bad. Worse than anything I’ve been through. We were pinned down, outnumbered,” You paused, biting back the urge to spill everything, licking your dry lips, “But Myd- Lieutenant Mydeimos- he… he took care of it. Made sure I got out… He saved my life, sir.”

The corporal’s eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing, as if trying to slice through the walls you’d built, “Your mission was intel-gathering on the Titans. Our transcriptions show there was a deliberate shutdown of your recording equipment for 33 minutes and 46 seconds, right when the fire team went dark. Care to explain that?”

You clenched your jaw, mind racing as you scrambled for the right answer—the truth carefully hidden beneath layers of omission.

“No excuse, sir. We’d been compromised, and in my panic, my hand caught the wire…” You trailed off, unsure what more to say. Lowering your head, you let the silence fill the room. The corporal’s gaze lingered, suspicion flickering beneath his disciplined exterior. Yet he said nothing further. The faint scribble of his pen on paper marked every word you’d spoken. Finally, he let out a long sigh.

“We’ll verify your story. Any inconsistencies won’t be tolerated. Rest easy.”.

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you swallowed by silence. You let out a shaky breath, the weight of your secret crushing your chest like a vice.

No one could know what you’d truly witnessed.

You closed your eyes and saw it again — the battlefield torn apart, the eerie stillness that had swallowed Mydei’s form, the unnatural twitch that defied every law you’d ever known.

Your fingers curled tightly, knuckles white against the sheet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

The silence of the hospital room pulsed like a second heartbeat. You blinked slowly, still seeing the afterimages — his silhouette against firelight, still standing after everything.

He should’ve stayed dead.

///// 03 JUNE 2X21 /////

You’d only been in the military for three months. Fresh out of basic training. Your boots still looked too clean. Your shoulders ached under the weight of gear that didn’t quite feel like yours yet. Your weapon was standard issue, gripped tightly in nervous hands, and your stomach knotted with the thrill of deployment and the terror of screwing up. You were running drills in a scorched training field, smoke and noise everywhere. A hail of bullets cracked through the air, and your fingers moved on instinct — pull, reset, pull—

Click.

A high, empty click.

No bang. Dead air. Just silence.

Then— Metal screamed. Something jammed. Heat surged. Your hand jolted back—

Too late.

The gun backfired. A strong hand on the back of your collar, before you felt weightless. Another hand, ripping the gun from yours.

A sudden boom. A fire of bullets rained down on the sand all at once.

Someone’s shouting. Someone thinks you fired intentionally. You didn’t. But in the silence that follows, no one cares what you meant to do. You hit the dirt with a solid, ungraceful thud—ears full of static, smoke curling off your gloves. The scent of gun oil and burnt polymer flooded your nose.

Your weapon skittered across the ground, like it wanted to run away from you.

Then: boots. Heavy. Sure. Grounded like bedrock. A shadow loomed over you—massive, broad-shouldered—his voice cutting through the ringing in your ears like gravel under steel.

“You alive, rookie?”

You blinked through smoke and pain, heart hammering against your ribs. You looked up—and that was the first time you saw Mydei. Everything about him seemed larger than life. Broad chestplate scratched from years of fieldwork. His face is somehow still youthful yet serious, and his pupils almost look like cats. You scrambled to sit up, humiliated, your fingers shaking as you reached for your weapon.

“I—my gun—I'm sorry—sir—” you choked out. He crouched beside you, fingers already moving with expert precision. In less than a second, he popped the jammed receiver and tilted it toward you.

“Double-feed. Barrel overpressured. Could’ve taken your head clean off,” he said evenly.

You couldn’t breathe. You almost died. His voice was calm, almost bored, but the words dropped like lead in your stomach. You glanced down at your rifle—the twisted mess of jammed brass, the blackened edge of the barrel still warm from near-disaster. You hadn’t even realized your hands were still clenched until they started to shake.

You swallowed hard. Ah, crap. This was it. You were done.

They’d kick you for this. Discharged. Maybe even court-martialed. That kind of mistake—you’d be lucky if they didn’t strip your rank before lunch. Your throat burned. You thought about your father’s voice when you told him you’d enlisted. You thought about all the instructors who said you’d never hack it. You thought about how your superior was staring down at you like he was already writing the report in his head.

But he didn’t move to confiscate your weapon. Didn’t call for an officer. Instead—

“But that’s not your fault,” he continued, “Factory flaw. The 8T series has a bad batch.”

You blinked. “…Sir?”

“I’ve seen two of these explode this month,” he said, standing. His armor creaked as he straightened—a towering presence, expression unreadable under the shadow of his helmet, “Not a rookie error. Just a damn bad roll of the dice.”

He held out his hand. Gloved. Firm. Steady. Not a hint of judgment in it.

“Well, Cadet Trigger,” he added with a faint smirk, “you’ve got a guardian angel somewhere. Or maybe just dumb luck.”

“…Trigger?”You stared up at him, still frozen on the floor. Your ears were still ringing from the close call. Sweat clung to your back, but the tension began to loosen—just a little—as your fingers curled around his and he pulled you to your feet.

He gave you a once-over. Not suspicious. Not cold. Just… amused.

“Guns don’t just go off like that,” he said, walking past, “Unless the trigger’s cursed.”

A pause. A glance over his shoulder, “Or the trigger’s you.”

The other cadets were still staring. Some muttering. Some snickering. But he walked away without another word, and suddenly, you didn’t care about your brush with death.

That nickname stuck.

And so did he.

---

Two days later, you were still tasting gunpowder. Your arm was in a sling, fingers scratched and stiff. The medics had said you were lucky—nothing broken, no burns deep enough to scar. “Close call,” they said, like it wasn’t already replaying in your skull on a loop. But your rifle was toast, and so was your confidence. Jeez, you wanted to put your head in your hands and scream like a little girl. Luckily, they let you sit out the next field rotation, but you weren’t allowed to sit still. You cleaned. You logged ammo. You memorized spec manuals until the text started swimming. Anything to stop thinking about the moment that weapon nearly took your life.

That, and the man who’d stopped the storm like it was nothing.

Mydei.

You hadn’t seen him since. Just the image in your head—boots in the dirt, that low voice like gravel and thunder. You thought maybe you'd hallucinated it. Maybe your brain had dreamed up a perfect soldier to soften the fact that you'd almost eaten your own gun. But, because the Aeons were cruel, suddenly it was as if that was all you could hear.

“Hey, Trig.”

The voice came from two bunks over—casual, half-muttered around a protein bar and a yawn. It was that lean guy with the buzzcut, Marcus or Malin or something? Maybe Marcus was correct—always half out of uniform, always in everyone else’s business. You looked up from your cot, still rubbing the dull ringing out of your ears. Your hands itched—ghost memory of the rifle’s weight, the near-silent click before chaos. Your pack sat half-unzipped at your feet. The gun was long gone to diagnostics, but your heart hadn’t stopped racing since they pried it from your hands.

Marcus tilted his head, that loose, crooked grin plastered on his face.

“That was some shit, huh?” he said, nodding toward you like you’d just won a bar figh, “They’re saying the Lionheart pulled your ass out?”

You hesitated.

The cot creaked beneath you as you sat up straighter, biting back the lump of uncertainty in your throat. The name—Mydei—still echoed in your head. You could see him, glove extended, voice calm, while you drowned in embarrassment and adrenaline.

“…I guess,” you said finally.

Marcus let out a low whistle and slapped his thigh.

“You don’t even know, man,” He leaned in, like he was telling you a secret not meant for green ears, “That guy—he’s like a fucking cryptid. You’ve heard the stories, right?”

You blinked.

You hadn’t. Not really.

You’d heard instructors mention him with that weird mix of respect and wariness. Some called him a relic. Others said he’d been transferred so many times that no one knew where he’d actually started. You remembered someone once joking that Mydei didn’t even have a last name—just the call sign and a body count. You thought it was just mess hall gossip.

Now he had a face. A voice. A hand that had pulled you off the floor.

Another voice chimed in—older, gruffer, “Heard Lionheart once got shot in the neck and still held his breath long enough to drag a pilot out of a downed jet.”

“B.S.,” someone muttered. “I heard he went MIA for five days and showed up with five enemy tags and no backup.”

“Five? I heard it was eight.”

“You’re all wrong,” said the lean guy again, eyes gleaming. “He’s not even supposed to be alive. They say he died once. Heart stopped—flatlined in the middle of a rescue op. The whole unit saw it. Then—bam. Woke up. Stood up. Finished the mission like nothing happened.”

You stayed silent.

That last story always stuck to your ribs.

Dead. Then not. Woke up.

You shook it off.

What mattered was the memory: his hand pulling you up. His voice not blaming you. The fact that he noticed the malfunction before anyone else did—and comforted you when he had no reason to.

Whatever else he was—ghost, monster, soldier—He was kind.

“You alive, rookie?”

Yeah. You were. Because of him.

///// 17 MAY 2X23 /////

Your transfer papers came through. You stared at the orders like they might vanish if you blinked too fast.

“Effective immediately, reassigned to Special Task Unit 0-9. Handler: Mydeimos "Lionheart".”

The room spun for a second. Or maybe that was just the five hours of sleep you hadn’t gotten. Special Task Unit 0-9 was a name whispered between barracks with reverence and disbelief. The kind of team they pulled together for missions that never made it to public reports. You weren’t even sure it existed until now. Your palms went slick as you tucked the papers under your arm and headed toward Deployment Hangar C—the one with reinforced walls, heavier security, and the unmarked transport ships that came and went without manifest.

You didn’t feel ready. But you weren’t about to turn it down.

The elevator groaned as it descended into the lower decks. Your reflection in the chrome panel was pale, jaw tight. You adjusted your uniform for the third time before the doors hissed open. The task force’s prep bay was silent. No shouting. No clatter. No wasted movement. Just a group of soldiers in matte black gear, moving like a well-oiled machine. And at the center—

There he was.

Mydei.

He hadn’t changed. Broad shoulders framed by heavier-grade armor. Helmet clipped to his side. Same calm presence—like standing near a thunderstorm that hadn’t decided whether to break yet. He looked over when you stepped in, and your chest locked up. Was he going to remember you? That moment when you were just another green recruit with a broken rifle?

He stared for a moment. Then gave a nod—a small, sharp one.

“Trigger.”

That single word landed like a stamp on your bones.

You straightened. “Sir.”

He handed you a tablet, “Loadout briefing’s inside. Mission clock starts at 0700. Get acquainted with the others.”

And just like that, you were in. No ceremony. No welcome speech. Just his quiet voice, the smell of oil and metal, and the heat of pressure beneath your skin. But even that was more than enough. You followed the others through orientation drills. They were tighter than any squad you’d worked with. Efficient. Sharp. Not a lot of talking. Not a lot of room for mistakes. But nobody doubted Mydei’s commands when they came. Nobody hesitated. And slowly, you found your rhythm.

The first op went smooth. The second, less so—a recovery run that turned into an ambush. You got clipped. Not bad, but enough to knock you off your feet. Mydei was the one who dragged you to cover, kept pressure on the wound while giving orders to the others.

“You alright, Trigger?” he asked, voice low but steady. You nodded, even though your ribs screamed.

“Good,” he said. “Next time, don’t let ’em flank you. You’re sharper than that.”

He didn’t say it with anger. Just certainty. Like he knew you could do better. Like he expected you to. And maybe for the first time, you believed it too.

///// 23 JULY 2X23 /////

That night, you caught him in the makeshift kitchen at the back of the mobile command unit. He was baking. Baking. A giant, undying soldier with hands like thunder—gently stirring batter in a cracked metal bowl. The whole room smelled like cinnamon and almonds.

You blinked, “...Sir?”

“You like cookies?” he asked. He didn't even look up.

“Uh. Yes? I mean—yes, sir.”

He tossed you one without looking. Perfect arc, landed in your palm like he’d done it a thousand times.

“I always bake after missions,” he said. “Keeps the team human.”

Not sure what else to do than stare like a creep, you bit into it and nearly melted on the spot. It was warm. Sweet. A little chewy around the edges. Comforting in a way that hit harder than it should have. You could see why the team loved him. He didn’t keep the people he trusted at arm’s length. Not like some legends did.

There was that time he asked how your side was healing after that shrapnel hit. Offered you water after long marches. Taught you how to disassemble your rifle faster when no one else was watching. Always subtle. Always patient. He showed you how to tell weather shifts by the weight of the clouds. Let you taste his drink choices, pomegranate juice with a splash of milk, because Mydei loved the colour pink. Once, you helped him prep a care package for an orphanage his squad had supported during deployment cycles—baked goods, canned supplies, a letter written in his clean, precise hand.

“You always send them stuff?” you asked, folding socks for the bundle.

“Every quarter,” he said. “And every time I survive something I shouldn’t.”

“Why them?”

Mydei paused.

“Because they’re small. And soft. And the world forgets soft things exist unless someone reminds it.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So, you just nodded and helped pack.

You started watching him more closely.

How his movements were deliberate—always precise, as if every motion had been calculated a thousand times before. How he always stood with his back to the wall, eyes scanning, never fully relaxed, as though the world outside his reach might turn on him at any second. How his jaw tightened when loud noises—especially the sound of distant gunfire or the crack of a falling object—cut through the air. It was a small thing, a barely perceptible flinch, but you caught it every time. He cleaned his gear longer than anyone else, sometimes hours after the others had turned in for the night. The clink of metal tools against steel echoed in the quiet. His hands moved methodically over the rifle, adjusting, re-checking, always making sure it was pristine, even if there was no immediate need. You wondered if he did it to fill the silence—or if, somehow, the repetitive action grounded him, kept him anchored. Sometimes, when he thought no one was watching, you caught him staring out into the distance, eyes far away, lost in some thought or memory you couldn’t reach. The edges of his expression softened, and for a second, he didn’t look like the myth they spoke of. He looked human. Broken. You weren’t sure when it became a habit—this need to understand him. The way you found yourself tracking his movements in the corner of your eye, trying to piece together the cracks in his armor, wondering what made him tick. Maybe it was the quiet, patient way he led—always watching, always observing, as if waiting for you to figure it out for yourself. But it was more than that. It was a quiet curiosity, a pull in your chest that you couldn’t ignore.

But it did. And it stuck.

///// 25 MARCH 2X25 /////

It was supposed to be clean.

Extraction. Quick in-and-out. A scattered outpost hidden in a valley of fog and wire, half-swallowed by terrain and time. Intel said there were no active combatants—just recovery, debrief, then wheels up.

They were wrong.

Your boots sank into the mud just as the first scream ripped through the comms.

Then, the line went dead.

“Guards up. Full spread,” Mydei ordered, voice sharp as always, already moving with purpose, “Trig, with me.”

The outpost was gutted, a carcass left to rot under the weight of time. No roof. No walls. Just broken floors sagging under forgotten weight, rusted tech littered in disarray, wires hanging from the rafters like old veins. Vines curled around shattered terminals, their damp leaves clinging to the remnants of a world long abandoned. In the periphery of your vision, something wet dragged across the floor—slow, deliberate, leaving streaks of dark against the gray concrete. The air was thick, heavy with mildew and rot. The hum of static from broken electronics buzzed faintly in the background, the only sound cutting through the oppressive silence—until the second scream cut through the comms, slicing through the air like a knife. Shadows pooled in the corners, lingering, moving in ways that didn’t make sense. There was no sun here, only the sickly glow from the dying lights above.

It didn’t feel like a mission. It felt like a trap.

One second, the squad moved forward in tight formation, boots silent on the cracked floor. Eyes darted, weapons held at the ready, and every footfall was calculated, precise. The next—an explosion erupted from beneath the ground with a violent, earth-shattering force. The world detonated around you. The floor buckled, throwing you off balance. The air was filled with dust and fire. You fired. So did everyone else. Rounds tore through flesh, the staccato rhythm of gunfire mingling with screams. Bodies fell, some in slow motion, some collapsing all at once. Panic began to creep in from the edges of your vision, as if the world was pulling away, stretching out of focus. But through the chaos, Mydei was at the front, as always—unshakable, unyielding. Weapon roaring, hands steady, posture wide and rooted, as if the storm of fire and death couldn’t touch him. You stayed behind him, as you always did—silent, watching, waiting for the next order.

Then it happened. A single bullet pierced the air, followed by another six, each one cracking the stillness with brutal precision.

“Mydei—!” you shouted, panic rising in your throat as you tore through the chaos, your boots pounding against the blood-soaked floor. You shoved bodies aside, desperate to reach him, to see him move, to know he was still—

—he stopped moving. Not like a man ducking for cover. Not even like a soldier bracing for the next round. He went still. Too still. A sickening silence fell over the battlefield, sharp enough to cut through the ringing in your ears. Your breath caught, lungs frozen with disbelief. Something thudded deep in your chest. It wasn’t the pounding of your heart—it was something worse. Something cracking. Something breaking.

“TRIGGER—GET BACK—” someone shouted over the comms, the panic in their voice barely breaking through the fog of your own fear. But you didn’t hear them. You screamed his name again, the sound tearing at your throat, but it didn’t matter.

Mydei didn’t move.

And then—

He did.

Mydei stood.

But it wasn’t like before.

It was as if his body had forgotten how to move with purpose, how to follow the instincts that had always been so sure. His legs locked, muscles stiff, dragging him upright with a slow, unnatural jerk. The space between his movements seemed to stretch, as if time was slipping through the cracks of his body, leaving behind a brittle shell. Blood soaked his side, dark and pulsing through the torn armor, but he didn’t flinch. Didn’t even touch the wound.

His eyes—

They didn’t blink.

The way he stared—hollow, unseeing—made your stomach twist. Something was gone, something you couldn’t put your finger on. He was there, but he wasn’t. A presence that should’ve been solid, comforting, was now a gaping absence, standing in front of you like a phantom. You could barely breathe. The air was thick, heavy, pressing against your chest as if the very atmosphere around you had solidified. Mydei’s gaze shifted toward you, slow and deliberate. For a moment, the world seemed to stop.

His eyes met yours.

Just for a second, but it felt like an eternity. There was nothing in them. No spark. No recognition. Just an endless, blank void that swallowed every shred of comfort you’d ever found in those eyes. Mydei had always been a rock—steadfast, unwavering, a man you could trust without question. But now? The eyes staring back at you weren’t the same. They were distant, vacant. A shiver crept down your spine as the seconds stretched out between you. You felt it in the pit of your stomach—a weight, heavy and cold, pressing against your ribs, making it harder to breathe. His movements were too mechanical, too deliberate, his features frozen in a way that made your skin crawl.

And then, as though he was snapping back into place, he spoke. The words were cold, flat, devoid of the usual authority you’d come to rely on. They hung in the air, hollow and strange, as if they’d been ripped from his mouth rather than formed with intent.

“Leave. Now.”

The command was clear. It should have been enough. You should have been fine. But the voice—it didn’t feel right. It didn’t carry that familiar weight, that subtle but undeniable presence that had always kept you steady in the most chaotic of moments. This was something else. Something distant. Mechanical. You nodded, the motion automatic, a reflex born of years of training. And you moved. You obeyed. Of course you did.

---

There was no squad to regroup with. It felt more like a funeral procession than a recovery mission. You limped your way through the remnants of the outpost, the echoes of gunfire still faintly lingering in the back of your mind. Every step was a reminder of the brutality of what had just happened, but somehow, nothing felt real. The stench of smoke and blood hung thick in the air, but there was an odd emptiness, too, as if the space itself had been hollowed out.

Radioing for evac, you could hear the static crackle, the distant hum of machinery trying to piece together the reality of what was unfolding. Silence slowly closed around the outpost again—an unnatural stillness that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Every corner seemed to hide something else. You couldn't shake the feeling that the land itself was holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen.

You reached the evac ship. They pulled you aboard, your body barely holding together, every muscle screaming as they wrapped your arm and pushed adrenaline through your veins. The world became a blur of flashing lights and the steady pulse of heartbeats, both yours and theirs, too loud in the confined space. The scent of antiseptic cut through the stale air, sharp and foreign. And when they asked you what happened, all the words in your throat turned to stone. Your mind scrambled, trying to make sense of what had just occurred, but the truth—the truth—was too twisted to spit out. How could you explain it? How could you tell them that Mydei had been broken and whole, shattered and moving, all at once?

So you lied.

///// 10 APR 2X25 /////

“You’re saying the enemy forces ambushed your unit mid-recon?" Jing Yuan's voice was cool, methodical, and for the first time, his face was serious, sharpened, and guarded, "And you're saying only you and Lieutenant Mydei made it out?"

You gave a single, sharp nod. It wasn’t a full motion; more like a reflex. A response you’d practiced—taught yourself—to give when it was time to speak. The edge of your jaw ached as you clamped your mouth tight, resisting the urge to chew the words over. You didn’t let yourself breathe too deeply, didn't let your chest rise too much.

“Yes, sir," you said, the words leaving your throat faster than you could stop them. "He didn’t go down.” The lie felt heavier than it should, but you kept going. “Mydei pushed through. Got me out. That’s why I’m sitting here.”

The room felt smaller now, the air thicker. You couldn’t see the sterile walls, the machines blinking faintly, or the dim blue glow of the overhead light without feeling a sense of suffocation. The medical bay’s antiseptic smell of bleach and plastic seemed to crowd in around you, pressing on your temples, suffocating your thoughts. You tried to focus on the General's face, but all you saw were those memories—the twisted image of Mydei standing, bleeding, unblinking—and the words caught in your throat, threatening to spill out, to unravel everything.

Jing Yuan’s gaze didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened. The way his eyes lingered on you made your skin crawl, though you kept your posture straight. The silence stretched for a few seconds too long, but he didn’t break eye contact. Instead, he scribbled something down on his clipboard, the sharp sound of the pen against the paper like a gunshot in the stillness. The small movement seemed to draw his focus back to you, the weight of his stare pressing down harder than before.

“You’re certain?” His voice was just as calm, though now you could hear the subtle edge of doubt seeping through. He wasn’t asking because he thought you were lying. He was asking because he needed you to say it again. To make sure you were as certain as you claimed.

The temperature in the room seemed to dip lower. Your throat tightened, the heat of your earlier lie still clinging to your words. You swallowed, a dry, painful motion, "Yes, sir. I’m certain."

But the words felt hollow.

Jing Yuan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, his expression unreadable. The dull hum of the lights, the beeping of machines, the faint shuffling of the medics behind you—it all seemed to fade into the background, as if this moment, this question, was the only thing left in the universe. He watched you too long after that. Pen tapping against the corner of the datasheet like he wanted the sound to dig into your skull.

"Are you sure there's something you don't want to tell me?" Jing Yuan’s voice cuts through the silence once more. He’s set his pen down, fingers now laced together in a slow, deliberate motion. His chin rests on top of his hands, and his eyes—sharp, analytical—never leave you. It's not just a question anymore. It's a statement, a challenge, an unspoken demand for truth.

In that moment, you feel it.

Something clicks into place inside you. Not loud. Not dramatic. But there, all the same. A shift. A decision. Solid. Unyielding. You swallow against the knot in your throat, the taste of steel creeping up again. Your pulse quickens, but you hold firm, your gaze steady despite the chaos still swirling in your chest.

You’re not going to tell him. Not about what happened, not about the things you’ve seen, not about Mydei—about what he had been, what he still was, even if no one else could understand it. You can’t. You won't. Because whatever Mydei was now… whatever the truth really was, in that moment, when the blood was thick in the air and the odds seemed impossible, he’d still looked at you the same. Like a man who trusted you.

Still pulled you to your feet. Still saved your life.

If command ever found out — if they started probing, picking apart every detail, treating Mydei like some kind of asset to be dissected and analyzed — you didn’t know what would happen. And honestly, you didn’t want to know. The thought of them poking and prodding at something that, in your mind, still felt like your responsibility.

“…He saved me,” you said, the words slipping out with a finality you hadn't expected, "That’s all that matters."

Jing Yuan didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He studied your face, and his eyes narrowed just enough to make you feel like he was weighing the truth in you — maybe seeing something you weren’t saying, some subtle shift behind your words. He didn’t press, though. Not this time. He didn’t call your bluff, even though the tension between you seemed to thicken. Maybe it was the paperwork he was avoiding, or maybe there was something else in the way he was reading you.

Maybe — deep down — he already knew what you were protecting.

The click of his pen as it snapped shut felt like a verdict, sealing this moment, the weight of unspoken words between you both.

“Dismissed.”

Anaxa

Alogon (ἄλογον / A-logos) — A concept meaning “without reason” or “irrational.”.

[ "The performance of life, too, must eventually reach the curtain call." ]

“The students this year are all cotton-brained and leaking spinal fluid from their ears.”

“Good morning to you too, Doctor.”

Veritas—better known as Dr. Ratio—barely glances up at your snarky quip, probably because he gets more than enough sass from a certain blond-haired man who lives to test his patience. He pulls the staff chair across from you and takes a seat, already holding a stack of papers dripping with red ink.

Ouch. Those poor students. It must be their first class—there’s a whole checklist of requirements just to qualify for Ratio’s lectures, and even then, half of them probably walked in thinking they were smarter than they are. You recognize the pattern: wide eyes, overconfidence, and the slow withering of hope by the second week.

“It’s the first week. I think it’s fair to give everyone at least one morning of rest before they hit the ground running,” you hum, poking at your lunch. The colder mornings have been killing your appetite lately—everything tastes like cardboard and regret—but with Veritas parked across from you, you doubt you’ll get the chance to sneak off to the coffee machine without earning one of his patented glances. Not all of us are built like a brick house, Doctor. Seriously, what does he even need all those muscles for? Shoving copy machines? Launching chalk at students like bullets?

“If you’re that lax with students on the first day, they’ll take it as the standard and stay complacent forever,” Veritas says, crossing his arms in that dramatic, exasperated way of his. You can practically hear the quotation marks around the philosophical nonsense he just dropped. Then he levels you with a stare, “Do you even have your syllabus completed?”

Ah—caught. Better to look the other way; it makes that infamous glare feel a little less like walking barefoot over spikes and thorns.

“You always did leave things for the last minute.”

Veritas’s gaze shifts past your shoulder just as the sharp, deliberate click of heeled boots echoes across the staff room floor.

“Anaxagoras,” Veritas greets, tone flat but unmistakably acknowledging.

“Veritas,” Anaxa replies just as evenly, as if they’re exchanging chess moves instead of pleasantries.

The staff room hums with quiet tension, the only sound the faint, rhythmic scratching of Veritas’s pen carving through a stack of papers. His eyes flick up, catching you in a glance before passing over, “Still treating clocks like polite suggestions instead of hard rules.”

Anaxa responded with a casual shrug, slow and unconcerned, as if the concept of time were an amusing joke meant for someone else. A faint flicker of amusement played at the corner of his eyes when they met Veritas’s—a subtle challenge cloaked in indifference, “Didn’t realize I was missed.”

“You weren’t. But your absence was certainly quieter,” Veritas didn’t look away this time. He flipped a page with a crisp snap that punctuated the silence, the red ink staining the margins like fresh wounds—harsh and unforgiving. You couldn’t help but think the only reason these two tolerated each other was because Veritas was one of the few who actually used his full name.

"Alright, ladies, you're both beautiful. How about we settle down now?" you laugh easily, getting matching frowns from the two men.

It’s a nice morning, and the first day of classes unfolds in its usual slow, methodical rhythm. The staff room isn’t crowded—no one scrambling over the microwave, no complaints about the eternally broken coffee machine that’s been out of order as long as you’ve worked at Paperfold University. The hum of distant footsteps and low murmurs barely fill the space. Nearby, your closest work colleague and Anaxa exchange words under the thinnest, debatably professional pretenses—half casual banter, half veiled challenge. Their voices are low, as if the room itself is holding its breath.

Yes, everything feels normal. As it should. Right down to the man you mourned all summer, sitting across from you like he never left—like the months since his death never happened, and nothing has changed.

[ I gained inspiration from death, and should repay as such. ]

Grief is sticky, like humidity.

You stand at the podium, gripping your notecards upside down, your fingers trembling just slightly. You’re wearing black this morning. Sunlight filters through the stained-glass windows, splashing shards of color across the room—but stabbing your eyes with its brightness. Everything feels soft and warm. Outside, summer rages on—the kind of summer Anaxa hated: sweltering, sticky, and alive with the relentless chorus of cars honking, buzzing in the heat.

“Anaxagoras was my best friend,” you begin, your voice barely more than a whisper.

That part is true. You were four when you picked up a smooth stone and threw it at the bully who called a boy a “nerd” for asking why lizards couldn’t fly. The question had seemed strange then, but you didn’t care—because even at that age, you knew some things deserved defending.

You were twelve when you watched from the back of the classroom as that same boy got kicked out for questioning a classmate’s religious beliefs. You’d snickered with the others, trying to be liked and avoid being ostracized, hiding the sting in your chest behind a half-smile.

At sixteen, you found yourself scribbling his name in the margins of your notebooks—small marks of presence, of connection, when words felt too fragile.

At twenty-one, it hit you with the sharp clarity of a late winter morning: the shape of your misery perfectly mirrored the shape of your love, and if he ever left, both would hollow out the same space inside you.

You are thirty-one now.

Anaxa lies in a coffin.

Around him, asphodels and myrtles are arranged with quiet care. The white flowers lend an impossible purity to the man who was anything but pure.

The single red pomegranate flower clutched in his hands only makes the stillness feel lonelier.

You don’t remember the rest of the speech. The words blur and fade into a dull hum beneath polite clapping. Aglaea squeezes your hand gently in the aisle—steady, grounding. The coffin lowers slowly, like a magic trick in reverse: now you see him, now you don’t. Faces around you crumble into tears, but you sit still, the weight of everyone else’s grief pressing down. Not that you don’t feel it—you do. You just don’t cry. Not yet. Instead, your fingers crush the cold metal of the ring he slipped onto your finger—the only thing keeping you afloat. Because if you let go, you know the scream trapped inside you would tear everything apart.

You don’t cry until three days later.

You’re curled up on the cold bathroom floor, wrapped in Anaxa’s ridiculous lizard onesie—the one he never wanted to admit he liked the most. His room has become a museum of ghosts—not the kind that haunt, but the kind that linger in memories. Chipped coffee mugs left half-full. An unfinished book on Yaldabaoth, the bookmark still folded into its pages. A burnt-out candle, faintly scented with juniper and smoke. The old flip phone, blinking with an unread message from you, frozen in time, waiting for a reply that will never come.

And then he’s standing there in your hallway. Paler than you remember—almost translucent—his skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones. Skinnier, as if life itself has been siphoned from him. One eye hidden behind a patch, the other sharp and watchful. Still taller than you, looming despite his fragility. And that smile—wide, too wide; full of teeth. But it’s not the smile you once knew. It doesn’t reach his one remaining eye, which flickers with something unreadable.

You don’t scream. You don’t even flinch. Your breath catches, and your eyes blink slowly, disbelieving.

“Anaxagoras?”

“In the flesh,” he says, his voice low but familiar, almost teasing. He steps forward with unsettling calm.

You want to shout at him: You’re dead. I watched them lower your body into the dirt. I still have that gaudy black-and-white capelet that I hated so much. I wear it when I’m alone, like a fragile shield—like some broken, abandoned thing.

Instead, you say:

[ I am incredibly happy now. ]

Veritas was right. The students this year are performing far below average. You’re not sure how half of them even managed to submit their applications, let alone meet the qualifications. During one lecture, you thought you overheard a girl whispering to her seatmate, nervously asking for advice on how to take proper notes, as if that were some foreign concept. It’s reached the point where you find yourself bending the usual boundaries between professor and student, nudging and prodding more than you probably should, because you’re genuinely worried some of them might just roll over and pass out under the pressure. Your lectures and labs are mostly in the mornings, and while at least one student usually answers back to your cheerful “Good morning!”, the majority shuffle in like half-brained zombies. Their glazed eyes stare blankly ahead, as if their spines were leaking fluid that numbs their senses, and they meander toward the nearest seat with all the energy of a fading candle. You suppress a sigh. This won’t fly—there’s a teacher conference next week, and you’re already drafting your points in your head.

“You think loudly.”

You blink, shaken out of your spiral, and glance to the side. There’s Anaxa—your dead husband, a truth you have to repeat to yourself over and over—sitting there, relaxed and almost casual, behind the wheel as snowflakes drift lazily past the window. In the overexposed gray light filtering through the windshield, his skin looks even paler and malnourished: the kind of white you see before blindness, the light inside a star just before it collapses.

“Just thinking about what Veritas said is all…” Your voice trails off as your thoughts drift away again. Your mind screams at you to be afraid. To recoil. To run. Because what you’re seeing defies everything you know about life and death. A corpse—your husband’s corpse—is supposed to lie six feet underground, wrapped in linen and wood, cold and silent. But here he is instead, breathing, blinking, alive, driving you both home through the thickening snow.

“Veritas always has a way of making things sound more incontestable than they are,” Anaxa’s eyes flicker toward you from the driver’s seat, calm and unreadable behind his half-lidded gaze. You grip the edge of the seat, willing yourself to stay grounded. You are not hallucinating. You are not dreaming. You are not losing your mind. You believe in the science of dreams, in the logic of REM sleep cycles—but this feels like neither.

You glance at him, the weight of your thoughts pressing down, “It’s not incontestable. You’ve seen the students... everyone acts like they’re on autopilot. I’m concerned.”

He smirks—a slow, almost lazy curve of his lips that doesn’t quite reach his one good eye, “Life’s exhausting, isn’t it? Especially when people keep insisting on making it harder.”

You remember the nightmare you never wanted to relive: the shrill ring of your phone during lecture, the way your heart dropped as you answered, the trembling voice on the other end delivering the worst news—the news that your husband was dying.

“That sounds like something you’d say just to avoid talking about what really matters,” you almost laugh, though it comes out as a breathy exhale.

You left the classroom without a word, your students’ confused whispers fading behind you as you raced through rain-slicked roads. You reached the hospital, breathless and trembling, only to be told the truth you could barely face—he didn’t make it. You remember standing there, frozen, clutching the ring—the only piece of him left in your grasp. And now, as your eyes meet his in the car, a strange mix of fear, disbelief, and something darker curls in your chest. He’s here. Alive.

Anaxa shrugs, his eyes briefly glinting with amusement, “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because I’ve learned that sometimes, talking about it doesn’t make it better. Just louder.”

The car hums along, tires crunching softly over the snow.

[ Do not fear blasphemy— ]

Winter has made the house feel colder than it should, even with the heater murmuring steadily in the corner. The radio plays a song about “Penrose”—something you’ve never heard before. You shift in your chair, the wooden legs creaking against the floorboards. Your hands are stiff from clutching the fork and knife too tightly, and your plate glares back with its bland stir-fry of wilting vegetables and reheated rice. Thrown together from whatever you could salvage from the fridge, it tastes like nothing. A purely functional meal.

Across the table, Anaxa sits in silence. He eats slowly, chewing each bite with mechanical precision. The overhead light is harsh—it spills over him, casting every sharp angle into stark relief. Hollow cheeks. Gaunt skin. The eyepatch still wound tightly around his head—the same fraying strip of white cloth he’s worn since he came back. It might have once been clean, but it isn’t anymore. You’ve offered him fresh fabric, but he always declines. His ribs show even through the oversized sweater—something you used to wear. His collarbones jut out like they’ve been carved from stone. Yet he chews, swallows, and raises the fork again. A small mercy, you think. He’s eating. He didn’t use to. You try not to stare, but it’s hard not to. Not because of how strange he looks now, but because some part of you is still waiting—waiting for him to twitch wrong. To move in a way no living man should. You hear your own breath more than his. You’ve been counting the seconds between each of his, unsure if that’s even necessary anymore.

He hasn’t said a word all evening.

Neither have you.

Not really.

You want to ask him a hundred questions, but your throat feels dry, words lodged somewhere between hope and fear. Instead, you settle for watching him—the slow rise and fall of his chest, the shallow rhythm of his breath. The way his one visible eye blinks spreads tears across the eyeball, cleaning and moisturizing the surface. They aren’t dead or glazed over. In fact, they almost look brighter than before the accident.

He turns his head up slightly, just enough to meet your eyes from beneath the faint shadows cast by the kitchen light. His movements are slow—deliberate—as if lifting his gaze costs more than it used to.

“You’ve been watching me.”

The words come out flat. Not accusing. Not defensive. A simple truth laid bare—like a bone left out in the snow. You nod once. There’s no point pretending otherwise. No use untangling the silence with lies. His stare doesn’t break. It feels heavy, not with anger, but with knowledge—like he already knows what you’ve seen and is only asking to hear you admit it.

“You don’t have to keep pretending,” you say, voice even but low, “I’m scared. But not of you.”

He shifts; the creak of his chair sounds almost too loud. The overhead bulb flickers once, faint and insect-like. A flicker of something—something almost like a smile touches his lips.

“Funny,” he says softly, “I never thought I’d be the one to terrify you.”

You swallow hard; your mouth suddenly goes dry. The heater in the corner hums uselessly. The warmth it gives off doesn’t reach you—not here, not now. The room feels small, suffocating almost, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. You shift in your seat, fingertips twitching against your knees, unsure whether to fold inward or reach across the table. You want to touch him—anchor yourself to what’s left of him. But something stops you: an invisible barrier you can’t quite name. His eye remains fixed on you, unblinking.

“Why won’t you take it off?” you finally ask, your voice barely more than a whisper, “The patch.”

His eyes flicker away, dark lashes brushing his cheek, “Some things are better left hidden.”

“But it’s been days,” you press.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, the thin fabric slipping slightly to reveal the gaunt outline of his collarbone beneath the threadbare shirt. The sight makes your chest tighten—in that awful, breathless way you still haven’t learned to control.

“One step at a time,” he says at last.

The clock ticks loudly in the silence, each second stretched thin, taut as wire and just as ready to snap. You glance at the eyepatch, at the knot securing it in place, and your breath catches. You know the truth is waiting beneath it—silent, patient, watching—until the moment you’re brave enough, or desperate enough, to look.

[ It is already a sin to transcend the gods, so what if you become a god!" ]

You never meant to open Pandora’s box.

Okay—maybe you did. A little.

But it was coming from a place of concern. People are supposed to take care of their eye sockets, especially when one of them is hidden beneath that ratty white eyepatch. He never takes it off. Not when he showers. Not when he sleeps. Not even when the faintest flicker of movement catches your eye—something writhing, alive, beneath the fragile fabric like a restless parasite. You tried to convince yourself it was your imagination, a trick of shadows and exhaustion. But the truth gnaws at you like a bone you can’t stop gnawing. You remember the first time you noticed it: a barely perceptible twitch beneath the fabric, a faint pulse that didn’t match any normal heartbeat. It made your skin crawl. You wanted to ask. You wanted to pry and demand answers. But Anaxa’s eyes—well, the one you could see—always held that same apathetic calm, as if whatever was happening underneath didn’t bother him one bit.

You told yourself: If it’s infected, he could die. Again. You told yourself: It’s not Anaxa. Not really. Not entirely.

But also: What if it is? You'll be alone again.

It’s 2:59 a.m. The air conditioner hums softly, its steady drone blending with the distant wind sweeping the remaining dead leaves, like a restless insect trapped in the night. He’s stretched out on the bed, limbs loose and limp like a scarecrow abandoned in a forgotten field. The thin sheet draped over him barely reaches his chest; now he’s wrapped in twice as many layers, the winter wonderland outside reflecting through the window. His breathing is shallow, too even, too controlled—a carefully rehearsed performance. You move cautiously, the worn socks you borrowed muffling your steps on the creaky floorboards. Your heart pounds violently against your ribs, threatening to break free and leave you behind.

You kneel beside the futon, every muscle tense, every breath caught.

Your hand hovers, hesitant, trembling slightly as it reaches out.

The eyepatch—frayed and stained from too many nights—clings to his face, held by a crude knot tied at the back of his head. You tug gently, careful not to wake him, just enough to loosen the fabric, just enough to lift the edge.

Just enough to see—

“That’s not polite.”

You freeze.

The voice is low, dry—smooth like cracked leather. Not angry. Not startled. Just… amused. You glance up, meeting his one exposed eye, which glints faintly in the dark, alive with that same crooked humor you thought you’d lost forever

"To know it is to cease to know. To see it is to never see again in straight lines."

Your breath catches, the air growing inexplicably colder as shadows stretch and twist, reaching toward you with silent hunger. You remain frozen, unable to tear your gaze away, even as the patch slips from your fingers, compelled by some unseen force—beckoning you to witness what lies beneath.

And then you see it.

Not an eye.

An abyss yawns open where one should be.

A hollow carved impossibly deep, devoid of blood or bone. Pure emptiness—an endless void swallowed in darkness darker than night itself—a cavernous gulf where life should have been. That void shifts, inhales, and exhales with a slow, unnatural rhythm, as if breathing with a life all its own. Within the darkness, something coils and writhes, its shape fluid and ominous, like smoke caught in a slow storm.

Then, without warning, it turns its gaze toward you. The abyss looks back—its presence a heavy weight pressing deep into your bones, a silent promise of secrets too vast to comprehend. A color out of space.

“So you’re the reason he clings to this meat. How unexpected.”

The voice is curious. Not cruel. Not kind. You want to say something—anything. But all you can do is stare into the depths where his eye should be and feel it stare back. Your hands tremble, but you haven’t screamed yet. You’re not running either.

“This body remembers your voice. It twitches when you laugh. It cried when you touched it.”

And then, Anaxa blinks. The patch is back in place. You don’t remember putting it there.

He exhales—slowly, tired.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t look,” he says. The real him, or something close enough.

You swallow hard.

Because despite this impostor pretending to be your Anaxa, you feel… relieved. You don’t have to stay stuck in the grieving widow phase for the rest of your life. You don’t have to endure the pitiful stares from everyone except Veritas. Most importantly, you don’t have to imagine what your life would be like without Anaxa—because he’s here, in some form. Even if he’s lost the muscles in his arms, even if you can practically see his ribs beneath the heavy layers of clothing, his face sunken and hollow.

“You should clean that,” you whisper.

“It’s not infected,” he says.

“It could be.”

He laughs—quiet, rough. Close enough.

“And you’re not afraid?”

You study him—the hollow cheeks sunken deeper than you remember, skin so white it makes you think of hospital tiles and the static noise between radio stations. His thin frame barely fills out the threadbare clothes. He looks like a ghost tethered to this world—someone who died but didn’t quite come back right.

Still, your voice is steady when you say, “No. You came back. That’s enough.”

The room holds its breath. Silence stretches, heavy and suffocating—like the space between heartbeats. Then, slowly, almost painfully, he turns to face you. His eyes—one real, one an empty void—search yours, as if trying to remember how to exist in this fragile body again.

“You’re either very brave,” the thing inside him murmurs, voice low and rough, “or very foolish.”

The clock’s hands don’t move, but the ticking continues—as if counting something else entirely. Your hand moves on its own, reaching out to his. The coldness of his skin prickles against your palm, a reminder of everything lost and everything still somehow here. It’s cold. But it squeezes back.

[ — One of the echoes in Anaxa's memories after the Grove had fallen, which vanished because nobody discovered it. ]

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*slaps this fic* And that's a wrap! Thank you once again for commissioning me and for being so patient. I hope you all enjoyed this. I don't want to clog this already long fic up too much, so below I've only written research/references in order of appearance. If you're interested in the writing/thought process, I'll be reblogging this with further notes.

Cut Content/Writing Process Note: Here

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Golden Apple

It is most famously associated with the Apple of Discord, which represents:

Conflict born from vanity or favoritism (since it was labeled "To the fairest")

The catalyst for larger consequences (such as the Trojan War)

Temptation and choice (as seen in Paris having to decide which goddess deserved the apple)

Phainon

Daimon

In ancient Greece, it was believed that each person had a personal daimon, assigned at birth or death, which influenced their fate and guided them during crucial moments. The daimon didn’t dictate actions, but acted as a subtle force, especially in times of crisis or important decisions.

Socrates famously spoke of his daimonion, a divine voice that warned him against certain actions but never told him what to do. As he put it in Plato’s Apology: “The sign is a voice which comes to me and always forbids me to do something which I am going to do, but never commands me to do anything.”

In Plato's Republic and Timaeus, daimones are described as mediators of fate, guiding souls in their choices and destinies, ensuring a cosmic balance without direct interference in individual decisions.

Voicelines

While not directly stated in the fic, these are the voice lines that stuck when writing this particular Phainon:

"Accepting others' wishes and turning them into his own wishes — not all heroes are such blank canvases as him, and that is why the world places such great hopes on him." - Aglaea

"Lord Phainon is kind and friendly to all his companions, but there's always a sliver of pain in his smile... He must have lost something very dear to him." - Hyacine

"Snowy... It always feels like he's carrying too much. Not just his own wishes but also the hatred and expectations of others... Though we all have our own missions, I still get worried... Bearing everything alone is not a good habit." - Tribbie

Symbolism in Numbers (Act + Scene Numbers)

1 (Monad) - Unity, origin, the divine, the source of all things.

2 (Dyad) - Duality, division, balance of opposites (light/dark, male/female, good/evil).

7 (Heptad) - Mystery, initiation, spiritual perfection.

3 (Triad) - Harmony, balance, completeness.

10 (Decad) - Totality, divine perfection, return to unity (1+0=1).

Butterfly (The neon sign in the beginning)

The butterfly was often used as a symbol for the soul or daemon, especially in art. Psyche, the Greek word for "soul," is sometimes personified with butterfly wings.

Masks

A symbol of duality or hidden truths. Daemons could "wear" personas or guide others through identity.

Phainon's Greek Name

Phaenon (Phaínōn / Φαίνων) derives from the Ancient Greek verb φαίνω phaínō, meaning "to shine." The form φαίνων phaínōn is its present participle, meaning "the one who shines."

Crescent Moon (Stroke of luck during filming)

In various cultures, the moon is linked with divine protection, especially maternal or lunar goddesses like Artemis.

"Is it so wrong...to have a little hope?" (Phainon's reasoning to Gallagher)

[ "That person alone will witness the miracle" doesn't sound like a good ending, does it? Why did everyone choose to become demigods even after knowing the price? ]

-(excerpt from Phainon's text messages to the Trailblazer)

Mydei

Apotheosis

While the Olympian gods are immortal by nature, apotheosis suggests a pathway to immortality for mortals. Some famous Greek examples are Heracles and Psyche.

My knowledge of the military is incredibly low, so if there are any inconsistencies, please ignore them. I'm trying my best. I did try to get some of my facts straight, but I used U.S military as a guideline since that's the one I'm most familiar with. My Google searches were wild on this one, baby.

Military Report (I put a lot of effort into it, you people need to know this)

Report # - 0319 (Mydei's release banner date) Amphoreous / Castrum Kremnos (CK) Date - Mydei's banner end date Time - Version 3.1 (Mydei's banner release version) Associated Personnel: Lionheart (Taken from his banner's event name "Fiery Lionheart") Casualties KIA: Taken from the past NPCs from Kremnos (specifically the ones that were warriors)

Trig/Trigger (Reader's Call Sign)

A call sign is a unique identifier, often a nickname, used to identify a unit or individual during radio communications. Personal Callsigns are generally given by members in your unit when you do something that makes you stand out, be it good or bad.

I'm not gonna lie. I needed to have some term to use to refer to reader, and my friend is in love with Trigger from Hoyo's other game, ZZZ. This one's for you (I hope you never find my tumblr)

Time Line

U.S. Task Forces / Special Ops (e.g., Delta Force, SEALs, JSOC Task Forces)

Minimum Time in Service: 2–4 years, usually, depending on MOS (military occupational specialty).

Total Time: 4–7 years on average, but again, fast-tracking is possible for exceptional performance, critical skillsets (e.g., languages, cyber, demolitions), or under urgent need.

Recording Equipment (Corporal asking why there was a shutdown)

Special Operations typically don't use body cams since their missions are highly classified. But they might use recording equipment if it's for training, target observation, or accountability-driven operations (e.g., raids with media or political oversight).

In most modern military systems, cutting off or tampering with communication or recording equipment can often be detected, logged, or at the very least suspected, depending on the gear and the system it's connected to.

"Green"

In the military, when someone is described as "green," it means they are new, inexperienced, or untested — often fresh out of training and just starting in the field. Usually considered "green" for 6 months to a year, or until they've had real combat exposure.

Anaxa

Alogon

Anaxa's prompt wasn’t directly inspired by Greek culture or mythology. The basic premise was to portray him as a cosmic horror parasite, and the closest parallel I found was the concept of the “Alogon.” (So no, unfortunately, there aren't any eldritch H.P. Lovecraft entities in Greek. Honestly, I think I went more domestic horror.)

In Orphic mythology, the term alogon [ τὸ ἄλογον (a-logos) ] —meaning “irrational” or “without reason”—is not a distinct deity or mythological entity, but a philosophical concept representing the chaotic, unformed state of existence prior to creation. It serves as a symbolic contrast to Phanes (also known as Protogonos), the primordial being who emerged from the cosmic egg at the dawn of time. Phanes introduced light, reason, and structure into the universe, transforming the alogon into an ordered cosmos.

Quotes

The first quote line is from Anaxa's lightcone, "Life Should Be Cast to Flames." The rest is what was written in Anaxa's character story, part IV.

Asphodels, myrtles, and pomegranate flowers (The flowers in Anaxa's coffin)

Aspodels: Considered the "death flower" by the Greeks, believed to be the flower of the afterlife

Myrtle: This plant was a symbol of eternity and was often used in funerary arrangements.

Pomegranate Flower: Tied deeply to Persephone, who ate pomegranate seeds in the underworld and is forced to return each year, creating the seasons.

The passing of seasons (Persephone)

Persephone, daughter of Demeter (goddess of the harvest), was abducted by Hades and taken to the Underworld. Grieving, Demeter caused the Earth to wither, bringing on winter. When Persephone was allowed to return, life bloomed again—spring and summer. But because she ate pomegranate seeds in the Underworld, she had to return each year, leading to autumn and winter.

Yaldabaoth (The half-finished book Anaxa left behind)

Also known as Ialdabaoth or Jaldabaoth, Yaldabaoth is a central figure in Gnostic theology, depicted as a false creator who traps souls within the material world.

Juniper (The candle scent Anaxa left behind)

A genus of coniferous trees and shrubs, most notably known for its berries used in gin. Used in purification and protective rituals, especially in ancient Greek and Roman practices.

Penrose (The name of the song on the radio station)

The name "Penrose" is from the Penrose Triangle and Stairs. Two famous impossible objects.

Pandora's Box

A myth from Greek mythology where Pandora, the first woman, was given a sealed jar (later called a box) and told not to open it. Curiosity got the better of her, and when she opened it, all the evils of the world escaped—leaving only Hope inside. It explains the origin of suffering in the world.

2:59 am (The time reader goes to remove Anaxa's eyepatch)

Hecate’s hour is traditionally considered to be between midnight and 3 a.m., often called the witching hour or the hour of the night witch. This time is associated with magic, spirits, and the supernatural—when Hecate, the Greek goddess of magic, crossroads, and the underworld, is believed to be most powerful and present. In folklore and later occult traditions, this period is thought to be when the veil between worlds is thinnest, making it a prime time for rituals, visions, and encounters with otherworldly forces.

"A colour out of space." (The void in Anaxa's eye)

A reference to Lovecraft's "The Colour Out of Space" for my literature fans.

Fun Fact: That line about a girl asking how to take proper notes is real. I was the seatmate.

[rat6ix]

SEPARATED .

Chishiya x reader

Summary: When you and chishiya get separated from kuina and the rest of the group while trying to get away from the king of spades you both are forced to confront your feelings

Warnings: smut, probably ooc chishiya but i’ll try my best, kissing, grinding/dryhumping, riding, they don’t take off their clothes all the way cause they’re kind of not trying to get killed at any second, readers a lil nervous guys, hair pulling sorta kinda.

Wc:1.3k

— 🐀

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Maybe running behind the guy that never took his hands out of his pockets was a bad idea, cause now you were stuck in a random apartment complex with the guy you’d been thinking about undressing the entire time you’d known him. You, chishiya, kuina and the others had been running from the king of spades previously, trying not to end up stuck to the ground with a bullet through you like the other unfortunate people in his sight. But unfortunately you and chishiya got separated when the king of spades threw a bomb your way before you both could make it in the car.

You were a little glad but also scared cause you had no idea where your friends were now, glad because the five of you aren’t squished together in the back seat of the car tatta was driving. Now that brought you back to your current problem, chishiya. He was in the other room while you raided the kitchen for some food that wasnt rotten and actually edible. Eventually you got lucky, stumbling upon their canned food cupboard. Grabbing the cans you made your way to the living room where chishiya sat on the couch tinkering with something electronic on the coffee table.

You set the food and the can opener down on the table as well as the forks you’d found, sliding a can you opened to him. He eventually stopped tinkering and nodded as thanks. You both ate in silence, the whole time you were trying not to look over at him. You eventually caved as he let out a loud sigh, curious as to what for.

“You’re sort of pathetic.” He spoke after a while, putting his food down on the table in front of you both.

“So I’ve been told.” You acknowledged, suddenly your can of food was the most interesting thing in the world.

You could practically feel his smug smile from across the couch, your eyes refusing to meet his. He hummed before speaking again.

“If you weren’t constantly staring at me when you thought i wasn’t looking i’d start to think you didn’t like me.”

You froze, knowing you’d been caught. Of course, nothing could make it past chishiya. You should’ve known, but maybe you were too busy staring to notice. You couldn’t try to defend yourself, it wouldn’t make a difference. So you kept quiet, shrinking into yourself and trying to get back to your food; even if your stomach was upset from anxiousness.

“I find myself staring at you sometimes.” He confessed, still staring at your face that was now twisted in shock.

You accidentally slammed your can down on the coffee table a little too hard, so stunned by what he said to remember your own strength; You were lucky it wasn’t one of thoes fancy glass ones. You could see chishiya’s eyebrow raise from the corner of your eye, his arms crossed and resting on his chest. You finally looked at him, trying your hardest to not break eye contact. You noticed the side of his mouth twitching upwards, he finally had you looking at him just like he wanted.

You didn’t know what to do as chishiya made his way towards you, sitting too close for you to function properly. You definitely didn’t know what to do as he took your face in his hand and pressed his mouth to yours. Your hands were stiff at your sides as you kissed him, not knowing if you should touch him. He pulled away with a content look on his face, using his hand that wasn’t gripping your face to guide your hand to his own. You got the memo as you moved your other hand to his shoulder and pulled him in again.

You made your way into his lap at some point, trying not to break the kiss as you pushed him back into the couch cushions. When the kiss was broken chishiya looked up at you with half lidded eyes, his hands settled on your hips as you tested the waters and pushed your lap against his. His reaction was small, his hands tightening their grip on your hips as he bit his lower lip the smallest bit. He’d let out a sigh with a whiny undertone as you grinded against him, resting his head on the cushion behind him as you kept going.

He lifted his head to look at you as you stopped, only to let out a gasp as you pulled his cock out of his pants. You lifted your hips to pull your own pants down to your thighs before sliding down on his cock, a quiet moan leaving you as you did. Chishiya dug his fingers into the couch as you rode him, the tips of his fingers turning pale from the pressure. You leaned down to kiss him, putting your hands on his chest to keep steady. Chishiya brought his hands up to your back, sliding them up your shirt as you deepened the kiss.

Every once in a while he’d let a groan escape into your mouth, his hips bucking upward and reaching deeper into you. You tried not to get too loud, breathing heavily with the occasional moan. Chishiya cursed under his breath as you tugged at his hair and broke the kiss, his eyes clouded with lust as he locked eyes with you. A smile made its way to your face as you took in his disheveled state. his cardigan was falling off, his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, his eyes were heavy with lust and his mouth was slightly ajar as heavy breaths and the occasional whine left him.

“Mmm, you’re laughing at me?” He teased, his mouth closed and raised into a smirk.

You shook your head, the smile still on your face. Instead of replying verbally you leaned down to press your lips to his neck, he moved his head to the side to give you better access. His eyes almost completely rolled back into his head as you sucked on the exposed skin, his arms slacked against you. You pulled moan after moan from him as you continued your assault on his neck, you were sure he wasn’t going to last long like that.

He could barely keep his head up when you finished, the blissed out expression on his face matching perfectly with the red and purple bruises on his neck. Your lips were probably swollen by now from the kissing and covering chishiyas neck in hickies, your lips shiny from being covered in both yours and chishiyas spit from your previous make out session. The side of chishiyas neck also shining from your assault, a sheen of saliva coating it and highlighting the bruises.

“Gonna cum soon..” he whispered, nails digging into your upper back as he rested his head in between where your shoulder and head meet. You quicken your pace at this, chishiya letting out a noise of surprise against your skin. You dont doubt that your back was covered in marks from chishiyas nails at this point, even if nobody would be able to see them you would be able to feel them under your shirt.

His grip switched when he came, pulling you into him by your shoulders; his arms hooked under yours as he moaned. You came not long after that, the feeling of you squeezing around him making quiet whimpers leave his mouth. You weren’t any better, whiny moans leaving you as you rode out your high. Chishiya muttered something unintelligible into your shoulder before pulling you off his lap, carefully as to not hurt you.

He shoved himself back into his pants before searching the empty apartment for something to clean you with. Eventually he did, it wasn’t much considering the state of the world but it was better than leaving you leaking with his cum. After he was done he pulled your pants up and pulled you so you laid next to him and pressed a kiss to your sweat covered forehead. It didn’t take long for you both to fall asleep, deciding it would be the best course of action.

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