#Expecting to play it. Have a good time. And move on

[orphicsun]

78 and 79 with sevika PLEASE.

warnings: 18+ content, spanking, thigh-riding, brothel worker reader, names used (whore, good girl)

"Do you like when I spank you?"

Yeah, you absolutely did. Sevika didn't need to ask. You hardly knew the woman, and you were already letting her witness the sight of your hole clenching around nothing as she landed harsh spanks on your ass, reveling in the way the skin jiggles upon impact.

This is supposed to be your job—doing sexual favors for a living in the back of a busy brothel. It's meaningless when you're on your knees for any man or woman. Hell, it's meaningless for anyone.

It's sad to say, but you don't exactly drool over the the idea of any of your clients fucking you. You're used to the type of sex that uses your body, taking from you without any needed pleasure. People don't care about if you cum because you get paid. They treat you differently than their spouses. They even treat you differently than the girls they pick up in cheap bars.

But Sevika is something, an almost comedic exception to the rules of being a prostitute. She spends the first half of your time together, the first half she had paid for warming you up for it. She always knows exactly how to make you want her, too. The wet heat of her tongue slathered all over your pussy until your wet enough for three fingers was what you were given last week. This time, it's something you weren't expecting.

But when she had suggested it, you weren't dull at the thought of her palm on your ass. So here you are, taking it like you're made for her pain.

Another, and then she soothes you, her fingers spreading over the reddened skin. Isn't she sweet?

"C'mon, whore.."

That name. It should be offensive to someone whose job is sex work, but from her lips, it's stated as if it's a compliment. Like you're not just any whore, but the best. Her whore.

You're snapped out of your tainted thoughts when her palm meets your ass again, making you cry out.

"Stupid little whore I've got," she scolds you, scoffing when she looks down to see more arousal seep out of your neglected hole, dripping down your pussy and past your clit. Laid out on your stomach over her lap is the most comfortable position to receive this extreme treatment, but it's a heavenly torture; every time your pussy gets wetter, you have to feel the sensation right on your clit, the smallest bit of sensation you can get from her actions.

"I'm sorry.. please play with me, please." You beg to be touched, to be fucked right here across her lap.

Sevika has different plans for a whore as desperate as you, though.

She gently hauls you up, situating you on her right thigh. Your bare pussy aches and it takes everything in you not to just start riding her thigh. You want to move and use her, but you don't. She hasn't told you to yet. Afterall, she is the one who paid for this.

Two hands embrace your waist, squeezing you. She holds you affectionately despite the situation, pulling you closer. It only makes you wetter.

And then, she whispers in your ear, her voice a command simple enough for your dumb whore brain to follow.

"Use my thigh, baby."

You don't ask her to specify, don't hesitate. You simply let out a desperate little noise and begin rocking your hips back and forth, shivering when your clit drags against her skin, sending pleasure through you.

"I need you so bad, 'Vika. Needtocumplease," you moan out hastily, your hands finding purchase against her shoulders so you can really use her thigh.

"Fuck, that's it," she encourages. "Knew you could be a good girl for me."

You're embarrassingly close already, in your own little world as you smear arousal all over her thigh with each movement. She loves it, too. She loves how she can take a brothel girl like you and turn her into a dumb whore, desperate enough to do bend over at her command and take whatever she gives.

Sevika isn't surprised when your actions speed up to a frantic pace, your thighs fluttering on either side of her thigh. You're already cumming all over her thigh, making a huge mess. She doesn't mind one bit, though.

You let out the cutest little gasps as you ride out the final moments of your bliss, your hips twitching to milk every bit of stimulation until you're finally sated.

You've got another client soon, and now you're just a fucked-out mess.

taglist: @maple-anon, @abbysbutch, @rhian88, @myfabulousnesshasarrived, @mysexy-anxiety, @femme-tobe, @sulliefimmie, @klallx, @elliescoochieeater, @moodient, @leguitarsxxr, @eradicatedbythenightmare, @mytaping, @pryncess123, @saturnhas82moons, @vixxxen, @prettyinpink69, @aceywaycy, @hellokittyfeenie, @starberr1, @ruelezz, @ladybugb0ng, @deluxism, @prwttiestbunny, @eriiwaiii2, @starrycherie, @lonelysapphic, @x0x0xkimara, @mars4hellokitty, @jhyoos, @moonfloweredprincess, @morticeras, @abbysmeatrider, @ferxanda, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @g4ys0n, @waitaminuteashh, @bewareofmyglock, @witzs want to be tagged? click here!

[lmdhawk]

I have read the most recent reblog several times now and I still cannot figure out if she was trying to insult me or not. Or rather, were they were trying to insinuate that I actually meant that examining close platonic relationships between characters of the same gender in fiction rather than shipping them romantically is homophobic.

I'm not saying that. As someone who, back when I wrote fanfiction, went out of my way to write platonic relationships, I think that there is are a lot of good stories to be told that way. I just...wanted to point out that there was a secondary dimension to the pushback, just because it's always worth knowing where bad reactions to things come from.

If you allow that platonic relationships can be as deep and meaningful as romantic ones, then you can move past the idea that platonic relationships are somehow lesser, and you can read stories about platonic relationships with the understanding that the author isn't refusing to put them in a romantic relationship because they are the same gender but rather is choosing to explore this possible relationship for its own sake, if that makes sense.

And context absolutely matters, of course. A big studio that releases a show and very heavily plays into romantic tropes without subversion probably is intentionally trying to tease at a gay relationship and avoid confirming it to avoid the backlash and expectations that come with gay relationships on screen. Although, the fewer romantic tropes they play into and the more they subvert the ones they do, the more likely it is that the writers, rather than the studio, are the ones making the call, and they are far more likely to be exploring that for it's own sake. A fanfiction author who has no monetary stake in their story not being gay is probably choosing to not use a romantic relationship intentionally to explore platonic intimacy.

I guess I just wanted to reiterate what she said in the last reblog, because they were right: Writing about deep platonic intimacy rather than romantic or sexual relationships isn't inherently homophobic, especially when it's done by Aro/Ace authors, and I hopefully this is ridiculously obvious in the year of Our Lord two thousand and twenty five, but the existence of Aro/Ace people in general is not homophobic. It's just another type of queer person who exist.

Do you actually ship them or do you want them to be trapped together in a cave-in where one of them is injured and they have to talk to keep them distracted and stay sane while they wait for help, and end up opening up about their vulnerabilities and bond and then grow desperate as one starts to slip from consciousness while the other begs them to stay awake—

[lvnleah]

her blessing | kyra cooney-cross x catley!reader.

You hadn’t planned on falling in love when you moved to London.

When Steph had called and said “Just come here for a bit, reset. You need a break and you know my door’s always open”, you’d packed your bags without thinking twice. 

You’d only just broken up with your boyfriend of three years and despite the nine-year gap between you and Steph, growing up she was your protector. Your safe space. And now, you were twenty-two and still felt safest even when she was on the other side of the world. 

That’s why you were currently clinging to her sleeve like a koala, standing awkwardly just inside the entrance to a loud, crowded pub filled with her teammates. It was a team bonding night and also Steph’s idea of helping you “get out more.”

“Steph…” you whispered nervously, voice barely audible

Steph looked down at you with a soft smile, her hand reaching to squeeze yours gently. “I’ve got you, squirt. You’ll be fine. Just stick with me for a bit, yeah? You don’t have to talk to anyone if you don’t want to.”

You nodded, biting the inside of your cheek and trying not to shrink into your clothes. The room was loud, filled with laughter and music and way too many confident women who all seemed to know each other. They were intimidating. You could feel your chest tightening just standing there.

You didn’t notice her at first. Not until Steph led you over to a small group and started introducing you.

“Everyone, this is my little sister. Be nice, or I’ll ruin your careers.”

That got a laugh, and a few friendly greetings. You gave a quiet “hi” and kept your eyes low, practically hiding behind Steph’s arm.

You already knew Caitlin, she’d played with Steph for the Matilda’s for years and had known you since you were ten. Kyra was another one you’d met briefly but only on a few occasions when she was pestering Steph after a match. She was a year or so older than you.

Caitlin gave you a warm smile and ruffled your hair, just like she used to when you were a kid. “Still as shy as ever, huh? Welcome to the madness, squirt.”

You gave a tiny smile, grateful for the familiarity. Caitlin’s presence made things feel a little less overwhelming. 

“Didn’t know Steph had such a cute little sister,” Kyra said with a grin.

Your face flushed immediately. You ducked your head, mumbling something incomprehensible and absolutely not cool in return.

Steph shot her a sharp look. “Kyra, leave the poor girl alone. Be nice to her.”

Kyra held up both hands, laughing. “I’m being nice! I swear. See? Totally nice.” Then, softer, she looked at you again. “You okay?”

You nodded, still mostly hidden behind Steph. “Just… crowds.”

Kyra tilted her head. “Same. I mean, not really, but I get it. Want to come sit where it’s quieter?”

You hesitated, glancing up at Steph. She gave you a gentle nudge and a reassuring smile.

“Go on. I’ll be right here.”

So, somehow, you ended up sitting in a quiet booth near the back of the pub, with Kyra sliding in across from you. She didn’t push you to talk. She just sipped her drink, made a few gentle jokes, and let the awkwardness ease at its own pace.

Eventually, you started talking. About random things. Childhood stories. Movies you both loved. The most embarrassing things your siblings had done in public. You had plenty of Steph stories. She would absolutely kill you if she heard you telling Kyra about the time she tripped over a wheelie bin and dislocated her pinky toe.

To your surprise, Kyra was easy to talk to. She made you laugh, like really laugh, which was something you hadn’t done properly in weeks.

By the time Steph wandered over to check on you, you were giggling, your shoulders more relaxed than they’d been all evening.

“Well,” Steph said, arms crossed and brow raised. “Didn’t expect you to be the one to crack her shell.”

Kyra just smirked. “I’m good with nervous people!”

Steph rolled her eyes, “Oh definitely,” she said sarcastically, “Just be nice to her. Don’t scare my sister or anything.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kyra said with a roll of her eyes. “No funny business.”

Over the next few weeks, Kyra became a constant.

She texted you every morning with stupid memes and updates about what she had for breakfast. She dropped by Steph’s apartment uninvited, usually with snacks or some random object she “thought you might like.” She dragged you to cafés and bookstores, always patient with your shyness, always gentle with your boundaries.

Steph started noticing.

“You two are getting close,” she said one night when the two of you were curled up on the sofa, having a sister night watching a movie.”

You looked up. “Is that… okay?”

Steph’s face softened. “Of course. I’m just… keeping an eye on her. Kyra can be a lot and I don’t want it to overwhelm you, squirt.”

That should’ve been your first warning sign.

Because no matter how many nights you spent talking to Kyra until the early hours, no matter how many walks you took with your hands brushing but never quite clasped, she never crossed that line.

Every time something almost happened, every time your eyes lingered too long, or you leaned in too close, or your hand tentatively reached for hers, she pulled back.

With a joke. Or a distraction. Or just silence.

It hurt. More than you admitted to anyone. Even Steph.

You told yourself to be patient. Maybe she wasn’t ready. But one night, after another almost-kiss that ended in Kyra literally jumping away from you with a flustered apology and muttering something, you cracked.

You were sitting on a park bench, the wind chilly and your hot chocolate long gone cold.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you said softly.

Kyra turned to you, brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

“This. I know you feel it too. I see it. But then you pull away and I’m left feeling like I imagined everything.”

Kyra was quiet for a long moment.

“I’m scared,” she finally whispered.

“Of what?”

“Of Steph.” She looked away, jaw tense. “She’s… she’s your sister. She’s my friend. She trusts me. If I mess this up then that’s ruined things between me, you and Steph. I don’t want that.”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” you cut in, your voice breaking. “But you are hurting me, Kyra.”

That stunned her into silence.

“I can’t do this anymore, Kyra. I’m not a secret.” You sighed, “I’m not something to be ashamed of.”

And you walked away.

You didn’t talk after that. Not for days.

Steph noticed immediately.

You were quieter. Withdrawn. You barely touched the pasta she made. You didn’t laugh at her teasing. You didn’t even argue when she paused your favourite show to take a phone call.

And Kyra?

Steph saw it the next day in training. Kyra was off. Missing passes. Slow to react. Silent when usually she was all nonsense and being a pest.

Then, after everyone else had left, Steph walked into the locker room to find Kyra curled on the bench, shoulders shaking.

“Kyra,” she said, stunned. “What happened?”

Kyra didn’t look at her. “I broke her heart.”

Steph stiffened.

“What?”

“I thought I was protecting her. But I ended up pushing her away. And now she hates me.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Steph said slowly.

Kyra finally looked up, her eyes rimmed red. “I didn’t want to hurt her. Or make you feel like I crossed a line. But I love her, Steph. I’ve been in love with her for ages.”

Steph was silent for a long time. Then, with a sigh, she sat beside her.

“I never had an issue with it, Ky,” Steph said, “I just…you’re so different. I didn’t want you to clash and then things break down.”

Kyra gave a choked laugh.

“But,” Steph continued, “if you love her, and if you make her as happy as I’ve seen her these past few months. Then I’d be an idiot to stand in the way.”

Kyra blinked. “Wait… are you serious?”

Steph rolled her eyes. “Yeah. You might be a pest but you’re my favourite pest. You should go fix things.”

Kyra didn’t wait for another second.

You were in your room, curled under a blanket, watching reruns of something familiar and comforting when the knock came. You padded to the door and opened it slowly.

Kyra stood there, breathless, eyes still a little glassy, but full of hope.

“Umm…Hi,” she said, voice shaking. “I screwed up. But I love you. I really, really love you. And if you still want me, I promise, no more pulling away.”

You blinked, stunned.

Then you launched yourself into her arms.

She held you like she’d never let go again.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt her thumb brush gently under your eye, her other hand cradling the back of your head as you clung to her hoodie. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered against your hair. “I was so scared of ruining things, but I nearly lost you anyway. That was worse. So much worse.”

You didn’t respond right away. You just stayed there, wrapped in her, your heart finally settling after what felt like weeks of tight-chested confusion. When you finally pulled back, you looked up at her, really looked at her, and saw the way her eyes begged for forgiveness she didn’t need to ask for.

“I was scared too,” you admitted quietly. “Of getting hurt again. But you…you just made me feel unsure.”

She nodded, brushing a stray hair away from your forehead, “No more feeling unsure, okay? Not about this. Not about you.”

There was a long pause. Then she added, almost sheepishly, “Also, if you wanted to kiss me now… I wouldn’t run away this time.”

You huffed a soft laugh, watery but genuine. “You sure?”

Kyra’s lips curled into a grin. “Well, I was sure until you said it like–”

You reached up and cupped her cheek, the familiar warmth of her skin grounding you. “Kyra.”

“Yeah?”

“Just shut up.”

And you kissed her.

She melted into it immediately, her hands settling lightly on your waist like she didn’t want to push, like she still couldn’t believe she was allowed to touch you like this now. It was slow and sweet, a little awkward because you both smiled halfway through, but it was perfect.

When you finally pulled away, Kyra smirked, “Okay, yeah, I was amazing at that. That’s in the top five kisses of my life.”

You swatted her arm lightly. “Top five?”

“I didn’t say where in the five! Maybe number one, maybe number four. You’ll have to kiss me again to beat the competition.” She smirked once again. 

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. “You’re such a menace.”

“Yeah,” Kyra said proudly, tugging you gently back into her arms. “But I’m your menace now. That’s gotta count for something.”

You tucked your head under her chin and let the silence stretch, Kyra wasn’t perfect. She talked too much when she was nervous. She avoided emotions until they smacked her in the face but somehow she made you feel seen. 

After a long moment, Kyra broke the quiet again, her voice muffled slightly by your hair. “Sooo… when do you think is the right time to tell Steph we’re dating? Before or after I hide all the sharp objects?”

You snorted. “She already knows, Ky.”

Kyra pulled back slightly. “What?! You told her?”

“No. You did. When you confessed you were in love with me in her locker room, remember?”

Her eyes widened. “Wait…she told you that?!”

You grinned. “Of course she did. She texted me to say it was the most dramatic thing she’d ever seen.”

She mumbled something unintelligible into your hoodie.

You laughed softly, your fingers playing with the hem of her sleeve. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

[anglbunny]

TOUCH UP

♡. dyeing their hair while sitting on their lap w/otoya and shidou... VERY suggestive mdni, hair dyeing, sitting on their lap, based on this req

OTOYA EITA

“You’re hard,” you whisper, frozen, brush mid-stroke over his stupid little green strand.

Otoya shrugs beneath you, shameless. He’s lounging back in the chair, long legs spread, hands resting on your hips as if you’re his personal armrest. The bulge under you is unmistakable—thick, hot, twitching against your core through thin layers of clothes.

“Yeah,” he says, cool as ever. “I have this gorgeous girl straddling me and playing with my hair. What did you expect?”

You shoot him a look. “I’m dyeing your hair. This isn’t supposed to be—”

“Hot?” he cuts in, smirking as his hands flex, rocking your hips just enough to make you gasp. “Sorry, baby, but you’re sittin’ on my lap, wearing those little shorts, touching me all gentle like that… You have to know what you’re doing.”

“I’m literally just trying to fix your roots.”

“Mhm,” he hums, dragging one palm up your spine, slow and heavy. “And you’re grinding on me just a little each time you lean forward. You sure you’re trying to fix me?”

You try to focus—really, you do—but his cock presses up against your heat every time he breathes and your thighs are shaking. He leans forward, lips brushing your collarbone.

“Go on,” he murmurs. “Keep going. Pretend I’m not rock hard. Pretend you’re not soaking through your panties.”

You shudder.

He grins.

"Or," he whispers, hand sliding under your shirt, "you could use me instead. Grind on it. Take what you want. You’re already in the perfect position, pretty thing."

You shouldn’t.

You really shouldn’t.

But the dye dries half-finished.

And his lap is soaked by the end of it.

SHIDOU RYUSEI

“Don’t move,” you scold, fingers combing through Shidou’s blond hair as you section off another piece to retouch his tips. You’re straddling his lap, thighs caging him in, towel slung across his shoulders, gloves smudged with dye.

He hums lazily beneath you, but there’s nothing innocent about the way his hands grip your hips. Not when his thumbs slide under your waistband. Not when he’s been hard since the second you climbed into his lap.

“This is torture, y’know,” he says, smirking up at you through hooded eyes. “You sittin’ all pretty on me… makin’ those little concentration faces while your thighs squeeze around me?”

“You asked me to fix your hair,” you mutter, ignoring how hot your face is.

He grins, unbothered. “I didn’t think you’d do it in those tiny ass shorts. But I’m not complaining.”

You start applying the dye again but his fingers are already creeping up the backs of your thighs, squeezing the soft skin, shifting you just slightly against the bulge in his sweatpants.

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathe, glaring.

Shidou’s voice drops, wicked and low: “You’re on my dick, telling me I’m the problem?”

You go still—his cock pressing right against the seam of your underwear, thick and twitching. You feel everything. And he knows it.

He tilts his head, mocking sweet. “C’mon, baby. Rub against it a little. ‘S not like I’ll stop you.”

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, thighs clenching.

He grins wider, tongue running across his teeth. “And you’re wet. Wanna see if you can dye my hair with how messy you’ll get if I move just right?”

You shove a palm against his forehead. “Shut up so I can finish.”

He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “c'mon, move a little, just a tiny bit, princess, grind down on it and I’ll give you a prize.”

“What prize?”

He laughs, filthy and breathless. “Me. With my mouth. On my knees. Worshipping every inch of you for being such a good girl.”

You don’t finish the tips.

You finish first.

TL: @samm1e13 @demiitria @syleepy @chaoslibra @bontenxo @pinkymangacaps @riinniies @samthesimp1 @sapphireluv @s4turnx1 @nevvynev @cookiesandcreammy @rinniebinniebay @ravenbc @kamelika @luvsymai @werfiedeii @mikemsmm @silverwings920 @cyberheartrebel @arwawawa2 @yanderebluelockfan @valexqpt @bigclownshoes @rinniewinnie787 @satorella @mitsurisupporter @meikstv @mihyas-dieehefrau @ravenbc @greekyoghurtwithberries

A/n: for my pretty girl, im sorry i did this so late

ꨄ︎Anglbunny | Do not copy, steal or translate my work and pngs. you'll be blocked.

[Masterlist]

[captain-huggy-bear]

The Jacket

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader Warnings: N/A Summary: You've been making a jacket to surprise Clayton with for months, you finally get your chance at the first game of the season. Notes: Self-indulgent because y'know, my Keller jacket is still in the process of being made for next season. Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :) Writing Masterlist

It's a surprise you've been working on for months.

It's not easy to paint a jacket in secret and keep it hidden for months as you work on it. Not when you live with the person you're hiding it from. You'd resorted to using the attic space to store it, nearly having a panic attack around December time when Clayton insisted he be the person to go up and get all the Christmas decorations down from the attic. Thankfully you'd managed to move the hiding spot in time.

You wait for the first game of the new season to unveil it. A long wait, a wait that feels like it might kill you because you're so excited to show him, so excited for him to finally see it. Still you hold off, you don't show him before the game, wait until you're at the rink and he's already in the locker room getting changed before you put it on. Your best kept secret.

You expect to show him after the game, not really thinking much of it. Just excited to be in the stands again, to be wearing your jacket that you made just for him, just excited to see Clay play again after what felt like an insanely long off season.

You're eating a big box of popcorn, the salty and sweet kind, when you notice yourself up on the jumbotron during a mini break while the linesmen try to fix a hole in the ice. It's a humbling experience to be put fully on blast while your mouth is stuffed with popcorn, cheeks full. It's an even more humbling experience to see the split screen of the jumbotron as you are put on the right and Clayton is on the left, worse when you can see he's clearly watching you on the screen too, smiling at the way you have popcorn shoved in your mouth like a hamster.

For the fans watching from home there's the wonderful commentary by Matt and Dom as you wave at the cameras and roll your eyes at Clayton who's decided now is the time to make a little heart at you out of his fingers.

'And they've found Mrs Keller in the crowd'

'Can we call her Mrs Keller yet, Matt? Keller hasn't even proposed yet.'

'Only a matter of time and oh, look at that, she's wearing a...is that painted denim jacket?' You've turned around on purpose, seeing the opportunity for what it was, a chance to show Clayton the jacket before the game is even over.

'I heard she's quite the artist, think she painted it herself?' The back is on full display. 'Keller' painted in big Utah blue letters, below it a painstakingly painted Clayton, his back to the world, stick high in the air in celebration, Utah jersey worn proudly. Behind him his number, a big fat 9 and on each arm a matching 9. It's Clayton all over, a big fat expression of how proud you are to be his and how proud you are of him.

'Maybe, hey, Nick, what's the reaction from our Captain down there?'

The Jumbotron shows Clayton in high fidelity, being nudged and shoved by his team mates as they jeer at him...but he can't stop grinning. Cheesing like he's just won the Worlds all over again because you're wearing that jacket and he knows your painting anywhere, knows you. He knows you wouldn't have paid for someone to do it, not because you didn't value other artists, but because you'd have wanted to do it, felt the inspiration to create something. There's a special sort of pride that comes from knowing you took the time to do it yourself.

When you turn back around and spot his smile you start grinning just as wide, face warming at the way he looks up at you on that screen, how he ignores his team mates taking the piss out of him because it's you. It's you and you look so good with his name across your back and his likeness on that denim.

The cameras cut away in search of new material and you seat yourself back down, going back to your popcorn even as you keep smiling down at where you know Clayton is, leaning against the bench with his hip popped as he shoves at Kess.

He's got an extra pep in his step, an extra burst to his play as the 3rd period finally continues and you focus back in on the game. Shouting at the refs when they miss a call, yelling 'Veggie' with the rest of the crowd and scream in joy when the OT winning goal hits the back of the net from Clayton's stick.

He doesn't go into the locker room like normal, pacing up and down the corridor outside, still in full gear, stick in hand, a sweaty mess but a sweaty mess waiting for you like a loyal dog.

The moment you come round the corner he's practically waddling towards you, that awkward sort of walk he does when still in skates because while he's a smooth skater there's nothing graceful about walking on skates.

"Hey, baby," You're a little nervous, pulling at the sleeves of your jacket, biting your lip as you look up at him with his extra inches from the skates he's still wearing.

"You gotta show me the jacket, baby." He's already reaching for your hand, clasping it in his own lifting it over your head until you get the hint and give him a slow spin. "It looks so good, baby, you painted it yourself?"

"Yeah..." You're not good at accepting compliments or feedback on any of your art, never have been. An inherent self-doubt that fills you, a self-doubt that Clay quickly puts to bed as he grins at you, goofy, teeth on show, eyes crinkling. It doesn't matter that he's a sweaty mess, that his hair is plastered all over his face or that he's exhausted because he's buzzing off seeing you in that jacket.

"How the hell did you hide this from me?"

"Had it in the attic..." You confess, as he tugs at the sleeves and looks at the 9 on top of each arm. His number. His number and you're wearing it.

"Oh, so that's why you freaked when I went to get the Christmas decorations?"

"I didn't want you to see it yet! It wasn't done..." It was half finished at that point, too much work still to do and you didn't want him to see the unfinished product.

"Well, it looks really good, baby, outdid yourself." Clay knows you need the praise. He knows you're always hesitant about showing your art, too many times people had made you feel not so great about it. But, Clayton? Clayton loves everything you make, even the stuff you hate and he loves that you always run to show him, that you're comfortable enough with him to shove your sketchbook in his hand or paint him something as a gift.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you're my favourite artist." You grant him the most radiant smile he's seen all day, cheeks pushed high, grin happy, care free as you take a step closer to him.

"Can I replace that horrendous wolf painting then?" God, you hate that wolf in a suit. You hate it with a burning passion, it's the sort of thing that belonged in 2010 and yet it was in pride of place in the house.

"If you paint another wolf."

"What about a mammoth?" You're negotiating because the truth is you can't take another wolf in the house. You're scarred by the current one.

"I can handle a mammoth...my name looks good on you, you know?" He hums taking a step closer until you're in each other's space. He smells like sweaty hockey gear which makes your nose scrunch up, but he's so pretty that you forgive him for it. Focusing instead on the way his skin seems to glow from coming straight off the ice.

"Mmm?"

"Starting to think I need to make it your name too." He's been thinking about it for a while...proposing. Making you his wife finally. It's an almost constant thought that he has every single day.

"Clay..."

"I'm serious. Don't be surprised when it happens cause it's going to happen." He knows it. He knows you're going to be his wife, it's just a matter of when. You're already wearing his name on your back, you might as well already own the name.

You roll your eyes at him because you're not sure how to respond, because it's hard to deal with that level of focus on you, that sort of attention. Too shy for it. Too bashful to handle it in that moment.

"Go shower..." Your hand shoves him away lightly, pushing at his shoulder until he takes a step back with his head dropped back and a grin.

"Okay, but just know i'm thinking about it."

"Go!" You laugh even as he makes you want to hide away a little. Clayton has that effect on you, even after all this time...he makes you bashful, even more so when he alludes to the possibility of a proposal. You're not sure you'll ever be able to keep a straight face whenever he brings it up. It makes you feel so supremely giddy like you're a school girl again.

You watch him walk away, the sway of his hips even with those stupid skates and the width of his shoulders thanks to all the padding. He stops a few meters from you, turning to look back at you over his shoulder with a smirk, "I can feel you watching me walk away, baby."

"It's my favourite view."

[alltimecharlo]

Ahhhh I love frat!will so much! 🥰 Imagine Mack being the first time at a party (he never was there before because he is a hockey child prodigy with strict parents) and Will is hitting on him. 🥰🙈

love this anon!!! hehe, i’m a sucker for inexperienced mack atm apparently 🤭 fic under the cut!🩵

Mack’s not sure what he expected from his first real college party, but it definitely isn’t this.

The bass is so loud it rattles his ribs, the living room is half dance floor, half war zone of upturned solo cups and stray limbs. There’s a haze of smoke hanging above everyone’s heads like a permanent cloud, and the kitchen is sticky with spilled beer. Someone’s swinging from a ceiling beam. Another person’s chanting something incomprehensible in the corner. It’s a full-blown circus.

Mack hovers near the doorway, arms crossed, feeling like the most obvious outsider to ever grace a frat house. He’s still wearing his BU hockey jacket, because he didn’t think to take it off, and he keeps tugging at the cuffs of his sleeves like they’ll somehow protect him from being noticed.

He’s not shy—he’s played in front of crowds, media, scouts—but this is different. Parties were never part of the plan. His parents were strict, and hockey was everything growing up. It still is. But Lane had begged him to come tonight, and when Mack had finally, reluctantly agreed, Lane had promptly vanished ten minutes in, swallowed up by the crowd.

Mack’s starting to contemplate just ghosting out the front door when he hears a voice behind him.

“Hey, you gonna just stand there looking all lost, or are you gonna let someone show you how to have fun?”

He turns, and there he is.

Will Smith.

Frat boy, college hockey rival, effortlessly cool and obnoxiously good-looking.

Mack’s seen him on the ice before, obviously—BC’s golden boy with the soft hands and sharper tongue. But up close, without a helmet, Will’s even more striking. Curls flopping into his eyes, cheeks flushed from either booze or excitement, and that smirk—God, that smirk—that makes Mack’s stomach twist up weirdly.

“I’m fine,” Mack says, trying not to let his voice betray anything. “Just, uh. Taking it all in.”

Will raises a brow, tilts his head. “You new? I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

“First party.”

Will’s grin widens like he’s just been handed a gift. “Oh, shit. A party virgin. This is big. We should commemorate it.”

Mack blinks. “Commemorate it?”

“Yeah. You and me. Kitchen. Shot. Now.”

He doesn’t really get a choice. Will’s already grabbing his wrist—his wrist—and tugging him through the crowd. Mack follows like a fucking idiot, pulse jumping where their skin touches.

In the kitchen, Will pushes a shot of something amber into his hand. Their fingers brush.

“To firsts,” Will says, voice low, eyes still locked on Mack’s.

Mack hesitates, then throws it back. It burns. Will cheers.

They talk more—about hockey (Will chirps him for losing last month’s matchup), about school (Will’s majoring in “figuring it out”), about how Mack has never played beer pong (which Will insists they rectify immediately). Somehow, hours pass. Somehow, they’re on the porch now, away from the noise, and Mack’s laughing more than he has in months.

“So,” Will says, leaning against the railing. He’s close again, always close. Mack hasn’t moved away. “You always this shy, or is it just me?”

Mack huffs, ducks his head. “Not shy. Just… not used to this.”

Will’s gaze softens. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

Mack stiffens. “You hitting on me?”

Will shrugs, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. Kind of the whole point. Been trying since you stepped through the door. You noticing now or…?”

Mack feels his ears go hot. He looks at Will, really looks—at his grin, at the boldness in his gaze, and the faint uncertainty just underneath it.

So he does something about it.

Leans in. Just a bit.

“Then keep trying,” Mack murmurs.

Will doesn’t waste a second. He leans in the rest of the way, smooth as anything, one hand braced on the railing and the other coming up to brush gently against Mack’s jaw as he kisses him.

It’s not rushed, not messy like Mack expected—it’s sure, steady, confident. Will kisses like he means it, like he’s wanted to for a long time. Mack melts, caught off guard by how good it feels. How warm. How right.

And then Will tilts his head and kisses him again, deeper, and Mack makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat he didn’t know he was capable of. His fingers curl into Will’s shirt without thinking. He wants more. He wants all of it.

When they break apart, Will’s grinning against his mouth.

“Told you I’d show you how to have fun,” he murmurs.

Mack huffs a breathless laugh, still dizzy. “Yeah, okay. You win.”

Will just kisses him again like he’s not done proving it.

Maybe Mack’s first party wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

♡

[marsiltrum]

&&. "my friend's weird new roommate." (au! sinister mark x gn!reader)

warnings: 18+, mentions of death/killing, dryhumping, this is just regular life (death/taxes/going to college while being minimum wage), shitty friends, thighfucking, denial, debbie is deceased in this verse, reader is gender neutral but there will be mention of afab genitalia, etc. summary: everyone told you that it would get better before it got worse. two years in, the only thing college has seemed to do is remind you how little you mean to the world. after your roommate finds a partner, they leave you with half a portion of rent you can't afford to pay and another silent night in what should be home. everything changes when your new roommate moves in and digs his claws into every hole you've let "your friends" riddle you with.

You know it shouldn't irk you now. The way your friend's parties always seem to brush past you rather than involve you. The way rides back home seem to grow silent when you slide into the back seat. The times where drinking on your own couch, in your own home, feels like being shunted off to a dusty corner in the play palace. All the big kids get to laugh and smoke and kick their feet up onto your clean furniture. But you, little old you? You count the dust bunnies. You clean the dirty dishes and shot glasses. That is your lot in life, they've decided.

A part of you knows that you've decided that as well.

Your mom had told you things would be better than high school. Speaking in that gentle, teasing way as she patted your shoulder that made you feel as ridiculousness as you did comforted. Your father told you it couldn't get any worse and you'd been hopeful that day, so you agreed, and they let you go with that. Dropped you right back in with the wolves, left you with your moving boxes and your brand new shiny key. This was going to be different, you told yourself. This was going to be a good thing, you repeated. You were going to live with someone else. You were going to get an education you hardly prepared yourself for. You were going to make new friends. All these new things were going to be good things; all good, new things that were going to erase all the horrible years before.

When your roommate dropped his key onto the kitchen counter, you hadn't even had the chance to bite into your dinner yet. It was just some shitty meal you'd cobbled together with the spare change you had after paying the internet bill (which he didn't split with you, which he'd never paid for) but all you could pay attention to was the fact that he hadn't even the courtesy to hand it over. "I'm moving in with my partner." He said, as if the words weren't world-crushing. Rent was due in a week. You'd had a good shift the night before but not good enough for rent for two. Every month for the last two years had always been like this and he knew it; you knew that he knew that.

"They're coming back to help me move everything into their car on Wednesday so you can help us out." You hated it when people spoke to you like that. This expecting tone, this one that said "you'll do it, right" with nothing but voice alone.

"I work Wednesdays. You know that." You'd worked Wednesdays everyday for the last year. You only missed one, once, and he was the very reason why. (Some drunk night out. Liquor and vomit and a mess you had to spend the whole day cleaning, cloth to your mouth, tears in your eyes, frustration and disgust and shame.) He knew that. You knew he knew that.

"Hm. Okay." That was it. No goodbye, no "thank you for being around". You don't even get the luxury of waving him off when Wednesday finally comes around. He's still in his room when you leave for work in the morning and when you return at night, there's silence and an open bedroom door. Peace and quiet. Peace, quiet, and five days left before you have to pay for rent for two.

It's pure desperation that drives you to post nearly anywhere you can possibly imagine that you are in need a roommate and fast. Printed and stapled onto your college's community board, plastered on the telephone poles in your city, slapped onto craigslist, thrown at reddit's merciless dogs; everything, anything. After the first day, you're desperately texting your friends. After the second day, when none of them respond or deny knowing anyone looking, you start emailing your classmates. Everything is going to better, you remind yourself, it can't get worse.

On the fourth day, you are laying on your living room couch and staring at the black screen of your phone. Enjoying the silence. Accepting that you were going to be out of a home and that your parents, sweet as they are absent, weren't going to help you out of this one. No one was going to help you. That was your lot in life. No one was going to remember you, little old you. You were going to count all the dust bunnies and do all your shifts and finish all your work and clean up all the vomit and that was what you were going to be.

You count. You have to count for something.

You remember counting the time when your phone screams open with light from the notification. Ten-forty at night and you bolt up fast. Spine whining from the adjustment, hip cracking at the speed. You don't recognize the name but you recognize the group it's coming from. Some public group for your town that you had been desperate enough to use an account you hadn't touched in months to post on. [LOOKING FOR ROOMMATE. ASAP.] It was sloppily written and so needy as to be creepy and you knew it but it was day two and you were still hopeful then. Something about that little bit of hope tingles up in you. Winds its way around your spine and starts bearing down on your chest as you read the message.

Mark S Grayson: still looking?

And just that.

"still looking" and a notification, a moment after you finally remember how to breathe, that a message has been sent to you by Mark S Grayson. The contents of the message as innocuous as the first notification.

Mark S Grayson: I can pay by tomorrow afternoon.

For an hour after, you talk to this Mark Grayson. Smooth through his profile. Look at his pictures while waiting for a response to each question you throw his way after the shock finally fades and you start typing. "I live an hour away." He says and you stare at a picture of him at his high school graduation. He's tall but not that skinny either. "Don't have any pets if that's a problem." He's got his mom somewhere in his picture but you don't spot a dad and even if you did, you didn't want to search too far in. "Got security deposit and first two months." But he seems... safe, that's what you tell yourself. He's got a job somewhere on his profile and he's around your age and somewhere in that, the desperation mixed thoroughly in, the shame of no one else, you accept his offer.

When you wake up the next day and check your bank account, there's more money in your checkings account than you had seen in a while. A deposit, zelled to you by a Markus Sebastian Grayson, of rent for the next two months and the security deposit nestled on top. You nearly cry when you transfer it seconds later and all that money disappears into your landlord's wallet. But then all the fear collapses out of you. All the time you've spent these last few days, running around like a chicken without your head, all the despair, all the counting (Quarters, pennies, anything you might have lying around. Anything to pay the bill. Anything to not have to go back, to not be a burden), it disappears and you sleep again.

When you wake up, there's a text message from Mark Grayson. Short. Mark. You hadn't filled out his full contact information on your phone. Just Mark. You really thought the offer was too good to be true. Too perfect to be possible.

Mark: Be there tomorrow.

Mark is there when he says so. In the middle of feverish tidying up, still teetering on the brink of despair and hope, Mark Grayson rings the doorbell. Taller than you expect him to be. A bit broader than any normal person should be. But he's standing there, two duffel bags and pushed back black hair. A couple little strands sticking out. Some tired look to his eyes that don't feel like sleep but feel like something permanent, adhered to him. You don't really see a Markus Sebastian Grayson (Not in the way his clothes seem to cling to him like a third skin. Like there's something between there, a second thing, between fabric and flesh.) but you do see a Mark and Mark, with those tired, dark eyes, sees you too.

"You're the one I was talking to." Not a question, a confirmation. One look, in the seemingly endless black of Mark Grayson's eyes, that says with no voice to speak it, 'I can see right through you.'

It feels like Mark Grayson is always seeing you after you meet him.

Always the first thing when you notice when you come home from work. Always somewhere out now in your town. Not doing much but always around. Thirteen hour shift and Mark is in the kitchen, under the microwave light, reading something on his phone while heating a pan on the stove. Waking up to him on the couch, quiet, watching something on the screen. On the car ride home when you pull into your neighborhood, walking somewhere in the dark of night, somewhere confident enough that he never seems to be on his phone while doing so. Mark Grayson is everywhere now that you notice him, in the same way that the wind is, stronger on stormy days, gentler on sunny mornings.

Mark doesn't meet your friends so much as he stumbles upon them when he comes in through the front door. He stays. He chats. You watch him talk and everything about the way he speaks to them sounds more natural than anything you could ever say. From the stool on the kitchen island, you watch him, back turned to you, and Mark Grayson, a complete stranger, feels closer to them than you ever possibly could be with any of your so-called "friends." Just an hour of conversation and you can see it in the way they speak, in the way they laugh. Feel it when they shake his hand, feel it in how one of your friend's tugs at his sleeve, pulls him closer to stay and keep talking.

But you see something when he finally excuses himself. Chuckling as he turned away and down towards the hallway leading up to his bedroom. A minute, infinitesimally tiny expression. Something so small as to be non-existent, but you catch it. On Mark Grayson's face, right there in his eyes, is some snapshot of a man that is so disgusted he could choke the very life out of something to rid himself of it. And from the corner of his endless black eye, you can see Mark looking right back at you, noticing him noticing you.

Your friends come by more often now than Mark is here.

Every other night, it feels like there's some sort of excuse or reason as to why they come over. "I just finished this stupid assignment I've been working on for two weeks." Another day. "Coming over with" (whoever, whatever) "and a bottle of reposado. Mark should join." The next day. "Is Mark there? Gonna pass by with a couple friends, wanted to talk to him about something." You never really understood why they texted you about it rather than him, but a part of you knew. You were a speed bump. An orange cone.

If they didn't run it by you, they couldn't be considered "friends" enough to keep coming over. To keep sitting on your couch, to keep using your cups, to keep eating your fill.

You don't notice how much things begin to change with Mark around. Not at first, anyways. The places he chooses to sit, the way he uses his body around your friends. Using his heavy hands to shove people out of the way when he goes to the kitchen. Just enough force to startle, just not enough to get a real reaction out of them. Always standing with his back to the door. Cutting off the choice to get out; laughing quietly when someone is forced to squeeze past him and his broad frame. It's mean, almost, it's got a bite to it that no one addresses but you can feel it.

The things he says sometimes too. The way they come out. The kind of thing that would punch ice through your chest and out your back if Mark said them to you. Delivered in this sort of mocking, canary-like, poisonous way. "You really think another drink is what you need?" Mark Grayson, in his soft, gentle tone, with his arm curled around your "friend's" shoulders. "You got a real problem, man. You know, let's get you another drink." Balancing his drink with three fingers, smiling like it's natural, not like the sun but like a great, hungry maw. Waiting to devour them whole. "Go put your glass in the sink and wash it. You might as well have the whole bottle to sip yourself."

When everyone finally leaves and you are lighting a candle to waft away the smell of fast food and joints, you grab your cup and head for the sink. For the first time, in the two months since meeting Mark Grayson, the sink is completely empty. When you look up, there's orange light pouring in from the bathroom and Mark is standing there in the doorway. Staring at you, drying his hands off, leaning on the frame like he's studying you. It doesn't matter that you've looked away or that you start washing your cup. He's noticed you noticing him and it only draws him closer.

"Must want them dead." Mark says, like it's utter fact, completely uncontested. He says it like it's true, which it is, but all you do is focus on the water which feels easier to focus on than Mark's words or his eyes or his frame, which peeks into your peripherals. Big, wide biceps in a loose black wife beater. Hands that could wring someone's spine out like a vice. Leaning against the stove next to the sink, arms crossed like he's in thought but you can feel the difference now. He isn't thinking, Mark is inspecting you. He isn't waiting for you to keep counting the stains on the glass or the dust bunnies. Leaning closer, Mark Grayson is speaking and it's only for you to hear. "You do, don't you?"

"Don't act like it's just me." The only people that couldn't see it was them. But you could see it. In all the ways Mark smiled, like he was fitting on another person's lips right onto his own. The way he would continue pouring the bottle even after your friend's started to protest, filling their cups, filing it more when they weren't looking. All of Mark's gentle "pushes" and "shoves" that were more punches done with comedic "intent" and shoulder checks with bone and tightly-wound muscle. "I just wish they'd stop acting like it matters if I'm around when they are here for you." It's jealous and it's bitter and you know it. But Mark doesn't address it. He doesn't so much as blink, but he does follow. When you dry the cup and put it away, you can feel Mark's eyes trailing after you and when you go towards the couch (One last inspection. Habit, ritual at this point), Mark is a step away from you.

When you assess and there's nothing, no bags, no napkins, no spare utensils and scattered chips, you turn and Mark is behind you.

You'd always noticed, of course. The size of him, the make of him. Mark Grayson is six feet of pure muscle and no gym membership to show for it. No gym clothes in your dryer that you have to boot out into a laundry basket because it's been sitting there waiting for you to deal with. No duffel bag that you'd stumble over because it's in the hallway rather than his room like your other roommate. Wherever it is that Mark Grayson goes when you don't see him, when you don't notice him, it's keeping him built like a panther and of course you notice.

You notice because there are times it feels like he wants you to know how strong he is. Not in some weird bizarro jock way but in a Mark way. Pulling the table back with one hand so you can grab your phone that fell under it like it's made out of cardboard and paper. Flattening a roach that had been harassing the kitchen for two days straight under his palm while setting up his dinner, quick, easy, almost carelessly. Wrenching your tire off when you hit a nail outside your driveway and carrying it under his arm while you replace it with a new one. You didn't stare but of course you had, and even if you didn't, the glimpses are what Mark notices. Perceives with such quick simple recognition. 'I can see right through you.' Always there in every look. Like he's already imagined burying himself right in you. Living in all the little insecurities and hunger and split-second glimpses you've given him.

You can feel it now, as he's standing before you. Couch set between you and Mark's looming body. Even with the light of the bathroom streaming in against him, Mark's eyes seemed like two voids. Not tired, no. Feverish. Not feverish, no, hungry.

"You think you deserve better than them." You can feel Mark's voice vibrating off his chest. Feel it in the way that it resonates down to the pit of your stomach and crashes right back up into your heart. The pounding, beating thing rising to your throat when Mark's hands lift and you can feel them settle there on the sides of your neck. Heavy, slightly cold things that sit on your jugular and force you to look up. "Hm.”

Hm and Okay. No goodbye and no respect. Dirty dishes and vomit on the carpet and texts that say “had no clue you weren't coming” and “we didn’t think to invite you” and Mark Grayson’s hands, which feel as wide as they do terrible, and the fact that you know he’s doing something at night because you follow him every once in a while. You turn your lights off and you coast somewhere close and once, you even got out and started walking by foot. Mark and his steady pace and his phone-less nights and you can tell he’s doing something. Something that requires strength, something that requires muscle, something that makes it so his skin always smells vaguely of cleaner and iron. You know something about Mark isn’t right because no one would travel an hour away from home, last minute, thousands of dollars thrown at the wall, and somehow not have one congratulations or goodbye post written by his Mom.

The account hadn’t been active in months. All the photos of Mark’s mother were old. Debbie Grayson was a phantom on the web and Mark Grayson was still lauding it around as ammo. Mark Grayson, in all his black and yellow fabrics, black shorts that had the tag still on them once, a jacket that you remember seeing on a classmate once, was doing something to this town. Not just to your friends, but this whole city and you were the center of his storm’s eye. The one building left untouched.

“Maybe they don’t.” Mark says simply. “You might be right.”

Two days later, one of your friends posts on Instagram that his little brother has gone missing and one messages you asking if you’ve seen their girlfriend since you take class with her. You have to remind them that you’ve never taken classes with her and the other never asks for your help even as they start putting fliers up.

Mark is watching you the whole day afterwards. Watching as you wring your hair, staring with his tired eyes as you wander circles around the living room and kitchen. Wondering to yourself what the fuck is going in and knowing exactly what’s going on and letting you continue until you’ve finally sit down. Only then is Mark upon you again, as if giving yourself a moment to breathe means he’s allowed to fill it back up with himself. Mark is standing there over you again, but this time it’s the kitchen counter and this time, he’s as unsubtle as the day before. Reaching over you to grab your phone. Looking it over before dropping it gently onto your lap.

“You could give them a call.” Mark knows you won’t. You know you want. He knows you just as well as you do. “Maybe they’ll come over here and beg to cry into your shoulder. You think they’re feeling up to it?” You wanted to hate the way Mark spoke about them sometimes when he knows they can’t hear. This horrible, mocking voice that sounds almost like them but echoed back somehow crueler. With all his teeth and tongue and jaw. “What do you think?”

“Why not do it to them, Mark?” It’s a genuine question. A part of that is what Mark likes about you. How earnest you are. How transparent you are under all those invisible little layers. He almost can’t stop himself from drooling when you look up at him. There’s enough hate and conflict and intrigue in your eyes to fill an ocean with. “Why not just get rid of them?” You speak and even though it’s just a whisper, he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek and he inhales in. Just enough to have you live in his lungs for one second longer.

Just enough to finally get the chance to kiss you.

Your back pressed against the hard edge of the kitchen counter, his hands cupped around your waist. The heavy weight of his body pressed against your chest and the dull, slow beat of his heart slapping against your lungs. Mark Grayson isn't kissing you as much as he's devouring you. Watching as you squirm against him, hesitant and frigid, protesting weakly, "Mark-- This isn't- I'm not--" but not pushing back.

Mark remembers the way you reacted when a friend of a friend touched you. A loose and careless hand around your shoulder. Tugging you close to a red solo cup lip; laughing when you lifted your hand and refused, laughing more when you try to recline back and only stopping when it ghosted your lips. You remember looking out of the corner of your eye and seeing Mark across the room. Lounged over your couch alone, arms rested over the back, the whole room a void with him at the very center. All these beating, breathing bodies in your home and your new roommate was the only one in it that truly looked alive. Surrounded by so many future victims. Looking at you. Only you.

Mark Grayson wants to bury himself in you. You can feel it in his palms, in his invasive fingers as they dip beneath your shirt and splay across your stomach. Dragging themselves, an inch at a time, across to your back where he only pulls you closer. He groans when your protests turn into whimpers, your body melting against his. You don't even notice when he pulls you off the chair, only realizing when you're dropped, back first, into the couch. The air punched out of you and replaced with his lips before you can breathe back in. Claiming you, warming you, the weight of his heavy, sturdy body pressed into your skin.

After what feels like a century, Mark pulls away and speaks while you suck every ounce of air back into your lungs. His pupils blown completely wide. The heavy, slow beat of his heart pulsing against your thighs and lower stomach as he leans back down, pressing soft, hungry kisses against your neck. The drag of his teeth over your jugular. Chest pressed against your's, hands dragging your hips against his own. "I want it to tear them apart." Mark chuckles. A deep, heavy thing that feels like it's coming from somewhere further, dirtier than the body he's caged you under. Yet the only thing you can feet is the wet heat of his body against you, the dizzy stars of oxygen starvation dancing around Mark Grayson's feverish black eyes. "Don't you think it's right?" Another kiss, pressed against your collarbone. Another kiss, pressed against your clothed shoulder. "Their just desserts?"

"Mark---" He eats up the way his name sounds on your lips. You can tell. Feel it in the way his cock twitches up against the fabric of his sweatpants and pulses against your inner thigh. Chews on the sound of your quiet, surprised whimper when he rolls his hips up to hear you repeat it again. Quieter but hungrier. "Mark." You don't know what it is that's making him harder. Hearing you beg for him to slow down or the fact that there's people out there, right now, pleading to find their loved ones, who will only find them in pieces. And that's being hopeful. That's assuming Mark left anything for them to even find. "Is this what you came here to do?" You whisper out and Mark seems utterly unfazed. Concentrated more on the flesh of your thighs as he pulls your pants off one leg at a time, the way the skin sinks beneath his thumbs as he brings them up against his chest. Pressing the full weight of his body down upon you, the heavy warmth of his length grinding against your clothed cunt. "To destroy, shit-- this fucking town too?"

"Maybe." Mark mumbles out against your mouth, canine catching on your bottom lip, the taste of pennies under your wet tongue. "But tomorrow. Maybe in a week." You can feel his hands everywhere. Through your hair, kneading the flesh of your ass, fingers brushing your nipples, wet teeth against your jawline, but it still doesn't feel like enough. He thrusts up against, harder, sloppier, head dripping against his boxers, and you can feel just how little resistance your underwear is giving against him. "But fuck, for right now?" He could rip them off. Pound you right into the couch cushions right here and now but there's no fun in that. No fun in making everything quick and easy. He’ll stay here with you forever, trapped under his arms, watching as you weakly follow after his hips, feeling you drip down against his heavy balls, begging for more despite all your protests and questions.

"I think I want to destroy you first."

writer's comments: hi there! if you got here to the bottom, thank you for reading! this is greatly and wonderfully inspired by my dear friend cherubz (@sepulchr4l on twt) who has the juiciest most wonderful apartment au and it inspired me to write this! i might continue this, i probably will, and if you guys are into that-- then i can definitely do a part two! sinister mark is my second fav mark variant (i want you to Guess who is #1) and i love writing this fucked up, terrible, horrible man. i hope you enjoyed and thank you again!

[demie90s]

Diane with a young reader who has a child???

𝐃𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐓𝐚𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢 X 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐘𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞?

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓, 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: You weren’t supposed to be on her radar. Twenty, a rising star in your own right, and a mom to a toddler who’s already got better court vision than half the league. Diana? She doesn’t do distractions. But you’re not a distraction—you’re direct.

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: Slow burn | Age gap | Soft found family | Protective mama energy meets intense vet energy

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: Mentions of single parenthood, emotional vulnerability, light cursing, Diana being both intimidating and gentle

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~

ᴠɪʙᴇ: “I’ve got her.” “You sure?” “I don’t say things twice.” And you believe her. Because Diana doesn’t make promises she won’t keep. Especially not to little girls in bunny sneakers who call her ‘Di-Di’ and smile when she ties their laces.

I was just here to work—signed on as a reserve for a Phoenix practice block, getting reps, proving I could handle minutes if they came. I was 20, barely past my rookie year overseas, and a mom to a two-year-old who thought the world revolved around juice boxes and glitter socks.

Her name’s Noeli.

She was sitting courtside on a folded towel, munching Goldfish out of a plastic container while I did drills.

And Diana Taurasi was on the other end of the court, shooting like the basket owed her money.

I noticed her before she noticed me. Because how could I not?

She moved like pressure. Like she didn’t have to prove anything but still made everyone feel like they should.

I didn’t expect her to look my way.

But then Eli dropped one of her Goldfish, and I jogged over to pick it up.

And I caught Diana looking—not at me. At her.

After practice, I toweled off and sat next to Lila, tying her shoelaces for the third time.

She leaned into me, sticky fingers in my hair, whispering loud: “That lady scary.”

I laughed under my breath. “She’s not scary. She’s just… serious.”

Behind me, I heard a low voice: “That lady can hear you, y’know.”

I turned.

Diana stood there, towel over her shoulder, a bottle of water in one hand. She wasn’t smiling, but she didn’t look mad either.

Eli blinked up at her, wide-eyed, then buried her face in my neck.

I almost apologized, but Diana tilted her head.

“She’s yours?”

“Yeah.” I rubbed her back. “She’s not always this shy.”

Diana nodded, slow. “What’s her name?”

“Noeli.”

Diana crouched slightly, still holding her water. “Hi, Noeli.”

Eli peeked at her. Whispered, “Hi Di-Di.”

I froze.

Diana did too.

But then she exhaled something that might’ve been a laugh.

“I’ve been called worse,” she said.

After that, something shifted.

Diana didn’t start talking more. Not really. But she nodded at me during warmups. Tossed me the ball once when I wasn’t expecting it. And once, after a hard scrimmage, when I was packing up and Eli was asleep on a rolled-up hoodie, she walked over and asked—

“You good?”

I looked up, tired, sweat drying.

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She looked at Eli . Then back at me.

“I don’t know how you do both.”

I shrugged. “One play at a time.”

She nodded like that meant something to her. Before she left, she looked over her shoulder.

“If you ever need someone to watch her—when you’re shooting—I’ve got her.”

I blinked. “You sure?”

Diana’s voice didn’t waver.

“I don’t say things twice.”

Now.

It was supposed to be five minutes. I just needed to run tape with the trainers.

“Can you watch her?” I asked.

Diana didn’t even blink. Just nodded once and sat down on the bleachers like she’d been waiting for the question.

I left Eli with her. Bunny sneakers, glitter socks, sticky fingers and all.

When I came back?

I stopped in the hallway and stared.

Eli was sitting sideways in Diana’s lap, watching something on an iPad. Her hair—wild and frizzy from a half-day of chaos—was now parted down the middle. Crooked, messy, but clearly braided.

Diana Taurasi was braiding her hair.

One piece at a time. Fumbling a little. Concentrated. Her brow furrowed like this was a fourth quarter free throw and not a tiny girl’s scalp.

Eli was mid-explanation about something on the screen. “And then the blue dog gets mad, and he says ‘ruh roh,’ and—”

Diana nodded like she understood every word.

“Yeah? That’s intense.”

Eli giggled. “You’re funny, Di-Di.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Just watched as Diana reached for another rubber band and secured the worst braid I’ve ever seen like it was sacred.

Then she looked up—and caught me.

“Hey,” she said like nothing was happening.

“You braided her hair,” I said.

“Don’t judge it.” She glanced down. “She told me not to pull too hard. I followed instructions.”

I smiled. Walked over.

Eli turned, reached for me, then paused—halfway between me and Diana. Then she wrapped her arms around Diana’s neck like it was nothing.

Diana froze for a second. Then hugged her back.

“She’s good,” she said softly. “She’s really good.”

I didn’t answer. Just sat next to them. And Diana didn’t move away.

[aakeysmash]

I just saw something about Sukuna wearing glasses and I was just thinking yeah he definitely does and its definitely like the reading glasses kind and when he needs to like at y/n or something he does that thing where he lowers his glasses😭💔 (both au’s kinda except maybe in the college au he wears like actual glasses sometimes and it's like the big frame kind) just a thought tho!

film night and glasses

college!sukuna’s masterlist

You find out one random evening.

It’s just you two because Yuuji stayed over at Megumi’s last-minute, but you already planned on having a film night today. You’re preparing snacks and he’s next to you, in charge of the drinks, grumbling about how he could be sleeping or finishing his macros for the day or literally doing anything else right now.

“Go away then. If you don’t care about the whole dorm knowing you own a pair of bubblegum pink boxers with ‘baby boy’ written on your ass, that is,” you nonchalantly shrug, not able to contain an evil smirk.

“Fuck you, bitch,” he grunts, rolling his eyes. “I already told you everything else was in the washing machine and that those were a fuckin’ gift from the team,” he adds, squinting at your head, wishing his eyes could burn flesh.

“And I already told you I don’t care. Next time don’t come out of your room not wearing anything else beside those,” you sing, walking across the living room and putting down a bowl of popcorn.

“I’m spiking your drink,” he deadpans, following you with two glasses of alcohol-free mojito (he says you’re obnoxious when drunk, so he’s ‘protecting his patience’).

You whistle. “You want me in your bed that bad, baby boy?” You say seductively, doing a come here motion with your index finger. He lifts a corner of his mouth, disgusted, then puts down your drinks near the popcorn bowl.

“Maybe I should just strangle you,” he mumbles while you turn off the lights, giggling.

“What are we watching?” He sighs, resigned, plopping down on the sofa and scooting a little bit over to make space for you.

“Can’t you see the title on the TV?” You respond, raising one eyebrow while pit-patting over to him. He grunts as an answer. You get your feet up and he automatically lifts them on his thighs, rubbing little circles on your ankles. None of you seem bothered by how easily you fall in the position.

15 minutes into the film and you see he keeps on squinting at the TV. You initially shrug it off, but he keeps on doing it for another ten minutes.

“Yo, do you need glasses?” You say, munching on your popcorns. You finish the drink while waiting for his answer. It’s good. He’d be a great barman.

“Yeah,” he says casually, not even turning around to watch you, reaching for the bowl now resting on your stomach. You choke.

“If you die, I’m taking your room,” he says, glancing over, not moving a muscle to help you. You glare at him. You keep on coughing though, so he reluctantly starts to pat your back while rolling his eyes.

“Thanks,” you croak when you get better, wiping tears from the corner of your eyes.

“I’m always saving your dumb ass anyway,” he grunts, but he doesn’t move his hand from your back for some time, and he nods at his drink, currently in his hand and under your nose, so you can drink it.

“You wear glasses?!” You exclaim, voice still rough. Meanwhile, the film is still playing in the background, but your gaze is fixed on his side profile. Flashes of colors dance on his skin, illuminating his relaxed face.

“I don’t. I should,” he shrugs, not turning around to look you in the eye. “Only when I’m tired”.

“Can I please see you with them?!” You clap, changing position and getting on your knees on the couch’s cushion. He brings the arm closer to you on the back of the couch, slowly dragging his gaze on your expectant face.

“Hell no.”

“But whyyy,” you whine. You see a corner of his mouth lifting lazily.

“Don’t want you to die when you see how hot I am with them, baby,” he winks.

You throw a pillow at his face.

[mattslilies]

Early Release - M.S.

"that was fast, sweetie." or... the one where matt cums sooner than you'd expect. warnings: inexperienced!sub!matt, virgin!matt, nerd!matt, dom!reader, dry humping, cumming in boxers, no actual p in v, making out, more to be added as i write word count: 608 a/n: i do not own inexperienced/nerd matt!! this is just a thought based on his cutie little fit.

you loved how innocent matt was. he wasn't just a virgin, he'd never even touched himself before he met you. he just didn't know what to do with himself, never even thinking about the sexual aspect of his life, always buried in his textbooks and assignments. that was, of course, until you came along.

you'd always been fascinated with the boy, talking to your friends about just how cute he looked, glasses pushed up his nose, messy hair from his hands running through it while studying, a consistent work ethic and drive for his education. it was honorable, honestly.

you'd been infatuated with him for a long time before you approached him the first time, taking the book he was working with and closing it, starting up a conversation. you'd been obsessed with the way his cheeks flushed, he stuttered over his words, clearly nervous to be speaking to you.

you'd taken him out shortly after, taking the lead with your first date to him time to grow his confidence while around you. it hadn't taken long for him to ask you to be official, nervousness shaking his body as he waited for your answer, which came in the form of a passionate kiss, leaving him a little starstruck.

throughout your relationship, you loved to tease him. it was one of your favorite things. you hadn't taken his virginity from him yet, although knowing he wanted you to, you wanted to play with him a little more, stretch it out.

you were currently seated on his lap, holding his face in your hands as you ground your hips against his. his glasses were pushed up on his head, his hair ruffled and messy, lips glossy with spit and swollen from the makeout you'd had earlier.

"you look so pretty under me, baby."

you punctuated your words with a forceful roll of your hips forward, listening to the whine leave his lips. you continued speaking, knowing it was driving him even more crazy.

"i love having you like this, honey. it's my favorite thing, having such a pretty boy whimpering underneath me."

leaning down to whisper in his ear, you could feel just how hard he was against you, bulge straining against his shorts.

"i love ruining your innocence, baby."

he let out a moan as your words hit him like a slap, the overwhelming combination of your dirty words and grinding on him causing him to shake, his climax rippling through him much quicker than either of you expected. you grinned, moving your hips against him until he had ridden out all the shockwaves.

"that was fast, sweetie."

he whined, hiding his face in your chest, embarrassment flooding him. he may be inexperienced, but he knew from overhearing conversations that finishing fast wasn't something a lot of people like in a partner. however, you found it endearing.

"it's okay, honey, i think it's cute. i love making you feel so good you just can't control yourself."

you rustled his hair, sliding off of his lap and letting him lean against you.

"let's get you cleaned up, hm? that mess of yourself you made can't be comfortable."

you giggled at the furious blush that spread across his cheeks, the inability to look you directly in the eye as you got him off of the couch.

"we can take a shower to clean you up, maybe i'll even suck you off if you'd like..."

you trailed off your words as you walked out of the room, already removing your shirt. you grinned as you heard him quickly move behind you.

yeah, stripping all his innocence was going to be fun.

taglist <3

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[thelittleladysworld]

Checkmated.

Simon Riley.

♡Fluff ♡

Price couldn’t understand why his lieutenant wouldn’t want to spend time with a specific member of the 141. Price often pondered about it while he was doing paperwork between major missions, or showering after a long day.

Simon Riley was a fantastic fighter, did exactly what he was told and knew his way around a special forces mission. He could easily take down multiple enemies, and he’s been Prices right hand man whenever he needed him.

Simon and Price had weekly meetings, sometimes talking about work, mostly life. Even though it would be Price doing the talking. Soap and Simon went on their morning Friday runs, which Price knew that both of them enjoyed. If they weren’t on a mission, Gaz and Simon would play chess on Sundays, Simon teaching Gaz new moves. Simon would never lose though. Laswell, always had a coffee on her desk at 9:00 am each morning. Simon knew she hated tea, so coffee was a thank you for helping with missions.

Price knew that the 141 is his family, and he spent more time on base, than not. But, there was one member that Simon couldn’t seem to connect with.

You, the youngest member of the team, the youngest person to ever become a lieutenant. Price put you on the task force after you helped with finding El Sin Nombre, and you’ve worked with Farah a few times under Price’s watch.

You were the youngest, but close to age with Gaz, so you both got along great. Soap and you would do wine and romcoms, and you worked out with Price every morning. Laswell and you would enjoy a good gossip session, when you needed to get away from the testosterone.

But, the only nut you couldn’t crack was Simon.

After the whole drama with Hassan, and a few nights home, you guys jumped right back into missions regarding Makarov. But in between missions, you all trained.

You, out of everyone, trained the hardest. You were always working out with the boys, and you would crash out after dinner at base.

But, one night, before an early morning mission, you couldn’t sleep.

So you went jogging. There was a patch of grass and you ran on it for 43 minutes before you grew tired of running, but not sleepy enough.

So you made your way to the common room, the alarm clock in the corner flashing ‘11:23 am.’

“Shit.” You whispered. You needed to be up at 4 am, and you weren’t remotely tired.

“Something the matter?” A deep voice asked behind you, and you jumped.

“Jesus Christ… don’t do that.”

The blonde hair on his bare arms raised along with his left eyebrow, “sorry.” He grunted.

You both stared at each other. “Can’t sleep?” You mumbled.

He nods twice. “You?”

“Nope.”

You both stand there in silence, and that’s only when you notice that he’s not wearing his mask.

Just him.

Not Ghost, just Simon.

“Do you want to play chess?” He moves to the table in the common room, and starts setting the board up.

You nod, and sit down. Then you hesitate. “I haven’t played since I was thirteen.”

He nods, letting you play white. You both sit in silence for the first few moves. You get the advantage in a move, and ask, “Why do you not talk to me?”

Simon ponders his move, “I’m talking now.”

You glare at him, “I mean generally.”

He shrugs. “You make me want to be better.”

Oh.

It’s not at all what you expecting, it seems childish. But, you don’t have time to question it, because you checkmate him. “HA! FUCK YEAH! I WON AGAINST THE KING OF CHESS!!!”

You danced around the common room, and then you laughed hard.

Simon just watched, with a slight smile on his face. It’s never been secret about his feelings for you, it’s just that no one has asked.

He won’t tell anyone that he let you win. He could have check-mated you in 5 moves.

[ceyanabbiolo]

PHOTOGRAPH // M.S [05]

Summary: Daphne Denoire, a 21-year-old, returns to Boston to after 3 years—but working for her brother’s best friend, Matthew Sturniolo, wasn’t part of the plan. He’s a 26-year-old multimillionaire. She’s the girl he was never supposed to feel this way about. With secrets between them and boundaries set, how far will they go for a love they never saw coming?

Warnings: slightly suggestive.

wc: 3025

Chapter 5: Welcome to LA, London girl

The music was loud—bass thumping, lights strobing in the dark haze of the rooftop lounge. I leaned back against the velvet couch, a drink in one hand, the other casually resting on the leg of the girl tucked beside me. 

Her name? Honestly, I didn’t catch it the first time, and I wasn’t planning on asking again.

She laughed at something I barely said, leaning in closer, her perfume sweet and cloying, mixing with the sharp scent of tequila in the air. Her hand grazed my jaw, and I let her kiss me.

It wasn’t deep, not yet. Just enough to keep her interested. My friends were scattered around the space, half-drunk and loud, calling out shots and talking about L.A. like it was the only place on earth worth being. Someone had already started rolling a blunt in the corner. Typical Friday night.

It was definitely different from the gala's and events I usually attend with family.

I pulled back slightly and looked down at the girl beside me. She was pretty—tan skin, dark eyes, blonde hair, and that confident look that said she was used to attention. I wasn’t thinking much. Just here for a good time. The kind of distraction I didn’t have to think twice about.

Her hand slid under the hem of my shirt, and I chuckled lowly, letting her move in closer. My mouth found hers again, this time slower, deeper.

She was starting to get bolder, and so was I. 

I was here for a fun time, so why not. 

Her hands roamed more freely now, fingertips teasing the edge of my belt like she was testing how far I’d let her go. I didn’t stop her.

I pulled back slightly, catching her eyes with a lazy grin. “Upstairs?” I asked, my voice low, already knowing the answer.

She didn’t hesitate. “Yeah.”

She stood, smoothing down her dress, and reached for my hand. I let her lead the way through the crowd—shoulders brushing past half-drunk bodies, music still thumping behind us. A few people turned as we passed, nodding, like they’d seen this story play out a hundred times.

We got to the stairs and started up, the sound from the party fading with each step.

We made it to one of the guest rooms, the door shutting behind us with a soft click.

Things moved fast after that—clothes carelessly dropped, kisses turning heated. There wasn’t much talking, just instinct and impulse. We fell into the sheets like two people chasing distraction, not meaning.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t tender. Just something to fill the silence, I didn’t want to sit with and by the time it was over, the room was silent with just silence pants here and there. 

I lay back against the pillow, the girl beside me already drifting off.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, screen lighting up in the dim room. I reached over, half-expecting it to be one of the guys.

But it wasn’t.

Daphne: Hi Matt, just wanted to double-check What time should I be at the airport tomorrow? 

I stared at the message for a second, then smirked a little to myself. Right—L.A. trip.

I quietly typed out a reply:

Matthew: 10:30. Don’t worry about getting there I’ll pick you up

A minute later, I got a reply. 

Daphne: Sounds good :) 

I smiled to myself, almost knowing how she sounded if she said that. 

I put the phone down on the nightstand, running a hand through my hair as I sat up slowly. The soft sheets rustled beneath me, and the girl stirred beside me, blinking up through heavy lashes.

“Hey,” I said, grabbing my shirt from the floor. “I’m gonna head out.”

She propped herself up on one elbow, nodding lazily. “Yeah, that’s cool.”

No questions. No clinginess. Just like I liked it.

I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my keys and phone, and glanced back for a second. She was putting her clothes back on as well.

I’d said bye to a few friends, then rode back to my place to crash for the night.

The next morning, I woke up with a dull headache pounding behind my eyes, but I ignored it. Nothing a cold shower couldn’t fix.

After a few minutes under the water, I felt more like myself. My suitcases were already packed from the day before, resting by the front door with my assistants. I threw on a clean hoodie, black jeans, grabbed everything, and headed out.

When the car pulled up to Aurora’s house, I told the driver I’d step out and help her with her luggage.

I walked up to the front door and knocked. It didn’t take long before she appeared, already dressed and ready, wearing a burgundy sweater that suited her perfectly. She looked calm but prepared.

I couldn’t help but think she looked pretty, more so than usual.

She opened the door and gave me a small smile. “Ready to go?” I asked, flashing a smile. “Yeah, just about,” she said, grabbing her bag.

I nodded and stepped inside to help her with the luggage. “Looks like you packed light,” I teased. She shrugged, her eyes briefly darting away. “Kept it simple.” I grabbed her luggage along with a bulky camera bag and carried them outside. She locked the door behind us, and soon we were settled into the car.

The drive to the airport was quiet, the kind of silence filled with unspoken thoughts. Once we arrived, navigated through check-in, security lines, and all the usual airport chaos, we finally found ourselves with a moment to breathe and actually talk.

She glanced around and said, “I’m gonna head to that café over there to get a drink.”

I nodded. “Sure, we’ve got like half an hour before boarding anyway.”

We walked together toward the café, the buzz of the airport fading a bit as we grabbed some coffee and settled into the small moment of calm before the flight.

She stepped up to the counter first, glancing at the menu before speaking softly, “I’ll have an iced matcha latte...and a croissant, please.”

She hesitated, about to add something else, when I quickly cut in, “Make that two croissants—and a bottle of apple juice for me.”

Before she could protest, I pulled out my card and paid for both orders.

Daphne’s eyes flicked to me. 

“Matt,” she sighed, a hint of frustration crossing her face. “You didn’t have to do that...”

I smiled reassuringly. “It’s no big deal. Consider it a welcome gift for the trip.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but the tension eased as she accepted the gesture, reluctantly grateful.

When our orders arrived, Daphne took her iced matcha latte and croissant with a small smile. “Thanks again,” she said quietly, glancing up at me.

I eyed her drink and teased, “That’s not straight matcha, right? It’s got milk and stuff in it?”

She nodded, a bit defensive but still shy. “Yeah, it’s got milk and sweetener. Plus, it tastes good.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Why do you like that green drink anyway?”

She smiled softly. “It’s good... and refreshing.”

I smirked. “Sounds like you’re a health nut.”

She laughed lightly. “I promise it’s not really healthy with all the sugar they put in.”

Then she held out the cup. “Want to try a sip?”

I grinned and took a sip, letting the cool, slightly sweet flavour settle on me. I clicked my tongue, trying to understand the hype.

Honestly, I wasn’t feeling it. But she was watching me with that expectant smile, so I just shrugged and said, “I like it.”

She giggled, shaking her head. “No, you don’t.” “Caught me,” I said, laughing it off. 

We kept chatting quietly until the boarding call echoed through the terminal.

DAPHNE

Landing in LAX felt so unreal for someone like me—someone who’d never even set foot there before.

You know what else felt unreal? Flying business class. I almost died when Matt took us to the business class lounge. I had never been in business; the closest I’ve gotten was an upgrade to premium economy once. 

The entire drive to the hotel, I couldn’t stop staring out the window, taking everything in.

Boston had its charm—red bricks, history, cozy bookstores and coffee shops—but LA? LA felt fast, shiny, and full of possibility.

LA felt like a different world compared to Boston. The air was warmer, and the buildings looked sleek and modern—like I had stepped onto a movie set. Even the people walking around seemed different, dressed effortlessly cool, like they belonged in magazines. 

Still, I think I preferred London somehow. 

I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear, my camera bag on my lap, and tried not to let it all overwhelm me.

When the car finally pulled into the hotel’s driveway, my eyes widened all over again.

It was one of those tall, sleek glass buildings with a luxury logo I’d only ever seen online or in fashion magazines. A valet opened the door, and I stepped out, clutching my bag tightly as Matt casually rounded the car like he did this every day. He handed the keys to the valet and turned toward me.

“You good?” he asked, noticing the way I was looking up at the building.

“Yeah,” I said, a little breathless. “It’s just… really nice.”

He gave a lopsided grin. “Only the best. You’re on the clock, remember? Company card.”

I followed him through the spinning doors, and the lobby hit me like a scene from a movie—marble floors, a massive chandelier, front desk staff in pressed uniforms, and soft music playing somewhere overhead.

We checked in quickly—Matt handled everything, of course—and soon a bellhop was helping with our bags as we were led to the elevators.

Our rooms were next to each other on one of the higher floors. When I walked into mine, I was met with floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city. The sunlight spilled across the white sheets and minimalistic decor like something from a luxury Airbnb.

I turned back to Matt, who stood in the hallway with a hand still on his door.

“You settle in,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting in like an hour, but after that, I can give you a rundown of the schedule, alright?” 

“Okay,” I nodded, still slightly dazed. “Thanks, Matt.”

He winked. “Welcome to LA, London girl.” 

I felt my cheeks warm as he shut the door behind him. Ugh. Why did his voice have to sound so nice? And why did he look even better under California lighting? The slight stubble on his jaw was doing more than it should have. I let out a quiet sigh and turned away from the door, telling myself to chill out.

Once I was alone, I changed into a soft set of pajamas and collapsed onto the bed, sinking into the comfort of it. I was absolutely exhausted from the flight, but my body buzzed with a strange, restless energy. Maybe it was the new city, or maybe it was the thought of being here—with Matt, technically working, yet also completely out of my comfort zone.

After laying there for a while, staring at the ceiling and debating whether or not to nap, I made up my mind. I couldn’t just waste my first afternoon in Los Angeles by hiding in a hotel room. I slipped on a hoodie and some sneakers, grabbed my camera (because of course), and decided to go on a quick walk.

Outside, the air felt different. Warmer, lighter—like the whole city had this effortless glow to it. Palm trees lined the streets and the late afternoon sun dipped golden shadows across the pavement. I wandered for a bit, turning down a stretch of shops that looked like something out of a high-fashion editorial.

Then I saw it.

A jewelry store tucked between two designer boutiques, glass displays catching the light and throwing sparkles across the sidewalk. My eyes were immediately drawn to the front window. Inside, on velvet stands, were rings so intricate and delicate they looked like they belonged in a fairytale. One in particular caught my attention—rose gold with a small cluster of diamonds shaped like a tiny flower.

I stood there for a long moment, hands in my hoodie pocket, just admiring it.

Not that I’d ever buy something like that for myself. But still. It was pretty to look at. And maybe… just maybe… a girl could dream.

By the time I walked back into the hotel lobby, my feet aching slightly from all the wandering, I froze at the sight of Matt. He was standing near the check-in desk, one hand raking through his hair, the other holding his phone to his ear. His brows were furrowed, and his voice—low but tense—carried just enough for me to hear snippets.

“I’ve called twice and she’s not in the room—yeah, can you check if—”, he sees me, “never mind.”

Relief visibly washed over his face, tension in his shoulders dropping the second our eyes met.

“There you are,” he said, hanging up the call and slipping his phone into his pocket.

I blinked. “What… why do you look like that? What’s going on?”

Matt walked over quickly, not angry, but definitely still wound up. “You didn’t answer your phone. And when I called the room, no one picked up. I thought something happened.”

I pulled my phone out of my hoodie pocket and winced. Two missed calls. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even feel it vibrate. I just went for a quick walk. I thought I had time before you got back.”

He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I just—when I didn’t see you in the room and your phone wasn’t answering, I… I got worried.”

I looked up at him, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t mean to freak you out.”

“You didn’t,” he said quickly, then amended, “Okay, maybe a little. Just… let me know next time, alright? Noah would kill me”

I nodded, heart thudding a little too loud in my chest. “My bad”

We took the elevator up in silence, the air slightly thick with whatever had just passed between us downstairs. When the doors slid open, Matt glanced over at me and nodded toward his room.

“Come in for a second,” he said casually, fishing out the key card.

I trailed behind him, stepping into the sleek, modern suite. It smelled like expensive cologne and something faintly woodsy—unmistakably him. I stood near the door for a moment, taking in the room: the king-size bed still unmade, a leather duffle bag resting on the bench, a few of his things scattered on the desk.

It was messy in a lived-in way, like he didn’t care much about appearances when it was just him. Though it was funny, because we just got here.

“So,” he started, walking to the window and pulling back the curtains halfway. “This week’s going to be packed. We’ve got that big campaign shoot on Monday, fittings on Tuesday. You’ll be on-site for most of it, and I’ll have my assistant give you a list of what the clients are expecting.”

I nodded, trying to stay focused. Really, I was, but my eyes drifted—upward, toward his jaw, then lower.

A purplish mark, just barely visible at the side of his neck, above the collar of his shirt. My breath caught for a second, and I had to blink to make sure I wasn’t imagining it.

A hickey.

Matt stopped mid-sentence, his brow furrowing slightly when he caught the distant look on my face.

“You good?” he asked, tilting his head a little. “You spaced out.”

I blinked quickly and forced a small smile, tearing my gaze away from the mark on his neck.

“Yeah—yeah, sorry,” I said, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Just tired, I think.”

He looked at me for a second longer, like he wasn’t fully buying it, but he didn’t press.

“Alright,” he said slowly, then added with a small smirk, “Hope I wasn’t boring you already.”

I shook my head quickly. “No, you weren’t. I’m just… still adjusting to the time difference, I guess.”

“Fair,” he nodded, still eyeing me. “Lemme grab you the schedule anyway.”

As he turned to rummage through a folder on the desk, I couldn’t help glancing at his neck again, the question silently pressing at the back of my mind— Who gave it to him?

Oh my… does he have a girlfriend? Of course he does. Why wouldn’t he? He’s handsome as hell, would be a shame if he was gatekeeping himself. 

I folded my arms, shifting my weight from one foot to the other as I looked away, pretending to study the artwork on the hotel wall instead of spiraling inside my head. My stomach twisted for reasons I didn’t want to name.

Stop it, Daphne. 

He turned back around, totally casual, holding out a printed itinerary. “Here’s what the week’s looking like. You don’t have to come to everything, but I highlighted the shoots you’ll need to be at.”

I took it from him quietly, eyes scanning the page even though the words barely registered.

“Thanks,” I said, my voice softer than I intended.

He must’ve sensed something, because he stepped a little closer. “You okay?”

I nodded quickly, too quickly. “Yeah, just tired like I said.”

He studied me again, brow slightly raised, and I knew he could tell something was off—but thankfully, he let it go.

“Alright, well,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “get some rest, sweetheart. Tomorrow’s a long day.”

Gosh, he needs to stop calling me that. 

“Right,” I murmured, giving him a tight smile. “See you in the morning.”

I turned to leave, heart heavier than it had been five minutes ago—trying not to wonder who she was, or why it even mattered. 

Matthew Sturniolo was just my boss, nothing else and I had to make that clear to myself.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS NOW!

[a/n: thank you for all the support so far! I love you all. mwah, like and reblog!] –ceyana

Tags: @oopsiedaisydeer @ribbonlovergirl @mattsfrenchtoast @lm-a-mirrorball @cholejhunter @urlocallera @kingofeverythingmb @idkwhatimdoinghereeeeeee @malox12 @sturnslux3 @carrielovesmatt @vanillakissesxx @sagesturns @enviedparty101 @kiarasmaybank @mattscore @fmg05 @ed1tssturnn @kenah-sturniolo @tropicfessed @courta13 @meatballlover10 @ellssturn @idkwhatthisis2009 @mattspillowprincess @chrissturniolodailysluts

[lovergirl-co]

Naked in Manhattan

——————————————————————-

Dina x Reader

Naked in Manhattan

Mean girls, we watch it every night

and we both have a crush on Regina George

————————————————————————

Summary:: You finally graduated college and decided to visit your friend in Manhattan New York. Dina. you didn’t expect her to change as much as she did.

Tags:: scissoring, slight choking, smoking, weed mentioned, Dina first time with a woman (idk if I like that)

A/n:: I made this cause there is not enough Dina fics on this damn app.

you just graduated from college and bought a tiny studio apartment with enough space to fit a mini brand microwave and a couch.

while you were laying down in bed one day you suddenly remembered Dina happened to move to manhattan to.

so you texted her.

Hiiii D!!! I just remembered you live near by, can I come over. Just so we can “catch up” lol.

Dina’s phone lit up as the joint she lit up a few minutes ago rested between her fingers. She grabbed the phone answering quick

Dinaa💕 Heyy, ofc you can come over. When did you move here?

You texted back.

Not to long ago. But wtv. Thanks for letting me come over ill be quick!!💗💗

୨୧

You knocked on Dina’s apartment door “Coming!” Her loud voice made its way closer to the door.

Then the door then slung open as Dina stood in front of it. The smell of bath and body works candles smacked you in the face. “Come on in” she stepped aside smiling at you.

Her apartment was comforting. Sure it was giving ‘almond mom’ but it was nice to think about.

you sat your stuff down by the front door and kicked your shoes off, looking around “woah, you have nice view from your balcony” and she did, it was an over view from the city and a nice sunset.

“Wanna go out there?” She asked intriguingly.

୨୧

“Ew, you smoke actual cigarettes?” Dina asked. You smirked looking at her “better than weed” she audibly gasped at your comment, Dina playfully punched your arm “don’t even say that, cause you know it’s not true” scoffing, you put out the cigarette on the flower shaped ashtray next to you.

“You remember the one time you got so high you almost jumped out the window cause you thought the walls were closing in on you?” You reminded her. Dina laughed at your comment “uhm, i don’t think I remember that” you chuckled “maybe it’s because you smoke to much, it’s frying your brain” “oh, shut up” she emphasized. “Did you smoke before I got here?” You asked, smelling a faint smell coming off her clothes “maybe.” She answered. You looked at her confused “so yes?” Dina laughed off the situation “Whatever, we’re not here to worry about me, let’s talk about you” she  blurted. “Nothing to really talk about.” You added playing with your  jeans.

“Oh, yes there is. Like— she paused “like?” You repeated “like, how was your time in college. Did you get wasted and go to college parties and have the best time of your life?” She exaggerated, you snorted before answering her “uhm, no, actually I just did college things and stayed in my dorms for most of the time” her smiled dropped “boring much. Well uhm, did you meet anyone?” She bit her lip.

You looked up at her from your feet “uhm, yeah.” Dina’s stomach dropped, she was hoping you’d say no “what’s her name?” “Her name? Oh, uh, her name was Ellie, she was my roommate— “she was an ass though” that made her feel better. “Oh, cool.” She said with a fake smile that dropped when she realized you were looking at her “what?” She asked. You laughed “you just seemed almost jealous when I said her name” she giggled “I’m not jealous, why would I be jealous” “Better not be” the silence after your pause was loud, You broke the silence “so uhm, are you and Jesse still on good terms?” Dina blinked a couple times and rubbed her knees in a nervous way before laughing awkwardly “no, me and him broke up last month” you weren’t even surprised “that’s like, the longest yiu guys have ever been apart for” you joked.

“Yeah, uhm you wanna go inside it’s getting kinda chilly out” Dina remarks. Nodding you stand up and start to walk inside with her.

Once you two were inside, you just were already in matching pajamas that Dina bought, eating everything in sight and reminding each other of old memories from when you guys were 12 “—and oh my gosh, you remember that Lana song you used to sing?” She asked you excitedly. You laughed “the one that makes you cry?” Dina gasped “yes! That one!” “Man.. those singing days are long gone now” you sighed.

“Oh! You also remember when we used to watch mean girls every night?” Dina reminds you. “Hell yeh I remember, I used to have the fattest crush on Regina George” you laugh “me too!” Dina exclaims, you looked at her “you used to have a crush on Regina George too? I thought you liked like, Aaron Samuel’s or whatever” you add. “What? No. I hated Aaron he wasn’t even attractive, Cady had no taste.” She scoffs. you agreed nodding “you get me.”

She turns her head towards the speaker behind her “what do you wanna listen to?” You hum popping tiny candies in your mouth, she turns her head agian facing you “you look so stupid right now” Dina giggles at you and pulls out her phone to snap a picture.

“Dina! Delete it” you exclaim reaching for her phone. “Fine, fine— but only if you say the magic word” Dina teases “oh I know it— you pause “what is it then” she continues after you “fuck you”

Dina gasp dramatically crossing her arms “you are so rude, I’m keeping that picture till I die”

“Okay, fine. Just know I have worst pictures of you” you admitted. She looked at you and smiled “that’s just a lame attempt to try and make me delete the photo”

you rolled your eyes and bit your tongue “whatever you believe. Anyways, do you wanna watch something”

୨୧

The sound of lips smacking together filled the room.

“Mm— you taste amazing” Dina moaned into your mouth.

Well, Dina put on a movie and occasionally started to scoot closer to you, you didn’t think much of sense Dina was always a “touchy person” so of course you just played it off by scooting closer to her.

Then closer, and closer until you couldn’t anymore.

Eventually you two looked at each other and knew right then and there what you wanted.

Dina leaned in first, you hesitated not knowing if she knew what she was doing “D.. are you sure you want this?” You concerningly asked. She nodded her head so fast you swear she got whiplash for a moment.

Then it happened, a kiss, then another, then other, and then Dina’s tongue slipped in.

So now you two have been French kissing in criss cross for 2 whole minutes.

Your hands roamed Dina’s body. The shorts she was wearing, the promise necklace you gave her when she was 15. Everything, you loved everything about her.

You’ve always wanted this, so when she leaned in for a kiss you secretly did a backflip in your head celebrating.

She pulled away from the kiss to take a breath “I wanna try something” you glanced at her “what is it?”

“Take off your clothes” she demanded. “fast much? You joked. But you did it anyways, you slid your shirt off your head and practically ripped off your shorts.

“You’re beautiful” she whispered. Dina then did the same, and slid off her clothes.

She breathed out “lay down”. You layed down slowly occasionally peeking at her and the reactions she was having. And by the looks of it, she’d never been with a woman.

“D, you look nervous about this, are you sure you want this?” You nervously chewed in your lip holding yourself up on your elbows.

She just smirked at you “I think I know what I’m doing” you laughed “Yiu think or you know?” “I think I know so.”

୨୧

“You like that?” Her voice was shaky and broken from all the sounds and screaming she was doing.

Her clit was bumping against yours in a rhythmic motion.

Your eyes rolled back into your head, apparently she definitely did know what she was doing. Cause, her hips were moving like she was a natural and she could keep her balance pretty steady.

You sucked in as your nails dug into her sides, “just like that baby your doing so good”

She moaned at hearing your words.

You guys brains were straight blank, and the wet sounds didn’t make that any better.

The sheets beneath you guys were done for and your underwear was probably half way across the room. And Dina’s phone has been going off like crazy.

At this point, you weren’t watching the movie, the movie was watching you.

“Fuck m’ gonna cum” you cried out “Look at me, I wanna see you cum for me.” Dina grabbed your neck as she began to move faster against you.

“Dinaa” you said out her name in a singsong voice.

Then your second orgasm waved over you.

Dina’s was seconds after you as the grip she had on your neck loosened. Her thighs trembled around your waist.

she stayed there for a few before climbing off of you and laying by your side.

Dina pulled you in closer “Was that okay?”

You smiled weakly “I’ve had better” Dina frowned “that’s not funny”

”Uhm, you probably wanna see who was blowing up your phone” you mentioned.

She turned around and grabbed her phone off the nightstand, her phone case facing you. A Polaroid picture of you and her.

You snorted before asking her “who was it?”

Jesse. Hey Dina, you’re probably asleep right now. So when you wake up I want you to text me back. I wanna apologize.

She stuttered “No one. Just a friend”

You scoffed “alright.”

“I’m gonna go get something to drink. Do you want anything?”

she was on her phone, not paying attention at all “hm? Oh, a water is fine”

You nodded.

she was texting Jesse back.

Now she was stuck.

It was either you or Jesse.

⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔⏔

a/n:: this was very rushed so if the sex scene makes no sense you have every right to bully me lol (not actually tho🙏🏾✌️) if there is any spelling mistakes I apologize (same goes for commas and what not)

@graciedollie @ellieswife4ever @lluxentzz @korn-dawg @look-me @liliofabby @cassieyapsz

[no-name-was-free]

You were worried about your boyfriend: he started acting differently some months ago. He started showing up covered in bruises, making excuses, skipping class. You couldn't help but worry, was he being bullied? Did something happen at home?

You couldn’t just stay there and watch! So, when he cancelled at the least moment a date at his house, you decided to just sneak in and see what was happening.

He left his window open (terrible thing since his parents weren’t at home) so it was even too easy for you to climb on and enter. Then you just wait, patiently, he will come back sooner or later, so you make yourself comfortable on his bed and look at the door, to surprise him. He didn’t enter through that though. An hour after your arrival, he flew in, full speed, almost crashing against the floor and took off his mask before noticing your presence.

“Hum…” his face turned red “it…it was a… i was at a comicon, so… i didn’t expect you to be there… i buy this nice Invincible’s costume…because i’m a fan, not the real invincible of cours, that would be crazy…”

You just looked at him, shocked: your boyfriend was Invincible! The same guy that couldn’t help but blush when you were too close and that used to spend his afternoon geeking about his comics. That was absurd. Just this morning you saw him tripping on his own feet!

You both stayed there, looking at each other for a little, but somehow you snapped out of it first. “Mark, i see you fly. Pretty sure no fan could do that” You step forward, ‘till you were close enough to touch his biceps, almost expecting to see him disappear like a hallucination. “That explains a lot, when did you plan to tell me i was dating a superhero?”

He gulped, almost as if you were the one able to move a mountain. “soon?” You wrapped an arm around his neck, playing with the hair on his nape. “don’t believe in a single world, pretty boy… Why did you let me push you around for all this time? Just cause i’m pretty?” He nodded “Very pretty”. You came even closer, so that your mouth was a few millimeters from his, but when you talked your worlds were the opposite of your action. “Not pretty enough for the truth i guess… I should just dump you for lying to me” You were bluffing. Of course you would never let go of that golden boy of a boyfriend! You were shocked for the discover, but not angry: it was somehow reasonable to not tell anyone your secret identity. Still he deserved to be scarred for some second. An he was. almost terrified, before you added.

“Luckily for you i’m too much of a fan of both my adorable boyfriend and Invincible” You finally kiss him, tightening your grip on his hair, pushing your tongue in his mouth until you hear him moan and his hands grab your waist. He totally was your boyfriend, even in the suit, so needy and flustered at every touch, melted by the kiss alone.

When you finally let him breath he phanted “so we’re good? You’re not angry?” You took the time to lazily kiss his neck, before answering. “I am angry, just a bit, but we have a date planned for today, so what do you say about going on the bed, the suit stays on, and after that we go out to dinner?”

In a second he was already between the sheet, you could see his hal hardon through the tight suit. Adorable, excited and apparently super strong and fast: the best boyfriend you could hope for.

[juliettejwnewinesa]

could we get a baku version of “You’re Safe Now” ? all your fics give me life they’re so good 🤗

You're Safe Now

Character: Hong Humin POV: Third person, fem!reader Tone: Emotional, raw, soft, comfort-heavy with NSFW (comfort sex)

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

It starts with a question you weren't expecting.

"Was he always like that?" Humin asks, eyes fixed on you like he already knows the answer.

You're curled up on the bed beside him, legs drawn up to your chest, wearing the oversized hoodie he left at your place last week. The TV plays something neither of you are watching. You should lie. Say you're fine. But your throat is tight and your heart's somewhere between hollow and pounding.

"Worse, actually," you murmur, barely above a whisper.

He doesn’t speak. Just watches. And you know he's giving you space—to run, to close off, to pretend it doesn’t matter. But the dam breaks anyway.

"He used to come home angry," you continue, voice shaking. "Drunk or pissed from work, didn’t matter. If I breathed too loud, looked at him wrong—boom. Rage. Yelling. Sometimes worse."

You stare at your knees. Shame rising like bile.

"People don’t really understand. You learn to make yourself small. Quiet. You learn how to disappear in plain sight. And then... years later, someone slams a door or raises their voice, and your whole body thinks you’re twelve again, about to get screamed at for existing."

Humin shifts beside you. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t try to fix it.

He just pulls you closer. Wraps an arm around your shoulders, tugs your face to his chest, and holds you like you might break apart any second.

"You don't have to explain," he says quietly. "I get it."

Your breath hitches. "Why does it still hurt? Why does he still have that power over me?"

Humin doesn't answer right away. He presses his lips to the top of your head. Stays there. Steady.

"Because it mattered. What he did. Because you're still trying to unlearn years of thinking love had to hurt. But it doesn't. Not with me. Not ever."

Your fingers curl into his shirt.

"You make it feel safe. Like I don’t have to apologize for being alive."

He breathes in slow, as if he’s the one who’s about to fall apart. "You don’t. You never did. He was wrong. About everything."

You look up, eyes glassy. "You really think so?"

His jaw tenses. "I know so."

And then he kisses you.

It starts soft. Gentle. Mouths brushing, hands lingering on skin like the touch itself is sacred. But there’s an ache behind it—something raw and desperate. The need to feel, to be held, to be known.

"You okay?" he asks, thumb brushing your cheek.

"I want you," you whisper. "Not to forget it. But to feel something else. Something real."

Clothes come off slowly. No rush. Just soft touches and quiet affirmations. His body over yours, warm and grounding. He pushes into you slowly, watching every twitch of your face like he’s memorizing it.

"You're safe," he breathes. "With me. Always."

Tears slide down your cheeks as your hips meet his, each slow thrust a gentle promise. He cups your face like you're fragile. Like he wants to be the one good thing that never hurts you.

You cry his name when you come, and he holds you tighter, whispering how proud he is. How strong you are. How he’s never letting you go.

When it's over, he doesn't move. Just pulls the blanket around both of you, kisses your forehead, and lets you breathe.

"You’re safe now," he whispers again.

And this time, you believe it.

[shattered-matrix]

Chapter 2: Pulse

Soulmate Pirate AU | Hongjoong x Reader

Themes: soulmate marks, cursed ships, ocean magic, emotional tension, old gods, yearning, pirate crew shenanigans, mapmaker heroine who does not swoon on command

2.8k words

Taglist: open

The tavern is half-full when you step inside, the warmth of the hearth rising to meet the sea-cling still soaked into your sleeves. You shove the hood from your head, shake out your damp hair, and head toward the back with the kind of practiced confidence that comes from a hundred quiet transactions.

Your presence doesn’t turn heads. Not anymore.

A barmaid waves you toward the end table near the window—your usual meeting spot for deliveries that don’t need to be traced. Then she’s bustling back to fetch your usual order. While you’ve never trusted the tavern’s food, the drink has always been satisfying.

The client is already waiting. A narrow-faced man with a navigator’s squint and a trader’s posture. He’s damp from the sea, ink-stained fingers drumming against his mug. Once upon a time, these sorts of men made sure you knew just how much they doubted a woman could do what they required. Those days have long since passed.

You drop the wax-wrapped scroll onto the table without preamble, sliding into the seat across from him.

“Three-day turnaround,” you say. “Depth marks along the jagged coast and the channel you asked about. Tides in red. Margins tight—you’ll need a good helmsman.”

He opens it, scans it, and nods.

“Good work.”

He hands you a pouch. You don’t count it before putting it away.

It’s not the first time you’ve done business. Not the first time you’ve sat in this exact chair. But something feels… off.

The dog by the hearth—a big, lazy thing that sleeps through fights and fiddle reels—sits up.

It stares at the door. Its ears twitch. It whines.

A draft rolls through the tavern that doesn’t match the door’s movement.

“Odd breeze,” your client mutters, folding the chart. “Storm out to sea?”

You shrug and sit back, letting your gaze drift across the room. Someone’s playing a slow tune on the fiddle. The fire crackles. A barmaid laughs at something bawdy as she sets your mug in front of you.

Ordinary.

But your ribs itch. Not from salt or damp. From something deeper.

You press your palm briefly to your side—right over the mark.

Still.

No pulse. No burn. Just that unsettling itch.

Frowning slightly, you pick up your drink, asking your client about the recent weather patterns on the sea recently. He lights his pipe. His voice is a low rumble as he replies. The business is done, but there’s no rush to leave. Not when it’s this kind of easy talk that did away with those doubtful days.

He stays long enough to tell you about odd storm patterns between Stormwind and the next port. Then he glances outside and mutters something about ‘ill winds here, too’. You don’t exchange farewells as he departs.

By the time you rise, the tavern is fuller. Sailors and townsfolk alike have crowded in at the end of the busy day, seeking respite and camaraderie. If it’s that late already, you’d best move along. You have errands to run.

You slide your coat back on, nod to the barmaid, and slip out the back door—the one near the kitchens, down the crooked alley that leads back to the ink vendor you like.

You’re halfway down the stone steps when you pause, just for a second.

You glance over your shoulder.

There’s no one there.

The door swings shut behind you and you pause, looking at it. You could have sworn…

You shake your head and continue on. Must be those ‘ill winds’ your client mentioned. Judging by the darkness of the clouds, he wasn’t wrong about the incoming stormfront.

You hug your coat tighter and pick up your pace, jogging through the backways of Stormwind in hopes of outpacing the rain you can already smell on the horizon.

The tavern is louder than he expected.

Crowded, warm, filled with bodies and breath and the scent of salt-damp wool. Someone’s playing a fiddle too fast for the hour. Laughter rolls between tables. A fire crackles in the hearth, where a dog lies down again with a huff, tail thumping once.

Hongjoong steps inside last.

His crew filters in before him—Wooyoung already scanning the barmaids, San drifting toward the table in the corner, Seonghwa hanging back near the door with his coat still dripping.

Hongjoong stands at the threshold for a moment too long.

His eyes sweep the room.

She’s not here.

But she was.

He knows it.

His mark thrums beneath his ribs, not burning but echoing—like a bell still ringing long after the hammer has struck.

Something in the air is wrong.

Too warm. Too full. Too recent.

He steps forward, boots echoing faintly against the worn floorboards. A few heads turn. The regulars don’t look twice, but those with sharper instincts go quiet. They know the sound and scent and look of pirate. Wariness hums, then, a familiar aftertaste.

Behind the bar, a young woman pauses, eyes flicking toward the back door. Just a heartbeat too late to be casual. Checking the exit? Or ensuring someone already left through it?

Back door, he thinks. Damn it.

He reaches the spot instinct pulls him toward—an empty chair by the window, still slightly warm. The table smells faintly of salt and ink. He runs his fingers along its edge.

Wooyoung slides in beside him with two mugs, one already half-empty.

“She was here,” Hongjoong murmurs.

“How do you know?”

“Instinct,” Seonghwa says, joining them without needing the full explanation.

“The sea held its breath,” Hongjoong adds.

He sets his hands flat on the table. The wood pulses beneath his palm, faint but undeniable.

She was here. Close enough to reach. Close enough to call.

He exhales slowly, then taps the table twice—soft. Not frustration. Something closer to reverence.

“She’s in Stormwind,” he says. “We’re finally in the right place.”

Yunho joins them at last, settling into one of the chairs and stealing a mug from Wooyoung. The younger’s protests go ignored. Yunho sips, gaze fixed on the back door.

“Then we wait.”

The gods know they have enough time.

Stormwind breathes differently today.

It’s not the weather. Not really. The clouds overhead are slow and swollen, but no rain falls. The scent of it remains, a subtle threat on the horizon. The air isn’t warm, but it isn’t cold either.

Still, something in it presses against your skin like static—like the sky is waiting for someone to make the first move before unleashing its deluge.

You cross the market square with your satchel slung across your shoulder, coins tucked into your sleeve for errands. The fishmongers shout. Children dart between carts. A street fiddler plays a song that can’t quite keep its tempo. Familiar. Known.

But beneath it all, a feeling builds.

Tension. Like the moment before a wave crashes.

You run your errands as planned.

You barter for fresh parchment, inspect a shipment of glass map cases that arrived cracked, exchange a few tight words with the vendor who delivered them.

All routine.

But the feeling doesn’t go away.

It gets worse when you pass the dockmaster’s steps.

You pause there out of habit—checking the board for incoming ships, scanning the tide tables. You don’t even realize your hand drifts to your ribs, to where the compass rose rests hidden under linen and leather.

Still no burn.

But you feel watched, and the itch from the night before remains.

You glance down the dock, and that’s when you see the first one.

A tall man near the edge of the harbor, hands in his coat pockets. Lean and quiet. His dark eyes sweep the crowd like he’s reading every soul that passes.

You don’t know why he catches your attention, but he does.

His gaze slips right past you, leaving you with an unpleasant shiver along your spine.

You move on, trying to disregard him.

Only a few minutes later, you see another.

Different man. Shorter, broader, a braid wrapped around one hand. He’s talking with a dockhand, but the conversation is stilted. Wrong. Like his words are just a formality while his eyes scan the crowd.

Another one appears an hour later, seated near the outdoor cafe where you pause to eat. This one reads a book upside down.

You start to feel watched, even though none of them so much as look at you twice. Then you shake your head firmly, as though to dislodge the sensation.

You tell yourself Stormwind always has newcomers.

You tell yourself not to be ridiculous.

You tell yourself you’re just tired.

But when you stop by the tide markers just before sunset, the sea doesn’t speak. Not even in rhythm.

It’s waiting.

And you don’t know what for.

The mark doesn't burn.

It pulls.

A soft, steady ache beneath his ribs—less like fire and more like gravity. A sense of this way, and not much more. Not loud. Not urgent.

Just sure.

The others fan out across Stormwind.

They move quickly, each in their own rhythm. Wooyoung is charming, too charming. San asks questions with a smile that makes people forget he’s dangerous. Yunho blends in until he doesn’t. Mingi remains on the docks, a silent and observant sentry near the gangplank.

But Hongjoong?

He walks.

Unhurried.

He lets the city speak, keeping an open ear to the secrets it divulges.

The paper vendor is first.

He steps beneath the awning and lets his gaze drift over the stall—neat rolls stacked beside hand-bound books and pots of ink sealed with wax. The scent is jarring against the salt-soaked air. A woman nearby is arguing over a shipment delay, her words crisp with quiet authority.

He listens. Doesn’t interrupt.

She departs before he asks a single question, but she leaves behind a ledger. He skims it—briefly. A name. A commission. Sea-chart vellum.

Freshly bought.

He smiles, faintly.

She maps. Good.

He moves on, like a hound following a scent. The trader with the broken glass comes next.

Hongjoong leans beside the crates, folding his arms, watching the man fumble with the fragments. His curses are creative. His story is louder than it needs to be.

“Some girl damn near tore my ear off earlier. Wants her coin back for these.”

“Why don’t you give it to her?” Hongjoong asks, tone light.

“Not until she brings the rest of the set back. I got my pride.”

“Clearly.”

He leaves without pressing, the man already forgotten.

The café is quiet by the time he gets there.

He doesn’t sit. Doesn’t eat. He only stands, one hand resting lightly on the back of a chair.

There’s a water ring on the table. A single crumb where bread was torn and eaten. Faint traces of ink and salt still cling to the wood.

She sat here. Recently.

He breathes in, slow. There’s something else, too. Not perfume. Not flowers.

Just… presence.

Like the pause before thunder.

He doesn’t chase it. He lets it settle. Lets her path unwind. She’s not trying to be seen. But she’s not hiding either. Her route follows logic. Routine.

“You’re meticulous,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I like that.”

Hongjoong moves on, fingers dragging over the back of the chair before falling away. He walks with the same unhurried pace as he has all day, ignoring the looks of those who recognize a pirate for what he is. Down a side street and between the buildings until the pull strengthens with nearness.

The trail ends where it should. Not at a tavern. Not at the sea.

But here—on a quiet stretch of cobbled street tucked just far enough from the market’s noise to offer privacy, but close enough for convenience. Practical, smart, and undoubtedly occupied.

The cartographer’s shop sits low and wide, older than it looks. Salt eats at the stone around the corners. The sign is faded, but the windows are clean. The ledgers are stacked. A weathered old man works at the desk, slow and intentional.

Hongjoong lingers just across the street. He doesn’t approach. Doesn’t step inside.

Instead, he lifts his gaze, following that pull.

There—movement in the upper window. A flicker of shape behind thin, sun-warped glass. Not enough to see her clearly. Just enough to know:

She’s here.

Alive. Moving. Working.

He watches for a moment. Not to intrude, just to observe.

He sees the outline of a hand press briefly to the windowpane—an ink-dark smudge on the glass—and then retreat. A shadow moves past. The silhouette of a desk. A stool.

She’s back at her worktable.

Of course she is, he thinks.

He stays until the light begins to change, until the sea-salt wind picks up again and the sound of evening footfalls returns to the street.

Then he turns. Not defeated. Not impatient.

“Soon,” he murmurs, more to the street than to himself.

Approaching her here—her home, her chosen place—would only unsettle her. The sea didn’t lead him this far to make her feel cornered.

He will wait. Let her see him first. Let her decide.

Like Yunho said- they have time to wait.

The captain carries on at last, strolling down the cobbles and toward the harbor. A jaunty tune follows in his wake, made haunting by his choice of key as he hums. He has a feeling that the wait won’t be long.

The ink dries slowly tonight.

The mist outside has thickened into a weight, the kind that creeps into bones and warps parchment edges. You shift the chart you're working on toward the lantern’s light, brow furrowed in concentration.

The tide overlays aren’t cooperating.

Neither is your focus.

There’s a hum beneath the quiet—something not quite audible, but present all the same. A pressure in the air. A pull beneath your skin. Your ribs itch again.

You don’t know why.

You set your compass down, flex your hand, glance out the window. And freeze.

The harbor is still visible from your room—just barely, framed between two crooked shops across the street. The light is fading, but not fast enough to hide the silhouette that’s settled at the docks.

A ship.

Black sails. Dark hull. Sleek. Silent.

Unfamiliar.

Wrong.

It shouldn’t be there, and you don’t know why you know that. But the sight of it sends a shiver up your spine so sharp you nearly knock your ink pot over reaching for the sill.

You lean closer, breath held.

The ship isn’t moving. It rocks gently with the current, but no crew walks its deck. No banner marks its name. No noise rises from its hold. It squats in the water, framed perfectly by the view from your window.

And the sea?

The sea is quiet.

Too quiet.

Like it’s holding its breath.

Just like you.

You straighten, slowly.

The rational part of your mind—the part that catalogs tide shifts and calculates coordinates—tries to write it off. Just another ship. Just another docking.

But your fingers have curled into the window’s edge, and your mark has started to sting.

Faintly. Dull. Like an echo from somewhere deep below the tide.

You draw the curtain and step back, the ship now hidden from view. Even then, the feeling of being watched lingers. It remains after you blow out the lantern and crawl under the blankets. Unsettling and unwavering, like eyes in the darkness.

The ship is silent.

That’s the first thing you register. Not the sway beneath your feet, not the chill in the air, not even the unfamiliar slant of lantern-light against water-dark wood.

Just the quiet.

No gulls.

No waves.

No crew.

Only the sound of the ship breathing—in with the tide, out with the wind.

You know where you are before you turn.

Black sails. Weather-worn deck. Masts creaking like old bones.

The ship from the harbor.

You stand at its center, barefoot on damp planks, heart hammering behind your ribs. The air smells like sea brine and something older. Deeper. The kind of stillness that doesn’t come from peace—but from waiting.

You don’t know why you walk toward the bow. Only that your feet move of their own accord, carrying you past closed doors and shadow-draped railings. Every step lands too soft.

Like you’re not meant to be heard. Like you’re not alone.

Like there’s something just out of sight.

You feel it more than see it. Like the heaviness in the air before a lightning strike. Like a hand at your back that hasn’t touched you yet.

Your soulmark pulses.

Once.

Twice.

Harder.

You stop.

You don’t want to look. You don’t want to know.

But you hear it.

Soft.

Slow.

A breath, right beside your ear.

“I’ve found you.”

You wake with a strangled gasp, tangled in your blankets, breath fogging the air around you.

Your skin is cold.

Your ribs are burning.

And outside, though you can’t see it through the closed curtain, the black-sailed ship rocks gently in the harbor.

Waiting.