#a guide to managing columns

[bashamanik]

A Guide to Managing Columns and Prioritizing with Views in monday.com | Tara Horn

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[mwphisto]

Sylus hates his neck being touched.

You came to this realization one night when sitting on the couch beside him. Your fingers making their way to pinch at his ear lobe when he wouldn’t give you the remote. His neck hadn’t been your target, but his shoulder immediately shot up to block it off entirely at the sight of your fingers.

You didn’t mention it, acted like you didn’t even catch the very obvious flinch, and pinched his earlobe as planned. Last thing you wanted was to make him uncomfortable, it wasn’t even worth teasing him over.

Ever since, you’ve made a mental note of steering clear of Sylus’ neck… until now.

Your fingers found their anchor on the silk of Sylus’ shirt, fisting the material so tightly you felt as if it would rip apart under your hold. “Sy, please…” you needed him to hold you harder, kiss you harder, as if his presence wasn’t already all consuming. All you could see, taste, feel, smell, hear.

He flooded each of your senses, warm hands splayed across your hips and subtly guiding you in a rocking motion. “Please what?” Hushed, as if it physically hurt him to pull away from your lips for that long.

You could only manage a whine at his lips melting into yours again, the kisses bruising and wet. You’re losing yourself in him, so dazed by the force of his love that your fingers unravel from his clothing and slide inward.

Somewhere in your haze, you had known your intention was to cup his face. You needed to keep him close.

And, yet? Your hands had stopped once they wrapped around the column of his neck. Your hold wasn’t hard, nor was it restricting. But a gentle presence, a warm weight.

Sylus moaned audibly, making your eyes fly open with a gasp when you realized where your hands had stopped. There was a slew of apologizes on your tongue, ready to let go and beg for his forgiveness for crossing such a line.

Instead? Sylus shoved his tongue past your parted lips. A large hand leaving your waist to grab the back of your neck and pull you against him harder than before. He liked it.

[eternlmoonshine]

theoretical knowledge vs. practical application ☆ spencer reid

summary: spencer studies intimacy like any other subject, but nothing prepares him for the reality of being with you. in your arms, he finally learns that some things can’t be understood- only experienced. pairing: inexperienced!spencer reid x reader warnings: fluff galore, lots of kissing (practically making out), intimacy, but no explicit sexual content! wc: 1.1k masterlist. a/n: this brilliant idea came from my very lovely moot @/jackiesistired over on twitter <33

Spencer had read five books about kissing.

Not just any books, no. They were scientific, psychology-based books that broke down the act of kissing into its most basic neurological, physiological, and psychological components. He’d also skipped numerous peer-reviewed journal articles, and, at some point, had managed to venture into less scientific territory- modern dating guides that made his skin crawl but ultimately did provide insight into what people expected in relationships.

And then, there was the… other research.

The kind that led to him sitting in front of his laptop at 3 a.m., his ears burning as he read about intimacy in ways he hadn’t yet experienced. He took notes. Intricate organized, handwritten notes in which he annotated his key findings, storing them away like highly classified information.

But all of it- all of the extensive research- meant absolutely nothing the moment your lips crashed against his.

⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰

You and Spencer had been dating for a few months now, and while things had been progressing steadily, he hadn’t made any major moves beyond gentle, lingering kisses and hesitant, shaky touches. 

He was shy about it- not because he didn’t want you to know, but because he was terrified of messing up. He’d told you early on about his utter lack of experience, and you had reassured him earnestly that there was no pressure.

But he wanted more. He wanted to touch you the way you touched him. He wanted to kiss you until you were both breathless, and he wanted to see if reality could really live up to things he had spent so long reading about. He wanted to know if he was capable of making you feel good.

Most of all, he desperately wanted to stop overthinking.

Which is how he found himself here.

Spencer hadn’t realised just how sensitive he was until he was beneath your hands, beneath your lips, and was trying (and failing) to stay coherent.

You had started slow and gentle, kissing him with a sweet, lingering tenderness, but the moment he responded- the moment he made the quiet, needy sound in the back of his throat- you deepened it. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure if he could survive this.

Your fingers tangled in his curls, tugging softly, and the delicious whine that escaped him was so involuntary, so desperate, that you felt him tense in embarrassment.

You pulled back just enough to whisper against his lips, “Don’t hold back.”

His breath hitched. His head spun as his grip on your waist tightened, unsure whether to pull you closer until there was no air between you or to push you away before he completely unraveled under your touch.

“I- I don’t-” He swallowed harshly as your lips gently brushed across his jaw. “I didn’t know I was this-”

“Sensitive?” you supplied graciously, dragging your lips down his neck.

Spencer shuddered. “Y-yeah,” he admitted, voice wrecked already.

You smiled against his soft skin. “I like it.”

He let out a ragged breath, his eyes fluttering shut as you pressed kisses down the column of his throat. “I- I think I do too.”

You laughed softly as you trailed lower, and Spencer actually whimpered.

You’d never heard a sound quite like that from him before- so high and desperate- a noise that he clearly hadn’t intended to make. His whole body twitched beneath your teasing touch, and he was gripping the couch cushions like they were his sole tether to reality. 

“Oh, God-” His voice cracked as your teeth grazed over his pulse point, his hips shifting instinctively beneath you.

He inhaled sharply as you went back up and pressed a kiss just beneath his jaw. Suddenly, his brain kicked into overdrive. "Did you know that the skin along the neck has an increased concentration of sensory receptors? It’s why-" His words cut off with a sharp inhale when your lips gently caressed the skin where his neck met his shoulder.

"Why what?" you teased, brushing your lips lightly over his neck.

"Why- it’s- um- " His breath hitched. "It’s a- an erogenous zone- highly sensitive- oh-" 

"You were saying?" you murmured, dragging your lips up the column of his throat.    

"I-" He tried again, but when you nipped lightly at his jaw, his thoughts crumbled.    

You pulled back to take in the sight of him. He was flushed, panting, his pupils blown wide with something akin to pleading.

“Spencer,” you murmured, running your fingers through his tousled curls, reveling in how he leaned into your touch like he was starving for it.

He looked up at you in a daze, his lips parted like he was trying to form words, but he failed to find them.

“I-” He swallowed hard. “I did research on this.”

You tilted your head slightly and bit your lip, amused. “Uh-huh?”

“Very extensive research,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “A lot of it.”

“And what did your research tell you?” You hummed softly as you trailed your fingers lightly down his chest.

He inhaled sharply as he tried not to react to your touch. “That, uh- physical contact increases oxytocin, which promotes bonding, and- oh-” His voice broke when you pressed a kiss just below his ear, his whole body trembling beneath yours.

You grinned. “Go on, Spencer.”

“I- I-” His fingers clenched at your hips as you shifted, his breath stuttering. “Oh, my God-”

You kissed him again, slow and deep, and he let out the softest moan against your lips, feeling utterly helpless.

His hands trembled where they held you, like he was overwhelmed and he didn’t know where to move them. Like he was afraid that if he moved too much, or breathed too much, he might just lose control completely.

“You are adorable,” you whispered against his lips, dragging your nails lightly down his back.

He exhaled shakily. "I- um- "

Your smile softened, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Let’s practice more.”

Spencer’s hands tightened on your waist, and for once, he didn’t overthink.

He just felt.

And it was so much better than anything he had ever read.

⊱ ───────── {⋅. ✯ .⋅} ───────── ⊰

Later, when you were curled up against him, fingers tracing lazy circles on his chest, he let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh.

You lifted your head. “What?”

He shook his head, cheeks still tinged pink. “I spent weeks preparing. Studying. Making sure I knew everything I could possibly know. And yet…” He looked down at you, still dazed. “Nothing I read could have prepared me for you.”

You smiled, pressing a lingering kiss to his jaw.

“That’s because,” you murmured, “some things you just have to experience.”

Spencer exhaled shakily, pulling you closer.

“Then I think I still have a lot to learn.”

You grinned, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. “Good thing I loved teaching you.”

And when you kissed him again, he decided that practical application was his new favorite subject.

[ssahotchnerr]

Can i request marking Aaron up with lipstick marks. Like imagine leaving a trail of kisses from his neck all the way down his front. And if the lipstick is starting to fade, he'd reapply it for you so you could continue marking him 🤭

marked as mine

STOPPPP 😵‍💫🤭 cw; fem!reader, reader is slightly tipsy, established relationship, a touch of sub!aaron, language, very very very suggestive content nsfw minors dni wc; 1.3k

The two of you landed roughly against the front door. Aaron even more so, the thud of his weight hitting the wood and echoing down the empty hallway. You giggled loudly against his lips, buzzing from the champagne and infatuation.

"Shh sweetheart," Aaron laughed softly, peering around as if all your neighbors were out witnessing your late return. "The last thing we need are noise complaints."

You continued to cling onto him, your arms winding underneath his jacket and his button-up clasping in your fingers. You pressed him further against the surface, one of his legs slotting between yours. "So let 'em complain."

"At least let me open the door first," Aaron fumbled to get his keys out, reciprocating your very messy kisses and found his hands roaming your body instead. With the eager whimpers leaving the back of your throat egging him on, he could've taken you right there.

When the two of you managed to make it inside the apartment, you didn't get very far. Aaron fell back onto the couch, pulling you down with him, continuing to make out like a pair of horny teenagers.

"You looked beautiful tonight," Aaron commented when you pulled away with a heaving chest, his lips swollen. The two of you had spent the evening at some fancy FBI dinner, dressing up for the occasion. He reached up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. "I felt like the luckiest man there."

"Thank you." You sobered at the compliment, a sweet smile tugging onto your face.

He mirrored your smile, his hand enveloping your jaw to guide your lips back to his. He kissed you long and hard, enunciating the want pooling within you.

"Jack's not home," you reminded him, a wicked glint in your eyes. Jessica had graciously taken him off your hands for the night. "So you know what that means."

Aaron's hand found the zipper on the back of your dress, beginning to pull it down. The sudden exposure of cool air sent a shiver racing down your spine. "I think so."

"Nuh uh." He got about halfway before you grabbed ahold of his wrists, pinning them down at his sides. "Me first."

Your previous kisses had left a lipstick stain on his lips, tinting them a darker pink shade than their natural color. The sight ignited an idea.

You started below his ear, pressing short yet sensuous kisses to his skin, causing him to inhale sharply. Your lips trailed down the column of his neck, purposefully leaving the imprint of your lipstick.

"I don't think you noticed, but I saw a few women ogling you throughout the night. Maybe even some men too." The thought only produced more vigor to rush through you. More possession. "Can't say I blame them, but I'd thought I'd remind you who you actually belong to."

Aaron's suit jacket was soon tossed aside. You also did him the favor of removing his tie, and didn't stop there.

You unbuttoned his shirt painfully slow, looking up at him darkly through your lashes. He swallowed as he watched, anticipating your next move and resisting the urge to assist you - to speed things along.

But if your show was anything to go by, you intended on taking your time.

Resuming where you left off, you planted more kisses, your mouth lingering longer with each one you set. You could feel his heart racing under your palm, a steady thrum against his skin. It elevated when your lips reached his chest, his pec, and especially down his front, covering him all over.

You were moving slowly to deliberately to fuck with him, fully aware he would spiral into a whiny, frustrated mess as a result. Hot, impatient and bothered Aaron, one of your favorite things.

"Sweethear-"

You shushed him immediately, mumbling into his flushed skin, "Quiet. Every mark has to be perfect."

However, by the time you reached the middle of his abdomen your lipstick had gradually faded, leaving faint burgundy smudges behind - almost close to nothing.

"Wait-" Aaron blurted, causing you to stop and peer up at him. He reached towards the coffee table, a bit frantically as his fingers outstretched. "Hand me your bag."

Eyebrows furrowing in confusion, you fetched your purse for him, dropped in haste amidst earlier's heated entanglement. Knowing you kept it in your bag for reapplication throughout the night, Aaron quickly riffled through it, finding your lipstick in record time.

His mouth formed a smirk, his brown eyes molten. His tone was a little on the condensing side as he spoke, "Honey, what's the use if we can't see it?"

Again he cupped your jaw, his hold on you firm yet gentle as he began to reapply your lipstick. He did so carefully; beginning at the center of your upper lip and focusing on your Cupid's bow. Next, he blended the shade outward before moving onto the bottom, using the same method.

Gazing at him, he seemed to be enraptured by the process, especially with the reasoning being you were marking him as yours. His own furrowed brows relaxed the more he focused, his eyes warm with an intensity that softened with every passing moment.

This was the first time he had ever applied your lipstick, and it definitely would not be the last. And every time you wore this particular shade in the future, he would remember this intimate (and insanely sexy) moment.

You were sure to part your lips as he did so, keeping eye contact with him the whole time, playing up that look to drive him wild. One that read: I'm yours and I want you to do with me as you please.

"Fuck," Aaron mumbled. If he wasn't turned on already, he definitely was now. His thumb found your bottom lip, lingering a moment before he wiped below, a spot where it had smudged onto your skin.

You pressed your lips together for a second or two, evenly spreading the lipstick before they formed back into an 'o' shape.

His head dipped back momentarily, "You're killing me here."

Once he capped the lipstick, as a thank-you you pressed a kiss just below his belly button, leaving a prominent fresh stain. His abs jumped at your touch, and a sinful noise escaped from the depths of his throat.

You continued your trail of marks, and just by habit, his hand fell into your hair, gripping it and guiding you as you traveled further down his body. Aaron closed his eyes as his head hit the armrest of the couch again, savoring the feeling of your perfect lips against his skin, the constraint in his pants quickly growing uncomfortable.

Next your hands swiftly undid his belt buckle, pulling both his pants and boxers down. Not all the way though, just enough to leave a few more imprints, softly brushing your lips along his v-line. He picked his head up to glare when you didn't venture further, the thought of your freshly painted lips wrapped around him filling his mind. Aware of exactly what you were doing to him, you offered him a playful smirk in return.

Finished, you sat up to admire your work, being sure to rut your hips into his and causing a desperate groan to release from him. Sure enough, beginning from his ear and continuing all the way down, a perfect line of lipstick adorned his front. He was yours.

You reached for your bag yourself, grabbing your phone and snapping a few pictures for future enjoyment. A close up of his jaw, torso, lower abdomen.

Your finger traced the lowest one teasingly, which resulted in Aaron squirming slightly underneath you. Your eyes found his, and you found they were heavily dark with need.

"Sweetheart," he whined, his hips involuntary bucking upwards. "Please."

 You leaned in closer, your bottom lip brushing against his earlobe, and whispering with a devilish satisfaction in your voice,

"See? You're mine."

[cloudtransprncy]

Backseat

Kazuha x Male Reader | 1k words tags: smut, power dynamics, public sex, idol manager relationship, manipulation, orgasm control, denial kink

When Kazuha calls, you answer. It always leads to this—your fingers buried deep between her legs, her voice low and commanding as she tells you exactly how to touch her.

The company van swallows you both—black, tinted, unmistakably the kind that takes idols through screaming crowds. Now it's parked right on a busy Itaewon street. Neon signs from nearby clubs cut through fogged windows in harsh stripes.

Every part of you knows how wrong this is—you, her manager, her, Lesserafim’s bendy wendy.

You check your watch. Twenty minutes until she needs to be on set for filming.

Kazuha doesn't ask. She never does. She takes.

Her fingers encircle your wrist—delicate yet surprisingly firm—pulling you where she wants you. Where she's slick and wanting. Her skirt, custom-designed for tonight's filming, bunches carelessly around her waist.

Outside, tourists and locals drift through, just inches from where former prima ballerina Kazuha is spreading her legs for you. LESSERAFIM's elegant sweetheart with her soft voice and gentle smile, now biting her lip as she guides your hand between her thighs.

"Oppa, please," she whispers, voice honey-sweet with just a hint of command beneath. "I need this."

You've always been weak for her. No way to deny it. Your body reacts right away, sweat forming on your forehead, breathing faster as the small space fills with her expensive perfume and the first hints of her getting turned on.

"Faster," she commands, voice stripped to gravel.

The sound hits you like a physical blow. Her control is absolute—one hand directing your movements, the other yanking your hair until your face presses against the salt-slick column of her neck. She moves against you with savage intent, the careful image she presents to the world—poised, disciplined, untouchable—deliberately shattered in this confined space. The same hands that perform delicate choreography now dig into your flesh with animalistic need.

Your fingers push deeper at her demand. Two, then three stretching her open. The wet, sloppy sounds fill the van as you pump in and out of her dripping center. Your thumb finds her swollen clit, circling the hard bud while your fingers curl inside her. She's soaked, her slick coating your palm and running down your wrist.

Her body shakes against yours, back pressed to your chest, head thrown against your shoulder as broken moans tear from her throat.

"More," she gasps, letting go of your wrist to rub her clit in quick circles, her hips bucking wildly. "Fuck—harder—curve your fingers up—right there—yes—just like that."

The air gets thick, hard to breathe. Life goes on right outside—shoes on pavement, laughter too close, bits of normal talk in Korean and English floating by. A group of fans walks past, talking about tomorrow's fansign, with no idea their idol is just feet away, getting fingered by her manager.

The real world is just a thin sheet of metal and tinted glass away from career suicide, from scandal, from where you're both locked in this forbidden mess.

Kazuha's breathing gets choppy and fast. Her grip in your hair softens, fingers now gently playing with the strands as if you were at a normal hair salon instead of knuckle-deep inside her. Her thighs shake hard every time you thrust your fingers inside her, curling them against that spot that makes her whole body jerk, yet her face maintains that practiced sweetness, eyes half-closed in an expression that could almost pass for innocent daydreaming.

"You like this?" Her voice is soft against your ear, almost innocent if not for her words. Her nails lightly scratch your scalp as she twirls a strand of your hair. "If someone really stares through these tinted windows—really presses their face against the glass—they'd see their sweet Kazuha taking your fingers like this." She grinds harder against your hand, her delicate features belying the filth of her words. "Wouldn't that be terrible, oppa?"

Your jaw locks, teeth grinding together. Your free hand clutches desperately at the leather upholstery, seeking any anchor in this storm.

She orchestrates every element of your shared depravity with surgical precision—the risk, the control, your complete surrender. Your role is clear: you exist to serve her needs, both professional and carnal, yet never to have your own satisfied.

She moves faster now, working herself against your hand while her fingers make frantic circles. Her sounds become primal—gasping, choking, each breath punctuated with whimpers that shoot straight to your groin. The slick sounds between her legs should humiliate you both but instead drive you deeper into collective madness.

Her body shows she's about to come—thighs tensing up hard, breathing rough and ragged. She squeezes around your fingers like a vice, her whole body shaking as she gets close.

A high, broken sound tears from her throat as the shaking begins. Her body convulses, thighs clamping around your hand hard enough to bruise. Your fingers curl inside her, finding the spot that makes thinking impossible for her.

"Fuck—!" The word is guttural, destroyed. Her nails dig crescents into your forearm as her hips stutter frantically, all composure obliterated.

And then she screams.

The sound cuts through the quiet like a blade before she bites her lip to silence it. Her release gushes over your fingers, squirting in hot jets that soak your hand, her thighs, and the leather seat beneath you both. Her spine bends like it might snap, her breath coming in sharp gasps, body jerking against you in waves that don't seem to stop.

The smell of what you've both done fills the van—musky, raw, filthy. The leather seat is soaked with her juices.

Yet outside, Itaewon nightlife continues with horrifying indifference—drunk tourists, wandering locals, maybe even fans who'd kill to touch the hem of her garment, passing by with no idea that their pristine idol is coming down from an orgasm given by the very person paid to protect her reputation.

Your shirt sticks to your back with sweat. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You've never felt more alive or more trapped.

You throb painfully against denim, desperate for relief—but she simply settles against you, breath regulating with suspicious speed. Not destroyed as she should be. Just eerily composed, as though your desperation was her goal all along.

Your fingers dig into her thigh, betraying your frustration. Your cock strains almost painfully, begging for the same attention you've just given her.

"That's it?" Your voice emerges raw, scraped with need. "You're just fucking done now?"

Kazuha checks her expensive watch with an innocent blink. "Filming in fifteen minutes, oppa," she says, voice returning to that sweet, public tone that makes her fans adore her. She tilts her head, looking at you through long lashes. "You know how important it is to be on time."

Kazuha's laugh is soft, almost musical. Harsh streetlight catches the gentle curve of her mouth as she leans in, pressing her lips against yours in a kiss that starts sweet before her tongue slides between your lips. She makes you taste her on your tongue before pulling back, her expression almost bashful despite what just happened.

"Maybe next time, oppa," she murmurs, palm finding your hardness through denim, her touch feather-light as she traces the outline with an expression of practiced innocence. "If you're good to me." She squeezes once, her eyes wide and seemingly guileless despite the deliberate cruelty of her denial.

Your breath catches, hips jerking desperately, but she's already withdrawn.

She crawls forward between the seats with deliberate display, skirt riding up to reveal the slick evidence of her pleasure still coating her thighs as she reclaims her place in the front with a graceful movement that seems almost choreographed. The tight confines of the van force her body to brush against yours as she moves, a final cruel tease disguised as innocent proximity.

You remain frozen, burning with painful need. Sweat cools uncomfortably on your skin. Her scent saturates the space, the seat beneath you damp with evidence—yet she's already perfect again, scrolling through her phone as though you aren't still unraveling.

She hums a soft melody, the same one from LESSERAFIM's latest demo, fingers delicately fixing a strand of hair as though in ten minutes she won't be on camera, smiling sweetly while interviewers praise her "disciplined ballet background" and "elegant image."

Your jaw tightens until it threatens to crack. You slide eventually into the driver's seat, knuckles white around the steering wheel as the engine growls to life. Your body still throbs with unresolved tension. Your shirt clings to your damp back.

Kazuha reclines beside you, legs crossed elegantly, bathed in cold blue light. She fixes her makeup with practiced precision in the visor mirror, dabbing lip gloss with the same fingers that were gripping your hair minutes ago. With every swipe, all evidence of what just happened disappears behind her carefully maintained facade.

"Don't forget to have the van cleaned," she says with a gentle smile, voice sweet and considerate. "You've got Chaewon and Kura unnie tomorrow, right? And make sure we're not late, oppa." She says this last word with a hint of aegyo that would make her fans squeal.

And that's the worst part. Looking at her now—her cheek caught in the passing streetlights, her eyes down with practiced shyness as she checks her phone—you can't even get mad at her.

It's fucking impossible.

The anger melts away, replaced by a sad gratitude for whatever bits of attention she decides to throw your way.

And you drive through evening traffic, haunted by the need she's calculated you'll never satisfy, tasked with preserving the pristine image of a woman who presents herself as an angel to the world while using you like a toy behind tinted windows.

You both know you'll come running again the next time she calls you "oppa" with that practiced innocence in her eyes.

[solxamber]

The Fairest of Them All || Vil Schoenheit

You've chosen Vil!

Navigating the chaos of Night Raven College, you somehow end up stealing the heart of Pomefiore’s untouchable Housewarden.

w.c: 5.3k

1k Masterlist ; Prologue

It’s the night of the opera, and you’re anxiously adjusting your outfit for what feels like the hundredth time. Vil had invited you—Vil Schoenheit, the epitome of elegance and poise—and you’d spent hours ensuring you looked halfway decent next to someone so effortlessly perfect.

When the knock at the door comes, you barely manage to keep yourself from sprinting to open it. And there he is.

Vil stands on your doorstep, dressed in formal wear that could kill a victorian child, his golden hair tied back with precision that seems almost unfair to the rest of humanity. A soft scent of bergamot and cedar follows him, making your brain stutter.

Your jaw goes slack, and you freeze, blatantly staring like a deer caught in headlights. You’re trying to say something, anything, but the only thing leaving your mouth is the sound of air escaping your lungs.

Vil’s lips twitch into the faintest smirk. “Good evening,” he says smoothly, clearly noticing your state. His eyes sweep over your outfit, and he nods in approval. “You’ve done well. You look rather lovely tonight.”

“Uh-huh,” you manage to squeak, still staring. Internally, you’re screaming: What do you mean rather? Lovely?? Have you looked in a mirror recently?!!

He gestures toward the waiting car. “Shall we?”

You nod dumbly, closing the door behind you before following him to the sleek black vehicle parked outside.

The interior of the car is as polished as Vil himself, the soft leather seats and faint glow of the dashboard making it feel like you’ve stepped into another world. You try to focus on the excitement of the opera, but the quiet presence of Vil next to you is making that exceedingly difficult.

As the car glides through the city, your hands brush accidentally, a fleeting touch that sends a little jolt through you. You glance at him, expecting him to pull away or comment, but he doesn’t even blink. If anything, his expression softens, his gaze fixed out the window.

You take a deep breath, gathering your courage, and slowly slip your hand into his.

Vil raises an eyebrow ever so slightly, but his grip tightens around yours, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin. “Excited, are we?” he murmurs, the corners of his lips tugging upward in that signature, knowing smirk of his.

You nod quickly, your heart pounding. “Yeah! I mean, it’s my first opera. I don’t want to miss a second of it.”

“Good,” he says, his voice a touch softer. “You’ll appreciate it more than most.” He pauses, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “And… it’s refreshing to share it with someone who isn’t afraid to show their enthusiasm.”

You smile at that, feeling a little less nervous and a lot more giddy.

The grand opera house is breathtaking, its towering marble columns and gilded details glowing under the warm lights. You almost trip on the stairs trying to take it all in. Vil’s hand at your elbow steadies you.

“Careful,” he says lightly, his lips quirking in amusement. “I’d rather not have our evening interrupted by a sprained ankle.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, your face heating up as you let him guide you to your seats.

The opera begins, and it’s as magical as you imagined. The singers’ voices soar, weaving a story so full of emotion you feel like you’re holding your breath half the time. But despite the beauty on stage, you find your attention drifting.

To him.

Vil sits beside you, his face illuminated by the soft glow of the stage lights. He’s transfixed, his violet eyes glittering as they follow the performers. He’s utterly ethereal, and you’re entirely doomed.

When he glances at you out of the corner of his eye, your gaze snaps back to the stage so fast you almost give yourself whiplash. But you can still feel him looking at you, and when you sneak another glance, you catch the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

Your heart does a little flip.

It's time for the intermission and you slowly stretch out your legs.

“Let’s take a walk,” Vil suggests as the lights come up. You nod, following him out of the auditorium and into the grand halls of the opera house.

The murals lining the walls are stunning, vivid depictions of myth and music that seem almost alive under the flickering chandeliers. Vil walks beside you, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back to guide you through the crowd.

It’s subtle, effortless, and completely unfair. You’re hyper-aware of the warmth of his touch, the gentle pressure that somehow manages to make your brain short-circuit.

“Relax,” he murmurs, leaning closer so only you can hear. His breath brushes against your ear, and you nearly trip over your own feet. “You’re walking like you’re in a dream.”

“I feel like I am in a dream,” you blurt, before immediately regretting it.

Vil chuckles, a soft, genuine sound that makes your stomach flutter. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”

He pauses in front of one particularly grand mural, his hand lingering at your back as he studies it. You glance up at him, catching the way his eyes soften as he takes in the artwork.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, though you’re not entirely sure you’re still talking about the mural.

“It is,” he agrees, his gaze flickering down to meet yours. “Though not nearly as much as some things.”

Your heart leaps into your throat. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and judging by the amused glint in his eyes, he’s thoroughly enjoying your reaction.

The show ends, and you’re still buzzing from the experience as you climb into the car. You hum the aria under your breath, the melody still fresh in your mind.

Vil sits beside you, one arm resting casually against the window as he watches you with quiet amusement.

“You enjoyed it, then?” he asks, though it’s clear he already knows the answer.

“Are you kidding? That was amazing!” you say, turning to him with a wide grin. “I mean, the costumes, the singing, the—”

You stop mid-sentence as Vil leans in, his face so close you can feel the warmth of his skin.

Your heart skips a beat. “W-What are you—?”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it gently behind your ear. “You’re a mess,” he says, though his tone is far too fond for the words to carry any bite.

He leans back, smirking at your flustered expression. You can practically feel the heat radiating off your face as you bury it in your hands.

Vil walks you to your doorstep, the moonlight casting a soft glow over his features. He looks so effortlessly regal, so infuriatingly perfect, and you know you’re going to be replaying this night in your head for weeks.

“Thank you for tonight,” you say, turning to him with a smile. “I had a great time.”

“The pleasure was mine,” he replies, his voice smooth as ever.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you take his hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Goodnight, Vil.”

You dart inside before you can see his reaction, but as you peek through the curtains, you catch him standing there, a small, genuine smile on his lips.

And just like that, your night feels even more magical.

The evening starts peacefully at Ramshackle, with you sitting on the couch, Grim sprawled on your lap, and a carton of apple juice in hand. The tranquility is shattered by what sounds like a battering ram hitting the door.

BAM! BAM! BAM!

“HENCHUMAN!” Grim screeches, bolting upright and scrambling toward the door. “Somebody’s tryin’ ta demolish our house!”

“Calm down, Grim!” you shout, rushing to the door. As you open it, you find Epel standing there, out of breath, his hair disheveled like he’s been running for his life.

“EP—”

“I NEED SANCTUARY!” Epel cries, practically diving inside before slamming the door behind him. “Please, hide me! Don’t let him find me!”

You blink at him, baffled. “What—who—huh?”

Grim squints up at Epel, unimpressed. “What’d ya do this time, farm boy?”

“I didn’t do nothin’! Vil’s gone mad again! He wants me to do some eight-step skincare ritual with somethin’ called snail mucin!” Epel flops onto the couch dramatically. “SNAILS, Prefect. SNAILS. I don’t wanna look like no slimy critter!”

You try to keep a straight face, but it’s impossible. “Epel, you know he’s just trying to help, right?”

Epel grabs a carton of apple juice from the table and downs some of it like it's vodka. “Help? Help turn me into a snail, maybe!”

Grim nods sagely. “Yeah, I dunno what a ‘mucin’ is, but it sounds slimy.”

The atmosphere is almost cozy again as the three of you sit around, sipping juice and joking around. But then it happens.

Knock. Knock. KNOCK.

This knock isn’t like Epel’s desperate pounding. This knock is sharp, precise, and terrifyingly composed.

Grim lets out a dramatic gasp. “IT’S HIM!”

Epel pales. “Don’t open it. Please don’t open it!”

Curiosity gets the better of you, and you cautiously crack the door open. Sure enough, there stands Vil Schoenheit, looking like he just stepped out of a photoshoot, his expression as serene as a summer lake—but with a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Good evening,” Vil greets you with a polite smile. “Would you kindly return my wayward dorm member?”

You glance over your shoulder at Epel, who is shaking his head violently and mouthing, “Don’t you dare!”

“Uh,” you begin, already feeling trapped. “I mean… what if—what if he just stayed here for tonight?”

Vil raises an elegant brow. “I see. Is that how it’s going to be?” He steps inside with the grace of a cat, his gaze shifting from you to Epel. “I’m sure you think you’re very clever.”

“Lemme be free,” Epel whines, hiding behind the couch. “I ain’t ready for snails on my face!”

Vil’s smile turns sharp. “Snail mucin is a highly effective hydrator, but if you insist on being dramatic…” He turns to you, his eyes narrowing in thought. “You. Are you willing to try the skincare regimen in his place?”

“Me?” You blink, startled.

Epel perks up from behind the couch. “YES. TAKE THEM!”

Vil tilts his head. “If you’re willing, I’m confident I can achieve better results from a subject who isn’t fighting me at every turn.”

You shrug. “Sure, why not?”

Before you can fully comprehend what’s happening, Vil has looped an arm through yours, gracefully pulling you out the door. “Perfect. Let’s go.”

Epel waves dramatically from the window. “Bless ya, Prefect! I owe ya big time!”

Grim just yells after you, “DON’T LET HIM TURN YA INTO A SNAIL!”

Pomefiore is somehow both intimidating and gorgeous at night, much like Vil himself. He leads you to a lavishly decorated room that smells faintly of lavender and something you can’t quite place but know costs more than your monthly groceries.

Vil gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling slightly like a sacrificial lamb.

“This won’t hurt,” he says smoothly, rolling up his sleeves. “Now, sit still.”

You expect him to just slap some moisturizer on your face and call it a day, but no. Vil moves with precision and care, his fingers brushing gently over your skin as he applies cleanser, toner, and a series of serums that feel more expensive than anything you’ve ever owned.

“This feels… nice,” you mumble, your eyelids growing heavier.

Vil hums, clearly pleased with himself. “Of course it does. Skincare is an art.”

Somewhere between step five and six, you lose the battle against sleep, dozing off in the chair.

You stir awake to find Vil leaning over you, his gaze soft and almost… fond. He’s saying something about your skin glowing, but you’re too distracted by the feeling of being watched so intently.

“Vil?” you murmur groggily.

“Yes?” he replies, his voice softer than usual.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you sit up, noticing something on your cheek. “Uh… did you kiss me?”

Vil freezes for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough. His usual composure slips, and he hurriedly swipes at your cheek with a handkerchief. “Don’t be absurd,” he says, but his tone is unusually flustered.

Except.

You glance at his lips, where the faintest smudge of lipstick is visible. “Riiiiiight.”

Vil notices where your gaze has landed and turns away, busying himself with the jars on the counter. “You’re imagining things.”

You smile, a teasing glint in your eye. “If you say so.”

But as he ushers you out of Pomefiore with a distracted wave and a faint blush dusting his cheeks, you know you’ve won this round.

The morning starts off with a buzz of activity at the botanical gardens. Vil, ever the professional, has arranged an elaborate photoshoot in the serene greenery. Props were meticulously placed, outfits were prepared, and lighting setups were already stationed. Vil even allowed himself to feel something akin to satisfaction.

That is, until afternoon rolls around.

Unbeknownst to Vil, the chaos trio (Ace, Deuce, Grim) and Jack had wandered into the gardens earlier for what they dubbed “a little harmless fun.” What they actually managed to do was:

Accidentally tip over a giant fountain while trying to see if Grim could swim (spoiler alert: he can’t).

Start a “friendly” game of tag that ended with Ace tripping over a prop table, sending vases and floral arrangements flying like shrapnel.

Release a flock of doves intended for Vil’s grand finale by opening the wrong cage ("I wanted to see if they could do tricks!" Ace insists as Deuce facepalms).

Grim, somehow, set a bush on fire. Jack put it out, but the smell of burnt shrubbery lingers ominously in the air.

By the time Vil arrives, the scene looks like a tornado hit. The once-pristine gardens are a disaster zone. Props are broken, flowers are trampled, and there's a trail of muddy footprints leading in every direction.

Vil steps into the carnage, his designer boots squelching in mud. His expression is eerily calm at first, but the sharp inhale he takes speaks volumes. He surveys the devastation with a look that could wilt the few surviving flowers.

“My vision,” he whispers, his voice tight with suppressed rage.

You stand beside him, trying not to laugh because you’ve never seen him this close to a meltdown.

“Vil,” you say cautiously, placing a hand on his arm. “It’s not that bad—”

“Not that bad?!” he snaps, whirling on you. “Look around! This isn’t a photoshoot location; it’s a war zone!”

From the corner of your eye, you spot Cater peeking in, phone out, clearly recording the unfolding drama. You make a mental note to confiscate it later.

Vil pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering to himself, “I should have known better. Trusting anything to others. Utter folly.”

“You’re gonna burst a blood vessel,” you warn him, earning a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

“Alright, alright,” you say, rolling up your sleeves. “Stop sulking and help me salvage this.”

Vil blinks at you, incredulous. “Salvage? You can’t possibly—”

“Watch me.”

With that, you march into the chaos. You grab what props can be salvaged, rearrange a few backdrops, and even craft makeshift decorations out of the remaining flowers and ribbons.

Vil watches in stunned silence as you hustle, barking orders at a very confused Sebek, who you dragged out of the equestrian club to help.

“Sebek, I need that saddle cleaned now!” you shout.

Sebek grumbles, muttering something about “desecrating noble horse equipment for frivolity,” but obeys when you glare at him.

Within the hour, you’ve transformed a patch of ruined garden into a new set: a rustic, equestrian-inspired photoshoot featuring horses. Vil looks around, stunned, as you pat one of the horses on the neck.

“Well?” you say, wiping sweat from your brow. “It’s not the flower themed you started off with, but it’ll work, right?”

Vil stares at you, a strange softness in his eyes. “...It’s perfect.”

The photoshoot goes off without a hitch. Vil looks flawless as ever, draped elegantly across a horse in one shot and holding its reins with regal authority in another. You even manage to convince Sebek to lend Vil his equestrian jacket for a dramatic flair.

As you predicted, the photos break the internet. The combination of Vil Schoenheit and majestic horses sends fans into a frenzy. “A SUPERMODEL AND HORSES??? THE WORLD ISN’T READY FOR THIS!” one comment reads.

But what really goes viral isn’t the official photos. It’s a video Cater secretly took of Vil watching you as you worked to save the shoot.

In the video, Vil stands in the background, holding a bouquet prop. His usual composed expression is nowhere to be seen—he’s looking at you with undisguised fondness, like you’re the only person in the world. The caption?

“The real shoot is happening behind the scenes #VilSmittenheit”

When you show Vil the video later, he groans and buries his face in his hands. “Of course Cater would...”

But you just smile, because even Vil can’t deny the truth caught on camera.

The potionology exam looms like a thundercloud, and you’ve made the questionable decision to study with the first-year gang. It feels like babysitting a tornado of chaos.

You’ve got your notebook out, ready to tackle the mysteries of potion ratios and ingredient compatibility. Then you look up.

Ace, Deuce, and Grim are locked in a heated debate over whether it’s morally acceptable to substitute powdered phoenix feather with breadcrumbs.

“Grim, breadcrumbs aren’t even magical!” Jack groans, rubbing his temples.

Grim huffs, waving a paw dismissively. “It’s got crunch! Everything’s better with crunch!”

“Breadcrumbs in a potion?!” Sebek barks, slamming his fist on the table. “Such idiocy would never occur in Lord Malleus’s presence! Do you know the kind of potions he could make? Far superior to this nonsense!”

Epel, slouched in his chair, mutters, “What’s the point of potionology when you can just punch your problems or fly away?”

“Guys,” Jack says, his patience clearly thinning. “We need to focus! We’re all going to fail if we don’t—”

“I’M NOT FAILING!” Sebek bellows.

“Then stop talking about Malleus for five minutes!” Ace snaps.

You close your notebook. You know when to admit defeat. You’re getting nothing done here.

Plan B: The Vil Schoenheit Method

You march straight to Vil in Pomefiore. He’s seated in his lavish lounge, sipping tea and reading a book on advanced alchemical techniques that makes your brain hurt just by looking at it.

“Vil, help me,” you say, dropping dramatically to your knees like you’re auditioning for a tragedy. “I’m going to flunk potionology, and I can’t rely on Ace, Deuce, or Grim because they’ve got the collective intelligence of a soggy paper towel.”

Vil arches an eyebrow, clearly amused. “And why should I help you?”

“Because you’re the best potionologist I know,” you plead. “And because I’ll owe you one. A big one. I’ll even—” You pause for dramatic effect. “—tell you where Epel is when he runs away.”

Vil narrows his eyes. “Flattery will get you nowhere, but your desperation is mildly entertaining. Fine. But I won’t go easy on you.”

You gulp.

Vil is intense. He doesn’t just teach you potionology; he micromanages your existence.

“Back straight,” he snaps, tapping your spine with a ruler. “You’re hunched over like a gremlin. And stop stirring like you’re mixing pancake batter. Precision is key!”

You mutter something about gremlins under your breath, but Vil hears it. “I can make this more difficult if you’d like,” he says with a sweet yet menacing smile.

He quizzes you relentlessly, correcting every little mistake with the sharpness of a dagger. “If you confuse Mandrake extract with Mandragora root one more time, I’ll have Rook carry you back to Ramshackle while reciting a poem about your incompetence.”

But by the end of it, you’ve actually learned. You’re tired, your hands smell like sulfur, and your posture is permanently straightened, but you’ve learned.

You ace the exam. You don’t just pass; you get one of the highest scores in the class.

“THAT’S MY HENCHHUMAN!” Grim crows, puffing his chest out like he took the test himself. “We’re unstoppable!”

Ace and Deuce, however, are staring at you like you’ve just revealed you’re a double agent.

“You went to Vil for help?!” Ace squawks. “That’s betrayal! Treason! You’re a traitor to the First-Year Study Group™!”

“You think you know someone,” Deuce adds solemnly, shaking his head.

“It’s not my fault you two were trying to use breadcrumbs in a potion!” you fire back.

“That’s not the point!”

Ignoring their melodrama, you bolt to Pomefiore to thank Vil.

Vil is sitting by the window, gazing out at the gardens with a cup of tea in hand. He looks up as you burst in, all smiles and gratitude.

“Vil!” you exclaim, practically skipping toward him. “I passed! Thank you so much!”

He raises an elegant eyebrow. “Of course you did. I wasn’t about to waste my time on a lost cause.”

You throw your arms around him in a quick, impulsive hug. “You’re amazing, seriously. I’ll thank you properly later, but for now—” You lean up and kiss him on the cheek. “You’re the best.”

Before Vil can react, you’re already sprinting out the door, leaving him sitting there with a stunned expression.

Moments later, Rook appears, materializing like the cryptid he is. “Ah, Roi du Poison,” he coos, his smile wicked. “You’re absolutely smitten, aren’t you?”

Vil sighs, shaking his head, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. “Be quiet, Rook.”

“Ah, silence is the language of love!” Rook declares dramatically. “But your face says it all! Mon dieu, how adorable.”

Vil doesn’t even bother denying it. He simply takes another sip of tea, thinking of your smile.

It’s 4 a.m. The witching hour. You’re blissfully cocooned in your blankets, dreaming of peaceful, non-chaotic things, when a sharp tap tap tap jolts you from your slumber. At first, you think it’s your imagination, but the tapping persists, growing louder and more insistent. You crack open one groggy eye, then the other. You blink at the sound’s source.

Your window.

“Window?” you mumble in confusion, still half-asleep. Then you see him. Rook Hunt. Perched precariously on the ledge like some kind of medieval gargoyle but with better fashion sense. He’s waving at you with such enthusiasm you’d think he were auditioning for a cheerleading squad.

Your brain, still booting up, goes: Of course. This is perfectly normal.

Then, a second later: WAIT A MINUTE—WHAT?!

“Rook?” you hiss-whisper, stumbling to the window. “Why are you—” You stop mid-sentence because his face is a mask of sheer panic. “What’s wrong?”

He places a dramatic hand on his chest, his voice trembling with urgency. “Mon amie! It is an emergency of the highest order!”

Heart pounding, you throw open the window. “What happened?! Is someone hurt?! Did something explode?! Is Vil—”

Rook nods gravely. “It is Roi du Poison.”

Your stomach plummets. He doesn’t have to say anything more. If something’s wrong with Vil, you’re going to help. You’re his friend, his confidant, his designated earplug during Rook’s poetic soliloquies.

You don’t hesitate; you grab your coat and shoes and sprint out the door, trailing after Rook, who somehow manages to make a full-on run look like a choreographed ballet.

The journey to Pomefiore is a blur of panic and adrenaline. You’re preparing yourself for the worst. Was Vil poisoned? Did he collapse during some over-the-top skincare ritual? Is it gasp the end of his perfect reign? By the time you burst into Vil’s room, you’re practically on the verge of tears.

“Vil!” you cry, rushing to his bedside. “Are you okay? What’s happening?!”

Vil, propped up against a mountain of silk covered pillows, looks up from his tissue box, pale but undeniably still Vil. His expression is unimpressed, though there’s a faint red tinge to his nose that he’d probably die before admitting to.

“I have a cold,” he says flatly, voice slightly nasal.

You blink. Once. Twice. You slowly turn to look at Rook, who is leaning dramatically against the doorway, one hand over his heart like he’s auditioning for Hamlet.

“A cold?” you echo.

Rook nods solemnly. “Oui! But what is a mere cold to a shining star like Vil? Even the smallest ailment feels like a tragedy!”

Without breaking eye contact, you grab a tissue from Vil’s nightstand and throw it at Rook’s head. He catches it mid-air with a flourish.

“I thought he was dying!” you snap, your voice somewhere between exhausted and hysterical.

Vil sighs deeply, like you’re all inconveniencing him. “Well, I feel like I’m dying,” he mutters, reaching for another tissue with the elegance of a dying swan.

Despite wanting to throttle both Vil and Rook, you stay. Because deep down, you care about Vil (and because Rook is lurking in the shadows, making escape impossible). Armed with tissues, herbal tea, and the resolve of a saint, you declare yourself Vil’s official nurse.

“Do you need anything?” you ask, pulling a blanket higher up his shoulders.

Vil sniffs. “I need… another pillow. This one is too flat.”

You grab another pillow and fluff it to perfection. “Better?”

“No, this one is too fluffy.”

You fight the urge to scream. But you adjust the pillow again. And again. And again.

Moments later:

“This tea is too hot.” You cool it.

“This tea is too cold.” You reheat it.

“This lighting is too harsh.” You dim it.

“This lighting is too dim.” You—wait, what??

For hours, you cater to his every whim with the patience of a saint. Vil complains about the temperature, his blanket, the angle of his tissue box. He’s fussy, demanding, and dramatic, but you take it all in stride.

Why? Because deep down, you know he’d never ask for help unless he really needed it. And because Vil, even at his most irritating, is still someone you care about. Maybe even have a crush on but that's a problem for future you.

Rook occasionally pops in to offer poetic encouragement. You ignore him.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Vil falls asleep, his perfect features soft and peaceful. You, however, collapse on the couch in the corner of the room, absolutely spent.

The next morning, Vil wakes up feeling… better. His fever has broken, his headache has subsided, and for the first time in days, he doesn’t feel like his body is actively rebelling against him. He sits up and looks around, finding you passed out on the couch, still clutching a crumpled tissue in one hand.

He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the way you’re curled up in an awkward position, the slight shiver in your frame from not having a blanket. And for the first time, Vil feels something unfamiliar. Guilt. And a deep affection.

As the morning light filters into the room, he glances at you one last time, his expression softening. “Once I recover,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible, “I’ll tell you.”

And with that, Vil Schoenheit makes a silent vow. The next time you nurse him through anything, it will be with him as your devoted partner—and not because of a misunderstanding orchestrated by a certain overdramatic huntsman.

It hits you like a truck in the middle of class: you’re in love with Vil Schoenheit.

Not a crush, not admiration—you’re down horrendous. Butterflies are doing pirouettes in your stomach every time he talks to you, and his slightest smile makes you feel like you’ve been hit by a blinding spotlight.

You try denial. (“It’s just his aura. He does this to everyone!”) You try avoidance. (“If I don’t look at him, I can’t fall harder, right?”) But none of it works. Every time he critiques your posture or gives you that sly smirk, it’s game over.

Finally, you give in. “Okay, fine! I’ll confess!” you announce to Grim, who’s lounging on the couch.

“Good luck,” Grim snickers. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

“I am about to be sick!” you shriek. “This is Vil! What if he laughs? What if he just… stares at me in that terrifying way he does when Epel says something stupid?”

“Then I’ll eat your dinner as consolation,” Grim says, ever supportive.

You prepare like your life depends on it.

Step One: Flowers. You pick out the most gorgeous bouquet, ones that practically scream, I’m hopelessly in love with you, please don’t let me die of embarrassment.

Step Two: A handwritten card. You pour your heart onto the paper with the eloquence of a poet. “You’re incredible,” you write. “Not just because you’re beautiful, but because of your strength, your kindness, and the way you inspire everyone around you. I… I love you.” You almost combust just writing it.

Step Three: Look your best. You pick an outfit that’s just shy of trying too hard and hope it’s enough to make you look like someone worthy of confessing to Vil Schoenheit.

“Alright,” you say, holding your bouquet like it’s a shield. “Here goes nothing.”

“Don’t trip and fall on your face!” Grim calls after you.

You’re halfway to Pomefiore, sweating bullets and trying to remember how to breathe, when you see him.

Vil is walking toward you, dressed impeccably as always, carrying… a bouquet of his own?

Your heart skips several beats, and you’re suddenly extremely nervous—the kind of nervous that makes your palms sweat, your knees weak, and your brain do somersaults. You feel like a malfunctioning automaton.

“Oh,” Vil says, his gaze locking onto you. He stops a few feet away, his eyes flickering between you and the bouquet in your hands. “Out for a stroll?”

“Y-Yeah,” you stammer, gripping your flowers tighter.

Vil tilts his head slightly, and you swear he looks… annoyed? “And the flowers?” he asks, his tone calm but sharp, like a scalpel. “A gift for someone special, perhaps?”

You freeze. “Uh—”

Before you can answer, Vil’s gaze shifts to the card sticking out of your bouquet. He reaches out and plucks it before you can stop him. Your soul briefly leaves your body.

He reads it silently, his face betraying nothing, until—

“Oh.”

His tone is quiet, and you’re horrified to see a flicker of heartbreak in his expression. “I see.”

“Wait! It’s not what it looks like!” you blurt, waving your hand like a maniac. “The flowers are for you! The card is for you! I just… forgot to sign it.”

Vil blinks, his lips parting slightly in surprise. Then, to your immense relief, he chuckles—a soft, melodic sound that sends your heart into a frenzy. “You forgot to sign it?” he repeats, amused.

You nod vigorously, clutching the bouquet like your life depends on it. “I was too busy panicking, okay?!”

Vil shakes his head, his smile widening. “Of course. Only you would confess in such a manner.” He steps closer, his own bouquet now visible. “It seems we had the same idea today.”

Your eyes widen as you realize what he means. “Wait… those flowers…?”

“For you,” Vil says simply. “Though I’ll admit, for a moment, I thought they might be unnecessary.”

You stare at each other, the absurdity of the situation sinking in. Then, Vil takes your bouquet from your trembling hands and replaces it with his own.

“They suit you better,” he murmurs.

Before you can fully process what’s happening, he leans in and presses his lips softly against yours.

The world seems to blur around you, and all you can feel is Vil—his warmth, his scent, the tenderness of his touch. When he pulls back, he’s smiling at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

“Let’s not wait so long to be honest with each other next time,” he says softly.

You nod, dazed and giddy. “Y-Yeah, totally.”

As he intertwines his fingers with yours, leading you back toward Ramshackle, you realize one thing: The first year gang is never going to let you live this down.

But to be honest, you really don’t care. Not when Vil Schoenheit is looking at you like you're the only ones left on the planet.

1k Masterlist ; Main Masterlist

[jobean12-blog]

One Fine Morning

Pairing: Marcus Acacius x female reader

Word Count: 1.2K

Summary: You and the General start the day right.

Author’s Note: someday I may get over this man…but probably not haha! In the mean time, please enjoy him with me! Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤️❤️❤️ Divider by the lovely @firefly-graphics thank you Daisy🥰

Warnings: soft sweetness, oral (m and f rec), Marcus is a dream and I want this.

Pedro Pascal Character Masterlist

He’s still in the same place as you left him, stretched out on his side, sheet barely covering his hips. You can see the dark trail of hair low on his navel. His bicep peeks out, full and firm, where his arm wraps around the pillow.

His hair is a mess, and wild curls fall this way and that and you smile as you walk over and run your fingers through to try and tame it.

One-minute turns into two and your fingers slip through the soft strands, over the side of his face, across the gray streaked hairs on his cheek, along his neck and down, tracing his spine.

You stare at his back, broad and muscular and miles of warm tan skin, with dips and edges in all the right places.

“Beloved?” he whispers sleepily.

He finds your fingers where they rest on his stomach and rolls to face you, sleepy eyes blinking open and then squinting at you in the morning sun.

“What is happening with this hair General?” you say as you reach out to run your fingers through it again.

“I was asleep,” he says just before he smiles. “With you.”

“Are you not needed in the arena this morning?”

“They won’t miss me if I am a little late.”

In a rush of movement, he pushes you onto your back to hover over you. His eyes make a sleepy circuit of your face and the emotion that fills his expression steals your breath.

“You should always be the first thing I lay my eyes upon when waking.”

Before you can respond he tucks his face into your neck and groans. With small soft kisses he traces the column of your throat.

He shifts, lowering his body so he’s pressed against you, hips already moving in circles.

You’re both still naked and the sensation makes your breath catch, the gentle drag of skin on skin enough to have every one of your nerve endings buzzing.

The room is cool, hidden in the back of the palace and shaded by the large trees growing just outside the window. Even so, streaks of pale sunlight still manage to break through, and they catch the dust motes in the corner, warming the foot of the bed.

His skin looks golden, like he’s lit from within.

He tracks the movement of your eyes and looks between your bodies, his gaze lingering on your breasts before he places a palm over your nipple and circles lightly, the friction just enough for it to tighten under his touch.

Feeling your reaction, he moans and says your name, sucking and kissing along your collarbone and down to your breasts. He’s relentless, sucking on one while pinching the other, and it’s enough to have you opening your legs to make more room for him, pushing your knees up around his sides.

He moves up to kiss you, tasting your top lip and then your bottom, pulling away just hard enough for it sting. You run your fingers through his hair as he kisses down your stomach, whispering how good you taste and smell, feel.

He reaches your hip bone, lingering there, sucking at the soft skin. You rock your hips up, using your grip in his hair to guide him and show him what you want.

Your head falls back against the bed, spine arched in anticipation as he moves down between your legs. His first touch is teasing, lips pressed against your inner thighs in several small kisses, and then closer, mouth soft and partially open, directly over your clit.

The air leaves your lungs, and you cry out.

“You like that my lady?” he says against you, after taking you into his mouth and sucking gently.

“Yes,” you breathe out. “Again Marcus.”

He does it again, using his fingers to gently hold you open and suck on your clit, a little harder this time. He alternates between kisses and little licks, broad stripes of his tongue that have your hips lifting from the mattress, rocking up to meet him.

“Gods, yes Marcus,” you whimper. I can’t…please…”

You’re not even sure what you’re asking for, but the words bubble up, desperate and breathy.

When you realize you’re tugging hard on his hair you try to ease up, but he shakes his head, meeting your eyes for a brief moment to say, “don’t my love.”

He’s panting, cheeks pink and neck flushed right down to his chest. His mouth is red and wet and as your gaze moves down his body you see he’s touching himself.

“You want more?” he asks with a grin.

You nod, using your legs to pull him back down. He kisses the inside of your knees before sliding your legs over his shoulders.

“Pull my hair,” he growls. “Scratch your nails down my back….do whatever you want to me.”

You gasp out his name, unable to look away as he leans in again, tongue swirling around your clit. Your reminder to yourself to breathe is barely enough when he pushes one thick finger inside you, in and out, before adding another.

Heat travels up your spine and your hips arch off the bed, pushing you harder onto his face. You rock against his mouth, legs shaking and his name falling from your parted lips.

With effort your lift your head to see him kneeling over you, hand working over his gorgeous cock.

“I want that,” you tell him, and he blinks up. “Come here.”

You take his hip and guide him toward you, a leg on either side of your ribs. He reaches for his discarded tunic, bunching it up and placing it under your head, and then he just waits, chest heaving and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

You open your mouth, watching the way his hand wraps around his cock and holds the head against your lips. Your tongue reaches out for a taste, and he whimpers.

He pushes into your mouth, so gently at first. You curl your hands around his hips and look up at him, hoping to convey what you want him to do. You don’t need gentle or slow. Not now.

You moan around him, and he starts to give in, spurred on by your sounds and the way you grip him tighter.

His cock slips over your tongue and he rests a palm against the wall above the bed, bracing himself, every muscle pulled taut with his restraint.

His words of praise are stuttered between shaky breaths and groans.

“My love,” he warns. “I won’t last long…”

His ass flexes beneath your hands and he’s shaking his head.

He thickens in your mouth and starts to come against your tongue, and you hear him swearing and grunting as you swallow around him.

When he finally falls to your side his hands are greedy as he pulls you into him and kisses your cheeks, your lips, your forehead. You look up to find his eyes closed, dark lashes curled against his flushed cheeks.

He shifts, leaning into your neck and inhaling deeply before exhaling a shaky breath.

His voice is scratchy. “I love you.”

You echo the words into his skin, and he kisses you with sleepy lips and holds you against his warm skin.

[solar-wing]

⚣ Shadowing Nightwing: Sneak Peek 🌗

⚣🌗 A/N → y'all...find me a church—QUICKLY! also, how a sneak peek is the length of most other people's regular fics is beyond me. I've truly lost the plot. this part was originally like 7k words, and now I'm close to hitting 40k again...god help me. WARNINGS: Omegaverse Dynamics | Yandere/Obsessive Behavior |Non-Consensual/Dubious Consent | Sexual Coercion/Manipulation | Physical Aggression | Emotional Manipulation/Abuse | Objectification/Dehumanization | Breeding Kink | M-Preg | Rough Handling/Manhandling | Degrading Language | Explicit/Smut |

⚣🌗 Summary → Dick's not happy after he and Y/N's first night out as Nightwing and Shadow. And for once, Y/N's not even mad at the Alpha's invasive hands and crude language—cause everything is going according to plan.

⚣🌗 Words → 3.4K

⚣ ENJOY 🌗

As they made their way back to the Batmobile, Dick’s possessiveness was palpable. His arm was a heavy, unyielding weight around Y/N’s shoulders, not just guiding but commanding the Omega’s every step. Each stride radiated a sense of dominance that was laced with desperation—a bitter mixture of relief that Y/N had made it through the night safely and simmering frustration over yet another failed attempt to secure a lasting bond. The earlier taunts from the thugs still lingered in the back of his mind, each crude comment stoking a fire of inadequacy he couldn't extinguish.

When they reached the car, Dick yanked the door open with more force than necessary, his gaze never leaving Y/N. “In,” he commanded, voice low and strained. The word carried the weight of the night’s tension and the unfulfilled bond. It wasn’t merely about getting inside—it was about re-establishing dominance, a dominance that had slipped further out of his grasp tonight.

Once Y/N was inside, Dick followed quickly on the other, his body angrily sliding into the driver's seat. Before Y/N could even fasten his seatbelt, Dick’s hands were on him, tugging him forcefully onto his lap. Y/N landed with a startled gasp, the familiar hard planes of Dick’s chest pressing against his back as the Alpha's arms coiled around his waist. “What are you doing?” Y/N managed, his voice tinged with feigned irritation.

“You know damn well what I’m doing,” Dick growled, his voice a guttural rumble against Y/N’s ear. His scent was overwhelming—an intoxicating blend of aroused Alpha musk mixed with possessive desperation. “I don’t care what front you put on tonight; you’re still mine, and you need to be reminded.”

Y/N tried to resist the instinctual submission that the Alpha’s touch elicited, but Dick’s hand was already sliding up to his throat, fingers wrapping firmly around the column of his neck. It wasn’t a choke, but it was possessive enough to draw a shudder from Y/N. “You let them touch you,” Dick hissed, voice rough with frustrated desire. "You let them look at you like that.” His fingers moved lower, sliding down Y/N’s thigh and pressing into the soft flesh, his grip both a punishment and a twisted reassurance. “No one else should be able to leave marks on you.”

The touch was rough and deliberate, meant to stake a claim that had failed to fully take root before. Y/N’s instincts screamed submission, and his body betrayed him with a shiver, a small but undeniable response that only seemed to spur Dick’s possessiveness further. Dick’s lips brushed the shell of Y/N’s ear, his breath hot and heavy. “I should’ve fucked you right there in front of everyone. Made sure they knew exactly who you belong to.”

The words were both an expression of dominance and a confession of insecurity. Beneath the aggression, there was a raw need for reassurance that only intensified the twisted nature of their relationship. Y/N’s mind recoiled from the crude promise, but his body reacted instinctively, his hips twitching against Dick’s lap in an unconscious display of submission.

“Drive,” Dick barked at the autopilot, his voice rough with unfulfilled need. The Batmobile roared to life, speeding through the dark streets of Gotham as Dick’s hands resumed their possessive exploration. The ride back to the manor was suffocatingly silent, save for the heavy breaths that filled the cabin. Dick’s touch was frantic, driven by a desperation that bordered on madness. His grip tightened with every bump and turn, fingers digging into Y/N’s skin as if trying to force the claim deeper.

“You’re too calm,” Dick growled suddenly, his voice rough and raw, as if the words were being dragged out of him against his will. His hands tightened on Y/N’s hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh with a bruising force. “You shouldn’t be so calm after what just happened.”

Y/N tried to maintain his composure, keeping his expression as neutral as possible. “What do you expect me to do, Dick?” he asked, his tone low but edged with defiance. “Break down? Beg for your forgiveness?”

Dick’s jaw clenched, a muscle in his neck twitching with barely restrained anger. “No,” he snapped, his voice thick with a mix of possessiveness and desperation. “I want you to react—to feel something other than lust when I touch you.”

And that’s when Y/N saw it, the insecurity that had been eating away at Dick’s confidence for months, perhaps even years. It was the kind of vulnerability that would have made Y/N pity him in another life, but here, in the suffocating grip of Dick’s obsession, it was just another tool of manipulation—a reminder of how twisted their dynamic had become.

The vulnerability stung Y/N with a twisted kind of satisfaction. “You know, if you'd just gotten pregnant like you were supposed to, we’d be celebrating our baby’s birth right now,” Dick continued bitterly, his words both an accusation and a confession of failure. “But you… you keep fighting it. You keep making this harder than it has to be.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at the cruel irony. It wasn’t that his body couldn’t accept Dick’s bond; it was that it wouldn’t. Every fiber of his being rejected the Alpha’s claim, repulsed by the suffocating nature of Dick’s obsession. And yet, here he was, being blamed for something that was beyond his control.

“Maybe if you were more cooperative, we’d already have a child by now,” Dick pressed, his voice laced with condescending anger. “But no… you keep resisting.”

“Or maybe,” Y/N retorted quietly, “it’s because you’re trying to force it. My body knows better than to accept a bond that isn’t real.”

Dick’s reaction was immediate. He yanked Y/N closer, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of the Omega’s inner thighs, right where the sexual glands lay. “Is that so?” he growled. “Then why does your body react to me like this?”

The vulnerability in his voice was unnerving, a stark contrast to the dominant persona he usually projected. Y/N could sense the desperation bleeding through the cracks, the fear that perhaps he really wasn’t enough—wasn’t strong enough, Alpha enough, to claim the one thing he wanted most. The failed attempts to impregnate Y/N weren’t just a personal failure; they were a direct blow to Dick’s sense of identity as an Alpha, a constant reminder of his inadequacy.

“Do you even realize what it’s like?” Dick muttered, his voice rough with suppressed emotion as he pressed his forehead against the back of Y/N’s neck. “To know that any Alpha—especially Leo—could probably do what I can’t? They could knock you up, make you smell like theirs, and have you submitting in no time.”

The mention of Leo sent a jolt through Y/N. He knew Leo was one of the few people Dick saw as a serious threat, both in terms of Y/N’s escape plans and as a rival Alpha. Leo’s interest in Y/N was no secret, and Dick’s paranoia about the possibility of another Alpha succeeding where he had failed had only grown worse over time. It was a twisted cocktail of jealousy, insecurity, and possessiveness that fueled Dick’s increasingly erratic behavior.

Y/N didn’t respond, knowing any attempt to explain would only fuel Dick’s rage further. The Alpha’s possessiveness was suffocating, and the fact that he was aware of it—aware of how his insecurities were slowly driving him mad—only made it worse.

“It’s like you want them to think they have a chance,” Dick growled, his voice thick with frustration. “Like you’re inviting it. Do you enjoy taunting me, baby? Do you get off on knowing that I can’t hold onto you the way I’m supposed to?”

The accusation stung, not because it was entirely false, but because it touched on a deeper truth that Y/N wasn’t ready to confront. The twisted satisfaction of knowing he could still provoke Dick, still maintain some semblance of control, was a dangerous game—a game that risked his sanity as much as it did his safety.

His fingers pressed hard into the glands, triggering a rush of slick and a faint release of scent that mixed with Dick’s own. The sexual bond was temporary, but it was a small victory that Dick was desperate to secure. “You know what’s driving me mad?” Dick’s voice was low, filled with a bitter desperation that was almost painful to hear. “It’s that no one can smell my claim on you.”

Y/N’s stomach twisted at the raw truth in Dick’s words. For the Alpha, this wasn’t just about marking territory—it was about reclaiming a sense of identity that had been shattered by repeated failures. “You don’t smell like me,” Dick continued, his fingers pressing harder against Y/N’s thighs, as if trying to force the bond to sink deeper. “No matter how many times I mark you, no matter how many times I knot you, shoot every last drop of my cum inside you, it doesn't fucking work. Why the fuck doesn't it work? It’s like your body rejects me.”

Y/N’s heart pounded in his chest, the mixture of humiliation and twisted satisfaction warring within him. He knew he should be disgusted by the words, by the crude reminder of Dick’s failed attempts to make him submit completely. But there was also a small, defiant part of him that reveled in the fact that he had managed to resist—managed to hold on to a small piece of himself, even in the face of such overwhelming pressure.

His hands slid higher, fingers pressing into the sensitive sexual glands on Y/N’s inner thighs—glands that were meant to carry the Alpha’s scent, to reinforce the temporary bond they shared. “These should be dripping with my scent,” Dick murmured, his voice rough and desperate. “You should be drenched in it, so no one can question who you belong to. But instead, all they can smell is your own fucking scent, like you're not even claimed at all. Like I haven't soiled you, haven't made you cry on my knot at least a hundred times, so every Alpha out there knows not to even look at you.”

Y/N bit his lip, the sensation of Dick’s fingers pressing into the glands both painful and arousing. The sexual bond was the easiest to establish but also the easiest to break, a temporary connection that had to be reinforced constantly. It was a cruel reminder of the limits of Dick’s control—a bond that could be formed in moments but would fade within days if not maintained.

“You know what that makes me feel like?” Dick muttered darkly. “It makes me feel like a weak Alpha, like someone who can’t even claim his own Omega.”

The confession was a stark display of vulnerability, a glimpse into the crumbling facade of Dick’s dominance. His voice trembled with both anger and self-loathing as he continued to grind his hips against Y/N’s ass.

Y/N’s eyes flickered with defiance, but he kept his voice level. “So, you think forcing a temporary bond will fix that?”

Dick’s response was a low, desperate growl, his grip tightening further. “I’ll reinforce it every damn day if I have to,” he promised. “You’ll never be able to wash my scent off you again. I'll make sure everyone knows you're mine, whether you like it or not. If it takes me filling you up until you can't take anymore, until you're dripping with my cum and screaming my name, I'll do it."

The words were a twisted blend of threat and promise, a dark reminder of the power Dick held over Y/N. His hands moved higher, sliding under the tight fabric of the suit and cupping the Omega's breasts. "No one else can have you. Not as long as I've got something to say about it. I'll make you come so hard, you'll forget anyone else ever touched you," he hissed, his voice a low, possessive growl.

The words were crude, filled with a brutal kind of determination that made Y/N’s body shudder involuntarily. The Batmobile’s engine continued to hum beneath them, the vibrations only adding to the suffocating tension in the air.

“You can try,” Y/N whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the Batmobile’s engine. “But you’ll never truly have me.”

Dick’s response was a low, frustrated growl, his grip tightening once more as he buried his face in the crook of Y/N’s neck, inhaling deeply. The scent was faint, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to temporarily soothe the twisted sense of inadequacy that had been gnawing at him for months.

“I’ll find a way,” he muttered, his voice filled with a dark, unrelenting determination. “I don’t care how long it takes or how many times I have to do this. I will make you mine, Y/N. One way or another.”

The threat hung in the air, heavy and ominous, as the Batmobile continued its journey through the dark streets of Gotham. And as the Batmobile's interior was suffused with a heavy, oppressive heat, the tension between the two heightened by the confined space. Dick’s hands continued their invasive exploration, his fingers teasing the slickened creases beneath Y/N’s suit. Each touch was a precise mix of stimulation and dominance, crafted to reinforce his claim. Y/N’s scent subtly shifted in response, becoming softer and more yielding—a reaction his body betrayed despite the rebellion in his mind.

Y/N’s hips began to move unconsciously, instinctively grinding back against Dick’s unmistakble bulge. It wasn’t a deliberate action—more a desperate attempt to alleviate the unbearable friction building inside him. As he pressed against Dick, he could feel the Alpha’s body beneath him in even greater detail. The solid muscles were unmistakable, the strength beneath the suit palpable and unyielding.

Dick's uniform always did a great job emphasizing every contour of his athletic form. His broad shoulders were squared and thick, muscles bulging beneath the tightly fitted armor. The emblem of the blue Nightwing stretched across his chest, accentuating the pectoral muscles that stood firm like sculpted stone. Beneath the material, Y/N could feel the rhythmic rise and fall of Dick’s chest, the heat radiating from his body overwhelming, both physically and mentally. His own throbbing phallus member twitched against the tight material of his suit, each jolt of friction sending him closer to the edge of surrender.

Dick felt it, his possessive growl vibrating against Y/N’s neck. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice dark and filled with a twisted sense of satisfaction. “I can feel how much you want this, how much your body needs it.”

The words were humiliating, yet undeniably true. Y/N’s scent began to shift subtly, the undertones becoming softer, more yielding—a physiological response to the Omega's instinctual need for protection, for the Alpha’s claim, even as his mind rebelled against the situation. It was a betrayal of the worst kind, a stark reminder of how deeply ingrained the dynamics of their relationship were, no matter how much he fought against it.

Dick’s muscles were hard and unyielding, his physique built for agility, speed, and raw power. His biceps strained against the suit’s sleeves as he adjusted Y/N’s position, the movement causing his traps and deltoids to flex noticeably. His arms were thick, defined with corded muscle that spoke to both the brutality of his training and the relentlessness of his desire to dominate.

“I can feel how much you want this,” Dick whispered into Y/N’s ear, his voice dripping with dark satisfaction. His hands continued to explore, one settling possessively on Y/N’s hip, the grip firm and claiming. The action pressed Y/N’s ass harder against Dick’s prominent bulge, emphasizing the unmistakable hardness pressing into the Omega’s lower back. Y/N’s small Omega cock twitched helplessly, trapped and pressed painfully against the roughness of the suit’s fabric.

Dick’s torso was as solid as granite, the defined abs beneath the suit shifting slightly with every thrust and movement. His lat muscles flared out in a V-shape from his waist, a physical symbol of his dominance, enhanced by the snug fit of his armor. Each movement was powerful and deliberate, emphasizing the sheer physicality of the Alpha that Y/N was helplessly pinned against.

“Say it,” Dick demanded, his voice edged with desperation and authority. “Say you’re mine.”

Y/N’s body ached, every nerve on fire from the mix of scent-marking, sexual dominance, and psychological warfare that defined their twisted relationship. Despite everything—despite the way his body trembled and his Omega instincts screamed for submission—his mind held on, clinging to the small spark of defiance that remained. “You wish,” he finally managed, his voice a ragged whisper, laced with both defiance and the slightest hint of resignation.

Dick’s response was immediate. He let out a low, frustrated growl, his hand tightening on Y/N’s thigh as he adjusted the Omega’s position. He pulled Y/N closer, forcing him to straddle the Alpha more securely, the new angle causing Y/N’s ass to grind harder against Dick’s bulging erection. The motion was both humiliating and electrifying, the friction against Y/N’s slickened slits adding a layer of unbearable pleasure that blurred the lines between defiance and desire.

“If you won’t say it,” Dick muttered darkly, his breath hot against Y/N’s ear, “then I’ll just have to make you.”

The ride back was a dizzying blur of aggressive touches and scent-marking, Dick’s fingers relentless as they sought to reinforce a bond that had yet to fully form. By the time the Batmobile pulled into the Batcave, Y/N’s body was trembling with both exhaustion and arousal, his inner walls clenching around the phantom presence of Dick’s touch.

As they came to a stop, Dick wasted no time. With a single, powerful motion, he lifted Y/N off his lap and swung him over his broad shoulder. The Omega’s body landed with a helpless flop, his face pressed against the curve of Dick’s back. Y/N’s senses were filled with the scent of the Alpha’s sweat and pheromones, the overwhelming aroma intensifying his body’s instinctual response.

Dick’s broad back was like a wall, firm and unyielding beneath Y/N’s chest as he struggled to regain some semblance of control. The prominent ridges of his spine were visible even through the suit, each bump accentuated by the strain of carrying the Omega. The muscles of his back rippled with every step, showcasing the powerful definition of his lats and traps. His narrow waist contrasted sharply with the bulk of his shoulders, highlighting the impressive strength that kept Y/N slung helplessly over him.

The Batcave loomed ahead as Dick strode inside, Y/N slung over his broad shoulder like a victorious trophy. The Omega’s body was limp, his breathing uneven from the rough handling and overwhelming mix of arousal and resentment. Every muscle in Dick’s frame was taut with dominance, his biceps bulging and flexing as he kept a secure grip around Y/N’s thighs. The stark lighting of the cave highlighted the rigid contours of Dick’s back and shoulders, the layers of his suit stretching over the powerful muscles beneath. His defined traps flared with each purposeful step, accentuating the sense of strength that surrounded Y/N.

Without pausing or glancing back, Dick’s voice rumbled low, the words dripping with raw possession. “Tonight, you’ll reek of me inside and out. And soon, everyone will know who you belong to.”

The words were a promise and a threat, echoing through the dim expanse of the cave like a verdict sealed in darkness. Dick’s gaze remained focused straight ahead, his face set with grim determination. The intensity of his forward march was matched only by the single-minded need etched into every line of his body—a need that spoke of a relentless desire to claim Y/N again and again, until there was no question of his ownership.

Despite the oppressive heat and the heavy dominance radiating from Dick, Y/N allowed himself a small, defiant smile. The road ahead was bound to be darker and more dangerous, but tonight marked a crucial victory. He had managed to pass the first test, and as the cavernous space of the Batcave swallowed them, Y/N knew that the game was far from over—it was only just beginning.

GET ME TO A CHURCH!

[flowersforthemachines]

Giving your Rook a custom name for the subtitles in 5 minutes - A modding tutorial

The tutorial is also available on Nexusmods as a PDF-file, and as a Google Doc.

Hidden under the read more for length, but it's actually super easy! Anyone can do it following instructions, I promise!

The guide assumes you’ve already installed Frosty Mod Editor, so I won’t be covering its basic set-up. If it’s your first time using the Editor, please refer to this guide by Gabbet. Gabbet's guide may look somewhat intimidating, but to prepare for my tutorial, you’ll only need its “Frosty Editor Download & Installation” section.

Open the Mod Editor and navigate to View >> Localized String Editor

2. Once you open the Localized String Editor, click on the leftmost column inside it, input the following string ID: "0002F709" (without the "") and press Enter. It should display one search result that says “Rook”. 

3. Click on the line in the search results to make it appear in the column to the right. There, erase “Rook” and type in your custom name using your keyboard. In this tutorial, I’m using “Ghilasara” as an example. 

4. Once you finish typing your custom name, click “Update” to save the result.

That will refresh the line’s contents in the search results.

You’ve made all the necessary edits, and your mod is now ready to be exported :) 

5. In the Editor’s main window, click on File > Export to Mod

Feel free to fill in the contents of the pop-up window as you see fit. Note that the first line, “Title” will be the name under which your mod displays in the Mod Manager. I named mine “Rook to Ghilsara” to make it easy to find in case I need to remove it or turn it off. 

And, that’s that! All you have left to do is to import your mod into the Mod Manager. 

[kalinazlatkova]

“The Art and Making of Arcane: League of Legends” 🎨🎨🎨🎨 Book Review Under the Cut 

⋆｡°✩*ੈ✶⋆.˚✩‧₊˚⋆˚☆˖°⋆｡° ✮˖ ࣪ ⊹⋆.˚⋆˙⟡⋆✴︎˚｡⋆⊹.˚⟡ ݁₊˚⊹⋆☆˖°

If you enjoy my work, please consider supporting me on Ko-fi 👛🫙✨🖤 Thank you! 🥰

Hi All! 😊 As I have amassed loads of Art Books throughout my degree and in my work as an illustrator, I thought I could do some reviews so those of you who are just now embarking on your art journeys and wondering whether something is worth spending money on, can make an informed decision about what part of your creative development you want to put your money towards.     I’m thinking of structuring the reviews in five key areas, with books earning a palette for each area they score against, with a total of five palettes being the max, and a brush being awarded in areas where a book can only score half a point. As someone from a working-class background who is also neurodivergent, I’m especially mindful how these things can impact the way in which we access information and new knowledge. Of course, if you have any suggestions on what else should be included, please let me know and I’ll be happy to consider this in future too. 😊  

Now! Off to the main bit... 

Is the book Useful? 🎨 

I think this would of interest not only to fans of the game and series alike, but also less experienced artists who want to learn about the motivation, inspirations, ideas, and thought processes behind the storytelling, characters and plotlines. Alex and Chris (the Creators) talk about the history and background of how it came to be, how the right group and studio of people were found to bring it together, and how the story and visuals were built from the smallest details to the major production hurdles. There are the back scenes of the storyboarding and character designs, with frameworks and the timeline between the layouts of the game vs the show. The book also goes down into details on the music, lyrics, color schemes, speeds of animation, backgrounds and the in-depth world building of Arcane. It pays attention to the visual and personal development of the central characters, their set bases and their props. Given all of this, I would say – Yes. It is a very useful source and guide on master adaptation, for those already interested in the game as well as those who have just come into its world now, brought in by the art of the show before they got caught in the story.  

Is the book Engaging? 🎨

The book design has been planned thoroughly, and the content is very well paced. There is good overlay between photographs, illustrations, game graphics and show scenes alongside the text and other visuals. The design of the book is beautifully done, with phenomenal coloring, and good spacing between the texts and images. As someone who struggles with big chunks of text, and a very temperamental attention span, the way that the chapters and sub-sections of the book are broken up, helped me quite a lot in managing to keep my focus and my mind engaged at one page at a time, without feeling the need to put it down indefinitely or jump ahead and move on to the next bit before I was done. Therefore, I would say – Yes. It is manageable, digestible, and entertaining, which makes it a joy to engage with, and even more so because it can be done so easily.  

Is the book Accessible? 🖌️ 

There might be some pages where people who are easily visually overstimulated might struggle to keep with the text, as the graphics fill the sheet and overlay each other quite strongly. However, if you are someone who prefers the strong visuals of a comic book or a graphic novel, then this might not be an issue for you at all. Overall, the blocks of text come in small chunks and are set in narrow columns with a max of 15 words to a line at its longest (on average up to 10), which makes the text easier to follow. Though the typesetting of the book is primarily in serif fonts, and on some pages the text blocks are slanted to fit the visuals’ layout better. I have an advantage that I have a digital copy and can easily zoom into the text, though if you had the physical copy of the book (judging by the format size of 23.5 x 3 x 32.4cm) there might be some pages where you struggle with the smaller lines. From what I have been able to find out, the standard hardcover edition weighs approx. 800gr, which isn’t very light to carry or hold up with one hand, especially considering a thick rectangle is less manageable than a single bag of sugar or bottle of water for example. In terms of language, it is written in plain English (in EN speaking countries) and even though I am not a native English speaker, there were no overcomplicated structures or words I was unfamiliar with at any time. So overall, I would say Yes and No. It is up to you to decide whether any of the above is a deal breaker regarding accessibility, but if it is in the physical aspects, I would advise in looking for a digital copy alike myself as well.  

Is the book Affordable? 🖌️ 

Well. When I was looking for a copy, unfortunately there were no paperbacks available, and the only hardbacks were second hand varying in price point from £40 - £80 GBP. Which is about $50 – 110 USD, or €45 - 95 EUR. I also could not find any free digital copies, so my only option was to buy the book on Kindle for £14, or approx. $18 / €16. Given that when I was a student, I used to live on £1 a day (my family is poor), I think that up to £80 for a single art book is a high price to pay, especially for a young person who isn’t in full time employment. But even though I am a working adult now, I still wouldn’t pay this for the book given that the actual cost was £40 before it went out of stock, and the price has been inflated solely because the book isn’t physically available anymore. Due to this, and because it is the right thing to do, before making a purchase, I would adamantly encourage you to check with the library(ies) near you first. If they have it, you can borrow it for free and make copies, scans or take pics of it if you’d like to make your own digital copy. If this is not an option, look for it online and check if there are any torrents on the sites you have access to where you live. Only if you exhaust all other options, or if you are dead set in buying a physical copy for a memento / getting it signed by the artist type of keepsake, should you consider purchasing it at the inflated price. So even though the book might be affordable to those who have the money, that simply isn’t applicable to most people, meaning that – No. It isn’t affordable as it would not fall into most people’s budgets easily or without being looked at as a luxury.    

Is the book Worth it? 🎨

Even though due to points 3 & 4 above, I cannot give the book a full 5 palettes, and must settle only on 4, I would say – Yes. It has been great to learn more about the backstory and history of Arcane and the people who made it possible. The work they’ve put in for years, each single step in their journey and the care and dedication that has been poured into the creation of this new world. It has been lovely to gain an insight into the visual development of the series, as well as the character building, and the considerations awarded to all the small things that make them the characters that they are and the characters that we love. I may have never played LoL but I absolutely loved the show. Though even if I hadn’t seen it, from the perspective of a graphic designer, I can certainly appreciate the beauty of Arcane and this book still. And if like me, you are new to this world, then I suspect the book will make you love it even more. It’s worth it.  

[sugurusladyknightt]

➺ gojo x gn!reader

when you finally make it through the front door of your home, your expression drops, and with a deep sigh, you flop onto the the carpet covered ground.

you're just so tired.

simply opting on laying there, you didn't get to make it that far into your home. the ache in your body and heaviness in your mind leaving you unable to do much else but enjoy the view at your home from the new perspective; worms are living the life man. you know, it's important to expand ones horizons by experiencing life from different perspectives.

you're not quite sure how long you've been laying there, or when the heavy of your eyes started fluttering shut, taking over mind as it's blissfully teleported to the land of some dream you likely won't remember by the time you wake.

it's soft. you're home. the gruel of the day left behind you now becoming only a fading memory of the agony you had endured and survived.

it's difficult not to be thankful to satoru for his lavish over spending on home furnishings in moments like these. the soft carpet brushing against your face, welcoming you into its embrace with a saccharine sweetness you never thought possible for a floor covering.

~~

you find yourself waking to the feeling of fingertips softly brushing over your features. with your eyes still closed and somehow fully aware of your surroundings. a small grey space between reality and senseless images the mind can devise — it's difficult to tell whether your still dreaming or not.

tracing the column of your neck, the shape of your face, your hairline, and the arch of your ears.

the sensation a comfortable ticklish sort.

along your brow bone, down the bridge of your nose, and against the curve of your cheek. the lines your lips, the round of your chin, and back up to count the lashes that protect your slumbering eyes.

your woken up by the gentle feeling. your on a cloud, floating through the sky. or maybe it's a little boat, drifting further away guided only by the tide. your eyes once again begin fluttering; a butterfly's wings preparing for flight. your adjusting to the glowing lights that come through the windows, a pinkish orange hue.

slowly your sight is regained, eyes droopy though trying to focus. you can see the image of a man laying next to you, hands tucked gingerly below his neck. soft white locks splayed over the carpeted floor, crystalline blue eyes gazing softly upon your own, faded summertime freckles that can only be seen if you're this close (hardly anyone else is ever this close), and a soft smile playing on the lips; replacing the usually smug, boyish grin.

and you smile back, mouth dry from your nap and evidence of the now-dry drool that has collected in its corners. but you smile back anyway. you don't think you could ever do otherwise.

his smile grows, revealing the pearly white hidden by his pink lips as he greets you in a cheery whisper.

"well, hello there sleepy."

softer than the tone you'd have approaching a stray cat, soft and welcoming. carried with an air of happiness you think only satoru could ever manage to mean genuinely.

a hand comes back up to pet your head, fingers moving to play with the ends of your hair,

"tired?"

the lights coming through the window dancing along the white of his hair and his enviously long eyelashes. there's a halo around his head. the pink and orange glow making it so his eyes glow in the dimmed natural light collected in the room.

your only reply is a nod. you can't speak, not before such divinity. you wouldn't dare.

his thoughtful tone followed by a more serious one.

"hmmm, shit day?"

pfft. there's nothing to be so nervous about. after all, this is your boy. your perfect blue-eyed boy. your lover boy. your silly man. yours. because he wants to be.

there's your gentle laughter and the soft smile playing on his lips grows — newton's third law of motion.

what a lovely sound, he thinks.

"no, not especially so. 'm just tired"

"mmh"

it's rare that he's so quiet. well, it's rarer to others than it is you, but nonetheless rare. you're somewhere between missing the loud of his voice and enjoying the quietness of understanding.

it's not difficult to understand one another without the use of trivial things like the spoken word. satorus eyes, reminiscent of the endless depths of the seas, they will tell you everything you could ever want to know.

your own hand moves to play with his hair, eyes as razor focused on the piece you've got between your thumb and index finger as can be, before the whole of your hand gently rakes through his soft hair.

the silence is so comfortable, you really are on a cloud. or a little boat. you don't wanna share it with anyone else. you wonder if you could feel this way with anyone else, and the answer is so easily available to you.

no.

possibly being the quickest you'll ever answer a question.

your eyes drift back to his before you say,

"toru, what are your thoughts on snacks and a movie in bed in place of dinner. just tonight. .... though i don't think we've got any right now." you think out loud. voice coming out a little raspy but you pay it little mind.

you're pulled closer by the strong hand at your hip, the muscles under his skin, shifting with the movement and you can't help being mesmerized.

he smells clean. the fresh scent of aloe clinging to his skin, your hands curl around the pale blue button up he wears. it's instinctual; newton's third law of motion.

"i like that idea. although, we both know that it's very obviously very clearly been stolen from me. y if you will. robbed from my countless thoughtful recommendations that have always remain ignored. dismissed. without a second thought" he says matter of factly and in the most dramatic tone imaginable ending it with a little hmph. acting as if all the lights are on him as he presents his dramatic little shakespearean soliloquy. the cherry on top? satoru trying to make his voice sound a little posh to really drive his performance home.

(he doesn't have to try too hard)

he's trying to make you laugh. again. to hear that lovely sound. satoru accomplishes his goal but is it what it seems to be?

his own success? or ads your only indulging him?

divider by @saradika-graphics

[blakeswritingimagines]

Blow My Whistle, Baby

(Kink heacanon)

Quinn Hughes: Quinn groaned low in his throat, hips instinctively bucking into your hand as you worked his cock with skilled precision. His head fell back against the wall in the locker room, exposing the column of his neck. "Fuck.. Always know just how to get me going," he managed to gasp out between ragged breaths. He tangled his fingers in your hair, guiding you closer to his straining erection. The promise of your lips and tongue on his sensitive flesh had him quivering with anticipation. "Been thinking about this nonstop, baby," he confessed huskily. "Dreamed about waking up with you on top of me, riding me till we both came undone." Arber's grip on your hair tightened as he pulled you onto his lap, aligning your mouth with his throbbing cock. "Now stop teasing and put that pretty mouth to work."

Jack Hughes: Jack and you were having a relaxed evening at home when you decided to turn up the heat. Sitting on the bed, beginning to kiss each other slowly and passionately, as your hands explored each other's bodies. Starting to undress each other slowly, taking in every moment of the experience. You then knelt down in front of him, looking up with a lustful expression as you began to tease him with your tongue. The pleasure you were giving him was immense, and he knew he was in for a treat. He groaned deeply as your talented tongue works its magic, his cock throbbing with need "Oh fuck… you're driving me wild already. I can't wait to taste more of you."

Luke Hughes: Catching him busy on his phone in bed was easy enough as you tugged his boxers down, freeing his semi-hard cock. You wrapped your hand around it, giving it a few slow strokes as you looked up at him through your lashes. "Mmm, looks like someone's eager for some attention," you spoke softly, leaning in to lick a stripe up the underside of his shaft. Your tongue swirled around the head, savoring the salty tang of his pre-cum before taking him into your mouth. You bobbed your head, sucking gently as you worked him deeper, your free hand massaging his balls. "You taste so good, Lukey," you moaned around his length, relishing the way he twitched and throbbed against your tongue. "Can't wait to feel you come undone."

Nico Hischier: With a sly grin, you hooked your fingers into Nico's hockey pants and tugged them down, exposing his hardening cock. You wrapped your hand around it, stroking him slowly from base to tip, savoring the heat and firmness. "Mmm, looks like someone's eager for some relief," you purred, leaning in to lap at the sensitive head with your tongue. Your eyes met his, dark with desire, as you took him deeper into your mouth, relishing the salty taste of his pre-cum. You bobbed your head, taking him further each time, until you had him all the way in, your nose pressed against his pubic bone. The vibrations of your moan sent ripples through him as you began to suck, your hand working in tandem to pleasure him while listening to him mumble out. "That's it, baby,"

Timo Meier: Timo was lying on the bed, his heart racing with excitement and anticipation. You with a mischievous glint in your eye, straddled him, your hands roaming over his chest as you leaned down to kiss him on the neck, having been teased and tormented by you ever since he left the arena with another loss under his belt. You smirked against Timo's skin, your fingers tracing patterns over his chest as you peppered kisses along his jawline. "Ah, still feeling that disappointment, sweetheart? Losing stinks, but it's nothing compared to what we can do to take the edge off." Your hand slipped lower, cupping his growing arousal through his pants. "I've got just the remedy for your post-game blues," you whispered huskily before claiming his lips in a deep, possessive kiss, your tongue delving into his mouth to taste him fully. "Let me show you how to forget about those losses…and focus on something much more pleasurable instead." You slowly moved down his body and in between his strong thighs.

Dawson Mercer: Dawson's breathing quickened as your skilled hands worked their magic on his throbbing erection. His hips instinctively bucked forward, seeking more of that delicious friction. "Fuck… y-yes, I've been wanting this all damn day," he admitted, his voice husky with desire. The sensation of those talented fingers encircling his shaft made his head spin. "I've been picturing you on your knees for me, worshipping my cock like only you can." Arber's hands found their way to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he gently guided you closer to his lap. The heat of your mouth was just inches away now, and anticipation coiled tight in Dawson's belly. "Please, baby… suck me," he urged, his voice laced with need. A sultry smile played on your lips as you listened to Dawson's desperate pleas, the sound of his needy voice sending shivers down your spine. You looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, your gaze burning with lust as you slowly licked your lips in invitation.

John Marino: John's breath caught in his throat as your soft hands worked their magic on his straining erection. A shiver ran down his spine at the sight of you on your knees, sending a jolt of desire straight to his core. "Fuck, babe..you know just how to get under my skin," he groaned, his hips involuntarily bucking into your grasp. The sensation of your hot breath on his thighs only heightened his arousal, making him ache for more of your attention. John's fingers tangled in your hair, gently tugging you closer as to give you better access. "I've thought about nothing else all damn day," he admitted huskily, his voice rough with need. "The way you suck me off is like a drug – once I get a taste, I'm hooked."

Kirby Dach: Kirby's breath caught in his throat as your skilled fingers worked their magic, coaxing his erection to full mast. The sensation of those warm hands wrapping around him was pure bliss, and he couldn't help but thrust slightly into the grip, seeking more friction. "Fuck, sweetheart…" he groaned, his voice low and husky with desire. "Always know just how to get me going, don't you?" Kirby's hips rolled lazily, giving himself over to the pleasure as you began to stroke him in earnest. Each glide of your hand sent sparks of heat shooting through his veins, making his head spin. "You have no idea how many times I thought about bending you over the kitchen counter today," Kirby admitted, his words punctuated by ragged pants as your touch pushed him closer to the edge. "Or fucking you against the wall during practice."

Juraj Slafkovsky: With a sultry smile playing on your lips, you released Juraj's straining cock and stood up, meeting his hungry gaze. "Patience, love," you purred, trailing a finger down his chest before pulling his hoodie up just enough, revealing the chiseled expanse of his torso. "I want to savor every inch of you first." Once Juraj's hoodie was off, you dipped your head to lavish attention on his nipples, swirling your tongue around the pebbled buds and nibbling gently. He let out a low moan, arching into your touch as you worked your way down his abdomen, pausing to kiss and nip at the sensitive skin. Finally, you reached the waistband of his sweatpants once more, pulling them down along with his boxers in one swift motion. Juraj's back arched sharply as your lips closed around his nipple, sending jolts of pleasure straight to his aching cock. He threaded his fingers through your hair, holding you close as you teased and tormented his sensitive flesh. By the time you descend lower, his pants pooled at his ankles, leaving him bare and vulnerable before you. "Goddamn…" he gasped, his head falling back as you kissed a trail down his stomach. The anticipation was killing him, every nerve ending alight with need.

Arber Xhekaj: Arber Xhekaj was sitting on the couch watching TV when you walked into the room. He could tell from the look on your face that you were up to something. Without a word, you knelt down in front of him and started to tug his sweatpants down. He could feel his heart racing as you untied the drawstrings and reached inside. Your touch was gentle but firm, and he let out a soft moan as you started to stroke him. Knowing exactly how to touch him as he grew hard. "Mmm, I can see it in your eyes, Arb," you murmured, gazing up at him through thick lashes as you continued to fondle the growing bulge in your boyfriend's pants. "You're always so responsive to my touch. It's like your body knows exactly what it wants." Your fingers danced along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh, teasing and stroking until they finally wrapped around the stiffening length of cock. You gave it a slow, deliberate squeeze, feeling it twitch against your palm. "Tell me, have you been thinking about this all day? About how good I'd make you feel if I got on my knees for you?" You leaned in closer, your warm breath tickling Arber's ear as he whispered, "Because I've been craving a taste of you since morning."

Cole Caufield: Cole groaned low in his throat as your fingers wrapped around his throbbing cock. The heat of your palm seeped into his flesh, sending jolts of pleasure straight to his core. His hips jerked reflexively, seeking more of that delicious friction. "Fuck, … y-yes, I've been thinking about it nonstop," he admitted, his voice strained with need. "About you on your knees, worshipping my cock… God, it drives me wild just imagining it." Cole tangled his hands in your hair, guiding your head closer to his straining erection. "Please… I need you to touch me, taste me," he pleaded, his breathing ragged. "Make me come undone, baby. I'm all yours."

Trevor Zegras: Going out with Trevor for drinks sounded like a good time, until you both had one too many and snuck off to the bar's bathroom. With deliberate slowness, your unzipped Trevor's pants, your eyes locked onto his as you revealed his hardening cock. A low hum of approval rumbled in your throat at the sight. You wrapped a hand around his thick shaft, giving it a firm stroke from base to tip. "Mmm, looks like someone's ready for action," you spoke in a teasing tone, leaning in to run your tongue along the sensitive underside. You took him into your mouth, your lips stretching around his girth as you began to suck him with enthusiastic fervor. Your free hand massaged his balls while you worked him over, eager to bring him to the brink and beyond. You looked up at Trevor, your gazes meeting in a heated stare, conveying without words the depth of your desire for him.

Jamie Drysdale: Jamie's breath caught in his throat as your skilled hands worked their magic on his aching erection. His hips instinctively bucked forward, seeking more of that delicious friction in the privacy of a restaurant bathroom. The husky timbre of your voice sent shivers down his spine, and he felt himself grow even harder in response to the provocative words. "I…fuck," he managed to gasp out, his grip tightening into fists against the stall. "Always, every damn time. You know just how to drive me wild." Jamie's head fell back with a groan, exposing the vulnerable column of his neck. He arched into your touch, silently begging for more. When your hot breath caressed his ear, he couldn't help but moan softly, his resolve crumbling under the onslaught of desire. "Please," he whimpered, his voice raw with need. "Oh, I'm going to please you so thoroughly, baby," you purred, nipping gently at the tender flesh of Jamie's neck before soothing it with your tongue. Your hand moved faster now, pumping his straining cock in a rhythm designed to push him over the edge. "I want to hear you come undone for me, Jamie. Want to taste that sweet release on my lips." With your free hand, you reached up to cup Jamie's chin, tilting his face toward yours. Your mouths met in a searing kiss, tongues tangling as you devoured each other's moans and whimpers. Breaking away for a moment, you gazed deep into those pleading blue eyes and whispered as you knelt down, "Give it to me, sweetheart. Let go and fill my mouth with everything you've been holding back."

Matt Rempe: Matt groaned softly, his hips involuntarily bucking into your hand as pleasure shot through him. "Fuck, baby…you know just how to get me going," he panted, tangling his fingers in your hair as he pulled you in for a deep, hungry kiss. When you broke apart, Matt's eyes were dark with lust, pupils blown wide. "I've thought about nothing else all day. Imagined waking up with you between my legs, sucking me off 'til I couldn't take it anymore." He reached down to help you pull his boxers the rest of the way off, then spread his thighs invitingly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get that pretty mouth on my dick before I lose my mind." Matt's voice was low and rough with need, his cock standing at attention, flushed and leaking pre-cum.

[clemmmmmmmmmmmmmm]

Extra credit

Warning:Smut,P in v

You didn’t mean to make Tim Drake blush every time you opened your mouth. It just kind of… happened. Something about the way you leaned in when you spoke, or maybe the way you said things like “penetrate the deeper meaning” during lit class with a straight face — it turned the poor boy to jelly.Tonight wasn’t much different. Your dorm room was dimly lit, laptop humming on your desk, textbooks cracked open like old secrets. Tim sat on your bed, posture stiff and eyes flicking between his notes and your legs as you paced the room.He had shown up under the pretense of studying for your shared Psych class. But judging by the way he kept shifting every time you leaned over his shoulder — yeah, he wasn’t thinking about Freud.”You okay, Timmy?” you asked, voice sweet, syrupy. You walked behind him, letting your hands rest on his shoulders. He jumped slightly, then immediately tensed.

“Y-Yeah,” he said, voice cracking like a teenager with a secret. “I mean—yep. Good. Great.”

“You’re so tense,” you said, fingers kneading into his shoulders. You felt the heat radiating off him, the little hitch in his breath. “You need to relax. We’ve been at this for hours.”

“We’ve only been here like… forty-five minutes.”

“Exactly,” you whispered near his ear. “Way too long for you not to be having any fun.”Tim turned to look up at you, mouth parted slightly. He looked like he wanted to say something smart, something confident — but all that came out was a soft exhale.

You smiled.“You know,” you continued, stepping around to stand between his knees, “I always wondered how someone as composed as you manages to look like you’re about to combust every time a girl breathes in your direction.”Tim’s face flushed instantly, eyes darting down, then back up to your face. “I—That’s not—You’re just… a lot.”

“Oh?” you leaned down, palms resting on his thighs, your face dangerously close to his. “Am I too much for you, Tim?”

Bingo.

You tilted your head, looking at him like he was your favorite project.”“Are you telling me you’ve never even kissed someone properly?”His silence was answer enough. You reached up and brushed a thumb along his jaw.

“Do you want to?” you asked.He nodded. You smiled, then leaned in slowly — slow enough to let him pull away if he wanted. He didn’t. Your lips brushed his, soft and warm, and the little sigh he let out made your stomach twist.

Tim kissed back, a little clumsy but eager, fingers twitching on his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. You straddled his thighs and cupped his jaw as your lips deepened the kiss, taking control — guiding him.When you pulled back, his cheeks were flushed and his lips were parted. You could see his chest rising and falling a little faster.”You’re so sensitive,” you murmured, sliding your hands under his hoodie, fingers brushing his sides. “Bet you’d be a wreck if someone really took their time with you.”

Tim swallowed, hands hesitating at your hips. “You’re really good at this…”You grinned. “I know. Want me to teach you?”He nodded again, slower this time, eyes locked on yours. His grip on your hips firmed just slightly.”Good boy,” you whispered, leaning in to kiss him again, slower this time — tongue teasing his bottom lip, just to feel him shiver.

You waste no time. As your lips part from his, you trail a single finger along the column of his throat, following the quick pulse there. His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows; you smile, leaning in to murmur against his skin.

“Tonight, you’re learning everything from scratch,” you whisper. “Starting with kissing—now let’s find out what else you’re good at.”Tim’s breath hitches, hands fumbling at the hem of your shirt. Encouraged, you hook your thumbs inside his waistband, tugging his jeans down just enough to expose the waistband of his boxers. He lifts his hips in shy invitation, eyes wide, cheeks pink.

“Good boy,” you praise, slipping one hand around his boxers’ band. Your palm presses against him—warm, eager—and you feel him stiffen immediately. His breath quickens. You press your thumb softly, circling the sensitive head of him through the thin fabric.

He gasps, fingers tangling in your hair. “Oh—oh wow…”

You lean back, grin teasing. “See? You like that, don’t you?” Then, with a soft tug, you pull his boxers down, freeing him completely. He presses himself closer to you, eyes fluttering shut, lips parted. You savor the sight—every flush of his skin, every tiny tremor.

“Spread your legs,” you instruct, voice low and firm. He parts his knees, giving you full access. You kneel between them, raising your hand to draw a slow, deliberate path from the base of him up to the tip. He moans softly, arching his hips as if chasing your touch.

“Is this okay?” you ask, though you already know the answer. He nods, breath coming in short, shallow pants.Your free hand moves to steady his hips, sliding down his side, feeling the tension coil in his muscles. Then you lean forward, letting your fingertips ghost over the head of him. The contact makes him shiver, back arching.“Tim…” you murmur, sliding a finger inside yourself as you watch him. His eyes snap open, shock and arousal mingling on his face. “Watching you is making me wet,” you admit, voice throaty. You bring your other hand back to his, guiding it to where you’ve placed yourself. His fingers brush your wetness, eyes going wide.You guide his hand, showing him how you like to be touched. He’s hesitant at first, gentle—so gentle he almost makes you laugh. “Not bad for a rookie,” you tease, wrapping your fingers around his and moving them in time with your own. He blushes, but matches your rhythm eagerly.

When you’re both hot and breathless, you slide back up onto his lap, positioning him at your entrance. His eyes go huge, heart hammering. You smile softly, supporting yourself on his chest.”Tell me when,” you instruct, and he nods, voice trembling: “I’m ready.”With a gentle lean forward, you guide him inside. He parts you slowly, inch by inch, and you feel every twitch of surprise in him. He kisses your collarbone as you settle down on him, hips rocking against his. The friction makes stars burst behind his eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, giving him something to hold onto.

His hands find your hips, tentative at first but gaining confidence. You tilt your head back, letting out a low moan. “That’s it, Tim… just like that.”

He moves with you now, every shift deliberate. The heady scent of him fills your senses—his scent, his heat. You lean down to kiss him, tasting yourself on his lips. He moans into your mouth, and you feel his nerves unraveling, giving way to pure pleasure.You guide the pace, slow and steady at first, letting him find the rhythm. Then you pick up the pace, teasingly speeding up, drawing out his moans. “Feel good?” you tease between pants.Tim can barely form words. “Yeah… so good… You’re amazing.”

“You’re doing so well,” you praise, voice breathless. You cup his face, pushing your forehead to his. His eyes flutter closed, and you ride the wave of sensation building inside you both.With every thrust, his confidence grows. His hands tighten on your hips, and he leans into the motion, matching you stroke for stroke. You arch your back, pressing yourself against him, deeper and deeper. Your moans grow louder, and he follows suit, sounds of your pleasure mixing with his own.

When you first feel the coil of release tightening in your core, you slow the motion, pulling him all the way in. You kiss him fiercely, tongue sliding over his bottom lip, sharing the heady warmth of your impending climax. His own release follows, a shuddering exhale as he lets go inside you.You come apart around him, trembling and breathless, chest heaving against his. He slowly withdraws, collapsing beside you, both of you sweaty and sated. You wrap your arms around him, kissing his temple.

“You were perfect,” you murmur into his hair. He blushes, burying his face in your neck.“As perfect as you,” he whispers back. And for a long moment, all is quiet except for your shared breaths and the soft rustle of sheets.

[snail-day]

TW: Yandere Behaviors, Dubcon, Anal, Toys, Gaping, Squirting, Overstimulation. MDNI

Yan!Nanami x Reader thoughts...

Nanami has a thing for anal. Of course, he’d rather be buried deep inside your cunt, feeling your soft, squishy walls clench around him, watching the heat rise to your cheeks as you gaze up at him, all flushed and perfect. But… he also enjoys making his trapped bride make the decisions.

That’s why there’s a clipboard hanging in the kitchen - Adventures for Newlyweds, a neatly organized list of activities. You get to pick, of course. One by one, you cross off options, whittling it down until only the ones you’d rather not deal with remain. And when your hand hesitates, your mind swirling with what’s left, that’s when he moves. Strong arms wrapping around your waist, his breath warm against your ear, lips tracing down the column of your neck.

“Go on, sweet girl. You still have choices.”

Because choice has always been his thing. From his lists, his carefully curated options. He’d never take that away from you.

You definitely weren’t going to do double penetration, not after what you saw in the toy box. The other length sitting in the leather box almost an exact replica of his, just as intimidating, and if he thought he was putting that inside you at the same time—nope. It’d be a big stretch, something he murmured in your ear with that smooth, reassuring tone, "I'd prepare you for it, don't worry." Yeah, you weren't worried about that. He would. The problem is, he'd enjoy it a little too much.

So, when your eyes landed on butt plug on the list, it seemed like the lesser evil. What’s the harm in that? A little plug. Something small, manageable—right?

Yeah, no. Those words definitely bit you in the ass, literally, when you finally saw the metal thing he had in mind. You stared at him, then at the toy, before meeting his lovesick gaze.

"Do you want me to—"

"No... I can do it."

"Do you need help?" His voice was patient, affectionate. "I'm just worried you’ll hurt yourself, honey."

So, off to the bathroom you went. A deep breath. A generous amount of lube. A hesitant finger easing the way. But the process dragged on and on, and after an hour, you heard his long sigh from the other side of the door, followed by another gentle knock.

Because he would help. He’d spend hours preparing you if that’s what you wanted. All day, even. But finally, with a breathless gasp, the toy settled into place, stretching and filling you just as intended. The initial burn slowly faded, replaced by a deep, full sensation that had you looking up at him with flushed cheeks.

That embarrassment? Nanami loved it.

It was always the same - your soft, wide-eyed uncertainty, the way your body hesitated before melting into his touch. It made him smile, made him soothe you with gentle kisses, whispering away your nerves as he eased you into anything he saw fit.

And tonight was no different.

He guided you to the bed, slow and strady, worshipping every inch of your skin as he pressed you into the sheets. And when he finally sank inside you, stretching you completely, he groaned against your ear, "You feel so much better like this, don't you?"

Your hands clenched the sheets, body overwhelmed, and just when you thought you had adjusted, he pressed on the plug.

A sharp, involuntary gasp. Your walls fluttered around him, and he chuckled, so pleased with himself. Every time it threatened to slip out, he pushed it back in, murmuring how good you were, how perfect you felt - how he wasn't letting you go anywhere.

Not when he was finally about to finish, not when the sheets were already wet with your tears, your voice breaking as you blubbered that you were too full, that you couldn’t possibly cum again. But Nanami didn’t stop. His fingers never faltered, still working your overused nub, still dragging you through another wave of humiliating bliss that left you trembling, practically gushing, beneath him.

You see, Nanami also has a thing for over hydrating you. Keeping you nice and full of water so everytime you came, you can expect another bottle of water at your lips so your poor cunny can squirt on his cock all over again.

Only when he had wrung every last shudder from your body did he finally pull himself from your soaked plush walls with a sharp hiss. For a brief moment, you thought he might be a little adventurous, that he’d paint your back with his release, leave you marked just the way he liked.

But no.

Instead, he reached between your trembling thighs, fingers curling around the base of the plug still nestled deep inside you. He pulled it out as gently as he could, but even then, your body twitched, and that’s when you heard it. A sharp, surprised gasp - his voice, breath hitching in open admiration.

Because oh.

You also noticed something just then.

He had a thing for gaping.

His fingers traced the edges of your stretched, trembling hole, his eyes dark with something insatiable. And then, just as your hazy mind was catching up—just as you were starting to realize what had him so entranced—you felt it. The warm, thick traces of cum leaking into that gaping hole.

"Tsk," he murmured, almost to himself, watching as his cum disappeared into your spent body. "Can’t let any of it go to waste, can we?"

And his fingers? They were right there, pressing the slick mess back inside.

After that? You noticed the butt plug remained on the list and how he'd guide your hand to point at it once more before whisking you away to the bedroom.

[maturemenoftvandfilms]

The Senator From Montana

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: A Concession of Passion

Featuring Jon Tester

The air was crisp in Great Falls, Montana, as the sun began to set on November 6, 2024. The crowd gathered at the Civic Center was a mix of supporters, family, and press, all awaiting Senator Jon Tester's concession speech. The election results were clear; Republican Tim Sheehy had won the Senate seat.

Jon Tester, a robust man with the weathered look of someone who's spent a lifetime in the Montana fields, took the stage, his face a mask of disappointment but with an underlying strength. He spoke of his gratitude, his commitment to Montana, and his acceptance of the voters' decision. His words were met with applause, some with tears, others with a resigned nod.

As the crowd dispersed, the weight of the concession settled on Tester. Walking back to his campaign office, his steps were heavy, each one echoing the end of an era. But waiting for him was Jack Lucas, his male executive assistant, whose presence had always been a source of comfort and more. Jack, with his sharp suit and even sharper eyes, locked the door behind them, ensuring privacy.

"You did what you could, Jon," he said softly, stepping closer, his hand reaching out to touch Tester's arm, a gesture of comfort that carried the weight of something more intimate.

"I know, Jack, but it's hard to let go," Tester replied, his voice low, his eyes searching Jack's for the solace he desperately needed.

“I feel like getting my dick sucked. You want to suck the cock of an old dirt farmer?” Jon's voice was rough, laced with the gravel of his rural Montanan roots, as he unzipped his fly with a practiced ease. His jeans, worn and faded from years of hard work, slid down just enough to reveal his boxers. He pulled out his cock, not yet hard, a testament to his defeat but still impressive, nestled in a thatch of dark, curly hair.

“Ain’t much to it today. Guess the loss took all the starch out of it. But I’m sure you can make it hard,” he said, giving his member a casual wave.

Jack, with his stocky, athletic build, was eager to shift Jon's focus from political loss to physical pleasure. He knelt before Jon, his lips parting to envelop Jon’s soft cock, his tongue swirling around the tip with expert precision.

"Yea, I could use a little pleasure," Jon murmured, his voice a rumble of anticipation. "Maybe it’ll help me think of something other than losing my senate seat."

As Jack worked, Jon's cock grew, hardening, filling out to its full eight inches, thick and veined, the head turning a deep, lustful red.

“That feels damn right good. Swallow it all the way. I know you can do it,” Jon urged, his hands guiding Jack’s head with a mix of strength and care.

Jon's cock was a sight to behold, a column of flesh that seemed to pulse with life. Jack managed to take it all, his throat accommodating the girth, feeling the senator's pulse against his tongue. Jon's hand in Jack’s hair was firm, controlling the rhythm of his thrusts until he abruptly withdrew.

“Come on, Lucas, let's find a room. I want to fuck you,” Jon commanded, his voice thick with desire.

In the privacy of their chosen room, he instructed, "Take off all your clothes," his own plaid shirt and jeans soon discarded, revealing his robust, slightly hairy chest and the hard lines of his belly.

As Jack unbuttoned his shirt, his eyes lingered on Jon's belly, imagining the warmth and firmness pressed against his cheek. The sight of Jon pulling down his boxers, revealing his thick, now fully erect cock, and the heavy, low-hanging balls beneath, was almost too much.

“Get on the bed,” Jon ordered as Jack stepped out of his underwear, his own cock bobbing eagerly.

Jack lay back on the crisp white sheets, and Jon straddled him, his back to Jack's face, presenting his muscular, round ass. Jon leaned back, his asshole descending towards Jack's eager mouth. “Lick my asshole!” Jon commanded with the authority of a man used to giving orders. Jack's tongue met the tender, pink bud, tasting the bitter, earthy essence of Jon. Jon's sigh was deep, resonant, his body relaxing into the sensation. Jack's tongue danced around Jon's hole, then delved in, his hands spreading Jon's cheeks apart to delve deeper.

“Oh! Yea!” Jon's shout was loud, filled with raw pleasure.

“Fuck yeah! Fuck wonderful!” He grabbed Jack's cock, his grip firm as he jerked him off.

“Stick it deeper!” Jon demanded, his body hunching involuntarily with each flick of Jack's tongue.

Suddenly, Jon spun around, lifting Jack's legs, exposing him completely. He positioned himself between Jack's legs, his large hands gripping Jack's thighs with a strength that belied his age. Jack felt the heat of Jon's cock against his entrance. Jon didn't waste time; he spat into his hand, lubing himself up with a rough efficiency.

With a grunt, Jon pushed inside Jack, the sensation causing both to gasp. Jon's cock slid in to the hilt, his low-hanging balls slapping against Jack with each thrust. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies moving together, the slap of skin, the groans of pleasure, and the occasional curse from Jon, who seemed to find a particular joy in the raw, unfiltered expression of his desire.

“Fuck me, Jon. Give it to me,” Jack cried, his eyes locked on Jon’s weathered, handsome face. He wanted to remember this moment, this connection. Jack's hands roamed over Jon's back, feeling the muscles tense and relax with each movement.

“You like having my cock up your ass?” Jon panted, his rhythm becoming more erratic as he neared his climax. Jack, overwhelmed by the intensity, could only nod, his own release building.

“You're a good man, Lucas. A real good man!” Jon growled, pulling back to the tip before ramming home again.

“Damn if your asshole isn’t hotter than Sharla’s pussy,” he admitted, his strokes becoming more forceful, driving Jack into a frenzy of bucking and moaning.

Amidst this intense coupling, Jon leaned down, capturing Jack's mouth in a kiss fierce with passion, their tongues battling. Then, with a guttural groan, Jon came inside Jack, his orgasm shaking his large frame. The kiss persisted, passionate and unyielding, even as Jon's climax subsided. Jack wrapped his legs around Jon, not wanting to lose the connection, the intimacy.

Jon slid down, taking Jack's cock in his mouth, his eyes never leaving Jack's, his movements deliberate and skilled. Just before Jack could reach his peak, Jon pulled away, straddling him. He guided Jack's cock to his ass, lowering himself with a groan that spoke volumes of his desire. Jack's hands spread Jon's cheeks, feeling the tight clench around his shaft. Jon's body moved with a surprising grace, up and down, his heavy body a beautiful contrast to the raw act they were engaged in.

When Jack came, it was with a cry that mingled with Jon's deeper groan as his release filled Jon, their bodies shuddering together in the aftermath.

Afterward, they lay there, catching their breath, the reality of what had just transpired settling in. Jon rolled off Jack, his body heavy with satisfaction. He reached for his clothes, the moment of intimacy fading back into the world of politics and public life.

“I’m gonna miss this, Lucas,” Jon said, his voice softer now, almost vulnerable. He pulled Jack into a brief, tight embrace before standing, his movements slow, as if he wanted to stay in this moment just a little longer.

As he dressed, he glanced back at Jack, who was watching him with a mix of admiration and sadness. “Keep in touch, alright? Maybe when the dust settles, we can find some more time for… this.”

With that, Jon left, leaving Jack with the lingering warmth of their encounter and the echo of his words, a promise of perhaps more to come, in a world where everything was about to change.

Note: This narrative is entirely fictional and meant for entertainment purposes. It does not imply or suggest any real-life events, behaviors, or relationships involving Jon Tester, Jack Lucas, or any other real person.

[critrolesideblog]

The lecture hall was in surprisingly good shape, considering the rest of the building was in utter ruin. A quick peer through the door and detect magic revealed no creatures or traps. Essek glanced back over his shoulder, spying Caleb some 30 feet away, picking through some fallen rubble, and stepped through the open doorway into the hall.

Not only was the room in good shape, it was almost eerily untouched -- the toppled professor's desk on the dais the only true indication of something awry. Once-polished, wooden chairs with adjoining desks were arranged in tiers around the dais, built into the floor and, if his arcane sight did not deceive him, magically reinforced against being removed or altered in any way. He wondered idly what sort of rowdy behavior Aeor's elite arcane students got up to that warranted such reinforcement as he glided silently toward the professor's desk. The windows of the surrounding walls were similarly reinforced, framed by columns that guided the eye up and overhead where they held aloft a dome inlaid with golden arcane sigils in a calligraphic script that appeared merely decorative in nature. It was easy to imagine such a room flying, majestic, among the clouds, filled with light and learning.

Regrettable, then, that his own search for learning in this hall was looking to be fruitless: there were no papers strewn on the surrounding floor around the desk, and it appeared the room was unoccupied at the time of destruction. Spying no traps, he pulled perfunctorily on one of the desk drawers, and -- shrreeeeeekk -- the ancient slides, long rusted from disuse, grated against each other. He froze, listening for any disturbed monsters in the shadow. There were no creeping abominations to be heard, but something else caught his ear.

He glided slowly to the center of the dais and spoke quietly with a quick practiced twist of his hand. He barely registered the dancing lights that floated up from his fingertips as he listened to the way his voice reverberated through the room, filling the space. He gave an experimental hum, first one note, then another, and relished in how they danced among the dust motes. He took a deep breath and, unsure if he still remembered how, began to sing softly.

Across the fields, the windswept fields, Across the fields, oh Light, oh Light, the windswept fields, my lover came to me.

Across the mountains, the western mountains, Across the mountains, oh Light, oh Light, the western mountains, he went away.

The northern wind, the howling wind, The northern wind, oh Light, oh Light, the howling wind, is all that dries my tears.

It was fine, he thought. The ornamentations weren't as smooth or detailed as he once managed, but still, he listened with satisfaction to the last notes lingering in the air.

The sound of quiet applause caused him to start, and he twisted around to find Caleb standing in the doorway. Essek could feel heat rising in his face at being caught singing so roughly, but he gave a mock bow to go with the mock applause before gliding over.

"That was lovely," Caleb murmured as Essek glided near, and Essek stopped short, realizing the look on Caleb's face was not one of amusement but of intermingled affection and delight. Was he serious? Caleb continued. "Was it a hymn of some sort?"

"A hymn?"

"I thought I heard--ah," He stopped short, suddenly serious, and cleared his throat. "Light?" He ventured in Undercommon, and Essek felt warmer still, though no longer from embarrassment. He floated closer to Caleb, compelled by a sort of gravitational pull he was only recently becoming familiar with.

"Widowgast, you did not tell me you were studying Undercommon."

"Ah, well," Caleb's eyes found a spot on Essek's shoulder as a small smile tugged his lips. "Studying is generous term. I've just pieced together a few things." He reached out a hand and interlaced his fingers with Essek's, tugging him into the doorway with him, which Essek allowed with pleasure. The smile on his face had a warm mischievousness that crinkled the corners of his eyes as he added, "Though I certainly wouldn't say no to some private lessons."

"Private lessons?" Essek reached up his other hand and hooked a finger under Caleb's scarf, pulling them closer still, until their foreheads rested against each other. "That will cost you a favor, I think." And Caleb obliged, tilting his chin up and closing the distance between them, and their lips met with a rush of warm affection and pleasure. "Mm, I'll consider it," he murmured as they parted at last.

"Wunderbar. And how much would another private concert cost me?"

Essek laughed -- it was a silly thought after all -- him give a concert. But, Caleb was not laughing. His brows were furrowing together as he tried to determine what he had said that was so funny. Oh. "Apologies," Essek said, straightening up. "I-I cannot say I have ever been asked to sing before. It took me by surprise." Caleb's brows furrowed further.

"No one noticed you have a beautiful voice?" Again, he seemed utterly sincere. Essek had heard human ears were not as discerning as elven ones. Perhaps, it was true.

"I took singing lessons as a child -- all noble-born children do. Music is an important part of temple services -- a hymn was a good bet on your part. I enjoyed it well enough, but my teacher concluded my voice was only good for --" He paused, unsure if the phrase was the same in Common, but forged ahead. "--kitchen songs and said I would be better off playing an instrument."

"He sounds like an Arschloch."

"Indeed."

Caleb raised their clasped hands and pressed a sweet kiss to Essek's knuckles. When he lowered them, there was mischief glittering in his eyes again. "You know, I never had music lessons, and kitchen songs sound fun. Perhaps you can teach me that as well." Essek grinned back at him.

"The price for that will be very steep."

"I was hoping you would say so."

*****

*shows up to Shadowgast Week 2025 fifteen minutes late with black moss cupcakes*

This was supposed to be for Light / Culture, but better late than never! It was inspired by this video that crossed my dash recently and a conversation with a friend about their childhood music teacher. The folk song Essek sings is inspired by this one.