#the way this is literally a split second frame…

[sisterkosho]

Why is he actually kinda babygirl though

[iydiamartinx]

THREE SECONDS

Pairing: Damian Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.8k synopsis: You call Damian after you catch your boyfriend cheating on you. a/n: I love writing younger Damian since he's more funny but grown up Damian is equally fun to write in his own way. The pair are platonic but if you squint there's the implication of more.

The hallway spun. Not literally—but in that dizzy, gut-punched way that comes after betrayal. You couldn’t even remember how you got out of that apartment. You just remember slamming the door  behind you harder than you intended, the sound echoing in the quiet of the hall. You were still shaking—whether from rage, disbelief, or heartbreak, you couldn’t say.

You’d seen it. Heard it. That sickening moment when you opened his door without knocking, expecting to surprise him, only to become the one caught off guard. Clothes half-on. Some girl giggling. His stammered excuse still rang in your ears.

You didn’t even remember the Uber ride. Just rushing out of the car, the ache in your chest threatening to split you open, and the rush of cold air as you sprinted up your building’s stairwell.

By the time you reached your apartment, your fingers were clumsy at the lock. Your breath came in harsh gasps. The tears you’d held back during the ride now fell freely—hot, burning tracks down your cheeks. The moment replayed over and over again—his voice, that laugh, her shirt on the floor, the look on his face—Not for what he’d done but because he’d been caught.

You made it inside.

Locked the door.

Collapsed to the floor.

You didn’t know what else to do but call the one person who wouldn’t feed you lies. Wouldn’t try to make this better. Who wasn’t friends with your now ex. 

You hadn’t even thought about it. Your fingers dialled his number before your brain caught up. And when he answered, you didn’t even speak. You didn’t need to. The second he heard your broken sobs, he just said, “Stay where you are.”

You don’t remember getting up, but somehow, you’d pulled yourself from the hardwood and changed. You were now curled up on the couch in a sweatshirt far too big for you—his sweatshirt, actually, left from a night he crashed here after patrol. 

You peeled yourself off the couch, every movement heavy, limbs weighted with exhaustion and emotion. You shuffled barefoot to the door, fingers fumbling with the lock. 

He didn’t say a word at first. Just took one look at you—red-rimmed eyes, blotchy skin, your frame swallowed in his old hoodie—and stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.

“Did he touch you?” he asked, voice too calm.

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh that didn’t sound like you. “It wasn’t me he was touching.”

Damian’s jaw ticked.

“Where is he?” he asked quietly, voice cold.

You shook your head. “It was at his place. I left.”

He stepped closer, green eyes scanning you head to toe like he was checking for wounds.

“You’re trembling,” he said.

“I—I’m fine,” you lied, trying to straighten your spine.

His gaze locked on yours, unflinching. “Don’t lie to me.”

And just like that, your composure cracked.

Your lip quivered. Tears welled again, the pressure of them spilling over with barely a blink. He exhaled—quietly, slowly—some of the sharpness in his expression softening.

“Come here,” he murmured, stepping forward. “Sit down.”

His hand found yours, grounding, warm despite the chill still clinging to your skin. He led you gently back to the couch, as if you might shatter if he wasn’t careful.

He didn’t let go of your hand until you were seated again, curled up into the corner of the couch like you were trying to disappear into the fabric. Only then did he crouch in front of you, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes level with yours.

“Tell me what happened,” he said softly.

You hesitated. Your voice was paper-thin. “I thought I’d surprise him… he always said I didn’t do that enough. So I went over, hoping we’d spend some time together. He’d given me a key so I just walked in.”

Damian said nothing, just waited. Not rushing you. Not reacting. But you could see the effort it took—how tightly he held himself, how his fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for something and break it.

You blinked through the blur of tears. “I heard her laughing first. Then I saw them. She was in her underwear. His shirt was off. They were kissing. He tried to make excuses and say it wasn’t what it looked like.”

Damian scoffed under his breath—sharp and dry.

“I-I just left,” you finished, barely audible.

Silence settled between you like dust.

And then Damian stood.

You looked up quickly. “Don’t—don’t go to him. Please.”

“I’m not,” he said, voice tight. “At least yet.”

Instead, he went to your kitchen and poured you a glass of water that he came back and handed over. You let the coolness settle you as you took small sips watching as he paced back and forth in your small living room. You could practically feel the war going on behind his eyes. Not between right and wrong—he already knew which side he stood on—but between restraint and wrath. 

You wiped at your cheeks. “I’m fine,” you whispered again.

“You keep saying that,” Damian muttered, coming to a halt. He turned toward you, his expression unreadable. “But you’re not.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He moved again—this time toward you. He sat beside you slowly, carefully, like he was afraid of pushing too hard too fast.

Then, gently, Damian lifted your legs and guided them into his lap. His arm settled around your shoulders, the other curling across your knees like a protective cage. His posture was slightly stiff from discomfort but for you he was trying.

You didn’t realize how cold you were until you felt the warmth of him.

“I feel so stupid,” You admitted quietly.

Damian didn’t respond at first. Just the sound of his breath—steady, quiet—filled the space between you. His arm tightened around you a little, as though he could shield you from the words before they even left your mouth.

“You’re not,” he said finally, his voice low and certain. “Don’t mistake betrayal for foolishness.”

“I should’ve seen it coming.” The shame bled through your voice, thick and unshakable. “The late replies. The cancelled plans. I thought I was just overthinking—being insecure.”

“You trusted him.” His tone didn’t waver. “That’s not a flaw. That’s decency.”

You gave a shaky exhale, your cheek pressing against the fabric of his hoodie. “Maybe I don’t know how to choose decent people.”

“You don’t have to carry the blame for someone else’s cowardice. He failed you. Not the other way around.”

Your chest hitched, breath catching somewhere between a sob and a laugh. “Since when did you get so good at saying the right thing?”

He huffed, just a little, and you could feel the shift of his chest under your cheek. “Because I usually am.”

There it was: the faint thread of arrogance laced through his voice, familiar and absurdly comforting. You felt the corner of your mouth twitch, the smallest stir of something close to amusement.

But the moment barely had time to settle.

but just as you were finally calming down and relaxing, frantic knocking broke the peaceful silence the two of you fell into and you could hear the muffled voice of your ex pleading for you to let him in so he could explain.

You froze.

Without a word, Damian easily lifted you off of his lap and set you back down on the couch before striding to the door, opened it—and stood in the doorway like a shadow from a nightmare. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“You have exactly three seconds to walk away.”

Your ex blinked, caught off guard. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded, his voice rising with a scoff. “Has she been cheating on me with you?!”

Damian didn’t even blink.

His gaze remained fixed—unflinching, unreadable, but unmistakably cold. The kind of look that didn’t entertain foolishness. 

“One.”

Your ex’s eyes flicked past him, trying to look into the apartment. “This is insane. I just want to talk to her. I didn’t come here to fight—”

“Two.”

A muscle in Damian’s jaw ticked. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the shift in his posture was unmistakable. Still calm. Still collected. But coiled. Like a wolf deciding whether the threat was worth the bite.

“Look, I messed up, alright?” your ex said quickly, hands rising like he was trying to fend off a blow that hadn’t come yet. “I just want her to hear me out—”

“You won’t get the chance to say her name again if you don’t turn around right now,” Damian said.

Seemed your ex was stupider than you’d ever given him credit for. He squared his shoulders, puffed out his chest like that would somehow make a difference as he tried to square up—but Damian was still taller.

Yes, your ex was broader—more muscle, more bulk—but you knew the difference. Damian’s strength wasn’t for show. It was built for combat.

“Oh yeah?” he sneered. “And what are you going to do?”

He didn’t even see the moment shift.

One second, Damian was still. The next—your ex was slammed against the hallway wall, his feet barely scraping the floor, Damian’s hand locked around his throat.

The sound of the impact echoed through the empty hall.

Damian didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. The venom in his tone was enough.

“You’re fortunate I’ve retired from killing.” he said, eyes burning into the man’s paling face. “Others have died for far less.”

Your ex struggled, gagged softly against the grip, but Damian held him there—hovering on the edge of real violence.

“Tt. Pathetic. You don’t get a second chance, coward.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a razor’s edge. “Go near her again, and you’ll wish death was the worst of your options.”

Then—just as suddenly—Damian let go.

Your ex crumpled against the wall, coughing and gasping, arms trembling. His gaze darted toward you, but he didn’t speak. Whatever cowardice had kept him dangerous before had finally caught up with him. He turned and bolted down the hall, stumbling over his own feet like the pathetic excuse for a man he was.

Damian stood there for another breath, watching the retreat before he turned, stepped back inside, and shut the door calmly.

The second he was within reach, you crossed the space between you and threw your arms around him. Damian stiffened, only for a moment. Then his hands found your back, steady and warm.

“Thank you,” you murmured against his chest.

He was quiet for a beat. Then, dry as ever, “If he shows his face again, I’ll introduce him to my katana.”

You huffed a small, unexpected laugh, the sound muffled in his shirt. “Violent solutions. Very on-brand.”

He tilted his head slightly, just enough to glance down at you. “You didn’t seem to mind.”

You didn’t.

Not when it was him.

[taco-rambles]

DC XDP prompt: Danny falls out of a portal literally into Batmans arms in a JL meeting.

Feel free to play with this. I probably will write more, but I'm STUCK and don't know how to write the JL or anyone else for that matter.

XXX

The Justice League meeting had gone very well. For once there were no major crisis from anyone attending, and all of the regular members of the league were in attendance. A few of the second row hero’s had begged off for one reason or another, but nothing that was a threat of any real kind.

Batman was wary, and on edge as the meeting wrapped up. It was never this simple, it just couldn’t be. There was always some kind of threat to keep an eye on, but the worst thing that had come up during the meeting were routine security updates.

No one else seemed to be on edge from the far too calm, routine meeting, and Bruce had just about convinced himself that it was really just one of those meetings where nothing outrageous would happen. It was ideal even…

Then the alarms went off, in the specific modulation that indicated a magical incursion.

Batman wasn’t the only one who’s hands went to weapons when the portal materialized above the meeting room table only a moment after the alarm went off. Swirling lazarus green had him ready for the fight even as the rest of the league went into defensive positions around the incursion.

“What…” Flash started to ask about a minute later when nothing had happened yet, the alarms still blaring.

That’s when something came flying out of the portal, at speed, back first.

Batman had a split second to decide to attack… or not. A split second to try to process the impressions and decide if this was an attack.

The portal closed as he cradled the small body that had crashed into his arms, the alarms silencing a moment later as the rest of the league tried to catch up, all of them wondering if this was some new threat.

Batman looked down at the child in his arms, a boy in his mid teens and small for his age, with white hair framing a frighteningly familiar looking face, gently pointed ears, and fangs in a mouth that gasped for breath against pain. The eyes were closed, twisted tight as the child clutched at his chest and belly, holding together severed flesh that leaked lazarus green blood from a clinical and too regular wound. Fingers tipped with small claws spasmed, tears coming from closed eyes.

“Batman?” Wonder Woman asked, Diana’s voice filled with concern as Bruce wrapped the child in his arms and stood up from where he had been knocked on his ass catching said child.

“Call down to medical. Severely wounded unknown,” he snapped, moving towards the door, only to stop as there was a flash of light in his arms, and the child suddenly gained a solid weight that was closer to human. The blood dripping from passed out hands was now brilliant red, fingertips blunt with chewed nails, the boy’s skin going from pale white to… a healthier tone.

Bruce consciously stopped cataloging his observations then, swiftly making his way to medical. Whatever this boy was, whether he intended to tug at Batman’s heart the way he was or not, was severely wounded and needed medical attention immediately.

He could process it all, and wonder why a child looking exactly like Damian Wayne had been thrown into his arms through a lazarus portal later.

XXXXX

An hour later, after a discreet call to his youngest just to be sure, Bruce watched the now sedated child in the medical cot, working on trying to face match the databases and find out if the child came from earth or not.

The searches primarily turned up Damian Wayne. Bruce knew for certain this child was not his son, but he was also running a DNA analysis because this Might be his son. It made a disheartening amount of sense for this boy to be another version of Damien, perhaps from another dimension, or some manner of clone, or perhaps Talia had simply hidden another child of his away… Bruce needed to narrow down the possibilities, to find the truth.

Of course, it was equally possible that this boy was some manner of mimic, taking on a form that would ensure his safety in unknown environment, a shape shifter intentionally injuring himself in order to infiltrate the Watchtower. Though that last theory didn’t make sense for a number of reasons. Most shape shifters would be secure enough in their abilities to simply try to mimic someone who already had access to the watch tower, to say nothing of the boy’s dramatic entrance.

Batman wasn’t thinking logically. Bruce couldn’t simply leave the boy here though. Not until he knew more, everything relevant by preference. The thought that this might be his son in any way was enough to keep him near, but he could already tell he was compromised.

He had already informed Diana and Clark, and both of them had agreed that he should stay nearby until they had the situation sorted out.

Bruce had been stuck in a circular though pattern for about fifteen minutes when a green form came into the room, J’onn looking at him calmly.

“Can you find anything out?” Batman asked without preamble, unable to bring himself to observe polite pleasantries when he was so unsettled.

“Nothing beyond surface thoughts. The boy’s mind is static and pain of the emotional kind,” J’onn stated after a moment.

Batman nodded, accepting the answer. J’onn’s abilities weren’t always the answer to everything, could indeed often be a crutch that led to the wrong answers. But they could also give the Justice League a starting point often enough.

“You should rest friend. It is unlikely that the boy will awaken soon…” J’onn cut himself off with a quiet look at the boy. “Or not. He’s coming around.”

Batman watched as the child’s eyes blinked open, drowsy expression turning to the two heros without much recognition. Bruce didn’t let himself react, kept himself in a calm pose even as his mind once more went into overdrive.

The boy had blue eyes, not green like Damian's.

[factual-fantasy]

I've been thinking about adding Skywarp and Thundercracker to my AU for a while now. :0 I'm thinking the two of them and Screamer will be a set of triplets. Not clones or drones or whatever else they may be in other continuities. Any other "seekers" or "flight frames"...? Will not look identical to the trio.

(These are a little batch of test redesigns. I have a looot more passes to do before I'm satisfied! <XDD)

And then Jetfire... I've thought about adding him which is why I've drawn this scene for fun, buuuuuutt ultimately I don't think Jetfire has a place in my AU. It leaves too many plot holes and angst in its wake.

(A ramble on why Jetfire wont work is below! <XD)

The first reason why I don't think Jetfire (aka Skyfire) can exist in my AU, is because of this paragraph from his wiki:

"Millions of years ago on Cybertron, before the war, Skyfire and Starscream were good friends and fellow scientists. On a mission of exploration to prehistoric Earth, Skyfire was lost in a storm. Starscream searched, but there was no sign of his comrade. He returned home."

Now, Optimus does say that Earth and Cybertron have been intertwined for what seems like forever. But -unless there's something I don't know/remember- no living cybertronian ever set foot/made any contact with Earth in any way until AFTER the war began. So how and why did Starscream and Jetfire go to Earth before the war? It conflicts with canon.

The second reason is a simple one really. While it may have worked in G1, I cannot find a logical explanation as to HOW Jetfire was still alive and could be reactivated after crashing into the Arctic. It not like he was put into stasis on purpose and kept in a special pod in the warm desert, like Skyquake. He CRASHED into the ARCTIC. So not only was he wounded but there was literally a WHOLE EPISODE in Prime about how the cold has devastating effects on the cybertronian body. Within HOURS of being there, Optimus Prime and Arcee were literally about to die. There is just no way Jetfire logically survives in this continuity..

And lastly, there's where the story would go afterwards. And I don't like what I see. :(

You see, if I bring Jetfire into my AU, I want him to stay friends with Starscream and stay with him. But making that happen requires me to break at least something from canon.

Option 1: Jetfire stays with the Decepticons and supports their cause. Which wont work because his whole story arc is being an ex-con who doesn't agree with what their doing-

Option 2: Starscream has a redemption arc and joins the Autobots with Jetfire. This is a problem because I would want Thundercracker and Skywarp to go with them. And tbh I don't think any of the screamers can be redeemed. They're cons to their core. To make them switch sides would feel too forced. Plus I like the 3 idiots being cons and getting on Megs nerves XD

Option 3: The timeline is the same as G1. Jetfire splits from the cons and joins the Autobots, leaving the triplets behind. This is obviously sad and I don't want that. 🫸

So with that all laid out, I have Jetfire in the bleachers for now. If I can find a way to solve all 3 of these problems then I'll add him to my AU in a heart beat. And everyone is welcome to correct me on any of these if I got the facts wrong or if you have any ideas on how to bring him into my AU! :0 I want to add him I just don't see a satisfying way to do it yet.

Thank you for reading! :)))

[moonselune]

OOooOOOoooOOO can i PUHLEASE get the companions hit by a lovebug or lust curse and all they want is you but you aren't allowed to be intimate because it would spread to you. They pursue you heavily and you can't help but indulge when they are being so whiny and pathetic. I love love love your work miss seluney xox

yessss i freaking love this trope

CW:dubcon themes

part two!

Karlach:

You spotted them stumbling back toward camp just as the last rays of sun dipped behind the hills. At first, you thought something must have gone terribly wrong. Shadowheart’s robes were torn and half-soaked, her hair plastered to her cheeks, water dripping from her sleeves. She was muttering under her breath, her face twisted in pure, seething exasperation.

Behind her was Karlach — and gods, Karlach was smoking.

Actual tendrils of steam rose from her skin, curling lazily into the cooling evening air. Her plates of infernal metal armor hissed softly where droplets of water struck them from the conjured raincloud above her and evaporated on contact. Her flushed face was bright, gold eyes huge and wild — and locked squarely on you.

The moment she saw you, she lit up, a beaming, breathless smile splitting her face. Her tail thumped excitedly against the ground, sending little puffs of dust flying, and she lurched forward with dangerous intent.

You grinned, starting forward automatically — happy, relieved—

"STOP!" Shadowheart barked, raising both hands like she was halting an angry owlbear.

You froze mid-step, one hand half-lifted in greeting. "Uh—?"

Shadowheart stormed up, water dripping from the hems of her robes, her expression done in a way you hadn't seen since Wyll tried to "fix" her armor once with a hammer.

"She's cursed," Shadowheart said flatly. She jerked a thumb back toward Karlach, who was bouncing on her toes. fangs peeking out from the wolfish grin on her face, still visibly smoking. "Lust curse. Picked it up poking around the ruins."

Your mouth opened. Closed. "...Lust curse?"

"Yes," Shadowheart looked like she wanted to strangle someone. "If she gets intimate with anyone, the curse will spread." She jabbed a finger toward you. "And she really wants to be intimate with you."

You glanced past her to Karlach, who gave you an innocent little wave and a gigantic, toothy grin. Steam rose from her hair, framing her head like a crooked halo. She gave a low, eager whuff, like a hound scenting its master. Your heart melted—and then seized with alarm as Karlach started sprinting toward you.

"No!" Shadowheart snapped, and with a violent flourish of magic, threw Karlach sideways into the river with a massive shove of divine energy.

Karlach hit the water with an enormous splash and disappeared under the surface for a long, heart-stopping second before popping up, sputtering and laughing. She shook her head like a dog, sending water flying, her tail splashing gleefully behind her.

"You—" you turned a stunned look on Shadowheart, who wiped her hands cleanly.

"Don't thank me yet," she said grimly. "You need to stay close to her, or she might explode. Literally." Shadowheart's voice dropped to a near-growl. "But no kissing and gods help you, no sex - at all."

You stared. Shadowheart stared. In the river, Karlach was floating happily on her back, trailing little plumes of steam, grinning at you like you were her salvation incarnate.

"Babe!" she called brightly. "Come in! It's nice and cool! Promise I won't even smooch ya!"

You folded your arms, fixing her with your best stern look. "You're the worst liar I've ever met."

Karlach grinned, all teeth and mischief, and paddled closer to the bank, water sloshing noisily. "Swear on my big ol' heart! Just coolin' off!"

You hesitated. Shadowheart gave you a flat look that screamed, You deal with this. With a long, suffering sigh, you knelt by the riverbank, arms still crossed.

"Karlach," you scolded. "You stay right there."

Her lower lip trembled in an exaggerated pout. "But I miss you..."

"Still nope," you said, firm.

For a moment, you thought you might have won— And then Karlach lunged, her infernal strength letting her surge out of the water like a breaching dolphin, grab your arm, and drag you bodily into the river with her.

You hit the water with a yelp and went under. Freezing-cold river water closed over your head. You flailed, resurfacing with a gasp, hair plastered to your forehead—

And Karlach was there, clutching you tightly, steaming body pressed close to yours.

"See?" she said sweetly, breathless and hot even in the chill water. "No kisses. Just cuddlin'."

You spluttered and glared at her, wiping water from your eyes. But gods, it was hard to stay mad. Her expression was so earnest, her tail a slow, lazy wag behind her in the water. She nuzzled against you, purring low in her throat.

You let yourself relax — just a little.

Karlach hummed contentedly, squeezing you closer, lips brushing over your neck. You could feel the rumble of her heart against your chest, the press of her cheek against your temple. Her hands slid lazily over your back, tracing idle patterns.

"You're so warm, well, warmer than usual," you murmured, shivering a little despite yourself.

"Only for you, baby," she mumbled, practically glowing with affection. It was almost sweet—almost safe—

Until you felt her hand slide lower. Far too low.

"Karlach—!" you warned. But she was faster. She ducked forward, caught your mouth in a searing kiss—

And the curse snapped between you like a struck match, flaring to life inside you. You reeled back, gasping, as the maddening heat took root deep in your chest, spreading outward in molten waves. Karlach pulled back just far enough to beam at you, her tail wagging furiously, steam rising from both your bodies now.

"Now we both got it!" she said triumphantly. "So no we can-"

You pushed her back, hard enough for her to resubmerge under the water. Your chest was heaving, the curse was already clawing through your veins, making your skin buzz and your thoughts slip dangerously sideways. Karlach reemerged, eyes peeking out of the water as she took in your flustered form.

"You—" you sputtered as you splashed her, "You menace!"

Karlach stood, now fully surfaced and laughed, carefree and delighted, and hugged you so tight you thought she might crack a rib.

"You're lucky I love you," you muttered into her soaked hair, heart hammering as you already began prying off her armour.

"Damn fucking right," she whispered, holding you tighter than ever. Around you, the river hissed and bubbled with the heat of two bodies who wanted nothing more than to melt into each other. Ignoring Shadowheart's screeching and Gale deciding he could wash the pots later.

Minthara:

The moment the curse hit her, Minthara changed. Gone was the cool, ruthless drow general. In her place was something furious, wild — and whining.

"This is insufferable," she spat, pacing the ruined clearing like a cat in a cage. Her armor was already half-discarded, her hair clinging to the sweat on her brow. "Fix it. Fix it now!"

You leaned casually against a tree, arms crossed, biting back a grin. "Minthara, you heard Shadowheart. No touching. No kissing. No... other activities."

"I don't care what that prissy cleric says!" she snapped, spinning toward you, her crimson eyes alight with rage and need. "You belong to me — and you are going to satisfy me!"

You laughed — actually laughed — and that made it worse. She stomped toward you, hands clenched into little fists, trembling with pent-up frustration.

"Do you think this is funny?" she hissed, standing barely a breath away, her chest heaving. "I am suffering!"

"You'll live," you said easily, though it was getting harder and harder to ignore how flushed and gorgeous she looked like this — desperate, vulnerable in a way she never allowed herself to be.

"I will not live," she whined — actually whined — the sound raw and furious. "I will wither away! My body is burning and you just stand there like a fool!"

Minthara tried to grab your tunic, to drag you down to her, but you stepped aside, letting her stumble slightly past you. She whirled around with a gasp of pure outrage.

"Stop running from me!" she barked. "You are mine!"

You chuckled under your breath. "You should see yourself right now. You're like an angry kitten."

"I will kill you!" she screeched — and then immediately slumped, groaning, running both hands through her hair in pure agony. "I need... I need..."

You watched her struggle, and you almost — almost — pitied her. But it was far too amusing. Minthara glared at you from under her bangs of white hair, breathing hard. Then something in her broke. Her expression shifted — determined and furious and done with your games.

"Fine," she growled lowly. "If you will not help me..."

She launched herself at you. You tried to dodge, but she caught you around the middle, shoving you against the tree with surprising strength for someone so desperate. Her mouth crashed against yours in a messy, furious kiss.

And the curse spread.

It hit you like being punched in the gut — that raw, aching need suddenly clawing under your skin, setting every nerve on fire. You gasped against her mouth, your knees buckling slightly from the force of it.

Minthara pulled back just enough to smirk, victorious, her lips swollen and smug. "Then now you suffer with me."

You growled low in your throat, grabbing her by the waist and spinning her, pinning her against the tree instead. She gasped, wide-eyed, laughing breathlessly — but she didn’t resist.

"You little brat," you muttered, pressing your forehead to hers, your hands locking around her wrists. "You just couldn't be patient."

"I do not do patience," she whispered, shivering against you. "Now take what is yours."

You did. Oh, gods, you did. And Minthara, for once, had nothing to complain about.

Shadowheart:

You were still chuckling about Gale’s lecture as you wandered deeper into the woods, a basket under your arm for the handful of herbs and berries you intended to collect.

Everything was fine, he had said. Shadowheart said she would sleep it off, he had said.

You plucked a sprig of wild mint and tossed it into the basket, trying to shake off a lingering doubt gnawing at the edge of your mind. It wasn't until the third patch of violets that you frowned, thoughts darkening.

A lust curse.

Not a fever. Not exhaustion. Not some harmless little enchantment. A curse that preyed on every base, starved desire you harbored. A relentless, gnawing thing that tortured the mind until you either gave in or went mad from the wanting.

And Gale—bless his trusting, naive heart—had taken the word of an ex-Sharran that she could just sleep it off?

You stood there, basket dangling forgotten from your hand, heart beginning to race. You turned on your heel, about to sprint back toward camp—

Too late. There was a rush of movement, a flicker of shadow—

And then Shadowheart was on you, slamming you back against a tree trunk with surprising force, arms locking around your shoulders. Your basket hit the ground with a soft thump, forgotten.

"Found you," she breathed, her voice low and velvet-thick, dripping with sultry satisfaction. Her silver hair tumbled around her face in wild disarray, her cheeks flushed a dangerous pink.

Before you could react, she ducked into the vulnerable curve of your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against your skin—hot, insistent, needy.

"Shadowheart—!" you gasped, hands immediately trying to push her off, but she clung to you with desperate strength.

"You don’t understand," she whispered between kisses, her body pressing closer against yours, her thigh slipping between your legs with wicked, slow friction. "I need you. I’ve needed you for so long..."

You struggled, trying to slide sideways out of her grip, panic clawing up your spine. "You’re not thinking straight—you’re cursed—"

"I am thinking straight," she insisted, lifting her head to meet your gaze. Her eyes shimmered, dark and feverish. "I’ve never thought clearer."

She leaned in, lips parting for a kiss—

You slapped both hands over your mouth, wild-eyed. Shadowheart froze, then blinked in stunned silence—and then laughed. A low, throaty sound that sent a fresh bolt of terror and heat straight through you.

"Oh, you sweet thing," she murmured, amused, a wicked glint lighting her gaze. "If you won’t let me kiss you..."

Her hands slipped lower, tracing down your chest, your stomach—

You tried to dodge, heart pounding, but she sank to her knees before you with unholy grace.

"...then I’ll just have to be more creative," she purred.

You tried to catch her wrists, tried to pull her back upright, but in doing so you moved your hands away from your mouth—

And Shadowheart seized the opportunity, surging up with the swiftness of a striking serpent to catch your lips in a deep, hungry kiss.

The curse hit you like a fist to the chest. You reeled, staggering back against the tree, gasping as molten heat roared through your veins, setting your nerves alight with agonizing, insistent want.

Shadowheart leaned into you, sighing happily against your lips, her whole body pressed tight against yours.

"There we go," she whispered, nuzzling your jaw, utterly delighted. "Now you understand."

Your muscles trembled with the force of it—the raw, gnawing need, the hunger. You clutched her, helpless to push her away now, both of you burning, breathless, utterly doomed together in the deep shade of the woods. And somewhere, far away, you cursed Gale’s trusting heart.

Lae'zel:

You found Lae'zel pacing back and forth in the clearing just outside camp, her whole body taut with restless, twitching energy, her usual ironclad composure cracking under the strain of something far greater than anger or frustration — something much more primal, much more dangerous.

The moment she caught sight of you, her golden eyes lit up with a hunger so naked and intense it stopped you dead in your tracks, the force of it nearly knocking the breath from your lungs — and not just because she looked devastating like that, all fury and longing wrapped into a single coiled body.

"You," she growled, stalking toward you like a predator, her boots kicking up little clouds of dust as she moved, "you will suffer with me."

You blinked, struggling not to laugh at the sheer affronted outrage burning off her in waves; Lae'zel was many things — proud, fierce, unrelenting — but this was something new, something almost petulant, and it was difficult to take her threats seriously when she looked one wrong word away from either tackling you to the ground or throwing a tantrum.

"Lae'zel," you said carefully, trying for calm even as amusement bubbled traitorously in your chest, "you're cursed. You know what will happen if I touch you. It'll spread."

Her snarl was immediate, low and impatient, and she crossed the space between you in three long strides, reaching for you — but the curse, while sharpening her need, had dulled her grace, and she stumbled slightly, catching herself with a furious hiss that made your grin slip out despite yourself.

She pointed an accusatory finger at you, chest heaving, armor glinting under the sun like she was some glorious, furious war goddess undone by something as stupid and human as desire.

"You!" she barked again, scandalized. "Always you wanting closeness. Always you demand soft touches. And now, when I offer, you deny me? Treachery!"

You couldn't help it — you barked a laugh, folding your arms and stepping just out of her immediate reach, savoring the way her scowl deepened to something almost childishly wounded. She was practically vibrating with indignation and unspent energy, her whole body trembling not with fear or anger, but with the unbearable, consuming need for touch she could not have.

"I’m trying to protect you," you said with a chuckle, dancing back another step as she lunged at you again — and this time she almost caught you, her fingers brushing your tunic before you twisted away, leaving her growling in frustrated defeat.

The next time she pounced, though, she was quicker — or maybe you had gotten cocky, letting your guard down, forgetting for a moment that Lae'zel was still, at her core, a creature of instinct and willpower so ferocious that even a cursed, sluggish haze couldn't slow her forever.

She tackled you bodily to the ground with a heavy thud, landing squarely atop you, her legs bracketing your hips, her hands braced on either side of your head, her face close enough that you could see the fine tremble in her jaw, the wild desperation in her gaze.

You opened your mouth to protest — to reason with her — but then she did something so shockingly tender it knocked every thought clean out of your head.

She nuzzled into you, slow and clumsy and soft, like a cat seeking warmth, rubbing her cheek against yours with little needy sounds, her body trembling with exhaustion and need and something perilously close to affection.

It was so adorable — so utterly unlike her — that for a moment you just froze, caught between horror and hilarity, unsure whether to push her off or simply melt into the moment.

"Lae'zel," you croaked, trying to push at her shoulders — but she was heavy and stubborn and clinging to you like her life depended on it, and gods, she was warm, too warm, and you could feel the heat of her skin even through the thin layers of your clothing.

She chuckled — a low, dangerous, amused sound — and before you could gather enough strength to shove her off properly, she shifted, catching your face in her hands with surprising gentleness, and leaned down to kiss you full on the mouth.

You struggled, you really did — hands scrabbling at her arms, trying to pull away — but her mouth was hot and insistent and hungry against yours, and before you even realized it, you were kissing her back, drinking in her desperation, her devotion, the way she seemed to pour every ounce of her frantic, cursed longing into you.

And just like that — the curse exploded through your veins, searing hot and overwhelming, dragging a gasp from your lips as it took hold.

Lae'zel pulled back just far enough to smirk down at you, victorious and radiant and unbearably smug.

"There," she said, satisfaction dripping from every syllable as she pinned you to the ground, her golden eyes gleaming with wicked glee. "Now you suffer too."

And gods help you — you didn’t even mind.

Not when it was her. Not when you could feel her heart hammering against yours, beating the same wild, desperate rhythm. Not when it was Lae'zel.

Jaheira:

You had been warned, of course — Gale, ever the scholar, had cornered you before you even approached the campfire, looking harried and flushed.

"It’s a lust curse," he said in a low, urgent whisper, as if speaking it aloud might make it worse. "Jaheira's been hit with it. She's lucid — for now — but you know how these things go. If you’re touched in... certain ways, it will spread to you immediately."

You had nodded solemnly, assuring him you would be careful — that you knew better than to tempt fate. But then you saw her.

Jaheira was sitting on the log near the fire, her head tilted back, the flames painting her golden-tan skin in a wild, living light. She was breathing heavily, her chest rising and falling in a way that was utterly hypnotic, and when she caught sight of you, her lips parted slightly, her entire body almost reaching toward you without thought.

"Come here," she said, voice low, a velvet growl that made your stomach twist with longing.

You hesitated, heart hammering painfully in your chest. She was never like this — Jaheira, fierce and composed, always so in control, so sharp, was looking at you now like a starving creature denied its only salvation. It was a rare and almost reverent sight to behold her so undone, so needy, every inch of her screaming for you in a way she usually hid behind duty and pride.

It undid you.

Without thinking, you took a few steps forward, drawn in helplessly by the intensity of her gaze, the way she opened her arms in silent invitation, the promise of her touch more tempting than any spell or enchantment.

"Jaheira," you breathed, voice cracking slightly. "You're cursed—"

"I know," she said, almost laughing, a breathless, broken sound. "I know, and I do not care. Come to me."

You were close enough now to see the fine sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her fingers trembled where they gripped her knees, how every muscle in her taut, battle-hardened body was coiled and trembling with restraint. She looked utterly wrecked by want, and it was all for you.

You almost gave in right then and there, ready to throw caution and Gale’s warnings to the wind. What did it matter, when she was looking at you like that, like you were the only thing in the world that could save her?

But — somehow — reason clawed its way back through the haze.

"No," you said firmly, stepping back with an effort that felt like tearing yourself in half. "Jaheira, not like this. You're not yourself."

The look she gave you then was devastating — betrayed, furious, needy all at once, the kind of look that might have felled lesser mortals on the spot.

"You always want me," she said bitterly, pushing to her feet with a grace that was only slightly marred by the trembling of her limbs. "Always watching, always waiting for me to allow it, to put aside my duties— and now, when I offer myself to you, when I need you— you refuse me?"

Your mouth opened, closed, and opened again, but no words came. She was right — gods help you, she was right. And yet — you stood your ground, hands fisted at your sides to stop yourself from reaching for her.

Jaheira's eyes narrowed, that calculating sharpness returning to her gaze even through the haze of the curse.

"So," she murmured, stepping closer, slow and measured. "You would deny me. Even now."

She was in front of you before you could think to move, her scent — the warm, wild scent of earth and leaves after rain — overwhelming your senses. You turned your head away, squeezing your eyes shut like a child refusing medicine.

That was your mistake.

She moved swiftly — decades of battlefield experience turning even her cursed need into a strategic assault — catching your face between her hands and forcing you to meet her gaze.

"Look at me," she whispered, and gods help you, you did.

The kiss, when it came, was brutal — desperate, raw, full of a need that threatened to drown you both. Her mouth crushed against yours, and the moment her lips touched yours, it was like fire licked across your skin, the curse seeping into you with dizzying, searing heat.

You gasped into the kiss, hands flying to her waist to push her away — or maybe to pull her closer, you couldn't even tell anymore — as your body reacted instinctively, helplessly, to the magic flooding your veins. Jaheira groaned into your mouth, deep and triumphant, as she felt the curse take hold of you.

"There," she breathed against your lips, her hands sliding down to grip your hips, holding you tightly against her. "Now you understand."

And you did. You understood far, far too well — and you were utterly, gloriously doomed.

Gale:

When you returned to camp that evening, Shadowheart was waiting for you near the fire, her arms folded tight across her chest, her expression a strange blend of annoyance and reluctant amusement.

“He’s cursed,” she said flatly, the firelight catching on the silver of her hair.

You blinked, confused. “Who?”

“Gale,” she sighed, rubbing her temples. “A lust curse. Some relic he was fiddling with while scouting. He’s managing it...for now. He’s warded himself as best he can, but—” Her sharp eyes pierced you. “If you see him, do not touch him. Do not kiss him, do not so much as hold his hand. If the curse spreads, it’ll only get worse. Understand?”

You nodded automatically, even as unease bloomed in your chest.

“He’s in his tent,” Shadowheart added, softer now. “Said he’s going to meditate. Maybe sleep it off.” She snorted faintly. “Wishful thinking, but... he’s stubborn.”

You promised you’d leave him be. You meant it. But curiosity gnawed at you, relentless. And when you approached Gale’s tent, you felt it—the heat, like walking into the heart of a furnace. Magic shimmered faintly in the air, thick with the scent of ozone and something sweeter, something more dangerous.

You hesitated at the flap. Maybe you should just...turn back. Give him space. But then you heard it. A broken, guttural noise, like a muffled plea.

Caution abandoned, you pulled the flap aside—and froze.

Gale was kneeled on his bedroll, stripped down to his briefs, the thin fabric doing little to hide the powerful, trembling tension of his body. Sweat clung to his skin, making him gleam in the dim light like some desperate, golden idol. His hands and ankles were bound with what looked like glowing, magical ropes, their light pulsing weakly as if struggling to contain him.

He looked wrecked.

Flushed cheeks. Chest heaving with shallow, ragged breaths. And when his eyes met yours—wide, dark, almost frantic—you saw it there, plain as day: fear.

“Stay—stay back!” he rasped, jerking against the bindings, which tightened and sparked in warning. “I haven’t—I haven’t finished the gag ward yet—please, you need to stay away, for your own good��”

His voice cracked, pleading. Your heart shattered. How could you just leave him like this? How could you not help?

Moving before you thought better of it, you knelt beside him, brushing sweat-slick hair from his forehead, murmuring soft reassurances you weren’t even sure he could hear. His skin was burning under your touch, fever-hot and thrumming with suppressed magic.

Gale whimpered—a pitiful, broken sound—and pressed into your hand like a drowning man clutching driftwood.

“I’m fine,” you whispered, leaning closer. “I’ll help you. I promise.”

He shook his head weakly. “No... You have to...go...”

You hesitated. Only a moment. And that was all he needed.

The bindings vanished—mere illusion—and in a flash of desperate strength, Gale surged up, grabbing your wrists and rolling you down onto the bedding beneath him.

Your gasp barely made it out before his mouth crashed onto yours, searing and hungry. Magic ignited between your bodies. The curse bloomed through your veins, violent and overwhelming, drowning you in sudden, white-hot need.

You clutched at him instinctively, nails digging into his bare shoulders, overwhelmed by the fire roaring through you. When Gale finally broke the kiss, panting against your lips, there was a wicked gleam in his fevered eyes.

“You should have listened to Shadowheart,” he whispered, voice rough and ruined, but triumphant.

You barely registered the words. Every inch of your body was screaming for him, the curse turning every brush of skin into a shock of unbearable pleasure.

And Gale, damn him, knew it.

He dragged his hands down your sides, slow and deliberate, savoring every shudder, every desperate gasp. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, murmuring broken praises between kisses, and you melted beneath him, the last of your resistance crumbling to dust.

The thought maybe the others would hear flickered weakly at the back of your mind—but it was a fleeting, dying thing.

Right now, there was only Gale—smug, beautiful, dangerous Gale—pinning you beneath him with the weight of his body, the fire of the curse binding you together more completely than any magic ever could.

And gods help you... You didn’t want to be saved.

Astarion:

You found him in the woods, where the shadows thickened and the air grew heavy with the scent of moss and damp earth, and for a moment — just a moment — you thought he might be hurt, the way he was hunched against the base of an ancient, gnarled tree, his body shuddering like a taut bowstring ready to snap, his fingers digging furrows into the dirt as if physical grounding could somehow hold back whatever storm was raging inside him.

The moment his eyes lifted to meet yours — molten red clouded and glazed over with need so raw it almost looked like pain — you knew exactly what had happened.

A lust curse.

It clung to him like a second skin, thick and suffocating, and you could see it in the way he trembled, in the way his breath shuddered out of him in gasps, in the way his hands flexed uselessly at his sides as if he wanted to reach for you but couldn't quite trust himself to close the distance.

He rose unsteadily, every movement aching with the effort of holding himself back, and for a heartbeat you saw a flicker of the Astarion you knew — proud, beautiful, incorrigible — before it was swallowed whole by the gnawing, insatiable hunger twisting him apart.

"Ah, there you are," he said, his voice pitched somewhere between a laugh and a sob, silky and broken all at once, and though he tried to summon that familiar smirk you adored, it wilted on his lips before it could fully form, leaving him looking heartbreakingly young and lost.

You raised your hands instinctively, a futile barrier between you, trying to ignore the way your own heart thundered in your chest at the sight of him — disheveled, trembling, flushed with desperate, furious need — because you knew, more than anything, that you couldn’t allow yourself to touch him.

Not like this.

Not when you couldn’t be sure it was truly him wanting it.

"Astarion," you said softly, gently, as if soothing a wounded animal, "you’re cursed — you’re not thinking clearly — you have to fight it."

His laugh then was ragged, hollow, bitter — and something in it made your throat tighten painfully.

"Oh, darling," he whispered, dragging one shaking hand through his hair, "you think I don't know that? You think I don't know exactly what's happening to me?"

He swayed where he stood, and for a horrifying second you thought he might collapse, but he caught himself against the tree, nails raking down the bark with a horrible screech that set your teeth on edge.

"I know I’m cursed," he ground out, voice rough and low and trembling with the effort it took to speak, "but that doesn’t change what I want. It’s still you. It’s always you."

And gods, you wanted to believe him — you did believe him — but still, you couldn’t move, couldn’t cross that impossible distance, because the thought of ever, ever taking from him, using him while he was vulnerable like this, was something you couldn’t stomach.

He must have seen the resolve settle in your features, because something dark and wild sparked behind his eyes, and suddenly he was pulling out every weapon he knew how to wield — every devastating smile, every coy tilt of his head, every sinful, decadent roll of his hips as he let his hands trail suggestively down his own body in a display so shameless you would have laughed if it hadn’t been so utterly, gut-wrenchingly tragic.

He purred filthy promises, he whined with needy, broken little noises that clawed at your sanity, he even — gods help you — dropped to his knees and looked up at you through his lashes, looking so heartbreakingly vulnerable, so wrecked, that you almost — almost — faltered.

But you didn’t.

You stayed rooted to the spot, hands fisted at your sides, muscles aching with the strain of not reaching for him.

Minutes dragged by in agonizing silence, broken only by his ragged breathing, until finally, finally, something inside him seemed to shatter completely.

He slumped forward, head bowed, shoulders trembling so violently it looked painful, and when he lifted his gaze to you again, there was no seduction left — only raw, desperate pleading.

"Please," he rasped, the word tearing itself from his throat like it hurt to speak it, "please, just one kiss. That’s all I’m asking. Just — just let me have that."

You felt something deep inside you break at the sound of it — at the way he knelt there in the dirt like a man undone, stripped of all his armor and artifice, reduced to nothing but need and the desperate, terrified hope that you might still want him even like this.

You crossed the distance between you before you could think better of it, falling to your knees and cradling his face in your hands, feeling the way he leaned into your touch like a starving man would lean into the scent of bread.

"Are you sure?" you whispered, your voice thick with unshed tears, because you needed — needed — to hear him say it. You just needed him to be okay. He nodded, a tiny, broken thing, his smile trembling and radiant all at once.

"I’m sure," he whispered back, and there was something so painfully real in his voice that you knew, in that instant, that whatever the curse had done to him, whatever false hunger it had stoked, it hadn’t — couldn’t — touch the way he felt about you.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his in the softest, most cautious kiss imaginable, your lips barely brushing his, trembling with the force of all the things you couldn’t say.

For a single, precious heartbeat, it was gentle — tender — achingly, impossibly sweet.

And then Astarion made a soft, broken sound deep in his throat, and the dam broke completely.

He surged forward, grabbing you with a strength born of desperation, deepening the kiss until it was wild and messy and frantic, his hands clawing at your back like he could somehow pull you inside him, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, surrendering to the tidal wave of need that crashed through you.

It wasn’t until a sudden, electric jolt of heat tore through your body — searing and sharp and utterly overwhelming — that you remembered the curse.

You pulled back with a gasp, eyes wide, body trembling with the force of it, and Astarion — beautiful, ruined Astarion — just smiled that wicked, triumphant smile you knew so well and dragged his thumb along your lower lip, savoring the shudder that wracked your body at his touch.

"Looks like we’re both damned now, darling," he purred, his voice low and hoarse with victory and unbearable, breathtaking affection.

And gods help you — you couldn't even bring yourself to mind.

Wyll:

It all started simply enough — or so Shadowheart had assured you, half-smirking as she delivered the news.

"He's fine," she'd said casually, though there was a wicked glint in her eye that made you instantly wary. "A little... affectionate, perhaps. Nothing you can't handle. Just — whatever you do, don't let him kiss you. Or, you know. Anything worse. It'll spread otherwise."

You had rolled your eyes at the warning, already heading toward Wyll’s tent with the confident belief that you — of all people — could resist the man, no matter how charming he got.

That was before you saw him.

He was sprawled messily across his bedroll, stripped down to only his briefs, sweat gleaming across the broad plane of his chest, his dark hair damp, a sheen on his horns. His chest heaved with every breath, and his whole body seemed to hum with some deep, restless energy.

"Ah — my love," he said the moment he caught sight of you, his voice ragged, rougher than you’d ever heard it, like every word physically cost him to say. He pushed himself up to his knees in a clumsy, desperate movement, offering you the most pitifully hopeful look you had ever seen on him. "You’ve come to rescue me at last."

You froze, mouth dry, already feeling the heat coming off him like a furnace.

"Wyll," you warned carefully, hands raised like you were approaching a wild animal. "*Shadowheart said you need to rest. I'm just here to—"

"Rest?" he repeated, incredulous, dragging his hands through his hair with a laugh that was far too close to a groan. "Darling, I am dying here. Look at me." He gestured down at himself dramatically, chest still heaving, his flushed face full of pitiful earnestness. "Is this a man who needs rest?"

You couldn't help but chuckle, even as you took a cautious step back. "You're cursed, Wyll. You need to sleep it off. No kisses, no cuddles, no — whatever else you're planning."

"But my sweet heart," Wyll drawled, struggling to his feet, staggering slightly as if even gravity was conspiring to torture him, "you are all I dream of. If I sleep now, I will dream of you — and then wake even worse than I am now. Is that what you want? To leave me here, suffering?"

He swayed toward you, his voice dropping into that deep, coaxing tone he knew you were weak to, the one that wrapped around you like velvet.

"Don't you miss me?" he murmured, dark eyes hooded, voice almost a purr. "Don't you want to hold me?"

You gritted your teeth, heart pounding. "You want to hold me," you said, voice wobbling with the effort to stay firm. "There's a difference."

Wyll's grin was utterly wicked — the curse had loosened something in him, made him shameless, unrestrained in a way that was dangerously tempting.

"Semantics," he said, before lunging forward like he might actually tackle you.

You squeaked — a very dignified squeak — and dodged, making him stumble and curse under his breath. He threw his head back in pure frustration, hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Gods above," he groaned, voice cracking. "You are merciless!”

"You'll thank me later!" you called over your shoulder, trying to put distance between you.

Wyll let out a sound that was half growl, half whine, and — to your horror and amusement — he just dropped like a felled tree onto his bedroll, arms splayed out dramatically. He lay there perfectly still, utterly defeated.

You frowned. "Wyll?"

No response.

You crept closer, suspicious. "Wyll," you repeated firmly, reaching out a hand to prod his shoulder. "This isn't funny—"

The moment your fingers brushed his skin, he sprang to life, faster than you could react.

"Got you," Wyll breathed triumphantly, grabbing you and hauling you bodily onto the bedroll with him.

"Wyll, no—!" you gasped, struggling against him, but he was already shifting over you, pinning you down with shocking ease, his whole body pressed against yours in a way that made your resolve crumble in an instant.

"You should've known better, my heart," Wyll murmured against your ear, voice low and filled with wicked delight. "You can't resist me forever."

You opened your mouth to retort — and he kissed you, full and deep and utterly devastating, pouring every bit of his cursed, desperate longing into it.

The moment your lips met, it was like a spark ignited between you, a magic you couldn't hope to fight — the curse latching onto you like a brand, heat flooding your veins so fast and sweet it almost made you dizzy.

Wyll groaned into the kiss, cradling your face in both hands like you were something precious and sacred, finally his to hold without restraint.

"See?" he whispered against your lips, voice hoarse with hunger and affection all tangled together. "Wasn't so bad, was it?"

And you, utterly lost to him now, could only shake your head, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him closer, surrendering to the pull that had always existed between you — curse or no curse.

Because this was Wyll — your Wyll — and gods help you, you wanted him just as badly.

Halsin:

You had seen it happen — had watched from across the clearing as the old magic, wild and half-forgotten, tangled around Halsin like a web spun of sunlight and smoke, seeping into his skin with a shimmer you could almost hear, a low, hungry hum that set your own heartbeat skittering in warning.

It took mere moments before you saw the change in him: that slight, telling hitch in his breath, the way his massive frame tensed and shuddered under some invisible pressure, the normally grounded calm in his golden eyes swallowed up by a dark, glassy haze of want that struck you like a blow.

And gods, it was almost comical — almost — the way he immediately turned toward you like a moth spotting a flame, shoulders rolling, muscles flexing under his tunic as he swayed where he stood, blinking dumbly at you as if trying to process why he wasn’t already touching you.

You cursed under your breath, already stepping backward, palms raised, trying to inject some lightness into your voice despite the way your pulse roared in your ears.

"Stay where you are, my heart," you teased, summoning a quick barrier spell between you with a flick of your fingers. "You're not thinking straight — and I, for one, would prefer not to get cursed today."

Halsin made a noise in his throat — something low and almost hurt — before lurching forward, walking straight through your ward like it was smoke on the breeze. His size alone was intimidating enough, but the naked, unfiltered need rolling off him in waves made your whole body tighten in pure, instinctive anticipation.

You scrambled, grabbing the closest weapon you could find — a dull training sword, laughably useless against him — and brandished it in warning. "I mean it! Stay back! Don’t make me poke you with this thing!"

He smiled — smiled — that slow, lazy grin he usually wore only after long nights tangled together, and your breath hitched because there was nothing careful about it now, nothing restrained. This was the bear beneath the druid, the wild, relentless force that had always lurked just under his skin — and you had never been more gloriously doomed.

Still, you tried. You darted to the side, weaving illusions and sending harmless blasts of force to try and trip him up, laughing breathlessly as you ducked and rolled, tossing dirt at his feet, all the while your heart pounding wildly against your ribs.

But it was futile.

Halsin was a predator born, built for the chase, and he indulged it now with a rumbling, pleased growl, following you unhurriedly, utterly certain of the outcome, until you backed yourself right into a tree — and before you could blink, his massive hands were on you, lifting you off the ground like you weighed nothing at all.

"Got you," he rumbled against your ear, voice thick and syrupy with satisfaction, and you squeaked — squeaked — in protest, struggling half-heartedly against his iron grip, but it was like trying to fight a landslide.

"Halsin," you gasped, laughing helplessly as he pinned you with nothing but the breadth of his body, one big hand cupping the back of your head like you were something fragile and precious even as his hips pressed you shamelessly against the tree. "You’re cursed! You’re not thinking clearly!"

"I am," he countered, voice impossibly deep, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. "I am thinking perfectly clearly. I want you. I always want you."

You opened your mouth to argue — to remind him of the magic seething under his skin, twisting his desires into something dangerous — but it was too late. His lips found yours, hot and desperate and softer than you expected, like even now, even drowning in lust, he still couldn't bear to treat you with anything but reverence.

The curse slammed into you like a tidal wave the moment your mouths met, white-hot and dizzying, and you moaned into the kiss despite yourself, your whole body arching instinctively into his.

Halsin groaned low in his chest, as if feeling the change in you, recognizing it — and then there was no more hesitation, no more control. His hands roamed greedily, possessively, up your sides and down your back, finding every inch of you like he was memorizing it all over again, and you clung to him with equally frantic need, your own resistance dissolving into ash.

You barely registered the leaves and twigs digging into your back as he lifted you higher, cradling you with ridiculous ease, murmuring filthy, reverent things against your mouth, your neck, your shoulders — words that blurred together into a haze of heat and hunger until you weren't sure who was devouring who.

And maybe that was the curse speaking. Maybe it wasn’t fair.

But as Halsin whispered your name like a prayer and held you like a treasure he refused to let go of, you realized — curse or not — you wanted this.

You wanted him.

Always had. Always would.

There may or may not be a smut version of this in the drafts if people want it..... Hope you guys enjoyed it! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

[soangelbaby]

can you do one with bigbro rafe where topper and kelce find out, but they lowkey fw it??? ily your writing btw !!

😏 this was kinda chaotic buttttt nonnie u literally read my mind n tysm bb ily TW ; INCEST don’t like, don’t read 💋 might be sum typos too idk 😞

“ugh rafey — it’s so hot in here! why do you never have the ac on when your gross friends are over?” you whine, arms crossed above your head, chest pressed out, top rising above your hips. topper and kelce are slouched on the sofa, legs spread, controllers loose in their hands as they fumble around with the controls. rafe’s sat back on the recliner opposite of them, he glances to you briefly, eyes scanning over your outfit, stopping on your bare thighs barely covered by black spandex. exhaling through his nose, head snapping back to the tv, “get the hell out,” he mutters, loud enough for you to hear and deep enough to send a shiver up your spine, because he was giving you the exact reaction you wanted. you bit your lip to hide your smirk, stepping deeper into the den, pushing hair back that was sticking to your face, “i’m serious rafe!” huffing, hands flying to your hips, stomping at the floor like a child throwing a tantrum, “everytime you have them over—”

kelce leans over muttering something to topper with a smirk on his face as both their eyes trail down your frame. rafe’s jaw clenches and he rises from his seat, still trying to mask how much you’re affecting him, “i said get. out.” he repeats stepping closer to you, pointing towards the door. your breath catches in your throat, blinking up at him, he’s so close and so angry, you could literally feel the heat radiating from his body. “make me,” you say, voice full of challenge and defiance, tilting your head up and crossing your arms. rafe watches you for a second, tongue poking into his cheek before he reaches out snatching your wrist, “you wanna act like a slut? keep testing me,”

now he was making them watch, tugging your little shorts and panties down to your ankles, kelce and topper were in shock, but not because they didn’t think rafe was capable, they knew he was sick and fucked up. but the way you practically begged for it from the start? that’s what got them going, “you wanted this huh? acting like a little whore in front of my boys, wanted them to see you get ruined?” you tried to shake your head, whimpering ‘no’ but rafe doesn’t appreciate that, reaching up to slap you hard across the face, “don’t fuckin’ lie, say you wanted it, slut” you can already feel his dick lining up with your slit, daring to push in. and you do, crying out for your big brother’s dick in front of his friends.

“what the fuck is going on in this house?” kelce choked out under his breath, despite his eyes being glued to where rafe’s cock teases your cunt. topper’s already slipping his hand into his sweats, no shame, rubbing at his throbbing shaft, “bro, you’re sick” kelce mutters to topper, shifting in his seat. topper groans, “you’re watching too — don’t pretend you’re not into it,”

rafe shoves into you, no preparation, tip kissing your cervix as he bottoms out, “ah — fuck rafe!” you whine, trying to move up the couch, hands pushing at his chest, but he grips your hips tighter, slamming into you again, “don’t run baby, you needed this remember?” slow and deep, making sure you feel every inch, you clench so hard around him, release already building in your gut, “rafey — please, s’too deep,” you’re trembling under him, furniture rocking against the wall, and his friends are still getting off to you being split by him. rafe laughs low, “too deep?” grunting, driving in harder, hips flush against yours, “should’ve fuckin’ thought about that before you strolled in here like a bratty little bitch huh?”

your mouth falls open in a silent cry, head dizzy as your brother bulldozes your poor little cunt. topper groans, thumb rubbing over his glistening tip one last top before he spills right in his sweats, sticky cum soaking through the fabric. kelce isn’t far behind, leg bouncing and hips bucking against his denim jeans, just enough friction to make him bust at the sight of his best friend fucking his own little sister, “fucking shiit—“ he hisses, eyes fluttering shut for a second. rafe just laughs, reaching up to grab a fist full of your hair, yanking your head back just for them to see your face. “you see that? see how pathetic they are for you?” his hand comes in contact with your ass, sharp sting of the smack sending a jolt through you.

“gonna cum in this stupid little pussy — maybe next time you’ll think twice before acting out,” rafe thrust into you so hard the couch actually slides across the floor, scraping the tile, your body locks up as your orgasm washes over you, body going limp under him, whimpering as you scream rafe’s name. and then you feel it, thick hot ropes staining your walls, animalistic growls falling from his lips as he bites down on your shoulder, “fuck — that’s my girl,” he pants, not pulling out, cock still twitching inside you. his gaze snaps to kelce and topper, “next time she’s gonna ride me, wanna see how fucked out she looks on top,” and the way they nod? you knew he was serious..

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Two

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren't quirks, they're survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, strong language, negative self-talk, therapy, LandoLOG format, some time skips.

Notes — The championship tension is rising you guys. I’m literally on the beach in a bikini rn btw (not to brag :p)

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

Chapter Twenty-Two  (Turkey — Saudi Arabia)

The flight to Istanbul was quiet.

Lando had fallen asleep somewhere over central Europe, curled against the window with his hoodie pulled up over his head. Amelia sat stiffly in her seat, notebook open on her lap, a pen twirling between her fingers. She wasn’t writing anything, though. She was thinking.

About him. About all of it.

Turkey could be a reset, if they let it. She’d witnessed McLaren spend the last week doing damage control after Sochi; shifting the narrative away from Lando’s heartbreak, framing the race as a learning experience instead of a failure. 

He’d said all the right things publicly. But privately…

Privately, Lando was still carrying it like a fresh wound.

He hated himself for it. No—no, hated was too strong. Lando didn’t hate himself. Not exactly. But he turned all his sharpest knives inward when something went wrong. A relentless critic, a perfectionist with nowhere to put all that anger but his own reflection.

Amelia had seen it happen before, smaller instances, little mistakes. But Sochi had been the biggest yet. His shot at his first win, taken away by rain and a split-second decision that nobody should have been expected to make in the heat of that moment.

And, of course, he blamed himself for all of it.

She felt a little nauseous as she watched him sleep, peaceful for the first time in days. She let the pen fall to her notebook and turned her head, staring out at the endless stretch of clouds. 

Maybe she should have seen this coming. Maybe she should have pushed harder, weeks ago, months ago. Every driver had their pressure points. Their ways of coping. Max raged. Daniel laughed. Fernando withdrew.

But Lando? Lando just punished himself. Quietly. Slowly.

She thought about how he’d been that night in Italy. How he’d tried to smile when she called it a perfect drive. How he’d apologised to her — her, like she was the one who’d lost something — and how it had taken everything in her not to cry when he’d finally let her hold him, sagging against her like he had no energy left to even stand. 

It wasn’t sustainable. She knew that. He couldn’t keep treating himself like this.

And maybe it wasn’t her place — he had a sports psychologist, didn’t he? Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be her responsibility as his girlfriend. But… she loved him. And if she couldn’t stop the rain, or change the strategy calls, or rewrite the outcome of Sochi, maybe she could at least help him carry the consequences of it. 

She thumbed her phone open, scrolled to her calendar. Her therapist offered virtual sessions and she’d been meaning to book a new one anyway. It would be a bit messy, timing-wise, with the media schedule and free practice, but—

“Whatcha doing, baby?” His voice was rough with sleep. Amelia jumped slightly, and turned to find Lando blinking blearily at her, his hair a mess under the hood.

“Nothing,” she said instinctively, then sighed. “Booking something.”

He leaned over to see her phone, squinting slightly at the brightness. “Therapy?”

She nodded, slipping the phone back into her lap. “Yeah.”

He was silent for a second, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You alright?”

It was such a Lando thing to ask — genuine concern, even half-asleep, even after everything. 

She smiled a little sadly. “I’m fine,” she said. “It’s for you.”

He froze, hand half-raised toward his coffee. Slowly, he looked over at her, brow furrowed. “Me?”

“Yes.” She affirmed. 

His mouth opened, then shut. He flopped back against the headrest, pulling his hood tighter over his head like he could hide from the conversation.

Amelia didn’t let him. “Lando,” she sighed. “I’m not going to… force you into It or anything. I know you have your own therapist and stuff, but—” She paused, searching for the words. “I think the way that you handle your bad days is really unhealthy.”

Lando just stared at the seat in front of him, jaw tight.

“Obviously, you’re allowed to be upset,” she continued, with a nod. “And you’re allowed to be mad. But you punish yourself for things that are out of your control. That’s not healthy. And according to my therapist, it’s not normal.”

He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. 

“I’m not saying you’re broken. Or that you need fixing. You’re—" she paused again, voice softening. "You’re you. And I love you. Exactly as you are.”

That got his attention. He turned his head slightly, just enough that she could see the faint, startled look in his eyes.

“But loving you also means wanting you to stop hurting yourself every time something goes wrong," she finished.

Silence stretched between them. 

Amelia forced herself to sit back, giving him space to think, even if every instinct screamed at her to fill the silence.

After what felt like forever, Lando let out a slow breath. “I don’t need therapy.”

Yeah. She expected that. She didn’t flinch.

“Maybe,” she said. “But you should go anyway.”

He looked at her again, properly this time, and whatever snarky retort he’d been planning died in his throat. He saw it on her face, how serious she was. How scared, even, in that quiet way she tried not to show anyone.

Finally, Lando shifted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter now. “Would it… make things easier for you? If I went?”

Amelia blinked, surprised by the shift. “This isn’t about me.”

“Yeah,” he said, voice rough. “But it is, a bit. Isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she reached over, covering his hand with hers. “It would help both of us,” she said simply. “I feel anxious because I’m constantly worried that you’re not okay. That’s all.”

He stared at their joined hands for a moment, then gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.“Alright,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’ll do it. One session.”

Relief flooded through her so fast she had to blink back sudden, unexpected tears.

“Good,” she nodded, trying for lightness. “I would probably have tricked you into it, if you’d said no.”

He huffed a laugh, half-way between exasperated and genuinely amused. “You’re scary when you’re determined, you know that?”

“Hm.” She hummed, with a shrug. 

He smiled, a real one this time, soft and a little sheepish, and sat back, closing his eyes again.

Amelia picked up her pen once more and tapped it against her notebook. The seatbelt light pinged above them as they started their descent into Istanbul. Below the clouds, she could see the sprawling city, the Bosphorus shimmering like a ribbon of silver in the afternoon sun.

They had a long weekend ahead of them. FP1, FP2, media obligations, the race itself. More pressure, more chances for things to go wrong.

Amelia tucked her notebook away, fastened her seatbelt, and glanced at Lando.

Already asleep again. Perfect in so many ways — still a little broken in places.

But hers. 

—

They landed just after sunrise.

The sky outside was a muted gray, the roads slick with overnight rain. The air smelled wet. 

The hotel was clean and quiet, the lobby still half-asleep when Lando’s team pushed their cases inside. Amelia barely remembered the check-in; she stood back and let them handle it, her mind somewhere else entirely. Half on the weekend ahead, half on the looming therapy call they’d scheduled for later that day. 

Their room was beautiful, more of a suite. 

“You want to go get breakfast, baby?” Lando asked. 

She nodded. "Yeah. Before I crawl into bed and sleep for sixteen hours.”

He huffed a soft laugh and then reached out to grab her hand, entwining their fingers together. 

They headed down to the hotel restaurant, one of those sterile, modern spaces that looked the same in every city, and found Daniel already there, sitting at a table by the window, sunglasses shoved into his messy curls even though it was still grey outside.

He grinned wide when he spotted them, lifting his coffee in greeting. "Look what the cat dragged in."

Amelia dropped into one of the seats across from him with a sigh. "You're very awake.”

Daniel smirked. Shrugged. "Slept the whole flight. Like a professional sloth."

Lando slid into the seat beside her, slouching low. 

Daniel raised an eyebrow, glancing between them. "You two look like you’re about to get executed."

Amelia made a face at him before squinting at the menu. “Why would that happen? We’re not criminals.”

Lando pulled a face, raking a hand through his hair.

Daniel leaned in slightly, his tone dropping to something between a whisper and a bad stage voice. “Are the children grouchy?” He teased. 

Neither of them answered, but the silence was confirmation enough. Daniel just nodded. Then he poured them both coffee from the jug without asking and passed the mugs over like offerings.

“Oh. I need sugar,” Amelia told him, but still accepted the cup.

“Of course you do,” Daniel said with a grin, reaching around to grab one of the sugar packets from the table behind them and then flicking it at her. 

Amelia made a low, unimpressed sound and ripped her croissant in half. Then she picked up the sugar packet and put it into her coffee — because she was exhausted, and she needed caffeine immediately. 

They ordered, pastries, eggs, endless rounds of coffee, and Daniel, kept things light. He told stories about the last media day disaster, about how a cameraman tripped over his own feet trying to get a slow-mo shot of Lando walking. 

Amelia let herself laugh, cramming a bite of croissant into her mouth.

At one point, Daniel leaned back in his chair, looked at Lando with a cocked brow. "You reckon the new floor’s gonna hold up? Heard the lads were still tweaking it yesterday."

Lando shifted properly for the first time, straightening a little. "It should. They made the sidepod adjustment less aggressive, apparently. Should give us a bit more stability through Turn 8 than we had on the sim. Hope so, anyway. It was fucking awful.”

Daniel nodded in grim agreement. "Still reckon it’s gonna slide like shit if it rains."

Lando grimaced. "Yeah, well." He shrugged. 

Amelia glanced at him, worrying her bottom lip. 

Daniel rallied on, looping easily back into real shop talk. They started debating tire pressures for the cooler temperatures forecasted for qualifying, and Amelia sat there, chewing and sipping and letting their voices wash over her. Jumping in every now and then when Lando fumbled a technical term or Daniel started talking about "vibes" instead of tangible data.

"You two are hopeless," she muttered at one point, half under her breath.

Daniel leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his own. “Yeah, but we’re your hopeless idiots, ay?”

She didn’t smile, exactly, too tired for that, but her mouth twitched a little. She liked Daniel. He was fun, easygoing, a genuinely talented driver.

Her mind flickered, unbidden, to Oscar — to all the promises Alpine were making, all the big words about his future. In a way, she hoped they would follow through, give him the seat he deserved and the platform to build something extraordinary.

And in another, more selfish way, she hoped they wouldn’t.

When the breakfast plates were empty and the coffee was long gone, Daniel gave Lando a long look across the table.

"You’ll smash it, mate," he said. No jokes, no grin this time. Just honest, quiet faith.

Amelia felt her chest ache a little at the way Lando ducked his head, like he didn’t believe it yet.

Like he wasn’t sure he deserved to.

Daniel clapped him on the shoulder, light but firm. "You’ve got this."

They said goodbye, promises to catch up before FP1 tossed into the air between them, and Amelia followed Lando out of the restaurant, the cool hotel air whispering around them.

Upstairs, in the quiet of their hotel room, the nerves started creeping back in. Amelia pulled her laptop out, her fingers steady even as her stomach twisted.

"You okay?" Lando asked, standing awkwardly near the window, arms crossed.

She looked at him, at the tired set of his mouth, the way his eyes flicked to the laptop like it was a threat.

"Yeah," she said.

Because she was tired, but she wasn’t scared.

Not anymore.

"Come here," she added, patting the couch beside her.

He sat down, careful like he thought he might break something.

She touched his cheek, running the tip of her nail across his cheekbone. “I love you.” She promised. 

— 

The call connected with a faint chime, and the therapist’s calm, smiling face appeared on Amelia’s laptop screen.

Lando shifted beside her on the hotel room couch, visibly tense, one knee bouncing in a restless rhythm. Amelia resisted the urge to pin it down with her hand. She wanted him here because he wanted to be, not because he felt caged. She understood the difference all too well.

"Hi, Amelia. Hi, Lando," the therapist said warmly. "It’s great to see you both."

Amelia gave a small nod. Lando mumbled something that sounded vaguely like 'hi,' his hands twisting the hem of his hoodie.

The therapist didn’t even blink. She just carried on, patient and calm, the way she always was, the perfect kind of voice that never tried too hard, never felt fake.

“So, Lando, I know Amelia and I have spoken a few times before," she started, smiling lightly, "but since this is your first session with me, why don't we start simple?"

Lando swallowed, clearly uncomfortable under the attention. Amelia watched him out of the corner of her eye, the set of his shoulders too rigid, his mouth pressing into a thin line.

He had been the one to ask, awkwardly, sheepishly, if she would sit with him during his appointment. "Just for the first one," he’d said in the back of the car, on their way from the airport to the hotel. "It’ll be easier if you’re there, I think.”

Amelia had agreed immediately. Of course she had. He never asked for help, so it would have been ridiculous to deny him when he finally did.

"I guess... yeah," Lando said now, rubbing the back of his neck. "Simple’s good."

The therapist smiled, like she could see exactly how hard he was trying. "Perfect. So, how are you feeling today, Lando?"

There was a beat. Lando’s fingers dug harder into the fabric of his hoodie.

Amelia gave him a sidelong glance, deliberate but light. You can say anything, she thought, and it won’t change anything between us.

"Stupid," Lando muttered finally, voice barely above a whisper. "For… this."

The therapist’s face stayed soft. She shook her head gently. "There’s nothing stupid about needing support. Especially in a profession as demanding as yours."

Amelia’s jaw tensed before she spoke. "And for the record," she added bluntly, "you’re not stupid. You’re stubborn. There’s a difference."

Lando cracked a tiny, unwilling smile at that. His knee stopped bouncing.

"Thanks," he said, his voice rough but real.

The therapist nodded, almost like she’d expected Amelia’s bluntness to land exactly where she intended it to.

"Let’s not worry about being perfect or saying the ‘right’ thing today," she said easily. "This is about learning to notice what’s actually going on in your head, not what you think you're supposed to feel."

Lando seemed to digest that for a moment, eyes lowered.

Amelia leaned back against the couch, crossing her arms. She could feel how tightly wound he was, even from here, but he was trying. 

God, he was trying.

"I’m fine at first," Lando said eventually, voice gaining steadiness. “Start of the weekend. I’m excited, full of adrenaline, feel like I can handle anything that’s thrown at me. Then... when I mess up, or when it feels like I’ve messed up, I can’t let go of it. I just keep thinking about it. Over and over." His voice had gone tight around the edges. Shame bleeding out before he could catch it.

Amelia exhaled slowly through her nose. She knew that loop well. It was like picking at a wound because the hurt felt more familiar than the healing.

"You’re allowed to be upset when things go wrong," the therapist said. "What we’re trying to avoid is punishing yourself for being human."

"Feels like weakness," Lando admitted.

Amelia pursed her lips. “It’s not.” She couldn’t help herself, she had to say it, had to be the one to remind him that for what felt like the fiftieth time in a week. 

Lando glanced at her. The smallest flicker of something crossed his face, gratitude, maybe. Or just… fondness.

The session continued, the conversation meandering through the tight, uncomfortable spaces of Lando’s self-criticism. He was careful at first, tentative, like every word was being weighed before it could leave his mouth. But he didn’t shut down. He didn’t pull away.

When the therapist wrapped up, reminding them both that progress wasn't linear and perfection wasn’t the goal, Amelia felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest.

It was hope. Not the kind she usually reserved for numbers and data sheets and strategy calls. A different kind. Messier. Stronger.

Lando closed the laptop and they sat in silence for a beat.

Then he shifted closer to her, bumping his shoulder into hers.

"Sorry for being such a mess.” He mumbled.

Amelia shuffled into his lap, pressing into him, holding him. Letting him hold her. Feeling him all but melt under the weight of her body on-top of his. “Don’t say sorry. I’m a mess too, just in a different way.” 

He pressed his face into her hair. "New race weekend," he said after a while, like he was reminding himself. "Fresh start."

"Fresh start," she nodded. "And if it falls apart again, we deal with it in a healthy way. No more being cruel to yourself. I won’t let it happen.”

Simple. Blunt. True.

Lando just held her tighter. 

— 

Amelia walked into the garage, eyes scanning the team members packing up, her mind already calculating the race data from the day. The weekend had been hard on everyone; a bitter P2 finish when they had walked into the race with their eyes on another victory. 

Max was more than just disappointed. He looked drained, eyes slitted, jaw tight. 

She found him in the corner, leaning against the wall. He didn't notice her approach, his mind still somewhere out on the track, lost in his thoughts.

“Hey,” she said, stepping into his line of sight. His eyes lifted to meet hers, but there was nothing but weariness in them. "You okay?”

He scoffed. "No. Not good. You saw it out there." His hands clenched at his sides. "I'm losing this fucking championship, Amelia. There's no way I can catch up now."

“That’s not true. You absolutely can catch up. Look at the numbers. You can still win. The gap isn’t as big as you think." She told him. Then she took a deep breath and started ticking off the facts, breaking it down as methodically as she always did. “We’ve got multiple race weekends left. You’re behind, but the points difference isn’t insurmountable. If you keep executing like you did earlier today, you’ll close the gap. It’s about consistency, and you’ve got that in spades. But if you lose hope now, start being sad instead of angry, you’ll just be handing it over to him.”

“I’m making too many mistakes.” He snapped. 

She nodded slowly. “Yes, because you’re pushing the car to the limit. And that’s what makes you better than the rest.” 

For a long moment, he didn’t respond, his eyes still on the floor, processing. But eventually, he let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just... I need to figure it out. I need to get my head straight.”

She nodded. 

“Thanks” he said quietly. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Amelia told him. “Become a world championship first. Then you can thank me.”

Max’s lips twitched into a half-smile. 

— 

LandoLOG #4 | Let’s Do This

Uploaded on 23rd November, 2021

[LANDO POV — United States GP]

The vlog kicks off with a zoom-in of Lando’s car in the McLaren garage—mechanics adjusting the setup, wheels spinning. The camera quickly cuts to Daniel, arms spread wide, shouting, “Yee-haw!” in a loud, exaggerated cowboy voice.

[Cold cut to Amelia]

She’s sitting in McLaren hospitality, not a hint of amusement on her face. Wearing a MV33 bomber jacket and an orange LN4 McLaren cap.

Lando’s voice breaks in.

“Alright, guys, let’s focus. Car’s feeling good. I’m feeling good. Let’s do this.”

The camera flicks to Lando walking toward the garage in his race suit. Amelia’s in the Red Bull pit area, her eyes scanning her iPad. The paddock is alive, cars roaring, crew members buzzing with activity. Amelia briefly looks up, catching Lando’s gaze. He gives a thumbs-up.

[Race Prep - Qualifying]

The camera cuts to the grid. Lando’s helmet’s on now, and the camera stays focused as the mechanics buzz around him. He’s laser-focused, blocking out the noise.

Post-Qualifying

[Cut to Lando walking back to the garage]

He’s clearly frustrated. The camera follows him as he flips it on, his voice flat. “Well, that was... not great. P5. We had the pace, but something didn’t click in that last sector. Not happy, but we move on.”

[Hotel Room - Post-Qualifying]

The scene shifts to the hotel room. Lando paces, clearly agitated, while Amelia sits on the bed, working through her iPad, a stim toy in hand. Her focus is intense, but her voice cuts through as she speaks to him.

“It’s that stupid second sector. Everyone struggled with that last corner exit, even Max.”

Lando sighs, sitting next to her. “Yeah, I know. Just... frustrating.” He leans back, rubbing his face in frustration.

Later, it cuts to them at dinner. Amelia’s holding the camera, directing it at Lando.

“Tell them what you did,” she teases.

Lando groans, rolling his eyes. “Baby…”

“He accidentally ordered fish,” she laughs, shaking the camera slightly.

Lando glares but can’t suppress a soft, grimacing smile.

[Race Highlights - United States GP]

Quick cuts of Lando on the track. His car weaves through traffic, taking tight corners with precision. Amelia’s briefly shown on the pit wall, her concentration clear as she analyses Max's data.

[Post-Race]

The camera cuts back to the McLaren garage. Lando’s sitting with a towel draped over his shoulders, sweat dripping from his face. The garage is slowly clearing out. He looks exhausted but calm now.

“P5. Could’ve been better, but we’ll take it. At least we got points.” His voice lacks excitement.

Amelia walks in, standing beside him. She rests her head on his shoulder, and he smiles at the camera. 

Text Overlay: Rest & Recharge

[Home in Monaco]

The video cuts to a scene of them in their Monaco apartment. Lando lounges on the couch, editing footage on his laptop, scrolling through social media. Amelia’s curled up with a blanket beside him, clearly content.

Lando’s voice is laid-back as he talks to the camera. “I didn’t get any sleep last night. So, today’s all about being lazy. Gonna order food, maybe watch a movie, just rest up a bit.”

Amelia looks at him, smiling over the camera. “We’re couch potatoes today — Lan, did I use that right?”

[LANDO POV — Mexican GP]

Lando’s walking down the pit lane with Daniel. The stadium section is packed with fans, the energy palpable. Lando’s voice comes through, upbeat despite the tension.

“Mexico’s always crazy, but I’m feeling good today. The car’s fast, the atmosphere’s unreal. Let’s see what we can do in qualifying.”

[Race Highlights - Mexican GP]

Cut to race footage; Lando pushing his car, making overtakes, keeping up the fight. In the background, Amelia’s pacing, muttering to herself as she goes over Max's data. When Max crosses the line, she beams, her focus momentarily shifting away. Jon, with the camera, catches the moment and gives her a thumbs-up.

[Post-Race - Mexican GP]

Post-race, Lando and Daniel are standing by their cars. Both are sweaty, but there’s a sense of satisfaction. Lando wipes his face, and speaks to the camera.

“Well, that was solid. P4. Not ideal, but we’re getting closer.”

Amelia walks over. When she sees Lando, she smiles. The couple share a quick, tight hug. She pecks him on the cheek, leaving a smudge of lipgloss.

[LANDO POV — Brazilian GP]

Cut to Lando prepping for the Brazilian GP, checking tire pressures, walking through the garage, the atmosphere high-energy. Lando’s pumped, the mood light.

Back at the hotel, Lando turns the camera to Amelia. “Here’s my girl, she’s got everything under control. Smartest person in the world.” He grins at the camera.

Amelia rolls her eyes, her cheeks flushing with a slight embarrassment. “Stop it.”

[LANDO POV — Qatar GP]

The camera shifts. The vibe’s different now. Lando’s face is tense, his jaw tight. The camera cuts to him on the grid, helmet in hand, his expression serious.

“Pressure’s on for everyone today,” his voice is calm but serious.

Amelia’s voice enters the background. “It’s going to be tricky with this heat.” She sounds calm, steady as always, but her tone holds a layer of underlying tension.

[Race Clips - Qatar GP]

Quick cuts show Lando on track, his car weaving through the desert-like circuit, gaining positions, making calculated moves.

[Post-Race - Qatar GP]

Lando stands in front of his car, towel over his shoulders, his expression hard. “P4. Could’ve been better, but... yeah. Good enough for today.” He’s not unhappy, but it’s clear this was not the result he hoped for.

The camera cuts to Lando and Amelia in their hotel room. Amelia’s curled up on his chest, a soft, intimate moment. There’s a quiet sense of exhaustion between them, but also a quiet understanding.

Text Overlay: Now onto the final stretch.

— 

Amelia sat in the strategy room in Saudi Arabia, her posture stiff, hands resting on the table, but her mind was miles away. The hum of the room buzzed around her—the quiet chatter of engineers, the occasional rustle of papers, the sharp clicks of a laptop. Jos sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the data, while the rest of the team worked in focused silence. But Amelia felt herself barely holding it together.

Her fingers curled around her stim toy, hidden just beneath the table. It had become a constant companion lately, grounding her when her thoughts raced and anxiety crept in. Every squeeze calmed her pulse, but it did little to ease the storm inside.

The pressure was building—the championship was coming down to the final two races of the season. Amelia’s focus was entirely on Max. The weight of it all was overwhelming.

Her gaze flicked to him. Max sat a few seats away, leaning back in his chair with an air of calm that seemed unaffected by the chaos around them. When their eyes met, the quiet reassurance in his gaze helped her center herself.

"Amelia," GP’s voice broke through her thoughts, sharp and focused. "We’re ready for your input on strategy. We’ve gone over the options, but I want to hear what you think."

Her heart skipped, but she steadied herself. "Right," she said, her voice firm, though tinged with strain. Her pulse quickened again, the stress creeping up her spine, but she gripped the stim toy harder, focusing on its calming pressure.

Max, noticing the shift in her demeanour, gave her a small, reassuring nod. A silent reminder to breathe. The tension in her chest eased.

She turned back to the board, her mind sharpening. Focus on the data. Focus on Max. He can win this. As she assessed the tire strategies, weather forecasts, and available options, the path forward became clearer. This was the moment to make it count.

"I think we should risk the undercut," Amelia said, her voice steady now. Confidence surged through her. "If Max pushes on the in-lap, we can leapfrog the others. The tire wear will be crucial in the second half, and we need to capitalise on that."

Christian leaned forward, studying the data on the screen. "You’re confident?"

"Yes," Amelia replied without hesitation. "It’s our best shot at maximum points."

Max’s gaze stayed on her, unwavering, as the room hummed with quiet agreement. The strategy was beginning to take shape. Despite the nerves twisting inside her, Amelia’s mind had snapped into focus.

When the meeting wrapped up, Max was the first to approach. He didn’t say anything immediately, just walked up beside her, his presence a quiet comfort.

"You did well," he said quietly, his voice warm. "You’ve been incredible this year. I wouldn’t be this close without you." He nudged her lightly, his smile small but genuine.

Amelia let out a slow breath, leaning into his touch. "I want this for you so badly, Max," she admitted, her voice thick with emotion.

Max’s expression softened. He crouched beside her, his voice dropping to something more intimate, just between the two of them. “Okay. I need to say this. Amelia, if it doesn’t happen, if I somehow mess this up... don’t blame yourself, alright? You’ve given me a championship-winning car. You’ve made me a better driver. That doesn’t change just because I—" He paused, looking for the right words. "—don’t win it."

She shook her head, a firm resolve settling in. "You will win it," she told him, her voice unwavering.

Max smiled at her, though it wasn’t his usual grin. He was just as nervous, just as desperate. "Yeah. Okay. Want to go find Lando?" he asked, his voice soft.

Amelia nodded, grateful for the shift in focus. "Let’s go."

— 

Jos slammed his headset onto the table as Max crossed the line in second.

Lewis had beaten him.

But still, the fight wasn’t over.

It was official now — Max and Lewis would enter the final race of the season dead even on points.

Winner takes all.

The garage buzzed with tension, but Amelia sat frozen, the noise around her fading into a dull roar.

She squeezed her stim toy so tightly her knuckles turned white, forcing herself to take five slow, deliberate breaths.

There was no margin for error anymore.

They had one more chance. 

NEXT CHAPTER

[bucketgetter535]

This is not a cry for help (but it might be)

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

CW: Swearing/Divorce

WC: 1788

Notes: basically Paige and Azzi meet at team USA camp in the middle of Paige’s dad and step mom divorcing. More about Paige than Pazzi and a bit ooc but this was a self indulgent one. Also I tried a little different writing style so… There might be a part 2 coming but lmk what yall think of this.

Paige was going to explode.

Not literally, but like… emotionally? Mentally? Soul-wise? Whatever. There wasn’t a better word for it. It was like her whole brain was trying to fold in on itself while she smiled at everyone and said “good game” and “nice shoes” and “oh my God I love your shot fake” like she wasn’t just barely keeping it together.

She was sitting on the floor of the dorm room, her back against the bed frame, chewing on the end of a charger cord that probably wasn’t meant to be chewed on. The little USA towel from her welcome bag was crumpled on her lap, and Azzi, of course, was already fully unpacked. Her socks were stacked. Her deodorant had a designated spot. She was that kind of person.

Meanwhile Paige had been wearing the same pair of shorts for what felt like three days, and her headphones were already missing.

Azzi stood at the dresser, folding a second hoodie like she worked at The Gap or something.

“I think we have a meeting at seven,” she said without turning around.

Paige kicked the bottom of the bed lightly with her heel. “Ugh.”

“That’s helpful.”

“No seriously, I ugh in solidarity.”

Azzi glanced back, hair in a loose bun, face still annoyingly clear and unbothered.

“Are you okay?”

That was the worst question in the world.

Paige smirked, fast. The default setting. She picked at the towel on her lap.

“Yeah, I’m great,” she said. “Living the dream. Wearing red, white, and blue. Getting yelled at by forty-seven different coaches. Sharing a room with someone who folds their socks like they’re on Shark Tank.”

Azzi just blinked at her. “You’re weird.”

“You’re organized. It’s upsetting.”

Azzi sat on the edge of the other bed, the one Paige had given her without a fight. The window bed. The one that got all the golden light in the morning. Paige hadn’t even thought about claiming it. She never did. Not when there were bigger things happening. Like a second parental divorce.

God.

It wasn’t even like she liked her step-mom. She was just… there. Always hovering. Always with that tight smile, like she knew Paige was one emotional outburst away from being “too much.” But this… this version of the split was way messier. Way louder. Her dad was saying things. Slamming cabinets. Crying.

Paige didn’t know how to deal with her dad crying. That was not in the player handbook.

“You didn’t eat dinner,” Azzi said quietly.

Paige leaned her head back and looked at the ceiling.

“You a cop?”

“I’m just saying.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Yeah, but you’re, like, always hungry.”

Paige huffed. “Okay, chill.”

Azzi didn’t respond.

Silence stretched. Not awkward, just… loaded.

Paige hated how Azzi could sit in quiet and not fidget. Paige always needed to do something. Bounce a ball. Scroll. Tap her foot. Rip a napkin into tiny pieces. Her hands were always moving. Her brain too.

Azzi was like a still lake.

Paige was like a fire drill.

“You ever get tired of being good at everything?” Paige asked suddenly, flipping the towel inside out like it had wronged her.

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “I’m not good at everything.”

“Sure, sure. But like… you could at least pretend to struggle, just so the rest of us don’t feel like garbage.”

“I do struggle.”

“With what? Losing? Parallel parking? Not being a role model?”

Azzi narrowed her eyes. “Why are you like this?”

Paige smiled. “Like what?”

“Annoying.”

“Oh, that’s just how I flirt.”

Azzi actually laughed, then shook her head like she couldn’t believe she’d let it happen. Paige grinned wider.

The thing was… Azzi didn’t know. About anything. Not really. She didn’t know that Paige had left Minnesota with her dad calling her “selfish” one minute and “my little girl” the next. She didn’t know her step-mom had slammed a door so hard it cracked the frame. She didn’t know Paige had cried on the plane but like… in her head? Not real tears. Just that burning thing behind the eyes.

The worst part? Paige was still trying to be perfect. Still passing in drills. Still helping girls up. Still saying “nice shot” even when she wanted to scream.

And Azzi was just… Azzi. Chill. Steady. Like she hadn’t been dropped in the middle of a mental war zone. Paige wanted to shake her sometimes. Or poke her. Or hide one of her shoes just to see her react. She wanted to pull at something. To make her realer. Or maybe just messier.

Or maybe she just wanted to make sure she wasn’t the only one falling apart.

“I like your shot,” Paige said after a second, almost without thinking.

Azzi blinked. “Thanks?”

“It’s clean. Like, surgical. You don’t waste motion. I hate it.”

Azzi snorted. “So… you like it, but you hate it.”

“Exactly.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“And you,” Paige said, pointing at her with the corner of the towel, “are the human version of hotel breakfast.”

Azzi laughed again. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. It just felt true.”

Another pause.

Azzi laid back on her bed, arms behind her head, and Paige watched her from the floor, eyes tracing the outline of the other girl’s profile.

Something about her made the world feel a little slower. Not fixed. Not better. Just slower. Like maybe Paige could breathe without feeling like it was a competition.

“Hey,” Paige said, quieter now. “If I do something really dumb at this camp—like, trip on a Gatorade bottle or break down mid-scrimmage—can you just, like… pretend it didn’t happen?”

Azzi didn’t open her eyes. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Cool.”

More silence.

Then, just before lights out:

“Hey, Azzi?”

“Mhm?”

“I’m not actually flirting with you.”

Azzi opened one eye, looked at her, and said, “I know.”

But she was smiling.

And Paige didn’t feel like exploding, just for a second.

–

It was 3:04 a.m. and Paige was sitting cross-legged on the desk chair in the dark like some kind of cryptid. Hoodie over her head, hood strings pulled tight, face lit only by her phone.

She wasn’t gonna cry. She wasn’t. That was, like, a rule. A Paige Rule. Crying was for when your team lost in the semifinals or when you got hit in the throat with a ball mid-layup and had to pretend you were just coughing. Crying wasn’t for phone calls from your dad.

It wasn’t even what he said. It was how he said it.

He sounded tired. Like bone-tired. Like something had drained out of him. Paige had heard yelling from him before, like, actual yelling, cabinet doors and whatever… but tonight was quiet. Too quiet. That’s what got her. That weird, slow quiet. Like he was underwater or maybe she was. Like he was trying to talk normal but it felt off, and she was too fifteen to know why it was making her feel nauseous.

He said something about needing space. From her step-mom. From everything. And then he asked if she was “doing okay out there.” Like that. Out there. Like she was on another planet.

She told him yeah. Said she was good. Said the gym was nice and the food was fine and her roommate was chill (which, okay, was half-true; Azzi was not unchill, she was just… Azzi).

But now she was here. Awake. Texting her mom.

Paige: hey

Paige: u up

Paige: jk ur in mt time

Paige: but

Paige: can i ask u something or

Paige: nvm

Paige: sry

She stared at the screen. Hated how her thumb hovered, like she didn’t know how to be a human being.

A response came in three minutes later. Her mom always answered weirdly fast for someone who lived in middle-of-nowhere Montana and claimed to be “off-grid.”

Mom: ask me anything, paige

Her chest felt like it cracked open just reading it. Like someone hit her with a slow-motion punch.

Paige: do u think it’s bad that i’m kinda glad i’m not home right now?

There it was. A raw, ugly truth. She hit send before she could backspace it into something prettier.

The reply came after a beat.

Mom: no. that’s human.

Mom: it doesn’t mean you don’t love them.

Mom: you’re fifteen. it’s not your job to fix everything.

She stared at that for a long time. Her eyes prickled and she blinked really fast like she could blink away the fact that it was actually comforting.

She set the phone down, didn’t answer again. Just pulled her knees up to her chest and leaned into them.

Somewhere across the room, Azzi’s bed rustled.

Paige froze.

“Paige?”

No. Nope. No thank you.

“Yeah?” she croaked, hating how raw her voice sounded.

Azzi sat up. She didn’t turn the light on, which Paige appreciated, but still. She was awake now. And awake Azzi meant questions.

“You good?”

God. That question. Again. Like the world was a loop and someone forgot to press skip.

“Yeah,” Paige said automatically, even though her chest was still tight. “Just couldn’t sleep.”

Azzi didn’t answer right away. Paige could see her silhouette, backlit by the streetlight glow through the curtain.

“You sure?” Azzi asked again, quieter this time.

And that was worse. Like, infinitely worse. Because now it wasn’t just words. It was care. It was gentleness. And Paige didn’t know what to do with gentleness at 3 a.m. She didn’t know what to do with it at all.

She picked up her phone again. “Y’all really gotta come up with a new question,” she muttered. “It’s getting old.”

Azzi didn’t rise to the bait. Just said, “Okay,” and lay back down.

Just “okay.”

No pressure. No pushing.

And for some reason, that made Paige feel even worse. Or maybe better. Or both. Which didn’t make sense but also felt so real.

She turned her phone face-down, hugged her legs tighter, and rested her chin on her knee.

Drew was probably asleep. He was little. Little kids didn’t remember divorces, right? Not like she remembered the first one. She was three back then, but she remembered. Not exact things, but vibes. Tension. Faces. The way adults said one thing but meant another.

She didn’t want that for Drew.

She didn’t want this version of her dad either.

She didn’t want any of this.

But she couldn’t say that. Not out loud. Not even to Azzi, who was, like, a weirdly safe presence. Like an emotional weighted blanket with a jumper.

She exhaled. Rubbed her eyes.

3:27 a.m.

Maybe she’d sleep. Maybe she wouldn’t. But at least she wasn’t yelling. At least nobody here was slamming doors.

At least for now.

[juleswritesstuff]

Blind

james potter x reader

I saw that post right in the middle and I just had to.

Warnings: none (it's a bit suggestive, but nothing major)

You could live like this, you think.

It would truly be the best life ever in your humble opinion.

Sitting on his lap, arms wrapped around his neck, holding on to him like a lifeline as your bodies fit perfectly like two pieces of a puzzle. His hands are all over your body, fingers exploring wherever they can reach before sneaking swiftly under your shirt to trace along the length of your spine, pads dancing on your soft skin and making shives erupt all over you.

And his lips. Oh God, his lips. 

James has the face of an angel, and the mouth of a demon. And you love it. You revel in the feeling of his lips claiming every part of you, every inch of flesh. They are soft and reverent and teasing and filthy, and in this moment they are devouring yours with a hunger that matches the fire blooming inside of you.

“You have no right to look this good” you whisper on his lips, biting his bottom one before swiping your tongue right over it.

You couldn’t help yourself when you saw him. All disheveled after quidditch practice with his hair still a little damp, the first three buttons of his shirt free, tie loose and crooked and a half smirk on that perfect face of his; knocking on your door completely clueless of the effect he had on you.

He looked like sex on legs. A literal sin in human form, and you were ready to fall from grace when it came to him.

“Didn't know post-quidditch me was so sexy to you” his voice has a little strain to it, breathless and teasing as his hands roamed all over your body.

You let out a breathless chuckle, hyper aware of every centimeter of him pressed against you.

“You have no idea” your hands get to work on his shirt, unbuttoning it as fast as you can, until his perfectly chiseled torso graces your eyes in its full glory.

Your mouth waters at the sight.

You slide the fabric off of his shoulders, brushing the smooth skin and feeling all those firm muscles that he hides behind his beloved sweatshirts, biting your lip as the flames inside your body grow hotter by the second. 

Your mouth latches to his once again, never having enough of his taste, of him.

He starts to lay down and you follow him, never breaking the embrace of your lips, intoxicated by the way his tongue caresses yours in the filthiest of dances. His back hits the mattress and you are fully all over him, chest to chest.

The kiss becomes messy, a clash of teeth and lips and tongues. You are sure the thing running through your veins is not blood anymore, but liquid fire, consuming every cell of your body and setting you ablaze with desire.

“Woah, you're fucking blurry” 

“Hold on, love. I have to-”

One of his arms leaves your waist and reaches up, until his fingers are wrapped around the slim, golden frame of his glasses, taking them off in a way that should be considered illegal in at least twenty countries. All smooth and seductive with that little grin of his.

God, he was so beautiful like this. All worked up and breathless, laying underneath you like the tastiest meal you ever had the pleasure to taste and-

For a split second the room falls silent, not a single sound can be heard inside those four walls.

You blink a few times, enough to let his words sink in.

And when they do you can't help but burst out laughing.

A real, genuine laugh coming straight from your belly and echoing through the room like you had just heard the joke of the century.

James’ eyes are wide in disbelief, flabbergasted by your reaction. But his mouth is stretched in an incredulous grin, sprinkled with a glint of mirth as he himself can’t stop the chuckle bubbling in his throat.

“Are you making fun of my blindness ? How cruel, Y/N” there is not an ounce of offense in his tone, just light-hearted and hilariously exaggerated teasing.

“Me ?” the fake and over the top innocence in your voice makes him smile even harder, the little dimple on his left cheek that you adored so much peeking through. You dip forward, leaving a kiss on those dreamy lips of his before whispering right against them “I wouldn't even dream of it” 

“Oh, you wouldn't ?” he cocks a perfectly arched brow in a challenging and yet adorable manner, eyes sparkling with mischief as his fingers start poking at your ribs, making you squirm and giggle like a middle schooler.

“No ! No, no, no ! Jame-”

He is laughing too, now. Glasses back in their place and eyes glistening with joy and pure adoration as he looks at you struggling not to lose a lung from the almost hysterical shriek coming from your lips at the ticklish attack he had you under.

You are so focused on not collapsing from the laughter and the skillful way his fingers move in every place he knew was the most ticklish for you, that you don't even register the way his hands suddenly stop.

They land on your hips, holding them in a delicate but firm grip, and, before you know it, you are being flipped over. Your back makes contact with the mattress of your bed as the delicious weight of your boyfriend’s sculpted body settles over you. 

You let out a yelp of surprise at the sudden change of position, a sound that threatens to turn into a full moan considered your current situation.

James is now on top of you, and the breath almost gets knocked out of your lungs as you admire him in his full glory.

His hair is wild and messy, but they frame his face in a way both so beautiful and so sexy that it makes your heart stop beating and your body run hotter. His eyes are still crinkled up in the ghost of a smile, but the haziness in them, that glint of adoration and reverence as he looks at you through his eyelashes, renders you speechless. His golden specks are hung a bit low on the bridge of his nose, giving him an adorable but mouth watering beautiful look. His lips are curled up in a half smile, playful and gorgeous and so, so incredibly sensual that you are not even sure if he knows the power that mouth has on you.

“Cat got your tongue, love ?” he brushes his nose with yours as he murmurs the question right on your lips, leaving a kiss on your cheek right after.

You wish you could just function like a normal person and tell him that, no, your tongue is definitely still in its place and it works perfectly fine, thank you. But your boyfriend is shirtless on top of you, with your legs still wrapped around his hips and that deadly handsome grin plastered on his face. Suddenly, the only thing you can think about are some other couple of ways in which your mouth could definitely be useful. 

“I-” you gulp loudly as you try not to drool at the sight of his muscles flexing right before your eyes “-what ?”

He lets out a chuckle, his head hung low as his shoulders shake with laughter. His wild locks tickle your chin and you can feel the ghost of his smile pressed lightly on your collarbone

You can’t help but follow him as the delightful sound of his laugh echoes through the room, spreading a warmth in your heart that you had never felt before meeting James.

When he lifts his head back up and his eyes find yours again, all sparkling with joy and fondness, you really think your heart is seconds away from bursting in your chest.

“Am I really that distracting ?” there is still a hint of that cocky smirk on his face, but it fades into something sweeter as he catches the light blush blossoming on your cheeks.

“You know perfectly well that I stop functioning properly when you are on top of me, Potter” your grumbling tone doesn’t faze him one bit, he just dips his head lower and captures your lips in a searing kiss.

“Really ? I hadn’t noticed” the unimpressed deadpan look you give him makes him chuckle again and you can feel the vibration right on your chest with how close he is.

“Sorry, sorry” his laughter dissipates, replaced by a more relaxed smile.

“If it’s of any consolation-” the hand not busy holding his upper body up and preventing his full weight to be laid on you, reaches the supple flesh of your thigh, letting his fingers dance on the exposed skin as they please “-my brain stops working, too” 

His mouth starts a journey that begins on your lips and slowly and tortourously ends on your neck, which seems to be his favorite place to worship to make your brain short-circuit.

“Mmh, does it actually ?” you don’t know how the hell you manage to let a single word out, especially in that teasing tone, as you are sure nothing except pure filthy sounds threaten to come out of your throat.

He grins against your skin before lifting his head up once again.

“Oh, trust me. It does” he whispers sensually against your lips “In every position you have me in”

Yes, you could definitly live like this.

I am not sure if I am a 100 % satisfied with this, but I tried my best.

I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading 💗

[rememberwren]

/•Harmless Fun•\

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts

Exactly what it says on the tin. Established ghoap, bringing in fem!reader roommate. Poor writing. Reader has had any identifying features removed, but she owns a Ford Fiesta. Take that as you will. Just testing to see if there is interest in a lighthearted fun sexy fic like this. 🩶

*

“Remember. You’re desperate,” you muttered to yourself looking at your reflection in the rearview mirror of your tiny Ford Fiesta. The ink might as well still be fresh on the ad your roommate printed off for you (the perfect symbol of her guilt for moving back in with her boyfriend and forcing you to find a new apartment and new roommates in the first place).

The ad reads as thus: WANTED: ANY GENDER WELCOME to fill the second bedroom in a 2b/2ba 1290sq ft apartment. DOWNTOWN. In-building laundry. Utilities and rent split EVENLY amongst 3. NO FASCISTS, NO HOMOPHOBES.

It was the most promising ad you had seen after days of scouring the internet in your every spare moment (usually reserved for those moments when you were on break during shifts, feet and back aching, hating your life OR at the end of a long day when the post-sunset depression hit with all the force of a typhoon). Any two people who were against fascism and homophobia were alright in your book. As for the finer details—well. You were desperate. You were going to have to overlook any skeletons in their closets, as long as those skeletons weren’t literal.

I’m texting about the apartment downtown. Is this the right number?

Yeah, you’ve got it. Nice to text ya. You’re interested?

Very. Is there somewhere we could meet to discuss the details?

We don’t mind showing the apartment. Got a few others coming to see it as well. You cursed up a storm reading over that particular text, so much so that your roommate’s boyfriend knocked angrily on the thin walls separating your bedrooms. Scowling, you knocked back—a little too angry to be mistaken for conciliatory. You blamed that bastard for your troubles in the first place.

I’ll see it ASAP, if that’s okay.

Go-getter. How soon can you be here?

Which is how you found yourself in the parking lot of the building, hastily combing hairs back into place, hoping for some semblance of presentability. If only there was a way to hide the desperation in your eyes…

The apartment complex itself is everything you could have hoped for. It even has an indoor pool, which is a step up from the facilities offered at your own apartment. The rent is a little higher than what you were pulling at your old place, but you think you can manage it if you cut back on excess frivolities. And any joy. (Joy costs)

There’s a doorman even—an honest to god doorman! He instructs you on the way to the elevators, and you take them up to the top floor, feeling your ears pop from the change in altitude. By the time you’re standing in front of their door, your knees are knocking together, terrified of who you might be meeting. Even more terrified that they might not like you, that they might say no—

—and the door opens, shattering any expectation you have. The man standing there is undoubtedly, ungodly, unseemly, obscenely hot. His head nearly brushes the frame of the door, blond hair wild and mussed, like he’s just had the fuck of his life. He’s thick, too, muscles on muscles along his corded forearms, bared by the dark tee that stretches across his chest.

He is pale and dark eyed and frowning down at you so sternly that you are convinced you have knocked on the wrong door. God help you. It’s all an honest mistake—but then his gravelly, softly-accented voice says: “You’re here about the apartment?”

Your heart nearly stops. This is the person who owns the apartment? How could you be expected to live alongside this behemoth? Just as you are about to tuck tail and run, a hand grips the man’s shoulder and gently tugs him aside and another specimen—two of them! two!—appears. This one has his hair cropped in a Mohawk, his eyes a deep drown-worthy blue. A few inches shorter, he is just as impressive shape. He beams at you.

“Well!” he says, leaning on the door frame in a way that fetchingly shows off the cut muscles of his arm and chest. His voice is accented too, something rougher, different than the taller man’s. “You aren’t what I was expecting. Unless yer just a wee fascist.”

You blink. You had been thinking the very same. Your hackles rise on instinct, bristling in preemptive outrage. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We’ve had a type answering the ad,” the other man says dryly. “Johnny doesn’t mean nothing. Come in—if you’re still interested in the apartment.”

It crosses your mind that this is perhaps foolish: entering an apartment of strange men, regardless of how you had left the address with your roommate and specified a time to check in with her. But you’re desperate. So you slip in after them, Johnny making ample room for you to move past him in the doorway.

When you do, you smell his shower gel, something woodsy. You say a prayer that you aren’t drooling.

Your eyes roam over the open-concept apartment. The living room and kitchen are combined, larger than you might have imagined. It is homier, too, for a place where two men live: there are pictures along the walls, potted plants in the corners and on the desk, and an easel overlooking the balcony in the corner, an oil half-rendering of the view outside.

It is tidy. It smells nice. It is owned by two of the hottest men you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing.

“I want it,” you blurt out.

Johnny laughs. “Sure ya do. Let us show you everything and then we’ll talk.”

You barely manage to contain your impatience as they lead you room to room. The guest room is empty, except for some boxes that Johnny hastily promises can be moved. The closets have no skeletons (you check). You would have your own bathroom. The more you see, the more convinced you are that this would be an ideal apartment regardless of who was offering it to you, but the frequent banter between the two men (Johnny and Simon you find out) is so entertaining and inviting that it’s hard not to feel like they want you—to be their third. Roommate that is.

After every nook and cranny of the apartment has been seen, they seat themselves on the loveseat and you on the adjacent armchair, your fingers interlaced like a businesswoman about to make the deal of her lifetime.

“I still want the room,” you admit. Johnny smiles, an expression that you sense comes easily to his face. His smile falls a little when you continue: “I just have one question. Why the vacancy?”

Simon takes a measured breath. The silence grows thick as they share a glance, communicating silently in a way that only two who have known each other—who have been through things with each other—can. At length, he says: “We’re ex-military. Disabled.”

That explained the cane Johnny had been using to move around the apartment.

“The benefits were excellent until recently, when we saw a generous…cut to our monthly pay.”

You frown. “That’s terrible. Why would they do that?”

Johnny gives a breathless little laugh. His hand comes down slowly to rest on Simon’s knee. You stare, unsure what you are seeing. “Well, it happens…when you get married.”

-

“That explains a lot,” your roommate says when you spill every little detail after driving home. By the time you arrive, her insufferable boyfriend is gone for the night (thank God) so it is just the two of you, like the good old days. “Namely why two men in a two bedroom apartment are looking for a roommate.”

“I didn’t even think of it,” you groan, palming at your eyes. “Am I homophobic?”

“No, just desperate and wishful,” she teases. She has no idea how accurate she is. It’s been years—literal years since you’ve been with anyone of substance. In the meantime, you’d been happy to settle for your fingers and your toys, but there was the occasional itch that only a cock could scratch in you. Figuratively. “This is a good thing though. The last thing you need is getting tangled up with your new roommates. That’s a recipe for disaster.”

“Instead I’ll be in the middle of their marital bliss. Or lack of, depending on the day,” you suggest dryly. But you aren’t even sure how much you believe your own words. Simon and Johnny said they had been together for nearly ten years, and more than their words, you had seen them with your own eyes—the way they gravitated to each other, the way their eyes were never far from each other. The way they roasted each other so good-naturedly. They seemed like a couple who were past their seven year itch, who had grown older and comfortable with each other. They seemed like they had their shit together.

Did it make you terrible that you still wanted to be pinned between them like a bug in a science project?

“Then tell them no,” she says, sitting on the edge of your bed. You see the guilt in her eyes, and it makes you just a little vindicated. Which makes you feel terrible. “You’ll find something. I promise. You could always stay with us until you do—“

“God no. No offense.”

“None taken. I think.”

You sigh. You nudge her with your foot. “Alright, out, I need to think.”

But it takes such little thought when Johnny (affectionately added to your phone) messages not ten minutes later.

I don’t want to rush ya, but another person asked to see the apartment. Should I show them?

No way, you text. That room is mine.

[preciosapascal]

Never Again

Summary: Javi fucks you in the copy room at work. i kinda hate this but it's posted now so. Pairing: Javier Peña x f!reader Words count: 2k Tags: 18+ smut, that's literally it, PWP, it’s short but y’knowww, A/N: thank you so much for all the love on my previous stories! you can see my masterlist here or it's pinned at the top of my page <3333 as always feedback and reposts are highly appreciated

Javier was sat at his desk that was annoyingly placed directly in front of Steve's, with a cigarette perched between his lips and a ridiculous amount of paperwork in front of him. He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Y'good, Jav?" Murphy asks, lighting his own cigarette and sitting in his chair.

Javi hums, glancing up at Steve as he continues thumbing though papers. "Mm. Same shit, different day."

"You're tellin' me." Steve mutters, leaning back in his chair. Steve’s gaze shifts suddenly. "Morning." he greets nodding his head towards someone coming from behind Javi.

Javi raises his head and looks in the same direction, spotting you walking by, a folder in your arms, "Morning Murphy, Peña." you greet them both, smiling. Steve's attention shifts back to his paperwork but Javi's eyes were on you, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Hey-" He calls after you. Steve already knew he must have a stupid risqué comment to throw your way and rolls his eyes. You smile to yourself before turning to face him, tilting your head and raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, Javier?"

"Off to do something exciting, sweetheart?" he asks, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and shamelessly checking you out. He takes another drag then pinches the cigarette from his lips and places it in the ashtray.

"Sure. If going to the stuffy, tiny ass copy room is your idea of exciting then I'm in for a real treat." you reply, playfully rolling your eyes at him.

Javi tilts his head, the smirk still evident on his lips as a train of cigarette smoke flows from his nostrils, swirling up into the air above. "You'd be surprised what can happen in a copy room."

Steve shakes his head and mutters a comment, something about comparing Javi to a horny teenage boy. You can’t help but smirk at Steve's comment. He’s not wrong.

“I can imagine." you reply, and with that, you turn around and continue on towards the copy room.

Javi's dick twitches in his jeans when he watches you walk away. That fucking split in the back of your pencil skirt making his imagination run wild. He watches until you’re almost out of sight before standing up and tapping Steve’s desk, eyes still fixed on the direction you walked in. “Cover for me.”

“Why? Where you goin'?” Steve asks, momentarily looking up from his work and Javi just taps the side of his nose, before striding to the copy room.

You make it the copy room door, turning the knob and stepping in. The room is tiny, literally only big enough for a copy machine and a chair. As you approach the machine and turn it on, Javi's voice rings out from behind you.

"Needs two people in here to make it exciting." he comments, leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed over his chest.

You glance up at him for a second and then fiddle with the settings on the machine, putting them to what you need. "That right?"

He chuckles at your bluntness and steps inside the room, closes the copy room door and locks it. He turns, his gaze once again fixed on the split in your skirt, and he moves to snake his arms around your waist, pressing forward until your back is pressed flush against his chest. “Why so cold, hm?”

You tut as his knuckle brushes over the machine and changes a setting so you swat him lightly, making him let out an amused huff of warm air from his nose, right against your ear.

You attempt to ignore the fact that his familiar cologne invades your nostrils and sends your mind reeling. "I told you never again, Javi." you say, putting the setting back, yet you make no effort whatsoever to move or stop him.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He murmurs, but there’s no hint of him giving up either. His lips find their familiar spot, at the underside of your jaw, and he places a soft kiss there. You can feel his hard cock pressing against you.

You tilt your head, silently allowing him to continue as you grab a sheet of paper from one of the folders and set it down on the copy glass.

Javi smirks against the sweet smelling skin of your neck when you do that, taking the opportunity to trail kisses down the side and have his hands wander over you.

It frustrates you just how easy it is for the two of you to fall straight back into this. You told yourself - and Javi, never again so many times. It never took much for Javier to coax you into a situation like this, because against your better judgement, you wanted him and dammit he wanted you.

The familiar tension and chemistry between you both has always been undeniable and despite the fact that you have both said “never again" to each other multiple times, it seems to keep happening.

The moment his hands reach down and grasp your thighs, you know you're done for. You turn in his grasp and look up at him. "You have fifteen minutes until that copier stops and I leave this room."

He chuckles at that, pulling away to watch as you press the button to start the machine. Then he gently pushes you so you're leaning forward against it.

“Then I better make these the best fifteen minutes of your life, hm?” He rasps, pulling the hem of your pencil skirt up to expose your bottom half to him.

One hand moves to lightly tap your legs, a silent command to spread them. “Gonna be a good girl and let me do my thing now?” he teases, warm breath tickling your ear.

You let out a breathy laugh, the damp patch growing in your panties with each word. "Mhm."

Javi chuckles as he watches you give in to him as always, your breath hitching as his hand moves down to the damp patch in your panties and he lets out a low hum of approval.

"Never again, huh?" he murmurs, voice rough with lust and a hint of teasing as his fingers run through the wet patch gently.

You can't help but whimper as his touch sends a shiver down your spine, arching your back against him. "Shut up." you grumble, trying to maintain some form of composure, but it's crumbling fast.

Javi begins to unbuckle his belt with a smirk on his face and when it's undone, he runs his hands over he curve of your ass appreciatively. You look at the machine before looking over your shoulder at him and meeting his gaze.

"Might wanna get a move on Peña. Got ten minutes left."

He smirks as he glances back down at your ass then pulls your panties down to your knees, then pulls his jeans down and frees himself just enough. He runs his fingers teasingly through your slit, making your back arch as his other hand pumps himself lazily for a moment.

"Already soaked." he comments, pushing a finger inside and making you gasp. He chuckles softly before removing his finger and pressing his tip at your entrance.

With a swift, thrust of his hips, Javi bottoms out and grabs your hips, setting a quick pace to make the most of the time you have left.

A moan escapes you as his cock repeatedly hits the right spot inside of you over and over again, reminding you why you give in every time. No one fucks you this good, no one ever has and probably never will. He knows you. He knows your body probably better than you do.

"Fuck, Javi..." you whimper when he lifts one of your legs slightly, somehow hitting deeper than before. He's mesmerized by your ass bouncing as your bodies meet.

He leans forward over your back slightly, his lips brushing your ear as he pants softly with each thrust. "What was that about never fucking again? Hmm?” he growls softly, pistoning his hips into yours.

“Fuck…just shut up…y’got seven minutes left to make me come.”

He takes that as a challenge and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you up to lay your back against his chest as he continues pouding into you relentlessly. His hands roam to squeeze your bouncing tits through your blouse, making you bite your lip to mask the noises you desperately need to make and clench around him.

His fingers pinch and tug gently at your now hard nipples through the fabric, sending shockwaves straight to your cunt. He can feel your inner walls tightening around his length, threatening to pull him over the edge.

Javi's hips stutter, his grip on your tits tightening as his forehead rests on your shoulder. He's breathing heavily, his control slipping as you continue to clench around him. "Fuck...fuck...fuck." He growls softly, his voice strained.

You’re teetering on the edge, just needing one last little push and he can tell. One of his hands slide from your chest down to your pussy, rubbing firm circles against your clit.

“Come on, baby.” he rasps, voice low and urgent. The riskiness of it all has you both already almost there, the sounds of skin meeting skin filling the room. In the back of your mind you’re worried the echos will each outside the room but you’re too far gone to care.

He can feel your body tensing, your breath hitching as he hits that perfect spot over and over. The machine beeps, signally there’s only a couple of minutes left. He knows you're close, so he increases the pressure on your clit. "That's it hermosa, come on.” he groans, his voice strained still.

“Shit- oh…I’m-” you begin, yet you’re cut off by your own moan and Javi’s free hand quickly clamps over your mouth as he whispers encouraging words into your ear as your tight spasming walls milk his own release from him. Hot ropes of come fill you as Javi grunts quietly into your neck.

“Jesus.” you whisper as both of your breathing returns to normal with Javi srill buried side you.

He chuckles softly against your skin, his arms still wrapped around you. "Mhm. Jesus indeed."

He pulls out slowly, and you teasingly tense around him causing him to hiss at the sensitivity, making you laugh quietly.

He quickly tucks himself back into his pants, buttoning up just as the copier beeps, signaling that the time is up. "See that? Right on time." He smirks, giving your ass a light slap before stepping back.

You pull your skirt back down over your legs and when you reach down to grab your panties, Javi swipes them first and dangles them from one finger in front of you. When you go to take them, he moves them out of reach with a playful glint in his eye.

“These are mine now.” he says, stuffing them into his pocket with a playful wink.

“You’re disgusting.” you retort, though there’s a hint of a smirk tugging at your lips.

He chuckles, buckling his belt back up. “And you love every second of it.”

He leans back against the copier, crossing his arms with a smug grin. “Now every time you use the copy machine, you'll remember getting fucked stupid by me." he wiggles his eyebrows playfully.

“Oh my god, get out.” you say, tapping his leg to get him to move so you can collect the papers.

He leans over and kisses your cheek before slipping out of the room and leaving you alone with your thoughts and his come slowly dripping down your thighs.

[velvetpucks]

come undone.

dr. robby x reader

⸻

The door slammed behind them like a final verdict. No words. Just heavy breaths and the lingering scent of trauma—burned flesh, old blood, antiseptic, loss. Her hospital badge clattered against the floor, lanyard snapped from her neck as she kicked off her shoes with a fury that felt nuclear.

He stood there in silence, watching her. Jaw tight. Chest heaving. His scrub top was splattered—trauma red, IV blue, something unholy brown on the hem. He hadn’t even washed up after they called it on the girl in trauma three.

Neither of them had.

He opened his mouth.

“Don’t,” she warned, her voice low. Raspy. Dangerous.

Then she was on him. Fist in his collar. Lips crashing into his like she wanted to devour him or break him or maybe both. It was teeth and tongue and heat. A kiss that wasn’t really a kiss—it was war.

Her back slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle a picture frame. Robby didn’t even register it. His hands were already up her sides, under her ruined scrub top, palming the warm, soft skin beneath like he’d die without it.

“I need you to fuck me,” she hissed against his mouth, biting his bottom lip until it bled. “Right fucking now.”

Robby groaned—deep, guttural—and lifted her into his arms without another word. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking them together as he stalked through the apartment toward the kitchen. It wasn’t graceful. It was unhinged.

He sat her down on the cold marble counter, not even bothering to sweep the unopened mail and leftover takeout to the side. She pulled his head down, kissing him again like she was angry—angry at him, at the world, at herself for not being able to save that kid.

And he gave it all right back.

Her scrub top was ripped in two. Literally. Robby’s hands tore the seams down the middle, exposing her to the warm glow of the kitchen light. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She never did on long call nights. He stared for just a moment—long enough for her to squirm.

“Robby,” she growled.

He leaned in, licked the sweat-slick valley between her breasts, bit her left nipple gently before sucking hard, eliciting a breathless gasp. Her hands clawed at his waistband. She got the drawstrings loose, shoved his pants down. His cock sprang free—thick, heavy, already leaking with need.

“Condom?” he panted.

“Drawer,” she choked out, nodding toward the kitchen island. “Hurry.”

He yanked it open like a man possessed. Fumbled. Found one. Tore it open with his teeth and sheathed himself in seconds.

She’d already shoved her scrub pants and underwear down her thighs, exposing glistening folds and the trembling heat of her arousal.

He groaned at the sight. “Fuck, you’re so wet.”

“For you,” she gasped. “Always.”

Then he was inside her.

One brutal thrust, and she cried out—loud, raw, head thrown back as her heels dug into his lower back.

He paused for a split second, lips brushing her jaw. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“If you stop, I’ll kill you.”

He didn’t stop.

He fucked her like he meant it. Like he needed to feel her clench around him to erase the sound of flatlines and screaming mothers. His hips snapped against hers, each thrust harder, deeper, rougher. The wet slap of skin against skin filled the space, along with her whimpers and moans—desperate, unrestrained.

She met every thrust with a roll of her hips, clinging to his shoulders like she was trying to crawl inside him. Her body arched into his touch, into the way his mouth moved down her neck, sucking bruises into her collarbone, marking her as his.

“You’re mine,” he growled.

“Yours,” she panted, nails dragging down his back hard enough to draw blood. “Only yours.”

The pressure was building—fast and dirty. She reached down between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing tight circles as he fucked into her relentlessly.

“God—Robby—I’m gonna—” she choked.

“Let go,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “Come for me, baby.”

She shattered.

Her whole body clenched around him, spasming as she cried out his name, head falling forward onto his shoulder. He followed seconds later with a strangled groan, spilling into the condom as he buried himself to the hilt, holding her tight as their bodies trembled together.

For a long moment, they just breathed. Sweat cooling. Arms wrapped around each other like they were the only two people left in the world.

Then he pulled out gently, knotted the condom and tossed it into the trash. She leaned back on her hands, hair wild, chest still rising and falling erratically.

“I ripped your scrubs,” he said softly, almost sheepish.

“I don’t care.”

He bent down and kissed her knee. Then her thigh. Then her lips—slow this time. Tender. Reverent.

“Let’s clean you up.”

He scooped her into his arms again and carried her to the bathroom. Set her down on the edge of the tub and ran warm water over a soft towel. She watched him in silence, something vulnerable flickering in her eyes as he knelt and wiped between her thighs, gentle as ever.

“Come here,” she whispered once he finished.

They crawled into bed. She curled into him, head on his chest, fingers tracing circles over the faint scar on his ribcage. One from a knife wound, months ago. He let her trace it in silence.

“I lost her,” she said finally. “The twelve-year-old.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“I—I thought we had her. I thought—”

“You did everything right.”

“No, I didn’t. I hesitated. Just for a second.”

“Hey.” He cupped her jaw, tilting her face to meet his. “You are the best trauma surgeon I’ve ever seen. You’re allowed to break. You’re allowed to grieve.”

She blinked, and tears slid down her cheeks.

He kissed them away.

“Even when I’m… like this?” she whispered. “Dark. Angry. Fucked up?”

He smiled, brushed her hair back. “Especially then. That’s when you’re real.”

She buried her face in his neck, clung to him like he was her anchor in the storm.

“I love you, Robby.”

“I love you more.”

They fell asleep like that—legs tangled, skin still warm from the afterglow, hearts beating in time.

And for the first time all week, she didn’t dream of trauma bays or monitors flatlining.

She dreamed of home.

Of him.

⸻

[daisyvisions]

Love is in The Air - (l.sy)

➺ Pairing - best man! Sangyeon x maid of honor fem! reader

➺ Summary - Your best friend’s getting married to the love of her life and you couldn’t be any more happy. Oh and did she mention her husband to be has a hot friend?

➺ Word Count - 1.5K

➺ Warnings - Smut (18+, minors DNI), best man!Sangyeon, stranger to lovers?, mutual feelings, some sexual tension, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, aftercare, Sangyeon is practically obsessed with you, clothed sex?, that’s all for now I think

➺ Author’s note - AFTER 5 MONTHS SINCE MY LAST FIC 😭 Inspired by a scene from Sex and the City S2E7. Wrote this draft back in November then work got hectic and my writer’s block was terrible. This is a late bday and farewell (RIP) fic for Sangyeon (entering my military wife era) , & for @aimeecarreros, you requested something for your bday last year and I know it’s not what you were asking for but I still hope you enjoy akjsndajnsd I miss writing for y’all I hope you enjoy 🥹 Proofread once.

➺ Taglist: @snowflakewhispers @winterchimez @deoboyznet

Thinking about best man!Sangyeon, who could not keep his eyes off you, the maid of honor, since the wedding proper. While the couple at the altar were saying their vows, his gaze towards you was like a magnet. There was just something about you that sparked his interest.

Was it because of how your hair framed your face so perfectly? Or was it the dress you were wearing? The one that accentuated your figure so well he was so tempted to sweep you off your feet then and there?

Either way, he was grateful to the heavens that Chanhee’s about-to-be-wife had a such a hot friend. After all, he’s just a man who can’t help but admire beautiful women like you.

During the wedding reception, he wasn’t expecting to have any interaction with you whatsoever since you might've been busy doing bridesmaid duties and he with his best man duties. But as he was taking a sip of whiskey by the bar your delicate finger tapped his shoulder.

As soon as he turned around he swore he felt his heart skip a beat. He’s never seen such beauty roam this earth, a literal goddess right in front of him. If he had his way he would’ve instantly gotten down on his knees and worshipped your bo-

“Hi, you’re Sangyeon right?” You ask him.

“Y-yeah. Yes I am.” He shakes the lewd thoughts of you immediately as he extends his hand to introduce himself.

“Nice to officially meet you.” He smiles as he grips your hand. You take an unnecessary mental note of how the firmness of his grip makes your stomach flip for a split second.

“So…” You clear your throat. “I was told by the wedding coordinator that we’re both in charge of fixing up the honeymoon suite for the newly weds. Would it be alright if you went with me?”

Sangyeon had never said a yes so fast in his life. He was practically putty in your hands and he barely even knows you. What the hell were you doing to him? He thinks to himself. Whatever it was, he never wants to get out of it.

As you both make it to the suite, you spot the prepared materials that the wedding coordinator had prepared on the console table.

“Alright!” You clap your hand together. “You prepare the bath essentials while I prepare the roses and candles?” You smile at him.

“S-sure.” He clears his throat. Sangyeon wasn’t sure at this point if it was the whiskey he drank earlier but he swears he noticed your eyes scan him from up to down, as if you were taking to memory how he looked (and not to mention the subtle lip bite you might've pulled before passing by him to get your materials from the table.)

A few minutes pass by and Sangyeon finishes setting everything that was needed in the bathroom, leaving him enough time to hopefully help you in placing the candles around the room. But as soon as he re-enters the bedroom he gets an eyeful of your gorgeous back and ass.

God that dress was really doing wonders on you and him, as he nearly felt his cock twitch in his pants.

“Need some help over there?” You turn your head as you hear his deep voice behind you.

“Almost done actually. Just this last bit and we should be finished here.” You turn back to scatter the remaining petals in your hands onto the bed.

“There. That should be it!” You place your hands on your hips as you inspect the view before you. “What do you think?” You turn around not knowing how close Sangyeon had gotten. You nearly let out a gasp, his presence catching you off guard in that moment.

“Just perfect.” He smiles and gazes into your eyes for a moment before looking down at your lips.

It must've been the atmosphere of the room and the wedding itself, but you suddenly find yourself making the first move and kissing Sangyeon. He wastes no time and pulls you by the waist, his strong hands gripping your body as he eagerly slips his tongue inside your mouth, making you moan with the way he moves the wet muscle against your own.

Your kisses become feverish and desperate. You've never been so turned on by a stranger before. Well… not much of a stranger now since you know his name and all. That counts right?

And before you know it, he's slowly getting you on the bed. His hands groping all your curves, kneading your ass as you hike your legs up and wrap them around his waist. Sangyeon’s hands impatiently push up your dress to reveal your lace panties. He lets out a low growl at the sight of them, the wet patch at the front spurring him on even further.

You gasp into the kiss as you feel his manhood press against your core, his plush lips kissing the column of your throat as his hand moves down to touch you. He circles your covered bud for a moment before ultimately pulling your panties down in one fell swoop.

The sound of his belt unbuckling makes you moan, you’re usually not one to fuck on a first date let alone a stranger. But ever since you saw him waiting outside the church earlier you couldn’t stop thinking about how ultra handsome he was. You told yourself wouldn’t mind hooking up with someone like him (whether he was an ass or not) because he was worth the fuck.

And now here you are, doing just that.

At this point you’re so wet his cock slides between your velvety walls easily, filling you up to the hilt as he wastes no time fucking you into the mattress. You know this is so wrong especially this is not your special day nor is this your suite. It’s your best friend and her husband’s for fucks sake!

But maid of honor duties be damned. You’ve been wanting to get dicked down for a while and now is the perfect chance to do so. Your best friend will understand.

“Sangyeon, you’re so big-” You moan into his ear as you hang on for dear life while he fucks himself into you, practically molding the shape of his cock between your walls. You think he’s some kind of magician, because how was he able to put you into a mating press, reach places inside you that you can’t even reach with your own fingers while making sure your dress and hair don’t get completely ruined?

"Fuck... you're so perfect." Sangyeon mutters under his breath as he rolls his hips, making sure you feel all of him with every thrust. "Where have you been all my life?" He slurs as his head is filled with nothing but lust and desire for you.

Sangyeon doesn’t stop groaning as he kisses every inch of your skin he can reach with his lips, not wanting this moment to end. Everything starts to become overwhelming for you to the point you don’t even realize you’re already reaching your high, seeing white as your walls tighten around his length.

As your wanton moans echo around the room as you hit your high, you pull on his hair tightly making Sangyeon press his face against your neck as he bursts inside you.

You could feel so much of him fill you up to the point its oozing out of your wet entrance because there’s no more space inside. God, it’s so much you feel as if you might get pregnant even if you’re on the pill.

To be honest, you thought he was just going to vanish after giving what you consider the best fuck of your life, but Sangyeon proved you wrong as he gives you probably one of the best aftercares you’ve experienced from a quickie. He made sure to clean you up good and fix your appearance first before his own, as if nothing happened at all. And to put the cherry on top, he even gives you a tender kiss as you leave the honeymoon suite.

You don’t speak as you both ride the elevator down to the reception, not knowing exactly what to say to each other. But Sangyeon breaks the ice as his deep voice rings in your ear.

“Hey so, there’s this arcade open 24/7 down the street.” He pauses. “Maybe if you’re up for it after the wedding we can go?” Sangyeon turns to you and intertwines his hand with yours, giving it a tender squeeze.

“I’d really like to get to know you more. Only if you want…” he smiles at you and you nearly melt on the spot. You tiptoe to give him a slight peck on his cheek, chuckling to yourself as you see him trying his best to hide the blush creeping up on his skin.

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot.”

[artemisiasmuse]

always known | CH.5

PAIRING: rafe cameron x fem! kook reader

CW: 18+ mdni, smut eventually, angst, mean rafe, jealousy, possessive rafe, kook typical classism (not from y/n tho), abusive family dynamics, not really canon/au, swearing, drinking, no coke tho, ward cameron

SUMMARY: rafe’s childhood best friend y/n returns to figure eight by herself and finds rafe hates her for some reason, their friendship has gone down the drain and they can hardly remain cordial, and there’s one thing causing all of it: why can’t rafe just move on?

TROPE: childhood best friends to enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 1.8k

MASTERLIST

< previous next >

you lean against his doorframe, his eyes already on you, as you say, “you’re gonna make me say it first aren’t you?”

“yeah i am.” rafe throws his phone to the side, bouncing off the bed slightly. he doesn’t care, he’s walking towards you. there’s no subtlety in his gaze, he’s drinking in the way you look in his clothes and you almost shiver at the unabashed staring. he lightly pushes the door shut, not that you even notice, your feet move towards him without much thought, his pull is hard to ignore much longer.

“fine, i like you rafe and not as a friend.” you’re nearly chest to chest when you say it, a grin is splitting your face and he doesn’t even know if he can stop smiling in your presence.

“fucking finally.” you hear it half a second before you’re tugged into him fully and his lips are on yours. there’s no doubt in your mind that rafe is the best kisser in the world and rafe thinks he might just die happy at the feeling of your soft lips against his. there’s a small large part of you that thinks he might just be made for you. even the way his tongue tentatively glides over your bottom lip is mind-shattering. you’re moving without much thought because if you think about it too much you might just melt into a puddle. there’s no fireworks like in the movies instead there’s an innate sense that this was almost what was going to happen. you were both fated for this. rafe can’t believe you taste so good, that you’re so pliant and sweet in his hold, even the cute little sounds you make, it’s a million times better than his imagination and those expectations were already through the roof. his heart is beating out of his chest, so rapidly he thinks he should just give it up to you. you pull back to breathe, a small whine of disappointment crawling up his throat, and his hands cup your face, gently framing your cheeks as you look up at him. there’s a salacious string of saliva connecting your lips before it snaps off, rafe mourns it a little. you decide rafe looks the best after he’s kissed you, flushed and breathing heavy with a smile on his swollen lips. your hands find the back of his neck, pulling him back down, this time he’ll let himself taste you properly.

you take your time figuring each other out, kissing until you need to catch your breath and eventually cuddling on his bed. you’re laying quite literally on top of him with your head propped up on his chest so you can take a good look at him. you both abandoned your perception of time until you both got hungry. begrudgingly he tears his eyes away from you and checks the time on his phone, it’s nearly 3pm.

when you both leave you’re unfortunately face to face with sarah in the kitchen who takes one look at your matching swollen lips. and then how his clothes are hanging off you and very astutely says “finally.” she pats rafe on the back in a silent congratulations. all you can do is laugh while rafe rolls his eyes.

“how long did sarah know?” rafe blushes and ignores your gaze, pointedly opening the fridge to look for food

“forever kinda.” he murmurs it and you don’t know if it’s possible but your cheeks might be sore from smiling tomorrow. he grabs the leftover chinese food from yesterday, popping it in the microwave for you both.

“forever?” he hears the excitement in your voice and he knows there’s no point in hiding it now. you felt the same or at least a little bit the same. as much as he recognizes how special kitchens have become for you two, he’d rather not have this particular conversation there. so he ignores you until you’re both back in his room and eating.

“seeing you back made me realize i still hadn’t gotten over you, i hated myself for it, and i knew you didn’t feel the same which only made me angrier. i was the idiot who couldn’t move on.” you blink away his self flagellation, he really had to stop doing that.

“you didn’t know anything then and you still don’t.” you kiss him again. rafe hums at the feeling, warmth spreading this whole body from the small press of your lips to his. you want to tell him everything but your emotions are all over the place, you need to figure them out yourself before you start talking.

“why’d we waste so much time?” rafe pulls you close after you’ve finished eating, you settle against him your back pressed against his chest. in his own way he’s confirming that you’ve felt the same for forever. you have.

“hmm i don’t know i kinda think if it wasn’t now it might not have worked. it would’ve been a disaster in middle school.” there’s no way you would have survived the distance and that fact may have ended your friendship.

“yeah fuck you’re right about that.” he presses a kiss to your head, the smell of your passion fruit shampoo makes him feel giddy. you’ve turned him into a sap in the span of hours. he dreads the moment you’ll have to leave his arms even if it’s hours away, even if it’s just to sleep.

“did you recognize me when you came back?” rafe asked, he’d seen you over the years, sarah showing him pictures that he desperately tried to forget. you kept getting more and more beautiful and he wasn’t there. you turned in his hold, his grip around your waist loosening as you faced him.

“of course, i’d know your face with my eyes closed.” a small finger traced the lines of his eyebrows, his lashes, the curve of his nose. you thought each piece of him was beautiful you felt so grateful for every line, every freckle, every single inch of his face. of him. rafe’s eyes fluttered closed at the gentle brush of your fingers, no one had ever touched him like this.

“i don’t know i thought maybe the hair-“ his voice came out hoarse, the lump in his throat from your adoring gaze was hard to ignore. his eyes met yours, your favorite part of him. your smile widened even more.

“i mean i never thought you’d look so hot with a buzzcut but yeah i knew it was you.” rafe groaned at your words, still adjusting to the way you could render him speechless with a few words. had you always been so flirty? he didn’t care as long as he was the only one on the receiving end. you giggled at his reaction, pleased that you could get him flustered. there was such a pretty pink flush to the tips of his ears.

“you didn’t seem phased.” rafe supposed you were too preoccupied with how mean he was to you then, you had barely reacted to his presence beyond the initial shock.

“im very skilled at talking to you rafe cameron, even now.” he loved how you said his name, the way there’s so much affection even in how you tease him. he wants this day to last forever.

“yeah you are, you’re the only one who knows me,” his arms tighten around you, as if he’s subconsciously trying to keep you closer. you’d never leave him again.

“that’s a shame, you know, you’re my favorite person in the world, other people should see how great you are.” he feels almost lightheaded from you words, you’d echoed the sentiment before. favorite person in the world. that would stick with him. he wouldn’t want for any other title in his entire life.

“they’d never believe you.” he prods your cheek with his finger.

“i managed to convince you, didn't i?”

“a little,” you’re wearing matching smiles, dopey and blissful.

“maybe it’s a good thing though… if more pretty blondes catch on i might just have to keep you to myself.” rafe decides he should make you jealous more often. that might be one of his favorite sides of you.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.” it’s like he knows the perfect set of words to fluster you.

“how come no guys approach me though?” there’s a fake pout to your lips and rafe rolls his eyes.

“do you really have to ask?” there’s a glint of something dark in his eyes, you feel silly for even wondering. since you’d been friends again it had gotten even worse, topper even hesitated to hug you.

“oh right! well your scary guard dog thing doesn’t work at school.” he huffs a laugh at how you phrase his almost unhealthy protectiveness before catching onto your last few words.

“you really shouldn’t have told me that baby.” his hand slides up and down the length of your thigh, resting on your hip and pulling you closer. your skin’s so soft and his fingers probe the plush of your thighs, unbelieving that he can do this freely. he’d only dreamt of it before. there’s a trail of heat when he touches, it’s a miracle you don’t shudder against him.

“oh fuck” you realize far too late the consequences of your words, but his don’t scare you as much as they should. “that’s okay though, i’ve been rejecting everyone since i came. now when i tell them i have a boyfriend it won’t be a lie!”

“boyfriend huh? i don’t remember asking,” your gaze snaps to his and narrows. there’s no malice to his words. he’s smirking down at you like he can’t help but tease you.

“oh please we’ve been practically married since diapers.”

“i wish that were true. boyfriend seems a little too simple for this.” rafe thinks that being married would be too simple for what you two had. there had to be another word for it.

“yeah you’re right, we’re far past that.” soulmates. no, that wasn’t right either, he didn’t like the notion that some other unknown thing brought you two together. he’d fight anything even if it was the universe to be by your side again and again.

“what’s your ring size?” husband and wife will have to do for now. he holds up your hand to compare it to his, it’s far smaller and his ring looks like it would be too big for even your thumb.

“rafe we’re too young! let me graduate first.” you swat his hand away, flustered by how quickly he’s gone past boyfriend, not that you’re really opposed. you know you should be, it should be too soon even if it doesn’t feel like it.

“did you just say yes?” he presses a kiss to your cheek, nudging you with his nose.

“no i said-“

“i’m taking it as a yes” you groan and squirm in his hold, suddenly feeling to hot in your future fiancée’s arms. he lets you go and you move forward to sit on your knees next to him, facing him fully. rafe’s staring at you like you put the sun in the sky, head lolled to the side lazily, with his gaze dripping with affection.

“okay whatever floats your boat bro.” you grumble like a middle schooler, you’re still hot but you think it’s just because rafe is looking at you like that.

“‘bro’, you’re fucking in for it now.” he scoffs at you before pulling you back into him by the hips and tickling you until you apologize

a/n: i don’t think i’ll ever be satisfied with this chapter (i’ve rewritten it twice) but that’s okay i guess T^T next chapter will be a lot longer they have a lot to talk through and a lot of catching up ;)) to do

taglist: @clar2aa @ggraycelynn @rafestoothbrush @woweewoowa @mattyskies @always4tuesdayss @ashy-kit @chalahyung01 @rafeysslut @beabogsims @someoneisreading @rlalliehayes @artbymin @pogueprincesa @crvcified-kinx @ltristessedureratoujours @lilithblackkk @pluviophilis @emmiesummers

[lilmisshellfireswritingblog]

Play With Fire - Johnny Storm x fem!Reader

Authors Note: Well, since we have officially been introduced to MCU Johnny Storm, here's a little one shot I wrote a month ago because I am absolutely feral for Johnny Storm. We don't know much about how he's going to be portrayed so, I used my imagination. I hope you enjoy!

PS: Smut is not my forte so I hope it's...satisfactory.

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, contains adult content, DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE NOT 18+, smut, lots of fire puns (I'm not sorry or maybe I am), lots of yapping

Pairings: Johnny Storm x fem!reader

Word Count: 6k+

The glimmering lights of the charity gala bathed the New York skyline in golden hues, casting long shadows on the sleek, chrome surfaces decorating the event. The décor was a striking blend of mid-century modern aesthetics—smooth, flowing lines, geometric shapes, and vibrant colors—reminiscent of a time when the future was just a few glamorous steps away and held a more optimistic approach. 

You didn’t want to be here but there you were, trapped in a sea of tuxedos and satin gowns, your father’s arm draped possessively over your shoulder like a shield. It had been his idea to bring you along, of course, a desperate attempt to put up a "family-first" front after the affair rumor hit the front pages of The New York Post a week ago.

You hated galas. You hated the small talk, the polite smiles, and the thinly veiled gossip that filled the air. You hated the way your father’s overbearing presence had turned the night into a performance, with you as the unwilling starlet.

“I’ll only be a minute,” your father whispered to you, his fingers tightening around your arm in that way that said, don’t move. “Keep a smile on your face. This is important. Our family needs this.”

You barely suppressed a groan, nodding stiffly before he was off, mingling with the city's elite. His eyes, always sharp, locked onto the wealthy faces around him, like a predator hunting for its next meal.

You took a deep breath, turning away from the throng of people, hoping for a moment of solitude. The jazz band played in the background, their smooth melodies swirling in the air. You found yourself in the back corner, near a large glass window overlooking the city.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure stepped into the room, a confident swagger to his stride. Johnny Storm, better known to the world as the Human Torch, was hard to miss. His sharp blue eyes gleamed, his blonde hair tousled just enough to look casually effortless. He was, of course, dressed to the nines—a sleek black suit that hugged his athletic frame and a white shirt that gleamed in the ambient evening lights.

You knew who he was. Everyone did. His exploits were plastered across every major newspaper and the tabloids couldn’t get enough of his charisma and charm. He was a man of fire, literally and figuratively, the kind of person who seemed born for attention.

There was something different about him tonight. No flames. No flashy heroics. Just Johnny, looking slightly out of place amidst the formality of the gala.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes when he caught sight of you and flashed a grin, as if he’d spotted an old friend. “Well, well,” he said with a teasing smirk, his voice warm with amusement. “What’s a beautiful woman like you hiding in the corner all by herself? You look like you could use some company.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Not really,” you replied, crossing your arms as you leaned against the glass. “I’d rather be anywhere but here, to be honest.”

Johnny’s grin faltered for a split second, then he chuckled. “Yeah, I get that. These things can be a pain. All the smiles and the handshakes and small talk.” He leaned against the wall next to you, hands in his pockets. “You’re not here for the free drinks, then?”

You shook your head. “My father dragged me here. He thinks it’ll fix... everything.” You waved vaguely toward the sea of tuxedos and gowns. “But you know how it is—people with money can’t stand to be seen as anything less than perfect.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said, his tone thoughtful, as he glanced around. “I get the pressure. I mean, being a public figure comes with a lot of... expectations.” He flashed a grin, a little wry. “You’d be surprised how many charity galas I’ve attended for reasons that had nothing to do with actual charity.”

You gave him a skeptical look. “You? I would’ve guessed you'd be more of a ‘save the day, destroy the bad guys’ type.”

Johnny laughed, his expression softening as he pushed off the wall and stepped a little closer. “That’s mostly me, but tonight… tonight I’m just Johnny. No fire. No superpowers. Just a guy who’s probably as uncomfortable as you are.” He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. “You know, I was thinking about ditching this whole thing and heading to a dive bar. Could be more fun. You in?”

Your lips twitched upward. “I’m supposed to be here for my father. This whole thing’s a mess.”

Johnny shrugged. “Tell you what then. When your father’s done playing the ‘perfect family’ game, I’ll swing by and whisk you away for some real fun. In the meantime, if you ever need a distraction, just holler for me, doll. I’m pretty good at getting people out of awkward situations.”

You met his gaze, amused and a little skeptical, but something about his laid-back confidence and easy charm made the idea tempting. "I'll keep that in mind," you said, your voice softer now.

Johnny’s eyes flickered over to the crowd for a moment, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re probably sick of being the center of attention,” he said quietly. “I get it. Sometimes you just need a break from all the... stuff.”

You gave a short, quiet laugh. “If only it were that easy.”

Johnny’s grin returned, this time a little softer, more genuine. “Well, if you need a superhero to make your night a little less superficial, you know where to find me.”

Before you could respond, he turned with a wink, slipping back into the crowd, disappearing into the sea of well-dressed faces.

You stayed where you were for a while longer, the sound of the gala and the distant jazz playing in the background. Johnny Storm, the Human Torch, was one of the last people you’d ever expect to feel any kind of kinship with, but for a few moments, he’d made you feel a little less trapped in the fake world your father had built around you.

And in a night full of forced smiles and shallow conversation, that small bit of genuine connection felt like a flicker of light in a sea of cold steel and polished chrome.

The gala was starting to wind down. The last glasses of champagne had been sipped, the tables cleared, and the final whispers of forced pleasantries echoed through the room. Yet, despite the event nearing its end, the energy hadn’t quite shifted. The jazz band had given way to a recorded track—a gritty, energetic tune that you instantly recognized.

"Play With Fire" by The Rolling Stones.

The heavy, seductive beat reverberated through the room, slinking through the air with a raw, untamed edge. It was unexpected. Unusual for a place that so carefully curated its atmosphere with smiles and good intentions. But there it was—one of the most rebellious songs of the time, now lacing the air, intoxicating and dangerous.

Somehow, as if it were fate, amidst the sea of tailored suits and glittering gowns, Johnny Storm appeared again, walking toward you like he had some kind of magnetic pull.

He flashed you a smile, his eyes gleaming under the cool, metallic lighting, his posture still effortless and relaxed despite the formality of the event. “Didn’t think they’d play this here,” he said, nodding toward the speakers, his voice amused. “I mean, talk about ruining the mood.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the deep growl of the guitar riff matching the beat of your heart. "Definitely not the kind of song you'd expect at a gala like this."

Johnny tilted his head slightly, the mischievous grin never leaving his face. “You know what? I’ve got an idea.” Without waiting for your response, he extended a hand toward you, a playful gleam in his eyes. “Dance with me.”

Your first instinct was to refuse. You weren’t in the mood for any more attention, and honestly, you didn’t dance. However, something about Johnny's easy confidence and charms, the casual way he dared you to step out of the perfectly controlled lines of this polished world, made you hesitate.

He wasn’t asking for anything extravagant, not some perfect ballroom spin or rehearsed routine. He was just... offering a moment.

For a heartbeat, you just stared at him. And then, as the chorus of “Play With Fire” blasted louder, you shrugged and took his hand. "Alright, Mr. Storm. Let’s see what you’ve got."

His grin spread even wider as he gently pulled you toward the center of the floor. The room seemed to narrow around you. Those who had been murmuring and sipping champagne suddenly halted as they took in the scene. 

But you didn’t care. Not now.

Johnny’s hand rested lightly on your waist, his other still holding yours as the two of you moved together. The pulse of the song matched your quickening heartbeat, and, for once, you didn’t mind the eyes on you.

The music seemed to speak to both of you, something unrestrained and reckless—something wild that had been suppressed by all the proper rules of society. Johnny’s movements were smooth, fluid, and effortless. He had the confidence of a man who knew exactly how to make the world bend to his will, and yet, somehow, his presence didn’t feel as overwhelming as you would assume.

You stepped in time with him, your own body moving with a freedom you hadn’t expected. The lyrics about temptation and fire seemed to mirror the electrifying pull between you. There was something present that was dangerous but exhilarating. Forbidden but impossible to resist.

You looked up at him, half in surprise, half in something else you couldn’t quite name. His eyes flickered back to you, almost searching, but not in a way that made you uncomfortable. No, it was more like he was giving you the space to decide just how far you'd go, how far you'd let this wild, reckless moment carry you.

“You know,” Johnny said as he guided you through a slow turn, his voice low, “they say if you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.”

You raised an eyebrow, the edges of your lips curling upward. "You know what they say about fire, right?" you teased, spinning under his arm. "It can warm you up just as easily as it can scorch you."

He gave you a roguish wink, pulling you close again as the song picked up speed. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

The world around you seemed to fade away as the music built in intensity. The room, the gala, the whispers—everything was irrelevant in that moment. All that existed was the two of you moving in sync to the rhythm, bodies close, the heat of his touch igniting a spark in you that you hadn’t expected.

The song surged toward its climax, the pounding drums pushing the beat faster, wilder. Johnny’s hand slipped lower to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and the space between you vanished entirely. You could feel the heat of him. His body was a living furnace against yours, the friction of his energy igniting something within you, something that had always been held in check by the carefully constructed life you’d been forced to live.

You danced like you were both on the edge of a cliff, teetering on the line between control and surrender. Johnny’s laugh was infectious as he spun you one last time, a wild, unrestrained sound that made you realize how much you’d been holding back all night. He twirled you back into his arms, the song roaring in your ears as you laughed. 

The moment lingered there, suspended in time. A brief but intense escape from the world you’d known.

When the final notes of "Play With Fire" echoed through the room, you stood there, breathless and laughing softly, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Well,” Johnny said, grinning down at you like a devil. “I think we’re both burned.”

You caught your breath, a little dizzy from the rush but you didn’t mind. “Yeah. Maybe. But it was worth it.”

He gave you a knowing look, eyes full of something that was both playful and... something more. He was the Human Torch, but in that moment, he wasn’t just fire. He was a spark that could have burned everything or lit a whole new path. 

And maybe, for the first time all night, you felt like you were standing on the edge of something that wasn’t entirely out of your control.

Johnny winked, lowering his head so his lips were resting at the crest of your ear, his voice just above a whisper. “Sometimes, the best part about playing with fire is the burn.”

You smiled, feeling the heat of it in every fiber of your being. You hadn’t expected to find anything real tonight, but then again, you hadn’t expected to dance with a superhero to this song either. It was dangerous. Reckless.

It felt like freedom. That was the best part of it all. 

The last notes of "Play With Fire" still echoed in your ears, even though the beat had long since faded, replaced by the hum of a million voices, all of them too eager to return to the business of looking perfect.

You had somehow ended up on the edge of the dance floor, your breath still uneven, your pulse racing from more than just the rhythm of the music. Johnny stood beside you, his smile more subdued now, a knowing glint in his eyes as if he understood that something in you had shifted—something you hadn’t expected to feel tonight. The dance had been reckless, free, but the moment you’d stepped back, the world around you had tried to pull you back into place.

His presence, however, still felt like a spark. An electricity you didn’t want to let go of. Not yet. 

“Well,” Johnny said, his voice quieter now, the earlier mischievous tone replaced with something a little softer. “That was fun.”

You shot him a look, half-amused, half-skeptical. “Fun? You could say that again.” Your laugh was a little more breathless than you intended, but you didn’t care. It felt good to be this... unfolded for once.

“You know,” he continued, stepping just a little closer, the heat of his body still too tempting, “the night doesn’t have to end here. There’s a spot… a little hidden place I go to when I need a break from all this.” He gestured toward the glittering ballroom, the clinking of glasses and forced chatter drifting in the background. “It’s up on the rooftop. Private. Quiet. I think you’d like it.”

You raised an eyebrow, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your stomach. Of course, Johnny Storm had a “private spot” for everything. He was, after all, the Human Torch—effortless, smooth, always in control. However, there was something about the way he said it, about the quiet invitation in his voice that made it hard to ignore. Maybe you did want to escape the fake smiles and phony pleasantries.

You glanced toward the entrance of the ballroom, where your father was still busy shaking hands with some benefactor from the event, lost in his world of polished deals. You hadn’t been looking forward to more of that tonight.

A part of you, the part that had spent so long just trying to keep things together, felt that pull. You needed to break free, even if just for a moment. And another part of you? The part that had danced with Johnny, felt his heat like an actual flare against your skin? That part wanted to see where this could go.

“Fuck it,” you said, your voice quieter than you expected. “Lead the way..”

Johnny’s grin returned, the familiar flash of confidence lighting up his face. Without another word, he took your hand, guiding you through the crowd with a smoothness that barely made anyone notice. His fingers curled gently around yours, warm, sure, the touch casual yet intentional. It was like he knew exactly how to move in this world—his world—while making it feel like it was all about you in that moment.

You followed him through a door to the back of the venue, into a dimly lit corridor that led to a discreet elevator. Johnny pressed the button without a word, his eyes briefly meeting yours. There was something unspoken between you two, something that felt like it had been building without either of you realizing it.

The elevator ride was quick, almost too quick, and when the doors slid open, you stepped out onto the rooftop.

The air hit you first, the cool night breeze sweeping through the garden, carrying the scent of the city mixed with something sweet and floral. It was a sharp contrast to the glossy, manufactured world of the gala below. Here, on the private rooftop, everything felt different. The towering buildings of Manhattan stretched in all directions, but above, it was quieter. More intimate.

Johnny led you through the garden, where lush greenery contrasted against the stark steel and glass of the city around you. The lights here were soft, golden, hidden beneath the plants, casting just enough light to make the space feel almost like a dream. The far-off hum of the city was muted here, and the distant skyline stretched like a canvas of muted lights.

“This is… nice,” you murmured, taking it all in. The silence, the peace, the fact that for a moment, you weren’t anywhere but right here with Johnny. No cameras, no whispers, no obligations.

“I come up here when I need a break from the chaos,” Johnny said, his voice quieter now, matching the serenity of the space. He stopped beside a stone bench, and you both stood for a moment, taking in the view together. “Sometimes it’s good to just… get away. I don’t know about you, but tonight felt like I needed to breathe.”

You nodded, feeling the truth of that. The gala had been suffocating in its own way. Full of too many expectations, too many eyes watching. Too much of your father’s mask.

Johnny leaned against the edge of a low wall, hands in his pockets, his body slightly turned toward you. His eyes, usually so full of energy and fire, seemed softer in the dim light of the rooftop garden. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come up here,” he admitted with a small smile. “Most people aren’t exactly keen on leaving the spotlight. But I like that you did.”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool, but the rush from the dance still lingered, making it hard to keep your calm exterior. “What can I say? I needed a change of scenery. I guess you could say you have a way of making people want to step out of their comfort zone. Besides, the spotlight isn’t my thing. Never was.”

He chuckled, and there was a genuine warmth to it. “I don’t know if it’s me, or just that sometimes you need someone who isn’t afraid to break the rules.”

You met his eyes again and for a moment, it felt like the world around you had gone still. The wind was the only thing moving, brushing through your hair and ruffling Johnny’s shirt just slightly. And yet, there was an electricity between you two, quiet but undeniable.

“You’re a rule breaker, huh?” you asked, your voice low and teasing.

Johnny’s smile turned a little more wicked, that familiar mischief lighting up his face again. “Maybe,” he said, pushing off from the wall and stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “Maybe it’s just that… sometimes the rules are there to be bent.”

He was close now, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the same heat that had burned so bright on the dance floor. His presence was magnetic, inescapable, and you had to fight the urge to step closer to him.

“Well, I think you’ve already set my night on fire,” you said, voice a little breathless.

Johnny didn’t say anything in response. Instead, he took another step closer, his hand gently brushing against yours. His touch was electric, like he was waiting for you to make the next move.

You could feel the tension building between you—every heartbeat, every breath. The city below, the skyline, and the quiet garden was all just background noise now.

“Maybe we should just let the night burn then,” Johnny said softly, his voice deep and seductive, like he was speaking just for you. 

You didn’t know what you were stepping into, but right then, under the stars with Johnny Storm, you didn’t need to. You let go of the last of your reservations.

And for the first time tonight, you let the fire take you.

Johnny was close, closer than you’d expected. His presence, that electric heat that never quite seemed to dissipate, was undeniable. His eyes were on you, dark and steady, but there was something different in them now. There was now something softer, more deliberate than the playful energy that had defined their banter earlier in the night.

You stood beside him, heart racing, mind whirling. The dance had been the first spark, the moment when something unexpected flickered between you. But now? The air felt thick with unspoken words, each one hanging in the space between you like a slow-burning fuse.

“You know,” Johnny said, his voice low and surprisingly serious, “I don’t come up here often with anyone. It’s usually just me and the stars, you know? The chaos gets too loud sometimes. But tonight… Tonight it feels different.”

Your heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t talking about the view or the quiet of the rooftop anymore. He was talking about you. Something about his tone, about the way his words wrapped around you, sent a shiver down your spine. The fire in him had shifted. The flippant hero, always surrounded by chaos and light, was now speaking softly, his words like an invitation, a promise.

“I get that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “This is nice. Peaceful. I could see why you wouldn’t want to share it.”

Johnny took a half-step closer, the space between you narrowing until his breath was warm on your face. His blue eyes—those beautiful stormy, electric eyes—searched yours like he was looking for permission, or maybe waiting for you to make the first move. The gravity between you was palpable, magnetic. Everything else faded into the background. All that mattered was the two of you standing there, in the heart of the rooftop garden, this space between chaos and quiet.

“Yeah,” Johnny said, his lips curving into a slow, unsteady smile. “I’ve been thinking... maybe I’m the kind of guy who can burn things down and fly, but I also know when it’s time to stop and just... feel. Not many people know that about me.”

His words wrapped around you like a firestorm, the heat of them sinking deep into your chest. It was too much and yet it was everything you’d been craving all night. No pretense. No walls. Just the raw pull of the moment, the intensity that was flaring between you two like a flame in the dark.

With no more hesitation, Johnny’s hand lifted, slow but sure, as though he was asking for permission even now. His fingers brushed against your cheek, warm and light, his touch like a spark against your skin. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, the touch so intimate that it made your breath hitch.

“You don’t have to worry,” he murmured, his voice low, just for you. “I won’t burn you.”

You swallowed, your own breath a little shaky. Something wild had taken hold of you, some primal urge that told you not to hold back. You stepped into him, closing the last of the distance between you.

“I’m not afraid of getting burned,” you said, your voice a little hoarse. 

Johnny’s eyes flickered with something hot, something unrestrained. And then, without another word, he pulled you toward him, his lips crashing into yours with a hunger that matched the fire he carried inside. The kiss was everything you’d imagined and more urgent, intense, full of heat, yet strangely soft. His lips were warm, the taste of him a mixture of whiskey and something electric, something undeniably him.

His hands slid to your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. You could feel the warmth of him. His body. His energy. It surged through you like a live wire. You kissed him back, your own hands rising to tangle in his hair, feeling the wild heat of his touch consume you, like he was setting a fire inside you that you didn’t know how to extinguish.

For a moment, there was nothing but the heat of the kiss, the steady rhythm of your heartbeats echoing through your chest. The world had fallen away. There were no rumors, no expectations, no father or gala or fake smiles. There was only the two of you, locked in this perfect, intoxicating moment, a kiss that felt like it could burn down the whole city and leave nothing but the ashes.

When you pulled back, just for a breath, Johnny’s eyes were darker than before, smoldering with something that went deeper than the fire he controlled. His chest rose and fell with each breath, but he didn’t step away. Instead, his forehead leaned against yours, and he whispered your name, like it was a secret he’d been dying to share.

You couldn’t help but smile, your fingers still tangled in his hair, your chest pressed against his. There was a quiet calm in you now, something that had been absent the entire night. Something that told you, even with all the fire and heat, maybe this was just the beginning.

“Maybe you’re more than just fire, Johnny Storm,” you whispered back. “Maybe you’re something a little softer. Less dangerous than you put on. Fire can be beautiful too. It’s not always destructive.”

Johnny’s laugh was low, his lips brushing against yours in a quick, gentle kiss before he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. “Maybe,” he said, voice teasing but tender, “but I still have a few flames left to share.”

As the night stretched on, with the soft breeze swirling around you and the city still pulsing below, you knew one thing for certain: there was no going back. Not after this. Not after the fire had burned so bright between you.

You weren’t sure you even wanted to go back.

The city lights below flickered like a sea of stars, but up there on the rooftop, the night felt different. The soft hum of the wind moving through the plants, all of it was a contrast to the tension crackling between you and Johnny. The kiss you’d shared earlier hadn’t been enough—it was only the beginning of something more. Something you couldn’t quite control.

You needed more. 

Johnny stood close to you. Too close. But you didn’t want him to step back. His scent lingered in the air around you, a mix of the fresh outdoors and something smoky, something undeniably him. His eyes, dark and electric, never left yours, and every beat of your heart seemed to echo between you. His lips were slightly parted, his breath shallow, like he was waiting for you to make the next move.

“Don’t look at me like that, baby,” Johnny says breathlessly. “You’re playing with fire.”

You felt a thrill run through you at the words. Everything about him. From his cocky grin, the edge of danger in his voice, the way his body practically hummed with heat… He was irresistible. You tilted your head slightly, daring him with a soft smile.

“I think you’re the one who started the fire, Johnny,” you said, your voice low, teasing. It wasn’t a challenge, not exactly, but it felt like one all the same. Something between the two of you had shifted and now there was no going back.

Johnny took a step closer, his heat radiating off him like a furnace. You could feel the air between you thickening, crackling with an energy you hadn’t known you craved until now. His hand reached for you, slow and deliberate, but he didn’t touch you just yet. Instead, his fingers hovered near your waist, the slightest of touches, making you ache for more.

“You sure you can handle it?” Johnny murmured, his voice almost playful, but there was an underlying intensity in his words.

You swallowed, your pulse racing. “You’re the one who’s burning up,” you whispered, taking a small step forward, closing the last bit of distance between you.

Your pulse quickens at Johnny's bold words, your  breath catching in her throat. You look up at him through hooded lashes, your heart racing in anticipation. 

“Is that a promise or a threat?” you ask, you voice barely above a whisper. With a sudden burst of courage, you wrap your arms around Johnny's neck, pulling him flush against your body. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, mingling with the cool night air. 

“Because either way, I'm willing to take the risk,” you confess, your lips hovering tantalizingly close to his. You close the final distance, pressing your  mouth to Johnny's in a searing kiss. Your tongue darts out, teasing the seam of his lips before delving inside to tangle with his.

Johnny groans into the kiss, his arms snaking around your waist to pull her tighter against him. He returns your passion with equal fervor, his tongue dancing with yours in a sensual duel. The taste of you is intoxicating, and he drinks it greedily, lost in the heady rush of desire. Breaking the kiss, Johnny trails his lips down your neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin. He lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses your back against the cold stone wall. The hard planes of his body molded perfectly against your body. Johnny grinds his hips into yours, letting you feel the evidence of his arousal.

“Tell me you want this,” Johnny said breathlessly, his intense gaze on you.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders as he pins you against the wall. The rough texture of the stone contrasts sharply with the heat of Johnny's body, making you acutely aware of every point of contact.

“Yes, God yes,” you moan, your hips bucking against his in a desperate bid for friction. “I want this. Burn me alive, Mr. Storm.”

Your words are punctuated by a series of urgent kisses, your mouth seeking out Johnny's with a hunger that borders on desperation. Your hands roam over his chest, feeling the defined muscles beneath his suit. You want to tear the fabric away, to expose the man beneath and claim him as your own.

“That's the spirit,” Johnny praises, his voice thick with lust. He captures your lips again, devouring you with a primal intensity that leaves you breathless and wanting more. His hands roam freely over your curves, squeezing and kneading the supple flesh. Johnny slips a hand beneath your skirt, his fingers tracing the lace of your panties before pushing them aside to delve into your slick heat. Johnny groans, his thumb finding your clit and starts rubbing it in slow, tortuous circles. “You're so wet for me already. I can't wait to taste you.” 

With a swift motion, Johnny rips open your dress, the fabric ripping with ease. He palms your bare breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they pebble under his touch. 

“You're perfect,” he rasps, leaning in to capture a pert bud between his teeth.

You cry out, you back arching as Johnny teases your sensitive nipples. The sensation of his hot mouth on your skin sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core, making you throb around his invading fingers. “Oh fuck, Johnny!” you gasp, your hips grinding wildly against his hand. “Don't stop, please…” 

Lost in the haze of desire, you fumble with the fastenings of Johnny's trousers, desperate to free his straining erection. You need to feel him. All of him. As if reading your mind, Johnny relieves you of the task, swiftly shedding his pants and underwear. His cock springs free, thick and pulsing with need. You wrap your hand around it, stroking the velvety length with reverence.

A hoarse cry tears from your throat as Johnny thrusts inside you completely, stretching your inner walls to their limit. The sudden intrusion triggers a wave of intense pleasure that courses through your veins, leaving you trembling and breathless.

“Johnny... oh god, yes!” you moan, your nails digging into his shoulders as you adjust to his size. You start to roll your hips, experimenting with the delicious friction as Johnny remains still inside you. The sensation of his hot, hard length nestled deep within your core is almost overwhelming, stoking the flames of your desire to new heights. Impatient to move, you clench your inner muscles around Johnny's cock, urging him to start thrusting. “Please, Johnny,” you beg, your voice husky with need.

Johnny's restraint snaps at your pleading and he begins to move, setting a relentless pace that has you crying out in ecstasy. Each powerful thrust drives him deeper, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing through the night air. 

“You're so damn tight,” Johnny growls, his eyes locked on your face as he watches you come undone beneath him. “I can feel every inch of you milking my cock. It’s driving me crazy.”

He leans down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss, swallowing your moans as he pounds into you with increasing ferocity. The rooftop garden blurs around them, replaced by a world consisting solely of heat, hunger, and the primal urge to claim and be claimed. Johnny breaks the kiss to trail his mouth down your neck, biting and sucking at the delicate skin. 

“Come for me, baby,” Johnny mutters into your neck, panting as he kept up with his relenting pace. “Come for me.”

The combination of his rough treatment and the unrelenting rhythm of his thrusts pushes you closer to the edge. Your inner walls begin to flutter and clench, signaling your impending climax. You wrap your legs tightly around Johnny's waist, locking your ankles behind his back to draw him impossibly deeper. 

“Johnny, I'm gonna—!” you scream as the first waves of an orgasm crash over you, your pussy spasming wildly around his pistoning cock. The intense pleasure is almost too much to bear, sending you hurtling into a maelstrom of bliss. Through the haze of your release, you feel Johnny's movements become erratic, his thrusts growing shorter and more urgent.

Johnny's grip on you tightens as he feels your pussy convulsing around him, milking his cock for all it's worth. The sensation of your clenching walls and the sound of your ragged breathing spur him on, driving him to new heights of pleasure.

“That's it, baby, squeeze my cock,”  Johnny grunts, his hips snapping forward in short, brutal strokes. “You're mine, all mine.” 

With a final, guttural roar, Johnny buries himself to the hilt and erupts, painting your insides with his hot seed. Wave after wave of intense pleasure crashes over him, his vision blurring as he loses himself in the sheer ecstasy of the moment. As the aftershocks subside, Johnny collapses against you, his weight pinning you against the wall.

Breathless and sated, you cradle Johnny's face in your hands, gazing up at him with adoring eyes. 

“That was... incredible,” you whisper, your voice trembling with residual pleasure. You run your fingers through his hair, marveling at the way his heated skin seems to glow in the moonlight. The intimacy of the moment, coupled with the lingering effects of their passion, leaves you feeling vulnerable yet deeply connected to Johnny. “I've never felt anything like that before,” you confess, your cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and wonder.

Johnny's chest rises and falls heavily as he tries to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. He's still buried inside you, their bodies intimately entwined. The sensation of your warmth wrapped around him is almost too much to bear.

“You're something else,” Johnny murmurs, his voice low and husky. “I knew from the moment I saw you that you were trouble, but fuck, I wouldn't trade this for anything.” 

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes, and sees the same awe and vulnerability reflected back at him. It's a moment of raw honesty, stripped of pretenses and societal expectations. Johnny brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle compared to the fierce passion they just shared.

Your heart swells at Johnny's words, your soul feeling as if it's been set ablaze by the intensity of their connection. You reach up to frame his face, your thumbs stroking his cheekbones as you search his gaze. 

“It was a good reprieve from all the formalities,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. Your fingers trace the contours of his jawline, marveling at both the strength and unexplored tenderness etched into his features.

Johnny nods, a small, enigmatic smile playing on his lips. 

“Yeah, definitely a nice distraction from all the pomp and circumstance,” he leans in, capturing your mouth in a tender, exploratory kiss. It's a stark contrast to the passionate frenzy that preceded it, but no less potent in its own way. When Johnny finally breaks apart, he rests his forehead against yours once more, his breath mingling with yours. “I should probably get you back downstairs before anyone misses you.”  

Despite the practicality of the situation, neither you nor Johnny make a move to disengage. The moment stretches on, heavy with unspoken promises and the knowledge that their lives will soon return to their usual trajectories.

You sigh softly, the sound caught between your  lips as you reluctantly pull away from Johnny's embrace. The sudden chill of the night air against your overheated skin is a jarring reminder of the world beyond this hidden alcove.

“Yes, we should…” Your voice trails off as you gaze up at him, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow across his face. There's a bittersweet quality to the moment, a sense of longing for something that may never come to be. “But what if I don’t want to?” 

Johnny's eyes flash with a hint of mischief at your words, a devilish grin spreading across his face. 

“Then we stay up here all night and let the world keep spinning without us.”

[eclipseberrycake]

The Finer Things (Dandy x Reader)

AN: A request :DDD I'll be honest I've kinda been painting Dandy as the lowkey villain in my MoonBerryCake fics and yk what? He's actually morally gray in my world :) So this is super exciting nfog

☁ A fic? By Roo? That's not MBC? I know. Crazy. I love it though.

☁ So, Dandy is an interesting character because the fandom seems very split on how they view him. For example, one half views him as just this fun toon guy who happens to be the main character and sells you things while the other half thinks he's literally the Devil.

☁...From the bible. /ref

☁ Anyway. If you read my The world behind the Frames or whatever I named it, (No pressure I swear!) Dandy was the first infected in my world.

☁ That's because my personal headcanon is that because he was the first toon made, he was much easier to infect and Patient Zero to a degree. The difference between him and the other twisteds is that he found a way to control. To make the twisted ichor bend to his will.

☁ Hence the tapes. He needs them. He, like Sprout and Teagan, can harness the magical element the tapes wield and redirect them. While the other two use it for healing, he uses it to kind of keep the beast at bay until he deems it necessary to come out.

☁ Which he's sure you've clued into by now.

☁ You're a regular survivalist toon. Not quite remarkable by any means, but you're always the first at his counter and the last to leave it before he goes.

☁ You offer him a smile every time he pops up, even if he knows the things on his table are sub-optimal.

☁ But that's not what strikes Dandy. No.

☁ Without fail, you buy something every single time he's there.

☁ Even if it's something like those silly gumballs, you're handing over the tapes happily even if your prize is quickly discarded. He's sure for a second you know.

☁You know that he's the monster that started this all and are simply trying to appease him. If that's the case, it's working. Even while prepping to pop up through the elevator he finds himself smiling, fluffing the pillows in front of him at the thought of seeing your shiny face.

☁ Or...Alternatively, there's some other reason. Some other reason that has you coming back, over and over again, that Teacup's trinket clipped to your neckline. He wonders if you have it for no other reason than to always have the tapes needed to buy something from him.

☁ He's unsure and can't make heads or tails of it, truly.

☁ So when he pops up, and you're there he waits until the others are grumbling their disappoint to strike up a conversation. He needs to know. What makes you tick. What's your agenda here? Are you hoping to get under his skin? To learn the secrets of this place? Is that it? Or are you simply a naive, terrified toon, all too aware of what happens when he gets...testy? Is this all a method of self-preservation.

☁ You pick up a can of pop, already rooting through your wallet for the needed tapes, even if he can see two other cans of pops on your person, which makes him raise a brow.

☁ "Planning on playing distractor?" He smooths over his facial features with the smooth line, making you almost startle at the question. Your fuzzy cheeks flush as you laugh uncomfortably at the question.

☁ So maybe you are scared of him.

☁ "Oh, no, i could never. I'm not built for that sort of thing, really." You avoid looking at him as you slid the pop into your bag.

☁ "Then why waste the tapes? Who knows what may come up in the future?" He needs to know. Absolutely needs to. It itches under his petals and pulls at his tail, which whips behind him. The question makes you flush further, if possible, you're hands now moving to fiddle in front of you.

☁ "I see how you appreciate the tapes. I'm not really an extractor or distractor nor do I have any remarkable powers." You were able to teleport a few feet in front of you, like that mirror; unlike him however, you didn't need to target a toon, but the distance you went was much, much shorter. He had analyzed this quite extensively. "But seeing your reaction to get the tapes? It's nice to...To help someone at least."

☁ Then you smile. You smile at him like he's worthy of such an action.

☁ It makes him stagger for a second as his time rings up, the elevator pulling him down as he watches you turn to the elevator entrance.

☁ Huh. You did it...for him? Dandicus? What an odd toon you were.

☁ The next time he pops up is an entirely new run. The last one was cut short as the distractor got injured and they had gotten what they needed anyway.

☁ You were on this run as well, making him grin. "If it isn't one of my most loyal customers? How are you?"

☁ "I'm okay. Yourself?" You grab at the bar of chocolate he has laid out, already passing over the tapes before he's holding out a hand.

☁ Before he can even stop himself, he's reaching grabbing an entire box of chocolates and passing it over. "No additional charge." He winks, making your cheeks give that pretty flush once again.

☁ By the time your stammering over both thanks and refusals, he's sinking back beneath the floor and looking at the few tapes in his hand. That box was worth at least 80 tapes and he got maybe twenty.

☁ But in the same vein, it was for you. And it was most likely a one off, so who's to really care anyway.

☁ That's what he tells himself anyway, going about dragging the mystic energy from the tapes to ease the urge to shift.

☁ It was not a one off.

☁ Not by a long shot.

☁ Every time he saw you he just wanted to better you're experience! He couldn't save you the experience entirely, but he could ease the burden on you as much as possible.

☁ When you were injured, sure the others got bandages, but you? A medkit was slipped your way even as you tried refusing it. It could go to one of the healers after all! Or so you would say.

☁ He'd roll his eyes and wave off said healers, Sprout shooting him a glare as he worked on healing one of the distractors (wink wink nudge nudge).

☁ You were far more worthy in Dandy's humble, correct opinion.

☁ When he noticed you were fatigued and exhausted, the others would get cans of pop and maybe a chocolate bar while he had bottles ready for you and boxes of all sorts of candy.

☁ Again, you would try to refuse, exhausting the point that Astro couldn't save your distractor every time but honestly, your distractor should be better prepared at this point anyway.

☁ Bobette wasn't even that scary in his opinon.

☁ He wouldn't charge you anything for them either. Even if it stung along his flesh, whenever asked, he'd shake his head and refuse adamantly.

☁ Only for you to throw them down the chute anyway when he was too far to throw them back. Like the sneaky minx you were.

☁ It made his heart absolutely hum.

☁ It's a shame the others were catching onto this habit of his, truly. Sending him sharp glares every time he pulled a magic item out of wherever he kept them.

☁ The first one to say anything, surprisingly enough, or not based on circumstances, was Vee. She had stomped up to his counter, practically fuming as he gave her a bored look. How dare she interrupt his miniscule time with you?

☁ "Dude, our healers are at their wits end and our distractors on the verge of turning. What the hell?!" She screeched, robotic voice ringing just a bit.

☁ He scoffed at her, even if he kept the smile on his face. "I don't know what you're talking about."

☁ "You can't be serious." Sprout seethed from behind her, his own tapes drained as he cradled the cake roll to his chest. "You've been giving heals to your little partner there this entire time! What about the person who's been protecting them, huh?" His head jutted to where Astro was sitting on the ground, the distractor he's seen practically attached to the hip with any three of them in his lap, heaving and stained black with ichor.

☁ Dandy shrugged. "Better luck next time."

☁ You were quickly stammering an assortment of refusals of being his partner and truly 'the gifts didn't mean anything!', saying you'd be more than happy to share. The thought made Dandy shoot you a sharp look, making you swallow your next words.

☁ "Oh, my dear rose, those toons aren't worthy, I assure you." He waves off their shouts once more, giving you a sacchrine grin. "I do hope to see you soon. Maybe then we can have a talk about you're denseness."

☁ Those were the final words he said as he descending, grinning to himself at the chaos unleashed above.

☁ Oh, you sweet thing. Soon you'd figure it out. Even if your naivety was half your charm.