#these two can’t keep their hands to themselves

[bitchlessdino]

ProRider (m)

Pairing: Boo Seungkwan x f!reader Genre: humor, smut Word count: 4.6k rating: R tags: MDNI, open ending, mentions food, cruiser!seungkwan, ride attendant!reader, open ending, face riding, thigh grinding, exhibitionism, nipple teasing Summary: Anywhere there’s a FlowRider, you can just about ride any big or small artificial waves safely for any size rider, but there’s nothing artificial about the waves Seungkwan is trying to make with the cute attendant at one of these rides. Just how big of a wave is he going to make? Will he prove himself a pro? And will someone discover themselves to be a pro rider? Author Note: Thank you @camandemstudios for another amazing collab. shorter form fic lets gooooo. posting mostlyedited and will fix in post. sorry in advance for any mistakes. its been a long few months

Working the FlowRider booth was usually easy, and don’t get it wrong, it really was. All the cruises you’ve worked have made it easier since they were so accommodating, despite the lack of vacation days, but maybe you’ve been at sea for too long because all the cruisers on this cruise feel more annoying than the last.

Or maybe just one in particular.

“Hey. You're here again today. You following me or something?”

The young, admittedly handsome man looked toward you with charmingly turned-up lips as he leaned against the railing. You returned with disinterest, glazing over his figure attempting to stand before you aloof and carefree, but he couldn’t look more like he was trying hard. “Nope. I just work here, and you keep coming back.”

As he has done the last two days since the cruise began.

“I’m just joshing!” He grinned, swatting a playful hand. “Of course I know that. How can I forget such a beautiful ride attendant?”

“Don’t you have anything better to do?”

He pretended to think. “No, we’re still at a sea day, and…I’m looking at the most interesting thing on the boat.”

“Zipline is right there.”

He chuckled. “I’m not just talking about the FlowRider ride.”

This wasn’t the first time you’ve been hit on, but this one was persistent. You were grateful it wasn’t some old geezer trying to get sleazy with someone when his wife wasn’t looking, but that didn’t mean you were abandoning your post for some pretty face and sweet words. The crew took their job seriously here, and if anyone was caught doing otherwise, they’d next claim ‘the hole,’ aka the worst cabin crew lodging in the entire ship. It was deprived of windows, air conditioning, and good lighting; had bedding with the integral structure of cardboard; and rumors say someone died in there because they were locked inside and forgotten.

Then again, it was just a tall tale. No one actually believed that to be true, but you weren’t taking any chances. 

You gave him a deadpan expression. “Are you going to go on the ride today, or are you going to stand here and throw lame pickup lines at me again?”

He playfully pouted. “Why can’t I do both?”

You rolled your eyes. “Have at it then.”

His eyes lit up, charging to approach, doing pushups on the railing he’s leaning on. “Been waiting for you to say that all day—”

“The ride!” you clarified. “Your turn is up next.”

His gaze didn’t falter, unironically saluting you with two fingers. “I won’t be long, beautiful.”

He snatched a board that was conveniently within reach and ascended the stairs at the ride's summit, his focus intensely fixed on you even as your attention was directed elsewhere. Your gaze landed on another familiar face, his friend, who often accompanied him, seeing him display an apologetic smile. 

You matched his expression, feeling a mutual sentiment towards him. “You here again too, Chan?”

He gave a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Seungkwan kinda dragged me when Hansol ran off. I only wanted to try it out the first time; I didn’t know he’d make this a regular thing. Sorry.”

You shook your head reassuringly. “It’s fine, but why do you let him do this?”

“...He chipped in for my entry. I’m indebted to him.”

Acknowledging the overextended favor, you gave the unfortunate kid a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, your gaze following his friend's clumsy takeoff and subsequent tumble on the amusement ride.

”I’m okay!” he said before a stream blasted in his face as he lifted himself off the board. 

It wasn't one, wasn’t two, wasn’t three times, but six times that day he attempted to conquer the ride in that single day, and to much avail, nothing seemed to work. Embarrassing was putting it lightly.

"I swear I'm athletic!" echoed above the crashing water, his pleading gaze fixed on an observer standing nearby.

"Don't you gotta eat? Other people wanna ride this ride, you know—" 

Not registering–or rather ignoring–your chiding, the drowning resurfaced, water streaming from his hair, a wide grin plastered across his face. "And I get to the back of the line after every failed attempt, just like everyone else. Don't you worry about me, gorgeous!" His playful retorted, winking.

"Right…you have to take a break sometime." Suengkwan wouldn't admit it, but you knew the sheer physical exertion of his repeated attempts was surely taking its toll.

Yet the challenge wasn't just the wave; it seemed to involve proving his prowess to the cute attendant his eyes were sent on. The young man responded with exaggerated offense, clutching his chest. "And allow you to think I'm incapable of staying on a little board? No way!" 

"The ride is gonna end soon anyway,” you warned.

His excitement faltered, and the tension in his shoulders eased. A hint of disappointment flickered across his features, but the underlying enthusiasm remained. "Oh, well… I guess I can come back again tomorrow."

You shut your eyes, as if you were expecting that response, yet need to brace for impact. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

For three days, he’d come to see you, and all those days he’d failed to succeed the flow rider, but of course, there was no need to stop it there. Undeterred, Seungkwan would come even on disembarkment days, pestering you for another two days for almost every shift.

Until the cruise docked in the country everyone seemed most excited for, including Seungkwan. During all hours of that day, he didn’t see you at your shift. You should’ve been relieved, thanking whatever higher being for sparing you one day of his nuisance. You’ve had to mentally prepare every day to face his cheesy words and cocky smiles; this time, you were shown some mercy.

But weirdly, you missed it. Missed him. He had become so consistent this cruise, he felt like a natural routine. You didn’t think a cruiser could affect you that way, let alone one that used your work position as an advantage to hit on you.

Yet, the sweltering heat of the summer sun paired with the seemingly infinite night skies scented by salty ocean breeze made for a potent combination.

“Oh, hi…”

After the end of your shift, just a hair before dusk, you came up the elevator from your lodgings, heading in the direction of the pool before a familiar face appeared on a floor to the way up. His eyes widened in shock in your appearance, a hint of a smile on his face at your sudden appearance before it vanished as his gaze caressed your scantily clad body.

His silence earned your narrowed gaze, knowing very well the source of rare occurrence for one’s mouth who has talked non stop the moment you first locked eyes. “...stop staring.”

He jolted back to his senses, as if broken from a trance. “Sorry. Uh. Heading off to the pool?”

“Yeah. Got a good hour and a half left before it closes and with the big show tonight it should be mostly empty.” You briefly swept your gaze over his well groomed appearance. “You…clean up nice.”

A corner of his lips jerked up in a smile before he dusted imaginary dust off his suit jacket. “Finally noticed, hmm?”

“Where are you supposed to be? That doesn’t really look like buffet attire.”

“Me and my group booked dinner at a specialty restaurant; we just finished up. But just to be clear, I always look this nice. Maybe you just don’t like my wet and sexy look. That’s fine.” He took in your soft chuckle, savoring the laugh he was finally able to elicit from you. “Did you have dinner?”

You nodded, your voice lighter and less dry than expected. “I grabbed something at the buffet and wanted to take a last dip in the pool before it closes for the night.”

“Sounds like you have it all planned out…and all by yourself?”

You shrugged, internally surprised you were able to maintain a conversation with the man without warning him about safety measures and scolding him for repeatedly rejoining the FlowRider line with several tens of kids more than half his age that have waited patiently. “Usually. Nice change of pace from having to look over people several hours of the day with almost no breaks.”

“I know it's a long shot, but would you be opposed to me joining you then?”

You opened your mouth the spew the routine rejection you’re used to giving, but scanning over his groomed, fitted appearance, you held your tongue. Instead, you clicked your tongue in thought, meeting his hopeful eyes with a curious gaze. Shrugging, You came to a decision. “Sure, why not?”

He blinked, taken aback. “Wait, really?”

“Do you want me to say no?”

“No!” he exclaimed a tad too loudly. “I mean—no, nothing like that. It’s just,” you watched his ears turn a bright red, and a timidly meek air overtook his presence, “I just didn’t expect you to agree.”

“Well, you’ve certainly tried hard to get my attention, and albeit it was during work hours—the worst time to do it—you’re not…hard to look at. I’ll give you that.”

His lips curled up into a small, but transparent, grin.“So, I’m joining you in the pool?”

You nodded with a resigned sigh. “Yes, Seungkwan.”

“Y-you know my name.”

“I’ve seen and heard you enough times to remember it. You leave quite the impression.”

He doesn’t know whether to take it as a compliment, but decides to anyway. “Oh��mmh, thank you.”

“…So you gonna get changed or will you be swimming in your formal wear?”

“Come with me!” He tugged you with him and surprisingly you obliged, following him all the way to his room. “Wait here, please.”

He disappeared behind his cabin, leaving you alone with your thoughts, second guessing if this decision was such a good idea with all things considered. You even thought of ditching him in the midst of waiting, going back on your offer. But before you can put that idea into action, Seungkwan reappeared with a new appearance, ditching his dress shirt and slacks for a pair of mid-length trucks, a beach towel, and the skin on his body.

Your eyes shot open just briefly before regaining composure, quietly taking in his fit, toned physique. Your breath had gotten caught in your throat before you exhaled quietly through your nose, drawing the outline of his figure internally. You crossed your arms, putting weight on one side of your body, eyes washing over him in disbelief, and something else you hadn’t realized was there before. “You had a body like that under a rash guard?”

Blood rushed to his cheeks as he held his folded towel to his chest. “It was UV protective.”

“You know they offer free towels on the deck. You just have to return it at the end of the day.”

He clutched the towel tighter. “I-I’m aware.”

You softly scoffed, grinning at his bashful disposition you’ve only recently been acquainted with tonight, and you took his hand, warm and clammy in yours. “Come on, FlowRider boy.”

You had hoped it wouldn't be too crowded, and if luck would have it someone answered your prayers. The expansive pool deck lay mostly deserted, with only a handful of individuals scattered like colorful specks near the far end, their laughter a faint echo against the water's surface. A mischievous spark ignited in your eyes as a plan turned the gears in your head. You turned to him, a devious, playful smile spreading across your face.

“Hey, why don’t you go ahead get comfortable, I just need to grab a towel.”

He nodded with a smile. “Sure.”

Returning with a clean towel over your forearm, you come back to the sight of his bare back, muscles flexing as he propped his elbows on the edge of the pool as he soaked his lower back half. You licked your lips, feeling a growl hum in your throat the longer you stared, suddenly hot at the thought of seeing this man in compromising positions you wouldn’t otherwise think about if you hadn’t run into him tonight.

“Temperature good?”

He turned his head back towards you, beaming at you for not ditching him like he thought you would. “You’re back. Yeah, it’s real cool in here… So what did you eat for dinner?”

“Just your typical buffet food. Nothing extraordinary… but tonight I think I found something that looked extra…delicious.” You let your gaze linger on his toned form as he swam back towards you, water glistening on his skin as he rested his elbows on the pool’s ridged edge.

“Glad to hear it.” He grinned, unintentionally flexing, letting the ridges of his muscles play with shadows companied with dimmed lights. “I saved you a spot.” He gestured to the lounge chair.

“What a gentleman.” You sat, your gaze following his every movement as he ran laps in the water, each stroke revealing the sculpted lines of his back and shoulders. The way his wet hair fell across his forehead looked especially tantalizing under the dusk sky.

He stopped at the edge of the pool, shaking the water from his hair like a wet dog, sending droplets your way. “What would you be doing if you weren’t here with me?” You pondered.

He grabbed a towel, the terry cloth momentarily obscuring his view before he lowered it to his neck.

“Well, there was a musical, but I’ve already seen a previous showing. I would’ve just been there to study.”

You mused at his answer. “Study?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m a musical actor.” 

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Hmm, wouldn’t have thought.” 

He beamed, clearly pleased by your reaction. "I would invite you to one of my shows back home, but realistically, what are the chances of our paths crossing again, even if I'm on another cruise?"

You shrugged with a slight smirk. “You never know.”

He leaned in a little, earnesty coating his eyes. "Even though my job involves a lot of acting and putting on a show, I really had to rack up the nerve to approach you.”

You let out a soft scoff. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Just doing what I do best,” he shrugged, with a cheeky grin. “Front like my life depends on it, but I have to admit it was pretty fun finding ways to hit on you. At some point, I started believing in my confidence.”

“You’re an interesting person, Seungkwan.”

A soft hue of pink flushed his cheeks. “I try to be. So, what made you want to work a ride on the cruise?”

“Money, curiosity, a love for travel. Thought this was one of the best ways to start getting my sea legs because I much rather than than on a plane.”

“Fear of heights?”

You shook your head with a frown stained with disdain. “Fear of passenger bullshit. At least on the boat, it’s so big you can avoid them, unlike on a plane. It doesn't require as much effort compared to becoming a flight attendant.”

He chuckled at your honesty. “Was that initially the goal?”

“Not really, I always felt drawn to water. Deep down, I probably knew one day I’d work around it.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

His grin stretched from one beautifully high cheek bone to the other. “Beautiful and profound. Can you be any more amazing?”

You broke out in a laugh. “Shut up”

“I mean it. It’s nice to hear what’s on your mind instead of guessing whether you hate me or not.”

You rolled your eyes, a hint of a smile on your lips. “I don’t hate you.”

“You don’t like me either,” He pointed out lightly.

You shook your head, a sincere smile melting on your face. “If I didn’t like you, you wouldn’t be talking to me during my off hours right now.”

His eyebrows jumped, curiosity bringing his eyes to life. “So you’re saying I have a chance?”

“Whatever makes your showtuney heart happy.”

He daydreamed mid-conversation. “I’m already imagining how many kids we’ll have and the name of our dog. Do you mind ‘Mr. Flufferton’?”

"You are unbelievable," you finally breathed, gazes locked, neither willing to break the connection, a strange mixture of disbelief and something akin to reluctant admiration fogging your vision. The moment stretched, the very air around them seemed to vibrate with a lingering tension Seungkwan almost failed to notice. 

"I'm heading to the hot tub," you announced, abruptly breaking the spell and severing of the intense connection that had held you both captive.

“What about the pool?” The confusion was clouded by his intrigue as he finds himself pushing out of the water.

A soft smile played on your lips as you turned slightly towards him. "Suddenly, I want a bit more…relaxing setting. Wanna join me?" 

His head snapped up, a flicker of surprise and something akin to hope dancing in his eyes. A blush crept up his neck as he nearly slipped on the wet ground as he approached, the unexpected offer clearly catching him off guard. "Y-yes," he stammered, his voice a touch higher than normal as he scrambled to gather his discarded towel and scattered belongings, baring a tremor of anticipation.

You rose gracefully from the lounge chair, the lingering scent of ozone and exertion clinging to your skin. Without waiting for a verbal confirmation beyond his initial agreement, you turned and began to walk towards the quieter side of the pool area as he trailed after you, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure.

You led him towards a secluded spa area, a haven of warmth and soothing jets hidden away in a bed of of still water. Your eyes instinctively scanned the familiar layout, locking onto the discreet blind spot near the far corner – a little well-known spot known to staff that wanted their privacy. A knowing smile touched your lips as you gestured towards it. "Come."

Reaching the control panel, you activate the spa mode. The gentle hum of the jets intensified, and the water began to churn, releasing a cloud of steam into the tranquil air and a welcoming bed of bubbles. You dipped a tentative toe into the welcoming warmth before sliding in completely, the swirling bubbles immediately enveloping your feet and legs, only parts of you not submerged being your chest and up as you settled against one of the molded seats.

Seungkwan hesitated, his eyes darting around the open space before reluctantly stepping into the warm water. He chose a seat on the opposite end, maintaining a respectful distance, his gaze fixed on the swirling water in front of him, carefully averting his eyes as if unsure where else to look. Anywhere but your wet, near-naked body.

“Isn’t this nice?”

Seungkwan tried to enjoy the warmth, he really did, but you just a mere few feet away from him gave him labored breaths. “It is.”

"Why are you sitting so far?" You grinned.

He shifted hesitantly. "I thought it’d be what you wanted. Should I move closer?" He asked already timidly preparing to do so.

Your aloof response was subtly laden with interest. "If that’s what you’re comfortable with." 

“…then, I’ll work my way up towards it.”

His nerves settled as he heard your soft laughter, albeit aimed at him; it was delightful nonetheless. "You’re a lot shyer than I thought you’d be”,” you softly admitted, “It’s cute." 

He broke out in a smile before he cleared his throat to respond. “I was acting like I knew what I was doing, remember? I’m kind of losing my shit over here being the same water as you.”

A low chuckle rumbled in your chest as you watched his reaction. "Maybe that's exactly what I'm into," you repeated, your voice a husky murmur that seemed to hang in the humid air. The amusement dancing in your eyes accompanied by the almost predatory stillness of your body.

“W-What?”

Without breaking eye contact, you began to close the small distance, every step deliberate, approaching him. You noticed the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edge of the seat, the almost imperceptible bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed hard. A small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corner of your lips.

You paused, gaze sweeping over him with leisurely appraisal. "Bubbles look cute on you," you finally said, your voice a low purr.

“They are?” His question came out more breathless than anticipated, his heart steadily beating faster every passing second.

You took another slow step, the cool water now just inches from his legs. Your eyes continued their deliberate exploration, lingering for a moment on the flush creeping up his neck. You deliberately bit your bottom lip, "Really cute," you confirmed, your voice dropping even lower. "Just like how you're acting right now." 

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face before he finally managed to ask, his voice still a little shaky, "Are you usually this forward?"

You chuckled, inching even closer that he flinched, feeling both your feet make contact in the water, while it didn’t faze you in the slightest. “Are you normally this timid? What happened to the guy reading me pickup lines that he probably found on the Internet?”

He softly scoffed, turning his head to reveal his ears. “It was easier when you were blowing me off…I knew what to expect.”

“And what?” Your torso resurfaced from the water to corner him, “Now I make you flustered?”

He let out a shattered breath, shutting his eyes. “No. You make me heated. Putting all kinds of thoughts in my head.”

“Oh. FlowRider Boy has some fire, hmm…?” You straddled his lap, feeling the tension of his thighs underneath yours. You threw your arms around his neck, pulling yourself towards him so that he had no choice but to hold you in place. “It’s kinda hot. Maybe I do like the wet look on you.” 

He holds your gaze for a moment, lips parted in pure disbelief. “...Fuck.” 

“Wow…Your thighs are just as hard as the rest of you, but maybe not as hard as this,” you said, giggling as you brushed against his growing arousal.

He threw his head back. “You’re killing me.”

“Oh, yeah. What else do I do to you?”

“If I start listing it all out now…who knows how much time I’ll have left with you.”

“If you do a good job…I’ll let you decide that for me.”

His eyes shot open as an aroused gasp escaped his lips before it melted into a moan as you closed the distance and pressed yourself against him. His cock, harder than he’s ever experienced, flat against your stomach. “Oh fu…”

“Do you know how good you look right now underneath me?” You teased, slowly moving your hips, getting wet with something that the jacuzzi couldn’t offer.

“Not as good as you look grinding on me right now.”

You let out a soft hum, tips of your noses grazing against each other. “I really want to kiss you right now.”

He visibly swallowed. “Y-you read my mind.”

You splayed one last smirk before smashing your lips against his, arching into him as his hands found your hips. You swallowed his whimpers before they were replaced with grunts, his fingers digging into your flesh with such hunger that you had hardly the time to process it. You shifted in his lap, flattening against him closer as an arm draped over his shoulder while a hand had your digits run through his hair.

“How is this happening?” he mumbled against your lips.

“I told you. You looked cute in bubbles.”

“I might actually pass out. Please pinch me.”

You chuckled before your fingers grazed over his chest, doing what he asked as you rolled a stiff peak tight between your fingertips. His mouth dropped in a soft moan as he sent an accusatory look at you. “You—“

“You never said pinch you where.”

He let out a soft moan as you tightened your pinch. “That was the last place I thought you’d do it.”

“Well, are you going to do anything about it?” you challenged.

His gaze drifted over your chest, your nipples poking through your swimsuit deliciously as water droplets adorned your skin. He met your gaze once more, finding a flirtatious anticipation in your eyes before he took the plunge. His full palm gripped around your breast in a spiteful squeeze, and you shuddered against him. His thumb teased the outline of a nipple, while he softly panted from the excitement of his own actions. A tingling sensation burned his busy hand, while the other lowered to your ass before he claimed the flesh of its weight.

You softly moaned against his lips, breaking out in a smile and letting it collide with his mouth, tasting the festering hunger inside him as his tongue more freely explored you. “Mmh, I didn’t think riling you up would be so fun.”

He snickered lightly, maintaining his gaze, “Keep touching me and I’ll show you how much more fun I can be.”

You felt a flutter in your stomach and heat pooling between your legs. “Your room. Take me there. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

With a swift, almost unconscious movement, he lifted you, your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist in an instant. The realization hit them both at the same moment as you locked eyes. His arms, strong and sure, held you aloft, and for a heartbeat, time seemed to pause. He found himself momentarily stunned, not just by the sudden intimacy, but by the sheer naturalness of the gesture and perhaps the heartbeating in your chest in tandem with him, leaving you for once speechless. 

A blush warmed his cheeks as the implications of your position dawned on him. “I…should probably put you down,” he stammered with a hesitant uncertainty, and suddenly all he could think about was the ship’s surveillance cameras. The weight of you in his arms felt strangely right, yet the awareness of their surroundings forced him to act against his animalistic desires.

“Unfortunately.”

He sets you on your feet before taking your hand and guiding you gingerly back to his room. The moment that door closed, it was free rein. You jumped back in his embrace, anchoring your legs around his torso as he was forced to push against the door to keep you in place.

“Finally,” he softly breathed before colliding with your lips again, wholeheartedly kissing you with every sane breath he had left.

“What do you want to do, baby? I’m all ears.”

He felt shivers at your sudden pet name. “I want you to do what you did in the hot tub, but on my face.”

You were taken back, suprised he came up with the idea, and lightning struck your spine at the thought. “That is the sexiest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

You pushed him on his back, letting your hand crawl up his wet, flustered skin as you prowled toward him, ravenous hunger in your gaze. You crawled over him, looming over his figure as clear anticipation heated up in his eyes, stealing his breath.

“How much have you thought about this?”

He smiles, panting from the adrenaline rush. “Enough to have the neighbors recall your name by my voice alone.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” You hovered your groin over him, watching his eyes follow the path of your molten heat, dripping pool water on his cheeks.

You raked your fingers through his hair, tugging from the roots as you angled his face up, his gaze glistening his anticipation as he traced over his lips with his tongue. The second you felt his lips, you could melt right there on top of him. Moans replaced your once dry responses, while Seungkwan weak filiratious advances was traded in for hungry fervor, satiated by your taste.

Seungkwan may not have mastered the FlowRider, but it seems someone was able to master him.

[tzatzikii]

DON’T KISS AND TELL /yelena belova/

synopsis — your father throws a party, for the avengers. yelena is brought as natasha’s plus one, and can’t keep her hands off of you, her secret girlfriend.

cw — minors dni, established relationship, secret dating, alcohol, making out, light teasing, clit stimulation, eating out, tasting cum.

yelena belova x fem!stark!reader | 1.4k | masterlist

The party was dull. Most of the guests were influential people, just a very boring crowd. Thought when you noticed her, her hair slicked back, a tuxedo hugging her body, you knew the party was bound to be more interesting.

You met Yelena a while ago, sometimes Natasha would bring her around the Tower and you also hung around there a lot, with your father being Tony Stark and all. It was one of those times you got to speak with her and knew instantly you wanted more. More of Yelena and more out of this relationship. It was stupid, but the two of you hid. Sneaking around like children, not telling anyone and pretending there was nothing between you and Yelena. There wasn’t any specific circumstance that didn’t allow this, you just feared what your father will say about you dating, not only a woman, but an ex-assassin.

The party was going well, you shared a couple smiles and glances, even got to say hello at the bar, pretending to be almost strangers. The moment there was wine in Yelena’s hand you knew this wouldn’t last for long. Her hands seemed to get sticky, but only when it came to you. In her light haze she’d seek you out, her hand briefly meeting your body. Your thighs and ass, occasionally your hand. When she pulled her arm around your waist you had to put and end to it.

„Hallway, now.” You gritted through your teeth, as you dragged her out of the party. Now you were in the no-party zone, the hallway leading to the Avengers bedrooms. Yelena’s movement was fast, she waisted no moment to push you into the wall and kiss you tenderly.

„Mm— Someone will see…” You huffed out between the kisses.

„I do not care.” A sly grin creeped onto Yelena’s face, before she locked her lips with your again, the sweet taste of wine in both of your mouths mixing.

Her hand travelled over your body, her touch firm and needy. They rested on your ass for a moment before prompting you up. Your legs wrapped around her, as she carried you to your room. Yelena placed you on your back on the bed. You laid still, watching as she took off her tuxedo. The muscle of her arms were flexing with some of the movements and driving you insane.

Now in her underwear, she was hovering over you with a smile on her face. A giggle escaped your lips as she attacked your neck with kisses.

„You know…” She purred into your ear. „As beautiful as that dress is, I will have to take it off.” Her lips sucked on your sensitive flesh, as you gasped and whimpered.

Her hands moved onto your shoulders and gently guided the straps of your dress down. Goosebumps erupted all over your arms, making her smirk. Yelena slid the dress down your body and got back to touching you all over. Her fingers traced shapes on your sides as she kissed, going down from the jaw to neck to your boobs. Your nipples were hard, from the exposure to the cooler air and her touch. She took one of them into her mouth, gently sucking and kissing them, her green eyes watching every twitch of your face.

„Someone’s enjoying themselves.” Yelena chuckled before moving onto your other boob to do the same.

Your hands buried into her blonde hair, your fingers intertwined with her locks, as you gently pulled on them.

„We don’t have time.” You breathed out, the touch was making your core throb, and as much as you enjoyed this, there was the big dooming possibility of someone looking for either of you.

„Okay, okay.” She rolled her eyes as she lowered herself and spread your legs.

Her fingers caressed your inner thighs. One of her hand continued as the other moved to tease your clit, through your panties. The movement so little made you pant soon. Yelena watched amused.

„C-Come on.” You huffed, your chest rising up and down quickly. „You can’t, uh, torture me forever”

„Can’t I?” She furrowed her brows and began to lick your inner thighs, every now and then her mouth sucking on them lightly.

She moved closer to your panties just to back up again, the material so wet it was clearly visible. Yelena gloated in her good work for a moment, before she finally gave into your pleads and took your panties off. Her tongue started slow, first messing with the clit, then she teased your entry for a while, before finally digging into you.

Her tongue explored your inside, as you gasped and moaned, still trying to keep it down, in hopes the party doesn’t end sooner. Her fingers found your clit and what started as slow, gentle move, soon turned into a rougher, faster one. You grabbed the sheets, your muscles tensed under her touch, as you begged for more with your moans. Yelena’s touch brought you over the edge, ever muscle relaxed, as she continued to eat your cum. She moved back up, looking at you, your face was flushed as you panted.

„See? We got away with it.” She raised her brow playfully, as she admired your face.

She loved your face, each feature complementing the other so perfectly. What drove her crazy was the look on your face you had when you came. Maybe it was the panting, maybe the blush on your cheeks, whatever it was, she was so ready for round two. A smile creeped up on her face as she kissed you, her tongue slipping in between your lips, as you tasted your own cum.

„We gotta get back there.” You whispered, as if anyone could hear or see you.

„I know, I know…” Yelena grunted, she found it exciting, being all secretive. The worst part was this, not being able to spend time properly at events like this together. A knock on the door made the both of you jump up and share a glance.

„Y-Yeah?” You cleared your throat.

„Y/N, have you seen Yelena?” Tony’s voice spoke from behind the door and your eyes opened wide as you looked at Yelena, still in her underwear.

„N-No… No.”

„Okay. Well, if you do. Natasha is looking for her.”

„Okay.”

Yelena and you listened to his footsteps as he walked away. You released a breath you didn’t know you were holding and watched Yelena get dressed. You also put your clothes back on and made sure it was all clear for you to go.

„You know, we should do it more often in your room, it is fun!”

„Shut up!” You chuckled in response as you walked with her back to the party. You stopped right before the door giving her a deep kiss and watched her walk off towards Natasha.

[chanelgrll]

Um hi your asking for writing prompts for Killer Chat right? Could I possibly ask for Ronin helping the reader as they breakdown (ie: crying and curling into themselves due to an overwhelming amount of stress.) Only if you're comfortable with writing it of course! Thank you very much for reading this and I hope that you have a wonderful day/night.

A/N: of course!!!

The walls around you were closing in, your screen swam in a haze of half-finished sentences and blinking deadlines, the words bleeding into each other like spilled ink. The cursor blinked in rhythm with your panic. You sat on your chair with your leg bouncing and your hands trembled over the keyboard, and your vision grew wet and tight. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until a tear hit the corner of your laptop. All your work was piling up to the point where it was too much for you to bear. Deadlines, expectations, it was all too much. You tried to swallow it all down: the pressure, the deadlines, the feeling that everything you touched was splintering under your fingers. You tried to get up out of your chair, stumbling to a corner in a desperate attempt to run away from the stress. The air felt too thick, your lungs useless. You reached the corner of the room like it was a lifeboat, sinking into it with your back pressed to the wall, hands gripping the sides of your head. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but curl tighter into yourself, shaking, sobbing, breaking down in a way you hadn’t let yourself do in years. Every crack you had covered with control was wide open now, and all the fear, all the shame, all the exhaustion poured out like a flood you couldn’t hold back. Everything was blurring, your head feeling heavy, and then you felt it. Two hands grasping your shoulders and the muffled voice of someone familiar. “Hey… hey. Look at me.” Ronin. You blinked hard, vision struggling to focus. His face swam into view slowly, the sharp lines of it blurred by your tears. His burgundy hair was tousled, his brow furrowed in concern, not a trace of his usual cocky grin in sight. He crouched in front of you, thumbs brushing over your upper arms as he held you like you might disappear if he let go. “Breathe, darling,” he said gently, voice low and rough around the edges. “Just breathe. In. Out. You’re okay. You’re right here with me.”

You shook your head, tears still falling. “I can’t… I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. I’ve got you.” His hands moved to cup your face, thumbs swiping your cheeks. His gaze held yours with a startling kind of focus, not like he was studying you, but like he was anchoring you. Like he was holding you in place with just his eyes and his voice. “You're safe. You’re not alone.”

Your chest hitched with a sob, but you tried. In. Out. The air scraped your lungs, but it came. He breathed with you, slow and steady, like your heartbeat could sync to his if you stayed close enough. “Look at me, sweetheart,” he murmured. “You’ve survived worse. I know you have.”

Your fingers gripped the sleeves of his jacket, clinging like he was the only thing keeping you from slipping under. You didn’t know how long you sat there, seconds, minutes, maybe more with him whispering soft reassurances and holding you like the world could wait while you fell apart. Eventually, your sobs quieted into hiccupped breaths. The weight on your chest didn’t lift, not fully, but it became something lighter.

“I… I didn’t know it’d get this bad,” you whispered hoarsely. Ronin brushed a damp strand of hair from your face, eyes searching

“You’ve been holding too much for too long. Thought I wouldn’t notice?”

You let out a broken laugh, small and tired. “You’re not exactly the emotional support type.”

He arched a brow at that. “Don’t ruin the moment, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious,” you mumbled.

“So am I,” he said softly, gaze gentle. “If you break, I break. That’s how this works.”

You swallowed thickly, throat aching. “I don’t want to fall apart in front of you.”

“Tough luck,” he murmured, pulling you gently into his arms. “You’re already in pieces. Might as well let me help you hold them.” And in that moment, pressed against his chest with your world still shaking, you let yourself believe him, and that you didn’t have to carry this alone anymore, not with him here.

Eventually, the storm passed. Not all at once, but your breath came easier, your hands stopped shaking, the tears dried where they’d fallen against Ronin’s shirt, leaving damp marks he didn’t seem to notice... or maybe didn’t care to. He didn’t rush you and just stayed there, arms still around you, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum against your cheek.

“I should be working,” you whispered after a while, voice barely audible. Ronin huffed a breath, like disbelief. “Yeah? And I should be at the church stabbing a priest. Guess we’re both slacking tonight.” You let out a quiet sound, somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and leaned heavier into him. “You’re not going back to that screen tonight,” he said firmly, voice like warm gravel. “It’ll still be there tomorrow. Right now, you need something that isn’t tearing you apart.” He stood slowly, careful not to jostle you, then held a hand out. “Come on. Let’s get you off the floor before I start looking like the nurturing boyfriend type. Gotta maintain my reputation. I'll make you some tea” You took his hand, fingers curling into his without thinking. He helped you up with an ease that made you feel light, even when you knew you weren’t. You blinked up at him. “You know how to make tea?” You asked shocked. He shot you a look. “I know how to pour hot water into a cup, thank you. I’m not completely uncultured.” You watched him move around your shared kitchen. He grabbed your favorite mug from the top shelf, dropped a teabag in, and filled it with water that wasn’t quite boiling but close enough to be comforting. Then he rummaged for honey, found it, and stirred in just the right amount, not too sweet, but enough to soften the edge.

He handed it to you with both hands, fingers brushing yours. “Sip. Slowly. I’m not above babying you right now.” You took the mug, the warmth grounding in your palms, and raised an eyebrow. “I think you like babying me.” He grinned, all teeth and no apology. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re just fun when you’re helpless.” You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched at the corners. The warmth of the tea crept through your chest like light through frostbitten windows.

He guided you to the couch next, pulling a blanket from the back and draping it over your shoulders like it was second nature. He pulled you into his side, letting you lean on him. Your head rested against his shoulder. His fingers skimmed your arm in absent circles, soothing. “I hate that you had to see me like that,” you mumbled eventually, staring into your tea. Ronin made a sound low in his throat. “And I hate that you think falling apart is something you need to hide from me.” You stayed quiet. He nudged your temple with his chin. “You think I’d love you less for being human?” he asked. You blinked. The word hit harder than expected. You set the mug down on the coffee table with trembling hands.

He turned his head toward you. “What?” You kissed him, and when he kissed you back, it wasn’t like the usual Ronin that was all sharp teeth and ego. It was softer, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into the shape of your mouth. When you pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“No more breaking down alone, okay?” he whispered.

“Okay,” you breathed. He brushed his thumb under your eye again, catching a last stray tear. “I mean it. Next time, you call me. Don't think that I'm ever too busy to love you.” He held you tighter, planting a kiss on your forehead, and before you knew it, you were falling into dreamland.

[thebunnednun]

Just Like Me

It's funny how Karma works, isn't it?

Pairing: Post War! Enji Todoroki x Student! Gn! Reader

Warnings: Angst, therapy, past actions, family issues. reader struggling to express themselves, punching a kid, crying, venting, negative self, You know the drill.

wc: 4480k

Guidance Counselor Enji Todoroki should have been fired years ago.

Not because he’s bad at his job—okay, well, maybe a little—but because he has no damn clue how to extend empathy to others. He doesn’t hate it.

He just… doesn’t get it.

He’s contemplating retirement anyway. He only does this part-time now, but when resources are stretched thin and UA calls him in for full-time work, he gets saddled with a new case file. He flips it open, skims the details, barely pays attention—until he meets you.

And that’s when he realizes he’s met his match.

You’re odd.

That’s the nicest way he can put it.

Not weird, not eccentric—just… off, in a way that makes him think you were meant for someone like Yamada or Hound Dog. The moment he calls your name in the waiting room, you’re all smiles.

Cheerful. Too damn polite.

And by the time he closes the office door behind you, you’re already in tears.

Yeah. 

He’s fucked.

Enji is emotionally constipated on a good day, and lately, his life has been a whirlwind of stress. His pending divorce, the mess with his family—why on earth did they think he was the right choice for a student who could power a damn water park with their tears alone?

You rival that green haired kid his son keeps around, and that’s saying something.

At first, he thought it was allergies. Or maybe a quirk malfunction. Nope. Turns out, you’re just one of those kids. The ones who hold it together for everyone else and leave nothing for themselves.

‘Great.’

He’s gone to Nezu at least a dozen times, trying to get you pawned off on another counselor. But with budget cuts and so many heroes on medical leave, UA can’t afford to reassign you.

So here he is, ten minutes before your next session, tweaking out.

His coffee hasn’t had a chance to cool once. There’s a deep, permanent indent in his office carpet where he’s been pacing. He dwarfs you easily, and he knows that bothers you, which makes everything worse.

Enji doesn’t know what to do.

He sighs, rubs his temples, and finally stands up, deciding to just get it over with. But when he steps outside to call you in, he stops.

Because there you are.

Standing in the hallway with another student, one he doesn’t recognize, holding their hand, comforting them while another counselor stands nearby. And he just… watches.

You’re encouraging. Honest. Not soft, but gentle.

You don’t sugarcoat things, but you don’t crush them either. Your words are careful, measured, meant to help. Then, you give them a small hug before passing them off to the counselor, who immediately takes the shaking student into their arms.

And then, you smile.

Not just any smile—a real one. The kind that makes it clear you mean it when you tell them,

"You don’t have to forgive yourself right now. Someone else already does. And they know you can do this."

Enji watches, something settling deep in his chest. 

For the first time since this assignment landed in his lap, he thinks he finally knows what to talk to you about.

Enji exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, before calling your name. You look up, snapping out of whatever quiet conversation you were having in your own head, and meet his gaze. He tilts his head toward his office.

“Come on.”

You don’t greet him. You never do.

As the two of you walk down the hall, he watches—because that’s what he’s good at, watching, analyzing, taking in the details most people don’t notice. He notices the way your eyes flit over everything.

The boxes stacked unevenly on the walls, the dust motes floating in the harsh fluorescent light, the way the floor tiles shift ever so slightly under each step.

Most students drag their feet. You don’t. You step lightly but with purpose. Like someone who’s used to walking quietly.

Something else sticks out today: No bookbag.

That’s new. You always have it with you, always weighed down with something, even if it’s just there as an extra weight on your shoulders. But today, all you’ve got is your phone, clutched loosely in your hand, screen dark.

Interesting.

Enji pulls the door open for you, stepping aside as you shuffle in. You move to your usual chair, farther from his desk, angled just slightly toward the window. He wonders if you do that consciously.

He shuts the door behind him, settles into his chair, and gets right into it.

Your grades are good.

Your record—until recently—was squeaky clean.

So when he flips through the file again, landing on the incident report, he barely stops his eyebrows from shooting up.

You—you—stood up, walked across the room in the middle of class, and punched another student straight in the face.

No warning. No yelling. No hesitation.

Just a clean hit, enough to break their nose and leave them gushing blood all over their desk.

Enji feels his fingers tighten around the page as he stares at the details. The kid had to be taken to Recovery Girl, and judging by the picture attached, it was a damn solid punch. His mouth twitches, the closest he’s come to an actual expression in days.

A little impressive, honestly. 

But he shouldn’t be thinking that.

He clears his throat and lifts his eyes to you, already noting how you’ve curled in slightly. He’s been doing this long enough to recognize embarrassment when he sees it.

“You don’t feel bad.” 

It’s not a question. He’s stating it.

You shift in your seat, fingers tapping against your phone case before you finally nod. 

“No.”

He waits. You’re usually slow to elaborate, so he’s patient.

“It’s not like he was bullying me,” you admit after a moment, voice quieter. “Or even my friends. I mean, I don’t… have that many people close to me. But he wouldn’t shut up. Just running his mouth about everyone and everything.”

A picture forms in his head. A student, loud and brash. He thinks of a certain little blonde brat with an explosive quirk and an even more explosive attitude.

“So you hit him?”

Your fingers tighten around your phone, thumb dragging over the corner of the case. 

“I don’t know why exactly,” you say, and the honesty in it surprises him. You look up at him then, face open, raw, unguarded in a way he hasn’t seen before. “I know what I felt, but…”

You pause, exhale. 

“I just got up. Walked over. And did it.”

Enji leans back slightly, studying you. You’re not smirking about it, not reveling in the damage. But you’re not crying over it either. You’re stuck in the in-between, somewhere between, ‘Why did I do that?’ and, ‘I don’t regret it.’

He looks down at the report again. The bruising, the fracture, the sheer force behind it.

He sighs, rubs a rough hand over his eyes, and finally looks at you.

“Next time,” he says dryly, “Warn me so I can bet on you.”

You stare at him, eyes wide, blinking rapidly.

“Pardon?”

Enji exhales through his nose, something between a huff and a sigh.

God, you’re so polite. Even when you’re completely thrown off. It irritates him, but not in a way that makes him angry. More like…

He doesn’t know what to do with it.

With you.

His mind turns over thoughts, calculations, and then, maybe against his better judgment—definitely against professional judgment—he pulls open his desk drawer.

The wood creaks as he reaches in, fingers finding the smooth, cool edges of a photo frame. It’s not just one picture. It’s a collage, a frame with multiple slots, each holding different snapshots of his family. He lays it flat on the desk, turning it so you can see. Then, with a calloused finger, he taps against the glass.

“I trust you saw the news.”

Your gaze flickers from the frame to his face, cautious. 

“Yes.”

“Then you know a bit about my family.”

Slowly, you nod.

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest, and watches as your eyes drift back to the photos.

For the first time in a while, Enji speaks about it.

Not in some vague PR-mandated way, not with the cold detachment he’s learned to use to ignore it. He speaks about his past, about what he did to his family.

How he never saw (or never wanted to see) what it was doing to them. How he justified things in his head, twisted logic to suit his own ends.

He tells you that for years, empathy was an abstract concept to him. Something he understood in theory but never in practice.

And then Enji looks at you, really looks at you—the slight shake in your fingers as you grip your phone, the way your lips press together, the way your shoulders hunch inward like you’re bracing for impact.

He sighs, slides the tissue box across the desk toward you.

(He’s had to replace it three times since he started working with you.)

“I don’t need to sit here and harp on how what you did was bad,” he says. “You’ve done a good enough job of that already.”

Your fingers twitch, resting hesitantly against the box. But you don’t take one.

“What I will tell you,” he continues, “is that you’re poisoning yourself by dwelling on it.” His voice is level, firm, but not unkind.

“What you did was alarming. Embarrassing. Could’ve landed you in more trouble than it did.” He pauses. 

“But you show remorse. That much is obvious.”

Your lips part, like you want to protest, like you want to say, ‘But I don’t feel bad, not really,’ but then his next words stop you.

“You might not feel bad because the resentment had been building for so long.” He taps a finger against the desk, sharp but slow, measured. 

“But your emotions are real.”

You tense.

“You clearly feel something,” Enji says, his voice a shade softer now, like candle light. He’s piecing something together as he speaks.

“Even if you don’t think you do.”

You blink, stare down at your hands, and he sees your throat bob as you swallow.

“Sometimes,” he adds, “Grief manifests in ways you don’t take the time to consider.”

Silence stretches between you.

Enji doesn’t press, doesn’t push. He knows better than that now.

Instead, he just sits back and waits.

You sit with his words, letting them sink in, but something about them lingers in your chest like a splinter too deep to pull out. Your fingers toy absently with the tissue box, but you still don’t take one. Instead, you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, before lifting your gaze back to him.

“…Do you?”

Enji’s brow furrows slightly. 

“Do I what?”

You swallow, glancing down at the framed photos again. His wife, his children—small moments frozen in time, and yet, all of them hold a weight you can’t fully grasp.

“Do you feel bad?” you ask, your voice quieter now, more careful.

“About what you did to them?”

For a moment, Enji doesn’t answer.

He just sits there, staring at you with those sharp, unreadable eyes, the same eyes that make most students shift uncomfortably in their seats. But you don’t move. Or fidget. You just wait.

Enji exhales through his nose, heavy and slow. He leans back in his chair, rubbing a hand down his face before resting his elbow on the armrest, fingers curled lightly against his temple. His other hand taps against the desk—just once, but it’s enough to betray a thoughtfulness he rarely lets show.

“Yes,” he says finally. 

“I do.”

You tilt your head slightly, watching him.

It would be easy for him to stop there. To leave it at that. But, for some reason, he doesn’t.

“I didn’t always,” he admits, shifting his gaze toward the window. His voice is deep, rougher than usual, like it’s scraping against something raw. “For a long time, I didn’t see it. Or simply I refused.” He exhales sharply. 

“I convinced myself that everything I did was for them. That it was necessary. That if I worked them hard enough, they’d be strong enough. Good enough. That they’d thank me for it one day.”

You notice the way his jaw tightens at that last part.

“And then?” you ask.

“And then I lost them,” he says simply. His fingers tighten slightly on the armrest. “One by one.”

The silence that follows is thick, but not uncomfortable.

Just heavy.

You think of Shoto. The way he barely looks at his father, the way his voice goes stiff whenever he so much as mentions him. You think of the news articles, the scandal, the way the world turned their eyes to Endeavor—not as a hero, but as a failure of a man.

Enji drags a hand through his hair, sighing. 

“Regret doesn’t fix anything,” he mutters. “It doesn’t undo what I did. It doesn’t change how they feel about me. But it does mean I have to live with it.”

He turns his gaze back to you then, meeting your eyes. 

“And I do.”

You sit with that, trying to understand the weight of it.

He regrets it. He feels bad. But that doesn’t mean he gets a clean slate. It doesn’t mean he gets to make things right just because he wants to.

It just means he has to carry it.

Just like you.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the desk. 

“…Does it ever get easier?”

Enji studies you for a long moment before answering.

“No,” he says honestly. 

“But you learn to keep moving anyway.”

"That’s a shitty answer."

Your voice is flat, unimpressed, and it shocks him enough that he actually blinks at you.

"Excuse me?"

"That’s a shitty answer," you repeat, a little more force behind your words this time.

"You did something bad, yeah, okay, fine. Everyone's done something bad."

You wave your hand in exaggeration, tone bordering on sarcastic. You’re still gripping your phone tightly, fingers curling and uncurling against the edges.

"You're still alive," you continue, eyes locked onto him.

"You could try to do something now. It won’t change or fix what you did, but it's better than not trying at all."

Enji stares at you, processing, calculating. You’re fidgeting, but your words hold weight, and they’re not wrong. Then, suddenly, your expression shifts—brows furrowing slightly, realization dawning. 

"Oh."

You shift your grip on your phone, muttering,

"I just fixed my own problem."

You move to correct yourself, maybe soften the blow, but he waves a hand before you can.

"Oh, don’t do that now," he says, exhaling sharply. 

"I was just beginning to like this other side of you. Go back to that." 

You look at him dimly, skeptical, but the sharp edge of your frustration dulls just a bit. Enji rubs a hand over his face, sighing. 

"I'm not qualified to help you."

That’s the truth, and he won’t pretend otherwise.

"But obviously, we're stuck with each other for now, so let's make the best of it." You huff, crossing your arms. 

"Your defence style is avoidance."

"And yours is that you give everyone else your best and save none for yourself."

Your eyes narrow slightly. 

"Try it sometime."

A low chuckle rumbles in his chest. 

"Ah, so you do have some bite in you."

You look at him, then at the door. Your body language shifts—tension pulling at your shoulders as you rise from your chair, clearly about to leave. And normally, Enji would let you. Normally, he’d think, ‘Fine. If they want to storm off, let them.’

But he knows himself.

And he knows what happens when kids walk away angry….

So instead, before you can make it to the door, he calls out,

"Sit back down."

Your steps falter. You glance at him over your shoulder.

"Why?"

He levels you with a look. "Because I asked."

You hesitate, but after a beat, you sink back into the chair, your movements slower, less defensive. Enji leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his desk. He studies you for a moment before finally asking, 

"Is there anything else in your life causing stress? Something that might have unknowingly played a part in this?"

You hesitate. Then, slowly, you unlock your phone and turn the screen toward him.

A family photo.

Enji stares at the pic you hold up on your phone. It’s a simple picture—your family gathered together, smiling, posed just right, a moment frozen in time. But there’s something about it that makes his stomach tighten. Maybe it’s because he recognizes the way you look in it. 

The way your smile is kinda there, but your eyes don’t quite match.

He watches the way your expression dulls as you stare at the screen, like you're looking at something far beyond the photo itself. He doesn’t say anything yet, just waits.

"I'm the oldest child," you say, voice quieter now.

"And sometimes, I don't feel like anything I do will ever be enough. I can't express myself at home. I feel bad, I feel angry, and I don't have an outlet. All I can do is come here, look at you, and..."

You swallow, gripping your phone a little tighter. Your words land between you like bricks, heavy and unmoving. You sound tired. 

"And sometimes, I can't hold it in anymore, and I crash out."

It clicks.

‘Oh, fuck.’

This is why you’re here.

You aren't just some troubled student who threw a punch out of nowhere. You’re not just some kid who holds everything in until it finally snaps. Or a quiet kid with too much weight on their shoulders.

You are exactly the kind of person he spent years breaking.

You’re his lesson.

And now, he’s sitting across from you, trying to figure out how to do something about it.

Enhi’s stomach twists.

A deep, uncomfortable realization settling over him like a heavy cloak as he sits there and stares across the desk at you.

You are exactly what he used to demand from his own children. A child who takes on too much. A child who gives and gives until there’s nothing left for themselves. A child who goes unseen. A child who has never been given a space to just be, without expectation, without pressure, without having to be useful to everyone else.

And now here you are, sitting across from him, looking at him with this raw, unfiltered honesty that he knows he doesn’t deserve. 

He exhales slowly, running a hand down his face before finally speaking.

“…You shouldn’t have to feel that way,” he says, voice quieter than before.

“Not at home. Not anywhere.”

You let out a short, bitter laugh.

“Yeah, well. I do.”

Enji leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the desk. He doesn’t try to sugarcoat anything. Doesn’t try to tell you that everything will magically get better. 

He wouldn’t believe that himself, so why should you? Instead, he says, 

“I don’t have an answer for you.”

You scoff.

“Figures.”

“But,” he continues, giving you a pointed look, “I do know that carrying everything alone will tear you apart faster than any fight ever could.”

You blink.

“That’s dramatic.”

He exhales sharply—maybe a laugh, maybe just a tired breath.

“Maybe,” he admits. “But it’s still true.”

There’s a pause. The air feels heavier now, but not suffocating.

Just… real.

Enji leans back in his chair, watching you carefully.

“You ever talk to anyone about this?”

Your gaze flickers to the side. 

“…Not really.”

“Hm.” He nods, like that doesn’t surprise him.

“Do you want to?”

Your fingers tap against the back of your phone, a nervous little rhythm. 

“…I don’t know.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “We’ll figure it out.” Your eyes snap back to him, confused. 

“We?”

“You’re stuck with me, aren’t you?” He raises a brow. “Might as well make the most of it.”

You stare at him, searching his face for any sign of sarcasm, of insincerity. But there’s none.

For the first time since stepping into his office, something in your chest loosens—just a little.

“…Okay,” you murmur.

Enji nods. 

“Good.”

Then, after a beat, he adds, “And next time, if you’re gonna punch someone, at least don’t do it in front of the whole class. Wait for after school when there's no witnesses.” Your mouth drops open.

“Excuse me?”

His lips twitch, just slightly.

“You heard me.”

And for the first time since he met you, you actually laugh.

Bonus: 

Enji’s office was dimly lit, the late afternoon sun filtering through the blinds in pale slats across his desk. He sat with the usual tension held in his shoulders, his large hands folded together on the polished wood like he was trying to keep them still.

You sit opposite, legs crossed, a ceramic cup of office kitchen coffee in your hand, stirring it slowly as the quiet buzz of the old ceiling light filled the space between you.

“You can’t expect to be a shitty father for over twenty years,” you said at last, not unkindly, “and then act like forgiveness is just a thing you get to receive.”

Enji’s jaw clenched, eyebrows flickering, but he didn’t look away. You didn’t flinch either.

“It’s gonna take time,” you added. “Liking someone? Respecting them? That takes time even under the best circumstances. And no offense, but your rap sheet’s longer than most.”

He exhaled through his nose, gravelly and low. “You sound like Rei,” he muttered.

You blinked. “Is that your daughter?”

“No,” he said, voice a little softer now. “That’s my wife.”

“Poor her.”

“I know,” he said simply, the words heavy with something closer to regret than shame. You stopped stirring your coffee for a beat, surprised by the honesty.

“Don’t you have a daughter?” you asked, glancing at the framed photo behind him. Shoto as a boy, looking much smaller and warier than now.

“Yes,” he said. “Second oldest. Fuyumi. After Rei left, I—I turned her into a second mother. She was a teenager.” Your brows furrowed.

“So she was drowning for years with no one to turn to?” You paused. 

“I can relate.”

That made him shift. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was the terrible understanding of a pattern repeated.

“How’s Touya?” you asked.

Wordlessly, Enji reached into his pocket and pulled his phone before swiping and turning the screen. You peered closer to see a hospital room, sterile white. The man in the bed was barely recognizable beneath the gauze and bandages, his once ragged and scorched body now bound in wires and IVs, monitors blinking like dying stars. 

Dabi. Touya.

“He opened his eyes a few weeks ago,” Enji said. “Didn’t even glare at me. Just... looked tired. Sad. Like the fire had burned out and left him hollow.”

You stopped stirring. “What did he do?”

Enji looked at the photo again, then placed it gently back in the drawer. “He twitched his fingers. Just a little. I didn’t know if he wanted me to hold his hand, but... I tried. Even if it was through sterile gloves. I just wanted him to feel someone was there.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “Is he that fragile now?”

“His skin’s like a butterfly’s wing,” he murmured. “One wrong move and it tears.”

Silence lingered for a few breaths, until Enji finally looked at you again.

“How are you doing?”

You slouched slightly in your seat, pressing your thumb against the side of your coffee cup. “Got into a fight with my parents. Big one. About... everything. Them over-parentifying me, the way I have to earn every scrap of approval while my siblings float through easier lives, which, don't get me wrong, I love they aren't suffering too.”

His gaze didn’t waver.

You went on. “It’s like—I work harder, break myself more, and still get told I’m ‘too difficult.’ They even brought up the whole punching that guy in the face thing again, like that defines who I am.”

Enji’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what did you say?”

You smirked faintly, looking down at your shoes. “Told them, the dog who weeps over its kill is no better than the one who does not.”

He raised a brow. “Where’d you read that?”

��Tumblr.”

He actually huffed, a faint sound of amusement. Then he crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, tipping backward until he heard the wheels creak out for mercy and he set his heels back down. 

“What do you think your best self would look like? If you didn’t have to worry about their approval?”

You thought about that for a moment. 

“Happy. More confident. Healthy.”

Enji nodded, slowly. “Holding everything in like that... it eats at you. Eventually it leaks out somewhere. Autoimmune stuff. Even mental burnout can make your body collapse.”

You gave him a skeptical look. 

“Is that why Natsu has IBS?”

“No,” he said flatly. Then, with a touch of awkwardness, “I, uh... asked him to hang out. This Saturday.”

You straightened up. “He said yes?”

A stiff nod.

You grinned. “That’s a good start. Don’t fuck it up.”

“I’ll try,” Enji muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Just then, your phone chimed. You pulled it out of your pocket and sighed. “Next class. Time to pretend I don’t want to be asleep in a broom closet.”

“You sound like Aizawa.”

“I envy that man.”

Enji sits up straighter. “Wait. I need to schedule you again. Talk more.” You sling your heavy backpack over your shoulder and tuck the phone away. “Already did it,” you say. “Check the system.”

“I’m still concerned about your mental health,” he says, almost gruff. You pause at the door, giving him a small smile. 

“Then we can talk about it at dinner.”

His brows rose. “Excuse me?”

There was a knock—three soft raps—and then the door opened before he could say Come in.

Shoto stepped into the room with the quiet poise he always carried, hands in his pockets, eyes flicking briefly to you before nodding politely to his father.

“Sho invited me over,” you said casually, pointing at him with your thumb.

Shoto nodded once. “Yumi said it was fine.”

Enji opens his mouth to say something, but no sound comes out. He just stared as Shoto stepped forward, gently slipped an arm around your shoulders to take your bookbag, and you freaking let him, then opened the door for you to step through first, and began leading you down the hallway.

The two of you fell into step with easy familiarity, your voices low but light, your feet echoing against the tile as you headed toward the exit.

Through the office glass, Enji watched you both go—his son and the unexpected student who’d walked into his office and thrown him completely off balance.

He leans back in his chair again and lets out a slow, tired sigh that doesn't quite hide the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

‘Well played.’

Mother is back and she is cooking...

I am taking requests for the series though dm's or anonymous asks. You can choose anyone you'd like and even characters not listed. MHA Guidance Counselor AU Masterlist Taglist: @elarakive, @thealtofvalleyxdoodles, @the-dumpster-fire-of-life, @raendarkfaerie, @bunny-b34r, @icey-wonders, @adherethecomingofage, @karaartioli-blog, @meoweoeoeosme, @faithisxreading, @faithisidking, @oh-kayyy-stan-bts, @shortie-chocolate, @rosaline756. @sweetlike-sugarplum. @aespie, @dancingqueen276, @erensbbg, @lillizxzz, @1chaerry, @valscodblog, @willnetries, @shortie-chocolate, @cristy-101, @tr4gictea, @sourpoisonedapple19

I also have a ko-fi now if you'd like to support me. :3 Not mandatory but always appreciated. Pssst, my ao3 is alive and open for all readers. See you soon! -Angie (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

[threegoldfish]

Marc is listening, does not interrupt the other - not even once. Just sits there, takes in the sight of that man moving in the most subtle ways, explaining; Talking about how brains work, how minds try to keep themselves sane while handling whatever is coming for them.

All of this makes sense in a way that it's almost frustrating to comprehend - nothing comes up that causes Marc to doubt any of that doctor's observations, his explanations. Another swallow, another inhale of air, with Marc shifting in his seat ever so slightly to get into a more comfortable position as his fingers keep twirling around another, tugging on skin, on bones, making them pop softly as he does. A subconscious thing, still trying to relieve some inner stress that has accumulated within the center of his chest upon waking in that damn room, without having any memories of what must've happened before...

---But then, dark eyes widen all of a sudden and Marc looks back up from where his gaze had been drifting a bit, another wave of surprise hitting him out of nowhere. While he has no fucking idea what OSDD means, it's what follows after that catches his interest in a way that has his blood turn cold, send a shiver along his spine---

You’ve got one part of you that feels like the ‘real’ you - Marc. That’s you right now. And when ‘Marc’ can’t handle something, a different part of you steps in.

Another blink, a soft gasp of sorts as Marc knits his brows once more, tilts his head... No. No, this cannot be about Steven, right? No. Steven does not--- he does not appear without Marc knowing of it, no. Whenever it happens that the other takes over to live his perfectly normal, happy life, Marc is aware of it happening and can watch him - can take control any time he wants, isn't left in the dark. In fact, Marc can even make him appear consciously, is doing it on purpose...

"...OS... DD?" Curious, but also very hesitant and almost scared once again, he breathes that weird term into the air between them - then looks down onto his hands, as if wondering whether they're still there, before his dark pupils are back on the other. "What... what does that mean? What do you mean with... with--- a different part of me stepping in? I'm... I-I'm aware of myself, I know who I am, and I know what I do."

...Usually. Marc presses his lips together with so much force that they're turning white for a solid second or two and he exhales a breath before shaking his head, disbelief and something utterly overwhelmed flooding him as moments pass, one after another. "I mean... until--- until that happened, the... thing. I don't remember any of it."

Lids fluttering a bit, Marc's gaze falls away again - focuses on Harrow's pen instead, the way it just lies there now, since the other has put it down mere moments ago.

He has to think of Steven again...

Only when Marc went quiet again did Arthur shift in his chair, nodding just a bit to show he was listening. He clicked his pen once, twice - and then set it down. “You were never chemically sedated,” he promised; finding it interesting that that would be a concern. It was likely due to the stigma around hospitals, but it was fascinating all the same - if only because Marc was acknowledging that he found his state in the moment to be worthy of sedation. 

“If you had posed a danger to yourself or others, or reached a state where you were unreachable, we have protocols. But we never begin with chemical. I’ll try talking to you first, to ground you. If that doesn’t work, then we’ll get the guards to come in, and they’ll help me hold your arms in a place where you can’t hurt anyone. If you keep fighting, then it depends on the situation. Fighting other people around you will put you in seclusion - you might have heard of a padded room.” 

His lips twitched into a smile, as if he found something funny there. “If you hurt yourself - which you almost did - then you’d be restrained to your bed. Soft restraints, just cuffs to keep you from hurting yourself until the episode has passed. But even that requires oversight. Paperwork, documentation. Getting to the point of needing chemical sedation is a near-impossibility.” 

It felt important to lay that out, if only because keeping clarity was important. 

“To be clear, your episode wasn’t dangerous. You panicked, you were disoriented. But you weren’t violent. Your mind is doing something that it’s built to do - it’s trying to protect you, that’s it. Your mind is compartmentalizing some things - like… putting certain memories or emotions into a box, if it’s too much to handle all at once.” 

The mind was an amazing, fascinating thing. Arthur had a small obsession with it, perhaps, just seeing and reading about the things it could do; even this was fascinating to him, an interesting case that he was already eager to pick apart. 

“Most people do that,” he promised. “Compartmentalize. Daydreaming, zoning out, just… putting something away, so you don’t have to think about it until later. That’s normal. But, you’d agree, this is more than ‘zoning out’. This is something that’s starting to take shape.” 

He didn’t shift again, but did keep his speech slow - kept his eyes on Marc, in case any of this set him off again. He didn’t suspect it would, there was always comfort in hearing ‘this isn’t your fault’ - but it was possible. 

“There’s something called OSDD. It’s not something that I’d call a solid diagnosis, but it also might be as far as we get.” He adjusted his glasses, jaw shifting, displeased briefly with the thought of that before he continued again. 

“Basically, it means that your brain is splitting up parts of your experiences so they don’t touch each other. You’ve got one part of you that feels like the ‘real’ you - Marc. That’s you right now. And when ‘Marc’ can’t handle something, a different part of you steps in. It’s not broken or wrong, it’s just how your brain has built itself. It’s your brain trying to help you.” 

Arthur let it sit again, for a moment. His gaze didn’t leave Marc, didn’t push, but left silence. He nodded again, his voice gentler. “I can tell you more about what that might mean. I can explain it more, or tell you what we should do next. But if you’d rather wait to talk about that, that’s okay. You’ve already handled a lot today, and I don’t want to overwhelm you.” 

[104cadetlauren]

Rivetra was a tragedy of timing / Levihan was a tragedy of restraint

⚠️ hot take incoming ⚠️

If you can’t handle your fave ship being shipped with someone else, go ahead and keep scrolling. this post isn’t for you.

this is for the people who actually enjoy digging into the messy, layered dynamics in Attack on Titan's complicated and subtle relationship dynamics. the ones who don’t mind exploring the in-betweens and what-ifs, the subtext and the missing pieces that canon never fully spelled out.

So yeah. let’s talk about Levi, Petra, and Hange. buckle up.

I’m a hardcore Levihan shipper (and I strongly believe this to be canon, don’t fight me!), but if someone ever asked me if Levi had another possible love interest other than Hange—well, sorry Eruri fans, but no, it’s not Erwin. It would be Petra.

Wait, what? I thought you were Levihan for life???

Yes, and I always will be. But let’s not forget these characters are multi-faceted. They have layers—complicated pasts, subtle choices—and the plot itself helped mold them into who they became by Season 4.

Season 1, while tragic, still had a clearer structure. Titans = enemies. But as the story evolved and they reached the other side of the wall, the narrative shifted. The real threat wasn’t just titans anymore—it was the entire world, planning to erase the existence of Eldians. And that changed everything, including how our characters saw themselves, each other, and their purpose.

Levi and Hange were different people back then. Even if they were close, even if there was a bond, their dynamic wasn’t exactly what we saw later. (more on this in a bit.)

Let’s try to seal the intentional gaps left by the story—to stay in-character and to make sense of the subtle ways Levi’s relationships were presented in the earlier seasons.

A quick reminder of the timeline: by the start of Season 1, Levi was probably in his early 30s and had already been with the Survey Corps for around six years (based on ACWNR), which means he’d known Hange for at least that long. Petra, on the other hand, was relatively new—she’d been with Levi’s squad for about a month.

Now, when Levi and Hange were introduced in the manga, they were introduced side by side (like Eremika, hello?). Hange was teasing Levi about how if people only knew what a neat freak he was, they wouldn’t admire him so much. And right after that? The hair grab scene. Levi pulls her close and says “kokoda” in that deep, near-whisper voice—and the way it's animated, it’s clearly meant for her and only her. It’s intimate. (Mike literally looked tired of their shit. Iconic.)

Sure, this wasn’t in the manga—but the anime added it to emphasize their relationship. Let that sink in.

From just this small interaction, you can already feel the closeness. It even flirts with flirtation. Look at Hange’s eyes when she teases him—girl’s either crushing hard or just enjoying the chemistry. And Levi? Let’s not forget that he’s a clean freak and Hange… well, isn’t. So him pulling her that close? Look at how her hair scrunched from Levi’s hold. That’s not nothing.

Let’s be real: if I were Hange’s boyfriend and saw her “best friend” do that, I’d be flipping a table. So let’s simplify things—Levi and Hange were that pair. The two friends who swear they’re “just friends” while everyone around them silently suffers through their PDA. But no, they weren’t together during this time. They were simply them—deeply bonded, constantly orbiting each other, sharing laughs, rants, and quiet loyalty.

Now let’s talk about Petra.

Petra Ral was 19. Levi was around 31–32 (and still not fully aware of his Ackerman lineage). Yes, there’s a significant age gap, but this is just headcanon territory—trying to connect the dots the narrative left scattered.

Even if Levi wasn’t actively thinking of retirement or family, he was still human. And at that age, even the most closed-off people start wondering: What next? He probably didn’t have a detailed fantasy of domestic life, but maybe—maybe—he had moments where he thought about coming home to someone. Not someone romantic, per se, but someone stable. Someone who wouldn’t mind sharing tea in silence.

Now, Erwin? Out of the question. Levi knew he’d serve the military till death. Pixis-style. The next closest person was Hange. She was a confidant. The one who understood him without needing him to explain. She never judged him. She tolerated his harsh words. She knows him well.

…But she was obsessed with titans. She had purpose and obsession that extended far beyond Levi. Even if he wanted to offer her a quiet life, she wasn’t someone who could stay still for it. She needed freedom, curiosity, movement. And Levi—quietly—wanted that for her too. He wouldn't chain her to anything.

Then Petra entered the picture.

She was young, but she was also warm, kind, and clearly devoted to him. Levi noticed. How could he not? Petra worried about him—even though he was humanity’s strongest, this is evident is some scenes like in S01E09 where we first got a preview of Levi fighting.

Levi handpicked her for her skills, sure. But maybe also because of her balance—her strength and her care. Yams even said Levi thought Petra was cute. And when she died, Levi lingered. He stared.

Look at this picture, even in death, she was beautiful.

When Erwin died, Levi didn’t even take a keepsake. But Petra? He collected her patch, though he gave it to another soldier who needed comfort more. And when her father approached Levi in the street, talking about Petra being too young to marry, it was painful. Petra’s father had clearly misunderstood the letter she wrote—one where she declared her dedication to Levi. Not to the Survey Corps. To Levi.

In Petra, Levi saw a distant, fragile future. Not plausible, but… possible.

And that’s why he cared.

But what about Hange in all this?

I think Hange was the first to realize her feelings for Levi were more than friendship. All that teasing, the time spent together—come on, it was bound to happen. But Hange being Hange? She probably buried herself in her lab, blasting Heather by Conan Gray while dissecting a titan carcass (I’m joking… kinda).

The thing is, Hange’s smart. She’s observant. She probably saw the shift in Levi. She noticed the way he treated Petra, the stolen glances, the growing bond. And even though their bond (Levi and Hange’s) was stronger, she saw that Petra offered something she couldn’t: devotion without distraction. Petra had one purpose—Levi.

And Hange? She had a thousand obsessions. She probably told herself that Levi deserved someone who could give him time, stability, care. And she couldn’t. So maybe she quietly let him go.

Hange isn’t the typical “waifu” material. She’s not soft and kawaii—she’s chaotic brilliance, messy hair, explosions in the lab. Meanwhile, Petra was gentle, sweet, nurturing. The kind of person who'd write home about Levi. The kind of person Levi could come home to.

Hange, maybe, told herself Levi needed that. And she stepped back.

But here’s the thing: Levi couldn’t quite step back from Hange. Even if Petra represented a possibility, Hange was gravity.

He kept coming to her lab. He still sought her out. Even when he didn’t understand why. Even when she seemed to be moving on, fully immersed in her titan research.

When Petra died, that fragile possibility of a quiet future died too. And maybe Levi finally realized that he was never meant for “normal.”

After his injuries, he spent more time with Hange again. And guess what? That pull? Still there.

He starts asking for her attention. He pesters her. He picks her up from her lab, pretending it’s nothing. But it’s something.

And as time passes, especially after Erwin’s death, Levi and Hange lean on each other more. By Season 4, they’re inseparable. Partners in everything. Understanding each other without speaking.

And I believe—truly—that they only fully acknowledged what they felt from the moment Hange saw Levi broken and near-death… all the way to Hange’s sacrifice.

That’s what makes Levihan canon for me. Not in the loud, dramatic way. But in the slow-burn, unsaid, devastatingly beautiful way.

Star-crossed lovers. Never given a real chance. And that hurts. But it also fits.

Petra mattered. Her presence made Levi think about the future. She was part of his emotional evolution.

Hange? She was always there. The constant. The one person who knew Levi more than any one else, she took the time to know him, and in spite of Levi’s coldness, she stayed.

And okay—remember Hange had a thing for Keith Shadis? Yeah. Look at her type. Grumpy, brooding men who never smile. (Girl has a pattern.)

So even if the stories look different—Petra and Hange are vital to understanding Levi’s emotional core. They shape how he responds to grief, to love unspoken, to futures imagined and then ripped away.

Petra was an almost. And with Hange, he was finally sure. But by then, it was already too late.

Ps: Petra was beside Hange when Levi saw them in the mist. We can’t ignore that.

What do you think? Agree? Disagree? Let’s talk about it. Just don’t send hate—this is a safe space for headcanons and heartbreak.

[cryoculus]

— TRACK 05: INHERITANCE ⟢

a tropical island getaway in the middle of the tour is just the thing everyone needs, but work will always come before play. at least, that's what you keep telling yourself.

★ featuring; mydei x f!reader

★ word count; 6.8k (ongoing)

★ tags; rock band au, found family, hostile acquaintances to friends to lovers, grief/mourning, angst, slow burn, eventual smut

★ notes; i'm barely active on tumblr and it Shows LMAO T T so sorry, i spent most of my time on twt if you wanna chat!! also, i actually finished this entire series on ao3 very recently, and i was SOOOO EMOTIONAL AAJAHSDJSDF but i'm still going to gradually upload chapters here so no worries :3c

★ header art cr; sarhiyu on x & ig

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

The tarmac shimmers in the heat as the plane touches down, wheels kissing the runway with a gentle thud. You blink against the sudden glare. The sun here is relentless, poured straight from a bottle of gold. Palm trees sway in the distance, lazy and unbothered. Even the wind seems drunk on salt and sunlight.

On the island of Lethe, everything smells like sea spray and sunscreen and something floral you can’t place. The airport buzzes with the usual traffic. Someone in a bucket hat is live-streaming on the arrivals ramp. Another is dancing barefoot to music leaking from their phone speakers.

You’re with the band, cutting through the buzz as a unit. Backpacks slung over shoulders, dark glasses pulled low. Someone across the terminal clocks your group, whispers something, lifts a phone.

Cipher smirks. Phainon rolls his eyes. Mydei just keeps walking.

The road to the Mnemosyne Music Fest winds along cliffside bluffs and past dense groves of olive trees. On the horizon, the sea glitters like it’s holding its breath. But several minutes later, the bass starts to reverberate. Softly at first, more a feeling than a sound, like thunder rolling beneath the ground. You lean your head to the window, watching the festival bloom from the island’s center like a mirage made of strobe lights and smoke.

By the time the shuttle pulls up to artist check-in, the bass has settled into your chest like a second heartbeat. You barely make it two steps off the shuttle before someone with a neatly-pressed suit and a headset materializes with the speed and grace of a professional chaos-wrangler.

“Flamechasers?” she asks, already checking her tablet. “Perfect. My name is Delia. Welcome to Lethe.”

Delia starts walking, and you all instinctively follow.

“Now, I know you’ve heard it already, but humor me, it's tradition. Lethe is an island built for forgetting. People come here to lose themselves—no clocks, no headlines, no consequences. But Mnemosyne is the exception,” she says, glancing back with a grin.

Then, Delia sweeps an arm toward the sprawling festival grounds ahead, where towers of scaffolding shimmer with silk, and sound bleeds like perfume into the sun.

“That’s the joke, right? Mnemosyne, from the ancient Lethean word for memory, is the one thing this island lets people keep.”

She turns to face you, her grin widening. “You’re here to be unforgettable. Let’s make sure of it.”

Once Delia has made sure you’re all settled comfortably in the hotel reserved exclusively for artists, the band drifts toward one of the outdoor lounges. The salty breeze ruffles papers and hair alike as you settle into plush chairs, the distant hum of festival prep buzzing beneath a lazy sun.

Phainon flips open the music festival brochure the front desk handed out, reading aloud with a touch of skepticism, “Three days of music, madness, and memories. Sounds almost too good to be true.”

“Three days of heatstroke and schedule slips, more like,” Aglaea mutters behind her sunglasses, already tapping furiously on her tablet. 

Tribbios fans herself theatrically with a laminated itinerary. “Speak for yourself. I packed three outfit changes per day.”

Garmentmaker’s voice hums quietly, crisp and matter-of-fact. “Based on current environmental variables and historical festival data, probability of human overheating is approximately 87.3%. I’ve allocated a portion of my processing capacity to monitoring your collective risk of heatstroke. Please notify me before spontaneous combustion.”

Cipher lets out a bark of laughter. “See? This is why you’re my favorite glorified thermostat.”

“Flattery detected. Logging under ‘suspicious behavior.’”

Sometime later, you slip away from the lounge, claiming the heat’s making you dizzy. No one questions it, not with Cipher trying to stack drink umbrellas on Phainon’s head and Aglaea muttering war crimes into her tablet.

The path curls around a sun-drenched courtyard, quiet except for distant basslines and the soft rustle of palm fronds. You find a little pocket of shade under a trellis dripping with bougainvillea and sink onto a low wall, thumb already flicking your phone awake.

You scroll past missed emails, a dozen unread group chats, until you land on the one that matters.

 

Me: you weren’t kidding

Me: lethe is as unreal as people say it is

Hyacine: called it. what’s it like?? tell me everything.

Me: like someone turned up the saturation and forgot to turn it back down

Me: everything smells like limes and suncream 

Me: we haven’t even played yet and i’m already overstimulated in three languages

Hyacine: you have NO IDEA how jealous i am btw

Hyacine: you get to go to mnemosyne for free

Hyacine: actually you get paid for it wtf

Me: cause that’s...my job???

Hyacine: btw, how are you? 

Hyacine: my inbox has been suspiciously quiet since you guys played in carmitis

Hyacine: last time that happened was back in aidonia

Hyacine: and you already told me That story

 

You hesitate. The breeze tousles your hair, carrying the sharp tang of sea salt. You glance back toward the lounge, where you can just see Mydei’s silhouette through the open archway. He’s half-reclined, sunglasses perched like armor, listening the other members’ nonsense with his usual impossible calm.

 

Me: we’re okay? mostly? 

Me: this isn’t another aidonia sitch don’t worry

Hyacine: but something happened, right?

Me: ...you can tell? through text??

Hyacine: i’m your best friend, of course i can

Hyacine: so are you gonna spill or do i have to pry the truth from your cold dead hands

Me: morbid

Me: but

Me: it’s mydei

Hyacine: 🙄🙄🙄

Hyacine: what did the big brooding blonde do this time

Me: not what he’s called

Me: but i don’t think i can stomach having to immortalize it in our text history

Me: you free for a call? 

Hyacine: for gossip? ALWAYS

 

You slip back inside just long enough to grab your keycard and disappear down the corridor. Past the opulence and the endless designer sandals slapping against imported tile. The second you shut the door to your hotel room behind you, the world narrows.

Cool air, drawn curtains, the hush of ocean outside. You kick off your sandals. The carpet’s soft beneath your toes. Your phone’s already buzzing in your hand. You sink onto the couch, phone tucked between your cheek and shoulder, and for a moment, your breath catches. This couch is too similar. Or maybe it’s just you.

“Okay,” Hyacine’s voice crackles to life in your ear. “Talk. Now.”

You let out a quiet, stunned laugh. “Hi to you too.”

“No time for pleasantries. You dropped the it’s Mydei bomb and then asked for a call. That’s the equivalent of yanking a fire alarm.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, blinking up at the wide Lethean sky through the sliding doors of the balcony. The silence stretches.

“It wasn’t… anything, really. It was after the show in Carmitis. He came to my hotel room. Late at night.”

“Oh,” Hyacine says, voice low and alert. “That kind of late?”

You close your eyes. “There was wine. We were on the couch.”

The pause that follows makes you think of the gears turning in your best friend’s head, and when they finally do click, she says your name like a mother reprimanding her difficult teenager.

“Please tell me you at least used protection.”

Okay, you expected Hyacine to be surprised—maybe gasp, maybe tease you into oblivion—but you didn’t expect her to jump straight to scandal. The implication alone makes your face burn, shame rising hot in your chest like a swallowed sun.

“Hyacine, it’s not like that,” you say quickly, voice dipping, toes curling hard into the rug beneath you. “He said the others were being unbearable at the afterparty, so he just helped me work on that demo. The one I accidentally dropped in the cloud? Mydei hasn’t let me live that down since.”

“Late at night. With wine. In your hotel room. On a couch.”

You wince. Out loud, it sounds... awful. Incriminating in a way you didn’t account for.

“We didn’t—” You catch yourself, struggling for precision. “Nothing like that happened, okay? We might have been a little tipsy on that absurdly fancy pomegranate wine he brought. But we were working. Seriously. Believe it or not, the track actually sounds cleaner now than it did before he heard it.”

Hyacine exhales, not quite convinced. “But it’s not the song that’s got you all tangled up, is it?”

Leave it to Hyacine to go straight for the jugular.

You sigh. “You know how in some moments, it’s not a kiss, but it might as well have been?” 

The memory tightens in your chest. It’s been days, and still the look in his eyes flashes back at the worst times. The glint of something more than just mere interest.

If things were different—if you weren’t you, and he wasn’t him—would you have leaned in? Would he have?

But wishing on hypotheticals doesn’t change the aftermath. It just leaves you aching over answers you’ll never be brave enough to chase.

Hyacine doesn’t say anything at first. You hear the faint rustle of her moving around, probably flopping back against her bed, earbuds crackling a little in your ear.

Then: “Okay, not to be that person, but... I’m gonna be that person.”

You brace for impact. 

“He was an asshole to you at first, but people change, yes?” she starts with an infuriatingly chipper tone. “Mydei’s hot, he clearly respects your music, and he brought wine. If the universe handed you that moment on a velvet cushion, why didn’t you take it?”

You bite your lip. “Because it’s complicated.”

“In essence, all things are complicated,” she counters. “Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it.”

You pull your knees up tighter to your chest, pressing your forehead against them for a second. The air in the room suddenly feels heavier, like the pressure’s changed.

“It’s not just that he’s in the band,” you say quietly. “It’s that we work together. We live out of the same tour bus, share the same stage. If something gets messy between us, it’s not just awkward, it could wreck the whole dynamic.”

You let the silence sit. Just for a beat.

“I know where I stand with them now. I’ve worked hard to be part of this. I can’t risk blurring the lines just because... he looked at me like that.”

“What if you don’t take that risk, and regret it anyway?” she asks gently.

You shut your eyes. Because you already do.

Hyacine doesn’t push—thank gods for that. The silence stretches, soft and companionable, like it always has between the two of you. You let your head rest back against the pillows, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Somewhere below your window, the music festival continues its slow, decadent unfurling. Bass thudding like a distant pulse.

You think about the reporter.

The one who found you in Carmitis. The way his words had curved just a little too knowingly when he mentioned your name. That flicker in his eyes like he was connecting dots you didn’t even know were on the page. He hadn’t published anything. Maybe he won’t. Maybe it was just curiosity. But still, the memory leaves a cold smear down your spine.

You don’t tell Hyacine.

You want to, so badly, but the words wedge behind your ribs like splinters. She’d understand. She always has, but something about it makes the whole thing feel too real. As if saying it out loud would crack open a dam you’re not ready to deal with.

So instead, you say nothing. But you pick at the thread on your sleeve again, unraveling it loop by loop.

Maybe Hyacine hears the shift in your breath, or maybe she just knows you too well, because she speaks up gently. “You don’t have to decide anything right now, you know.”

You smile, small and grateful, even if she can’t see it.

“I know.”

The next time you all regroup, sunlight slants through the hotel’s breezy conference alcove, hitting floral shirts, mesh tops, and damp hair still drying from quick showers. Everyone’s changed and freshened up. Cipher’s traded her cargo pants for iridescent shorts, Castorice looks like a model in soft cream linen, and even Phainon’s sandals somehow make him look annoyingly editorial.

Aglaea is already standing at the head of the table, tablet in hand, expression sharp beneath wide sunglasses. Her hair’s up. Her patience, clearly, is not.

“Alright, listen up,” she begins, tapping the tablet with an acrylic nail. “Here’s the rundown for the next seventy-two hours. Don’t make me repeat this.”

A low ripple of amusement hums from the group. 

Aglaea swipes once, then continues. “Day one—that’s today—you’re free until sundown. That means: no obligations. Use the time to explore, hydrate, and pretend you’re normal people. Tonight, however, there’s a private beach party for all artists on the lineup. Attendance is expected. You don’t have to mingle, but you do have to show face.”

“Do we have to swim?” Cipher asks. “Because I packed exactly zero waterproof mascaras.”

“Gods, no,” Aglaea replies. “But wear something stylish enough to get you photographed and breezy enough to run from said photographers.”

She taps again.

“Day two, that’s performance day. You’ve got one of the evening slots. Prime time. There’s a morning tech run if you need it, and I recommend it, even if you’re hungover. We want this smooth.”

Murmurs of acknowledgment rise. Garmentmaker makes a few whirring noises that you chalk up to them taking note, Castorice nods, Anaxa lets out a disinterested huff.

“Day three,” Aglaea concludes, “is another free day. You can all enjoy the festival as you see fit, but don't go off-grid. Keep your phones on in case we get a media request or photo op. Festival ends at midnight. We fly out next morning.”

She turns off the tablet with a brisk snap.

“Questions? Complaints? Attempts at rebellion?”

Silence.

Then: “Can we drink tonight?” Phainon grins.

Aglaea deadpans. “Just don���t die. Or embarrass the label. That goes for all of you.”

The moment she dismisses the meeting, the band fans out like schoolkids at the final bell.

“Three hours before sundown,” Tribbios calls after you all, already tugging her sunglasses into place. “Don’t make me track you all down in a city like this.”

Cipher doesn’t need to be told twice. She loops her arm through Anaxa’s and flashes a grin sharp enough to slice. “C’mon. Come be strange with me.”

Anaxa sighs in that long-suffering way only he can manage, but he doesn’t resist. Garmentmaker glides after them without a word, tablet spinning lazily beside them, every step as serene as it is otherworldly. Just like that, you’re left standing in a rare pocket of silence at the edge of the dispersing group.

Until—

“You coming?”

You glance up. Phainon’s already a few steps away, Castorice beside him, her blouse catching the breeze like something out of a magazine shoot. He’s looking over his shoulder at you, one hand casually tucked in his pocket.

“We were thinking of checking out the temple district,” he says. “Apparently one of the priests only speaks in riddles.”

You blink. “Wait, actual riddles?”

Castorice’s smile is easy, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “The cryptic, needlessly poetic kind. It’s a Lethe thing.”

You hesitate for half a breath, then shrug. “Yeah, alright. Why not.”

Lethe is absurd. Half its architecture is classical marble, half neon graffiti. You pass fortune-tellers beside frozen daiquiri stalls. Women in lamé bikinis lounge beside old men reading epics aloud on street corners. The air smells like citrus and incense and something archaic.

By the time you reach the temple, you’re sweating through your tank top, clutching a paper fan from a stall labeled Cooler Than Thou.

The temple itself is a hush of cool stone and shadows. The so-called riddle-priest waits on a raised dais, draped in a shawl of peacock feathers and wearing mirrored sunglasses that reflect the whole room back at you. Somehow, they radiate gravity and absurdity in equal measure.

Phainon volunteers first.

The priest inclines their head. “A path you seek, yet stand in place. What moves not, yet takes you far?”

Phainon pauses. “Memory?”

A slow smile. “Accepted.”

Castorice steps forward next.

“You have me now, though not before. A key to locks, a cost to more.”

She hums for only a moment. “Experience.”

“Accepted.”

Then it’s your turn.

You step forward, palms a little clammy on the fan’s cheap plastic handle, and the priest looks at you like they already know every answer you might give, and every question you haven’t admitted to yet.

“A bridge I build not, yet I cross. I linger only where you look.”

You freeze.

For the smallest sliver of time, you’re not in the temple at all. You’re back in the dim golden haze of the Carmitis hotel room. Mydei’s eyes are on you—amber catching low light, his hand hovering just barely over the curve of your knee. That pause between heartbeats. That sense of almost. Not a kiss, but close enough to burn like one.

Your breath catches.

“…A thought,” you murmur.

The priest bows low. “Accepted.”

Later, you find yourselves perched on temple steps, sipping neon drinks from hollowed-out lychees. The Lethe skyline glows faintly rose-gold in the distance. Phainon’s doodling something in the corner of a map. Castorice has her chin on her hand, watching the crowd drift past like tide foam.

You exhale. “Okay, that was weirdly existential for a daytime activity.”

“Mm.” Castorice hums. “That’s Lethe. The longer you’re here, the less you know if you’re dreaming or reminiscing.”

You don’t say it, but you feel it—that slippage between memory and moment. Between that hotel room in Carmitis and the faint touch of golden eyes across a wine-soaked haze.

Somewhere across the island, Cipher is probably bribing a street vendor for an authentic peacock feather fan. Anaxa’s likely watching with half-lidded boredom while Garmentmaker documents the chaos, snapping a photo every five steps. You like to imagine Tribbios and Aglaea are letting themselves have a little fun too before everything shifts back into gear tomorrow.

Mydei’s nowhere in sight.

For now.

The sun bleeds low over the horizon by the time you’re back at the hotel. Your skin smells like stone and sun, and your feet ache in that oddly satisfying way—proof you were alive somewhere interesting. The others filter in with various souvenirs: temple charms, mystery bruises, melting popsicles.

Right on schedule, the private beach party unspools beneath a sky rinsed in pink and lavender. String lights loop from palm to palm.

Everyone looks a little too good. Which is to say: perfectly Lethean.

You arrive with the others in staggered pairs and groups, dressed to match the heat. Somewhere down the shore, Cipher is doing cartwheels in the surf while Anaxa stands with his arms crossed like a chaperone from a gothic novel. Garmentmaker’s already dancing with a crew of avant-garde performance artists in strobe-lit body paint.

There are faces you recognize immediately. Chart-toppers, cult favorites, artists you used to stream at 2AM in your bedroom. Some you never thought you’d see in the wild. But the one who draws your eye most effortlessly is her.

Thalia.

Lethe’s hometown icon, synth-pop darling, and unapologetic glitterstorm in human form. She’s draped across a beach lounger like it’s her rightful throne—sunkissed legs crossed, rhinestone-framed sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, a high braided ponytail flicking with every turn of her head. The kind of beautiful that looks staged even when it isn’t.

A handful of other artists orbit her, laughing too loud at stories you can’t hear. You spot three names from the festival roster among them, nodding along like she’s reading the stars.

The band begins to splinter off eventually, like light hitting a prism.

You sip something peach-colored and questionably alcoholic, drifting from group to group. The music is good, the ocean breeze better. Someone compliments your outfit; someone else tries to guess what band you’re in or if you’re an up-and-coming solo act. You don’t mind either. For a moment, it’s easy to just be—a body in motion, part of the pulse.

Then you feel it.

It starts as a flicker at the edge of your awareness, something quiet but undeniable, like gravity shifting beneath your feet.

You turn, and he’s just... there.

Mydei stands at the edge of the crowd like the universe pulled back a curtain just for him. His linen shirt is unbuttoned halfway down, ocean breeze catching the hem and fluttering it around his waist. But it’s the tattoos that strike you like a match.

They’re sprawling. Red ink, the shade of fresh embers, winding from his shoulder across the hard plane of his chest and down both arms. Ornamental and sharp-edged, they curl like flame and bloom like battle scars. You wonder, for one irrational heartbeat, if they burn when he’s angry.

Then there’s his face.

Hair windswept. Golden eyes locked on you like they’ve found the answer to something that’s evaded them for years. He’s not smiling, exactly, but there’s a pull at the corner of his mouth. He doesn’t push through the crowd. Somehow, people part without realizing it, until he’s in front of you, close enough that your breath hitches.

“You looked like you were trying not to be found,” he says.

You laugh quietly. “Was I?”

He tilts his head. “If you were, you’re terrible at it.”

Gods, he’s beautiful up close.

“So,” you murmur, “are you checking in on me? Or did you just get bored?”

“No. I just got curious,” he says, gaze still locked to yours. 

Before you can ask what that means, a new voice slices into the space between you.

“Oh hell, you two are even prettier up close.”

You blink, caught off guard. But when you turn to face who it is—

It’s Thalia.

The synth-pop goddess herself, holding a drink garnished with something bright and sugary. Her braid swings as she plants herself beside you, sunglasses pushed to her forehead and eyes full of something you can’t name.

You open your mouth, half a greeting, half a question, but she speaks first.

“I’m not trying to crash,” Thalia says, holding up her hands. “I was actually looking for Aglaea. We’ve worked together a few times. Strict, terrifying, brilliant? That one?”

“Uh,” you manage. “She’s probably inside.”

Thalia hums. “Of course she is. Anyway! The Flamechasers, huh? Didn’t know you were all so unreasonably hot in real life. I’m kind of a big fan.”

You laugh in disbelief. “Seriously?”

She grins, then taps her phone awake and flips it around. There, clear as day, is the last thing you ever expected to see.

Flamescapes.

Your old fan account.

The carefully captioned photos, the dissected lyrics, the theories that caught fire in the comments. The username you buried when you joined the band. It all rushes back like a storm surge, and your mind isn’t sufficiently barricaded.

Your lungs forget how to pull air, but Thalia beams like she’s just shared a fun little secret.

“I’ve had notifs on for years,” she says, all sparkle and sincerity. “Best account for anything Flamechasers. Whoever runs this? Genius. Like they see things no one else does.”

You feel something seize in your chest. Then twist. Then splinter. The background noise distorts, laughter smears into static. Thalia’s perfume turns cloying. The heat bears down harder as your fingers twitch at your sides, desperate for something to grip.

Beside you, Mydei lingers like a presence you just can’t filter out.

You don’t meet his gaze—you can’t—but you feel the air shift, the way it always does when he’s focused on you. As if he’s picked up on every frayed edge you’re trying to hide.

You force a smile. “Yeah,” you say, tight and paper-thin. “I’ve… heard of them.”

Thalia pouts. “I was supposed to go to the Okhema stop, but it sold out in five minutes. Five. Aglaea wouldn’t even pull some strings for me. Can you believe that?” She flicks her braid over her shoulder with a huff. “So when I heard you were playing for Mnemosyne? I was ecstatic. Plus, you’ve been making waves lately, haven’t you, Diana?”

You nod. You smile again. You lie with your eyes.

But Mydei sees the cracks.

He’s been still at your side this whole time, but now his gaze ticks toward you, calm but alert. He doesn’t say anything right away, just watches you without pressing, and in the pause between Thalia’s last word and your answer, he leans ever so slightly closer.

“Want to get some air?” he says, gently. A soft out, offered like a secret.

You blink, and it’s like the noise catches up all at once. “Just a sec,” you say, somehow managing a smile. “Sorry, I—one moment.”

Thalia barely notices, already caught in another conversation. “Sure, babe! I’ll be right here!”

And then you’re moving. Mydei walks beside you, not too close, not too far, cutting through the crowd with easy steps that people naturally make space for. He doesn’t touch your elbow or press a hand to your back. He just makes room. By the time you’ve stepped into the quieter curve of a colonnade, the shadows cool your skin. You pull in a breath that doesn’t catch halfway.

Still buzzing, still overheated, but much clearer.

He waits until the silence stretches comfortably, then glances at you.

“You looked like you needed an exit.”

You nod, exhale slowly. “Thanks.”

The quiet that follows is softer now. Quieter in your chest, too. The chaos feels like it’s behind a pane of glass. You lean a little against the cool stone behind you, letting the salt air thread through your hair. Then Mydei glances sideways, casual but with a thread of thought behind it.

“Do you want to go for a swim?”

“What, now?” 

He shrugs. “It’s Lethe. Time doesn’t really apply here.”

You smile despite yourself. “The sea’s probably rough. High tide.”

“There’s a pool,” he offers, tone easy. “Mine’s private.”

You stare at him for a beat. “You got a suite with a private pool?”

“Guess they liked my face.”

You scoff, pretending to be betrayed. “So that’s where the budget went.”

“I’ll let you borrow it,” he says. “Limited-time offer.”

There’s a beat where you should laugh, or tease him back, but you just watch him. He’s not pushing, not even leaning in. Just offering, like he has been all night. Still, as you murmur, “Alright. Why not,” there’s a quiet twist in your stomach that doesn’t come from nerves.

You wonder, without wanting to, if this will end where you think it might.

If he is thinking about that too.

If you’d stop him.

You don’t have the answers. But you follow him anyway.

Mydei’s suite is bigger than it has any right to be.

Sleek walls bathed in soft gold light, a minibar that could pass for a full kitchen, and floor-to-ceiling glass that folds open onto a private pool glowing faintly under the Lethean moonlight.

You’re in the water now, floating with your arms lazily outstretched as you stare up at the sky. The salt’s long gone from your skin, replaced with the quiet lull of chlorine and soft-lit luxury. Whatever had coiled in your chest earlier is unwinding, inch by inch, tension pulled out like thread.

Inside, through the open partition, Mydei’s propped up on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees. You can hear fragments of sound every now and then—reverb, a bit of static, a clipped vocal he’s likely trying to stretch into something new.

He’s not watching you, but he’s here. Still present, still easy in his body, but tuned into something else. Something that sounds like warmth, if you had to name it.

The part of you that walked here wondering if this night would turn into something else—the part that imagined steam and lips and skin—has gone quiet now. Not because the idea’s disappeared, but because he’s shown you something else instead.

He noticed you needed out. He gave it to you without a question.

Now he’s in his own little world, looping chords and catching melodies like fireflies, like maybe he’s trying to make something soft enough that it’ll reach you without asking why you needed it. That makes the guilt punch harder. You sink a little deeper into the pool, eyes closing briefly against the burn behind them.

Mydei doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know it was you. That the account Thalia flashed like a fan badge of honor was your second skin for years. That you lived and breathed his band long before you ever stood on their stage. That every lyric you used to decode, every candid you posted, every piece of art you uploaded at 3AM was a shrine to this—to him.

He’s sitting there, completely unaware, just trying to make you feel better.

You turn onto your back again, arms floating wide, as if the water could hold more than your body.

If you tell him, you don’t know what it’ll break. But not telling him at all?

That’s starting to hurt too.

You don’t notice the soft shuffle of bare feet across the deck. Your mind’s tangled in its own shadows—guilt gnawing quietly beneath the surface—when the water beside you stirs gently, not from your own movement.

Then—

A soft clink on the side table. A warm, calming scent curls through the night air.

Mydei crouches by the pool’s edge, setting down a small tray with careful hands. Two delicate porcelain cups, steam still rising in thin tendrils. A shallow dish of fresh-cut fruit, each piece skewered with quiet care. Biscuits arranged with almost embarrassing precision.

Your eyes flicker briefly to the absence of his shirt, revealing the strong lines of his torso and the tattoos etched across his skin, but you barely register it.

“You looked like you hadn’t eaten,” he says, almost sheepish. “I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I just guessed off the room service menu. Hope chamomile isn’t too boring.”

You blink once. Twice. Your heart stutters in a way that has nothing to do with panic this time.

“I didn’t even hear you—”

He gives you a look. “You were somewhere else.”

You don’t deny it. Instead, you drift closer to the edge as he straightens, placing his laptop on a small table by the lounger. With a few taps, music spills into the quiet: a low, beatless blend of synth and strings, ambient and soft. The kind of thing that would normally play in some high-end spa, but here, it just feels thoughtful.

Mydei dips his feet into the water, one knee bent casually as he leans back on his hands.

You prop your chin on your arms at the edge of the pool and stare up at him, heart feeling heavy and oddly full all at once.

“You’re being really nice,” you say, quiet.

He glances down at you, one brow raised. “Is that a crime?”

“No. I just didn’t expect it.”

“Didn’t think I had expectations to live up to.”

There it is again. That calm intuition of his that doesn’t pry but always seems to hit close enough that you flinch. Mydei doesn’t press or try to unravel you and what happened during that conversation with Thalia. He’s simply making space. Offering warmth without asking for anything in return.

You curl your fingers around the edge of the pool and smile faintly.

“Chamomile’s not too boring,” you say. “It’s perfect.”

He doesn’t answer, but he does smile back. Then, he leans closer to pluck one of the skewers, handing it down to you like this is normal.

But you don’t feel normal at all.

You chew slowly, the fruit sweet against your tongue, and watch the way the ambient light plays across his profile. There’s a calmness to him here, under the low glow of the moonlight, face half-shadowed, eyes soft. The same hands that wrote half of Heaven on the Horizon rest open beside him, steady and warm.

The silence should be awkward. But it’s not.

It’s safe.

“Are you always like this when someone’s freaking out?” you ask lightly. “Or is this special treatment?”

He gives a small laugh. “Only when I don’t know why they’re freaking out.”

You almost flinch. He doesn’t say it like an accusation, more like a soft truth laid out in the open. Mydei doesn’t press—he never does—but the silence that follows settles beneath your sternum and stays there. You glance at the laptop’s idle screen, noticing the way he hasn’t touched it since you started talking.

Your voice is quieter when you ask, “You were close to him, weren’t you?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know who you mean.

“Hephaestion,” Mydei says. “Yeah. I was.”

Something in his voice shifts—just a fraction, but it pulls your chest tight. You can feel it coming now, and maybe that’s why your stomach’s already twisting.

“Do you want to know?” he asks quietly. Level and honest.

You don’t answer right away, but you nod.

Maybe it’s time someone told you the entire story, not just fragmented half-truths. 

“Do you ever talk to him?”

“Sometimes. Not often.” He leans back in his chair, eyes still on the horizon. “Things got messy. Not between us, exactly. But… label pressure, timing, everything else.”

You stay quiet. Let him choose the pace.

“He didn’t leave because of the fights. Or because he hated where the sound was going.” Mydei finally glances at you. “Caenis told him to end it. His relationship with his girlfriend. Most of the execs said it was bad for our image. That it would mess with the trajectory we were building.”

A bitter little breath escapes him, it almost sounds like a laugh.

“He didn’t. When she got pregnant, the label wanted it covered up, wanted him to walk away, and he told them to go to hell.”

There’s no drama in the way he says it. No fire. Just fact. You can barely breathe.

“So he left?” you ask.

Mydei nods slowly. “They made it impossible for him to stay. He knew if he kept fighting it, we’d all go down with him. So he took the hit. Walked out, gave up everything, and didn’t even ask us to back him. What Cipher accused Aglaea of in Aidonia wasn’t the entire truth. She was just as forced to watch him go as the rest of us.”

You feel the ache of it settle in your throat.

You don’t realize how tight your hands have curled until you loosen them underwater. There’s something too familiar in what he’s saying. In the secrets people carry and the cost of telling the truth. Suddenly… you understand why Mydei didn’t pester you for answers.

Because he knows what it's like to carry something that isn’t yours alone to share.

As he gathers his thoughts, you tilt your head up toward the night sky. Like some cosmic joke, however, that damn demo that brought the two of you together in the first place starts playing on his laptop. Why he has the chaotic version downloaded, you have no clue, but the moment feels to fragile for you to call him out.

Surprisingly, Mydei comments on it first.

“Before he left, Hephaestion wrote one last song. Left the lyrics in the studio like he had no plans on finishing it at all,” he tells you quietly, sinking further into the water.

“That was the original sheet we built this one from. This song.”

It sinks in slowly, like warmth spreading from a bruise.

Of course.

Of course it was this song.

No wonder you’d been able to slip into it so easily, like it already knew you. The way the lyrics opened up under your hands like they’d always belonged there…

Because it was a song about standing tall in the wreckage. About shedding shame. About no longer asking for permission to be who you are. You’d thought you were the one giving it shape. But maybe, all along, it was giving you something too. Something you didn’t know you needed. Maybe that’s why it still hits you in the chest every time you hear it.

Because Hephaestion started it, and you finished it. 

Two people, years apart, writing their way toward the same truth.

“He never said goodbye,” Mydei adds quietly. “But he did leave those lyrics behind.”

Then, softer, as if the memory still stings:

“I think that was his way of saying it.”

You stretch your fingers out beneath the surface, slow and careful, like touching light through murky glass. The silence between you sharpens.

“Thank you,” you say quietly, turning just enough to see him in the corner of your vision. “For trusting me with that.”

Mydei doesn’t answer right away. He stays half-submerged beside you, arms draped along the ledge. But you catch it—the subtle dip of his head. The shift in his breathing.

“I know it probably wasn’t easy,” you add. “And you didn’t have to. But… I’m glad you did.”

He exhales, a soft ripple across the water. “You’ve never asked for anything just to be nosy. Felt like maybe you’d get it.”

And you do. You really, truly do. Not just the story or the loss that comes with it, but the silence that followed. The price of choosing someone you love when the world demands you prove your loyalty elsewhere.

You drift a little closer, not enough to touch, but enough to feel the heat of him through the cool of the water. “I didn’t know I was part of something bigger when I touched that song,” you say. “But now it feels like… I was supposed to be there. Like I was meant to hear what he left behind.”

Mydei tilts his head toward you, eyes half-lidded in the low light.

“You were,” he says. Simple. Certain. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Your throat goes tight. You blink up at the sky, hoping the stars can hold the tears back.

Maybe the song saved you both.

Maybe not every inheritance is a burden.

Some are a kind of trust left behind in the dark, waiting for the right hands to carry it forward.

The silence settles again, like the world’s caught its breath along with you. But then, your phone buzzes from the edge of the pool, the sound sharp and sudden against the hush. You flinch, water rippling outward from your movement. Mydei lifts a brow as you reach for it, droplets skimming down your arm as you fumble with the screen.

TRIBBIOS.

You swipe to answer.

“Hey,” you say, still a little breathless.

“Finally.” Tribbios’ voice is all exasperation and edge. “Where are you? Do you have eyes on Mydei? He’s not answering his damn phone and Aglaea’s having a minor spiral.”

You glance at him. Still in the pool. Still right here.

He raises both hands like guilty as charged and mouths, Sorry.

“Yeah,” you say, trying not to sound like you’ve been through something tectonic. “He’s with me.”

“You’re what—” Tribbios stops herself. “Okay. Good. Just get back soon. Please. The celebratory cheers for all Mnemosyne artists is coming up soon.” Before you can answer, she adds, “And tell Mydei if he ghost-schedules one more vanishing act, I’m replacing his shampoo with glitter glue.”

Then she hangs up.

You stare at the phone for a beat.

“…Should I be worried?” Mydei asks dryly.

You shake your head. “Only if you enjoy showering.”

He huffs a laugh. And just like that, the spell breaks, but the truth stays between you anyways. You pull yourself out first, water sheeting down your skin, cool night air grazing every inch of you. You pause just long enough to shake the water from your hair before noticing—

Mydei’s gone still behind you.

He’s not being obvious about it, but his hands are braced on the edge and he’s blinking at the stone tile like it holds some deep philosophical truth. It’s only when he finally climbs out after you that it occurs to you:

He is very deliberately not looking at you.

The realization catches you off-guard. You’re both used to leather and layers, always half-armored even under stage lights. But this? Bare skin, damp curves, nothing to hide behind? This is new. And judging by the tension in Mydei’s shoulders, he doesn’t know what to do with it either.

His gaze flicks up as he grabs two towels from the nearby lounge chair. He offers one out, almost too quickly. “Here. You’ll get cold.”

You reach for it, brushing his fingers in the exchange.

“Thanks,” you murmur, clutching it to your chest before starting to dry off.

But even with your back turned, you can feel him still fighting not to stare.

And truthfully?

You don’t entirely mind.

“I’m gonna go find my shirt before Tribbios sends a drone,” Mydei mutters.

You nod, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself, heart thudding with something that’s not quite leftover emotion. As he walks away, damp hair sticking to the curve of his neck and towel slung haphazardly over one shoulder, you wonder—

Just how much longer can you pretend the water between you is purely metaphorical?

TRACKLIST ✧ READ ON AO3

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[lookingfts]

No ask..just a comment. I think “Heal” is phenomenal. I love the character study of Anthony while Edmund is alive. It’s wonderfully woven into each chapter and feels so authentic. I can’t wait for more of this story!! ❤️

Thank you! I find myself very invested in this fic so I really appreciate that. I never thought much about an Edmund lives fic because his father dying is the key moment in Anthony's life, and the thing that bonds him with Kate. But I think Edmund still dealing with pain and illness gives Anthony some of that understanding with Kate, but also allows for a different perspective on his character. I have another Anthony/Edmund moment planned for later in the fic that I'm really looking forward to writing. A moment when Edmund is maybe a bit disappointed in Anthony, but also tells him exactly what he needs to hear.

Chapter 5 was amazing! These two idiots in love just can’t help themselves. If they keep sneaking around, that leaves so many chances to get caught/close calls. I cant wait to see where you go with this!

Thank you! I have a lot of stuff planned for the next few chapters, and it actually felt a bit cramped so I think I might have to bump up the chapter count by one or two. We'll see how it plays out. I want to give everything room to breathe. They will definitely tempt fate and almost get caught by one of the siblings. Once they touch each other, we know they'll never be able to keep their hands to themselves again. 😂

[andrastes-cheeks]

The mages are being horny again someone get the spray bottle

[fierykitten2]

Falcon and Robert unintentionally end up sharing a hotel room or something with a double bed long before actually starting a relationship but before they can go to sleep in it Wake and Leaves claim it and try spooning and then Leaves tells Falcon and Robert that this (their relationship dynamic) is what they could have if they weren’t so stubborn and/or dense

[tonycries]

BIG BOYYY!

Synopsis. He’s a big boy, and he’s gonna make that biiig stretch fit.

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, making it fit, they’re BIG, cervíx kíssing, D slipping, tummy buIges, manhandIing, p sIapping, GOJO’S POWERS, limitless, true form Sukuna, dp, Sukuna’s second mouth, use of “my wife”, BRÉEDING, overstím, creampíes, cúmplay, ROUGH (Geto), squírting, mating presses, MARATHONS, slight exhíbitíonism (Higuruma), proposals, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. We all need a big boyyy-

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - ENORMOUS!

“Don’t tell me yer runnin’ already, doll?” Toji’s husked breaths scorch the sagging back of your neck, a few sploshing dewdrops of saliva splattering out from his scarred lips. “M’not even hah! halfway in yet.”

What? Oh. Your head dizzies itself with the mere thought, a soft gasping moan wafting from your gaped maw. “Y-you’re lying–”

It was just too cute how your stupidly lolling head wrenches back and forth in a desperate attempt to take a goood, long look behind at the way he’s opening you up sloppily. Just the merest, tiniest swab of that tannish-pink tip spreading open your gummy walls, stretching n’ stretching. 

“M’not.” Toji grumbles out, gruff syllables hitting the curved tips of your ears. The rickety bed creaks and suddenly he’s slouching back; resting his weight just at the base of your curved spine. Before you know it, he’s got a foot pressing down on your head- “Watch me make it fit, mama.”

Two rugged hands homing themselves on either side of your prettily quivering hips, you could feel every scar and callus texturing your heated skin once Toji grits his teeth and draaaaags you down. 

Knees scuffling on the silken sheets, jittery arms trying to grapple for the headboard- anything.

You’re like a lil’ doll underneath him, all shaky as he’s manhandling you to gulp up the needy slope of his length with your slick-covered hole. More and more and more. A glossy layer of sap splashes from where he was stuffin’ you to the brim, drenching the very base of Toji’s happy trail in a glittery lacquer. 

“Would ya look at that–” You hear him drawl out from behind you, the fat pad of his thumb rubbing sluggishly down the sticky liquid pouring along his hilt. “-think this pretty pussy wants to end up hck! pregnant, doll.”

Shit, the idea he’s plugging your cottony brain with was enough to make you slobber with your arousal. You can’t help it. “Th-then do it.”

Dark brows quirked, Toji’s inching even closer to hear those whispered words of yours. And in the process he’s feeding you with a sloooow slide of his vein-covered shaft.

Almost mockingly, one of his engulfing hands reaches out to uncurl your own from the frigid bed frame. Stealing away the only thing keeping your semblance of sanity, Toji plants a sweet, sweet peck on your knuckles. “Wha’s that?”

“Th-then–” You can barely punctuate each trilling whine with words - and Toji isn’t making it any easier. Quite the opposite, in fact, after he ruts n’ ruts as you try to cry out– “-do- do it. Do it- fuuuck- wan’ you a-all inside-”

The last ringing sound out of you is a noisy squeal– followed almost instantly by the soggy slurp! of him mazing his gluey pre-capped tip past your glossed folds. And as if that wasn’t enough, Toji’s tightening his grasp on your wrist to leverage you down, down, down.

“P-please–”

“P-p-please!” He taunts dramatically from behind, octaves higher. The meaty muscles of his leg work overtime to push down your thrashing body, pinning you down and making you take it. “Stop fuckin’ moving n’ gimme- gimme a kiss, mama.”

Your tears stream down in sheeny streaks, blending with the ever-growing puddle of drool that was drenching the pillow underneath you. Poor lungs wheezing at the pressure, your sobs depart with every new swollen, throbbing inch being shoveled inside you. “H-how?”

“Tch.”

You don’t have to see it to know that Toji’s rolling his mossy, half-lidded eyes - to know that the curled ends of his lips were twisting into a lecherous smile. 

But what you certainly didn’t expect was the fleeting feeling of his lips to trace right down in a line of kisses along your perfectly arched spine. Like the calm before the storm.

The sweetest little act of pure lovin’ before Toji sets your fuzzy head free from his pressed weight, and then hooks both your arms behind your back and bottoms out–

“Meant givin’ me a kiss right ngh- here, doll.” Those snarling words strike the outside shell of your ear right before his fat, ruby-red tip was striking your cervix. Oh. Oh. 

The moment your velvety pussylips wrap ‘round his bulked base, Toji Fushiguro himself was practically collapsing right on top of you. 

His pointed chin digging into the clammy crook of your neck, sweat-polished abs glissading glibly down your back. How you looooved the drag of his naturally chiselled front, every cutting edge of his built muscles. 

He’s so fucking plump there that you can feel your fleshy innards bruise with the staggering circumference of his proud crownhead. Sweltering hot, Toji’s mushroomed tip was practically steaming out dribbles of glossy precum that flooded you from the inside out. A sleek, slippery few wires of it beading from either end of your stretched-out slit. 

Probing, fattening. 

And the stretch- oh, you couldn’t think about anything but the stretch. 

Toji wasn’t simply bottoming out, he was sinking his achy cock all the way into your lungs. Ravenous planes of his palm roaming over your tummy, Toji smirks as he feels that familiar lil’ bump from the inside. 

“Feel me? Feel me d-deeeep in that cute bulge, hm?” The sensory spheres of his fingertips scratch that bulged outline, proud. Smug. Your lungs rip out with a primal cry as his dribbling tip pokes deeply into the goopy ends of your pussy. Your cervix. Your womb. “Giving her a little ngh- kiss right here.”

“K-kissing there?” You’re babbling, stupidly.

“Mhmmm–” A few adoring little runs over where he was hitting and hitting the targeted bullseye of your g-spot. Sloshing out messy sprays of precum each and every time. “Here. Riiight here, ya hah- like it- don’cha? S’cute how wet you are.”

And you can’t even believe he’s this big - you can’t believe that he’s bloating himself up even bigger with every ragged ba-dump–! 

Pound after pound.

After pound.

The vibrations thud down your humid walls and shoot white-hot pleasure right up your spine, tongue too-heavy. “So big- so big so big— s-shooo good!”

“Yeahhh? Shooo good, is it? Look at you takin’ that f-fucking cock you said was too big.” Your teary pupils start swirling in circles upon circles inside of your eyes, matched with the exact same pace that Toji was thumbing on the shiny outside of your hole. Letting out the rawest, loudest sluuuurp when he pushes a thumb in– “Now we’re gonna work on that hck! stretchin’, mama.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Cuffin’ season.

Nanami thinks he’s about to lose it - Nanami thinks he’s about to combust. 

And he already has- a proper five helpings of his creamy, buttery cum coating your insides after so many rounds upon rounds. You were stuffed to the very brim with all your husband’s sweltering hot bouts of seed, and his tastebuds coat over with a fresh wave of saliva at your hugging cunt.

Mouth-watering. 

Nanami turns his molten, honeypool eyes over to the way your mouth hung wiiidely agape. His ruby-red tip spotting out a few more dangerous splotches of pre at the very sight of you struggling to take him more than just halfway.

“My love—” Deep baritone voice dipping into a gentle coo, his stern lips swerve up into a little grin when your pretty body trembles. “Open your eyes, darlin’- lemme see those beautiful eyes.”

Shit- you’re simply cross-eyed and dazed almost cartoonishly once you do. Your throat ripping with a few sobs at the feeling of his swiveling cock probing a few inches deeper - without even trying. So overstimulated that you can only blubber–

“K-Ken- Ken–” Hips trying and failing to raise off of the drenched-through bedsheets, you’re only succeeding in carnally itching the hood of your clit against his golden happy trail. 

“M’here, my wife–” Aw, it always made his blushed red tip twitch whenever you got this cockdrunk. A tint of loving red flushing over his high cheekbones, and one of Nanami’s massive palms claw over your sweat-matted crown to push, push, push. “You can take it, g-gonna take it allll f’me this time- aren’tcha?”

And you can only nod and nod– your sloppy hole always got so much needier after a few good, solid orgasms. N’ every scrape of his swollen, vein- shrouded shaft left you speechless, head throwing back when the grinding curve of his cock pinpoints your g-spot like two magnets. 

Nanami’s so big that he had to get you all dumb until you’re aching to be stuffed ever-more. Hiding away about ten proper inches that instinctively molded your battered pussy to all his pretty measurements. 

A few curly hairs of his tawny trail tickle your plump clit, waterlogged into a swampy mess with how much you were leaking. How much he was making you leak.

“Real pretty pussy, darlin’.” The cold fringe of his wedding band makes you let off a whiny hiss, smearing open your puffed-up pussylips with a sluggish sluuuurp. “So cute grindin’ on me. She’s like a lil’ hah- heart.”

Glassy, half-lidded eyes of yours blink upwards, “Shit-” Your unsteady knees thrash back into the curves of your tits, feeling his tannish cockhead slip against your sponged cervix. Tender. Bruised. You can’t help but throw your head back and reach for your headboard- “Shit shit shit shit- Ken–!”

“No no no no- don’t run away, my love–” Grunting, one of his arms clings around your squirming waist to pin you down. To hold you still so that Nanami’s other hand can guide one of your own over his plushly toned left pec - where he had your initials secretly tattooed, right above his heart. “Gonna take it, alriiight? Gonna take it like my hngh- good wife.”

His pretty wife. His gorgeous wife. 

Slobbering down thick stripes of slick n’ cum as he curls a hand around your throat and ruts. “S-see how much I love you, hmmm?” His split-ended head searches for your cute womb, and such saccharine mewls leave your lips once you feel yourself gapingly full. Once he was pounding a heavy-duty thrust into you until every thought departs your fuzzy mind. Bottoming out. “How much I- oh.”

Your entire body just lathers with the smell of sex and his musky cologne once Nanami’s sensual mushroom tip unapologetically snags against the ridged orifice of your g-spot. Whack. Whack. Whack- all it takes before you cum.

And you’re not just cumming - you’re squirting. 

Your vision invaded with spots of white-hot pleasure and you’re falling over the edge, arms throwing around his neck. Fingers reaching for his perspiration-dewed undercut, “Fuck- fuck m’cumming m’cumming, Ken–”

Like he wouldn’t notice– yeah, right. Nanami’s slamming into you until his pelvis rubs rawly crimson, raspy throat clogging up with your name. Your cunt just flinches with every peak of high he’s fucking you through. Dragging you through.

Really sloppy. 

Continuously probin’ the tender places of your magical spots with every echoed thwack! Your eyes almost bulge out of their sockets as he swabs up the syrupy sheen of squirt decorating all your inner thighs. 

Those slick-drenched tips of his fingers sticking right between your slackened mouth, “Sweet- isn’t it, darlin’?” Breaths labored and harsh- Nanami himself sounded like he was only keeping himself together at the very seams.

His long, light lashes flap blearily, “What- wha’s that?” You’re only gurling out lucious lil’ spitballs from either side of your mouth, heart-eyed pupils doing most of the talking. His face tints a blushing pink, temples matted with beads and beads of sweat. “Awww, my wife wants ta s-spit in my ngh- fuckin’ mouth, huh?”

And before you know it- you are. Before you’re even in control, so that your husband’s prominent Adam’s apple bobs with a moan– “Mhmm– there we go, my sweet girl.” Mouth doused. “Happy?”

The curvaceous ridges of his abs gleam and glitter with sweat, tensing once his thrusts grow sloppier. Deeper. Shoving you into the screeching bedsprings, such a nicely burning stretch that your lips keep uncontrollably forming an adorable lil’ oh! The only thing snapping you back into reality being the layers of viscid cum gumming against your walls, and the way that Nanami’s bulbously bloated tip twitches.

Fuck- he didn’t even know if he could cum. Didn’t know if he even wanted to. 

But with you laid out underneath him like this? How could he not?

Trying and trying and trying and when Nanami finally reaches his high it’s with his pummeling inches pillaging your very glossed core, allll the way deep inside so that you could almost feel him in your throat. Burning hot. 

One spurt, two spurts. He’s not even reaching three slippery, slick ribbons of cum before he’s all milked dry. The very mound of his blushing tip slapping constantly until Nanami’s visage spots black. Until his toes curl, thighs shivering. 

You look up at him and you think you could cum all over again. 

Because he’s so fucking…pretty. 

All blond hair disheveled- but doing nothing to curtain his greedy gaze, sweaty upper lip trembling– Nanami pecks your forehead sweetly, “Mmmm– marry me all over again, my love?”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Rrrrrrough

Now, Geto was so big that all he has to do is plug your cunt with his red n’ swollen tip to leave you stupidly cockdrunk. To leave you mewling and squirming underneath him in such a sloppy, sloppy mating press - your hips jerking off the bed as if your dew-sheened walls weren’t just begging for more.

And ohhh, was he smug about it. 

“C’mooooon–” Geto’s sharp grin is so sleazy that you feel it sending electric trills down your desperately arched spine. Perspiration-dampened forehead resting on top of yours, he plants a resounding smack! on your puffed lips. “-s’that all ya got, gorgeous?”

Pap after powerful pap that was making your slick-dribbling entrance start to overflow, rounded globular tip of his scratching your walls down straightly in lewd lines. The deeply probing sensation so sinful that it makes you keen, “N-no! Stop teasin’ n’ just fuck me, Suguru.”

“Fuck you with-” Another spank, and another singular inch bullied past your hole. “-jus’ the tip, riiight?” 

As if to prove his point - oh, he already knows he’s proved his point - Geto’s fucking you with only that globed top. Frosting out creamy pre every time his shaft crownhead “accidentally” slipped out n’ left you clenching around nothing. 

Geto leaves three staccatos of spanks over your still-clothed, ruined cunt, the burning friction against his delicate veins making him hiss. “Can this pretty pussy even handle all hah! that?”

Such a tease. All you can do is clench your poor walls instinctively, formulating a few frothy bubbles of slick that ring around his fat hilt. Messy. “No, I want it a-all.”

His stubborn girl. 

Well- with a rickety creak, your unsteady legs are being thrown over his deltoids before you know it. Slipping n’ sliding until he’s locking them with one grasp of his beefy arms, making you ogle the sexy flex of his milky biceps. 

Geto Suguru was a mean man. With an even meaner cock, swelling into an even girthier circumference whilst he’s thumbing open your sap-glossed pussylips. Your cunt lets off the loudest, moistest sluuuurp! as he’s splattering a good bucketload of spit. 

“Hmmm, you asked for it–”

And then he isn’t easing in - he isn’t going slow. Hell no, in mere sultry nanoseconds, you’re being split so open by the entirety of Geto’s ruddied, prolonged length that you see stars.

Perhaps even the gates of heaven themselves- or, at least, you would have if you hadn’t caught a glimpse of his devilish leer. Gleaming pearly whites clenched so hard that his tastebuds coat with the slight twang of metal, gruff. 

You’re slapping at his cushy pecs and thrashing at the wide-wide-wide stretch. Even he was fucking losing it- long lashes fluttering to fight back from wrenching them shut, mouth agape, throat bobbing. 

Grunting, “C’mon- c’mon now.” Every syllable was punctuated with a harsh drag of his slobbering cock, your drenched panties only pulled to the side n’ at the complete and utter mercy of his pulsing length. His breath hitches when a solid slam! of his hips leaves your pussy spurting out in a scorching hot bucketload of slick.

Thick, sphere-shaped ends of his fingers dig underneath your underwear and reach back to give your leaking cunt a quick snap! “T-take it alllll up f’me, gorgeous. Tha’s right.”

And the sheer stretch is so good, carnally itching each inch and ounce of space inside you. The crowned cap of Geto’s boated tip makes your nails claw all dooooown his prominently muscled shoulders. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, Suguru–”

“S’that all ya hafta say?” With a quick roll of his hazed amethyst eyes, he’s snatching one of your wrists to trek up to his clammy throat. Sticking your palm over, he’s making sure your nails dig cutely into his skin. And through the glued cracks of your eyelids, you think you see his lips glisten with drool. “Choke me a lil’ don’t be ngh- shy–”

Geto’s slender hand pops out with so many decorative veins once he’s making you tighten your clingy arms. 

The curled tip of rose-pink tongue flops out between the slobbered crevice of your lips, and he’s slouching languidly to pound you on his vulgar length. A rocking back n’ forth that spearheads all the way from his bulbous dripping head to the neat tufts of his happy trail.

Having his own way with you, sliding that heavy cylindrical weight inside as you spill out in pitchy whines. 

Not too fast - something laaaaazy and sensual that leaves you counting every ruthless inch. One. two. Three. Seven. Nine- 

“Sh-shit, s’too much–” You’re crying out, your lips warbling out the cutest sobs. Geto’s long, inky hair softly tickles the sides of your face as he leans down ever-closer. Letting you scratch and bruise allll that you pleased. 

“Yeah? Yeah? Take it- take it all out on me, girl.” He’s snickering out, thwacking the curvaceous edges of his digits to make your fingernails leave pretty crescents on his heated flesh. A bright, burning blush breezes over his skin at the feeling of you caressing him from the inside. “Mmm- Lemme feel ya squeeze- lemme feel it.”

So pretty the way both sets of your lips were gleaming in a burnished sheen of sap, dangling out of your entrance in slippery ribbons. 

Honestly, you’re pulsating so hard that the throb of your fluttering folds was visible to his greedy eyes. With a sleek, quirked brow, he nudges away your sappy lips and pinches your puffed-up clit. 

Oh, you gasp.

Such a tease. Rubbing on your clit, Geto’s egging you on with every thundering slam. Just the skidding crown of his shaft leaving simpering smooches all underneath your g-spot. He was long enough that even a slight inch too deep leaves a battered crater up against your spongy cervix, blushing red tip overspilling so many copious globs of pre. 

Again and again.

“Harder.” 

“Wh-what if I choke you-”

“Harder.”

His half-lidded eyes flash when the inner sides of your thighs twitch, breaths lilting unsteadily airier in a way that was so telling. You were about to cum from just his sheer size.

And as adorable as that was, Geto had something else on his mind.

Your mouth pants out a sugary puff of air when you’re manhandled in nothing but seconds. Head spinning with comical stars when he’s flipping the two of you over to rest the globes of your ass on his sharply jutted v-line. Plump clit dragging all over the wiry hair on Geto’s base. 

Body shuddering as if you couldn’t believe just how deeply plunged he was, the raised circle of his geysering orifice houndin’ your cervix. It’s all you can do to focus your glassy peripherals on his sweetly flushed face. 

“Now…” Words coming out labored and loving– Geto guides your hands to squeeze his pretty neck tight. “Choke me wh-while you ride this biiig fuckin’ cock, gorgeous.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Be humble?!

“Ch-Chooooso–!” Your spit-glued lips flap stupidly with each n’ every nudging inch your sweet, sweet boyfriend was slipping inside of you. Sloooowly, so that you’re seeing stars on every thick, throbbing vein slipping past your slit. Sensually opening up spots you didn’t even know existed. 

Honestly, he wasn’t even halfway in and yet he had you seeing stars- “More. More, baby.”

And Choso? Oh, it was brutal.

The very moment that shrilling whisper departs from your pretty mouth, his parched Adam’s apple cracks with a whine. Clinging on helplessly to the side of your quivering hips with a massively clammy palm, he watches up through half-lidded eyes while you take him vulgarly good in this mating press.

Every squelch after squelch after squelch making his mushy brain oversaturated with only the thought of you and that sloppy, sloppy pussy.

A wet trickle of saliva starts up from the cherry-red corners of his lips, “Ohhh, you’re so wet.” Practically swallowing every thrust. “Am- Am I really that haaaah! big, baby?”

Was that even a question?

Damn near nine- maybe even ten whole inches that snagged at your most tender orifices without even trying. Every sharp plap! of Choso’s rutting pelvis swerving into yours left you dumbfounded, with only the slightest push of his thickly capped tip pokin’ your g-spot. So wide that your mouth was dropping into the same pathetic ‘o’ your pussy was being stretched out into. 

And he was so messy with it, too - honestly, you didn’t know if you were soaked through more because of your sappy wetness or because of the way that his ruby-red cockhead was drenching you from the inside out in such syrupy globs of pre. 

It’s sticking the inners of your trembly thighs together like adhesive, spattering out a few beaded speckles once your body comes slamming up to Choso’s. 

“I-it is.” You don’t even have to fake the way your voice shatters, a whiny little pitch that fills his vibrating eardrums like his favorite song. 

His massive hand digs even tighter on your waist, holding you almost midair so that your perked clit was gyrating deliciously against the scratchy texture of his dark happy trail. Frolicking to and fro, to and fro, to and fro. “I-is it really?”

“Yes- yes, Cho—! C-can feel you so ngh- deep inside…” Your watery pupils sprint dartingly towards the backs of your eyes, “Wan’ you even deeper.”

Fuck- a steamy batch of even more precum dribbles inside your snug cunt, so much of it that Choso has to drag his thumb between your slivery slit. Scooping up a few wadded webs from your puffy folds to plug inside your mouth-

“Don’t- don’t s-say that! Don’t talk like that-” Preeeeessing down on you with all his bulking, toned weight to make you shut up. He’s huffin’ in scorched pants against your headlessly wheezing lips, the scratchy texture of his cute tongue coming down to flick at the drool seeping endlessly out of you. “-s’g–gonna make me cum. Gonna make me…”

Choso was so fucking pretty that you’re distracted for a good few seconds.

All dampened, mahogany hair and doe-eyes that peered down at you shyly. The very bridge of his button nose crinkles once he feels your intense gaze on him, cheekbones staining with a blossoming red blush all the way from the very tips of his ears. He was hot. 

And before you can even blink your tear-glittered lashes, you’re being flipped over with only a fraction of Choso’s true strength. So that you’re on top of him.

Both groaning in carnal unison- did his length somehow bloat even bigger? You swear you’re feeling him bully a few more moistened inches past the rubbery ring of your entrance, tugging open your gummy walls. 

“T-tell me how big again–?” Slightly smug streak showing off. 

“So- oh!”

The plush mattress rickets out soft creaks! as his sculptured abdomen pushes upwards against your tight channel. Again. And again. And again and again- “Keep talkin’, baby. Wanna fit it- wanna- need ta fit it all–”

Your hands sprawl out precariously on top of his tensing core, smearing over the sheeny gloss of sweat on his pecs. Gasping swiftly, “Ch-Choso- nghhh- what-” Promptly, your spine arches into the perfect curvature on top of him, crashing your mouth into his. “What- hngh- tell me what you want, baby–?”

Oh, Choso’s almost too busy suckling on your kiss-bitten lips like his favorite candy to answer. Leaving a cloying stain of spittle behind, he’s slouching back into a sexy stance against the pillows. All eyes on you. “C-can do that- that lil’ thing with your ngh- chips, baby? Wan’ you to ride me hard.”

And how could you deny him when he was boring dead-on up at you with fawny heart-pupils like that?

“You meannnn— this?”

Geering yourself up, you’re immediately motioning your hips into the most lecherous figure eight that leaves Choso slobbering - from both fountaining divots. All the way from his simmering, drool-flooded tastebuds to that innocently strawberry-pink aperture he’s streaming out of.

Filling your tender nooks n’ crannies with so much dewy seed, his meaty thighs are splaying open like a slut so you can curve your hips into more rounded circles. Swabbing the pounding ba-dump-! of his pulsing cock ‘round and ‘round, your heart lurches to your throat when he’s tap-tap-tapping the firm ridge of his mushroomed tip on your bruised g-spot. 

Almost like…a little warning. 

A warning before Choso grabs a fistful of your slam-impacted ass and pulling you to him. Finally, finally bottoming out.

From what sounds like far off in the distance - at least to your popped ears - lets out a strained rasp. “...swallowing me. Ngh! Swallowing allll of me, my girl.” Breathless. Broken. Octaves higher, like Choso himself couldn’t believe. 

“Th-thank you-” And all you could see of his pretty eyes right now was pure white, he was in heaven. His upper lip coating with a fresh wave of perspiration, he was practically melting into you right now. Mouth parting at the clingy strands of his own cum simply pouring out of you. “Thank you- thank you thank you thank you— nghh–”

“S’cute, Cho–” He twitches rawly when you loll your head down to sneak a peck near the edge of his mouth.

“S’embarrassing…” And you’re feeling his fat cock jolt a few more times inside of you, sploshing around in the mess he’s created. Dangerously so. Oh, you knew what that meant. Sparkling eyes locked down on where your pussy was throbbing, Choso’s plump lower lip wobbles as he’s hiccuping out, “Oh…m’gonna make a mess again, baby…”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Big, big, big

“S’not gonna fit like that, ma.” The king of curses has the audacity to roll his devilish eyes at the sight of your pitifully trembling legs, clawing a hand down your sheeny glossed inner thighs with a snicker. “Ya gotta hold ‘em up nice and hah- wide-”

Whining, your calves burn. “Like this?”

“Wider if yer gonna take me.”

Honestly, this full nelson was the absolute meanest you’ve ever been put into - and Sukuna was ruthless. 

Not even your whimpering wails was enough to stop him from stretching your drooling pussy out with rounds upon rounds upon rounds. He had stamina till the end of time- and your gummy, cum-slicked walls were simply holding him hostage. 

Frothing out a thick knot of creamy white seed right on top of his matchingly hard cocks, one of Sukuna’s four arms reach down to thumb allll over the mess you were making. Smearing out a polished shine where his rotund tips were bawling, “Why’s this pussy so fuckin’ wet, brat?”

With a stinging slap to your dripping pussymound - and then another one with the front of his monstrous second tongue, you were just about ready to collapse. 

“Honestly–” Sukuna’s cushioned pecs rumble you up n’ down like a bobblehead as he titters, pinning you down with a lil’ choking hand on your tender neck. “-do I hafta teach ya how to k-keep it inside?”

“Fuh-fuuuuck–!” The dreamy sighs of your moans increase tenfold once you’re mercilessly facing the steady lap of his tongue. His massive tongue. The one split open where Sukuna’s washboard abs were slickly glissading behind you, monstrously letting your cunt gush and pour down his second throat. 

So filthy. 

And Ryomen Sukuna knows he could make swift work with your milky pussy, he knows he could save you your embarrassment of hearing those raw squelch-squelch-squelches! every time the plummy hill of his tongue was flopping back n’ forth down your silvery slit. 

But where was the fun in that?

Instead, he’s bouncing his incredibly meaty thighs to jostle your helpless body up further. Sneering, “Keh- making such a mess of things, brat. N’ I’m the one ta clean it up.” You swear you’re feeling both sets of his mouths grin at the glue-like coating slipping between your legs. “Ya know what this means?”

It takes you a few seconds to pronounce your gasps out through the globs of spittle watering your mouth, “Wh-what?”

“Now I hafta ngh- fill this cute cunt up again.”

But Sukuna didn’t sound sad about that fact.

No, the exact fucking opposite. He was delighted to feel the way your aroused dribble slips out in a steady waterfall at the round, stout crowns of his cocks break past your first snug ring of muscle. Pushing and pushing and pushing.

“S’that what you want, human?” He coos hoarsely from behind, so fucking big - all of him. Simply towering underneath you to manhandle you into every pliable position possible. 

One of Sukuna’s pink-tipped nipples grazes your mouth and before you know it, you find yourself sucking. Tongue sloshing out such fat wads of spit that it leaves your throat feeling oh-so-parched, “Shiiiit- Ya got e-even wetter, dirty lil’ thing. Look at how she’s droolin’ f’me.”

Drooling was an understatement. 

Your cunt was practically flooding in translucent bucketloads of silvery slick- and another hot load leaks out of you that Sukuna swipes a thumb down, popping it swiftly into his mouth. 

So caught up in the simmering heat of his skin and his saccharine taste that you don’t even realize it - anything - before Sukuna’s splitting you apart once more.

Grunting, “Oi oi- watch the goods.”

Your hand reaches out somewhere, anywhere– and ends up clawing red, red lines across his tattooed shoulders. “P-please.” You’re babbling out stupidly, head fizzing into empty cotton at the red n’ swollen cocks stuffing inside you. Deep inside. Sukuna’s overspilling divots scrape against the tender spots embedded into your walls and leaving you sobbing.

“Loud girl.” 

Splat! Your mouth crashes against his palm in a gentle cupping - and not just his palm, Sukuna’s second cursed mouth that had manifested its way expressly to make out with your kiss-bitten lips. 

Lecherous mouth parting yours to roam over n’ over into every nook and cranny, his tongue was just savoring your taste like a gummy. Your driveling sap leaving the mountain of his palm glued to your chin, Sukuna chortles, feeling the treacly splats of saliva. Hot. “Wanna hear her, m’kay, ma? Her.”

Another bulky few inches of his fattened lengths, so big that every throb leaves your body jerking helplessly. Bucking and bucking - every striking pap! just to fit inside. 

Sukuna was so inhumanly big - both of his cocks so achingly hard it’s as if they were made out of diamonds. Stacked right one on top of the other and sagging your poor cunt with the sheer weight of him. 

As if he stretches on for miiiiles before your tear-dropped gaze catches sight of those sexy black rings tattooed around Sukuna’s bases. Barely even visible underneath the frosty white syrupy of his seed sploshing at your womb. 

Every tiny slip n’ slide makes his slick lengths rub deliciously against one another, stretching you out wiiiidely. The fat spherical curves of his cockhead pull you tautly open until you’re speechless. He didn’t even need to try to leave your tummy bloated with the cylindrical bumps of his twin, swollen cocks. “Awww, look at that lil’ ngh! Bulge.”

Caressing a thickened pad of one set of fingers over where he was filling you up ridiculously, pressing down. Hard. “Kuna-”

“Hmm- say the magic word. Beg a lil’ more f’me.”

Your jittery legs are pushing back and he’s dragging you back down. It always did make him groan just how much you could take, stoppin’ you from running your pretty self away. “Please!”

Sloppily jerking until with a final, heaving rut- he’s bottoming out.

“Please- please please please–” The caps of your knees hit your tits while Sukuna splays you out sluttily, blinking down eagerly at the way your crevice gulps him till the very end. Overstuffed. “Fuck me- ngh! Fuck me, Kuna–”

“Oh- m’not just gonna fuck you, spoiled brat–” He’s biting down on his lip, feeling the way your sloppy pussy clenches in surprise once the textured edge of his second mouth once more tickles your outer folds. And you gasp–

“Whaaaat?” Sukuna drawls, dangerous. Pussydrunk- enough that you’re sure his next few sloppy syllables come out a whine. “M’hungry, ma. N’ you’re the sweetest lil’ desert.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - “Sh-shut up…”

And not even Ino’s desperate tug ‘round his sweat-tinted ski mask could hide away the feverish blush cascading across his face. Growing ever-redder whilst he snaps off the last few dampened remnants of his condom.

Broken.

Your mouth waters with something hotly simmering as you take in the entire sight of his ruby-red tip, as plump n’ wet as a popsicle - and just as sweet, you’re sure. Now, Ino was big– prettily thick enough to leave your cunt throbbing, with veins for daaays decorating his length. 

Throb-throb-throbbing merely at the thought of you. 

And the only thing more irresistible than his fat, swollen cock was the boy himself in all his pussydrunken glory. 

Your tone dips with something sensual, thick whilst the words depart from your ajar maw. “Baby– show me your face.” You’re perking your hips up to his, drawing looong slippery glides down his perfectly ridged length. “C’mon, Taku–”

The tawny edges of his bangs fray out, almost curtaining his dewy, half-lidded eyes. Ino leaves a staccato of thwack! thwack! thwacks! right over the saturated slope of your pussy. Spit-dribbled lips parting with need, “Sh-shhhh. M’gonna hah- cum from jus’ that pretty voice, sweetness.”

You’re almost left speechless at the utterly vulgar slurps emanating from down under, just the crowned tip of his maddening length teasing your sloppy entrance. Your rubbery hole catches on his globe-shaped cockhead and you almost keen—

“Oh, Taku—” Your voice warbles out prettily, trilling with the type of pout you knew would make his heart race. “Wan’ you to give it t’me- don’t be shy, please, baby.”

The only indication that your poor boyfriend had heard you was the pink flush breezing all over the tip of his ears to the back of his neck. And Ino sinks the pearly white edges of his teeth into his lower lip, a thin trail of sweat beading down his temple. 

Pumping his hips in a sultry back n’ forth, the tip-top of his streaming divot spurts out the most lecherous globs of pre that drip between your slit. Down, down, down.

Greedy hands sliding underneath his mask, pulling it off- “Pl- mmpf!”

He couldn’t handle another beg from your gorgeous, gorgeous mouth. Couldn’t handle another second of you drooling from both puffy lips in need of his fat cock. 

Before you can even let out the final few syllables of your finishing blow, Ino sticks his hands into an interlacing crown on top of your sweaty scalp and pushes you down. Teasingly slow so that you’re crying out on every zig-zagging vein scratching your magical insides, the plummy ends of his base leaving your tender pussymound stinging with his chesnut happy trail. 

Pushing and pushing, every thickly bludgeoning inch leaves you slobbering. Your hazy irises running away alllll the way towards the deep, dark depths of your eyelids at the feeling of him probing. 

And when it rains– it pours. 

Just a single inch - not even halfway inside your fountaining orifice and Ino finds himself gone. Long lashes flapping, spit-slicked mouth gawking, fuck- even his poor thighs were trembling with every suckling slip you’re swallowing up.

“Oh…oh.” Comes out Ino’s labored breaths, the plumpness of his lips dragging mindlessly across your cheek. Huff! huff! huff! comes out his steaming pants, voice croaking. “Th-think I’m…in love-”

Smearing your shaky legs further apart, the circles of Ino’s eyes dart down to watch every. single. second of the way your swollen pussylips were quivering around his proud cylindrical circumference. Aroused. 

“T-Taku.” You whisper, and the man flinches. Moving in a flurry - moving all at once to shrug off his ski mask completely and watch you.

Almost as if on autopilot, the doughy tips of his digits dart down to your clit. Tender. Worshipping. Drawing the most filthy circles right over where your hooded peak was the utmost sensitive- you swear you even catch him scooping up a few wadded knots of your juicy slick and slipping them into his mouth.

The blacks of his pupils dilate once a deepening push has your snug ring of muscle resisting - his wide girth so fucking big that you’re still struggling to take him. Oh, somewhere along your sap-flooded walls, you feel his bulbous head starting pulsing. 

“Go inside.” Ino strains out - still not looking at you, still not even breathing. “Go inside go inside go- please-” His melodic baritone cracks after every rut, every massage of his toned abdomen tensing over yours. Fingers faster, yearning. “K-keep your legs held up f’me, pretty- c’mon–”

Your limbs are trembling, aching at the stinging slams he was pouncing on you. Battering away. The only thing flitting about your mind being the raw stretch and Ino’s “-pleasepleaseplease. Take it.”

And once you do - once with a good few vulgar strokes, he bottoms out - Ino thinks he’s seeing heaven. The fringes of his fingertips twitching on your sensitive nub, making you see stars. 

A fog of sweltering groans escapes him, toned chest glittering with a few specks of sweat as he heaves. As he hunches his shuddering body over and bucks–

“Sh-shiiiit, Taku–!” Your jaw drops into the prettiest lil’ oh! Hips raising a few centimeters off of your creaky bedsprings with sheer force because Ino was fucking into you rough. “It’s good- so good s-sooo—”

“Yeah? Yeah?”

Something in Ino’s voice was taking a high lilt, crazed. And your eyes shutter at the slow buzzing sensation of cursed energy leaking from his fingerpads. Possibly to stop the two of you from breaking bones.

You’re gurgling out, “You’re so pretty Taku–”

Suddenly, his round tip swabs the doorway to your womb pointedly. Swiping a generous dollop of creamy pre, and Ino’s breath catches. Feeling the heated mess he’s making inside, wanting to make more. The clingy center of his palm touches right over the middle of your tummy, pushing down. “I love you.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - STRONGEST

You knew you shouldn’t have let Gojo Satoru hear about this lil’ thing called a…mating press. You knew you shouldn’t have painted a sinful enough picture that the strongest lost his goddamn mind. 

Pretty cerulean eyes flashing with something primal before he promptly threw you over his shoulder and fucking teleported to your bedroom nearby. After that it was lights out for you– or, at least, it was hours and hours ago. 

His slightly-trimmed happy trail drenched until the snowy white’s almost turning into a faint purple, the length of his ravaged n’ raw aching cock still jackhammers away in overstimulated little rocks against your hips. 

Over and over Gojo’s reaching magical orifices you never knew possible. So biiiig that each thrust feels like an eon, dragging dragging dragging all the way from his blossomed red tip to his massively bulged hilt. Ridiculously wide.

Fat wads of knotted cum clinging onto the tender underside of his blushing shaft, he’s positively ruining you from the inside out. Stirring your goopy insides about with every maddened slam! his vicious pace, the pinpricked divot right on the middle of his globed mushroom tip stings with how hard he’s plapping into you.  

“Please- p-please–” Your eyes crinkling with adorable beads of tears that sparkle in the dim lighting- in the way Gojo’s own gaze glows with bolts of blue, blue lightning. “S’fuckin’ good, Toru—”

And not even that lil’ nickname of yours makes Gojo move- doesn’t even make him falter like he usually would. As if he was in a trance. 

Plunging and plunging the barrelling inches of his girthy length until all gusts of air whoosh from your panting lungs. He weighs his towering, sheened body over your own and presses down, thumbing away your sap-glued folds with a squelching sluuurp to help you take him all in. 

“Gotta- gotta get you-” Comes out his crackling voice, raspy. Broken enough that it’s almost a growl - he’s set off and he won’t stop. “Gotta get you- need to get you-”

“Get- get me what–” You’re gurgling out, even though you already had a fuzzy inkling about the answer. 

“Gotta get you…” He’s trailing off, mellifluous voice withering away into nothing when a hand drifts over your tummy. Where a luscious little bump was formulating, where it was growing ever-rounder n’ rounder with every splosh of buttery pre being pumped into you. Oh. 

There’s a leaden ball permanently homing itself in Gojo’s bobbing throat like he couldn’t even begin to finish his sultry sentences. Simply letting them waft over the clam-struck crook of your neck right along with spattering sprays of perspiration. 

And tears. Oh, were there tears.

Your lovely boyfriend’s pretty peripherals were just glossed over with so many countless layers of water, salted caramel tears striking your features after every whacking slap!

So wide that even your unfastened maw couldn’t open into a sweetly innocent ‘o’ as girthy as that of your slick-pouring hole. Rubbery ring stretched out soooo fucking wide that those brutal bucks made you overspill with Gojo’s soppy white cum.

Gasping. Heaving from the deepest depths of his chiseled chest, “C’mon- in- in in in—”

Struggling to fit him in with all your sappy stuffing. 

“N-noooo s’leaking…” Your whining whimpers reach his popped eardrums and make the strongest jolt, like he’d just been struck by a thousand different voltages. Blearily, his pupils escape from the backs of his heavy lids and rest - unfocused - on your fucked-out face. You pout, “-s’wasting.”

And Gojo’s eyes sliiiide sluggishly down to where your pretty pussy was leaking, drooling with an ivory fountain of seed. And then allll the way back to your hazed heart-eyes. Oh. 

You were fucked. 

It all happens in a singular bat of your tear-stuck lashes- in one nanosecond, Gojo’s soundlessly rovering his elongated fingers to scope between your dampened thighs and casting a miniature limitless. Plugging you up until those sloshing ribbons of cum were ceased right behind your geysering entrance. 

Full. 

“Now s’in-” Gojo gapes, and somewhere along the way you’re registering that his softened palm on your tummy is simmering out steam. Powerful. A scorched burn of a blush invading his handsome cheeks- “Now for her- her-” The hand toying with your pussymound slips a singular fingerpad inside to stretch you wiiiide open- “-need inside. Inside.”

Pounding and pounding, the velvety hug of your pussy was so tight that every swollen, red inch inside let off the most lecherous squelches. Your pupils swirl in stupid circles, “Inside- w-wan’ it all inside, Satoru.”

Gojo’s pace was starting to sound like rapid clapping, the smell of powerful ozone and sex clinging onto him by the time he bumps his sweat-matted forehead into yours. 

Whispering from the guttural back of his rusty throat, “You can do- you can you can d-do it, sweetheart.” It’s just about the first coherent sentence he’s let off in hours now, unable to even speak unless he wants to exert himself- or cum.

The fringe of his pasty end of his thumb sticks like adhesive against your pussy and lets himself plunge in ever-deeper. “Take it. Take it, please.” Rumbling baritone breaking. A crooked smile twists his cherry-red lips, crazed. “Gotta get you pregnant, my girl.”

It was a promise - and Gojo Satoru was a man of his word. 

A steaming cloud of moans depart from your bruised lips when Gojo circles his motioning hips back just enough- enough to angle out a direct whack to your cervix and hit it. Bottoming all out. 

The stretch was astronomical now that his tender ballsack was up n’ personal with the treacly base of your cunt, twitching the very moment a surprised bout of slick seeps through his limitless and drenches him. And you’re simply mewling at the texture of his tiny white curls tickling your clit. 

Swirlin’ the shivering tip of his shaft until he’s thoroughly massaging all your sweetest spots, mapped out. Though, the way that a ring of cursed energy circles Gojo’s sapphire irises makes you think he’s using his power without even realizing. 

Without even thinking. Without even breathing– nothing but a low mutter of “Get pregnant- get- get pregnant.” Burning fingertips smearing your legs open wider, “Need it- want it- gotta breed- fuck! Gotta get- pregnant-”

Your knees slap the mounds of your tits, back arching helplessly against your coiled mattress springs- and you swear a few were breaking through the silken sheets. Tattered. “Give it- fuck fuuuuck–”

Filthy, desperate probes. 

You didn’t know who was more gone - you or him.

He’s just so hot that he’s practically burning. Feverish all the way from the simmering sizzle of skin pressed up against your skin, and the furious tip on his massively tunneling length. Red hot. Simply melting.

Hooded eyes locked on your bulging pussylips, his swallowed-up digits give a firm sort of spank just to confirm. Just to make sure his saccharine mind wasn’t dreaming. 

“It’s in–” he breathes out, overworking heart thud-thud-thudding against your chest whilst he still failed to catch his breath. A silvery globule of spit dribbles from Gojo’s hanging maw to yours, wrenched shut by one of his firm hands so you can swallow. “-all in. All mine. Mine t-t’get you pregnant, my girl.”

And this is where the real fun was about to start.

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - Rodeo Romeo!

Higuruma wasn’t just big - he was massive. 

He was thrusting the knobbled globe of his cock past your gluey, glutinous lips and watching with a slight blush as you whiiiine. Your spit slicking out in thin ribbons each n’ every time he dips his rounded mushroom tip in a deep push into your mushy depths. 

So springy, even the slightest recoil leaves you aching for more– stringing out pearly beads of slick. He’s just so plump that you can feel his dribbling orifice cushion your g-spots with repeated blows. Again and again.

Until your knuckles pull taut against the edge of his office desk– right where your husband’s laptop was open on a partly-muted work call only mere inches away.

It’d taken about an hour - an hour of cockwarming and teasing and driving the stoic man wild until he’d crushed that button to turn the camera off and immediately plugged you stupidly full. Just like you’d wanted.

“Ya got it, angel.” Higuruma lets off gruff whispers against one of your ears, snickering to himself at the way his scorched hot breaths make your skin erupt in goosebumps. The wiry frames of his work glasses press up against your tender throat- frigid plastic steaming cold. “S’good, hm?”

So intimate - even though your buzzing eardrums could make out the noises of his colleagues chatting so closely. So lecherously. 

“S-s’good–” you breathe, squirming at the way his fattened balls meeting your plump folds in a loving kiss hello. You lurch at the slight wet plop! of his battering cock sinking even deeper inside of you. “So good, Hiromi.”

His fatly padded thumb draws sensual circles where your hips are hitting at a stinging pace, “Yeahhh? Why don’tcha r-ride it then, sugar?” 

Oh, your weakened knees are on the very verge of collapsing simply at the thought. Thighs shaking lewdly as your body moves before your hazed mind, a clingy film of tears glossing over your eyes once your ass settles on Higuruma’s manspread lap and pushes–

“H-hck! Hiromi–!” You hiccup- shit. Hands flying up to your leaky mouth to firmly slam it shut- your eyes roll to the back of your head at the warm splatters of drool that seep into your doughy palm.

“S’okay- s’okaaaay–” Higuruma croons from behind, the forefront of his abs tensing sexily as he’s bucking off the chair from behind to meet your sloppy cadence. Long n’ swollen cock prying your sticky walls apart until any and every thought of the work meeting flits from your mind. 

He’s probin’ his most prominent vein up against your bulging g-spot, hips angling to massage in exactly how you loved it. How you loved this biiig stretch. “No one’s gonna know.”

Your tear-stained head raises blearily up at him, “Wh-what?”

“No one’s gonna ngh- know, angel.” Nodding his head towards where the call was muted and had the camera off. You’re arched so perfectly on his thick, muscled thighs that Higuruma can’t help but jerk his knees in a slight bounce. 

There’s a rickety creeeak! of his seat as he’s lifting up your ass so that he can take a loooong, proud look. “Oh, look how wet she is.” Pinkish tongue gliding along his lower lip at the sight, “Ride it-” Pausing for just a second to slap the spherical pads of his fingers on your asscheek, “-ride it like it’s y-yours, sugar.”

And you couldn’t stay silent even if you wanted to. 

The sharply spanking slam of your hips back into his was just so sinful, fleshy mounds of your ass jiggling with each impact after impact. Repeatedly. Higuruma’s tufted hair scratches the tender outer edges of your pussy and makes you shrill.

“P-please-” You sound as if you’re on the edge, face burying into your hands- only for them to be ripped away by your husband.

Pecking his soft lips near the edges of your slobbery maw, darting his tongue out to liiiick sultry flops of his tastebuds across your streaky tears. His plump lips suckle ‘round your candied tongue, “Theeeere she is, good girl- good girl. Faster.”

Hands grappling for the table- the blank documents he really should’ve been working on. Your head throws back with a breaking mewl, “Fuck- fuuuuck–”

“Faster now- atta girl.” Brazen dollops of pre trickle down, down, doooown your dewy walls and out from your silvery slit. Higuruma’s thighs twitch with the boiling hot splatters of it hitting his papping limbs– harsh. 

“Ride it- ride this biiiig fuckin’ cock now.”

Harsher and harsher, his cherry-red leaking tip is just probing upwards against your cadence. With a squeeze of your gushing insides that makes him groan, it takes Higuruma a good few seconds to realize that his name is being called from what seems like eons away.

Before you can think - before you can even breathe - his ringed finger comes barreling between your pouring lips. “Shhhh, suck on it.” He gruffs out. Curling that cold wedding back right into the sensitive back of your throat– Higuruma unmutes. 

Something about contracts, something about business that still can’t distract him from how well you were milking every solid inch of him.

And with one hit - two - you’re not just drooling all ‘round his fattened, split-end length- you’re cumming. Sparks of white-hot flashing behind your eyes and making syrupy globules of spittle drip down to his pale wrist. Your body gives a sudden rut- and oh, Higuruma just about loses his mind.

Voice cracking mid-sentence, nostrils flaring, his darkened eyes widen at the realization that you were reaching your highest point already. 

“H-Hiro…” Your barely-audible mewls make Higuruma’s nails claw into the plush of your pretty, pretty thighs. Slamming ‘exit’ on his call as rapidly as humanly possible–

With a wet splosh tuning from between your slapping thighs, your husband’s shoving you into the biting mahogany of his desk and pumping you full of such thick, wadded droplets of cum. Loooong, long ribbons that splash all the way from the buttery puddle on your cervix to where your pussylips were overspilling.

Torrents. He was cumming more than usual, too– gruff tone ripping out of him rawly, “Th-think–” So mean with his cock, you’re ending up reaching your own orgasm probably a few more times at the way he was drilling into you like a beast. “Fuck- fuck, I c-can’t think.”

Sinking himself all balls-deep, you were positively fit to burst. His rugged pace carving out a special lil’ bruise where your spongy pussy ended. Your tummy flutters incredibly with both butterflies and the treacly sap of his cum drip-drip-driiiiping out of you. 

Unbuttoned shirt tracing your sweat-dripped spine, chiseled abs glissading down your skin, his fogged-up glasses were all but toppling off of his flushed cheeks. 

Steamy, flattened tone licking a looong strip from your shoulder to your sagged mouth, Higuruma haphazardly tosses one of his muscular legs on the desk and bucks his ripped front– “M’next assignment’s g-getting this pussy bred, angel.”

A/N. Y’all I think ovulation’s near- ANYWAYS, I hope you have a lovely week <33

Plagiarism not authorized.

[cloudwisp]

✮ sylus x wife!reader

contents: fluff, suggestive. arranged marriage au. hints of slow burn. you like playing hard to get and he loves calling you his wife. 1.4k wc.

꒰ note ᰔ I had to deposit my messy thoughts somewhere and this headcanon post was the result.

part two here. ꒱

⭒ Arranged marriage with Sylus where he prefers to call it a “strategic partnership” as a means of appearances to flaunt that he has it all—an empire, riches, strength, influence and now a darling wife who waits for him at home. You’re not so much as a random choice, Sylus had been watching you from afar for a while and in exchange for his protection in the N109 zone he strikes a deal with you to play a simple role. You have every reason to be wary of him and know to keep your wits about yourself, but even you acknowledge that your chances are better with him. Though, if you asked him how he was so certain you’d agree to his proposal he’d admit that he wasn’t but he knew you’d consider it if he had an advantage over you.

⭒ He sets his terms and conditions—you reside in his humble abode, wedding ring always worn on your finger, and attend events with him as a pretty accessory on his arm to contribute to his image. But he’ll never admit that he actually enjoys your company at business functions that often feel dull to him. You are more than welcome to spend your days as you please so long you don’t cause him trouble, and that also means you have his black card privileges to spoil yourself rotten. Of course, he accommodates most requests you may have like sleeping in separate rooms if that’s what you wish (and redecorating because his furnishing decisions are quite bleak).

⭒ Luke and Kieran can sense that their boss feels something for you despite his nonchalance toward this little arrangement. It starts off small, it always does—Sylus takes note of your morning and night routine, your picky eating habits and has the chef make adjustments to your preference, how he sees you out in the gardens and come back with spring tulips to brighten the space and the next week he already replaced the slowly withering flowers with fresh ones. The twins whisper among themselves that he’s often less annoyed and irritated when you’re around, and their boss wouldn’t go through the trouble of being considerate unless he cares for you. It’s almost exciting for them both to witness a budding romance unfold before their very eyes and they do offer a helping hand here and there to keep things interesting.

⭒ Sylus thinks it’s adorable how you keep trying to resist him and that’s precisely the reason he loves seeking you out just to watch your resolve crumble under his touch. He finds you in the kitchen preparing a snack and cages you from behind with his hands planted on either side of you against the counter. “Hey kitten, I thought I’d find you in here.” You feel his hot breath down your neck as he pushes your hair aside just enough to lay a soft kiss on your shoulder. He chuckles when you comment that he’s being awfully touchy with you, and he purposely moves closer so that his chest is pressing against your back. “Perhaps I just can’t keep my hands to myself where you’re involved. Besides, you’re my wife now. I think I have the right to touch you whenever I like.”

⭒ You remind him that you’re his wife in title only, but that doesn’t discourage his flirtation and teasing as he allows you to nudge past him. He follows you into the common area and takes a seat on the couch, spreading his legs wide and taking up a lot of space. His gaze is settled on you as he pats his thigh and his lips curl into a smirk. “Come here, wife.” You naturally scoff meanwhile you place the plate of seasonal fruits on the side table and situate yourself closest to the armrest, taking a bite into a juicy red strawberry as you ignore his piercing stare.

⭒ For someone who always gets what he wants, Sylus isn’t used to being defied like this. And had it been anyone else his patience would wear dangerously thin, but he supposes that you’re a special exception because he seems to enjoy the chase and claiming its reward. With one small gesture, he drags you across the couch by a gravitational pull and you squeal when the swirling red easily turn and maneuver you so you’re forced to straddle him and your hands prop on his shoulders for support. “There, much better. Comfy? This is the best seat in the house.” His gaze locks with yours, and he thinks you huffing and frowning at him is simply cute. He firmly grabs your wrist with the bitten strawberry in your hand and lifts it to his mouth for a sweet taste.

⭒ “No fair… using your Evol against me like this.” You grumble under your breath as you gently trail your thumb from his chin to the corner of his mouth where the strawberry juices began to spill. Then an impulsive thought takes over and you pinch his cheek between your fingers, creating a sticky mess on his face. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself. That’s for treating me like a sack of potatoes.” He chuckles once more, his hand falling on your hip and he gives you a light squeeze. “Oh, I do have every intention of fully enjoying my wife tonight.” And by that, he means taking you out for a joyride on his motorbike and feeling your arms wrapped around him tightly as the engine roars through the streets under the night sky and sinking moon. Sylus would never engage in any intimate acts you weren’t ready for, but he loves seeing you fluster at his suggestive remarks.

⭒ As the weeks cross over into months, you never imagined that you’d be spending so much time with Sylus outside of your agreed terms. He’s everywhere in every waking moment of your life even when he’s not there physically. You’re learning new things about him each day and you (begrudgingly) like being around him—even when he can sometimes be a playful bully toward you. When he’s gone for long stretches of time to deal with negotiations and other important matters in the N109 zone, you can feel your heart yearning for him but you’d never say that you miss him out loud when you think he's still toying with you. But with the way he cares for you like you’re both in a real and genuine relationship, it’s hard to know his true intentions and keep your feelings buried deep inside your chest for long.

⭒ You accidentally confirm that Sylus does harbor romantic feelings for you when you carelessly bring up your replacement in a lighthearted joke. You’ve never seen his face falter so quickly at your words as he averts his gaze for a moment to collect himself—a hint of vulnerability in his crimson hues. “I wouldn’t have found a new wife.” He shakes his head and tells you, his voice a little rougher than before. You don’t know what to say, but you manage a soft “No?” that reaches his ears. “No. I wouldn’t have been able to replace you, kitten. You’re it for me. The only one. No one could fill the void you’d leave behind.”

⭒ You and Sylus have kissed before, but this is the first time you’re initiating it. As you brush your lips against his, there’s a softness you never noticed. His hand slips around the small of your back and he pulls you close against him, returning your kiss with the same tenderness as though savoring the taste of you. You lean back after a moment, your palm meeting his cheek in a sweet embrace. “You know, I'm still getting used to the idea that I’ve fallen for you.” You can see him returning back to normal when he offers you a cocky smirk. “And yet here you are. In my arms, with your lips on mine. I think you’re not being entirely honest, my beautiful wife.” Sylus has waited a long time to hear those words from you but you don’t need to know that right now.

[leyavo]

Simon Riley adopting a stray cat, a lot like him. They co-exist like housemates, the odd scratch on the black cat’s head as Simon fills his pet bowl, but they mostly keep to themselves.

Just calls him Cat. Simon talking to him like he would Johnny.

When he’s on a long tour he’s get the old lady next door to feed him, hands the cat over before he leaves and doesn’t look back knowing the old dear will over indulge him.

But when he comes back from his latest mission, Cat smells different and there’s a little silver collar around its neck. The rough patch of fur by the side of its neck is smoothed out, he doesn’t know how it’s fixed itself.

No the old lady smells of mint and antiseptic, like she swallows tcp on the daily. This is sweet and heady, he’s not quite sure how to explain it. He can’t quite get rid of it, it’s how he finds out that Cat sleeps on his pillow.

It’s not till Simon spots you on the neighbouring balcony stroking the cat on the brick wall. The little traitor. He really needs to get a divider now that the flat has someone living it in now.

A few days later the old lady tells him she had to ask you to look after Cat whilst she was in hospital for five weeks, only just getting out a few days before he returned. She warns him that you’re forever in your night clothes and work from home.

So Simon’s knocking on your door not long after, standing back as you peeked through the gap of the door as you opened it. A sliver of a chain stopping you from opening it wide.

“Simon Riley.” He points to his flat. Your door closing and jingle of the chain sliding off its guard, opening it up for him to enter.

You leave the door wide open, a soft hello leaving your glossy lips.

He enters your small studio flat, looks like the landlord divided the previous one to make two small ones and double their profit. That floral and heady scent hits him as he steps over the threshold, leaving a trail behind you. Your body is shimmery, smooth looking and he tries not to look at your long legs on display. The small silk night dress and matching dress robe not leaving much for his imagination.

A meow pulls him away. Cat, the fucking little traitor, is stretched out on your bed playing with a fuzzy fish toy.

He realises that Cat is totally different around you. Apparently he doesn’t like heights, but he’ll climb all over Simon’s shelves and the top of doors, push stuff off. No the little fucker doesn’t knock off the little piles of girl stuff in bowls or the many trinkets on the sides in your flat. Content to play with the little fuzzy fish toy or nap on the blanket.

“I hope you don’t mind, he’s been visiting me ever since Mrs landry asked me to look after him.” You sit down on the bed, which is right by the patio window and the balcony. Simon thinks how’s his bed is on the other side of that wall.

“Nah, actually gotta proposition for ya.”

You looking after Cat whilst he’s away and him slowly starting to looking after you when he’s home.

> [part two] & Cat series: [Price] [Soap] [Gaz] [König]

[falesten-iw]

When I first joined Tumblr, I had no idea what I was walking into. There’s no manual for navigating this wild, untamed corner of the internet. My first moment here? I was greeted by an image completely naked, no warning, no explanation. It was just there, bold and unapologetic. That’s when I realized: Tumblr is a place where anything can happen.

But for all its chaos, Tumblr has become something far greater than I ever expected. For us Palestinians, this platform isn’t just a space to scroll through memes or vent about life. It’s a lifeline, a place where we’ve taken the raw, messy energy of this site and turned it into a battleground for survival. Here, we tell our stories, raise funds, and fight for our lives.

I’ve seen campaigns soar past their goals, bringing hope to families barely holding on. But I’ve also seen campaigns like mine, ones that fight tooth and nail for every single dollar, every reblog, every addition, and every ounce of hope. My family’s lives depend on this.

It hasn’t been easy. Zionists flood all Palestinian words with hate, twisting truths and spreading lies. They aim to discredit us, to make people doubt us. It’s exhausting. Some nights, I sit with my phone in my hands, wondering if this fight is too big for me. But then something beautiful happens: a donation comes through, a kind message appears, or someone I’ve never met reblogs my story with words that feel like a warm embrace.

And through it all, people are starting to see the truth. The hate doesn’t drown us; it sharpens our voices. Every day, more people step forward to stand with us, to say, “I see you, I hear you, and I’m with you.” It’s those moments that keep me going.

To everyone who has already helped, whether through verification, donating, wrting post , reblogging, or simply sharing a kind word: thank you. You’ve done more for my family than I could ever put into words. But the reality is, we’re not there yet. My family is still waiting for a chance to breathe, to live without fear, to fill their empty stomachs with warm food, and to wrap themselves in clothes thick enough to keep out the bitter cold. They’re hungry, they’re freezing, and I can’t do this alone.

This fight is hard, but it’s not hopeless. Strangers have become friends, and friends have become family. Some of you have shown up in ways I never imagined, treating my family’s survival as if it were your own. That kind of solidarity? It’s powerful.

Tumblr might be chaotic, unpredictable, and sometimes downright bizarre, but it’s also the place where we’ve built something extraordinary: a community that refuses to look away from injustice. With your help, we can take this fight all the way. My family’s lives are within reach, and together, I know we’ll get there.

This campaign isn’t just about me. It supports 26 people, including two orphaned children and an injured family member suffering from hemiplegia after being hit by shrapnel during a bombing. Surgery is desperately needed to replace the infected and failing plates. The needs are urgent, and the future of 26 lives depends on your support.

The video showing the injured family member is shared before in this post: Link.

Please help us ! Donate and reblog this post to spread our story.

Vetted and shared by @90-ghost: Link.

Verified and shared by @el-shab-hussein: Link

Listed as number 282 in "The Vetted Gaza Evacuation Fundraiser Spreadsheet" compiled by @el-shab-hussein and @nabulsi : Link

Listed on the Butterfly Effect Project, number 957: Link

Additionally, Al Jazeera News has documented apart of my family's case: Link

If, for some reason, you couldn't donate via GoFundMe, you can donate via PayPal instead. Please keep the conversion rates in mind when donating through GoFundMe. Every 100 SEK is equivalent to 10 dollars, and 200 SEK equals 20 dollars and so on.

Note: There’s even a raffle for a handmade Palestinian thob if you want to participate : Link

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[metranart]

Will you be Toman’s darling? Mikey can’t seem to stop asking, it’s not enough to be able to fuck you whenever he wants, he needs the title that you’re HIS but not only his but also his mates, those guys he loves more than his own life… and unfortunately, you do as well. 

You don’t understand why it’s so important to them, but each one has asked the same question over and over again. Draken kisses you, his tongue dancing with yours while his hips don’t miss a single thrust, it’s delicious, it’s delirious and he only dares to break the kiss to ask. “Will you be ours?” —You don’t answer, just bite his lip and begin to thrust your hips to him, as a way to distract him but he’s not dumb and less of all, a quitter, so he won’t give up, none of them will! 

Baji’s strong hands anchor you to him, perched on either side of your hips as he rams you from behind, your eyes have been blank for more than fifteen minutes, his name rolls off your tongue like your private mantra and from his tongue rolls: “Say yes,” his ragged breath demands, “Stop torturing us and say yes, shit!” The answer he wants to hear isn’t spoken but that doesn’t discourage him from cumming deep inside you -marking you from the inside out at least gives him so kind of relieve-…. 

Mitsuya’s attempts are more tender, kisses and cuddles, your naked bodies tangled in each other, the strong fingers of his fist tangled among your sweaty strands of silky hair, each thrust hitting that special place inside you that makes you see stars, his lips only parting to adore you and when you think you’re safe: “We will take care of you, we will go out of our way for you… just say yes, just grant us that favor—be OURS….”. Apparently being filled by each and every one of these gang members isn’t enough, moaning their names and marking their necks with hickey doesn’t satisfy them, they want you for themselves, they want you in their gang as their banner as their princess. 

Mikey is the most stubborn, his fat thumb slides under your skirt, snaking behind your panties, two fingers accompanying it to slip inside you, drumming and circling your clit as if it were the joystick of an Xbox control, your flushed cheeks and half-open lids delight him, makes him drunk and dizzy, just being able to put you in that delirious state. He knows it’s his mission in life to have you like this forever, you’re his, you must conquer Tokyo with them, you must stop resisting and agree to their terms. Mikey doesn’t waste any moment to ask, while he kisses you, while he eats you out, while he makes you cum harder than ever. 

“Will you be ours? ....yesyesyesyes-?”

Their teamwork is weakening your good judgment, it’s too much, your knees buckle, and your voice is a permanent moan. Damn! Your shivering lips parted and the gazes of the four gang members shine with hope. Anxiety and stress can be detected in their clenched fists, a heavy silence falls over everyone when you say: 

“I’m already yours, why do we need to tag it… I’m not going anywhere.”

There is disappointment, frustration, even anger but also amusement in their features. They won’t accept a refusal. They will just have to keep convincing you, again and again and again. You are stubborn, but so are they.

➡️ FULL NSFW ART of this drabble 🥵

[harrysfolklore]

max verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation

summary: max verstappen can’t help but talk about his girlfriend whenever he cans, fans make compilation videos about it

folkie radio: HAPPY BIRTHDAY MAXIEEE, it's been a minute since the last time i did a compilation blurb and this felt like the perfect occasion to bring them back, i hope you like this!

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the best driver of his generation is known for his incredible driving skills and relentless pursuit of victory on the track.

However, behind the wheel, Max has another passion that rivals his love for racing: his girlfriend.

In every interview, press conference, and social media post, Max can't help but gush about her, seamlessly sharing stories of their life together into conversations about lap times and race strategies.

Fans quickly began doing compilation videos about all the times he mentioned his girlfriend publicly, and those gathered millions of views across social media platforms.

The most popular one was called "Max Verstappen being the perfect boyfriend: a compilation," and it began with a video of Max arriving to the paddock for media day, Red Bull's social media team filming him while he answered some rapid fire questions.

"Waffles or Pancakes? You know I used to love pancakes but I think I've had too many because my girlfriend is obsessed with making them," he said as he signed some stuff, "So I would go for Waffles at the moment, but if my girlfriend is watching this I'd say I take her pancakes every day."

The next clip was from a post qualifying interview, and of course, Max earned the pole position, the interviewer had asked him what was expecting for the race the following day.

"To win of course, that's what I'm here for," he said with so hesitation, "But I'm also looking forward to it because my girlfriend will be here, it's the first race she attends this season and I can't wait to see her in the crowd while I take on the podium."

The video moved to show Max with his teammate Sergio Perez, they were playing a game of Green Flag or Red Flag, they were asked about people who film themselves at the gym and Max immediately waved the red flag.

"I actually don't go to the gym anymore," Max added, "I get annoyed by everyone else so I just exercise at home."

"So no topless selfies, not even at home," the interviewer said.

"I don't need to impress anyone, I've got my girlfriend, so," Max shrugged.

The next clip was taken from Max's own Youtube channel, he was showing some of his preparation routine for a race, that included some neck training, checking statistics, quick meetings with his team and engineers among other things.

And of course, his girlfriend made an appearance, standing in a corner watching everything unfold. He approached her, race suit on and helmet in hand, kissed her lips gently as she caressed his arm.

"Be safe out there okay?" her voice could be faintly heard.

"Always schatje, I love you."

In the next segment, Max had just earned his second world championship and was doing a casual interview for a sports channel.

"Do you have your girlfriend now call you 'Two time world champion Max Verstappen' or just Max,"

"Definitely not the first one," Max laughed, "She'd never do that, she says she likes to keep me humble."

"Your girlfriend has a pet name for you?" the guy asked again.

"We call each other a bit different but I prefer not to say that on camera," Max laughed again, "I don't want the internet to make fun of me for being cheesy."

The next clip was from Max's streamings, he was too immersed in a game that he didn't hear his girlfriend come into the room, noticing her presence when she leaned into him.

Out of habit of keeping their privacy, he covered the camera but forgot to turn his mic off.

"Schatje I'm streaming," he said, unaware that everyone could hear him.

"Oh I'm sorry, I was going to ask if you could feed the cats but I'll do it myself," his girlfriend spoke.

"No I'll do it, just let me get off the stream,"

"Baby, there's no need," she insisted.

"I was missing you anyways, just give me a minute."

His audience couldn't see anything but they clearly heard how Max kissed his girlfriend's lips, turning his attention back to the screen, he realized that he was broadcasting their conversation to everyone.

His viewers went wild in the chat, spamming heart emojis and comments about how sweet the couple was. Max ended the stream with a laugh, addressing his fans. "Alright, you heard the boss. I gotta go feed the cats. See you all next time."

On the same note, another clip from a video for RedBull with Checo was included, they had been asked to show the most recent picture in their phones.

"Oh it's from this morning, my girlfriend with the kids," Max said, showing the picture to the camera.

"The kids?" Checo asked with a laugh.

"The cats are our kids," Max shrugged, "Jimmy and Sassy Verstappen."

A particularly touching moment was from a press conference after a difficult race. Max had finished fifth, a rare position for him given his usual dominance. When asked how he dealt with setbacks, he gave a candid response.

"It can be tough, but my girlfriend always knows how to lift my spirits. She's my biggest supporter and always finds the right words to say. Just being with her makes everything better, no matter how bad the race went."

During a clip of Max giving a tour of the Red Bull factory, he stopped at a wall covered in race-winning memorabilia. Among the trophies and champagne bottles, there was a small, framed photograph.

"This is special to me," Max pointed it out, "It's from my first win with Red Bull. But look closer..."

The camera zoomed in to show a young woman in the background of the photo, cheering in the pit lane.

"That's my girlfriend," Max said softly. "She was there for my first win, and she's been there for every one since - even if she can't always be at the track. The team knew how much that meant to me, so they made sure she was in this photo when they framed it."

In the next segment, Max was asked about his favorite off-track activity.

"I love cooking," Max grinned, "Well, more like watching my girlfriend cook. She's amazing in the kitchen, and I'm just there to taste-test everything."

The compilation included a moment during a press conference, Max addressed a question about his girlfriend facing criticism online. The question arose after she received negative comments following a public appearance with him.

"Look, it's tough sometimes," Max began, his expression turning serious. "She didn't choose this life, but she supports me through everything. It's not fair for her to get hate just because of who she's dating. If you have a problem with me that's fine but don't go after my family or my girlfriend because that is just unacceptable."

The final clip that wrapped the video us was from the FIA Prize Giving ceremony, Max received his trophy for winning the 2023 championship.

In his acceptance speech, he thanked his team, his family, and, of course, his girlfriend.

"Winning races and championships is amazing, but having someone by your side who believes in you and supports you unconditionally is truly special. To my girlfriend, thank you for being my rock and my biggest cheerleader. I love you."

The screen faded to black, showing a text that read: Max Verstappen, three time world champion and the perfect boyfriend.