#undercurrent snippet

[undercurrent-if]

Snippet from the prologue 👀

It's early. Artificially early. The Cove's sky glows in its permanent golden hour, soft light washing over the perfect sand in a loop like the universe got stuck on the prettiest setting. I'm perched on the rail of the dock, my board resting against my knee, neural band already buzzing faintly along the curve of my neck.

[moonlightwritingf1]

Birthday Sex in Monaco | LN4

♥️ summary ━━━━━━━ Y/N's parents take her to Monaco for her birthday. On her second day there, she meets Lando Norris, an F1 driver. Things escalate quickly as the chemistry between them grows.

♥️ pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

♥️ word count ━━━━━━━ 4.2k

♥️ warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, unprotected sex, p in v, oral sex (f and m receiving), rough sex, multiple orgasms

Based on this request.

“So, do you always flirt with strangers in Monaco, or am I just special?” Y/N tilted her head, a playful smirk tugging at her lips as she leaned against the bar. The warmth of the Monaco evening wrapped around them, the sound of the Mediterranean lapping against the harbor in the distance.

Lando raised an eyebrow, his blue-green eyes glinting with amusement under the soft glow of the bar lights. He swirled the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass. “Oh, you’re definitely special,” he drawled, his voice low and teasing. “But I wouldn’t call you a stranger. I’ve been watching you all evening.”

She laughed, the sound light and carefree, and it caught him off guard. Most people he met were eager to impress him, but Y/N? She didn’t seem to care who he was. And that intrigued him more than he cared to admit. “Watching me? Creepy much?” she teased, taking a sip of her cocktail.

“Not creepy,” he countered, leaning in slightly, his forearm brushing against hers on the bar. “Just…observant.”

The spark between them was undeniable, and Y/N could feel it—every word, every glance, every brush of his hand against hers sent a jolt of electricity through her. But she wasn’t about to let him win this easily. “Observant, huh? So, what have you observed, Mr. Formula One Driver?”

He grinned, the dimple on his cheek making an appearance. “Well, for starters, you’re not from around here. Your accent gives you away.”

“Wow, Sherlock,” she deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “Next, you’re gonna tell me what I had for breakfast.”

He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. “Croissant, right? You strike me as a croissant kind of girl.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Okay, that was actually kind of impressive.”

Lando shrugged, a smug smile on his face. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises.”

The conversation flowed effortlessly between them, the teasing banter laced with an undercurrent of something neither of them had expected. Y/N found herself drawn to him—not because of his fame or his looks, though those certainly didn’t hurt—but because of the way he made her laugh, the way he listened to her, the way he seemed genuinely interested in her.

---

It had been her second day in Monte Carlo, and Y/N was already captivated by the city. Her parents had wanted to treat her to a lavish vacation for her birthday, and Monaco had been at the top of their list. She’d spent the day wandering the cobblestone streets, marveling at the yachts in the harbor, and indulging in the decadent food. But it wasn’t until that evening, when she’d wandered into a chic bar, that her trip took an unexpected turn.

She’d recognized him immediately—how could she not? Lando Norris, the Formula One driver, was practically a household name. But she hadn’t expected him to approach her, let alone strike up a conversation. Yet there he was, sliding into the seat beside her at the bar, flashing her that boyish grin and asking her name.

They’d talked for hours, the conversation never faltering. He’d told her about his life on the track, the thrill of racing, the pressure of being in the spotlight. She’d shared snippets of her own life.  And now, here they were, the chemistry between them undeniable, the teasing banter turning flirtatious.

“So, it’s your birthday, huh?” Lando asked, his tone softening as he leaned in closer.

Y/N nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Yeah, how’d you know?”

“You mentioned it earlier,” he said, his eyes locking with hers. “I was wondering…if you’re not busy, maybe you’d let me take you somewhere? As a birthday surprise.”

She hesitated for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest. Is this really happening? She’d never been one for spontaneous decisions, but there was something about Lando that made her want to throw caution to the wind.

“Okay,” she said finally, a smile spreading across her face. “But it better be a good surprise.”

He grinned, standing and offering her his hand. “Oh, it will be.”

---

The apartment was breathtaking, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering panoramic views of the city and the sea beyond. Y/N stepped inside, her breath catching in her throat as she took it all in. “Wow,” she murmured, turning to look at Lando. “This is…incredible.”

He chuckled, closing the door behind them. “Glad you like it.” He moved closer, his eyes darkening with something she couldn’t quite place. “So, how’s your birthday so far?”

She smiled, her pulse quickening as he stepped into her space. “It’s been…unexpected. But in a good way.”

“Good,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Because I’m about to make it even better.”

Before she could respond, his lips were on hers, soft and insistent, and everything else faded away. The kiss was electric, sending shivers down her spine as his hands came up to cradle her face. She melted into him, her fingers tangling in his dark curls as she kissed him back with equal fervor.

He pulled back slightly, his breath warm against her lips. “You’re incredible,” he whispered, his voice filled with awe. “You know that, right?”

She laughed breathlessly, her heart racing. “You’re not so bad yourself, Norris.”

He grinned, that familiar spark of mischief in his eyes. “Oh, Y/N…you have no idea what you’re in for.”

And then he was kissing her again, deeper this time, his hands roaming over her body with a hunger that left her breathless. She gasped as he lifted her onto the counter, his lips trailing down her neck as his hands found the hem of her dress.

“Lando,” she breathed, her head falling back as his teeth grazed her skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “It’s your birthday. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark with desire. “I want you.”

His grin widened, and he leaned in close, his lips brushing against her ear. “Good. Because you’re about to have the best birthday of your life.”

Lando’s lips crashed into hers again, hot and demanding, as if he couldn’t get enough of her. His hands roamed her body, sliding down her back and gripping her waist, pulling her closer. She arched into him, her breath hitching as his kiss deepened, his tongue tangling with hers in a slow, intoxicating rhythm. He broke away just enough to trail his lips down her jawline, his breath warm against her skin, sending shivers down her spine.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling as his teeth grazed the sensitive spot just below her ear.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmured, his hands sliding up to her shoulders where the thin straps of her dress rested. He hooked his fingers under them and slowly pulled them down, letting the fabric pool at her waist. She inhaled sharply as the cool air hit her bare skin, her nipples hardening under his gaze.

His eyes darkened as he took her in, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over her hardened peaks. “Perfect,” he said, almost to himself, before leaning down to flick his tongue over one nipple. She gasped, her fingers tangling in his hair as he sucked and licked, his mouth hot and insistent.

“Lando,” she moaned, her head falling back as he switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention. His hands kept her steady, his touch firm yet gentle, as if he was memorizing every inch of her. She felt exposed, vulnerable, and yet completely safe in his arms.

He pulled back slightly, his lips curving into a smirk. “Want more?”

Her only response was a breathless nod, her chest rising and falling rapidly. He chuckled, a low, throaty sound that made her stomach flip, before scooping her up in his arms. She let out a surprised laugh, clutching his shoulders as he carried her to the living room.

He set her down gently on the plush sofa, his eyes never leaving hers as he knelt between her legs. His hands gripped the hem of her dress, and in one smooth motion, he pulled it off, leaving her in nothing but her black lace thong. She felt a flush of heat spread through her body as his gaze roamed over her, his expression a mix of hunger and admiration.

“You’re… fucking stunning,” he said, his voice rough with desire. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her thong and tugged it down her legs, tossing it aside. Now completely bare, she felt a thrill of anticipation as he leaned in, his breath warm against her inner thigh.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Relax,” he murmured, his lips brushing her skin as he moved closer. And then his mouth was on her, hot and wet, his tongue exploring every fold and curve. She let out a moan, her hands flying to his hair, not pulling, just holding on as waves of pleasure crashed over her.

He licked and sucked with an intensity that left her gasping, his tongue flicking over her clit in maddening circles. She arched off the sofa, her hips moving instinctively against his mouth. “Oh god,” she cried, her fingers tightening in his hair as he worked her with relentless focus.

She looked down, her breath hitching at the sight of him between her legs, his dark curls brushing her thighs, his blue-green eyes looking up at her with a fierce determination. “You taste fucking incredible,” he growled, the vibrations of his voice sending jolts of pleasure through her.

Her other hand wandered to her breast, her fingers teasing her nipple as she watched him. His eyes darkened further, his rhythm faltering for a moment as he saw what she was doing. “Fuck,” he muttered, his voice strained.

She smirked, her own confidence growing as she saw the effect she had on him. “Like what you see?” she teased, her voice breathy but laced with playfulness.

He didn’t answer with words. Instead, he increased the pressure of his tongue, his lips closing around her clit as he sucked gently. She cried out, her back arching off the sofa, her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Lando,” she moaned, her hips bucking against his mouth as the pleasure built to an unbearable peak. She felt herself teetering on the edge, her entire body trembling with anticipation.

“Come for me,” he whispered against her, his voice low and commanding. And just like that, she shattered, her orgasm crashing over her in waves of pure ecstasy. She cried out his name, her body convulsing as he continued to work her through it, until every last tremor subsided.

She collapsed back onto the sofa, her chest heaving, her limbs feeling like jelly. Lando looked up at her, his lips glistening, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Happy birthday,” he said, his voice dripping with mischief.

She laughed breathlessly, her hand reaching out to brush a curl from his forehead. “You’re incredible,” she murmured, her voice still shaky.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” he replied, climbing up to kneel over her. His hands braced on either side of her head, his face inches from hers. “But we’re just getting started.”

Lando’s smirk deepened as he hovered over her, his eyes dark with desire. “You know,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing, “I was planning to make this night unforgettable for you, but I think you’re the one who’s making it unforgettable for me.”

Y/N’s cheeks flushed, but she held his gaze, her fingers tracing the planes of his chest. “Oh, really? And here I thought you’d be used to this kind of thing by now.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her as he leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear. “Trust me, sweetheart, I’m not used to someone like you.”

Her breath hitched, and she felt a shiver run down her spine. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right girl.”

“Maybe,” he admitted, pulling back slightly to look into her eyes. “But I think I have now.”

Her heart skipped a beat, but she wasn’t about to let him have the last word. “Well, maybe you should prove that to me.”

His eyes flickered with amusement and something deeper, more primal. “Oh, I intend to,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “But first, I want to see what that pretty little mouth of yours can do.”

She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at her lips. “Is that so? And what makes you think I’d want to do that?”

His laughter was low, almost predatory. “Because I saw the way you were looking at me earlier. You want this just as much as I do.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then lower, to where his arousal was pressing against her. She bit her lip, her heart racing. “Fine,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But only because it’s my birthday.”

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hands sliding down her sides as he shifted to sit back on the sofa. His eyes never left hers, dark and full of promise. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”

She hesitated for a moment, then slowly got to her knees in front of him. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the hem of his T-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. The sight of his bare chest, the way his muscles rippled as he moved, made her mouth go dry. She dropped the shirt to the floor, her hands moving to the waistband of his trousers. She undid the button and zipper, her fingers brushing against the hard length of him through the fabric of his boxers.

Lando’s breath hitched, and he leaned back, his hands gripping the edge of the sofa. “Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re killing me, sweetheart.”

She smirked, pulling his trousers down and tossing them aside. Then, she hooked her fingers into the waistband of his boxers, slowly sliding them down until his hard, thick cock sprang free. Her eyes widened slightly, her mouth watering at the sight of him. He was bigger than she’d imagined, and the way he twitched as she reached for him made her pulse race.

“Like what you see?” he teased, his voice rough with need.

She looked up at him through her lashes, her fingers wrapping around his shaft. “I might need a moment to adjust.”

He chuckled, but it quickly turned into a groan as she leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his cock. She licked her lips, tasting the salty pre-cum that had gathered there. His hands tightened on the edge of the sofa, his hips bucking slightly as she licked a slow, deliberate stripe from the base to the tip.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he muttered, his voice strained. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

She smirked, her tongue swirling around the head before taking him into her mouth. His groan was deep, his head falling back as she started to move, her lips sliding down his length. She took him as far as she could, her hand working the base as she sucked him off. The feel of him in her mouth, the way he filled her, sent a jolt of heat straight to her core.

He reached down, his fingers tangling in her hair as he guided her movements. “That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “Just like that. You’re doing so fucking good.”

His words sent a thrill through her, and she moaned around him, the vibrations making him groan. She pulled back, swirling her tongue around the head before taking him deep again. She could feel him getting harder, hotter, and she knew he was close. She reached down, her fingers brushing against his balls, and he let out a strangled cry.

“Fuck, Y/N, stop,” he gasped, his hands gripping her shoulders. ‘’I’m going to cum, and I want to feel you cum on my cock first.’’

She pulled back, licking her lips as she looked up at him. “You sure?” she teased, her voice husky.

“Positive,” he growled, pulling her up and onto his lap. She straddled him, her hands on his shoulders as she positioned herself over him. He gripped his cock, guiding it to her entrance as she lowered herself onto him. She gasped as he filled her, the stretch and fullness taking her breath away.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” she moaned, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“So do you,” he muttered, his hands gripping her hips as she started to move. She rocked against him, her movements slow and deliberate, her breath hitching with every thrust. 

“Fuck,” Lando groaned, his hands gripping her hips as she was  moving, her body rocking against his in a rhythm that had them both moaning. “You feel so fucking good, Y/N. So tight, so wet for me.”

She whimpered, her hands braced on his shoulders as she rode him, her body moving in time with his thrusts. “Lando,” she gasped, her head falling back as he hit a spot deep inside her that had her seeing stars. “Oh my God, just like that.”

Her tits bounced with each movement, and Lando’s eyes were drawn to them. His hands moved to cup them, fingers teasing and pinching her nipples as she moaned, her body trembling with pleasure.

“Your tits are fucking perfect,” he muttered, his voice rough with arousal. “I could play with them all day.”

“You’re so fucking sexy,” he growled, his gaze dark with desire as he watched her. “The way you move, the way you feel around me—I could fuck you like this forever.”

His hands cupped her breasts more firmly as she rode him. Leaning in, he took one nipple into his mouth, sucking and teasing it until she let out a loud moan.

“Lando,” she gasped, her hands tangling in his hair. “You’re driving me crazy.”

“Good,” he murmured, switching to her other nipple. “Because I’m not even close to done with you yet.”

She moaned, her movements becoming more erratic as he continued to tease her. She could feel the tension building inside her, her orgasm looming just out of reach. She was so close, so fucking close, and she could tell he was too.

She moaned, her head falling back as his fingers teased her nipples, sending jolts of pleasure through her. “Lando,” she whispered, her voice filled with need. “Fuck me harder.”

He growled, his hands moving to her hips as he began to thrust up into her, his movements harder, faster. She cried out, her nails digging into his shoulders as she felt him hit that sweet spot inside her.

“That’s it, baby,” he muttered, his voice filled with a primal need. “Take it. Take every fucking inch of me.”

She moaned, her hips moving in time with his as they fell into a rhythm that was all consuming. She could feel her orgasm building, the pleasure coiling deep inside her as he thrust into her again and again.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling with need. “I’m so close.”

“Come for me, baby,” he muttered, his voice low and commanding. “Let me feel you.”

She cried out, her second orgasm crashing over her as she tightened around him, her body convulsing with pleasure. He groaned, his thrusts becoming erratic as he felt her clenching around him.

But he wasn’t done. As soon as she started to come down, his hands tightened around her hips, lifting her effortlessly from the couch, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he stood. Her breath caught, feeling him still buried deep inside her, the weight of him stretching her, filling her in the most delicious way. “Hold on,” he growled, his voice low and commanding, the rasp sending a shiver down her spine.

He lowered her onto the sofa, her back sinking into the plush cushions as he laid her down with a gentleness that contrasted the wild hunger in his eyes. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he settled between her thighs, his hips already finding their rhythm again.

'You’re mine,' he muttered, his voice rough with possession, his hands gripping her hips as he thrust into her hard, the force of it making her cry out.

Her head fell back, her moans spilling freely as he pounded into her, the pace relentless, every stroke hitting that spot deep inside her that made her vision blur. “Lando,” she gasped, her voice trembling, her body arching to meet his as he took her with a hunger that left her breathless.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he groaned, his forehead pressed against hers. “You’re so fucking tight. I can’t—”

Lando’s thrusts grew harder, more urgent, each one driving deeper into her, claiming her in a way that made her gasp and arch into him. He reached for her wrists, pinning them to her stomach as her chest heaved with each powerful thrust. “Look at you,” he groaned, his eyes dark with lust as he watched her tits bounce with the rhythm of their bodies slamming together. “So fucking perfect.”

She could feel every inch of him, every ridge and pulse of his cock as he fucked her with a raw, unrelenting intensity.

“Y/N,” he growled, his voice low and rough, “you feel fucking incredible. So fucking tight around me.”

Her breath hitched, the sound of his words sending a shiver down her spine. She could feel the heat building inside her, coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust. She loved the way he took control, the way he gave her no choice but to surrender to the pleasure.

“Lando,” she moaned, her voice trembling as her hips rocked to meet his. “Don’t stop. Please.”

He smirked, his eyes dark with desire as he leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. “Didn’t plan on it, baby,” he whispered, his breath hot against her skin. “Not until you cum for me again.”

His words sent a rush of wetness between her thighs, her body responding to him like he was the only thing that mattered. She could feel the tension building again, the pressure growing until it was almost unbearable.

Lando’s thrusts grew faster, harder, his cock hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars. She gasped, her nails digging into her own skin as she tried to hold on.

“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice a low growl. “Cum for me, Y/N. Let me feel you.”

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Her third orgasm crashed over her, her body convulsing as she cried out his name. Her pussy clenched around him, pulling him deeper as wave after wave of pleasure tore through her.

Lando groaned, his hips stuttering as he felt her cum around him. “Fuck, baby,” he panted, his forehead pressed against hers. “You’re so fucking perfect.”

He kept thrusting, drawing out her orgasm until she was trembling beneath him, her body spent but still craving more.

“Lando,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible as she looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you. Please.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. With a deep groan, he pulled out of her, his cock slick with her arousal. He gripped himself, stroking quickly as he looked down at her, his eyes burning with need.

“Where do you want it, baby?” he asked, his voice rough with restraint.

She bit her lip, her eyes flickering down to her chest. “On me,” she breathed, her voice shaking. “Please, Lando.”

He groaned, his hand moving faster as he let out a low curse. “Fuck, Y/N,” he panted, his hips jerking as he came. Thick ropes of cum shot onto her tits, hot and sticky against her skin.

She moaned at the sight, her body trembling as she watched him. He looked so beautiful like this, his face twisted with pleasure, his chest heaving as he caught his breath.

Lando’s eyes met hers, a lazy smile spreading across his lips as he leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss. His hand slid up her stomach, his fingers brushing against the cum he’d left on her skin.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he murmured against her lips, his voice thick with satisfaction. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.”

She smiled, her heart swelling at his words. “Good,” she teased, her voice soft but playful. “Because I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm as he kissed her again, his lips soft and lingering against hers. She could feel the warmth of his body pressed against her, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath.

“Happy birthday, Y/N,” he whispered, his voice tender as he pulled back to look at her. “I hope I’m making it one to remember.”

Her heart skipped a beat at his words, the sincerity in his voice sending a rush of warmth through her. “You are,” she admitted, her voice soft but honest. “More than I could’ve imagined.”

[cece693]

Me, Jealous?

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader tags: jealous hannibal lecter, reader is amused, not hannibal (nbc) canon,

A date at the opera was hardly what you would call romantic. The venue itself might’ve been grand—old, world architecture with gilded flourishes on the ceiling and plush velvet seats arranged in perfect rows—but everything about it felt like a stage set for egos. Brighter-than-necessary overhead lighting illuminated acres of expensive fabrics—lustrous silk gowns and tailored tuxedos that cost more than what most people made in a month—and you could all but taste the arrogance in the air.

It wasn’t your ideal location for a date by any stretch, but your husband had turned on his rare brand of doe-eyed pleading, sweetly murmuring “Please?” in that honeyed timbre that usually meant he had something up his sleeve. You should have guessed there was more to his insistence. In fact, you’d sensed an undercurrent of excitement radiating off of him from the moment you’d left your shared home. It became painfully obvious why he was so eager once you arrived and found him being whisked away by a woman whose understanding of personal boundaries seemed nonexistent.

You didn’t recognize her, and maybe she truly had no idea Hannibal was spoken for—or maybe she was fully aware and enjoying the attention anyway. Possessively, she clung to Hannibal’s arm, her manicured nails splayed like a decorative cuff on his impeccable suit sleeve. Her laughter at his every remark was irritatingly saccharine, the type that left you rolling your eyes behind the rim of your champagne flute.

Hannibal, naturally, glanced your way every so often. He had a certain glint in his eye—like a cat playing with its prey—anticipating your jealousy. A lesser spouse might have felt their heart clench, might have shot daggers at the other woman or stormed over to reclaim their partner. But you’d been through these small tests before. This was Hannibal’s game, and he loved to provoke a reaction just to study it, to taste it the way he might taste a fine wine. But you knew better than to give him exactly what he wanted without having him ask sweetly.

Leaning against a marble column, you let your gaze skim over the crowd. Most of the attendees were too busy boasting about their knowledge of obscure operas or discussing the perfect brand of caviar to notice you, but you still felt a few curious stares. Being Dr. Lecter’s husband was a precarious sort of prestige—people either hovered like anxious sycophants hoping to impress you, or they observed you from a distance with feline curiosity. Tonight, though, you simply had no patience for idle chit-chat. If Hannibal wanted to play, let him. It wouldn't cause a rift in your relationship like others might believe. Because that was the unspoken truth: no matter how many admirers clung to his arm, Hannibal’s nights were solely yours. It was you he felt anything akin to love.

Your eyes continued to roam the opulent hall: heavy drapes fell from high windows, shimmering under the bright chandeliers. The murmur of voices rose like tidal swells, and snippets of classical music drifted in from the stage where the orchestra had tuned mere moments ago. It was then that you caught sight of someone else—a man with neatly combed dark hair and a tailored suit that fit him so flawlessly it seemed hand-stitched. You recognized him vaguely; he’d been polite when you first entered, a quick hello exchanged in passing while the audience was still finding their seats.

Now, he stepped away from a small group he’d been conversing with and headed in your direction. Despite the chatter around you, his voice was pitched low when he finally spoke, creating a sense of intimacy amid the bustle. “Good evening,” he greeted. “I see we meet again.”

You inclined your head politely. “We do. Enjoying the performance?”

“I’ll be honest—I’m not much of an opera fan. But I make appearances when necessary.” He motioned around him, lips curving in a self-aware smirk. “Comes with the territory, I suppose.”

You let out a laugh—short, genuine, and surprising even to yourself. “I can relate.” You took a sip of champagne, feeling its effervescence linger on your tongue, and cast a glance across the hall to find Hannibal watching you. He stood a few paces away from his clingy companion, but his gaze was entirely fixed on you. You could practically feel the heat of his scrutiny.

The newcomer followed your line of sight. “Husband?”

You nodded. “That’s him,” you confirmed, swirling the champagne in your glass to give your hands something to do. “He’s…quite sociable tonight.”

“Lucky man,” the stranger said, his brown eyes gleaming with sincere admiration. He leaned in just enough to keep his words between the two of you. “I hope I’m not being too forward, but I’d much rather chat with you than half the people here. You seem—” he paused, searching for a precise term—“less rehearsed.”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

And honestly, it was. In a sea of plastic smiles and pretentious laughter, Adam was a breath of fresh air. He asked about you in a way that felt genuine—inquiring politely about the arts, about your tastes, about what you liked doing in your free time. The conversation flowed so effortlessly that you didn’t notice the time slipping by.

For nearly an hour, you and Adam talked, a soft bubble of quiet warmth in the midst of the bustling foyer. Eventually, the bell sounded to signal the final act was about to start. Adam extracted a slim black business card from his wallet and handed it to you, smiling. “Let me know if you ever want a less formal chat. I’d like that.”

You looked down at the card and then back at him, feeling amusement dance along your features. “I’ll consider it,” you said, inclining your head in gratitude.

He nodded his goodbye, rejoining the flow of people returning to their seats. Suddenly aware of how your heart beat just a bit faster, you turned and found Hannibal already at your side, the tension emanating from him as palpable as the hush that once again fell over the audience. He offered you a measured smile—overly polite. The humor never touched his eyes, and his hand came to rest protectively (or possessively, depending on perspective) around your waist.

As the two of you made your way back into the darkened auditorium, Hannibal’s grip did not loosen. It was as though he wanted the entire opera house to see exactly to whom you belonged. His free hand brushed down the front of his suit in an almost nervous gesture—though he’d label it a mere habit. The moment you settled into your plush seats, you could feel his gaze flicker to the business card in your hand. There was a storm in that glance, a controlled fury that might have burst into a full hurricane if not for the need to maintain civility in public.

Slyly, you slid the card into your pocket without breaking eye contact, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. You could imagine the wheels in Hannibal’s mind spinning: envy, curiosity, possessiveness, all swirling like a tempest. And you? You were calm—steady. His petty pageantry in parading around with another woman felt all the more transparent now that he watched you with such thinly-veiled anger.

Yes, Hannibal Lecter was a possessive man, a petty, petulant prince if ever there was one. But you knew just how to handle him. Smoothing the lapel of your own jacket, you let the lights dim around you. The orchestra swelled, the final act beginning, and Hannibal’s hand tightened over your own. You felt a rush of satisfaction that cut through the boredom of the night, a sense of triumph in how quickly the tables had turned.

By the time you and Hannibal exit the opera house, the swell of applause still echoing behind you, the tension between you is palpable. You trail after him through the opulent lobby—your pace unhurried despite the stony silence radiating off his shoulders. Outside, the Bentley gleams under the streetlights, and Hannibal unlocks it with a snap of his wrist that betrays his simmering mood.

He slides behind the wheel, and you settle in the passenger seat. There was no music playing, not even the subdued hum of classical radio that Hannibal often preferred. He eases the car away from the curb with smooth precision, but his knuckles stand out white on the steering wheel, his maroon eyes fixed ahead. In the hush of the Bentley’s interior, you can almost feel his anger swirl like a tangible thing. Where others might quake at that quiet fury, you find yourself quietly amused. You’ve seen the beast’s temper before; this is just another piece on the chessboard.

The drive home feels longer than usual, the only sound the rhythmic hum of the tires and the low purr of the engine. You steal a glance his way every so often, noting how his jaw tightens, how his lips press into a line. He’s stewing. But you allow the silence to remain unbroken, letting him feel the full brunt of his own jealousy. If Hannibal truly wanted this result—wanted to provoke or be provoked—he can drown in it for a while. A small, satisfied smirk forms at the corner of your mouth before you quickly wipe it away.

When the Bentley glides up the winding driveway to your home, Hannibal parks with more force than necessary. The headlights cut off abruptly, and for a moment, neither of you moves. You can sense him hesitating, perhaps wrestling with the possibility of speaking first. Then he sets his jaw and steps out, slamming the door behind him with quiet aggression.

Inside the house, the familiar warmth of low lamps and the faint aroma of polished wood greet you. You shrug off your coat and hang it neatly by the door. Hannibal’s own coat is flung onto a nearby chair with none of his usual precision. He’s already stalking through the foyer, shoulders rigid, making a pointed show of ignoring you. That’s how you know he’s furious: Hannibal never leaves his clothing in disarray without intending it as a message.

You follow him into the sitting room, where he has paused in front of the fireplace, one hand curled at his side. “Was it fun?” he asks without turning around. His voice is taut, every syllable thick with petty jealousy.

“Surprisingly, yes,” you reply, taking measured steps toward him. “Given the circumstances.”

He swivels to face you, maroon eyes narrowing. “I suppose I should be pleased you enjoyed yourself.” There is no pleasure in his tone—only an accusation, a reminder that his own orchestrations haven’t played out the way he intended.

You hold his gaze, refusing to rise to the bait. “I’m not the one who spent half the evening being clung to by someone who didn’t know how to keep her hands to herself.”

Hannibal’s lips twitch, and for a moment, you think he might admit to his mischief. Instead, he inhales slowly, as though collecting himself. His voice drops. “I want to see that business card.”

A short laugh escapes you. He’s come straight to the point, then—jealousy still raw. “What business card?” you ask innocently, already knowing he saw the whole exchange.

“Don’t pretend with me,” he snaps, more sharply than usual. “This—this Adam, or whatever he calls himself. Why would you need to keep his details if you have no intention of—?”

You step closer, crossing the room until you’re mere inches away, resting a hand lightly on his lapel. “I assure you—I merely think he could be a good friend,” you say, your tone calm, soothing. “And please don’t pretend it doesn’t suit you to have me cultivate connections. You’ve pushed me into social circles all this time; was it only acceptable when you pulled the strings?”

Hannibal’s eyes flick to your hand on his jacket, and in that micro-moment, you sense the conflict in him: the desire to shake you off versus his need to feel your touch. When he speaks again, his voice is clipped. “You don’t need a friend like him. I know his sort.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Considering you barely spoke to him, that’s quite an assumption.”

His expression darkens. “I’m not asking for your opinion. I’m telling you. Give me the card, and forget about him.” He’s trying to reassert control—like a child demanding a toy be taken away so nobody else can play with it. You let the silence stretch, your fingers sliding up to smooth the lapel of his suit. You’re not trying to antagonize him, not exactly. But neither are you in the habit of rolling over for his demands.

“Hannibal, you know that I love you. But no, you can’t have the card.”

His nostrils flare; he’s on the precipice between fury and something else—hurt, maybe. You lean in, pressing a kiss to his jaw, an unspoken assurance that all his insecurities don’t need to exist. He’s still yours, and you are his. “I’m not keeping it from you to be cruel,” you murmur. “But I do enjoy his company. Don't kill him just because you felt threatened."

His response is a quick, sneering exhale. “Threatened,” he repeats incredulously, as if the concept is beneath him. But the tension around his eyes says otherwise. You guide him backward until his legs meet the edge of the armchair, urging him to sit. He settles, still bristling. Standing before him, you slide one hand through his hair, letting him feel your affectionate calm.

“I don’t want to fight,” you say quietly, “especially not about something so small.”

“There wouldn’t be a fight if you would just—”

“—hand it over?” you finish for him, smiling ruefully. “Let it be, Hannibal. If you want to grill me about Adam, do so tomorrow. Right now, we’ve both had a long day.”

He looks up at you, and for a moment, the flash in his maroon eyes reminds you of a predator debating whether to lunge or retreat. But then his gaze softens, ever so slightly, and he exhales. You recognize this as a truce—a temporary surrender in a war of wits and possessiveness that defines your relationship.

Slowly, you lean down, capturing his lips in a quiet kiss meant to soothe. After a second’s hesitation, he kisses you back, and you feel the rigid line of his shoulders relax beneath your touch. The two of you remain that way for a breath or two—locked in a silent détente—until he finally pulls back. The storm in his expression still lingers, but there’s the promise of a calmer tomorrow.

You trace your thumb along his jaw. “Come to bed,” you suggest gently. “We can talk in the morning if you still feel so strongly.”

Hannibal nods once, gaze flickering with unresolved emotions. He stands, tugging you closer by the waist in a gesture that speaks of both affection and ownership. “Just remember,” he murmurs, voice low and controlled, “you belong to me.”

[fudgeez]

May I request the yandre possessive top Sana got jealous seeing her friendly girlfriend talking to someone in the after party of misamo concert so she decided to give her girl a lesson that she would enjoy

Tnx

Only Sana's Love - Minatozaki Sana x Fem Reader

(masterlist)

Synopsis : After-party turns possessive. Sana claims Y/N as her own.

The music pulsed through the room, a vibrant echo of the Misamo concert that had just ended. Laughter and excited chatter filled the air as fans mingled at the after-party.

While Y/N laughed along with the conversation at her table, Sana spoke up. “Darling, I’m just going to congratulate the other staffs and make sure Momo doesn’t vomit,” she said, a bright smile on her face.

“Go ahead, love,” Y/N replied, returning the smile. “Don’t worry about me.”

Sana beamed, clearly wanting to savor every moment of the post-concert buzz. Y/N watched her go, a warm feeling spreading through her chest. She was so proud of Sana and her Misamo sisters. Turning back to her conversation, she resumed chatting with the friendly staff members she had met during the concert preparations. They were a lively bunch, and Y/N found herself enjoying their company.

Suddenly, a voice interrupted her. “Hi.”

Y/N turned to see a woman with a friendly smile standing beside her.

“Hey,” Y/N replied, a little surprised. “You’re with the production team, right?”

“Yeah, I am,” the woman said.

“I’m Y/N, Sana’s girlfriend,” Y/N introduced herself. “And you are?”

“I’m Jamie. Nice to meet you.” Jamie smiled. “I was just saying hi. I really enjoyed the show—you must be proud of Sana.”

“I am. Very much so,” Y/N replied.

Jamie then proceeded to talk about the stage design, the lighting, and the intricate details of the show, which piqued Y/N’s interest. She knew how much effort Sana had put into it.

Unbeknownst to Y/N, Sana, who had finished greeting Momo, was scanning the room. Her eyes landed on Y/N, deep in conversation with Jamie.

A flicker of something dark and possessive flashed through her gaze. She watched as Jamie gestured animatedly, Y/N’s attention fully captivated. Sana’s smile tightened.

That’s enough, she thought, a low growl rumbling in her chest.

She began to make her way through the crowd, her movements deliberate and purposeful.

Sana’s once-bright, celebratory expression morphed into a thin, almost predatory line. The sight of Y/N, so engaged with another person, ignited a spark of possessiveness she hadn’t realized was simmering beneath the surface. Jamie’s casual gestures, the way she leaned in slightly as she spoke, only amplified Sana’s growing unease.

Y/N is mine, she thought, the words echoing in her mind with fierce intensity. Only mine.

She moved with practiced grace, weaving through the throng of people. Her eyes never left Y/N, her focus razor-sharp. The music, the laughter, the lively hum of the after-party faded into the background.

As she drew closer, snippets of their conversation reached her ears. Jamie was animated, her hands moving as she spoke about the stage lighting, the intricate details of the production. Y/N, in turn, nodded, her eyes sparkling with interest. Sana felt a surge of irritation. Why was Y/N so interested in something she had already seen? Why was this woman holding her attention?

“Darling.”

Sana’s voice cut through the air, smooth but laced with an undercurrent of steel. Y/N’s head snapped up, her eyes widening slightly as she saw Sana standing beside her.

“Sana! Hey,” Y/N said, her voice warm. “Jamie was just telling me about—”

“Yes, darling, I heard,” Sana interrupted, her voice still smooth but edged with something sharper. She placed a hand on Y/N’s arm, her fingers tightening slightly. “But I think it’s time we went back to the hotel, don’t you?”

Jamie, sensing the shift in atmosphere, offered a polite smile. “It was nice talking to you, Y/N.”

“You too, Jamie,” Y/N replied, a hint of confusion in her voice.

Sana’s smile was tight as she turned to Jamie. “Thank you for keeping her company,” she said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness, though her eyes burned with something far less innocent.

With a gentle tug, she steered Y/N away, her grip never loosening. The warmth of the after-party was replaced by a chilling intensity, and Y/N couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something had changed.

The hotel room door slammed shut, the sound echoing the finality of Sana’s possessive intentions. The vibrant energy of the after-party was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness, broken only by the sound of Y/N’s shallow breaths.

Sana turned, her eyes—usually sparkling with warmth—now dark with something far more dangerous.

“You enjoyed talking to her, didn’t you?” Sana’s voice was a low, honeyed growl, laced with an undercurrent of something almost menacing.

Y/N, still slightly disoriented from the sudden shift in Sana’s demeanor, could only nod, her throat tight with nervous apprehension.

A predatory smile curved Sana’s lips, a stark contrast to her usual playful grin. “Good,” she purred, her voice sending a shiver down Y/N’s spine. “Now, let me show you exactly what happens when you give your attention to someone else.”

She closed the distance between them, her movements fluid and deliberate. Her hand reached out—not to caress, but to grip Y/N’s chin, tilting her head up.

“You’re mine, Y/N,” she whispered, her voice a silken threat. “Only mine. And I won’t tolerate sharing.”

The playful facade had shattered, revealing the possessive darkness that lurked beneath. Sana’s eyes, usually filled with adoration, now held a chilling intensity—a hunger that sent a wave of fear mixed with something far more dangerous through Y/N.

“Do you understand?” Sana asked, her grip tightening slightly.

Y/N, her heart pounding, managed a shaky nod.

“Good girl,” Sana murmured, her voice laced with dark satisfaction. “Now, let’s make sure you never forget.”

"God, Sana!" y/n gasped, the sound muffled slightly by the blindfold that obscured their vision. The soft, warm press of Sana's lips against their stomach sent a jolt of electricity through their body, a stark contrast to the cool air of the room. This was their punishment, a self-imposed penance for a playful transgression, and Sana was relishing the execution.

The deliberate slowness of Sana’s ministrations was a delicious torture. Each feather-light kiss, each warm breath that fanned across their skin, heightened the anticipation, making y/n’s skin tingle with a mixture of nervousness and excitement.

She could feel the subtle shift in Sana’s movements as the trail of kisses crept upward, towards their navel, a sensitive spot that always sent shivers down their spine.

"Sana..." y/n breathed, her voice a mere whisper, laced with a plea they didn’t quite understand. The darkness behind the blindfold amplified their other senses, making every touch, every sound, every scent, overwhelmingly intense. The playful nip of Sana's teeth against the delicate skin of their navel sent a wave of heat surging through them. "You're so good..." She murmured, the words escaping involuntarily.

The feeling of Sana's hand, cool and smooth, sliding along their waist, sent a fresh wave of anticipation. The touch was light, almost a caress, yet it carried an unspoken promise, a promise that made y/n’s heart pound against their ribs.

"Sana, please..." She begged, the words a desperate plea for something, anything, to break the tension that coiled within them. The blindfold, the darkness, the exquisite torture of Sana's touch—it was all becoming too much, a delicious, overwhelming sensation that threatened to consume them entirely.

"What do you want?" Sana murmured, her voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down y/n's spine. With a slow, deliberate movement, she slid y/n's pants and boxers down, revealing the sensitive skin beneath. Her gaze lingered for a moment, a flicker of something intense in her eyes, before she reached out and closed her hand around y/n's cock.

The sudden contact sent a jolt of electricity through y/n's body, a sharp intake of breath escaping their lips. Her back arched involuntarily, a mixture of pleasure and a sharp, almost painful sensation coursing through them from Sana's firm hold.

The pressure was exquisite, a delicate balance between pleasure and pain that made y/n's breath catch in their throat.

"Sana..." y/n gasped, her voice a strained whisper. The intensity of the sensation was overwhelming, the feeling of Sana's hand wrapped around them sending waves of heat through their body.

Sana's thumb brushed lightly against the sensitive tip, eliciting a sharp gasp from y/n. "Tell me," she repeated, her voice laced with a playful edge. "What do you want me to do?"

Her grip tightened slightly, and y/n's body tensed, a wave of anticipation washing over them. The combination of the pleasurable pressure and the slight sting of Sana's hold was driving them wild, pushing them closer to the edge.

"I... I don't know," y/n stammered, her mind a blur of sensations. The intensity of the moment was making it hard to think, to form coherent thoughts.

Sana chuckled softly, a low, throaty sound that vibrated against y/n's skin. "That's alright," she whispered, her voice laced with a hint of mischief. "I have a few ideas." She began to move her hand, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, the friction building with each stroke. Y/n's breath hitched, their body trembling with anticipation.

"Fuck, Sana, you're so tight!" y/n groaned, the words a desperate plea as Sana settled onto their cock. A slow, predatory smirk spread across Sana's lips. She knew exactly how much power she held in that moment, how y/n's body was completely at her mercy.

"Tight?" she purred, her voice a low, teasing whisper. "Or just... perfectly fitted?" She paused, letting the implication hang in the air, before adding, "Just for you, of course."

She began to move, a slow, deliberate grind that made y/n's breath hitch. "Tell me," she whispered, her teeth grazing y/n's earlobe, "how good does it feel?"

Y/n's hands clenched on Sana's hips, their body arching beneath her. "Sana..." She gasped, the name a mixture of a plea and a curse.

"That's it," Sana murmured, her voice laced with amusement.

"Beg for it." She slowed her movements, teasing y/n with the near-absence of friction.

"Or, perhaps," she whispered, her voice a silken threat, "you'd prefer I stopped?"

Y/n's eyes widened, a flicker of panic in their gaze. "No! Sana, please," she begged voice thick with need.

"Please what?" Sana asked, her voice dripping with playful cruelty. "Please continue? Please make you scream my name?"

She began to move again, this time with a slow, grinding rhythm that made y/n groan.

"You're so desperate," she whispered, her voice a low, husky drawl.

"So needy. And I love it." She leaned down, her lips brushing against y/n's. "Only I can give you this," she murmured, her voice a promise and a threat. "Only I can make you feel this way."

 A jolt of surprise shot through y/n as Sana's fingers tightened around their neck, not enough to choke, but a firm, undeniable claim.

The possessive grip sent a thrill of fear and excitement spiraling through them. Above, Sana's eyes burned with a dark intensity, her gaze fixed on the vulnerable curve of y/n's throat.

"Mine," Sana breathed, the word a low, guttural growl that vibrated against y/n's skin. She leaned down, her lips tracing a hot, wet path along their neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses. Each press of her lips, each gentle nip of her teeth, was a mark of ownership, a brand that declared y/n belonged to her.

Y/n gasped, their breath catching in their throat. "Sana..." her voice trembling with a mixture of fear and desire.

Sana's grip tightened slightly, just enough to remind y/n of her control."Don't speak," she murmured, her voice thick with possessiveness. "Just feel."

She continued her assault on y/n's neck, her kisses growing more fervent, more demanding. She nipped and sucked, her teeth grazing the delicate skin, leaving a constellation of red marks that would serve as a constant reminder of her claim. Y/n could feel the heat radiating from Sana's body, the intensity of her gaze burning into their skin. The combination of the possessive grip, the passionate kisses, and the unspoken threat in Sana’s eyes was intoxicating.

"You're so beautiful," Sana whispered, her voice husky with desire. "So perfect. And you're mine. Only mine." She paused, her lips hovering over a particularly sensitive spot on y/n's neck. "I'll mark you," she murmured, her voice laced with a dark promise.

"So everyone knows who you belong to."

 Sana's words hung in the air, a dark promise that sent a shiver of anticipation down y/n's spine. With a renewed intensity, she increased her pace, the rhythmic friction building with each powerful stroke. She could feel y/n's body trembling beneath her, the tension coiling tighter and tighter.

"You gonna cum already?" Sana purred, her voice a low, teasing whisper. She leaned down, her lips brushing against y/n's ear. "Do you think you deserve it?"

Y/n's breath hitched, their body arching involuntarily. their eyes wide with a mixture of desire and desperation. "Please, Sana," they gasped, their voice thick with need. "I'm good, just for you."

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Sana's face. "Good," she murmured, her voice laced with a dark tenderness. She slowed her movements slightly, teasing y/n with the near-absence of friction, before surging forward again, pushing them closer to the edge.

"Tell me," she commanded, her voice a low growl. "Tell me how much you want me."

"Sana!" y/n cried out, their voice a desperate plea. "I want you so much!"

Satisfied with their response, Sana released the last vestiges of restraint. She moved faster, harder, pushing y/n over the edge. A wave of pleasure washed over y/n, their body convulsing as they reached their peak. Sana felt the hot, pulsing surge of y/n's cum as it exploded inside her, the sensation colliding with her own, sending a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure through her body. She moaned softly, her head falling back as she savored the moment, the feeling of y/n's release mingling with her own.

For a moment, they remained entwined, their bodies still shuddering with the aftershocks of their shared climax. The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of their mingled breaths. Sana gently shifted, pulling y/n closer, their foreheads resting against each other. A soft, contented sigh escaped y/n's lips, and they snuggled deeper into Sana's embrace.

Sana's fingers traced soft circles on y/n's back, a silent expression of affection. "You were amazing," she murmured, her voice warm and tender, a stark contrast to the possessive growls from moments before.

A soft blush crept up y/n's cheeks. "So were you," they whispered back, their voice still a little shaky.

Sana chuckled softly, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated against y/n's chest. "I'm glad," she said, her eyes sparkling with affection. She gently brushed a stray strand of hair from y/n's face, her touch feather-light.

A comfortable silence settled between them, a moment of quiet intimacy after the storm of passion. Y/n's eyelids fluttered closed, a sense of peace washing over them. They felt safe and cherished in Sana's arms, the possessiveness from before replaced with a gentle warmth.

Sana continued to hold them close, her hand gently stroking their hair. She kissed y/n's forehead, a soft, tender gesture. "Rest now," she whispered, her voice filled with a quiet affection. "I'll be here."

Y/n hummed in response, their body relaxing completely against Sana's. The lingering warmth of their shared pleasure, combined with the gentle touch of Sana's hand, lulled them into a peaceful drowsiness. They drifted off to sleep, feeling safe and loved, the echoes of their shared passion fading into the background of their dreams.

While y/n slept soundly, wrapped in the warm afterglow of their shared intimacy, Sana's phone buzzed with a sudden, insistent vibration. She carefully extracted herself from y/n's embrace, ensuring not to disturb their slumber, and answered the call.

"Ms. Minatozaki," a clipped, professional voice spoke from the other end of the line, "Job well done. We've taken care of her." A brief pause, and then the line went dead.

A slow, predatory smirk spread across Sana's lips. Her eyes, usually so bright and playful, now held a cold, calculating glint.

Her gaze lingered on y/n's sleeping form, a possessive fire burning in her eyes. "Nothing can separate us," she whispered, her voice a low, almost threatening growl.

"Only mine." She leaned in and softly kissed y/n’s forehead. A silent vow, that she would never let anybody have y/n.

[letteremi]

calling after me

warnings/tags: angst, love triangle (gojo, geto, afab!reader), rivals to friends to lovers (?)  

geto edition here

Satoru Gojo Edition ✧

noble!gojo who you meet as a child, and immediately hate. There is no doubt about it. You hate how insufferable he is, with his riddles and weird way of speaking. You hate how he acts like he’s so much better than you, and truth be told? You hate how the world makes you feel like he is. And most of all, you hate how one moment he’s looking down on you, and the next, he’s pulling you to safety like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

noble!gojo who you somehow manage to forget about for years. You’re definitely not thinking about how he looked — helpless and resigned — when his maids dragged him away from the bustling festival atmosphere. How if he even had someone to talk to, because it must be quite lonely, at the top of a tower like his.

noble!gojo who suddenly showed up one day on your farm, pretending like nothing was wrong and looking like he didn’t remember you at all. You tell yourself you’re not disappointed. That your chest doesn’t tighten, and your heart doesn’t ache. 

But it does. 

noble!gojo who longs to step fully into your world, craving something real outside the polished halls he grew up in. It’s only natural he falls into Suguru Geto’s company, and he thrives here, on your farm and with your family.

noble!gojo who has never understood hesitation. What he desires, he reaches for. And the longer he watches you — watches Suguru trying, and failing, to hide his feelings — Gojo begins to understand. 

What it means to be afraid. 

noble!gojo snippet below!

✧

“Didn’t your mother tell you not to do that?” a voice calls out, teasing and too bright for your liking.

Caught in the act. You don’t bother looking down. “Don’t you have fruit to gather and trees to trim?” you shoot back, tone dry. Hoping he’ll take the hint.  

Honestly, couldn’t he just leave you alone? The trunk is solid behind your back, and this high up in the branches, you feel giddy. You almost forget that some short, snowy haired boy is bothering you with his insufferable voice. 

Gojo replies with mock seriousness, heavy with an undercurrent of delight, “Indeed, but you’re in the way of the tree I need to prune.”

“There are plenty of other trees in this orchard.”

“Well, yes. But I want this one.” 

You finally glance down. He’s got an infuriating smirk plastered on his face — one that says he knows he’s winning. 

“Then you’ll have to wait,” you say coolly, leaning back against the bark like royalty on a throne. 

He tilts his head. “I could climb up and make you move.”

You scowl, eyes narrowed, but you don’t mean it. He doesn’t shrink away, doesn’t even bat an eye. “Don’t you dare, Gojo.”

“Hey, I’m here to help your old man,” he drawls, with an aloof shrug of his shoulders. 

So casual. So careless. 

And it makes you mad all over again.

✧

© 2025 letteremi. All rights reserved. Please do not plagiarise/copy, translate, or repost my work to any platforms 

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Undercurrents - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Dark dynamics, old resentments and shifting allegiances begin to cohere...

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

tw: mentions of child prostitution and unhealthy dynamics between mentor and student.

After, Sevika dragged her clothes back on. Her trousers were threadbare at the knees. Her vest was patched thrice-over. Her jacket was a cast-off of cracked leather and faded stripes. But with her baton holstered to her hip and her knife strapped to her calf, she was no less than a warrior-queen: aglow with anticipation at the blood-red sunset, and the battle-cry that'd call their city to arms. Transform it into something it had never been.

Something shining.

She grinned. The gleam cut him, deep.

"Ready to roll, Sil?"

He kissed her. Long, lingering, not a little possessive. He tasted sex, smoke, spirits, and underneath: a sweetness that was all her own. He wanted her again. He'd always want her, in one way or another: carnally, calculatedly, constantly. His flesh would cry out, even after it'd been pared down to the marrow.

Even after he'd been scarred past recognition, or resurrected into an altogether different shape, or rendered a ghost in his own story.

"It's time," he said.

She slipped from the backroom first, leaving the door open a crack, its glow beckoning. He lingered by the threshold, listening, not without fondness, as her solid footsteps faded. Smoked a quick one, relishing the smolder of tobacco at his throat. Then he extinguished his cigarillo, unfolded to his feet, and re-entered the fray.

In the corridor, he wasn't alone.

Nao, the young runner, was loitering in the hallway with a coy tilt to her head. A pitcher—midway to making its rounds upstairs between refills—was cradled in her arms.

Spotting Silco, she offered him a cool sluicing of water poured into a steel cup.

Silco accepted gratefully. Nao smiled, that hard, ingratiating smile he'd always deplored in scrappers. She'd been a teenager then, pretty in that soft unformed way that often invited roughing up from the wrong quarters.

Vander had, more often than not, wiped the floors with punters who'd gotten too handsy with the girl. Silco, typically, oversaw the aftermath: sending the malefactors packing with a smoldering cigarette stubbed out into their foreheads.

The two-punch combination was both a warning and a ritual. To discourage further transgression—and instill terror at its memory.

Lately, though, Silco had begun seeing more than fear in Nao's eyes. There was flint. Hunger, verging on bottomless, that spoke of some deep well within. He'd caught the girl, on more than one occasion, eyeing him intently as he passed.

The attention made his hackles rise, and he knew why.

She was a bit like him, Nao. Opportunistic, capable of great feats of cleverness. Already, she sensed that if tonight went as planned, Silco and Vander would take their place at the apex of Zaun's power structure. And Nao, budding gamester that she was, meant to capitalize on future gains. She couldn't ply her favors for coin just yet. Instead, she prostrated herself in smaller ways: topping up cups, offering cigarettes, dropping choice secrets.

She wanted Silco to see her. Recognize her worth. And, perhaps, reward it.

Ambition, Silco thinks in retrospect.

Is any monster more insidious?

"I iced it," Nao said in Va-Nox, as he tipped the glass back. "I knew you'd be thirsty."

"Because you were listening through the door." Silco made the accusation mildly in the same tongue. But his tone brooked no argument. He was fond of the girl, but she was just that: a girl. Too green, too rash. Too likely to find herself in the wrong pair of hands. "Don't do that again, Nao. It won't end well for you."

Her cheeks, darkly flushed, belied her nonchalant shrug. "I was curious, is all. Wanted to see what you two had going on."

"That's grown-up business. No affair of yours."

"How would you know?" The smile sat strangely on her features; it didn't suit. She was angling for bravado, but underneath, a rawboned woundedness bled through. "I've seen plenty. Endured plenty, too. My affairs would make yours blush."

"I don't doubt it."

"No?"

"But, doubt or no, you're a child." It was a flat summation of fact. "Your only affair ought to be your schooling. Are you still taking those classes? Math and reading?"

"A waste of time."

"On the contrary. Unless you'd like to be running these streets forever."

That earned him another look: sly, oddly calculating. "Who's to say I don't plan on it? Running these streets, I mean."

"Don't joke. The Lanes aren't a playground."

"No, they're a wolf-den." She sidled close, intimate in the narrow space. "And the only way out of a wolf-den is by kissing the one with the biggest teeth."

"You give Vander an earful of that, and he'll knock yours out."

"Not Vander." Her fingertip alighted on Silco's jugular notch. "You."

"Me?"

"I keep my ear to more than doors. I hear things. I know things." She tipped her face up: all smooth unblemished skin that, yet, stirred nothing but pity in Silco's gut. Her youth was precious, and she was ready to squander it for a penny's worth of promise. At her age, he'd done the same for less. "When Zaun is free, there will be a split. Right down the middle. One side: Vander's. The other side: yours. Which one, d'you think, will prove the winner's side?"

"I have no idea what you mean."

"Do you take me for a fool?" She tiptoed closer, pitcher resting on one shapely hip. The effect was spoiled by her gangling bones: too much child left to offset her burgeoning maturity. "Or are you the one who's fooling himself? There are whispers of what you did, to kickstart this fight. The Enforcers, dead in alleys, strung up in the rafters, floating in the river. They say you're not afraid to get your hands dirty. That you'll sacrifice anything to get what you want. That Vander leads the charge, but doesn't play the long game. Not the way you do."

"I'd put no stock in rumors," Silco warned. "They make fools of men and meat of little girls."

"I'm not a little girl." Her recalcitrant hand, approximating seduction through mimicry, veered south. "I can prove it."

He caught her wrist before it wandered off-course. Nao stilled.

She knew she was taking liberties where none were permitted. Yet she stood her ground. Defiant; hopeful. He saw, in her bold gaze, someone whose value system had been upended, and utterly shattered: like a porcelain vase smashed on the cobblestones.

He recognized the feeling. That broken-in emptiness. He'd lived it: a boy from the orphanages and mines, a lifetime's share of degradation buried in his young bones.

They deserved better, these children. Each and every one of them. Otherwise, the future mirrored in Nao's eyes—that warped amalgamation of ambition and avarice—would be Zaun's sole inheritance.

"I believe you," Silco told her, not unkindly. "You're growing up. Getting ideas about yourself. Nothing wrong with that. Same way there's nothing wrong with wanting more. But these games—they're not for you, Nao. Not yet. And if you're not careful, they'll lead you straight to an early grave."

Nao's lower-lip quivered; young pride, smote by rejection. But her spine held steady.

"Or lead me straight to you," she purred. "Isn't that the hand Sevika played?"

Anger cut cold through Silco's bones. His grip tightened fractionally; Nao flinched.

"Sevika," he said, "is a grown woman. You're a chit of a girl with ambitions beyond her scope. Learn your limits, before you break your neck stepping outside of them."

"But—"

He dropped her hand, done with her and every bit of this sordid business.

“Get back upstairs," he ordered. "If I catch you propositioning me, or any man again, I'll tell Vander. How d'you think he'll take to a scrap such as you peddling herself under his roof? Mark me, he'll thrash your backside raw. And, right after, I'll tell Sevika, and watch as she rips you a new one."

The threat, paired with the glint of permafrosted steel, did the trick.

Tears sprang to Nao’s eyes. She jerked away as if scalded.

"You're cruel!" she cried. "Heartless! I hate you!"

She fled back upstairs. In her hurry, she knocked over the pitcher: the steel clattering, water splashing everywhere. Bad luck, in the Fissures. A portent of disaster.

The echo, blending with Nao's receding footsteps, would linger: in the here-and-now, and in Silco's memory, for decades to come.

Irony, the bitch, was an inveterate houseguest.

On the stairwell, Silco scooped up the fallen pitcher. Rounding the landing, he encountered a presence blocking his path.

Vander.

The Hound's silhouette loomed darkly. A towering bulk encased in metal and leather. The gauntlets, hanging from his belt, caught the red lamplight, and turned to brimming cups of blood.

He must've spotted Nao fleeing upstairs. Spotted Silco, still radiating the postcoital languor from Sevika, on her heels. Whatever conclusions Vander drew in the interval stayed sequestered beneath his shadowed eye-sockets.

But, for a moment, he looked every inch the behemoth. Hardened. Brutal. Uncompromising.

A monster of mythological proportions.

"Trouble?" Vander rumbled quietly.

"Just a spill." Silco hefted the pitcher, tipping it upside down. The drips pattered in his footsteps. "Mind the puddle in the corridor."

"Tears? Or blood?"

Vander seemed mellow enough. His eyes told a different story.

When, Silco wondered, had it come to this? How and where had they fallen into this tarpit of mutual suspicion? Vander should be his staunchest ally; the most stalwart of his defenders. When had he become the man who'd imagine Silco would corner little chits in shadowy corridors, and coerce them into shameful acts?

Yet he could read between the lines.

Vander had always been primed for Silco's corruption. Always seeking evidence of the irredeemable. The boy with the outsized ambitions of outsized vengeance, flaunting his mockery at The Sprout to the miners' cheers. The young man with the barbed teeth and seething eyes, stalking Vander and Lika through the dancefloor of the Blue Lantern, as loneliness hung off him like miasma. The two-faced punisher prowling the tunnels at night, his blade slicing across Enforcers' throats, the cold scales of his ire encircling the heart of a city until it burst.

To Vander, Silco had become a subterranean spook, haunting every nook and crevice of portent.

Waiting. Watching. Wanting.

Until the monster had its fill.

And, it struck Silco then: a revelation far too late. Someday, a reckoning would come. Between himself and the monster inside Vander: the one that held apart, teeth bared, and meted out judgment on the transgressor who'd wandered too far beyond the pack. The beastly instinct that demanded honor as its due; obedience as recompense.

Someday, sooner or later, they'd both come to blows. Only one would survive. And it would be either him, or everything they'd built.

Tonight wasn't that night.

"Neither," Silco said, flatly. "Little brat fancies herself the lady of the manor. I set her straight."

"Did you?"

Silco ignored the pinch between his shoulderblades: a sharpness, reminiscent of a knife, sinking deep.

"Caught her skulking in the corridors," he elaborated, "while Sevika and I were occupied. Thought she'd pull a similar act, and I'd be enticed." He scoffed, shoulders rolling back. "As if anyone, least of all a half-pint still wet-behind-the-ears, has a snowball's chance in hell of warming my sheets while Sevika walks and breathes. Not to mention: she'd tear me limb from limb. Nail my cock above the door like a hunting trophy."

Vander's silence weighed. Then a tiny smirk cracked his stony demeanor.

"That," he conceded, "is good incentive for fidelity."

"Have a word with Nao, will you? She'll get herself hurt, at this rate."

"I will." The smirk dimmed, tempered by seriousness. "Look. Sorry, all right? Just, saw her hurrying away. Crying. Thought—"

"I know." Silco exhaled through his teeth. "It's my own damn fault. I keep things from you because I don't want us at odds. And because I do, you start jumping at shadows. Next you're suspecting me of every debauchery under the sun. You ask questions; I get defensive. And round and round we go."

"Not forever." Vander closed the space between them. The anger receded, replaced by quiet regret. "Look, Blut. I get it, yeah? Folks know you get shit done. That's why they come to you with their grievances. Why they ask things of you that they won't from me. But I've said it before. Ain't going to stop saying it till it sticks. These wildcards you keep close—they're bad news. Sevika's got more sense than most, but the rest're trouble. Reckless trouble. Small wonder whelps like Nao are followin' in their footsteps."

Wryly, Silco said, "There is a certain moral flexibility in our line of work."

"That 'moral flexibility' makes you a prime target." A big hand reached out, settling on Silco's nape. Like an ironclad collar. Or a stranglehold disguised as a caress. "Gives you a reputation you don't need. I don't want the Lanes rememberin' you as the chancer who made his own bed."

"No?" Silco drawled, half-jibe, half-challenge. "How do you want me remembered?"

Vander didn't let go. His palm rested in the jut of Silco's vertebra, where a pulse ticked.

Beneath the skin: a love burning restless.

"As the best man I know," Vander said simply. "Smartest, bravest, most loyal. A man who'd walk through fire, if it meant giving us a future without chains. Who'd do anything for those he calls family."

His thumb smoothed Silco's jugular. His gray eyes crinkled, almost in pain.

"A champion of Zaun."

Emotion seared the corners of Silco's eyes. Rarely did he cherish the handspan of inches that put Vander at an advantage. Yet he savored this vantagepoint: the width of Vander's shoulders against the doorway, and the sheer physicality of him attuned to Silco's shadow.

Right then, there was no world, not anymore, where Silco had any right to feel small.

"Always," Silco said hoarsely. "No matter what comes."

They stood there, rooted in place. Upstairs, the revelry raged on. A woman's laugh—husky-edged—rolled through the gloom.

"She's waiting for me," Silco asked quietly.

"Nao?"

"Sevika."

Vander nodded, and unslung his hand off Silco's shoulder. A concession, grudgingly bestowed. It made Silco realize, with no small sense of wonderment, that Vander hadn't fully let go of him. That, in his own way, he envied Silco this small bedrock of physical intimacy.

Sevika, a constant presence: guarding his flank, stoking his fire, warding off foes.

Silco had been that for Vander, once. Through thick and thin, against all odds. But that'd changed, somewhere along the line. Changed in ways boys could hash out with bareknuckled brawls or confessions slurred through liquor-fumes.

Not grown men. Not leaders-in-arms.

Them, they kept their grievances hidden. Tucked like blades beneath their sleeves.

"Can't believe," Vander gruffed, "that in all the years I've known you, I've never imagine asking. But... d'you love her?"

Irritation, fleeting, winged through Silco. Vander would be the kind of sap to throw the word around so easily. As though he owned its exclusive license.

Still, Silco answered. What else could he do?

"I think," he said, with a plainspoken pragmatism that, yet, hid a bedrock of rawness, "if she ever stopped looking at me with that fire in her eyes, I'd die."

"An' that's enough?"

"Should there be more?"

"You tell me."

Silco didn't prevaricate. There was no room left: not tonight.

Instead, swiveling, he stood to face the flecked hallway mirror, smoothing his shirt-collar and buttoning up his cuffs. His hair was slipping loose from its tie; deep waves spilling over his forehead.

He thought of Sevika's hand fisted there, her teeth sunk into his throat, those strong sweet thighs cinching down on him like destiny...

Silco smiled. The light cut half his face into a patchwork of shadows. For one fleeting instant, he saw something there—something other. A vision of himself years down the track, irrevocably altered, irremediably destroyed.

And, beneath that, something that could never be erased.

"No," he said softly. "It's not enough. But the rest, we'll seize. Build for ourselves. Make it whatever we need it to be."

"Happily ever after?"

"Choice." Silco turned, and met Vander squarely, chin to chest. "And whatever choice I make will be mine to answer to."

"An' mine."

"Already crowned yourself king, eh?"

"Please. Throne's just another name for a chopping block." Vander shook his head. "Only kingdom I want's this."

"This?"

"The Drop tonight. Where everyone has a full plate, an' a warm hearth, an' hope." His smile spread; tender despite the bitterness spreading its stains between them. "What more d'we need?"

The right answer—the only answer—was nothing.

Nothing, except the freedom to keep it forever.

In the shadows, they embraced. The way men who've loved each other their whole lives would, at the crossroads of Fate. Not knowing if their paths were diverging, or colliding, but understanding that no matter what came, they'd walk out changed to the marrow.

They had no inkling of how far the change would span. That they'd die and live again: reborn in shapes less than whole. That the cost of tomorrow would be the past itself.

Riven in two; never to be remade.

This, Silco knows now, was the last night they'd hold each other not as enemies, but as brothers-in-arms.

For when dawn broke, everything would fall apart.

[mikaylathenerd5]

Game Day Heat + One Shot

Masterlist Summary: Joe Anoa’i, WWE’s Tribal Chief and a Georgia Tech football legend, shares a thrilling game day at Bobby Dodd Stadium with his girlfriend, Isla Navarro, a cybersecurity specialist and fellow Tech alum who once dreamed of him from afar. The electric atmosphere of the Yellow Jackets’ victory fuels their passion, setting the stage for a night of intense connection in Joe’s luxurious Midtown condo. As their shared history deepens their bond, Joe’s wrestling-honed stamina and Isla’s admiration for her campus icon lead to a fiery, emotional evening that blurs the line between fantasy and reality. Will their love shine as brightly as the Atlanta skyline? Warnings: This one-shot contains mature themes. Please read at your own discretion. Explicit sexual content (graphic descriptions of sex, including oral and penetrative), Light BDSM (light bondage, spanking, Daddy kink), Squirting, Emotional vulnerability, Alcohol consumption (wine), Mature language (profanity, explicit dialogue), Brief mention of an age gap, Voyeuristic elements (implied) Authors Note: Might have gotten carried away lol but hope you enjoy. Trying something different for once. This can be read as a standalone from the book series. But as always, feel free to leave a comment 💛🖤💛🖤 Word Count: 5.7k words

Bobby Dodd Stadium, Atlanta, GA

The air at Bobby Dodd Stadium crackled with raw energy, the stands a vibrant sea of gold and white, the scent of grilled hot dogs, spilled beer, and fresh-cut grass hanging heavy in the September breeze. The crowd roared as the Georgia Tech Yellow Jackets sealed a victory with a last-second touchdown, the stadium lights casting a golden glow over the field, the atmosphere electric with triumph, the distant hum of Atlanta traffic a faint undercurrent to the cheers. Joe Anoa’i sat in the alumni section, his massive frame filling out a fitted Georgia Tech hoodie, the fabric stretched tight over his broad shoulders, his tattooed arm wrapped possessively around his girlfriend, Isla Navarro. The game-day intensity stirred a fire in Joe—he’d been a star defensive tackle for Tech years ago, his name still a legend among fans, his legacy etched into the turf below. Now, as the Tribal Chief of WWE, Joe was known for his unmatched stamina in the ring, dominating matches with a relentless endurance that left opponents exhausted and fans in awe—a trait that carried over into every aspect of his life, especially with Isla, who’d admired him from afar during her college days. Isla, who’d attended Tech much later, pressed herself against his side, her gold Tech T-shirt clinging to her curves, the soft cotton catching the light, her dark hair tumbling in waves over her shoulder, her eyes bright with joy as she cheered, her voice hoarse from shouting, her laughter a melody that warmed Joe’s chest.

Isla had always respected Joe’s legacy at Tech, the stories of his unyielding spirit on the field a quiet inspiration during her own student days, though they’d never met back then. As a computer science major, she’d been deeply immersed in her studies, often camped out in the Clough Undergraduate Learning Commons with her laptop open, debugging code or working through complex data structures, her determination to excel in her field driving her through late nights and endless cups of coffee. But even amidst her rigorous academic schedule, she couldn’t help but overhear the whispered legends of Joe Anoa’i—the star defensive tackle who’d graduated years before her time, his name a symbol of grit and glory on the field. She’d catch snippets of his games playing on a loop in the student lounge nearby, her eyes occasionally flickering to the screen, a small smile tugging at her lips as she imagined what it would be like to meet the man behind the myth, though her focus always snapped back to her coding projects, her dreams of a future in cybersecurity taking precedence. Now, as his girlfriend, she felt a deep thrill watching the game with him, the reality of being in his arms a dream she’d never thought would come true, his warmth a steady anchor amidst the chaos, his scent—a heady mix of cedarwood cologne, leather, and the faint musk of sweat—wrapping around her like a lover’s embrace. Joe’s hand rested on her thigh, his calloused fingers tracing slow, deliberate patterns on her skin through her jeans, each touch a spark that set her nerves alight, his grip possessive yet tender, a silent promise of the night ahead. “You’re a fuckin’ vision in gold, baby,” he murmured in her ear, his deep voice a low growl, the sound vibrating through her, making a sharp pulse flare deep in her belly. Isla blushed, her cheeks warming under his gaze, her voice teasing as she leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear, the scent of her jasmine perfume mingling with the stadium air, “Wait ‘til you see what I’ve got for you after the game, Daddy—your college crush has a surprise.”

Joe’s eyes darkened, a storm of desire brewing in their depths, his grip tightening on her thigh, the pressure sending a jolt of heat to her core, his dick twitching in his jeans at the nickname. “You’re playin’ with fire, baby—gonna make Daddy burn for you,” he growled, his voice rough with need, his lips grazing her earlobe, the heat of his words sending a shiver down her spine, her panties already damp with anticipation. “I can’t wait to get you alone, Isla—gonna make you scream for me,” he added, his voice a low rumble, the promise making her walls flutter with need, her heart racing with anticipation, knowing his stamina would ensure a night of relentless pleasure. The crowd’s final cheer marked the Yellow Jackets’ win, the victory fueling their adrenaline as they left the stadium hand in hand, the Atlanta skyline shimmering against the night sky, a glittering backdrop to the fire building between them.

They arrived at the luxurious condo Joe had rented for the weekend, a sleek penthouse in Midtown with floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city’s twinkling lights, a modern kitchen with gleaming marble counters, and a spacious bedroom with a king-sized bed draped in crisp white sheets, the scent of fresh linen mingling with the faint musk of their anticipation. Isla insisted on cooking dinner, her way of grounding herself after the game’s intensity, and Joe couldn’t tear his eyes away as she moved around the kitchen, her hips swaying with a natural rhythm as she prepared a creamy pasta dish, the scent of garlic, basil, and parmesan filling the air, the sizzle of the pan a soft counterpoint to the pounding of his heart. “You need me, baby?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, his eyes tracing the curve of her ass in her jeans, the way her T-shirt hugged her waist, his dick already half-hard at the sight of her, his mind racing with thoughts of how his stamina would let him take her apart piece by piece, over and over, until she was a trembling mess beneath him.

“I’ve got it,” Isla replied with a playful smile, glancing over her shoulder at him, her eyes glinting with mischief, her dark hair catching the kitchen’s warm light. “Pour us some wine and relax—I’ve got a surprise for you after dinner,” she teased, her voice soft but charged with promise, making Joe’s anticipation spike, his dick throbbing in his jeans. “You’re killin’ me, Isla—better make it quick,” he growled, pouring two glasses of deep red wine, the liquid catching the light like molten rubies, his voice rough with need, his heart pounding with the thought of what was to come, his stamina already fueling his impatience to have her.

Dinner was a slow burn of desire, their attraction a tangible force, every glance a flame, every brush of their fingers a spark that set their skin ablaze. They sat close at the sleek dining table, the creamy pasta dish steaming between them, the scent of garlic and parmesan mingling with the rich aroma of the wine, the distant hum of Atlanta traffic filtering through the windows, a reminder of the city’s pulse outside their intimate bubble. Isla’s mind drifted to her college days, how she’d been so focused on her computer science studies at Georgia Tech, her nights consumed by coding assignments and algorithm design, her determination to build a career in cybersecurity driving her forward. Back then, Joe was a distant legend, his name a whisper on campus, his football highlights occasionally playing in the background of the Clough Commons while she debugged code nearby, her focus unwavering even as her heart fluttered at the thought of the man who’d once dominated the field. She’d allow herself a fleeting daydream—imagining meeting the campus icon who’d graduated long before her time—before diving back into her projects, her ambition always taking the lead. Now, here she was, living a fantasy she’d once thought impossible, sharing a meal with the man who’d been a distant inspiration, their shared history as Tech alums deepening the moment. Joe twirled a forkful of pasta, the creamy sauce clinging to the noodles, and held it up to Isla’s lips, his eyes locked on hers, a playful smirk tugging at his mouth. “Taste it for me, baby—wanna see those pretty lips around this,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, the words dripping with flirtation, making Isla’s cheeks flush, a sharp pulse flaring deep in her belly. She leaned forward, her lips parting as she took the bite, the creamy sauce coating her tongue, a soft moan escaping her as she savored the flavor, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment, the sound making Joe’s dick throb, his heart racing with desire.

“So good, Daddy—you’ve gotta try it,” Isla purred, her voice soft but teasing as she twirled a forkful of pasta, the sauce glistening on the noodles, and held it up to Joe’s mouth, her eyes glinting with mischief, her lips curving into a playful smile. “You’re hackin’ my heart with every bite, baby,” she teased, a nod to her computer science background and her current cybersecurity work, the playful comment making Joe chuckle, his deep laugh sending a shiver through her. Joe leaned in, his lips brushing her fingers as he took the bite, the creamy sauce bursting with flavor on his tongue, the heat of her touch sending a jolt of pleasure through him, his eyes darkening with need. “Fuck, baby—you’re makin’ dinner dangerous,” he growled, his voice rough with desire, the taste of the pasta mingling with the taste of her skin, the intimacy of the moment making his dick strain against his jeans, his anticipation building with every second.

Joe’s expression softened for a moment, a rare vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he set down his fork, his voice quieter, almost hesitant. “You know, Isla, last week’s match… the pressure of bein’ the Tribal Chief, it’s heavy sometimes. Everyone expects me to be unbreakable, but I feel it, you know?” he admitted, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass, the confession a glimpse into the man behind the legend. Isla’s heart swelled, her hand reaching across the table to cover his, her touch warm and steady. “You’re more than the Tribal Chief to me, Joe—you’re my safe space, my everything. And if anyone tries to break you, I’ll hack their whole system ‘til they’re begging for mercy,” she said with a playful wink, her computer science expertise and cybersecurity career shining through, her words a mix of support and fierce loyalty that made Joe’s chest tighten with love. “Fuck, baby—you’re my rock,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, his hand squeezing hers, the moment deepening their connection, the intimacy of their shared meal a quiet prelude to the fire waiting to ignite.

They continued feeding each other, their movements slow and deliberate, each bite a shared act of intimacy, the creamy sauce a sensual contrast to the heat building between them, their laughter and teasing words a soft counterpoint to the pounding of their hearts, the tension a living thing in the air. Joe’s gaze lingered on Isla’s lips as she sipped her wine, the way her throat moved as she swallowed, the soft curve of her neck a canvas for his mouth, the sight making his dick throb even harder. “You’re too fuckin’ beautiful, baby—I’m dyin’ to taste you,” he growled, his voice low and rough, the words making a sharp pulse flare deep in Isla’s belly, her skin flushing under his attention, the ache between her thighs a desperate throb. “Patience, Daddy—you’ll get everything you want,” she replied, her voice soft but teasing, her eyes locked on his, the promise in her gaze making his heart race, his dick straining against his jeans even more, the intimacy of their shared meal only heightening the fire between them, his stamina ensuring he’d make good on every promise he whispered.

After clearing the dishes, Isla excused herself to “freshen up,” leaving Joe on the couch, the leather cool against his skin, his anticipation a wildfire in his veins, his dick straining against his jeans, the taste of the creamy pasta and Isla’s skin lingering on his tongue, sharp and sweet. She returned a few minutes later, and Joe’s breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding like a war drum. Isla stood in the doorway, wearing his old Georgia Tech football jersey—number 96, the yellow-and-white fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs, the faded letters a testament to his past glory, a symbol of the legacy she’d always admired, the rough texture of the fabric a tactile reminder of their shared history. Beneath it, a black lace lingerie set peeked out—a bra that pushed up her breasts, making them spill over the top, the lace intricate against her skin, a delicate contrast to her curves, and a thong that framed her thick ass, the thin straps digging into her hips, the lace barely covering her pussy, her skin glowing in the soft light of the condo, her curves a vision of temptation, her eyes locked on his, a silent invitation.

“Fuck, Isla—you look like a goddamn dream in my jersey,” Joe growled, his voice thick with lust, his dick hardening instantly as he stood, closing the distance between them in two long strides, his movements predatory, his eyes raking over her body like a man possessed. “You’re Daddy’s perfect girl, huh? Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good tonight,” he added, his voice a low rumble, the words sending a shiver down her spine, a sharp pulse flaring deep in her belly, knowing his stamina would ensure he’d keep going until she was utterly spent. His hands grabbed her hips, pulling her against him, the hard length of his erection pressing through his jeans, the heat of him searing through her, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, the jersey rough against his palms, the lace of her thong a teasing contrast, the scent of her jasmine perfume mixing with the musk of her arousal, a heady combination that made his head spin. “I love being yours, Daddy—I’ve always wanted this,” Isla moaned softly, her hands sliding up his chest, her nails scraping lightly over his hoodie, the fabric catching on her fingertips, her voice breathy with need, the admission making Joe’s heart race, his dick throbbing with the depth of his desire for her.

He backed her against the kitchen counter, the cool marble pressing against the backs of her thighs, a sharp contrast to the heat of his body, his hands roaming her curves, lifting the jersey to reveal the black lace lingerie, his fingers tracing the edge of her thong, the lace delicate against her skin, before yanking it to the side, teasing her clit with slow, deliberate circles, the pad of his thumb rough against her sensitive bud, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure through her, her walls fluttering with need, her juices already soaking the lace, the counter slick beneath her. “You’re so fuckin’ wet for me, baby—already drippin’ for Daddy,” Joe growled, his voice rough with desire, the words making a sharp pulse flare deep in Isla’s belly, her thighs trembling with anticipation. “Please, Daddy—I need you so bad,” Isla moaned, her hands gripping the counter, her knuckles whitening, her voice desperate, the ache between her thighs a desperate throb, the scent of her arousal filling the air, a sweet musk that drove Joe wild.

He dropped to his knees, his hands spreading her thighs wide, the muscles in her legs quivering under his touch, his hot breath fanning over her pussy, making her shiver with anticipation, the heat of his gaze searing her skin as he looked up at her, his eyes dark with hunger. “Gonna make you come so hard, baby—gonna taste every fuckin’ drop,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, the words sending a shiver down her spine, her clit pulsing in anticipation. His tongue darted out, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up her slit, the taste of her arousal bursting on his tongue like the sweetest nectar, a low groan rumbling in his chest as he savored her, the vibrations sending shivers through her body, her clit pulsing under his touch. “Fuck, you taste like heaven, Isla—sweeter than any win in the ring,” he growled, his voice muffled against her, the praise tying his wrestling persona to their intimacy, making her heart race, her walls fluttering with need.

He sucked her clit into his mouth, his lips wrapping around the sensitive bud, his tongue flicking it in a slow, torturous rhythm, the wet sounds of his mouth on her pussy filling the kitchen, a symphony of desire that mingled with her desperate moans, the counter cold against her ass, the jersey slipping off one shoulder, revealing the black lace bra, her breasts heaving with every ragged breath, the lace stretched tight across her skin, her nipples hard against the fabric. “Joe, fuck—oh my God, that feels incredible!” Isla cried, her voice raw, her thighs trembling as he worked her, his tongue relentless, his hands holding her hips to keep her in place, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, leaving faint marks that made her feel claimed, desired. His tongue dipped inside her, tasting her deeper, the wet heat of her pussy enveloping his tongue, the slickness of her arousal coating his lips, his chin, the taste of her driving him to the edge, his dick throbbing in his jeans, the pressure almost painful.

His fingers slid inside her, curling against that spot that made her vision blur, the stretch of his thick fingers making her walls flutter, the burn of it sending a wave of pleasure through her, her juices dripping down his hand, the counter slick beneath her, the scent of her arousal overwhelming, a heady mix that made his head spin. “You’re so tight, baby—gonna make you squirt for Daddy, aren’t you?” he growled, his voice rough with need, the words making a sharp pulse flare deep in Isla’s belly, her body trembling on the edge. “Yes, Daddy—please, I’m so close!” she pleaded, her voice desperate, the pressure in her core building to a breaking point, her thighs quaking with the intensity of the pleasure.

He worked her slowly, his tongue circling her clit faster, his fingers pumping in and out, the wet squelching sounds driving her wild, her thighs trembling, her core tightening with every flick of his tongue, every thrust of his fingers, the pleasure building to a breaking point, her body trembling on the edge. Isla’s orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her walls fluttering around his fingers, her juices squirting out in a gush, soaking Joe’s face, dripping down his chin and onto his chest, the wet heat of her release making a mess of the counter beneath her, the marble slick with her cum, the scent of her arousal a testament to the intensity of her climax. “Fuck, yes, baby—that’s it, squirt for Daddy,” Joe groaned, pulling back to watch her, his lips glistening with her cum, his eyes dark with hunger as he licked his lips, drinking in every drop, his voice raw with need.

Her body shook, her thighs quaking with aftershocks, her hands gripping the counter as she rode out the waves of pleasure, the sensation so intense she felt tears spill down her cheeks, her clit pulsing with aftershocks, her voice a broken sob as she moaned, “Daddy, fuck—it’s too much!” Joe stood, his chest slick with her juices, his dick rock-hard in his jeans, the pressure unbearable as he stripped them off, his massive length springing free, the head swollen and leaking precum, veins bulging along the shaft, the sight making a sharp pulse flare deep in Isla’s belly, her core aching to be filled, her body trembling with need. “You ready for me, baby? Ready for Daddy to fill you up?” he growled, his voice rough with desire, the words making her walls flutter, her arousal dripping down her thighs. “Please, Daddy—I need you inside me, need you to fuck me,” Isla pleaded, her voice desperate, her hands reaching for him, her body aching for his touch, knowing his stamina would push her to her limits.

He teased her with the head of his dick, rubbing it against her clit, the wet heat of her pussy making him groan, the sensation of her slickness against his sensitive tip sending a jolt of pleasure through him, his balls tightening, his heart pounding with the need to be inside her. “Fuck, baby—you’re so ready for me, so fuckin’ perfect,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, the praise making Isla’s heart race, a sharp pulse flaring deep in her belly. He pushed into her slowly, stretching her tight pussy around his girth, the burn of the stretch making Isla gasp, her nails digging into his shoulders, the pain mixing with pleasure as her walls adjusted to his size, the fullness of him overwhelming, her inner muscles quivering around him, the heat of her body searing through him. “Daddy, fuck—you’re so big, it’s so much!” she cried, her voice breaking, the sensation of his thick length filling her driving her to the edge, her heart racing with the depth of her love for him.

Joe groaned, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers leaving faint bruises as he started moving, his movements slow and deliberate, savoring every inch of her, the counter creaking beneath them, the cool marble a sharp contrast to the heat of their bodies, the jersey rough against his skin, the lace of her bra teasing his chest. “You feel incredible, baby—so tight for Daddy,” he growled, his voice rough with desire, the words making Isla’s walls flutter, the pleasure building with every slow, deep thrust. Each thrust was deliberate, his dick hitting that spot inside her that made her see stars, the pressure building in her core, her juices dripping down his thighs, the counter slick beneath her, the scent of their arousal a heady mix that filled the air, the slow drag of his dick against her walls sending waves of pleasure through her, the friction making her clit pulse, her body trembling with the intensity of it, her heart racing with the depth of her love for him.

“You’re takin’ Daddy’s spear so good, Isla—look at you, my perfect girl,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, referencing his signature wrestling move, the words tying his Tribal Chief persona to their intimacy, his eyes locked on hers, watching every flicker of pleasure on her face, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed, the raw attraction between them a living flame. “Daddy, fuck—it’s so good, don’t stop!” Isla moaned, her voice raw, her thighs quaking as the pleasure built, her inner muscles quivering around him, the sensation of his thick length stretching her, filling her, driving her to the edge, her body trembling with need. He turned her over, her breasts pressing against the counter, the cool marble a shock against her heated skin, her ass raised, the jersey hiked up around her waist, her thong pulled down to her thighs, the lace stretched tight against her skin.

He entered her from behind, the angle allowing him to go even deeper, her pussy stretching around him, the burn making her sob, the sensation of his dick hitting that spot inside her making her vision blur, her ass jiggling with every movement, the counter slick with her juices, the scent of their arousal overwhelming, the roughness of his thrusts making her body tremble with need, the jersey a reminder of their shared history, the lace of her thong digging into her thighs, the sensation of his hands on her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, leaving faint bruises, making her feel claimed, desired. “Fuck, Isla—your ass looks so good like this, bouncin’ for Daddy,” he growled, smacking her ass, the sound echoing in the condo, the sting making her moan louder, her walls fluttering around him, the roughness making her body tremble with need. “Daddy, fuck—I’m so close again, please let me come!” Isla pleaded, her voice breaking, the pressure in her core building to a breaking point, her body trembling on the edge.

“Hold on, baby—Daddy’s gonna make you come so hard,” he growled, his voice rough with need, the words making Isla’s heart race, her clit pulsing with anticipation. He moved slowly, drawing out the pleasure, the slow drag of his dick against her walls sending waves of pleasure through her, the friction making her clit pulse, the pressure in her core building to a breaking point, her body trembling on the edge. Isla’s orgasm hit her hard, her inner muscles quivering around him, her juices gushing as she came, the wet heat soaking the counter, her body trembling, her voice a broken sob, “Daddy, yes!” the pleasure so intense she felt her entire body ignite, her heart pounding with the depth of her love for him.

Joe moved through her orgasm, his thrusts slow and deep, drawing out her pleasure, a low growl rumbling in his chest, “That’s it, baby—come for Daddy, let me feel you,” his voice raw with need, his dick throbbing inside her, the pressure in his balls building, his heart pounding with the depth of his desire for her. His stamina, honed from years of dominating in the wrestling ring, kept him going, his movements relentless as he pushed her through her climax, his own need building but his control unwavering, determined to make her come again before he let himself go. He carried her to the bedroom, the transition swift as he laid her on the king-sized bed, the white sheets cool against her heated skin, the Atlanta skyline glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, a silent witness to their passion. “I’m not done with you yet, baby—gonna love you even more,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, the promise making a sharp pulse flare deep in Isla’s belly, her body trembling with anticipation, knowing his stamina meant he could keep going for hours if he wanted to.

He pressed her against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the cool glass a sharp contrast to the heat of their bodies, the smooth surface fogging with her breath as she moaned, the city lights casting a soft glow on their intertwined forms, the distant hum of Atlanta traffic a faint reminder of the world beyond their bubble. “Look at the city watchin’ us, baby—everyone down there wishin’ they were me,” he growled, his voice rough with desire, the voyeuristic thrill making Isla’s walls flutter, the sensation of his dick hitting that spot inside her making her vision blur, her breasts pressed against the glass, the jersey slipping down her back, revealing the black lace bra, the fabric stretched tight across her breasts. “Daddy, fuck—it’s so intense, I can’t—” Isla sobbed, her voice raw, the pleasure overwhelming her, her body trembling with the intensity of it, the city below a glittering witness to their passion.

“You’re relentless, Daddy—just like in the ring!” Isla moaned, her voice breathy, the comment tying Joe’s stamina to his wrestling persona, making him growl with pride, his thrusts deep and controlled, his body showing no signs of slowing down even after pushing Isla through multiple orgasms, his wrestling-honed endurance making him a relentless lover, determined to give her every ounce of pleasure she could take. He pulled out briefly, turning her to face him, his eyes locked on hers, the love and desire in his gaze making her heart race, the heat of their connection burning through every touch. “You’re my fuckin’ everything, Isla—I love you so much,” he growled, his voice rough with emotion, his hands sliding up to cup her face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks, the tenderness in his touch making her heart swell, her voice soft but intense as she moaned, “I love you too, Daddy—I’m yours, forever.”

He carried her to the bathroom, the steam from the hot shower already filling the air, the scent of lavender body wash mingling with their arousal, the soft patter of the water a soothing backdrop as he set her down, the jersey still clinging to her sweaty skin. “Time to get you clean, baby—but Daddy’s gonna make you dirty again,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, the promise making a sharp pulse flare deep in Isla’s belly, her body trembling with anticipation. He tugged the jersey off her, using the faded fabric to tie her hands behind her back, the rough material biting into her wrists, the light bondage adding a thrilling edge as he pinned her against the shower wall, the hot water cascading down their bodies, steam enveloping them in a warm cocoon. “You’re mine to take, baby—Daddy’s jersey looks better like this,” he growled, his voice rough with desire, the words making Isla’s walls flutter, her body trembling with need.

He entered her again, the angle allowing him to go even deeper, her pussy stretching around him, the burn making her sob, the sensation of his dick hitting that spot inside her making her vision blur, her juices mixing with the water, the shower floor slick beneath them, the steam amplifying the scent of their arousal, the roughness of his thrusts making her body tremble with need, the jersey binding her wrists a reminder of their shared history, the lace of her bra teasing her skin, the hot water adding a new sensory layer that made every touch feel electric. “Daddy, fuck—I’m gonna come again!” Isla sobbed, her voice raw, the pleasure overwhelming her, her body trembling on the edge, the relentless pace of Joe’s thrusts pushing her to her limits, his stamina ensuring he could keep her on the edge as long as he wanted.

“Hold on, baby—Daddy wants to feel you come with me,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, the words making Isla’s heart race, her clit pulsing with anticipation. He untied her hands, turning her to face him, her legs spread wide, her pussy glistening with her cum, the water soaking them both, the jersey discarded on the shower floor, her breasts heaving with every ragged breath. He entered her again, lifting her legs over his shoulders, the angle allowing him to go even deeper, her pussy stretching around him, the burn making her sob, the sensation of his dick hitting that spot inside her making her vision blur, her juices dripping down his thighs, the shower a mess beneath them, the slow drag of his dick against her walls sending waves of pleasure through her, the friction making her clit pulse, the pressure in her core building to a breaking point, her body trembling on the edge, his eyes locked on hers, the love and desire in his gaze making her heart race, the heat of their connection burning through every touch.

Isla’s hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, her voice raw with desperation as she felt the telltale signs of Joe’s impending release—his thrusts growing erratic, his dick pulsing inside her, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. Sensing his need for acknowledgment as the Tribal Chief, she locked eyes with him, her voice a desperate, reverent whisper, “Acknowledge me as yours, Daddy—my Tribal Chief deserves it!” Her words echoed his WWE persona’s commanding catchphrase, a powerful nod to his dominance in the ring and in their intimacy, her walls fluttering around him in submission, the acknowledgment pushing Joe to the brink, his heart pounding with the intensity of her words, the heat of her reverence amplifying his pleasure. Joe’s eyes darkened, her acknowledgment shattering his control after holding back for so long, his stamina giving way to the overwhelming need to release. “Fuck, baby—you’re mine, always,” he groaned, his voice rough with need as he came hard, his dick pulsing violently inside her, his hot cum filling her up in thick, forceful spurts, dripping down her thighs as he moved through his orgasm, the intensity heightened by Isla’s acknowledgment, his thrusts slow and deep, his cum mixing with her juices and the water, the shower floor slick beneath them, the sensation of his release making her walls flutter, her own orgasm hitting her at the same time, her juices gushing as she came, the wet heat soaking them both, her body trembling, her voice a broken sob, “Daddy, yes—I love you!” the pleasure so intense she felt her entire body ignite, her heart pounding with the depth of her love for him.

Joe gently pulled out, his cum dripping from her pussy, the shower floor a mess with their combined juices, the water washing away the evidence of their passion as he pulled her into his arms, their bodies slick with sweat and water, their breathing heavy, the steam a warm cocoon around them. Even after such an intense session, Joe’s stamina was evident in the way his hands still roamed her body, his touch possessive and hungry, as if he could go another round without breaking a sweat, a testament to the endurance that made him a legend in the ring and an unstoppable force in bed. Isla nestled against his chest, her fingers tracing the tattoos on his arm, her voice soft as she murmured, “I’ve got a big deadline at work next week—some new encryption project. But nights like this… they make everything worth it.” Joe kissed the top of her head, his voice a low rumble as he replied, “You’re gonna kill it, baby—just like you do with me.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the jersey on the shower floor, a soft smile tugging at his lips. “Today at the game… seein’ you cheer in the stands, wearin’ my colors—it felt like a full-circle moment, you know? Like I was back on that field, but this time, I had you.” His words tied their intimacy to the shared joy of the game-day victory, a final emotional beat that left a warm, lingering glow, the Atlanta skyline still glittering through the window, a silent witness to their love. “I can’t wait for more days like this, Daddy—I’m yours to love,” Isla whispered, her voice charged with desire and devotion, her heart swelling with the depth of her love for him. They stood there, tangled in each other, the afterglow a warm cocoon around them, their attraction still simmering beneath the surface, the roughness of their encounter balanced by the love in their touches, their breaths mingling as they held each other close, the jersey a symbol of their shared history, the lace of her lingerie a reminder of the fire between them, the soft patter of the shower a soothing lullaby to their perfect night.

Can’t get enough of Joe and Isla’s fiery romance? 🔥💛 Their journey continues in my book series Open Arms, packed with more steamy moments, heartfelt connections, and the love story you’ll be obsessed with! Dive into the full series on my masterlist here. Want to stay updated on their story? Comment below or message me to be added to the Open Arms taglist—I’d love to have you along for the ride! 💖

[leashybebes]

several sentence smonday

tagged by @ambernotember - thank you, love!

inspired by listening to the fun home OST and getting myself in my feelings. idk if the timelines work out, and idc that much. wild self indulgence is my watch word.

wips, what wips? 👀 context: pre-canon tommy can't go for drinks with the gang this evening because abby's got tickets for a play. he thinks it's called fun house or something? (spoilers for alison bechdel's fun home in this snippet)

It's cute. At first, it's cute. It opens with three versions of the same character on stage, at different ages. The little girl version plays with her dad, but his attention gets pulled away easily by the house and a delivery. He figures it'll be a family drama with songs, which…not especially his thing, but Abby looks like she's having a good night so far.

The first proper song is cute with an undercurrent of tension, the house being put together, tidied and made perfect. It's catchy. Funny. Well-performed. Tommy recognizes the tension like he'd recognize his own face in the mirror, like he'd recognize the flash of Abby's hair in a crowd.

Then a younger male character comes on stage - yard work or something - and the way the dad's eyes catch on him as the cast sing he wants more makes something snag in Tommy's gut.

Then the older version of the main girl gets hit with a spotlight, the rest of the stage fading into blackness as she says: "Caption. My dad and I grew up in the same small Pennsylvania town. And he was gay. And I was gay. And he killed himself."

The snag in Tommy's gut turns into a fucking cavern.

no pressure tags for @trombonechurchill, @frogsinflannel, @aesthetictarlos and @exhaustedpirate (aka beloved enablers)

[slowd1ving]

[INAMORATA] SNIPPET . *࿐ SUNDAY, MOZE, SOMEWHAT JIAOQIU??

for some additional context reader is an incubus and also joined a class on catching/apprehending monsters in the modern world as a joke, but now is doing a project on said monsters (cough, incubi) thus is in a really fucking awkward position rn anyways this will probably be the last snippet before I actually post the work so enjoyy

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

“…edit it documentary style. It’s professional, organised, and will suit the Professor’s tastes.” Sunday’s mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged. 

It does not work. 

Sunday’s fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beats—it looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but it’s rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that he’s about to scold you for falling asleep. You’re thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment. 

But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you don’t know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and you’d like to complain. 

Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and it’s not like whatever he’s saying is important. 

“Do you have anything to add—” and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you don’t flinch. At least, you don’t think you do. “—or did you not get enough sleep last night?”

His voice is low—enough that there’s an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?

Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that won’t land you a one-way ticket back to hell. There’s a certain trick to this, you see—and that’s crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel. 

Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace. 

“Uhh,” you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls upon—yesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. “A horror movie.”

You can feel Moze’s stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.

“That’s an— unconventional idea,” Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than you’d expect. 

“If you think it’s ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professor’s maturity doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll enjoy an orthodox style,” you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and ‘gotchas’, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.

Fuck. You’ve really spent too much time in the human realm. 

Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. “If it’s being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.”

“It’s succubi and incubi,” Moze mutters. “If there were more people I’d bet there’d be one group submitting porn.”

You stifle a cough, but you don’t think you did it well. 

“What, with Hopkins as the intended audience?” you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little. 

“Yeah, imagine,” he matches your airy tone—and the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little. 

Sunday’s glare bores into both of you. “Can the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.”

If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence. 

“Yes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,” you interrupt. This is the only fight you’d ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. “The topic isn’t particularly… uh… safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.”

“You raise a good point,” Sunday deliberates—if there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. “Fine.”

Fine. 

Fine.

Fine. 

With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me. 

But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal. 

Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago. 

Oh shit. 

[reveryfics]

!platonic peter parker,, reader with similar abilities ? (something spider-esque.). :3

Secrets

Peter Parker x Male Reader

Summary: The shadows of late night held a secret until a chance encounter with Spider-Man forced your true identity into the light.

A/N: This can also be read as preexisting relationship now that I think about it. I honestly don't even know where I was going with this, I'm so sorry.

TW: Slight angst - Comfort

The pulse of New York City at night was a deep, resonant hum, a vibrant symphony conducted by the city's ceaseless energy. The rumble of countless vehicles on the asphalt arteries formed a low, thrumming bassline that vibrated through the very foundations of the towering structures. This constant drone was punctuated by the sharp, insistent wail of distant police sirens, their cries echoing and ricocheting between the sheer glass and steel canyons, a stark reminder of the undercurrents that flowed beneath the glittering surface. Yellow taxi lights, like errant streaks of gold, darted and weaved across the wide avenues, their hurried movements resembling shooting stars against the dark canvas of the night. From the doorways of bustling bars and restaurants, a lively cacophony of laughter, snippets of conversations, and the clinking of glasses spilled out onto the sidewalks, creating a vibrant counterpoint to the mechanical rhythm of the city. Even as a blanket of darkness descended, obscuring the finer details of the urban landscape, the relentless energy of New York's nightlife kept the metropolis wide awake, a restless and exhilarating hum that never truly slept. It was a city that breathed in the twilight hours, exhaling a potent mix of ambition, excitement, and a touch of the unknown.

You perched precariously on the edge of a skyscraper, your legs dangling into the seemingly endless abyss. The city sprawled beneath you, a dazzling tapestry of light that felt strangely surreal from this elevated vantage point. Up here, the air was different, cleaner, crisper than the thick, exhaust-laden atmosphere of the streets below. This rooftop vigil had become a nightly ritual, a solitary escape ever since the fateful bite of that radioactive spider – one of the same arachnids that had gifted Peter with his extraordinary abilities. A wave of self-reproach washed over you. How could you have kept this a secret from him? Especially after he had confided in you his own double life as Spider-Man. And yet, in your masked encounters on these very rooftops, you had played the charade of a stranger, meticulously concealing your own burgeoning powers and maintaining the facade of your ordinary self.

The distant sound of footsteps scraping lightly across the gravel roof pulled you sharply from your spiraling thoughts. You turned, a reflexive tension coiling in your muscles, just as the familiar red and blue silhouette of Spider-Man materialized from the shadows. Peter settled down beside you, his masked gaze sweeping across the panorama of the illuminated cityscape. Beneath your own mask, your eyes followed his, tracing the intricate network of streets and the distant glow of headlights.

A comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the distant urban symphony. "It looks so peaceful from up here, doesn't it?" Peter finally murmured, his voice a low rumble. "You almost forget all the chaos down there." You nodded in agreement. "I used to take it for granted," you admitted, your voice carefully neutral. "All the lights, the noise… it was just the background. Now…" You trailed off, unsure how to articulate the newfound appreciation that came with seeing the city from this unique perspective. Peter shifted slightly, his masked head turning towards you. There was a subtle narrowing of his eyeholes, a flicker of a thought that seemed to dance behind the lenses. He turned back to the view, his posture relaxed once more. "You seem to know a lot about… this," he said casually, gesturing vaguely towards the city with a gloved hand. "But I still don't know anything about you."

A jolt of realization shot through you. He knew. Not for certain, perhaps, but the suspicion was there, palpable in the air between you. Your breath hitched slightly. You looked at Peter, the weight of your deception pressing down on you. Words stumbled in your throat as you desperately sought an escape route. "I… uh… I should probably…" you began, attempting a weak excuse about needing to leave suddenly. But before you could concoct a believable reason, Peter spoke, his voice quiet but firm.

The sound of your name, spoken with such certainty, froze you in place. Peter reached up and slowly pulled off his mask, his young face etched with a mixture of hurt and confusion in the ambient city light. A scoff escaped his lips, a short, bitter sound. He shook his head slowly, standing up and turning away slightly. "How could you not tell me?" he asked, his voice laced with disbelief. "I told you everything." You stood as well, your own hands trembling as you reached up and pulled off your mask. You met Peter's gaze, the raw emotion in his eyes hitting you like a physical blow. "I… I don't have a good reason," you admitted, the words barely a whisper. "I just… I don't know."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken accusations and regret. Peter finally broke it, his voice rising slightly with frustration. "Did… did any of our talks mean anything to you?" he demanded, turning to face you fully. "What about the promise we made? No secrets, remember?" You took a deep breath, letting his words sink in, the weight of your actions settling heavily in your chest. "You're right," you said, your voice low and contrite. "I was being selfish. I wanted to pretend everything was normal, to keep things… separate. You have every right to be upset with me, Peter. I understand if you need… space." Peter sighed, running a hand through his hair, his gaze flicking away and then back to yours. "It's not that I want you to go," he admitted, his voice softer now, tinged with a weariness that tugged at your heart. "It's just… I'm frustrated. Hurt that you felt like you couldn't tell me."

Before you could respond, Peter closed the distance between you, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. "You're stuck with me now," he mumbled into your hair. "Spider powers or not." A small chuckle escaped your lips as you hugged him back, the tension in your shoulders finally easing. "Wouldn't have it any other way," you whispered, burying your face in his shoulder, the distant hum of the city suddenly sounding a little less lonely.

[radioactivepeasant]

Surprise Snippet Sunday (Part One)

(Father's Day silliness. For context, this comes from an au I haven't posted, where Spargus invaded Haven at the end of Jak 2. Someone tipped off Damas about the time loop, but they'd initially expected Jak to be older because he got through the Tomb. First face-to-face meeting didn't go over well, Jak just came off a week of 80% of the adults in his life betraying him. Also features @sparguscityangel 's character, Ru (first seen in Over Haven's Wall) and her family, who Jak crashes with sometimes because Abuela said he wasn't going to stay outside and Abuela is Always Right)

(Ru and Jak have encountered Damas in the boiler room of the old Westside Hotel, working with Vin to restore water filters in the slums)

Damas shifted on the ladder and looked down at the computer.

"Alright, Vin. Let's see if that's got it."

Under his breath he muttered,

"And if it didn't, I have an excuse to stay down here longer."

"You need an excuse?" asked Jak incredulously.

"Kid-" Damas made a face and corrected himself. "Jak, I either fix something or go kill something, and the latter is not conducive to relief efforts."

"How long are your people going to be here?"

Jak wondered if he needed to start planning for when the Wastelanders left and there was no one to keep these changes from coming undone.

"We stay," Damas quietly replied, "until I feel I can trust this territory with a regent. I stay until I am able to leave this place with my son."

Uncomfortable, Jak pushed his hood back and rubbed his face.

"Look-"

Why couldn't he have had Daxter here? Daxter would've known what to say.

"I...don't know you. It's not like...your fault, but-"

This was a strange concession to make, and this warlord probably wouldn't appreciate it if he knew Jak was doing it out of pity.

"Man, I can't even be in rooms without windows too long before I have to run. Gonna be a while before new faces stop making me nervous."

Damas immediately clocked a very important detail in the confession.

"You're not going to be in here long, are you?"

Jak tried to ignore that undercurrent of pain in the man's voice. The guilt swam up from the depths of his mind, ready to sink its claws into handholds long drilled into place by Samos. The need to reassure an adult, be their protector. Sacrifice his own feelings of security or mental health to spare the feelings of someone older.

Part of him was trying to tell him to stay. To give up and let this stranger tell him what to do because that's what heros did, they listened to their elders.

Jak wasn't that obedient little kid anymore. He was his own man, and even if he felt bad for Sig's friend, he wasn't going to set himself on fire to keep a stranger warm. Not anymore.

"Yeah, this room's...not great." Jak shrugged. "Also me and Ru were kind of trying to get some food when your buddies showed up, so."

Damas grimaced. "I apologize. And I'm...sorry about the ambush. Before, I mean. Sig was near frantic by that point."

"Okay yeah, you know what," Jak frowned. "What was all that with "training" and "Federation law" or whatever it was you said?"

Damas leaned over the ladder, seeming to ignore Jak's question at first.

"Well, Vin?"

"Not operating at 100%, but sediment levels are 90% lower than before!" the data ghost called happily.

"Well, that's one thing to go right today, at least," Damas remarked. He groaned and climbed down the ladder before looking up at Jak.

"That is a...difficult thing to explain without getting long-winded, I'm afraid. Perhaps the next time I see you, circumstances will be more accommodating for longer conversations."

The next time.

He wasn't going to stop Jak from leaving.

Part surrender, part leap of faith.

And partly a recognition of a need Jak had expressed.

"Uh...okay." Jak slid down off the pipes and side stepped to Ru. He firmly ignored the raised eyebrow he got when he laced his fingers through hers.

"Oh- wait!"

Damas held up a hand suddenly.

"There was a reason I still had people looking for you-"

He knelt to poke around in a shadowy recess beneath the pipes a moment before coming up with a familiar weapon.

"Sig wasn't fast enough to give this back to you that night -- and I was in no state to even remember it existed. But you shouldn't be tearing around a city like this unarmed."

Jak blinked. All that fuss and chasing...to give him his gun back?

As though he were reading Jak's thoughts, Damas grimaced and held the gun out, stock first.

"To a Wastelander, your weapon is an extension of yourself. A new module reflects a new skill learned or a new experience survived."

The grimace became a bittersweet smile.

"You've...already earned all three of the traditional ones. Says a lot about you."

"Says I have to fight a lot," Jak grumbled.

"And," Damas replied, "it tells me that you're a survivor. A weapon like this isn't the kind of thing you trust to a random individual to take back to its owner. It needed to be done in-person."

"You could've just said that," Jak pointed out. It was hypocritical, and he knew it. He was no paragon of "talk before you act" himself.

Damas rubbed his forehead -- wincing slightly when he touched the red spot where he'd slammed into the pipe. "If I may speak in my own defense," he said with the slightest touch of humor, "there has been a lot going on."

Jak was quiet for several uncomfortable seconds, just staring at him. Then he shrugged and took the gun back.

"Fair enough, I guess."

Damas watched them start to look for the path back to the door with a barely disguised sadness.

"Be-"

Jak turned his head with a questioning look, and Damas winced.

"Be careful out there. Stay out of the Fortress area."

"I'm fine." Jak squeezed Ru's hand a little tighter. "I know every street and passage in this hellhole. They've never caught me yet."

"You don't know every passage," Damas scoffed, and a bit of the sadness left him.

"And I suppose you do," Jak retorted, rather rashly. The grin he got in response confirmed it.

"No you don't. City's changed," he argued.

Damas’s grin got wider. "I can get to the Underport without going through the flooded section."

"Bull!" Jak snorted.

Now the man was starting to remind him of Sig a little more. There were worse things.

Damas studied him for a second, then muffled a snort.

"Tell you what, kid: pick a day. You beat me to the Underport, I have to show you the secret way in and out. If I beat you, you have to explain the orange guy."

"Wh- Daxter?"

Damas turned slightly, and Jak and Ru just barely heard him mutter, "I knew his name wasn't Chili!"

Ru and Jak exchanged glances. Well, he wasn't stopping them. And he was letting Jak set the terms for their next encounter. That was more than most people gave him.

"Alright, fine." Jak folded his arms and raised his chin. "When I pick a day, you'll know."

"And how, exactly, will I know?"

This time it was Jak who had the ominous grin. One Samos and Torn had long since learned to fear.

"Trust me. You'll know."

[circledwithaheart]

WIP Wednesday 🔑

tagged by the lovely and talented @bidisasterevankinard @rewritetheending @spotsandsocks (all with some very intriguing entries)

right now my brain apparently wants to work on everything except what I'm supposed to be. Have a snippet of something that started as a distracting conversation with @diazsdimples and became... whatever this is gonna be 💖

One thing that hasn’t changed from LA is the way his bedroom ceiling is still the primary view when he should be sleeping. This one has hairline cracks, spackle where a fixture used to be, a small water spot in the corner. And it’s white. Not eggshell or ecru, but honest to god the most blinding white he can imagine. The 118’s bunk room has more personality than this. 

He sighs and rubs his forehead. He’s going to repaint it soon. All part of the fixer upper plan that he refuses to look at too closely lest he acknowledge what it is he’s really trying to fix. He could just choose the same color he used in LA, but a fresh start feels like it should have a new color. Like it deserves one, even. 

Before he thinks too hard about it, he snaps a photo and sends it off to Buck with a simple question: what should I make this one?

The three dots appear immediately. You haven’t taken a bat to it already have you?

Eddie smiles, because it’s something they can joke about now. It doesn’t mean he can’t sense the undercurrent of worry. He gets it. 

No, asshole. I haven’t. Now help me pick a color.

What about this one? It’s supposed to be calming but playful.

Eddie muses over the choice for a moment before rejecting it. So’s a service dog. No.

No?! But it’s an expert pick! And infuses a ‘whimsical nature’.

Eddie rolls his eyes even though Buck can’t see. No. Not looking for an infusion of whimsy. Next option, Buckley.

Maybe you should be.

It’s not wrong, but he doesn’t feel like giving Buck the satisfaction right now.

np tagging @diazsdimples @daffi-990 @stereopticons @steadfastsaturnsrings @midsummersmorn @actuallyitsellie @wildfluorescent @honestlydarkprincess @tizniz @diazheartsbuckley @theotherbuckley @kitteneddiediaz @your-catfish-friend @thekristen999 @inell @eddiebabygirldiaz @dr-shortsighted-owl @imtheiliad @bi-buckrights @elvensorceress @giddyupbuck @beyourownanchor6 @indestructibleheart @ladydorian05 @lemonzestywrites @monsterrae1 @statueinthestone @slightlyobsessedwitheverything @thelikesofus @wildlife4life @eowon @spaceprincessem @bekkachaos @bucksbignaturals @tommyactually @whatwouldeddiedo @hyperfocusthusly @loucifersbitch and anyone else who wants to😘

[tweetsongs]

this was the moment my life was set (snippet)

Buck runs his beautiful fingers through Christopher’s hair, making their kid squirm a little, faux-outrage in his expression. “It’s absolutely going to be like this all the time now, kid,” he says. His voice is cheerful, but there’s an undercurrent of unease to it, like he’s wary of what Chris will think. As if this kid didn’t take an obscenely early flight to LA just so he could cheer up his Buck, as if Eddie hadn’t woken up that morning to find Christopher sitting at their kitchen table with a clipboard (he really is Buck’s kid, Eddie had no idea where he even got that) in his hands, and a truly terrifying interrogation ready for Eddie. (“Doesn’t have breakfast ready for Buck,” he tsks, fingers moving over the clipboard. It is at this point that Eddie realizes that the clipboard is hiding his ipad, which is possibly even more terrifying. “Not off to a great start.” “Chris,” he says, exasperated. “Referring to the inspector casually,” Chris says without missing the beat. “You’re really gonna have to pull yourself together if you want to pass, Mr. Diaz.” Eddie wonders, for a single moment, if he’s the one who had the near-death experience, and if this is what Buck meant when he talked about coma dreams. “Wh- what kind of inspection are we doing, C- uh, Inspector Diaz?” A small, imperious nod. “We’re inspecting whether or not you get to date Buck, obviously.” Bluescreen. “What?” A deadpan stare: “Dad. You two are not subtle, and I’ve already taken points away for making out while I’m in the house." Honestly, Eddie thinks he should get points if making out is all Christopher knows they did. “Don’t worry, I gave you a few back for getting me those noise-cancelling headphones a while back.” He sounds like he’s throwing Eddie bones out of pity, Eddie...is seriously considering what parenting decisions he’s made to get to this point.)

happy father's day! as a treat please have this snippet of the sequel to hero, savior, son, in which eddie diaz is horrifically bullied by his eldest son.

[ohai-there]

More about scumplane please

I don’t actually have much written about the scumplane Naruto fic, it’s pretty much mostly from this post

The scumplane is not super obvious, because SJ doesn't seem like the type to do open PDA but there's definitely undercurrents.

But have a snippet I’ll write right here and now! Pls ignore any typos I do be writing on my phone lol

The procession comes in the midst of the day, Minato forces himself out of his chair when the report of the Special Guests of the Daimyou would arrive within the next ten minutes.

The Daimyou had been explicitly clear that they were to give the Guests the utmost respect and hospitality, they were, in the Daimyou's own words, Very Important People.

Who were they? Minato hasn't the faintest clue.

Two horses lead one of the Daimyou's finest carriages - gilded gold and embossed pearl - the sheer wealth in the carriage alone makes Minato's teeth ache, it would probably fund the entire village for at least a month, and the Daimyou is pulling it out for these Very Important Guests. There's a crowd gathering at the foot of the Hokage Tower, civilians and shinobi alike to gawk at the opulence on display.

The carriage driver looks a bit wild around the eyes as he pulls the procession to a stop, and Minato peeks around it to see six other horses behind it, and can feel himself squinting at the sheer beauty of the people riding the horses.

Four young men and two women, all slim figured and smooth porcelain skin and dark slick hair.

"Hokage-sama," the carriage driver announces, "introducing the Lords of the Mountain Peaks of," a moment of hesitation as the driver stumbles over his words, "the Quiet Peak and the Stable Peak and their honoured disciples."

They're titles Minato has never once heard of in his life, but he nods gratefully to the driver and plasters a smile to his face. One of the beautiful young men, a disciple who's robes seem to glimmer in the sunlight, pushes his horse to the door of the carriage, knocking on it lightly as he says, "Master, Martial Younger Uncle Shang, we've arrived at the Village of the Leaves."

A slim, pale hand pushes from beyond the curtain, elegantly waving, once, and the disciple drives his horse away and the door to the carriage slides open.

"Dear me," a voice calls from inside, a cloth shoe and long fabric sweeps out as a leg emerges, swiftly followed by a bowed head of dark hair and a man half-steps out, a hand raised to block out the sun against his eyes, "that carriage ride was so rocky, I think my head got unscrewed from my neck! Right, Martial Elder Brother Shen?"

Then, there's an, "OW!" and the man stumbles out of the carriage in a flurry of robes that shimmer in the light, shimmering fine embroidery that gives the barest hint of patterning on the cloth, "Martial Elder Brother Shen! That's mean!"

"Are you a rock or a man? Standing in the middle of the road, get out of my way," a viciously smooth voice calls from within, and the one called Shang straightens up, sighing and brushing off his robes before he says, "yes, yes, this lowly one is out of your way. You can come out if you so like, or is your skin too fragile to touch the sun, you pale-faced princess-geh!"

Something wooden and thin goes flying out of the carriage, hitting Shang in the face and he scrambles to catch it as it bounces off his nose, "the river of your words ought to be dammed up."

Minato can feel his heart ache at seeing the sheer handsomeness of the man's face and the way that a red mark blooms where he was hit. If he'd thought the disciples were pretty, they hold no candle to Shang who has unmarred skin, a straight nose and proportions that the artists of the Capital would wax poetic about.

"Sorry about that," Shang says cheerfully, charmingly, "Martial Elder Brother Shen can be a bit touchy after travel, and waking, and hungry, and breathing. I do hope that the translation spell is working appropriately, if not, please do excuse any offence our words may cause. Often times our language does not translate well."

"I'll make you stop breathing," comes a silky voice and Shen steps out of the carriage.

What the fuck, Minato thinks to himself hysterically, how can someone be even more beautiful?????

Shen is tall and slim, he towers over Shang with narrowed eyes and a venom in his gaze that makes Minato feel like a god's wrath brought down to earth, his robes are a light green and swaying with the wind like serene bamboo that contrast heavily with his vicious face.

Shang squeaks and holds out the wood in his hand, a fan, and Shen snatches it and flips it open with a sharp fwip that echoes, fluttering it lightly to cover the bottom half of his face, "this Immortal Master is Shen Qingqiu, Peak Lord of the Quiet Peak, and this shameless fool is Peak Lord of the Stable Peak, Shang Qinghua. We thank you for your hospitality," his voice is as cold as ice and not at all grateful.

"Good morning, I am the Yondaime Hokage, Namikaze Minato. Pleased to make your acquaintance," Minato says stiffly, his mind still stuck on immortal master, perhaps it's a term that didn't translate properly?

Shang Qinghua's eyebrows fly up, an obvious ah face, and he opens his mouth but Shen Qingqiu's fan clacks shut, exposing perfectly symmetrical lips and he says, "shall we bring our discussion to somewhere more comfortable?"

Humiliation flushes through Minato's cheeks at the reprimand and he clears his throat to regain his bearings, "very well, let's bring this up to my office, I have all the mission particulars there as well as the most recent report on tracking the criminal."

[serve-271]

PART 1 - The SERVE interview.

Matt, a 25-year-old with a lean, athletic build, stood before the mirror, carefully combing his blonde hair into place. His green eyes, vibrant with a mix of excitement and nerves, studied his reflection as if searching for reassurance. This was a pivotal moment—the first interview of his new life in a bustling city far removed from the quiet monotony of his small hometown. The company he was about to face was no ordinary employer. SERVE, with its sleek chrome logo adorning countless billboards and skyscrapers, loomed large as a beacon of ambition and progress. It was a chance to escape the familiar and step into the extraordinary.

His crisp white shirt and impeccably tailored navy suit were more than just attire; they were armor for the day ahead. He took a deep breath, steadying his racing heart, and glanced out the window of his modest hotel room. The city was alive with sound and motion—car horns, distant chatter, and the hum of life weaving through the urban tapestry. It was a stark contrast to the subdued stillness he had left behind. SERVE’s motto echoed in his mind: "Where obedience is pleasure and pleasure is obedience." The phrase was enigmatic and provocative, hinting at something transformative. Matt had spent hours studying the company’s mission, culture, and reputation, preparing himself to make the best possible impression.

The clock on his phone read 8:45 AM. The interview was scheduled for 9:30. He had built in plenty of time to navigate the unfamiliar city, but the efficiency of its public transportation system had surprised him. With fifteen extra minutes to spare, he paced the small room, rehearsing answers to the inevitable questions. Why SERVE? Why you? What can you offer? His polished shoes clicked softly against the hardwood floor as he ran through his mental scripts, each question a step closer to his aspirations

The elevator ride to the hotel lobby was brief, its sleek, mirrored walls reflecting his composed exterior. When the doors opened, a rush of city sounds and movement greeted him. People streamed through the grand entrance, their purpose and pace reminding him of SERVE’s relentless drive. He paused outside, taking in the morning air—a blend of exhaust, coffee, and the faint aroma of freshly baked bread.

On the horizon, SERVE’s headquarters loomed like a monument to ambition, its chrome logo catching the early sunlight. The building radiated power, a constant reminder of the opportunity awaiting him.

Matt navigated the bustling sidewalks, his stride purposeful as the city’s energy coursed through him. The diversity of faces and stories around him was invigorating, a stark departure from the sleepy streets of his past. The SERVE building grew larger with each step, its sharp, gleaming edges embodying the cutting-edge innovation it represented. When the glass doors slid open, a wave of cool, sterile air swept over him, grounding him in the present. The lobby was a study in precision—minimalist design, sleek surfaces, and an undercurrent of quiet efficiency.

The receptionist, a composed man with a practiced smile, acknowledged Matt’s arrival with a nod. After confirming his appointment, he gestured toward a row of plush seats. Matt joined a small group of hopeful candidates, each lost in their own thoughts. The air buzzed with a mixture of determination and unease, their faces betraying traces of the same excitement Matt felt. He couldn’t help but overhear snippets of conversation—whispers about SERVE’s groundbreaking projects and the mysterious fate of employees who excelled.

The walls of the lobby were adorned with striking images of SERVE employees clad in sleek, branded latex suits, interacting seamlessly with drones. The scenes were captivating, equal parts aspirational and uncanny. Matt had read about the conversion process, the transformation of employees into drones—a melding of humanity and technology. Now, faced with the visual reality of it, the allure was undeniable. There was power in surrendering individuality to become part of something greater, something transcendent.

As he sat, Matt’s excitement grew. SERVE wasn’t just a job; it was a gateway to transformation, a chance to be part of a world where obedience wasn’t just expected—it was celebrated. He straightened his tie, his resolve solidifying as the minutes ticked by. This was his moment, and he was ready to embrace it.

At 9:25 AM, the doors to the inner sanctum of SERVE’s headquarters parted, and a middle-aged man with a gleaming bald head emerged. He was dressed impeccably in a form-fitting latex shirt and trousers that reflected the lobby’s artificial light, the material stretching tightly over his muscular frame. Despite the air-conditioned chill, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead and the back of his neck. His shoes, a mirror to his attire, clicked sharply against the marble floor as he approached. His tie, also made of the same shiny material, fluttered slightly with each step, the only indication that he was, indeed, human.

Matt's eyes followed the man as he approached, the clack of his shoes punctuating the silence like a metronome. The man’s gaze swept over the candidates before settling on him, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he had found what he was looking for. The man’s expression was unreadable. But something in his posture—the way his shoulders squared and his chest puffed—conveyed authority and confidence.

The latex-clad figure offered a firm handshake. "Good morning, Matthew," he said, his voice a low purr that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the lobby. "I'm Alex, your interviewer for today. You must be quite the eager bee to arrive so early."

Matt felt a rush of heat to his cheeks at the compliment. He took Alex's hand, noticing the strength behind the man's grip. "Just eager to make a good impression," he replied, trying to keep his voice steady. Alex's attire was indeed striking—his latex ensemble fitting like a second skin, emphasizing his toned physique. The way the material shimmered in the light made him seem almost superhuman, a living embodiment of SERVE's ethos of power and efficiency.

They walked side by side down the corridor, the sound of their shoes a rhythmic echo. The latex against the marble was a symphony of squeaks and taps, a sensual soundtrack to the otherwise clinical environment. Alex's stride was fluid, his hips rolling with an allure that was difficult to ignore. His confidence was palpable, and it was clear that he reveled in the attention his outfit drew from both the interviewees and the staff that passed by. The other candidates couldn't help but glance up, their curiosity piqued by the interplay of sex appeal and authority.

The interview room was stark white, with chrome fixtures and a single round table in the center. Alex gestured for Matt to sit in the ergonomic chair across from him. The room felt smaller than it should have, the walls seeming to close in as the door slid shut with a hiss. The chair was cold, and the room was calming.

Alex leaned back, his latex outfit whispering against the chair, his arms folded over his chest. "So, Matthew," he began, his voice like gravel, "why do you want to work for SERVE?"

Matt took a deep breath, his heart racing. This was his chance to articulate his dreams and ambitions. "I've always been fascinated by the integration of human and machine," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. "The idea of becoming a drone, a cog in the wheel of something so much larger than myself, it's… intoxicating."

Alex's expression remained unchanged, his eyes piercing as he studied Matt intently. "You understand that the process of becoming a drone is not for the faint of heart," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It's a journey of dedication, discipline, and ultimately, transformation. The path to conversion is not one that can be rushed or taken lightly."

Matt nodded, his throat dry. "I'm aware of the commitment required," he managed to say, his voice a tad shakier than he'd have liked. "I've read about the training, the conditioning, and the final procedure. I'm ready for whatever it takes to serve the hive."

Alex leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his hands steepled in front of him. The latex of his shirt stretched, outlining the contours of his biceps. "What is it that draws you to this life?" he asked, his eyes searching. "What do you seek to leave behind?"

Matt swallowed, his palms slick with anticipation. "My hometown," he began, "was a place of stagnation, a pond where ideas and dreams went to die. I crave the rush of innovation, the thrill of being part of something that shapes the future." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "And…I want to be part of something so much larger than myself, to feel that unity of purpose."

Alex nodded thoughtfully. "Your desire to escape your past is commendable, Matthew," he said, his voice like a gentle caress. "But to truly serve the hive, you must be willing to shed the last vestiges of your old life. Your family, your friends, your past… they will become irrelevant. Tell me, have you ever felt truly alone?"

Matt's gaze drifted to the floor as he considered the question. "I was abandoned by my family when I was 18," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "They couldn't accept who I was." The words hung in the air, a silent confession of pain and rejection. "I've been on my own since then, supporting myself through university. I've learned to survive, but I crave more than mere existence."

Alex leaned in slightly, his expression a mix of empathy and curiosity. "Abandonment is a powerful motivator," he said, his eyes never leaving Matt's. "It can either break you or forge you into something stronger. Tell me, what did it do to you?"

Matt took a moment to gather his thoughts. The memory of his family's rejection was a raw wound, but it had also been the catalyst for his relentless drive. "It made me self-reliant," he said, his voice gaining strength. "It taught me that if I wanted to succeed, I had to do it on my own terms. I worked multiple jobs to put myself through university. I studied hard, graduated with honors. But most importantly, it made me crave belonging, to be part of something where I could truly make a difference."

Alex's smile grew, a knowing glint in his eye. "Ah, the sweet taste of potential," he murmured, his gaze lingering on Matt's face. "We do appreciate ambition here at SERVE." He leaned back in his chair, his latex shirt creaking as he folded his arms over his chest. "Very well, I can see that you're eager to prove yourself. We'll start you on a probationary period. You'll begin as a janitor, but if you show promise, the hive will embrace you and guide you toward your true calling."

Matt's stomach plummeted. A janitor? That wasn't what he had envisioned when he thought about joining SERVE. But he knew he couldn't let this setback deter him. He nodded, forcing a smile. "I'm ready for whatever it takes," he said, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

Alex's smile grew broader, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. "Excellent," he said, his tone warm and approving. "Your dedication is commendable. Be here at 6 AM sharp on Monday. You'll be provided with your uniform then. And remember, Matthew, once you're in the uniform, you are a part of the hive. You will only wear it here, even during breaks. It is a symbol of your commitment to SERVE. Do you understand the gravity of this?"

Matt nodded, trying to suppress his apprehension. "I understand," he said firmly. "I'll be here."

[lullabyes22-blog]

Snippet - Shot Down - Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

He hates being told 'No'...

tw: codependency, manipulation.

Forward but Never Forget/XOXO

Snippet:

Sevika nods, once. But the sorrow lingers in her eyes.

"What about you?" she asks. "Will you be—?"

"I'll be here."

"Doing what?"

"There are a few threads to tie up. A handful of meetings with the chem-barons. Then a trip to the Terrarium. As soon as I'm done, I'll join Jinx and Viktor in the Aerie. By then, I anticipate the glyph will be in their crosshairs. And Violet, already cold. By the time her body's found at the Abattoir, Zaun will have a brand-new power source under wraps. One that will transform the city. Rewrite the past. Reshape our future."

From beneath his half-lidded eye, he watches Sevika absorb the words. Her face is immovable, but there are undercurrents of conflict in her forehead and jaw. Her mouth—kiss-swollen—parts, then shuts.

She can sense the charge or of excitement in him. The resolute sense of purpose. It compels her, as it always has.

But that sorrow—that strange, inexplicable sorrow—won't fade. Her hand, in his, won't let go.

Like she cannot shake the feeling he is gone for good.

Yielding to rare impulse, Silco kisses her. A kiss that goes from claiming to paying court with the same thread of savoring slowness.

She shivers, but doesn't answer.

"This is it, Sevika," he breathes. "After all these years. The moment we've been waiting for."

"I know." She swallows. "I know."

"What is it?"

"I guess—I didn't realize that today was the day."

"Neither did I. Not until last night. Jinx dispatched a message by crow."

"And you came here."

"To prepare you."

"You could've radioed."

"And start my day without a proper legover?"

The levity falls flat. Her expression doesn't alter. No low-slung smirk. No sly quirk of the brow. Just the sorrow, and a hand in his.

Again, he kisses her. Her eyes fall shut. The crude Shimmer veins on her cheekbone pulse like a wound seeping blood. He traces them with the folded fingers of his free hand, down to the curve of her throat.

The heat of her fresh-fucked body exerts an irresistible pull. Her skin is so richly scented. So electrifyingly sweet.

The countdown's in motion: six bells and a schedule from hell.

But need's got no use for a timepiece.

It's why, the past few weeks, he's sought her out, again and again. Home can always be leveraged against you. But a steadfast tether is the surest bulwark in a storm. And that storm's inside him: a restless cage of teeth and hunger and howling rage.

It's been that way since the blood game began. He's plotted every square; the pieces are in place. The checkmate is close.

Sevika's closer still. Her heat, her pulse, her body—all within reach.

All his.

Slowly, Silco eases her back across the rumpled sheets. Kisses her again, his hand roaming from her throat down to the bisecting line of breasts and belly and the damp vee of thighs. But when his palm delves between them, ready to begin preliminaries, he meets resistance. The solid muscles of her thighs flex shut, keeping his questing fingers out.

Frowning, Silco stops.

"Sevika?"

Her stare holds his, the way it's always done. But the light in her eyes has gone strange.

"You should go," she says. "Big day ahead."

"No chance of a victory lap?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself."

"Oh, I don't know." Silco insinuates his fingers an inch deeper. Her body gives a telltale tremor. "I've been in front, below, behind. But inside's where the real payoff is."

"You can't afford the distraction."

"It's a small one. Indulge me."

He dips his head, kissing the hollow of her breastbone. Tongues the groove of muscle down to the pucker of navel. There is salt caught in the fine hairs of her skin. Life, at its strongest, radiating under his lips.

"Don't," she says, but with a catch in her breath.

"You don't want to?"

"Not now."

"I can change your mind." He nuzzles the dense pooch of curls at her mons. Breathes in the heady musk of her. The faint quiver of her belly is a dead giveaway. "Just say the word."

Her cybernetic hand catches him by the nape. Gunmetal eyes lock with his own.

"The word's Kill It," she says.

The safeword—non-negotiable—stops him short.

He doesn't let go, but his hand slips away. He still wants her, so badly it hurts, except the hurt's now something he cannot put a name to. Conflict; self-doubt. Reflexively, his mouth seeks hers, an anchor amid the alienness.

This time, she lets the kiss linger: a simple contact of flesh-on-flesh. But a moment later, she gently, firmly, withdraws. Her good hand squeezes his, letting go before he has a chance to lock his fingers into hers.

Their clasp falls apart.

The tether's gone.

Sitting up, Sevika reaches, not for the vodka, but her smokes. Lipping a cigarette from the pack, she sparks up. Her hair—past her shoulders now, and growing ravishingly long with each week—falls forward, shielding her expression.

The smoke's a shield too. Behind it, he senses a strategic retreat.

"Go," she repeats, and it's not a tone that invites persuasion.

"You're turning me down."

"I am."

She is rifling through her drawer. Finding what she wants—an old horsehair brush that once belonged to Nandi—she leans over and begins brushing vigorously from the nape. He cannot see her face at all, and half-expects her to set fire to the glossy black locks with her cigarette.

He half-expects the flat to go up in flames, and engulf his pride with it.

"Sevika—"

She preempts whatever spiel he's preparing to spin. "Nothing personal. But a lot's riding on today. Especially with Jinx at the helm."

"She's not at the helm. I am."

"You've given her the tools. The gem. The runes. The map."

"I trust her to succeed."

"And I trust her to blow us sky-high. So, on the off-chance it happens, I'm prepping in advance." Silco watches the gliding play of muscles along her spine. The brushstrokes slow. Tossing her hair back, she takes one last drag, then grinds the butt into the ashtray. The smoke dispels, but her shield holds. "You're the brains, Silco. I'm just the muscle. And I'd rather those muscles be ready to roll. For Zaun's sake."

"Is that why I'm being evicted? Out of patriotic duty?"

"Partly."

"And the rest?"

"The rest's between me and mine."

"Sevika—"

"Next time, sir, I'd suggest starting your day with a cold shower."

Silco stares. The snark is vintage Sevika. But there's something oddly forced to it. A blistering bite that goes beyond her usual repertoire.

It unsettles him. As does the bluntness of the brush-off. She's been at his beck and call for years. Never refused his advances. Never once held back. Hell, half the time, he never even has to ask. It's simply a matter of when.

Now her distance is a drawbridge, impassable.

And Silco realizes: he's forgotten what it is to be denied. To be made to heel.

To feel human.

Inexorably, the rage cuts through. At himself, for wanting. At her, for withholding.

And rage, he can work with.

"If you insist," he says mildly. "Though I was going to share the rest."

"The rest?"

"The game-plan after Vi's out of the picture." A beat. "And how Noxus enters into it."

That gets her attention.

Her head swivels, just a fraction. Her slitted eyes seek his. Silco says nothing. He only smiles. A smile that is the equivalent of a card leveled across a poker table. On its surface, stenciled in bold black print: an ace of spades. On its flipside, a handwritten scrawl: Fuck You.

She had her chance, and she's squandered it.

Now, they'll play it his way.

"So," she says quietly, "you're still holding out on me."

"We can't always get what we want."

"Except for you, huh?"

"My wants are Zaun's wants." Lazily, he rises. "Zaun's wants are mine."

"And the rest?"

"In time."

His clothes are a heaped mess across the floorboards. He'd allowed himself a spot of spontaneity, where ordinarily he'd fold them first. Now it strikes him as a warning sign. Trust: creeping from the corners of his control. Tempting him to let it bleed all the way through.

He'll never make the same mistake twice.

Methodically, he dresses. Trousers, shirt, socks. Shrugging on his waistcoat, he adjusts the lapels, and begins tying the cravat. In the mirror, Sevika's stare roams. There is a bit of a voyeur in her. She's always liked to watch him slinking into his clothes, same way Nandi enjoyed watching him slither out of them. Something about the way the movements limn his scarred musculature, his fingertips spidering across buttons and fastenings, puts her into a dark-eyed reverie.

Silco's never minded. It's no different from when he watches her kill at his command.

Today, it's different. Something in her eyes—in their raw steeliness—is telling. It's not her old look: the one from when he'd just been smooth-talking Sil, and she was just a girl with a good right hook. The way she'd look at him then: an unguarded stare that saw past the layers of charm and calculation he put on for the rest of the world. That saw the man inside.

All the parts of him, dark and light, laid bare.

Now, it's a look that sees too much. And, seeing, understands that there's nothing left.