#‘they made it clear they don’t like it’

[heeluvv]

˗ˏˋ02. MOAN FOR THE CAMERA

pairingᝰ.ᐟ lee heeseung x fem reader

warningsᝰ.ᐟ unprotected sex, grinding, praise kink, soft dom! heeseung, overstimulation, etc.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ mdni, hate comments will be deleted.

statusᝰ.ᐟ 2/9 completed!

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it has been a week since you got the message.

seven days since your phone lit up with his user for the first time. seven days since those words slid across your screen and rewired the chemistry in your chest—since that simple, perfect sentence cracked something open inside of you and refused to let it close again.

god, you were so fucking hot. why don’t you let me see what more you’re capable of doing?

you didn’t answer at first. not out of disinterest or shock, but because your breath caught in your throat and refused to let go. because your body lit up in a way it hadn’t in years. because the sudden heat that flooded your skin felt so raw, so consuming, you didn’t know if it came from fear or desire or both. you stared at the message in the dark of your room, the sound of your breath uneven, your fingers hovering over the screen like it might burn you.

and then you said yes.

you haven’t looked away from him since.

you haven’t stopped thinking about the way his voice curls into your ears, low and patient and warm with something just shy of menace—how he never tries to impress you, never tries to talk himself up, just says what he means and means what he says. you still haven’t seen his face. not fully. he’s careful with his camera, careful with his angles, his hair always falling into the frame and covering the details that might make him feel too real. but that doesn’t matter. because it’s not his face that made you agree.

he told you his name on the third night. not dramatically. not as a reveal. just tucked into the middle of a message like a comma.

heeseung. thought you should know.

and that was it. no last name. no photos. no follow-up. and for some reason, that made you trust it more.

the days since then have been slow and fast in turns. mornings feel stretched out, your body heavy with anticipation you don’t know how to burn off. nights feel electric—your phone screen the only light in the room, your fingers trembling as you read and reread everything he sends. he’s not always sweet. he’s not always careful. but he always makes you feel seen. he always reminds you that you said yes. and you keep saying yes, over and over, in every message you return.

until this morning, when the yes had to become real.

because today’s the day. tonight’s the night. and he’s waiting.

your bag is half-packed. your body is half-numb. you’ve been staring into your closet for twenty minutes now, unsure of what it means to dress for someone who’s already seen you at your most bare—someone who watched you fall apart in silence, whose voice sat in your head while your fingers pushed deeper into yourself than they ever had before.

he told you to bring whatever makes you feel good.

and you wish you knew what that was.

you tug down a black lace lingerie, something you bought months ago and never wore—something that felt too bold, too obvious, too much skin. you smooth it out over your bed with slow, reverent hands, then lay a silk robe beside it. then another option. then another. the pile grows until it looks more like you’re preparing to become someone else than getting dressed. because maybe that’s what this is. not a costume. not a mask. but a version of yourself that hasn’t been touched yet. one that only lives in the shadow of a camera light.

you fold everything slowly. precise. intentional. like the way you pack will dictate the way he undresses you.

be ready by 7.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t remember the drive—not in any clear way, not in the kind of way that leaves images you can describe. you remember the sound of your bag shifting across the seat beside you, the constant press of your thighs against each other beneath your hoodie, the way your fingers curled into the hem like they were holding on for stability. you remember the driver didn’t speak, and you were grateful. you didn’t think you could have formed a sentence anyway. the city moved around you in streaks and shadows, lights bleeding into the windows like soft threats, buildings you couldn’t name passing in patterns you didn’t register. your stomach stays tight the whole way, curled in on itself with the kind of heat that makes you feel nauseous, but not sick. it wasn’t fear in the way most people feel fear. it was quieter. heavier. like your body was preparing itself for something it had never done before, but had already decided it would endure.

the car slows, and you know before the driver says anything that you’ve arrived. something in your chest drops, cold and sudden, and it stays there as you look out the window. the building is sleek. modern. smooth walls and quiet lighting. tall glass that reflects just enough to keep the inside hidden. it looks expensive. clinical. the kind of place people rent for short terms, the kind of place that doesn’t hold stories—just moments. 

your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you flinch even though you were expecting it.

unit 603.

you stare at the words, fingers gripping your phone tighter than you mean to. your eyes trace the message once, then again. it’s not dramatic. not aggressive. just information. a direction. a point of no return.

your lips part. not to speak—just to breathe. just to test if you still can. you turn your head toward the driver, your mouth opens like you might ask him to keep going, to turn the car around, to pretend none of this happened. maybe you’ll say you made a mistake. maybe you’ll lie and say you have the wrong building. maybe you won’t say anything at all—you’ll just go home, crawl into bed, and forget that this ever felt real enough to chase. but you don’t. the air stays trapped in your throat, and the words never come.

because you remember why you’re here.

you remember the numbers at the bottom of your bank statement. you remember the rent due in four days. you remember the red stamp on that envelope and the way you stood in the corner of your kitchen with your heart thudding so loud it felt like it might shake your teeth loose. you remember your first video—the shaky way your hands touched your skin, the breathy little moans you tried to bite back, the way your legs trembled when you came—and how that one night covered groceries for the week. the one that paid for a quarter of your tuition bill. you remember the messages. the tips. the strange little thrill that came with being seen.

so you open the door and step out into the cold.

the night wraps around you immediately. the air has a bite to it—nothing violent, just enough to raise goosebumps along the backs of your thighs. you adjust your hoodie and sling your bag higher onto your shoulder as you approach the building, heart thumping with a rhythm that doesn’t match your pace. the inside is even quieter than it looked from the outside—soft lighting, clean tile, no front desk, no noise. you walk toward the elevator like your body’s been programmed to do it, and when the doors open with a sound that feels too loud in your ears, you step inside and keep your eyes down.

the mirrored walls don’t help. they catch you from every angle, all soft curves and stiff limbs and the subtle trembling of your fingers where they press against your thigh. you don’t look at your face. you know what you’ll see. too much. too vulnerable. too obvious.

the ride is short but unbearable.

each number lights up like a warning.

and then the doors part again, and you’re stepping into a hallway that looks like all the others—long, narrow, lit with warm bulbs that hum faintly overhead. the carpet swallows the sound of your steps. you feel like a ghost. like someone halfway between becoming and undoing.

unit 603 is near the end.

you don’t rush toward it. you walk slowly. deliberately. like your body is stalling, trying to delay what’s inevitable. like maybe if you just slow down enough, the tension will go away. the heat in your stomach will ease. 

it doesn’t.

you stop in front of the door and just stand there. you don’t reach for the handle. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you just… exist, trembling slightly, caught in the kind of silence that feels like it should be protected.

your eyes drop to your feet. you shift your weight. the strap of your bag digs into your shoulder, and your hand reaches for it without thinking, like it might steady you. your other hand hovers near the door, fingers flexing once, twice, like they want to touch something they don’t believe they deserve.

you don’t knock.

you don’t have to.

you could leave.

you could turn around right now. no one’s seen you yet. you could head back to the elevator, back down to the street, call a new ride, go home, crawl into your bed and cry about it later. tell yourself you’ll find a different way to get the money. a different life.

your heel shifts.

your body starts to turn.

and then, quietly—smoothly—the door opens.

you freeze.

the hallway holds its breath with you.

you don’t know what you expected to see. you don’t know what you hoped he’d look like. you don’t know if you even dared to imagine. maybe you thought he wouldn’t answer. maybe you thought you’d stand out here until the hallway lights went out and the quiet pressed into your lungs so tightly you couldn’t take it anymore. maybe you thought you’d be strong enough to leave.

but now the door is open.

and he’s real.

and everything in your body goes still.

your eyes widen instantly, and for a full second—maybe two—you forget how to move. your fingers curl tighter around the strap of your bag, breath caught at the base of your throat, chest tightening like it’s reacting to something it never thought it would see in real life. because there he is. standing just inches from you. real. solid. and so painfully beautiful it almost feels cruel.

he’s tall, taller than you imagined, his frame filling the doorway with a presence that makes everything behind him blur. his body is broad and built in a way that feels effortless, like he was never trying to be impressive—he just is. his arms are bare, exposed by the loose black tank that clings to the outline of his torso and drapes perfectly over the swell of his chest. his skin is smooth and golden, glowing faintly under the warm hall light, veins barely visible where they run down his thick forearms. he looks strong in the way that matters—not for show, not posed—but like he knows how to use every inch of himself. like he could hold you up and tear you open in the same breath.

his hair is the same cotton candy pink from his previews, but messier now—soft strands falling over his forehead in loose waves, the ends curling just slightly where they brush against his temple. it looks like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and the idea of those hands—big, rough, ringed—tangled in your hair, gripping your hips, wrapped around your throat—makes your stomach twist so tightly you have to shift your weight. a few strands cling to the side of his cheek, the light catching on the moisture like maybe he just showered, or maybe he’s been waiting. pacing. preparing.

his ears are a constellation of silver, pierced through with hoops and cuffs and studs that glitter faintly each time he shifts. one of them dangles slightly—a thin, delicate chain brushing the edge of his jaw. and then your eyes land on his mouth.

and you stop thinking altogether.

his lips are almost too pink. full, soft-looking, the kind that look like they’d leave a stain on your skin no matter where they touched. he has the faintest indent of a bite mark on the lower one, like he’d been chewing at it without realizing, and it glistens slightly with the sheen of spit or gloss or both. you don’t know if you want to kiss him or watch him speak. maybe both. maybe forever.

and then his eyes meet yours.

brown. impossibly dark, but warm. deep in a way that makes you feel like you’ve already said too much, like he’s pulling the truth out of you just by looking. they glimmer faintly in the low light, lined with thick lashes that make him look devastatingly pretty and disarmingly unreadable all at once. there’s a slight drop to his gaze, heavy-lidded like he’s already seeing you undressed. like he’s been seeing you that way from the moment you said yes.

they remind you of boba pearls—glossy and rich and bottomless. and just as dangerous. you feel like you could fall into them without realizing you were drowning until it was already too late.

you’re frozen.

completely and utterly off guard.

this is not what you expected. not what you prepared for. not the image you tried to sketch in your head based on his previews. you thought he might be attractive, sure—maybe even cocky. you assumed he’d be confident, comfortable in his skin, maybe a little smug about how much he’s watched you. but this?

this is something else entirely.

he’s not just beautiful. he’s unreal. he looks like something that stepped out of the fantasy you didn’t even know how to finish. and he’s looking at you like you’re the one that took too long to arrive.

he smirks, soft and knowing. 

“i knew you’d still be here.”

his voice doesn’t just sound good. it sounds dangerous. smooth and rich and low enough to sink through the fabric of your hoodie and press directly into your skin. it’s slower than you expected, a little raspier, like it’s made for private conversations and whispered commands. it doesn’t rise above a murmur, but it fills the space between you completely. it curls under your ears and down your neck and makes your stomach dip so hard it steals your balance for half a second.

you swallow, but your throat is dry.

your heart flutters violently against your ribs, pounding loud enough you wonder if he can hear it. your lips part slightly, maybe to say something, maybe just to breathe, but no sound comes out. your tongue feels too heavy. your mouth is too unsure. and the last thing you want to do is stutter over yourself while he’s standing there, relaxed and perfect and waiting.

your eyebrows pinch together without meaning to—just a small, confused furrow, like your body is trying to process what your brain can’t catch up to. you hadn’t thought this far ahead. hadn’t planned for what it would feel like to be seen like this. not through a screen. not through a message. but here. in person. under his eyes.

you thought you were prepared.

you were wrong.

he doesn’t say anything at first. he just stands there in the doorway, holding it open like it weighs nothing, while your whole body feels impossibly heavy. his gaze is steady, quiet, unwavering—not intense, not invasive, just there. patient. like he’s not surprised you showed up, like he always knew you would. like this moment was never a question.

when he finally shifts to the side, it’s a small, effortless movement—barely more than a step—but it sends something sharp through your chest. he doesn’t gesture. he doesn’t usher you in or flash a grin or try to ease the nerves that are curling tighter in your stomach. he just opens the space. clears the path. leaves it entirely up to you.

you hesitate for a beat longer than you mean to. the hallway feels colder now, the air thinner somehow. your fingers twitch where they’re clenched around the strap of your bag, your heartbeat pressing against the inside of your ribs like it wants out. but your legs move. maybe from instinct, maybe from need, maybe because part of you knows that if you don’t do it now, you never will.

you cross the threshold.

the air inside is warm—soft and still, carrying the faintest trace of something unfamiliar and expensive, something dark and clean and musky like amber or smoke. it hits you in a slow wave, curling up your nose and settling in the back of your throat. you take a shallow breath, then another, but it doesn’t help. everything feels too quiet now. too private. the silence inside the apartment is thicker than the silence outside, not empty, but full—of tension, of weight, of waiting. like the walls know what’s about to happen. like they’ve already seen it a hundred times.

you take a few careful steps forward and stop just inside, unsure what to do with yourself. unsure where to stand, unsure what to look at. your body is taut with nerves and anticipation, your hands suddenly too aware of themselves. your mouth is dry. the sound of the door clicking closed behind you is sharp in your ears, the lock sliding into place like a thread being pulled tight.

you don’t turn to look at him. you can’t. not yet.

his apartment is clean, but not in a soulless way. everything is curated. intentional. the lights are low and warm, tucked beneath shelves and mounted in corners, glowing like dusk instead of buzzing like daylight. the walls are matte, smooth concrete or something close to it, and the furniture is dark—black, deep gray, the kind of colors that drink light instead of reflecting it. a massive bed dominates the space, not tucked into a corner, not hidden behind doors, but bold and unashamed in the middle of the room. the sheets are dark. rumpled. there's a throw blanket tangled at the end, half falling over the side. and scattered around the perimeter of the space, you spot his gear—tripods, light stands, cameras. they’re sleek and familiar, but somehow more intimidating now that they’re not behind a screen.

he gestures toward the kitchen with a small tilt of his head, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back as he leads the way, not forceful—just present. his touch is gentle, careful, a whisper against fabric that leaves warmth in its place as you follow the slow rhythm of his stride. the kitchen glows in soft amber light, casting long shadows across the clean counters and illuminating the faint sheen of condensation on the glass he’s set out for you. it’s quiet here, the kind of quiet that doesn’t press but cradles, wrapping around your shoulders like a weighted blanket. he moves like the silence belongs to him, like he’s always known how to make space feel soft instead of suffocating. the air smells like faint vanilla and spice, like clean linen and a memory you can’t name. you slide onto the stool he pulled out for you, your palms damp against your thighs, the hem of your hoodie gathered loosely in your grip. heeseung remains standing across from you, arms braced on the counter, eyes soft but intent as they meet yours.

“before anything else,” he begins, voice low and smooth, every word laid down like silk on stone, “i want to talk about boundaries.” he doesn’t blink too much when he speaks, doesn’t fidget, just holds your gaze with something steady, like it’s not a challenge but a promise. his hands spread slightly against the marble surface, fingers relaxed, the veins on his forearms faint but visible beneath warm skin. he’s not performing. he’s not playing a part. it’s in the way he waits—silent after each phrase, giving you room to process, not expecting your answer before you’re ready to offer it. “if there’s anything you don’t want to do, say it. if you change your mind mid-way, say it. we stop whenever you say stop, and i won’t ask why.” there’s nothing rehearsed in his tone, no false sweetness, only care shaped by confidence and restraint.

you nod slowly, your eyes dipping toward the glass he set in front of you, its surface dewy against the soft light. your throat is dry, but your voice finds its way through the haze, low and hesitant but certain. “i’m okay with most things,” you say, the words trembling slightly as they leave your lips. he nods as you speak, never interrupting, never shifting his weight too abruptly, like he wants you to feel the space between each word instead of rushing past it. “but it’s been a while,” you admit, your shoulders curling inward slightly, your hands clasping together in your lap. he doesn’t react with surprise or even curiosity—just attentiveness, the kind that feels like a door being held open instead of a window being peered into. “and… i don’t want to show my face,” you finish, the truth dropping into the space between you with more weight than anything else you’ve said. “i want to stay anonymous.”

his expression doesn’t flicker, doesn’t shift into confusion or disappointment—it deepens, softens even, like your request settles into place with ease. “we’ll work around that,” he says, the certainty in his voice firm enough to anchor you, even as your nerves start to pool low in your stomach again. “no face, no identifiers. close shots, over-the-shoulder angles, shallow focus. i’ve done it before, and it works.” he moves slightly, adjusting the way he leans against the counter, one hand tapping once against the glass as if to ground the moment. “this is about what makes you feel good, not what the camera sees,” he adds, voice dipping even lower, like it’s meant to reach beneath your skin. “if you don’t want the world to know it’s you, then they won’t.” your chest eases at that, something unspoken unraveling in your lungs. he doesn’t ask why. he just honors the request like it’s law.

you look up at him then, really look, and his gaze hasn’t drifted once—it’s still locked to yours, patient, open, unreadable but safe. he hasn’t made a single move to close the distance between you again, even though it would be easy. his restraint isn’t cold—it’s reverent, like he’s watching you bloom slowly and doesn’t want to bruise the petals. “thank you,” you say, quieter this time, the words heavy with relief you didn’t realize you were holding. he nods, a small motion that carries more weight than it should, then steps back just enough to gesture toward the hallway. “bathroom’s on the left if you want to change,” he says. “take your time.” you slide off the stool with a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your legs moving on instinct, the pulse between your ribs still uneven but quieter now. you clutch your bag loosely, fingers curled around the strap like a lifeline, and head towards the quiet hall.

the bathroom is clean and warm, wrapped in that same subtle scent of something smooth and expensive and low—soap and eucalyptus and a hint of whatever lived beneath his skin. you lock the door behind you gently, setting your bag on the closed toilet lid, your reflection already waiting for you in the wide mirror. the light here is softer than expected, casting a muted glow over the white tile and catching faintly on the metal fixtures, making everything feel a little too clear. you unzip your bag slowly, each sound exaggerated in the quiet, each movement deliberate but hesitant. the fabric of your hoodie feels heavier now, like it doesn’t want to be peeled away, but you force your hands to keep moving. you fold your jeans with care and lift the set from your bag, the lace cool against your fingers. you pull it on carefully, the straps snug where they wrap around your shoulders, the softness of the fabric suddenly feeling like too much.

you face the mirror again, eyes sweeping slowly over the new version of yourself standing there—exposed, yes, but not ruined. the lingerie hugs you in all the places you thought you wanted to hide, lifting and shaping you into something elegant, something quiet but striking. but even as you look, your stomach knots. you think of the camera. of your body in motion. of being watched, of being remembered. of existing somewhere outside yourself. the doubts creep in slowly, delicate as poison—what if you look awkward? what if you can’t do it? what if he’s disappointed the second he sees you? your fingers brace against the sink, palms flat, knuckles pale, your breathing shallow and uneven. for a moment, you wonder if you should leave before it starts.

but then you think of his voice again—measured, thoughtful, unrushed. you’re in control here. you remember how he looked at you—not like something to consume, but something to hold, to coax open with time. your chest rises and falls once more, slower this time, deeper, steadier. you adjust one last strap, swipe your thumb beneath your bottom lip, and blink once at your reflection. she doesn’t look scared anymore. she looks like someone beginning. you reach for the doorknob and step out into the hallway, the cool air brushing against your skin, your pulse quickening with every step back toward him. and you know, as your bare feet sink silently into the dark flooring—that you’re about to let someone see you, truly, maybe for the first time.

when you return to the room, the silence greets you like a held breath, still and warm and heavier now, coiled around the soft glow of ambient light and the faint hum of something electric in the walls. heeseung is standing near the kitchen still, his posture easy but not casual, one hand resting lightly against the counter, the other falling slowly to his side as he looks at you. his eyes catch on the shape of you like he wasn’t prepared, like he thought he was but somehow still feels like the floor just dropped out beneath him. his gaze sweeps down, slow and deliberate, not in hunger but in reverence, like he’s taking in something rare he’s never seen in full daylight. he doesn’t speak right away, but the silence between you blooms like a confession, every second weighted with something unspoken but deeply understood. your bare feet shift against the hardwood, the coolness of it whispering up your calves, grounding you even as your breath begins to shallow. his lips part slightly, like he wants to say something—maybe a compliment, maybe a request—but nothing comes. and then finally, slowly, he steps forward.

his approach is quiet, not calculated but intentional, his body moving like it already knows how not to startle you, how not to rush, how not to steal. he stops a foot away from you, eyes still holding yours, one corner of his mouth lifted in something soft, something just shy of a smile. you can feel the heat radiating off of him now, feel the quiet pressure of his presence like it’s brushing against your collarbone, your ribs, your thighs. his hand lifts slowly, fingers hovering just beside your arm, and he doesn’t touch you—just lets the air between your skin and his feel thicker than it should. his voice, when it comes, is low and quiet and perfectly clear. “can i show you where we’ll start?” he asks. your lips part, and your nod is small, breathless, but sure. he waits a second longer, then gently tilts his head toward the center of the room.

the bed looks larger now than it did earlier, all shadow and suggestion, the dark linens catching the warm light and folding it into softness. you follow him slowly, each step silent, deliberate, your nerves curling into your spine and blooming down your arms like smoke. the mattress dips faintly under your weight as you sit, the fabric cool beneath your thighs, your back straight but uncertain. heeseung lowers himself beside you, not quite touching, his knees bent and body angled toward yours like he’s shielding you from the rest of the room. his hand rests on the bed between you, close enough that your pinky grazes his knuckle, but he still doesn’t reach. his eyes find yours again, deeper now, full of something steadier than want. he breathes in, slow and even, his tongue wetting his bottom lip before he speaks. “can i kiss you?” he asks, and it’s not a whisper—it’s a vow.

your heart stutters in your chest, not from fear, not from surprise, but from the weight of being asked—of being given the choice. the air around you hums with heat, not the kind that scorches but the kind that builds, lingers, waits for ignition. you meet his eyes fully now, let yourself hold there, let him see what it means for you to say yes. your voice is quiet when it comes, but steady, a single word laced with permission. “yes.” he doesn’t move all at once—he moves like something precious, something unfolding, his hand lifting first to cup your jaw, fingers warm where they press against your cheek. your breath catches when he leans in, not because you’re afraid, but because you’ve never been kissed like this—not yet, not even now. his nose brushes yours, a breath shared in the space between, and then, gently, he closes the gap.

his lips are soft but sure, pressing against yours with a slow ache that makes your knees curl into the mattress and your fingers tighten in your lap. he kisses you like he’s reading you, like every tilt of his head is a question and every pull of his lips is an answer you didn’t know you could give. his hand stays on your jaw, his thumb tracing lightly against your cheekbone, grounding you even as your pulse picks up. there’s no rush, no hunger, no desperation—just heat, slow and sinking, pouring into your spine and rising up behind your ribs. you kiss him back with equal weight, not matching his rhythm but meeting it, finding your own within it. the room feels quieter now, the lights dimmer, the air denser with the sound of your shared breathing and the subtle hitch of your chest when he shifts closer. his other hand moves to your thigh, not gripping, just resting there, heavy and warm.

when he pulls back, it’s not abrupt—it’s a soft retreat, like he’s giving you time to breathe, to think, to want more. he stays close, his forehead resting lightly against yours, the bridge of his nose brushing your own, his thumb still stroking your cheek. his eyes are closed for a moment, and when they open again, there’s something darker in them—still soft, but heavier now, like want coiled behind patience. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. your body is already leaning forward again, your lips parting just slightly as your breath mingles with his. he waits, just a second, just to be sure, and then you feel the kiss again—deeper this time, fuller, still slow but firmer, like he’s letting go of a layer he’d been holding back. your hand lifts to his chest, pressing lightly against the cotton of his shirt, feeling the heat of him through the fabric, the steady beat of his heart.

you’re not sure when it happens—when your thighs brush, when his hand slides slightly higher on your leg, when your breath comes faster—but it’s there now, pulsing between your bodies. you’re not overwhelmed. you’re alive. every nerve alert, every part of you tuned to the press of his mouth and the pressure of his palm and the low sound he makes when your lips part just enough for him to taste you. it’s not just a kiss—it’s something more deliberate. a grounding. a beginning. and it feels exactly like it should. when he pulls away again, his eyes meet yours, searching—not for doubt, but for reassurance, for confirmation that you’re still here, still with him, still choosing this. and you are.

he doesn’t rush the question—he asks it like he’s offering you the last word in a language only the two of you speak. “are you ready?” heeseung says, and it sounds less like a formality and more like a thread of silk brushing across your skin, soft and waiting. you pause for half a breath, letting the moment linger there between your chest and his voice, letting it settle just behind your ribs. you meet his eyes, steady now, your heart loud but your voice quiet and sure. “yes,” you answer, and it lands softly, but it rings through the room like a bell. heeseung gives you a single nod—silent, smooth, composed—and then turns slightly toward the camera. the lens is positioned precisely, angled just enough to capture the space you share while keeping your identity untouched. he reaches for the remote resting on the bedside table, presses one button, and the soft red light comes on.

the room doesn’t change when it starts recording—it just feels heavier. the silence stretches a little longer, the air thickens a little deeper, and your skin starts to feel like it’s holding more than just heat. he doesn’t turn to the camera. he doesn’t acknowledge the lens. his eyes are on you, and only you. heeseung takes a slow breath and shifts his position on the bed, moving a little closer, the dip of the mattress drawing your knees toward his. his hand reaches up, fingertips brushing lightly against your jaw, and his touch is warm, sure, almost grounding. he watches your reaction like it’s the only thing he needs to see to move forward—like your body gives permission long before your mouth does. “can i kiss you?” he asks again, even now, when you’ve already said yes to everything else. and when you nod—small, breathless, trembling a little—he moves in with a reverence that feels like worship.

his lips meet yours with the kind of care that makes your chest ache, a kiss not rushed or shallow but deliberate, slow and full of intention. he doesn’t press for more than you give—he lets the rhythm unfold with time, lets your lips part when they’re ready, lets the tension curl warm and slow between your knees. his hand stays cradling your cheek, thumb stroking the soft skin just beneath your eye, as if he’s memorizing the exact way you feel beneath his fingers. your breath stutters slightly when the kiss deepens, when his mouth opens just enough to taste you, when your tongue brushes his in something quiet but certain. his other hand finds your thigh again, not moving higher, not demanding, just resting there—heavy and warm and present. you kiss him back with something softer than desperation, something more vulnerable than lust. your fingers twitch, aching to hold onto something, and when they finally curl into the edge of his shirt, he lets out a breath that sounds a little too much like relief.

he doesn’t speak when he pulls back—he just watches you, eyes dark and steady, breathing a little heavier than before. your forehead brushes his, your mouths still so close they could reunite with a single breath, and the quiet feels louder now than anything else in the room. you feel his fingers flex against your thigh once, like he’s holding something back, like he’s still giving you room to shift or stop or say anything else. but you don’t. you just nod again, slower this time, your eyes half-lidded, mouth still tingling with the press of his. “good,” he whispers, and the word moves through you like heat. then his hand slides—just slightly, just above your knee—tracing the edge of your thigh with the same patience he kissed you with.

his lips find yours again before the silence can thicken too much, and this time the kiss is heavier, more certain, laced with the tension that’s been building since you stepped inside his apartment. his hand doesn’t rush higher, doesn’t slide beneath your lace just yet—it just lingers, exploring the softness of your skin in slow strokes that burn like silk dragged over bare flame. you part your lips more eagerly now, letting him taste the corners of your breath, letting his tongue find yours in something messier, something that leaves your lungs stuttering and your thighs tightening together. your fingers drag up his chest, slow and careful, the fabric of his shirt warm beneath your touch, the steady drum of his heart loud enough to match your own. heeseung groans softly against your mouth when your grip tightens—low and hushed, like the sound slipped out without permission.

when he pulls back again, it’s only to look at you—really look, his gaze trailing from your eyes down to your lips, then back again, lingering like he doesn’t know where he wants to settle most. your breathing is ragged now, lips kiss-bruised and chest rising in slow, uneven swells, your hands still resting against his collarbones like you’re afraid he might float away if you let go. his thumb brushes across your bottom lip once, dragging lightly over the spot where his teeth had pressed seconds before. “you okay?” he murmurs, not because he thinks you’re not—but because he wants to hear it from you. you nod again, slower this time, your voice catching in your throat as you answer. “yes,” you whisper, and your legs shift slightly where they’re tucked under you on the bed.

heeseung leans in again—not to kiss you this time, but to trail his nose down the curve of your cheek, to inhale the scent of your skin where it glows faintly warm. his lips press against the corner of your mouth, then the edge of your jaw, slow and reverent, like he’s tasting gratitude. his hand moves again, slightly higher this time, fingertips tracing the underside of your thigh, still careful, still asking. his lips find your collarbone, pressing once, then again, just beneath the strap of your lingerie. his teeth graze the edge of your skin there, not biting, just lingering, a question written in touch instead of speech. and when you tilt your head to give him more room, heeseung breathes out a soft, broken sound against your neck that makes your core clench and your pulse spike.

“you like that, baby?” he asks, his voice husky against your skin, his teeth grazing your shoulder—but never biting, never hard enough to leave a trace. you nod, breathless, and tilt your head back further, offering your throat like instinct, letting him kiss and suck and worship without ever crossing the boundary. his hand tightens gently around your thigh, holding you still as your hips roll against his palm, wetness soaking through the lace with each drag. the moan you let out is quiet but needy, slipping out against his ear as he nuzzles beneath it and hums in return.

his fingers pause just at the hem of the lace, the pads of them slipping under with a kind of patience that makes your lungs seize and your hips twitch. the fabric drags slightly against your folds as he shifts it to the side, the air hitting your bare heat and making you tremble despite the warmth of the room. he groans under his breath when he finally feels you, his fingertips gliding slowly through your slick, parting you so delicately it makes you clench around nothing. your thighs try to close out of reflex, but his palm presses gently against the inside of one, guiding them apart without force—just the weight of intent. his mouth is still at your neck, lips soft, kissing lazily beneath your jaw as if he isn’t already making you fall apart with nothing but his hand. “you’re soaked for me,” he breathes, lips brushing the edge of your earlobe now, and the sound of it nearly makes you whimper. his fingers drag through your folds again, this time stopping at your clit, circling it slowly in wet, aching spirals. you’re already shaking, your head dropping back slightly as the pleasure coils tighter in your core.

heeseung doesn’t rush the motion, doesn’t press harder than necessary, just works your clit with the kind of care that makes your vision blur and your body hum with electricity. his fingers are long and warm, slick with you, moving in soft, controlled circles that never lose rhythm, never falter. every time your hips shift to chase the pressure, he meets you halfway, adjusting the angle, letting you grind subtly against the heel of his palm. his other hand stays at your waist now, anchoring you in place, thumb rubbing gentle strokes into your hip like he’s reminding you to stay with him. his mouth hasn’t left your neck, only moved lower, teeth grazing your skin without ever biting, lips pressing over every place your pulse flutters wild beneath your flesh. “that’s it,” he whispers, low and soothing, “just like that, baby…” your breath is broken now, little gasps slipping out between parted lips, and you can barely keep your eyes open, your lashes fluttering as the pleasure builds deeper in your belly. your fingers reach for his arm, gripping at his wrist like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed beneath you.

he kisses down your neck with the same rhythm he’s touching you, soft and unhurried, lips brushing along the delicate edge of your collarbone like he wants to memorize it with his mouth. your skin is warm beneath his tongue, flushed and trembling, and his breath leaves it damp as he continues to move lower. his fingers never stop working your clit, thumb pressed gently but firmly, circling in slow, wet loops that make your thighs twitch and your hips rock forward on instinct. you can feel the weight of him between your legs without him even being there yet, just his hand and his mouth and the thick tension swirling in your core like a storm waiting to snap. he lifts his head for a moment to look at you—eyes dark, wide, mouth flushed from kissing your skin—and the way he looks at you makes something ache deep in your chest. “you tell me if it’s too much, okay?” and when you nod, breathless and already shaking, he finally slides his middle finger down and pushes it slowly inside.

you gasp—high and sharp, your mouth falling open as the stretch hits, not painful but deep, too real, too much after so long without. his finger sinks in carefully, inch by inch, and he watches your face the whole time, like every twitch in your brow and shift in your hips is more important than anything else in the world. your walls pulse around him, already clenching tight, wet and warm and so reactive his jaw tightens with the effort of keeping his own hips still. he exhales against your collarbone and presses his lips there again, kissing gently as he begins to move the finger in and out, slow and shallow. his thumb keeps working your clit, synced perfectly with the curl of his finger as he searches for that spot inside you that will make you crumble. you can’t speak—your breath is too staggered, your moans too broken to shape into words—but the way your body arches toward him says enough. “fuck, you feel so good,” he murmurs, kissing just beneath the swell of your chest, his voice vibrating through your skin. “you’re perfect like this.”

your breath hitches when he curls the single finger inside you again, the slow glide of it dragging perfectly against your walls, thick and precise like he knows exactly where to touch without needing to be told. your body is already arching into him, your hips grinding down against his hand as the slick sounds between your thighs grow louder, needier, messier. he doesn’t tease—not once—he keeps the rhythm steady, intentional, with every motion designed to draw the tension higher, to coax your body open instead of ripping it wide. when your walls begin to flutter, tightening around him with the kind of resistance that begs for more, he presses a kiss to your sternum, right between your breasts, and lifts his head just slightly. “gonna give you two, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing over your skin as he speaks, his voice dark and low and reverent. “i want you to take it slow for me, yeah?” you nod, breathless, your nails digging into his forearm as his finger slowly pulls out. the moment his second finger presses in beside the first, your mouth falls open on a soft, broken moan. the stretch burns for a second, sharp and thick, but his thumb keeps circling your clit, and the pleasure blooms fast enough to swallow the sting.

his lips part as he watches the way your body reacts—your thighs trembling, your hips jerking up, your slick coating his fingers as he begins to move them in a slow, twisting rhythm that makes your stomach flutter. heeseung groans softly, his forehead brushing your chest as he sinks lower, dragging the flat of his tongue along the curve of your breast with aching care. “so fucking tight,” he breathes against your skin, his voice thick with restraint, his jaw clenched as your pussy clenches down on his fingers. “you feel unbelievable, baby.” his mouth moves to your breast, kissing softly over the top of it, then trailing down until his lips brush over your nipple through the thin lace. he sucks gently, just enough to make you whimper, and the combination of his mouth and his hand makes your eyes roll back into your head. his fingers curl inside you again, deeper this time, pressing right against that spot that makes your whole body jerk, and he doesn’t stop—he does it again, and again, and again. your back arches off the bed, your fingers clutching the sheets now, your breath coming in broken little pants that you can’t control.

he pulls the lace down with his teeth—slow and controlled, his mouth never leaving your skin—and when your nipple is bare, he takes it into his mouth like it’s something sacred. the suction is warm, wet, steady, and his tongue flicks just enough to make your core tighten dangerously around his fingers. every motion feels choreographed, like his entire body is synced to yours—your breath, your pulse, your need, all dictating the way he moves. his fingers fuck into you slow but deep, knuckles brushing your soaked entrance with every stroke, the squelch of your arousal thick in the air between your bodies. his thumb never leaves your clit, drawing small, precise circles that keep you trembling, unable to come down from the tension he keeps pulling tighter and tighter. “you’re doing so good,” he murmurs, voice muffled against your chest, “taking me so well, baby, just like that.” your hands move instinctively, threading into his hair, tugging gently at the soft strands as your head tips back into the pillow. he groans at the touch—low and needy—and his pace shifts slightly, fingers thrusting just a little faster, a little rougher, still watching your every breath.

your thighs begin to tremble uncontrollably, the pleasure peaking in your lower belly, every muscle tensing like you’re caught on the edge of something massive. you can barely speak, barely form a thought, the only thing in your mind is him—his hand, his mouth, the deep pull of his voice every time he praises you. he lets go of your nipple only to kiss a path across your chest to the other, his lips never leaving your skin, his breath fanning out over every inch he touches. “you gonna cum for me?” he whispers, his voice shaking now, wrecked with how wet you are, how tight you are, how you’ve soaked his hand with nothing but slow kisses and a little praise. “let me feel you cum, sweetheart.” your body jerks when his thumb presses harder against your clit, circling faster, and your moan breaks—loud, breathy, raw. your hips buck, your walls clamp down around his fingers, and everything inside you snaps.

you cum with a force that steals your breath, your body seizing beneath him, your voice reduced to high, desperate whimpers as the orgasm crashes through you. he doesn’t stop—his fingers slow but stay buried inside you, his thumb softening into soothing strokes, guiding you through the aftershocks as your legs tremble and your stomach flutters. his lips kiss over your chest again, murmuring sweet, quiet things into your skin—“so good for me,” “so beautiful,” “you’re perfect like this”—until the tension in your limbs begins to fade. he finally pulls his fingers out, slowly, carefully, and your pussy twitches with the absence, fluttering around nothing, still dripping with your release. he lifts his hand, coated in your slick, and glances at you once with heat in his eyes before licking his fingers clean, slow and shameless. your chest rises and falls in uneven waves, your eyes glassy, your thighs sticky and trembling where they rest open. and all he does is smile—soft, sinful, and absolutely wrecked—with the taste of you still on his tongue.

he climbs over you slowly, the mattress shifting with his weight as he settles between your legs, his thighs bracketing yours while your slick coats the sheets beneath you. his hands press gently into your hips, guiding you back into the center of the bed, keeping you open for him as his mouth finds your throat again. you feel the heavy drag of his cock through his sweatpants, thick and hard, pressing flush against your soaked slit with nothing but damp fabric between you. the sensation makes your head fall back into the pillow, a sharp gasp catching in your throat as your hips roll up, grinding against him without even meaning to. he groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates in his chest and melts into the curve of your neck as his lips drag down to your shoulder. “fuck… you feel that?” he rasps, his hips rocking down just once, slow and deliberate, forcing a desperate moan from the back of your throat. he grinds again, firmer this time, the head of his cock catching perfectly against your clit through the soaked material, and it makes your eyes flutter closed. “so messy for me already, baby.”

your moan slips out before you can stop it, soft and high and cracked open with heat. 

“heeseung…” his name trembling on your tongue like a secret that finally escaped. his whole body jerks at the sound, like he wasn’t expecting to hear it, like it did something to him that he wasn’t ready for. he lifts his head, eyes dark and wide and hungry, his breath hot against your cheek as his hand slides up to cup your jaw. “say that again,” he breathes, thumb brushing your bottom lip, voice low and tight like he’s barely holding it together. “please, baby—say my name again.” you do—whispered at first, then louder, your moan broken around it as your hips buck up into his again, grinding shamelessly into the thick line of his cock. “heeseung…” you whimper, and he lets out a sound that’s half a growl, half a praise, pressing his forehead to yours as his hips grind down harder. “fuck, just like that,” he groans. “keep saying it. don’t stop.”

you can barely think anymore, the friction dragging over your sensitive clit, your core still pulsing from your orgasm, your skin too hot and your breath too fast. heeseung keeps rocking against you, not thrusting, just grinding, slow and deep, letting the drag of his cock over your soaked folds speak for itself. every roll of his hips pushes a new moan from your mouth, and every time his name leaves your lips, his rhythm falters like he’s losing control one syllable at a time. he’s not speaking now—just breathing, hard and fast, his mouth open against your shoulder as he chases the pressure, the heat, the tension pulling tight in his spine. his hands are on your hips again, holding you down as you writhe beneath him, his name falling from your lips in messy, broken cries that make his cock twitch harder against you. “god, you’re driving me fucking insane,” he chokes out, grinding harder now, faster, like he needs the friction or he’s going to snap. “i could cum like this—just like this, fuck—just from you saying my name like that.”

you’re soaked again already, the wet drag of your pussy against his cock leaving a dark, sticky stain on his sweats, and the sound of it makes your face burn. he kisses your jaw again, his lips soft and reverent, like he’s grounding himself before he loses what little control he has left. “you make me so fucking hard, baby,” he groans, voice rough against your ear, “you don’t even know what you do to me.” his hips stutter as you arch up, grinding harder, needier, chasing the pressure and the weight of him and the sound of your name in his mouth. your fingers claw at his back now, slipping under his shirt, dragging your nails down the smooth muscle there as he grinds again and again. his name falls from your lips like a chant now, breathless and ruined and wrecked, and each time he reacts—his hips jerking, his teeth biting down on a moan, his hands gripping you tighter. “again,” he begs, lips at your throat. “say it again—please.”

heeseung pulls back just slightly, just enough to sit up on his knees between your thighs, the cool air brushing over your sticky skin in the wake of his body. his eyes never leave you as he lifts his shirt with one hand and tosses it aside, exposing lean lines and smooth muscle, his chest flushed with heat, his collarbones glistening faintly in the low light. your breath catches, and before you can even say anything, he’s dragging his fingers down the waistband of his sweats, sliding them low on his hips until his cock finally springs free—thick, hard, flushed deep red at the tip and already slicked with precum. your thighs twitch at the sight of him, your mouth parting on instinct as your eyes drop and your stomach coils at the sheer size of him. he watches you watch him, and the look on his face shifts into something darker—needier—like he knows exactly how you’re feeling. “you want it?” he asks, his voice a low rasp as he wraps a hand around the base and strokes once, slow and tight. “you wanna feel it, baby?” you nod quickly, breathless, the answer already written across your body in the way your legs part further, your back arches, your fingers curl into the sheets.

he lowers himself again, one hand steadying his cock, the other gripping your thigh as he settles between you, his body flush against yours once more. the first drag of him through your folds punches a moan straight out of you, loud and broken, your hips jolting upward as the thick head of his cock slides perfectly over your clit. heeseung groans low in his chest, teeth clenched as he guides himself back and forth, letting your slick coat his shaft, every motion slow and heavy and deliberate. “fuck—so wet,” he mutters, his voice wrecked, breath catching as the head of his cock catches at your entrance before he pulls back again. he doesn’t press in yet—he just teases you, again and again, the tip dragging down your slit, catching, slipping, soaking. “say it again,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss the corner of your mouth as he rocks his hips forward just enough to make you feel every inch of him. “say my name like you did before.” you moan it again—soft, breathless, full of want, and it makes him hiss through his teeth, his forehead dropping to yours.

he keeps moving his hips, sliding his cock over your pussy in slow, deep grinds that make the head catch at your entrance just enough to make your walls flutter and your thighs shake. heeseung’s breathing hard now, the muscles in his arms flexing beside your head, sweat starting to gather at the nape of his neck as he holds himself above you. “you feel that?” he groans, cock slick and heavy between your folds, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips. “you feel how fucking hard i am for you?” you nod, gasping, your back arching off the bed as your body chases more pressure, more friction, more him. “i could do this all night,” he rasps, voice cracking against your throat. “just like this—grinding my cock on you while you moan my name like that.” 

“heeseung…fuck..” you whimper it again and he nearly loses it, his hips stuttering, cock twitching, precum smearing hot across your swollen clit. “fuck, baby. don’t stop.”

you don’t—you can’t. the way he feels against you is too much and still not enough, the thick head of his cock dragging through your folds, slicking you up more with every stroke. your pussy is dripping now, soaked and swollen and clenching on nothing, desperate for him, but he just keeps teasing—keeps grinding—like he’s determined to make you come again before he even gets inside. he leans down to kiss you again, tongue messy and breath ragged, and his hips roll deeper, grinding the head of his cock harder against your clit until you cry out into his mouth. “say it again,” he whispers between kisses, his voice hoarse, eyes burning into yours. “say it while i make you come just like this.” you moan it again and again—his name spilling off your lips like prayer, like surrender—and the sound of it makes him twitch, makes him curse, makes his cock slide lower and nudge right at your entrance again. you gasp, trembling, and he pulls back just barely, smirking against your lips. “yeah… just like that.”

heeseung doesn’t speak at first—he just looks at you, eyes locked to yours, breath coming heavy as he reaches down to line himself up with your entrance. the swollen head of his cock rests right against your soaked slit, and you feel it twitch, leaking more precum that drips down over your folds as you clench around nothing. his hand tightens on your thigh, holding you open for him, and when he pushes just the tip in, you both moan—his, low and broken in his chest, yours sharp and high as the stretch hits hard and fast. “fuck…” he breathes, voice cracking as his forehead drops against yours, “you’re so fucking tight.” your walls flutter around him already, pulling him in instinctively, and it takes everything in him not to sink in all at once. “relax for me,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth as he strokes your side with his free hand, “breathe, baby… let me in.” you nod, your legs trembling, your nails digging into his biceps, and with one slow, steady push, he eases in another inch. the burn is intense, but it’s exactly what you need—he’s so big, so thick, and your body is clenching so hard it makes your vision blur.

he stills halfway in, giving you a second to adjust, his mouth pressed to your jaw as he breathes through his nose and murmurs softly into your skin. “you feel unreal,” he says, voice wrecked, like he’s speaking through gritted teeth just to keep control, “so warm… so wet… you’re fucking perfect.” your body trembles beneath him, thighs twitching, toes curling, your hips arching off the mattress in a slow, involuntary motion that makes him groan deep and filthy. his hands move to cradle your hips, holding you steady as he rolls his in return, easing another inch into your soaked heat. the stretch makes your eyes flutter shut, makes your mouth fall open in a breathless moan that turns into a plea, your fingers gripping the sheets now. “heeseung…” you cry, broken and sweet, and it makes his cock twitch deep inside you, his hips rocking forward until he’s fully seated, the base of him pressed snug to your aching folds. “fuck, that’s it,” he growls, his jaw clenched, sweat starting to bead along his temple, “you’re taking me so well, baby… so fucking good for me.”

he doesn’t move yet—he just stays there, deep inside you, letting your walls pulse and flutter around his cock while he kisses your temple and whispers through shaky breaths. your pussy clenches again, so tight and hot that he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming too fast, and his hand lifts to brush your hair back from your face, his thumb sweeping over your cheekbone. “i can feel you squeezing me,” he whispers, so low it almost sounds reverent, “like your body doesn’t wanna let me go.” you nod, whimpering, your whole body buzzing from how full you are—how stretched, how completely consumed by him you feel. his cock fits inside you like it was made for it, like every vein and curve was molded to your walls, every inch pushing against spots you didn’t know were there. “you’re so deep,” you whisper, voice shaky, breath caught, and he presses a kiss to your lips again—soft, open-mouthed, messy. “i know, baby,” he says, and the way he says it—like it’s a promise—makes your whole body tremble again. “you want more?”

his hips pull back slowly, just enough to make you feel the stretch of his cock leaving your body, the drag so thick and heavy it makes your breath hitch. your walls flutter at the loss, already aching to be full again, but before the whine can slip out, heeseung thrusts forward—slow and smooth, burying himself back inside you until your bodies are flush again. the moan that escapes you is soft and breathless, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your back arches, your chest pressing into his. “that’s it,” he breathes against your ear, his voice low and shaking with restraint, “just like that, baby—take it.” he sets a rhythm that’s deliberate, not fast, just deep—so deep—like every stroke is meant to make you remember the exact shape of him. the bed rocks beneath you in soft, steady pulses, the slick sound of your bodies filling the space between each breath. your pussy clenches around him with every thrust, soaking his cock with more wetness, and he groans, long and low, his mouth brushing the side of your neck. “you’re so fucking tight,” he says, the words barely a whisper, “you’re milking my cock, baby…”

you cry out his name again, broken and high, your voice shaking as your hips start to move in sync with his, meeting each stroke with the kind of desperation that makes your thighs burn. heeseung’s hand slides up your body, past your waist, your ribs, and finally settles around your throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb brushing softly against your jaw. “keep saying it,” he tells you, fucking you deeper now, his strokes heavier, thicker, the drag of his cock so intense it makes your eyes roll back. “say my name while i’m inside you.” and you do—his name tumbling out between gasps, your lips parted, your moans turning to pleading whispers that make his pace stutter. heeseung’s head drops to your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged, his teeth grazing your skin as he tries to keep control. “fuck, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice raw now, wrecked, as he drives back in deeper. “you were made for this—you were made for me.” your nails dig into his back, dragging down his spine, your walls clenching again, tighter, hungrier.

his thrusts grow a little rougher now, not fast but more forceful, each one punching moans from your chest and making the bed creak beneath you. the rhythm is everything—steady and perfect, his hips rolling with precision, never breaking contact, always dragging back just to push deeper again. his hand on your throat moves to cradle your jaw now, tilting your head so he can kiss you, sloppy and breathless and open, your tongues tangling as you moan into each other’s mouths. his other hand grips your hip harder, holding you still as he grinds deep into your core, your clit brushing against his pelvis with every thrust. your pussy is soaking him now, slick dripping down his cock, your inner thighs sticky, your skin flushed and trembling. “you’re so fucking beautiful like this,” he says, kissing down your neck again, “i could stay buried in you forever.” and he means it—you can hear it in the way he moans when your walls tighten, in the way he slows down just to feel it, in the way his voice cracks when he says your name again. “don’t stop, baby. don’t stop saying it.”

heeseung’s lips don’t leave your skin as he slowly starts to move again, his cock still deep inside you, twitching slightly from the last wave of pleasure. your body is warm and pliant beneath him, flushed and wrecked and trembling, but still hungry—your walls fluttering around him like they’re begging for more. he lifts his head slowly, brushing his thumb across your cheek, and you see it in his eyes—there’s no hesitation left, just need, raw and open and laced with something darker now. “turn over for me,” he murmurs, voice thick and low, like the words are dragging out of his throat from somewhere heavy. he leans back just enough to let his cock slide out, and even the loss of him makes your body ache, your pussy clenching at the emptiness. you move without thinking, already shifting beneath him, rolling to your stomach as your thighs tremble against the mattress. his hands are on your hips instantly, lifting you up just enough so your ass tilts higher, your chest pressed to the sheets, your back arched beautifully for him. “just like that, baby,” he groans, one hand sliding down your spine, the other gripping your ass as he positions himself behind you, “fucking perfect.”

you feel him again—his cock dragging slow between your soaked folds, thick and hot and still dripping with both of you as he lines himself back up with your entrance. your breath hitches when the head presses against your hole again, pushing in with that same slow, stretching pressure that makes your jaw drop open. he slides in deeper this time, the angle sharper, the thrust more intense as he sinks into you inch by inch, both of you moaning as he fills you back up completely. “fuck—you’re tighter like this,” he groans, hands gripping your hips hard now, thumbs digging into the softness of your skin as he pulls you back onto him. you’re gasping into the sheets, your hands fisting the covers, your knees spread wide as your pussy takes him all the way to the base. the new angle hits deeper, rougher—his cock dragging against spots that make you cry out, your body jolting with every thrust. “look at you,” he breathes, hips snapping forward, his cock slamming into you now with full control, “taking me so good, baby… so fucking deep.” your moans get louder, more desperate, your voice breaking on his name as you start to fall apart all over again.

he builds a rhythm that feels brutal and perfect, his hips slamming against your ass, the clap of skin on skin echoing through the room with every thrust. your walls are soaked now, slick running down your thighs, the mess of your first orgasm coating both of you and making every stroke louder, wetter, filthier. heeseung growls under his breath as he leans forward, one hand sliding up your back to tangle in your hair, gently pulling your head up so your cheek turns toward him. “say it again,” he demands, breath hot against your ear as he pounds into you from behind, “say my name while i fuck you like this.” your voice shakes as you sob it out—“heeseung, heeseung, heeseung”—and the sound of it makes his hips stutter, his grip tighten, his cock jerk inside you. “that’s it, baby—keep moaning for me,” he groans, his hand sliding down your front now, finding your clit again and rubbing tight circles while he keeps thrusting into you hard and deep. your legs tremble, your elbows give out, your chest sinking into the sheets as your second orgasm starts building fast, burning low and hot and uncontrollable.

his thrusts grow slower, deeper, deliberate again—not to ease you, but to let you feel it all, to make your body stretch around every inch of him like it’s learning him. he doesn’t say anything for a second, just breathes through clenched teeth, his hands gripping your hips like handles as he watches the way his cock disappears into your soaked pussy with every roll of his hips. your moans are soft and broken, spilling into the pillow as you push back to meet his rhythm, the pressure building inside you sharp and sweet. “you’re dripping, baby,” he pants, voice dark and strained, “can you hear that?” and you can—the filthy, wet squelch every time he fucks into you, your slick coating his cock, the mess of both your bodies echoing in the quiet room. his fingers tighten around your hips, dragging you into him harder now, the new angle hitting deeper, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix in a way that makes your back arch and your breath catch. “i’m not gonna stop,” he groans, and he means it—you can feel it in the way his body moves, like he’s addicted to the way you take him. “not until i feel you cum on me again.” his voice breaks on the last word, and you choke on a moan, your thighs already starting to tremble from how close you are.

his free hand slides down again, slipping between your legs to circle your clit with his fingers—still soaked from earlier, still trembling with how sensitive you are. “i know you’re close,” he says, breath hot against your back as he leans over you, his cock still grinding deep into your pussy with slow, firm thrusts, “i can feel it—you’re squeezing me so tight.” your body jerks under him, your hands clawing at the sheets, your moans broken and high as the pleasure builds higher, tighter, hotter. he doesn’t let up—not with his cock, not with his hand—he keeps fucking you slow and hard, his fingers pressing tight circles against your clit until your legs shake uncontrollably. “come on, baby,” he whispers, voice right in your ear now, “cum for me again—cum on my cock, let me feel it.” and the way he says it—so low, so desperate—breaks something open inside you. your pussy clamps down, walls fluttering in tight, wet pulses as your second orgasm takes hold, crashing over you harder than the first. “fuck—heeseung!” you cry, your voice breaking, your whole body convulsing under him as you cum, hips jerking wildly, back arching, mouth open and gasping.

heeseung groans loud—filthy—his hands grabbing your hips tight as your pussy squeezes around him, your slick spilling down his cock and dripping onto the sheets. “holy fuck,” he growls, hips stuttering, his pace falling apart as he ruts into you hard, deep, chasing his own release now. “you feel—so good—so fucking good,” he moans, each word punched out between heavy, desperate thrusts. your body is limp beneath him, ruined and twitching, but he holds you up, keeps you open, keeps driving into you like he can’t stop. “i’m gonna cum,” he gasps, “gonna cum inside you again, baby—fuck—i’m not pulling out.” your moan is soft, breathless, nothing but wrecked permission. heeseung groans, loud and broken, as he thrusts deep one last time and spills into you, hot and thick, his cum flooding your pussy in long, heavy pulses. he doesn’t stop moving, not right away—he keeps grinding into you, burying it deeper, fucking it up into your sore, overstimulated cunt like he wants it to stay. your walls twitch around him, fluttering from the aftershocks, your breath shallow as he collapses forward, his chest pressed to your back, sweat-slick and panting.

he stays inside you as long as your body lets him, his cock twitching with every breath, his cum warm and sticky between your thighs, leaking down onto the sheets. his arms wrap around your middle, pulling you close, holding you still as your body shivers beneath his, overstimulated and buzzing. he kisses your shoulder slowly, reverently, murmuring soft things you barely register—“you were perfect,” “i didn’t want to stop,” “you’re so fucking good.” his voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning your name, from holding back, from fucking you like he meant it. your eyes flutter closed, your body loose and heavy, your chest rising and falling with each shaky breath. heeseung doesn’t move, doesn’t let you go—his arms stay locked around your waist, his cock still half-hard inside you, like he can’t stand the idea of being anywhere else. “stay like this for a minute,” he whispers, kissing the back of your neck. “just like this, baby… let me feel you a little longer.”

heeseung’s chest rises and falls against your back, each breath brushing over your shoulder as his arms slowly loosen around your waist, just enough to let you shift. you let out a soft sound—half-whimper, half-sigh—and he presses a kiss to your spine, so featherlight it almost doesn’t register. “hold on,” he whispers, low and hoarse, and he pulls out carefully, the slow drag of his cock making your body twitch as his cum begins to slip out of you. he steadies your hips with one hand, still gentle, still warm, and reaches for the small remote near the bedside table with the other. you hear the soft beep as he presses the button, the red light fading instantly, the lens no longer watching, no longer recording. he exhales deeply, like some part of him only now lets go, and he sets the remote aside before turning back to you. “it’s off,” he says softly, brushing your hair back from your face, his fingers trembling just slightly. “it’s just us now.”you hum faintly in response, eyes half-closed, body limp and heavy against the mattress, and heeseung smiles—small, crooked, fond—before leaning down to kiss your temple. “you did so fucking good,” he murmurs, his voice all warmth now, rough around the edges but soft with pride, with affection. he moves slowly, lifting himself from the bed and disappearing for just a moment, the faint sound of running water coming from down the hall. when he returns, his hands are full—warm washcloth, small towel, a bottle of water already uncapped. he kneels beside you again, coaxing you onto your back with a careful hand on your hip, and when your body winces from the soreness, he just nods. “i’ve got you,” he says gently, his eyes full of something deep and quiet. he cleans you up slowly, thoroughly, without rushing—starting at your thighs, then between your legs, wiping away the mess with care, never looking away from your face.

the rag is warm, soft, comforting against your skin, and his touch never loses its patience, even when you shiver or twitch from the overstimulation. “tell me if it’s too much,” he says, barely louder than a breath, his hand resting lightly on your knee as he presses the cloth between your legs once more. your voice is weak when you say “you’re okay,” but it’s enough—his shoulders relax, and he finishes the last gentle sweep before setting the rag aside and covering you with the clean towel. he presses another kiss to your thigh this time, lingering, almost reverent, before he climbs back into bed beside you, body warm, arms open. “come here,” he whispers, and you move slowly, shakily, letting him pull you into his chest. the moment you settle against him, everything melts—his hand in your hair, your cheek against his collarbone, the steady thump of his heart beneath your ear grounding you completely. “you’re everything,” he says again, and this time it isn’t just praise—it’s a truth.

he stays like that with you, holding you close, stroking your back, letting the silence settle like a blanket. the heat from your bodies still lingers, but it’s not heavy anymore—it’s soft, intimate, something woven into the quiet between your breaths. heeseung doesn’t try to fill the silence with anything unnecessary—he just exists with you, his touch constant, his presence wrapping around you like something you never realized you needed. his hand moves to your waist, tracing lazy circles against your skin, grounding you gently, reminding you that you’re safe, that it’s over, that you’re okay. “do you want anything?” he asks quietly, lips brushing your hairline, and when you shake your head, he nods, content to just be here with you. his fingers curl around yours beneath the towel, and you feel his thumb stroke the back of your knuckles once, twice, again. “we’ll stay like this as long as you want,” he says. “there’s no rush.”

you feel your chest swell at that—your lungs tightening with the weight of something you don’t want to name, something warm and stupid and dangerous. the words hit you somewhere low and vulnerable, curling beneath your ribs like they belong there, and for a second, you almost let it. you almost believe this could be more, that the way he touches you means something deeper, that this warmth he gives isn’t just for the camera. but then you remember the red light, the lens, the view count still sitting at zero. you remember why you’re here in the first place—money, rent, survival. and just like that, you shift again, sitting up slowly, the sheet slipping down your chest as you turn your back to him. “i should go,” you say quietly, forcing the words out like they don’t scrape your throat raw. heeseung moves beside you, confusion creasing his features as he reaches out gently, his hand brushing your back. “wait—what’s wrong?”

you stand before he can touch you again, grabbing your clothes from the floor and pulling them on with unsteady hands, refusing to look at him. “nothing’s wrong,” you say quickly, too quickly, because everything feels wrong now—the closeness, the softness, the way your body still buzzes with the ghost of his touch. “this was great. it was good.” you pause, slipping on your hoodie, heart pounding too loud in your chest. “but this is business, remember?” heeseung’s face shifts at that—something subtle breaking in the way he exhales, in the way his eyes fall to the sheets, then back to you. “i know,” he says quietly, sitting up, raking a hand through his hair. “i just didn’t think you’d want to leave so fast.” you ignore the way that stings and reach for your phone, already stepping toward the door. “can you call me a ride?”

he doesn’t argue, doesn’t beg, doesn’t guilt you—he just nods, slides out of bed, and grabs his own phone from the nightstand. the air feels heavier now, the silence between you no longer soft but sharp, cutting against your ribs with every breath you try to take. you watch him through your lashes as he types, jaw tense, his brows furrowed like he wants to say something he knows he shouldn’t. “ride’s five minutes away,” he says, voice flat, and you nod, hugging your arms around yourself even though you’re fully dressed. neither of you speak again—not until the buzz of your phone signals the driver’s arrival, and even then, you just give him a short, “thank you,” before heading for the door. he doesn’t stop you, but you feel his eyes on your back the entire time, like he’s memorizing the way you walk away. the door clicks shut behind you, final and quiet, and it takes everything in you not to look back.

────୨ৎ────

you don’t cry in the ride home—you’re too tired, too overwhelmed, too busy replaying the feeling of his hand on your jaw, the warmth of his voice in your ear. your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you pull it out without thinking, eyes widening at the notification that lights up your screen. 

@heefreakshow posted a new video: “moan for the camera, baby.” 

your stomach flips, breath catching as you tap it open, watching the views tick up in real time—hundreds, then thousands, climbing faster than you can process. the comments pour in, the gifts, the subscribers, and your inbox is already starting to fill with names you don’t recognize. 

your eyes stay fixed to the numbers, the sound of the car engine barely registering over the pounding of your heart, the dull throb between your legs still pulsing with the ghost of his cock. comments begin pouring in, flooding the screen in a blur of praise and fire emojis, messages of “who is she?” and “this is fucking art,” and “the way he touches her???” flashing by too fast for you to breathe. the heat in your chest blooms again, twisting tight, painful in a way you can’t name—because this was supposed to be just business. but it doesn’t feel like business when you’re watching yourself fall apart under him, when your moans play back through the speakers like something sacred, when he touches you like you matter. your hand tightens around your phone, jaw clenched, eyes wide as the numbers keep rising—ten thousand, twelve, fifteen—until you can’t look anymore. you close the video, thumb hovering over the home screen, heart still pounding.

and then it hits—a soft buzz. one new message.

@jayafterhours has sent you a message.

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ it's not proofread so sorry >-< but i hoped y'all enjoyed it anyways !!

taglistᝰ.ᐟ @starry-eyed-bimbo @vixialuvs @justaquarium @dark-moon-light02 @deobitifull @minjeong28 @wonzzziezzzz @wonsohl @psychicyouthfox @honeyfever @strayy-kidz @bloomiize @tunafishyfishylike @jaehaki @ihearteatingxo @songbyeonkim @sol3chu @mo0neng3ne @strxwbloody @hii01mii @merwdusa @dorrissakurada @lycxee @frequentlykit @heeenha6484 @sjakewrld @stwrlightt @parkjjongswifey @haneulhee @fr34k4c1dr41n @cozyre @vwricky @nyxtwixx @nuggets4lifers @yunkiconico @mynameis-rosie1 @leeknowslefteyebrow @babygguk98 @noiiny @horijiro @nshmrarki @delulumel @brooklyninawhitemustang @baedreamverse @stvrrylove @killedbycharlize @sehyojae @mylettterstoyou @metanoianlove @shaysimpss @kiokantalope @sanriwoozzz @mniwna @l1nn13 @gongyoorit @miszes @ineedheewoninmylife @seonhwastaar @ari3ll4 @ssanhwatto @negin7 @koizekomi @enhaz1 @kittympirty @slayhaechan @semi-wife @tobiosbbyghorl @hoonsdrnkdzd @shy9-29 @heeenha6484 @heeseungsbm @kristynaaah @smlbch @kirinaa08 @millis-diary @kawaiichu32 @wonislife17 @minniesverse @k1ttyjwon @luvksnn @wondash @wooalt @sweetsoobie @nyxiebabyyy @jakezzgirlz @b1tem4rks @hoonneyyzz @mimimovv @hanjiversee @ch4c0nnenh4 @sarashusbandissunghoonfyime @tnafzi @bbypink @en-hoon02 @skzenhalove @azzy02 @sanchaah @planetmarlowe @miniw0nz @daisy-doo1 @femaholicc @cherryangel-coke @hooniesfvngs @kimsvtaes @choicila @arourababy

[gf2bellamy]

hi!! so, i was watching the office and pam and jim were reading each others palm lines and i couldn’t help but imagine reader and spencer in a similar scenario; successfully flirting with each other while thinking they’re being discreet about it. of course, spencer doesn’t believe in that sort of thing but humors reader anyway. could you write something based off that episode, something to that effect? i think this could be a cute idea😅 thank you thank you!! xx

palm reading — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: fluff a/n: hi hi !! i love this idea more than anything ( biggest jimpam fan here !!!! )

“Oh, come on, Spencer,” you teased, the corners of your mouth tugging into a grin. “You don’t have to believe in it for it to be fun.”

The bullpen was quiet for once—no urgent cases, no ringing phones.

The perfect time for a little distraction.

Your eyes sparkled with mischief as you gave him your best set of puppy dog eyes—an expression you knew he found impossible to resist. You were trying to convince him to let you read his palm, but, true to form, Spencer—ever the scientist, ever the skeptic—wasn’t exactly jumping at the opportunity.

He blinked at you, momentarily thrown off. He didn’t believe in palmistry, not even a little bit.

But your eyes were wide and full of playful determination, and your smile… God, your smile made something flutter unexpectedly in his chest. He tried not to stare too long at your lips, tried to ground himself in logic, but when you looked at him like that?

Well, logic didn’t stand a chance.

He sighed, more for dramatic effect than anything else.

“Fine,” he said, voice laced with exaggerated reluctance.

You grinned, triumphant. “Bring your chair over here.”

He rolled his chair across the floor until he was beside you. Close—but not quite close enough. So you reached out, grabbed the edge of his seat, and tugged him forward.

He let you, of course. Always would.

Now, your knees were brushing—his slotted between yours, yours nudged between his. The space between you all but vanished, and suddenly the air felt warmer. Neither of you mentioned it.

You simply extended your hand, palm up, expectant. “C’mon, give me your hand.”

Spencer hesitated for only a second, then placed his hand in yours. Warm. Solid. His fingers twitched slightly as your fingertips ghosted over his palm, tracing faint lines he had never bothered to study.

Germs? They didn’t exist when it came to you. At least, not in the way they usually haunted his mind.

You focused intently, brows furrowed like a fortune teller, the tip of your finger dragging lightly over his heart line. He watched your face—your expression, your lips, your eyes—anything but his hand.

But eventually, reluctantly, his gaze dropped back to his own hand—though it twitched slightly beneath yours as if reacting on instinct.

“Hmm,” you murmured thoughtfully, still dragging your finger across his skin. “This line right here? It means you’re secretly a hopeless romantic.”

Spencer raised an eyebrow, skeptical but amused. “That’s not what it means.”

“You sure?” You leaned in, your knee nudging his under the desk. “Because it’s very deep. Very intense. Very… emotional.” You punctuated each word with a slow stroke of your finger, watching with delight as his throat bobbed.

He chuckled softly, his head tilting as his eyes followed the curve of your smile. “You’re making that up.”

“Maybe,” you said, voice dropping into something softer, more teasing. You winked. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not true.”

Spencer didn’t answer right away. He was too busy watching how your hand fit so naturally in his, how easily your fingers curled around his own.

His heart beat a little too fast for comfort.

You cleared your throat and returned your attention to his palm, biting your lip in thought as you continued your "analysis." Spencer noticed the way your teeth tugged at your lower lip and had to look away—back to his hand, back to the lines that suddenly felt like more than just skin.

“And this one,” you began again, voice dramatic. “This one means that you’re—” You gasped suddenly, sharply, like you'd discovered something scandalous.

Spencer’s eyes widened, startled. “What? What is it?”

You looked up slowly, lips pressed together in mock seriousness. Your eyes locked with his, unreadable for just a second before you leaned in closer.

“A nerd,” you said flatly, and promptly bopped him on the nose with one finger.

The look on his face—pure, deadpan confusion—was too much. You burst into laughter, the sound bubbling up from your chest as you leaned back slightly, shaking your head.

Spencer blinked, caught somewhere between offended and endeared. “Seriously?”

“I mean,” you shrugged with an impish grin, “the lines don’t lie.”

He rolled his eyes, but the smile pulling at his lips gave him away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you,” you said, still laughing as you held his hand a little tighter, “are stuck with me for at least one full palm reading.”

He let you keep tracing the lines on his palm, your touch slower now, more deliberate.

“Okay, so this line here,” you began, your tone shifting into something warmer, more sincere, “means you’re incredibly smart.”

Spencer quirked an eyebrow. “Shocking revelation.”

“Shh,” you grinned, “let the professional work.”

He chuckled under his breath, but didn’t interrupt again.

He just kept watching you, his eyes impossibly soft, like he was memorizing the way your expression shifted as you spoke.

“And this one,” you continued, your touch lingering a little longer over the curve of his palm, “shows that you’re thoughtful. You care more than you let people see. About everyone. About the team. About…” You hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet his. “Well. Everything.”

Spencer didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.

Because to him, it didn’t matter whether you believed in palmistry or not. What mattered was the way your voice softened when you described him, like you saw something in him that he sometimes forgot was there. This wasn’t just pretend anymore. This was you, telling him who he was through your eyes.

And God, he loved hearing those things.

Not because he needed validation.

But because it was you saying them.

Your thumb brushed lightly over his skin as you looked at his palm like it held all the answers you already knew by heart.

“I think your hands have very flattering opinions about me,” he said quietly, the hint of a smile on his lips, though there was something softer behind his eyes now.

“They’re just the messengers,” you replied, matching his quiet tone, your thumb absentmindedly brushing across his knuckles. “You’re the one who makes them true.”

A beat of silence. Spencer could hear his own heartbeat drumming in his ears.

Then, he let out a quiet breath. “You know palmistry is a pseudoscience, right?” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

You smiled, meeting his gaze. “Maybe. But sometimes the truth hides in things we don’t believe in.”

And then you added, softer, “Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to hold your hand.”

There was a pause—brief, breathless.

So, Spencer gently turned your hand over in his, his fingers now tracing your palm.

“Then maybe,” he said, voice low and warm, “you should let me read yours next.”

You raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Okay, sure.” You held out your hand, now resting in his.

His fingers were warm as they wrapped around yours, a contrast to the coolness of the room.

“So,” you tilted your head, giving him a playful glance, “are you just going to make things up now? Considering you don’t believe in this?”

Spencer’s gaze flickered to your hand before he began tracing the lines on your palm, his touch light. “Oh, you mean make things up like you just did?” His voice was teasing, but his eyes met yours with a slight glimmer of amusement.

You bit your lip, pretending to think for a moment. “I didn’t make anything up,” you said with a shrug and a sly grin, your eyes locking with his. “I was being insightful.”

He chuckled, a soft, warm sound. “Yeah, okay,” he said with a playful roll of his eyes, though his fingers never stopped their slow, careful movement across your palm.

You leaned back slightly, watching him as he studied your hand with more attention than you’d expected.

"You're kind," Spencer murmured, his fingertip following the gentle curve of your heart line.

The bullpen's fluorescent lights caught the gold flecks in his eyes as he glanced up through his lashes, that familiar half-smile playing at his lips.

You shook your head, but couldn't suppress your grin. "Wow," you teased, "look who's starting to become a believer."

His responding chuckle was warm, vibrating through where your palms pressed together. "Empirical observation," he countered, but his thumb brushed your skin with deliberate tenderness that contradicted his scientific detachment. "This crease here? Textbook definition of compassion."

The way he said it - so matter-of-fact yet impossibly soft - made your breath catch.

Spencer Reid might claim he didn't believe in palmistry, but in this moment, he was reading you with terrifying accuracy.

His fingers lingered where your life line curved, tracing the path like he was committing it to memory.

"And this one," he continued, voice dropping to that quiet, intimate register that made your pulse stutter, "indicates someone who's far too patient with skeptical geniuses."

You giggled, your heart fluttering at the way his words, though playful, held a deeper meaning.

“I agree,” you said softly, your smile widening. But the weight of the moment wasn’t lost on either of you.

Spencer smiled back at you, and for a fleeting moment, he seemed to pause, his gaze lingering. He thought for a second about making more things up—just to keep his fingers wrapped around yours.

Honestly, there was a part of him that could have kept talking forever, spinning stories about palm lines, just to have an excuse to hold your hand forever.

Instead, he grinned, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips. “Seems like I’m a believer after all.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at his words. “Who knew?” you teased, squeezing his hand slightly. “You’ve got more of an open mind than you let on.”

Spencer chuckled. “Guess I’ve been misjudging things,” he replied, the playful edge in his voice softening, his thumb now moving in slow circles over the back of your hand.

You were both still, caught in a small, quiet world that only existed between the two of you.

He didn’t pull away. Neither did you.

For the first time, Spencer doubted his doubt in palm reading.

Because he was a hopeless romantic. Even if it was just with you.

[camille-aurelie-deveraux]

What about Max dating reader who is a bit more shy? 🤭

Safe with you

It was the first race of the new season, and the paddock was already buzzing by the time Max and Yn arrived. Cameras clicked, fans waved, team members shouted greetings across garages—but all of it faded slightly as Max stepped out of the car and rounded it swiftly to open the door for Yn.

“Come on, liefje,” he said, hand already extended. “You ready?”

Yn nodded, offering him a soft smile as she took his hand and stepped out. She looked as she always did—graceful, elegant, a bit reserved. The type of presence that drew people in without needing to raise her voice. Her black sunglasses were perched perfectly on her nose, shielding her beautiful eyes from the chaos around her.

Max didn’t let go of her hand. He never did.

“Let me know if it’s too much,” he whispered, leaning close. “We can go straight to hospitality.”

“I’m okay,” she whispered back, squeezing his fingers gently. “I like watching you work.”

He smiled, just slightly. “You like watching me boss everyone around?”

She smirked. “A little bit.”

As they started walking through the paddock, heads turned. Of course they did. Max, the reigning world champion, always drew attention. But lately, it was Yn who had caught the quiet affection of the paddock. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t flashy. She didn’t post everything online or party until dawn. But she was steady, present. She remembered birthdays. She brought homemade cookies to the engineers. She always looked people in the eye when she thanked them.

And Max—well, Max was famously, visibly obsessed with her.

He never tried to hide it. Not once.

“Max!” someone called. It was Daniel, who was visiting the paddock, leaning against the McLaren wall with a coffee cup in hand. “Mate, you’re late!”

Max laughed and led Yn toward him. “I’m not late. You’re just too early.”

“I’m always early when I hear there’s a chance of seeing your girlfriend,” Daniel grinned, eyes already on Yn. “Hey, angel. You look beautiful today.”

Yn blushed, tugging lightly on Max’s sleeve before offering Daniel a shy smile. “Hi, Daniel.”

“Aw, don’t go hiding behind Max like that,” Daniel teased gently. “We’ve known each other for six years. I think that gives me friend privileges.”

“I’m not hiding,” she murmured. “I’m just standing where it’s safe.”

Max turned and raised a brow at her. “Are you saying I’m your shield?”

“Yes.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “That is the most accurate description I’ve ever heard. You should put that on a T-shirt. ‘Max Verstappen: Human Shield.’”

“I’d wear it proudly,” Max said, slipping his arm around her waist. “Anyway, we’ll see you later. I’ve got a briefing.”

Yn waved lightly at Daniel as Max led her away. As always, Max kept one eye on her while greeting others, making sure she was never overwhelmed, never too close to the media, never cornered by someone too chatty. It wasn’t that Yn was antisocial—far from it. She could hold a conversation with anyone. But it was always clear when she started getting tired. And Max? He knew the signs better than anyone.

They reached the Red Bull hospitality building, and Max opened the door for her before nodding to the team’s head of PR.

“She’ll be inside,” Max told him quietly. “No press today. She’s not feeling it.”

Yn gave him a look. “I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to,” he said with a small smile. “I know you.”

She rolled her eyes, fondly. “You’re too much sometimes.”

“And yet, you’re still with me.”

“I must be mad.”

“Six years of madness,” he agreed.

Inside, Yn settled on the couch near the back where it was quiet, while Max went off to his meetings. She liked this part of race weekends—being close but not in the way, reading her book or sipping tea while the world raced around her. The team passed by, nodding and smiling. A few stopped to talk.

“Yn! I made those cookies you liked again,” one of the engineers said, holding up a small paper bag. “Left them in the kitchen. There’s white chocolate chip this time.”

“Thank you,” she said softly, clearly touched.

“You bring him luck, you know,” the engineer added. “He’s calmer when you’re here.”

“I doubt that,” she laughed.

“No, really. Ask anyone.”

---

Later that afternoon, the paddock got louder as more drivers arrived and media started gathering. Max returned after his briefing and found Yn exactly where he’d left her, now chatting with Lando.

“She’s turning social on me,” Max joked, walking up with a teasing grin. “Should I be worried?”

Lando grinned. “Nah, she’s just being polite. I’ve been doing all the talking.”

Yn looked up at Max. “He’s been telling me about his sim setup.”

Max groaned. “He’ll talk your ears off. Come on, you need protection.”

“From Lando?” she asked, amused.

“From Lando’s voice,” Max replied, already holding out his hand. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Bye, Lando,” she said sweetly, following Max again.

As they walked, Max noticed the way her grip on his hand tightened slightly when the press started to gather. He leaned close to her ear.

“Want me to block them off?”

She shook her head. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve got you,” she said. “I’m fine.”

He smiled again, that same look he always gave her—like she was the only person in the world.

They passed a group of photographers. One tried to get closer, calling out for a photo of the two of them. Max stopped.

“She doesn’t want pictures right now,” he said firmly.

“No worries, just one—”

“I said no.”

The tone was calm, but unmistakably final. The photographer backed off, and Max guided Yn toward the garages.

She looked up at him. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I did.”

“You’re too protective sometimes.”

“I’ll never apologize for keeping you comfortable,” he said simply. “You deserve to feel safe.”

There was a pause before she spoke again. “Thank you.”

He leaned down and kissed her temple. “Always.”

---

The rest of the day passed in a blur of meetings, media, team briefings, and garage prep. Yn stayed close but not intrusive, always just nearby. Max checked in every hour. Made sure she had water. Made sure she ate. Made sure no one talked her ear off.

At one point, Pierre walked by and spotted them sitting on a bench near the paddock fountain. Max had one arm slung over the backrest, legs stretched out like he owned the place, while Yn was sitting quietly beside him, her head on his shoulder.

“Well, well, well,” Pierre said, stepping into view. “If it isn’t the power couple.”

Yn lifted her head. “Hi, Pierre.”

“Hi, gorgeous. You look like you just stepped out of a Vogue spread.”

“She always does,” Max said proudly.

Pierre smirked. “You’re still the biggest simp in the paddock.”

“Not ashamed,” Max shrugged. “What’s your point?”

Pierre turned to Yn. “Does it ever get annoying?”

“No,” she said with a little smile. “I like that he loves me loudly.”

Max grinned and pulled her closer. “See? She gets it.”

Pierre chuckled. “Alright, alright. You win. I’m off to steal snacks from hospitality.”

As he left, Max looked at Yn. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊⛲️🌊🐦🧊

Hello my lovely reader. I hope you all enjoyed this piece of work. Let me know what you think and send some requests.

-Cami🐦🧊⛲️🌊

[wilwheaton]

But the most interesting new information I learned yesterday I found in this article in The Wall Street Journal, which explains that the entire negotiation process is being lead by Trump lawyer and fixer Boris Epshteyn. It’s hard to know what the ‘WTF’ metric is for Trump administration actions these days. Epshteyn does not work for the government. It’s not clear that he has any law practice at all other than working for Donald Trump. If anything makes it clear these aren’t agreements with the US government or even the current president, this is it. These are personal agreements with Donald Trump, negotiated by his personal lawyer, who doesn’t even nominally have a position in the US government, to forestall illegal actions and abuses of power which Trump threatens to take with his powers as President.

There’s no written document. It’s only the bullet-pointed text they shared internally and which Trump posted on Truth Social.

If I am reading this correctly, it appears that these agreements being made by universities aren’t with the President of the United States. They aren’t even legally-binding agreements. They are memorandums of understanding between the universities and private citizen Donald Trump, who is threatening to abuse the powers of the presidency if they don’t do what he says.

If I am reading this correctly, that sure seems like yet another impeachable offense.

And Epshteyn? That clown? He’s the point of contact between the parties. He is not a DOJ lawyer. He is not a White House lawyer. He’s barely a private citizen Donald Trump lawyer. Which, again, makes this all seem very impeachable.

[thebeetleb0y]

(Not directed at this reblogger just saying it in general)

Last time I’m going to clarify this before I mute notifs for this post bc I’m getting very irritated reading the same comments over and over again, but that’s my problem not everyone else’s I shouldn’t expect y’all to click on the post notes and see where I’ve clarified this multiple times bc I don’t always do that either. So. Here it goes one last time:

- I know that it was specifically the 60s and 70s that Spirk fics were being made and shared. I said the 1900s to encompass ALL early fanfic across the century with Spirk as the biggest example. I also said it to be very dramatic and funny.

- I know 30 is not middle aged. Not only was that just common age of houswives at the time, I also was taking a dig at teenagers who think 30 is old. I personally felt like that was very clear but it apparently was not bc it’s really got people in their feelings.

- It really shocks me how many people are taking this post so seriously and personally. I have Gen X triggered bc I called the 1900s the 1900s and it makes them feel old, and I have millenials triggered bc I used 30 in the same paragraph as middle aged. So just to be clear, the whole post is satire and a dig/rant about teenagers who think fandom elders are ancient, too old to be here anymore, and can’t possibly have created fandom bc people over 18 are obviously boring and lifeless right.

- Have fun saying it over and over again, I hope this post doesn’t stay only those reblogs and that it can go back to fun jokes like it was when I first made the post. Peace✌🏻

Watching TikTok try and rewrite fandom history by saying fandom culture was created by teenage girls makes me eye twitch to an extent I’ve never felt it twitch before. The middle aged women printing out Spirk erotica to share with each other in the 1900s did not die for this!!!! How dare you erase our important historic moments!!! You would be nowhere without the 30 year old women who dedicated their free time to making these spaces happen. Put some respect on their names!!!!

[helaintoloki]

Lowkey feel like if reader got bucky a fake flower (without bucky knowing it was fake) he would water it and reader would laugh their ass off whilst finding out about that

a/n: I love silly prompts like this so thank you for sending it in! hope you enjoy :)

warnings/notes: none!

summary: a sweet gesture leads to a moment of embarrassment for your husband

Bucky sinks into his chair with a long sigh- it’s been an exhausting day, and it’s only noon. He’d severely underestimated how grueling a congressman’s job could be, and he was starting to wonder if he’d made the wrong career choice.

Tiredly running a hand down his face, the former soldier leans back in his seat and lets his gaze fall upon the photo frame resting on the corner of his desk. The sight of your smile immediately alleviates some of the tension from his body, and Bucky is grateful for the fact that your portrait can provide him some solace in your absence. His busy schedule doesn’t m allow for the two of you to spend as much time together as you once did, and he misses you when he’s away at work.

The only thing keeping him together at this point in time is the fact that you’ll be joining him for lunch during a rare break in his schedule. Bucky had moved heaven and earth to clear just enough time in his day for you, and now that the hour of your arrival was inching closer and closer he found himself antsy to have you in his arms once more.

You both agreed on the fact that you wanted your time spent together to be a private affair away from prying reporters and journalists, so you offered to pick up the food on your way there. In the meantime, Bucky busied himself with tidying up the mess of documents on his desk and fixing the disorganized state of his office.

A knock on the door prompts him to halt his ministrations, his heart leaping in his chest with excitement as he watches the door open with baited breath. However, it isn’t you that stands on the other side, and he finds himself deflating with disappointment.

“Don’t be so excited to see me,” Sam quips sarcastically while shutting the door behind him. Despite his initial annoyance, Bucky manages to let out a chuckle at his friend’s comment.

“I thought it was y/n,” he admits with a shake of his head before making his way across the room to greet Sam with a hug. “We’re supposed to have lunch. What are you doing here?”

“I was in the area and figured I’d stop by. How are you holding up?”

“As best as I can given the circumstances,” Bucky admits with a meager huff. “This whole thing is more overwhelming than I ever could have imagined. If not for my endlessly loving and supportive wife I think I’d go insane.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Sam assures him with a hearty clap to his shoulder. “After all, you’ve gotten this far.”

Bucky flashes his friend a faint smile before resuming his earlier work of tidying up the office. Sam simply watches on in silence at first, though his interest is piqued when the congressman picks up a small watering can and begins to tend to the pot of sunflowers resting by the window.

“Didn’t take you for a gardener,” he points out with a raised brow. Bucky falters momentarily in response, features becoming sheepish as he clears his throat and sets the can down.

“I’m not, but they were a gift from y/n. She said they’d brighten up the place. Least I can do is water them.”

“She’s got you all soft,” Sam says with a smirk while walking over to the window to admire the plant. “You’re not as moody now that you’re a husband.”

“What can I say? I love my wife,” Bucky expresses fondly at the mention of you. It was true what Sam said; you’d changed him for the better, and he’d forever be grateful for the fact you’d said yes to him when he’d gotten down on one knee all those years ago.

Too busy reminiscing on your relationship, Bucky fails to notice the way Sam curiously inspects the petals of the plant. The Captain’s brows furrow with his doubtful expression as he scrutinizes the texture of the flower, and just as he makes a realization that will most definitely embarrass his friend the door swings open once more.

“Oh, hi, Sam!” You greet cheerfully despite the multiple bags of takeout you juggle in your hands. Shutting the door behind you with your foot, you set the food down before happily throwing your arms around him for a hug. “I didn’t know you’d be here. I guess it’s a good thing I over ordered. You hungry?”

“I’m just stopping by,” he informs you with a knowing grin before releasing you so that you can greet your husband.

Bucky practically melts at the feel of you against him when you let him pull you in close by the waist and press his lips against your own in a loving kiss. He keeps it short due to the fact that you have company, but his hands never leave your hips as he drinks in the sight of you and your natural beauty.

“You sure you can’t stay?” You prompt with a small frown, and though Sam hates to disappoint you he knows how Bucky cherishes his time alone with you.

“Another time,” he promises as he begins to make his exit. However, he hesitates slightly before pausing in the doorway with a mischievous smirk. “Before I forget, I wanted to compliment your taste in decor. Those flowers really do brighten up the place.”

“I knew they would,” you express with a proud smile while casting your gaze towards the pot.

“They seem to hold up really well,” Sam goads, discreetly chancing a glance over at Bucky. The super soldier in question raises a brow in time with the purse of his lips.

“Of course they do. I make sure they get enough sunlight and water every day,” he says plainly, almost offended at the thought of his ability to maintain the flowers coming as a surprise.

“Wait, what?” You retort in confusion, eyebrows creasing together with uncertainty as you turn to look at your husband. “You water them?”

“Every day,” Bucky restates with a proud smile that immediately vanishes at the sound of your laughter alongside Sam’s. The man is doubled over in the doorway, one hand clutching his stomach while the other holds onto the frame, and you aren’t fairing much better by the way you grip onto Bucky’s bicep to keep yourself from keeling over.

“What? What’s so funny?” Bucky retorts defensively only to be met with more laughter.

“Oh, James,” you coo breathlessly after finally composing yourself, gently wiping away the tears that had formed before pressing a loving kiss to his cheek. “Honey, those flowers are fake. You don’t need to water them.”

“Man, you’ve really outdone yourself this time,” Sam pokes fun despite the glare he receives in return. “Thanks for the laugh, big guy.”

Bucky deflates with embarrassment once Sam makes his exit, but he’s able to get over it pretty quickly when you pull him down by the tie for another kiss.

“I think it’s sweet,” you assure him while gently resting a hand on his cheek. “I’m glad to know you cared that much about them.”

“How could I not care when they came from my best girl?” He notes fondly while brushing back the hair from your face. You let out an appreciative hum and grant him one more kiss before finally pulling away to get settled for lunch.

After the fake flower fiasco, you go out of your way to get Bucky a real pot of flowers for him to water and enjoy, though Sam makes sure he’s never able to live the mistake down for the rest of his time in office.

[theskywithin]

Birth Chart Breakdown: Planets in The Tenth House

☉ Sun in the Tenth House You want to matter. Deeply. Quietly. Eternally. You don’t need applause, you need to know you’re becoming someone worthy of your own light. The world sees your drive, but it doesn’t see the pressure beneath it. The fear of fading. The fear of never fully rising. You chase your own potential like a moving horizon, and even when your legs are tired, you keep going, because something inside you refuses to settle for a life that doesn’t feel earned.

☽ Moon in the Tenth House You want success, but you also want to feel held in it. You need to know that what you're building doesn't just impress others, it nourishes you. You crave emotional fulfillment in what the world sees of you. But the spotlight is hard when your heart is this soft. Still, you rise. You offer your tenderness to a world that rarely returns it, hoping that someone, somewhere, will look at what you've made and feel something real.

☿ Mercury in the Tenth House You want your thoughts to ripple. You want your voice to matter. You carry ideas like offerings and hope the world listens. But every time you speak, there’s a silent question underneath: Is this enough? Am I enough? You don’t just want to be heard, you want to be remembered. You want your words to build something that outlives the moment they were spoken.

♀ Venus in the Tenth House You long to be admired, not for perfection, but for the grace you carry through your evolution. You want your becoming to be beautiful. You want to be respected for your choices, loved for your growth, seen for the way you make effort look effortless. But beneath the charm is someone who wants more than recognition, someone who wants to be chosen in public, not just in private. Someone who wants to leave beauty behind as proof they were here.

♂ Mars in the Tenth House You’re here to climb. To conquer. To rise, even if the path is steep and no one’s cheering. You burn for impact. For achievement that doesn’t just prove your worth, it transforms it. But no one sees the anger behind your ambition. The rage at being underestimated. The hunger to prove that you were never average. You don’t just want a seat at the table. You want to build the damn table, and decide who gets to sit beside you.

♃ Jupiter in the Tenth House You want your life to lift others. To inspire. To give more than it takes. Your dreams are wide, generous, un-contained, and you believe the world is big enough to hold them. You don’t chase success for its own sake. You chase it because you want your story to mean something. You want your name to carry light. To offer hope. To say, “If I made it through, you can too.”

♄ Saturn in the Tenth House You were born carrying the weight of becoming. Every step forward feels like a test, and you measure yourself by results, not hopes. You fear failure more than anything, not because you crave praise, but because you fear being nothing at all. But your strength is built in the silence. In the effort no one sees. And when you do rise, when you finally allow yourself to arrive, no one can take it from you. Because you earned every inch.

♅ Uranus in the Tenth House You don’t want a role, you want to rewrite the whole script. You rebel against every “should” the world throws at you. You crave a path that is yours and yours alone. You’re not afraid to stand out, you’re afraid of disappearing into someone else’s definition of success. What you’re building isn’t a brand, it’s a revolution. Even if no one understands it yet.

♆ Neptune in the Tenth House You dream of becoming something that heals, that uplifts, that softens the edges of the world. You don’t want power, you want purpose. You want the life you build to feel poetic, transcendent. But the path is blurry. Some days you drift. Some days you doubt if your vision will ever take shape. And still, you reach. You trust the dream is worth chasing, even if it’s not yet clear.

♇ Pluto in the Tenth House You don’t just want to succeed, you want to be remembered. You want to change things, shake foundations, leave marks that can’t be erased. You carry a pressure most people couldn’t survive, to become someone who can’t be ignored. And though the climb is lonely, though power comes with cost, you’re not here to stay small. You’re here to rise, to rule, and to resurrect a version of yourself that no one, not even you, saw coming.

[rafesangelita]

♡ NSFW ALPHABET : COWBOY!RAFE X FARMER’S!DAUGHTER!READER EDITION

warnings: fluff, soft aftercare, tit play, secrecy, descriptions of unprotected sex, cum play, breeding kink, a little bit of traditionalism, illusions to virginity loss, praise, dirty talk, oral (f. receiving), male masturbation, brat taming, mentions of having children

a/n: this took me forever, i hope y’all love it! who else should i do an nsfw alphabet for?

wc: 3.6k

₊˚⊹♡ A : AFTERCARE (what are they like after sex?)

when they don’t have to worry about being caught, or they know they have enough time to bask in each other’s post-orgasm bliss, they could spend hours just talking and whispering to each other in the their own little love bubble. farmer’s!daughter!reader loves when cowboy!rafe traces shapes into her skin, his rough fingers being a stark contrast to her soft flesh. she’s pressing delicate kisses from the apples of his cheeks down to his pecs, leaving behind remnants of her cherry lipgloss. rafe is usually the one who falls asleep last, and he takes full advantage of the matter by watching you sleep peacefully, your eyelashes fluttering closed as you drift off into a deep slumber.

₊˚⊹♡ B : BODY PART (their favorite body part on each other)

cowboy!rafe is a tits man all the wayyy. if he’s not staring at your exposed cleavage every chance he could get, he’s doing a million other things to them in his free time. squeezing and groping them whenever you two manage to sneak in a little mid-day makeout session, sucking and biting on them when he has you pinned down, crying out for mercy while he fucks you into oblivion, or his personal favorite; when you let him tit fuck you and he gets to watch his cock disappear in and out of the perfect swells. if you were producing milk, you swore rafe would be down to try it since he’s made it abundantly clear that he’s obsessed with your, what he likes to call, ‘cowboy pillows’.

farmer’s!daughter!reader can’t choose just one, so of course she’s going to go with rafe’s shoulders and his back. those were the first things that caught her attention when her father first introduced them to each other and he was wearing that tight, white t-shirt of his. she couldn’t help her mind from running straight to the gutter, her dreams soon becoming a reality when she found herself with her legs on either side of rafe’s head, her calves sitting prettily on the cowboy’s shoulders while he plowed into her like there was no tomorrow. her love for his back stemmed from watching him work shirtless all day, the sight of his muscles sending butterflies to flutter in her tummy.

₊˚⊹♡ C : CUM (anything to do with cum)

with the massive breeding kink rafe has, he prefers to fill you up to the hilt with his seed. he’ll fuck whatever cum managed to drip out of your glossy folds back into your cunt until he can’t see a single drop, the idea of you becoming pregnant further riling him up for round two. however, when rafe cums anywhere else other than your pussy, he loves to get messy. if you’re ever the one on your knees for him (which is surprisingly rare) and he finishes on your tongue, he likes to tap you with his cock as you bat your eyes up at him. he’ll even take some of the sticky succulence and spread it around your lips before watching you lick yourself clean.

₊˚⊹♡ D : DIRTY (a dirty secret of theirs)

further expanding on cowboy!rafe’s breeding kink; there’s nothing that turns him on more than the prospect of keeping you here on the farm and turning you into a mama. considering you’ve never expressed any kind of desire to ‘escape’ your town, rafe figures he might as well lock you down here with him and your babies. it’s all he thinks about when he’s inside of you. he imagines you waking him up with his favorite breakfast, a baby on your hip and another one crawling by your feet as you cook on the old stovetop. rafe would work the absolute hardest to make sure that you never have to, the only worry in that pretty head of yours being what dress you should wear for the day.

farmer’s!daughter!reader’s dirty little secret is that she actually likes the fact that you and rafe have to sneak around in order to be together. she loves the thrill. growing up, her father worked tirelessly to keep her interactions with boys very limited, so now that she had a handsome cowboy right in her backyward, she was elated once she got a little taste of something rugged and tough. every time rafe had to cover your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud, you clenched around him tighter, your whines and moans being muffled by his rough palm. “mmph, shit— you gotta be quiet, ‘sweetheart, you don’t want us getting caught now, do you?”

₊˚⊹♡ E : EXPERIENCE (how experienced are they?)

“wait— how many girls have you been with before me? be honest..” you stopped rafe from lifting your dress up, both of you breathless from your earlier exchanges of heated kisses. “i don’t think you wanna know that, ‘darlin.” you whimpered, now feeling full of self doubt as rafe deemed himself a pro and you were just utterly clueless. “i can’t do this with you, rafe, i don’t know what i’m doing—” rafe was quick to reassure you, his fingers hooking underneath your chin as he prompted you to look up at him. “i’m gonna teach you, don’t worry about it, baby,” he kissed you, “i’m gonna make you my own personal breeding whore, ‘you like the sound of that?”

₊˚⊹♡ F : FAVORITE POSITION (click here for !reader’s fav)

cowboy!rafe absolutely loves ‘cancer’ the most. he loves seeing the way your face twists in pleasure as he delivers slow and calculated thrusts that meet your cervix with each stroke. intertwining one of his hands with your own, he used the other to fist your hair at the roots, forcing you to maintain eye contact with him even when you felt your head threatening to droop. “takin’ my cock so fuckin’ good, angel, just look at that pretty face.” he praised you, making you whimper at the sweetness and sincerity in his tone. “you were made to get fucked like this,” rafe could feel his tough resolve slowly crumbling down as you brought him closer to the edge of pure euphoria, “all mine.”

₊˚⊹♡ G : GOOFY (are they serious or humorous?)

this can vary. sometimes they’ll start off humorous, and rafe being rafe, he’ll say a few jokes here and there to help you relax. however, don’t be fooled because it could turn serious real fast once he has you out of your panties. rafe loves to watch all of your reactions to his movements so he can remember what gets you riled up. in doing this, he makes sure to watch you intently, his serious gaze always making your cheeks heat as he says the filthiest things you’ve ever heard. rafe is constantly teasing you for never being able to hold eye contact with him, the intensity in his stare never failing to make you feel small. “you’re just so serious sometimes, i can’t handle it!”

₊˚⊹♡ H : HAIR (how well groomed is he?)

cowboy!rafe doesn’t shave his lower regions.. but, he does keep himself trimmed. to be quite frank, you never really cared about that aspect when it came to intimacy. you knew rafe had more important stuff to worry about other than his hair, and honestly you liked it that way. you’d be lying if you said you didn’t think he looked better with a happy trail. shaving his face, however, was a different story. you had to practically beg him to keep the pornstache but once the summer heat got to him, he knew he couldn’t keep it up any longer. the stubble along rafe’s jaw always tickled you, a yelp and a half giggle leaving your lips as he buried his head in between your thighs.

₊˚⊹♡ I : INTIMACY (how are they during the moment?)

both of them are so engaging with each other, especially when cowboy!rafe talks farmer’s!daughter!reader through his thrusts, always praising her for taking him so good. even though they’re the closest two people could possibly be with one another, they’re clinging onto each other like it’s not enough; like the only way they could be close is if they merge into one. foreheads touching, fingers intertwined, lips ghosting over the others, it couldn’t get more romantic than this. they share a moment where nothing else exists, when the sounds of rafe’s groans and your whimpers are the only things that you two could make out as the world comes to a stand still in each other’s arms.

₊˚⊹♡ J : JACK OFF (how often does he do it?)

now that you two are getting in round after round nearly everyday, rafe doesn’t feel the need to do it anymore. if anything, he finds himself having to slow down a little bit, which is almost impossible, considering he has a sex symbol for a girlfriend. before you two had even kissed each other though, he had to force himself not to look at you so he could stay focused on the work he was doing. rafe made the grave mistake of watching you ride your horse one day, and had to tell your dad some elaborate lie as to why he needed to go inside for a ‘quick second’ when really he had to rub one out for the sake of his own sanity. what turned into a ‘one time thing’, soon became routine until you two finally got in bed together.

₊˚⊹♡ K : KINK (one of his kinks, read more here)

cowboy!rafe is 100% into brat taming. whenever both of your combative behaviors clash, he finds himself having to pin you down and talk you straight until you’re giving in to his every request. he loves seeing the surrender in your eyes once he’s made it abundantly clear that you’re not getting your way, and he’s the one controlling the reigns. farmer’s!daughter!reader also gets to indulge in this kink, considering it turns her on when he’s assertive and a tad bit demanding. seeing cowboy!rafe be serious and cold as steel wasn’t something new to her, but to have his stoic demeanor directed towards her was something that she found thrilling, especially because it just gave her the opportunity to rebel against him for funsies.

₊˚⊹♡ L : LOCATION (favorite place to do the deed)

contrary to popular belief; it is not the barn. sure, cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader have had a lot of quickies in there, but nothing beats the soft plush mattress of her bed. rafe is already so used to his body being sore from a hard day’s work, that once he actually puts ‘work’ into something else, he’d rather both of you be in a comfortable setting. sure, you two had grown used to the hay and the dirt from inside the barn, along with the small space of the tool shed out back, but when you finally snuck him in and you two made love on your soft, clean sheets, there was no going back. it also didn’t help that your bed was the most comfortable thing he had slept on in decades..

₊˚⊹♡ M : MOTIVATION (what turns them on?)

not even exaggerating, everything about cowboy!rafe turns farmer’s!daughter!reader on. watching him work around the ranch, lifting hay bells, roping in cattle, hell, even chugging water down was attractive. he was all man, and you were just so smitten by it. you loved the fact that he was so strong and he didn’t have to talk a lot to prove a point; his actions were always louder than his words. even the little things turned you on. before you two had gotten romantically involved with one another, your heart would beat in your ears anytime his face scrunched up in pain whenever he’d hurt himself, especially when he’d moan or groan— that’s when you’d let your imagination run wild.

cowboy!rafe on the other hand was turned on by your sassy attitude. you weren’t scared to hurt his feelings, and for a man who was used to women catering to him at the drop of a hat, he enjoyed the change whenever you played hard to get (it made him want to fuck you back into your place even more). he liked it when you insulted him since he had a list of things to throw back at you when you were underneath him crying out his name for mercy. “i don’t wanna see those tears now, ‘darlin, just earlier you told me i was good for nothing except kissing your daddy’s ass, now you’re begging me to let you cum. ain’t that some shit?” he’d laugh mockingly in you ear while you whine helplessly.

₊˚⊹♡ N : NO (what they wouldn’t do/turn offs)

cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader have never had a conversation about their “don’ts” but anything having to do with water sports or fecal matter is a gigantic no on both of their ends (they spend way too much time with the animals on the farmland, and even though they’re very much desensitized to it already, they rather not). another big no for them is bondage. despite rafe throwing a lasso over farmer’s!daughter!reader multiple times in a playful manner, neither of them want to be restrained or tied up while they’re intimate with each other. they already have to hold themselves back for most of, if not all, the whole day, so when it comes time for some much needed love and affection, they’re not going to double down.

₊˚⊹♡ O : ORAL (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc..)

cowboy!rafe is a giver at heart. his head is between your thighs at least twice a day. he can’t go without a taste or he’ll be incredibly cranky. he doesn’t care about maintaining a cleanliness when he eats you like a man starved, he prefers to be as messy as possible. the best part is that he could do it anywhere, even when it’s the most inconvenient like under the kitchen table while your father rants about the city folk and their need to expand their developments. to say rafe was skilled with his tongue would be an understatement. he knows exactly what it takes to get you going, your thighs locking around his head every time you feel that coil in your tummy burst, your cries of pleasure being music to his ears.

₊˚⊹♡ P : PACE (fast and rough or slow and sensual?)

this can vary depending on whether or not they’re sneaking around. while rafe prefers to take his time and fuck you both ways, he prefers slow and sensual so you two are much more intimate. when cowboy!rafe is slow and sensual, he’s moving his hips against yours at an angle that makes you see stars, your bottom lip trembling as he kisses your cervix with each thrust. he’s interlocking your fingers, pressing kisses to your knuckles while he watches you take him with ease. he keeps his eyes trained on your face, his chest blooming with pride every time you lose yourself and he feels your walls flutter around him, sucking him in like a vice.

₊˚⊹♡ Q : QUICKIE (their opinion and how often they do it)

sometimes quickies are all that they can spare, especially on the days where there’s a heavy workload around the ranch. all rafe has to do is give farmer’s!daughter!reader his ‘look’ and she’ll be waiting for him in their designated shed in no time. despite having to be quick, rafe never fails to have your legs trembling around his waist while he fucks you standing up, his worn out blue jeans pooling around his ankles as your back digs uncomfortably into the metal wall. your cherry red nails are raking down his back, his chin resting in the curve of your neck as he presses wet kisses to your chest. “f-fuck, you make these quickies feel like an eternity..”

₊˚⊹♡ R : RISK (do they take risks, etc..)

cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader’s entire relationship is a risk, but it’s one that they’re willing to take. with your dad being rafe’s employer, you two have had to keep your relationship a secret and keep it hidden from just about everyone on the ranch. weary of the consequences that may come out of being with cowboy!rafe, the last thing farmer’s!daughter!reader wants is for rafe to get fired and have to leave. even though your father already trusts rafe and has told him that he’s family, rafe thinks it’s better to be safe than sorry when it comes down to a man finding out his daughter is sneaking around with his hired help. in due time though, they’ll come clean about all of it.

₊˚⊹♡ S : STAMINA (how long can cowboy!rafe last?)

this cowboy won’t stop until you’re begging him to. rafe doesn’t care if he already came and he’s shaking so much with overstimulation it hurts, he won’t rest until you’re fucked out and can’t take another round. unlike your quickies, you and rafe can go for hours and have marathon sex (which is something they usually do whenever your father leaves out of town for whatever reason). you know rafe’s body like the back of his hand, and you know that as soon as he can’t hold himself up anymore it’s your turn to take the reins. it’s needless to say that rafe gets off on the fact that he’s the one that makes you lose yourself, your face when you’re cumming is by far one of his favorite sights of all time.

₊˚⊹♡ T : TOYS (do they own or use any sex toys?)

landline telephones are the only form of tech they have on the ranch, so there’s no way in hell anyone has sex toys lying around. there’s only one sex shop in town and no one would be caught dead walking out of there, considering small town gossip spread around like wildfire. farmer’s!daughter!reader is definitely more curious about sex toys than cowboy!rafe is for sure. “you don’t even need any of those things.. i’m literally right here.” rafe would act offended when you first brought up your interest in something you heard a friend of yours talking about. “i know that, obviously, i just— i don’t know.. my best friend said it was a game changer.” you shrugged. “well, your best friend is a liar.”

₊˚⊹♡ U : UNFAIR (how much they like to tease)

farmer’s!daughter!reader is notorious for this. she knows rafe is a true gentleman and that fact alone makes her do everything she could to push him past his limits and drive him insane. even after they were in an established relationship, she would do things to get a reaction out of him. this included wearing revealing outfits, riding her horse in rafe’s clear line of vision, talking and flirting with the other cowboys in order to rile him up.. but all of that was used against her once they were alone. it was rafe’s turn to tease her when the head of his cock would be prodding her entrance, her chest rising and falling as rafe muffled her whines. “shouldn’t have been trying to piss me off today.”

₊˚⊹♡ V : VOLUME (how loud are they?)

although cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader have gotten used to having to keep their volume low, it doesn’t stop the occasional squeal or scream from falling from your lips and forcing rafe to cover your mouth while he pounds you in. even though you tend to be the louder one, rafe has still had to bite down on his lip and bury his face in your neck to keep from revealing what was going down in the room next to your father’s. having to be quiet all the time gave rafe the skills to successfully whisper his praises in your ear, the gruffness of his voice only making you squeeze around him tighter. “make a sound,” he’d tease, “go ahead and get us in trouble.”

₊˚⊹♡ W : WILDCARD (random headcanon)

how cowboy!rafe reacted when you told him you wanted him to cum inside you for the first time: you were on top of him, his hands resting in the curves of your hips as he littered your bare chest with kisses. “i-i’m gonna cum—” rafe heaved, attempting to roll over so he could pull out. you only held onto him tighter, your eyes finding his as you shook your head. “i don’t want you to finish anywhere else,” you whispered, “cum inside me please.” rafe groaned at your words, something primal taking over him as he put you in a mean mating press. “yeah? ‘want me to fill you up?” he’d taunt, his fingers digging into the flesh of your calves as he emptied himself inside your needy cunt.

₊˚⊹♡ X : X-RAY (what’s going on in cowboy!rafe’s pants?)

lord have mercy. you remembered seeing rafe’s cock for the first time like it was yesterday. you two were making out in his old truck when you felt it, his jeans growing tighter by the second. you couldn’t believe he was packing that much when you saw the large bulge straining painfully against the denim material. rafe was hesitant when he felt you palm him, a shaky breath falling from your lips as you took him out of the confines of his underwear. you audibly gasped, both you and rafe sharing a look once his length sprung up. he was huge. you felt your mouth water when your eyes landed on the vein that ran down the underside of his cock, your insides fluttering with anticipation at the prospect of having him inside of you.

₊˚⊹♡ Y : YEARNING (how high is their sex drive)

cowboy!rafe and farmer’s!daughter!reader drive each other absolutely crazy.. these two are on each other as soon as they get the chance. they’re stealing glances at each other whenever they can, holding hands when no one is looking, playing footsies underneath the dinner table, they can never get enough. farmer’s!daughter!reader always manages to slip in a few kisses here and there, followed by a hushed whisper of a promise to give rafe something ‘more’ when they get each other to themselves. there’s no stopping them once their clothes are off and they’re tangled up in each other, neither of them willing to pull away for even a split second.

₊˚⊹♡ Z : Zzz (how fast do they fall asleep afterwards)

farmer’s!daughter!reader is usually the one falling asleep first, her body feeling spent as her eyelids grow heavy with each stroke of rafe’s fingertips on her back, and understandably so. rafe will clean her up while she dozes off, drifting in and out of sleep as he kisses her softly. on days where rafe might overwork himself, he’ll end up falling into a deep slumber in your arms, his cheek pressing against your tits as he snores softly, the compromising position making you chuckle. “you know you’re gonna have to go to the backhouse soon..” you’d whisper, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. rafe would answer with a groan, his arms wrapping around you even tighter. “i’ll leave in a little..”

[combeferre-the-mothman]

Ferre smiled at him and winked so he wouldn’t think anything was wrong or that he was in trouble.

“We made it clear we don’t want our grandson around relationships like yours.”

Courfeyrac had raised Noah on his own since his mother died, and it was one of the toughest things he’d ever done. But he wouldn’t change it for the world. “Okay, are you ready? Go on, go into your classroom.”

“Papa no!” Noah clung to his leg, “Wanna stay with Papa!”

Ferre heard something and went outside. “Hello, what’s you’re name, buddy?” He knelt down by Noah.

[cherie-doll]

I don’t know if u have gotten any requests like that but could you write about what would happen if the cod men got injured at work and they have to stay at home for a long time with us. Would they freak out like a workaholic or just chill?

Thank u Cherie for being really really awesome ✮

dawg i received this back in december and am just now answering it wth but thxx ^^

𓍊 Price, Ghost, Soap, Gaz, Roach, Alejandro, Rudy, Phillip Graves, Makarov, Keegan, König, Horangi, Nikto

❥ Price always complains about pain bothering him, and he's heard the countless times you've told him to take a break; he needs it. He would always nod and say he would try to get some time off soon. Except this man can be a major procrastinator, and it wasn't until he got badly injured and told by the doctor to take some time off. It was made clear that it wasn't an option but mandatory. So now he's at home, on the recliner without allowed to get up unless to go to the bathroom or move to the bedroom. You bring him all his meals and at first he thinks it's silly how strict you are with him. He had even brought a pile of paperwork to do but you quickly got rid of that. It doesn't take long for him to get used to your coddling him.

❥ Simon didn’t know how much of a break he needed till he slept soundly without interruption, thanks to the pain numbing medication. He awoke the next morning feeling very well rested and for once he didn’t have a certain annoying Scottish waking him up in the middle of the night to tell him lame jokes. Before he couldn't imagine quitting the military, but now? After a period of having slow mornings, enjoying homecooked meals and spending more time with you; he could definitely get used to this. Goes back to work as grumpy as ever.

❥ Johnny is ecstatic to spend some time with you. Since he used up all of his days off and took every holiday, he's sort of glad for getting an injury. Except he doesn't know chill, rest and relaxation are not in his vocabulary. This man enjoys going out, doing things with you, so it is sort of difficult to get him to stay at home. Anytime you're going out to buy groceries, run an errand or even walk down to your mailbox, he's begging to go along with you. Doesn't even want to stay lying in bed if you've already woken up and are having breakfast in the kitchen, like he wants to be in the same room as you. Really tough when it's time for him to go back.

❥ Kyle at first was sort of annoyed for the injury, he's the only one who had gotten hurt out of his team. Everyone else got away with minor injuries, barely a scratch or two, while he got a leg broken. He's complaining at home while you're nodding along, massaging his shoulders and he starts talking slower, melting into your touch. Leans back fully in the recliner and is like "This ain't so bad". Realized he needed that extended break anyways and relaxes. When he goes back he's bragging about how he got the longest time to heal up while his partner took care of him.

❥ Roach was long due for a break. He needed one, and this injury couldn't have come at a better time. Doesn't even mind the pain if it means sleeping in late with you and being able to stay all day by your side. He doesn't understand those who are married and are somehow still workaholics. Like, what do you mean you wouldn't immediately ditch work at any opportunity you get in exchange to spend some time with your partner? Would prefer your caresses over his medication, which he forgets to take as the doctor prescribed. "You'll just take longer to heal if you don't remember to take your medicine." And he doesn't care, it means he might be able to extend his leave.

❥ Alejandro feels restless, wanting to move and do something. He was fine being able to lie around the house for the first couple of weeks. No longer was he groaning and complaining about how he never was able to get time off, he was resting well now. Except since he's spending so much time inside his house, he's starting to notice things that need to be fixed. You're catching him on a ladder changing a lightbulb, fixing a door that makes too much noise when it opens and closes. You tell him to go back to resting, but he feels like he's gotten all the rest he needed. He's also asking the doctor how much longer he has to stay home, truth is he's just missing his work boyfriend Rodolfo.

❥ Rudy would chill at home during the time he's given off. Loves you taking care of him and leaves work at work, like he's telling anyone who calls asking where he's at, he's resting at home like the doctor said. Doesn't wish for more time off nor is rushing either The doctor thanks his lucky stars he got a normal patient who isn't moving too much or slowing down his healing process. When time is up he's getting up and starting to get ready to head off again.

❥ Phillip was sort of stressed at first, because if he isn't there to take care of his Shadows then who else would? He's always been there for them, either in the front lines with them or behind the scenes making sure they're alright. But now he can't even be on base to see them? He's going to different doctors hoping one of them would tell him something different than the same thing the last five have said... how he needs to rest and not strain his body. He appreciates you being with him though, if there's one good thing out of this is that he can't deny his favorite thing in the world is being next to you.

❥ Makarov either takes it really well, knowing that he needs to lie low anyways or, he sees this injury as an interference to his plans. It really just depends on the timing of things. But either he's wayyy too laid back for your liking, for God's sake he nearly lost a limb! Or he's itching to go back out there, literally being held back by you and the doctor who prescribes him a ton of medication because he's slowing down the process of healing by getting up and doing stuff.

❥ Keegan isn't a workaholic by any means but he prefers to stay busy. For as long as he's been in this, he's taken on almost every mission and task that comes his way. He doesn't shy away from it and doesn't let no small injury get in his way. That sort of changed when you came along though. He no longer had to change his bandages alone while at home, no longer had to struggle to make a meal if his hand or arm was injured. He felt a sort of warmth from you that no comrade could provide him with. So, he would be content healing at home.

❥ König is a big guy. Big guys like him don't get knocked out by just any small wound. Which means that the fact that he got sent home to you means he must've been hurt pretty badly. You were worrying until the doctor told him it was a problem König had been ignoring for several years. Turns out all those muscle aches he frequently got weren't just from working out or going out on missions, it had been an underlying problem. He was too busy groaning in pain to even consider doing any strenuous activity, so he wasn't too anxious.

❥ Horangi probably didn't even get an injury bad enough to give him time off but decided he wanted a vacation and caused himself an even worse injury just so he'd have justification for going home. He isn't lazy by any means but when he's tired and wants rest... you better not be counting on him to do anything for you. Actually, he wouldn't even let you get anything done. He'd pull you away from doing the dishes, doing laundry or even trying to care for him. "I can take care of myself" and if you really insist then he'll tell you the only option you have is to stay cuddled up next to him because that's the only way he'll feel better. His corny ahh

❥ Nikto barely registers his injury after it has been treated by the nurse, so it likely confuses him when he's sent home to rest up. He feels fine? Doesn't know why you're fussing over him either, but he welcomes the extra hours to catch up on some much needed sleep and time with you. He's learned to not take it for granted and even leans into your leniency to eat in the living room while watching tv in his boxer shorts knowing you won't say anything about the mess he's making. You're more worried about him healing anyways.

[catssluvr]

𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒂𝒏, spencer reid

spencer reid x fem!reader (923 words)

in which you and spencer talk outside the bar on a night out with the bau

warnings: none :)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

You stand outside the noisy bar, the nice music coming from inside and the breeze of fresh air brushing your cheek being enough to bring ease to you.

It would be a lie to say you´re a fan of this type of going out, but it is nice to spend some time with the team outside of work and you're more than happy to sit quietly and sip on your soda while they do shots.

But tonight the building feels louder than usual, too loud. Not really enough to make you feel anxious, but definitely enough to make you crave the fresh night air, away from all the sweaty bodies.

You see Spencer approaching you from the corner of your eyes, an awkward smile plastered on his lips. Warmth spreads across your chest, leaving you unable to stop the smile from appearing on your face too.

"Hey, can i join you?" He asks, sitting next to you as soon as you nod in agreement, "Here, i got this for you." He hands you the soda in his hand.

"Thank you." You reply quietly, hand grazing his for a moment longer than it should. You scan the paper cup that he's now holding between his hands, a frown etching your face once you realise what's on the inside.

"Spence, why are you drinking coffee at eleven pm?" You question with raised eyebrows.

"Oh- uhm- i just thought that since i'm usually in bed by this time and i want to drive you home i should make sure i'm very awake. You know, just to make sure." Spencer rambles, cheeks pink and head cast down in a way that makes you sure that he wasn't expecting you to notice.

“You really don’t have to do that for me, Spence.” Though your smile is really just grateful.

“I do.” He answers as if it’s the most obvious thing.

You're both silent for a moment, the same familiar and comfortable silence that you're sure he enjoys just as much as you. You can't help but subtly look to admire his enviable jaw, his nose the nicest shade of pink from the cold.

"Wait, you're actually freezing." You're too concentrated on the task at hand to notice he's reached to hold your hand in his, pulling away too quickly to start taking off his sweater. "Here, you should've told me."

"I don't want it- i mean i do, but you'll get cold too." It's hard to try and be calm when he's so close and the temptation to reach for the sweater that you know is very comfortable is very big.

"'Course not, my coffee will warm me up. Your soda is cold so you don't have that." It's a quite made on the spot excuse but it's also enough to convince you just a little bit.

"I'm pretty sure that's not how it works, S." Playing hard is fun when you get to see him flustered over the simplest thing.

"Just take it." Spencer practically shoves it in your arms, "Please?" And god, the baby doe eyes.

A huff escapes your mouth, a defeated one that makes his smile widen, mouthing a small 'thank you' to you. As if he's not the one doing something for you.

Spencer steps in front of you, helping you into the sweater without having to be asked to. You fight the urge to tell him he doesn't have to baby you as he untucks your hair, pulling it behind your ears before unfortunately siting back down.

He clears his throat, "I was thinking, do you want to spend the night at mine?" He continues before you get to answer, "I won't be able to sleep too soon, anyway. We could watch a movie- if you'd like, of course."

"Can we watch Juno?"

"Rewatch, you mean? And no, not happening." He teases.

"Oh, come on. You chose last time." You feign sadness, forcing a pout onto your lips and turning away to persuade him into having it your way

"Don't do that- we can rewatch it, i promise." He thinks before saying, "But you can't cry when Paulie visits Juno at the hospital again, okay? I really don't have any comforting methods left." Even though he knows he'd go to the ends of the world to find a way.

"And we can get a blueberry slushie on the way to your house?" Okay, maybe you really don't mind getting babied by him. It does feel selfish, Spencer isn't really your boyfriend. You're not sure what he is, neither of you are, but you can't exactly just call him your best friend either.

"And we can get a blueberry slushie on the way." He confirms, nudging your shoulder before pulling you closer to him and giving you the perfect excuse to rest your chin on his shoulder.

"You're very nice to me, S." You all but whisper.

"You're very easy to be nice to." Spencer replies, again like it's the most obvious thing. His lips ghost over your forehead, stopping at your temple to press a tentative kiss there.

"I'm gonna tell the other we'll get going, yes?" He says gently after a moment.

"Course." You smile, slightly hazy with a pounding heart.

It takes him a moment more than it should to let go of you, pretending to adjust his sweater that's now on you so that you're 'extra warm' before squeezing your shoulder and going into the bar in a hurry.

You nuzzle against the fabric of his sweater, the comforting sent making you forget all about the cold weather. And you definitely don't regret not bringing your coat outside.

When Spencer comes back with your bag and coat, he definitely doesn't make a fuss to get his sweater back either.

[mattrempeswife]

HER PLACE

series: blue and blind hearts | part: 01 02 03 04

pair: quinn hughes x f!reader

genre: angst, slow burn, friends to lovers.

warnings: unrequited love, emotional angst, tension with quinn’s girlfriend, pining, jealousy, feeling like an outsider, reader trying to stay composed.

summary: you visit quinn again in vancouver, expecting things to feel like old times. but his girlfriend is around and this time, it’s clear she doesn’t like sharing space with the girl who knows quinn better than anyone. you try not to notice how different things feel. but you do. you notice everything.

fia’s note + chit chat: there’s no official taglist for this series, but if you’d like to be tagged just let me know!! anyway random (but kinda wild) update: i just found out that my high school crush goes to california state university long beach and he’s majoring in hospitality (i think?). and honestly… i think i might still have a crush on him (to be fair, i’ve liked him since i was in 5th grade, so this is basically a legacy crush). imagine if any of you, my lovely readers, happen to study there too?? omg not me sounding like a complete stalker. i swear i’m normal (most days).

You told yourself not to expect much this time.

It had been months since you’d last seen Quinn in person. And things were different now that he had a routine, a team, a city, and a girlfriend. You reminded yourself of that on the flight to Vancouver.

Over and over and over and over.

A quiet mantra in your head ‘This isn’t like before. Don’t act like it is.’

Still, when he met you at the airport with that familiar grin, this soft and boyish, the one that made your heart ache a little every time you felt yourself slipping.

“Missed you,”

He said, wrapping his arms around you in that effortless way that always made you forget to breathe.

You clung to him for a moment longer than you should’ve, inhaling the scent of his cologne, the warmth of his hoodie, the weight of memories pressed into his chest.

“I missed you too,” you said softly. And you meant it.

His apartment was cleaner than you remembered.

Minimalist, polished… less like Quinn, more like someone else had touched it. You noticed the throw pillows first, neatly placed. Then the matching hand towels. A few candles. Subtle signs of Sophia.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t have to.

“She’s been helping me decorate,”

Quinn offered anyway, watching your eyes drift around the space.

“Said it needed… warmth.”

You let out a breath of amusement.

“Guess she’s not wrong.”

He grinned.

“You used to say it looked like a frat house.”

“It did. You had a hockey stick as a curtain rod.”

“Hey,” he defended with a laugh. “That was innovation.”

But the laugh didn’t quite reach your eyes. Because back then, the apartment had felt like it belonged to both of you.

Movie nights. Takeout containers. Your hoodie stuffed into the corner of his couch. You were part of it then. Now, you were just a visitor.

A guest in someone else’s home.

Sophia was already there when you arrived.

You weren’t expecting her, Quinn had mentioned she might be out with friends, that the two of you would have time to catch up.

Apparently, plans changed.

She stood as soon as you walked in, a polished smile on her face and a glass of wine in her hand.

“Y/N, right? I’ve heard so much about you.”

You forced a smile in return. “All good things, I hope.”

“Oh, definitely,”

She said, her gaze lingering on you just a second too long.

“Quinn talks about you all the time.”

You glanced at him, but he was too busy dragging your suitcase inside to notice the tension in the room.

“Well,” Sophia said brightly,

“I made dinner reservations for all three of us tonight. I hope that’s okay.”

Your stomach twisted. You were supposed to be here for him. But now you were crashing their date night.

“Yeah,” you said.

“Sounds fun.”

She smiled again. The kind of smile that said good girl. The kind that let you know exactly who she thought you were ‘the friend’ who didn’t know when to let go.

Dinner was… uncomfortable in the way only long-held resentment and unspoken truths could make it.

Quinn sat between the two of you, oblivious to the friction. You laughed when he did. Nodded when Sophia made small talk. Picked at your food while she picked at his arm.

She was pretty.

That effortless kind of pretty, the kind you could tell hadn’t worked for attention a day in her life. She ordered for both of them without asking, corrected him when he got a stat wrong, and leaned in when she spoke to him like the rest of the world was background noise.

And still, Quinn looked at her like she’s the only star.

You stared at your glass of wine and tried to stop picturing what it would feel like to throw it in her face.

When you got back to the apartment, you went straight for the couch.

Sophia disappeared into the bathroom to shower. Quinn threw you a blanket and offered you the bed.

“She won’t mind, I swear.”

You refused. You always refused.

You didn’t want to know what it smelled like in there.

He sat beside you for a while, scrolling through TV channels and talking about the team. You kept your eyes on the screen, but your thoughts kept drifting.

“It’s not the same anymore,” you murmured.

“What isn’t?”

“This. Us.”

He frowned. “What do you mean?”

You turned to look at him.

“We used to talk about everything. Now I feel like I’m just… here. In your way.”

His expression softened.

“You’re never in the way, Y/N.”

But you didn’t believe him. Not really.

You woke up sometime after midnight to the sound of quiet footsteps.

Quinn stood in the kitchen, shirtless, half-asleep, drinking from a water bottle. His hair was a mess. His face looked tired.

He jumped when he noticed you sitting up on the couch.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he whispered.

“Not really.”

He walked over and sat beside you again, this time closer. His knee brushed yours.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

You smiled, even though it hurt.

“Me too.”

A silence settled between you. One thick with unsaid things.

Then, suddenly.

“Do you think she likes me?”

He blinked. “Sophia?”

Quinn looked at you, confused.

“What are you talking about? Of course she—”

“She doesn’t,” you interrupted, quieter now.

“She doesn’t like that I know you better than she does. That I’ve known you longer. That I’ve seen you at your worst and didn’t leave.”

He swallowed. Didn’t argue.

You looked down at your hands.

“I think she knows something you don’t.”

“Like what?”

“That I’d do anything for you,” you whispered.

“That I always… have.”

He didn’t respond.

You didn’t need him to.

The next morning, Sophia was quiet. Too quiet.

You caught her watching you across the kitchen while you sipped coffee from Quinn’s mug. The same one you always used. The same one he used to save for you.

“Y/N,” she said sweetly.

“How long are you staying again?”

You blinked. “I leave tomorrow.”

She smiled. “Oh. I thought it was longer.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t have to. You could already feel her irritation simmering beneath the surface, barely masked by politeness.

Quinn walked in moments later, oblivious as always, and wrapped his arms around her from behind. She turned in his hold, kissed his cheek, and stared at you the whole time.

It was all so quiet. So calculated.

You wondered if he even noticed. If he ever would.

That night, you packed your bag.

There was still a full day left on your trip, but you couldn’t stay. Not like this.

Quinn found you standing by the front door with your suitcase.

“Leaving already?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

You met his eyes and gave him a sad little smile.

“Because I don’t belong here, Quinn. Not anymore.”

His face fell. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” you said gently.

“And it’s okay. People grow up. They grow apart. You have your life here. Your team. Your girl. You don’t need me like you used to.”

He stepped forward. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” you asked.

“It’s true. You know it is.”

He stared at you, torn between what he wanted to say and what he couldn’t bring himself to admit.

“I’ll text you when I land,” you said.

“Get some sleep.”

And with that, you walked out.

No goodbye hug.

No final glance.

Just the soft click of the door closing behind you and the sound of your heart breaking all over again.

[aka-indulgence]

Fragile Tank

TFP!Shockwave x Human!Reader (Hurt/Comfort) (I think this is GN!Reader bc I don’t remember writing any pronouns fdilfjd)

I have a soft spot for Shockwave. TFP Shockwave is the hottest really cool to me. I keep thinking about angst/comfort with all the Shockwaves I know so far… and Shockwave’s backstory in TFP makes me 😭 I want to be there if his eye gets shattered

So here’s a story about you staying with him when he’s blinded 🥹

—————

Shockwave awoke to pain, first. Pulsing from his legs up, but most importantly… searing from his eye. An explosion broke out during a struggle with the Autobots. He doesn’t remember the details anymore, which is concerning. Clearly it’s done enough damage to him, considering his aching frame.

His eye’s shattered. Multitudes of heavy objects covered his lower side, rubble from the explosion surely- he couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear anything other than the involuntary sounds of pain emerging from his voicebox.

It’s happening again.

“Knockout.” Is the first he calls. The doctor often assisted him in his scientific pursuits, he’s most likely to have been on site.

There is no response.

“Soundwave.” The Decepticon most capable in dire situations.

“Lord Megatron.” Perhaps his master had been there to witness the events that transpired.

“... Starscream.”

What a joke.

Shockwave’s alone.

He tries to use his communications to contact him once again, the most likely to hear him. “Soundwave?”

… No response. His internal communications shouldnt've been compromised, but he doesn’t think he is able to find a good channel in his broken lab.

Metal claws rake across the coarse floor.

They’ve forgotten about him again. Abandoned, left for dead.

No one’s coming. He used to assume that someone would, that they would send a recovery team for him, but Shockwave’s since learnt that that’s not happening. He’s stranded alone on the planet he once called home but is now his prison. Nothing but ruins and the dead.

He had just reunited with the Decepticons a few deca-cycles ago. Who knew that his time with them would last only a little while before he was sent back to his prison?

How foolish was Shockwave, to think that it wouldn’t happen again. How long is he to be resigned on Cybertron this time? Are they going to come back soon? Or is he going to have to spend another eons alone on this forsaken planet?

Maybe Megatron will finish the Omega Lock , return to Cybertron and revive the planet. But considering Shockwave isn’t there to assist, it'd be illogical to assume he would return quickly.

No one’s coming for him.

Having survived this before, Shockwave understands that logically, the probability of him being reaching the other end safe is high. He has experienced worse injuries, and though his eye is his biggest vulnerability, it is not irreplaceable. He can rise and repair himself fairly easily, and once he’s done that the absence of other cybertronians made it easy for him to focus purely on science for its own sake.

He's proven he could.

… But he can’t find the strength to pick himself out of the rubble. A crushing feeling resides in his chest, which has no obvious cause, there’s no rubble on his chest- yet it feels heavy just the same.

What pathetic unnecessary feelings.

There is no use dwelling on it. If he can’t overcome it now, then his best course of action is to go shut himself down, go into a recharge cycle. Smother the irrelevant sensations arising from within his chassis. The thought of going offline just for a few cycles sounds so appealing. Uncaringly, he lets his head fall to the ground with a thud.

…

“Shockwave?”

His finials straighten. There is movement in the lab, though he couldn’t see what.

He must have sustained more damage than he thought he did. His malfunction so severe that for a moment he thought he heard–

“Shockwave!”

Y/n?

He hears you running across the debris, a faint silhouette moving in the distance. You were panting from the strain, but your worry and alarm are clear in your breaths. When you reach him you reach for the side of his head, as if you could cradle it with your tiny hand.

“Sh-Shockwave!” You panic, wildly looking about him. You sound so worried, he can't help but bask in it, audials wiggling, pain fading.

How are you here? Why are you here?

Does it matter?

“Are you ok? Are you still—? … Your eye!” Are you crying? Your voice sounded wet, and from what little he could see of your face, you look despaired. Why did that make him happy? He never enjoyed it when you were upset, before.

“P-please, tell me you’re ok,”

His antennas settles. “Y/n. You’re here.”

He doesn’t believe you’re real. How could you be?

You release a soft sigh of relief at his voice.

“Of course I’m here…” your voice shakes.

“You stayed.”

“W-what else am I supposed to do?”

"Ah… were you trapped too?"

"N-no… the ground bridge was open for us. But there was that explosion… I-I couldn't just leave you!"

Realization hit him.

“You came back for me.” He says, dream-like. He can't believe you.

Shockwave isn’t spiritual by any means. But seeing you here felt like a miracle, as if Primus himself had sent you to save him.

“Oh… Shockwave, what do I do…?” You curl against his face, small and scared. He lifts his hand, though it still stings with pain, to cup you. If he had normal optics (and if his wasn't shattered across the floor), he would close them, feel your warm body under his palm. His fingers lightly rest on you and start to feel; he can feel your hair shifting underneath, your clothes rustling against him, the softness of your skin where they were exposed. You’re shaking, but you lean into his hand. Such a small creature. How could something living be so small and delicate…?

You fill his spark chamber with warmth.

“You’ve got boulders on your legs,”

“Y/n,” he cut you off, gently. “Are you hurt?”

He doesn’t care about the pain or what kind of damage he sustained. All he can muster to care about right now is you.

“No no, you shielded me from the explosion, remember? You told me to stay back and covered me with your cannon, I’m– I’m fine, ok? We need to be worried about you. I’m worried about you,”

He shielded you? He doesn’t remember, it must’ve been a terrible explosion; but a quick scan of his memory drives shows it’s intact, which means no permanent damage had been inflicted.

If an explosion occurred while you were accompanying him, shielding you from the blast would be the only logical decision. Shockwave is a tank. He was formed to withstand heavy blows. He has and will survive worse. You? You’re a delicate, weak little organic with no armor, no weapons. Just a single blast from a vehicon would terminate you.

Shockwave used to think that it was the failings of the native species of earth. But he’s come to learn that fragility isn’t something to look down upon.

And yet despite your differences, the same delicate organic was the one worrying over the cybertronian tank. You have no idea what profound effect your words had on him, you make his antennas twitch.

His thumb finds your cheek and pets it.

“You aren’t supposed to be here. All logic concludes that cybertronian atmosphere should be toxic to humans. It is nothing short of a miracle you can stand and speak at all,”

He is grateful for your presence, he really is. But there was a pang of guilt, thinking of the fate he’s inadvertently subjected you to.

“What are you talking about?” You sound confused, which makes him hurt to elaborate.

“We’re isolated now. We are lightyears away from everyone we know of, or any life at all. We are stranded here. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have stayed for me.”

Maybe it would’ve been better for him to have been abandoned completely. No matter how much joy you brought him with your presence, it isn't worth risking your life for.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do with himself if your spark (heart?) were to extinguish so soon.

You’re quiet. Are you afraid? Are you thinking of your own mortality? Even if it weren’t for the atmosphere, Shockwave hated how short human lives were. Their entire lifespan is but a blink in his, something he never had to worry about but now, he—

“Shockwave,” his name interrupts his thoughts. “We’re not on Cybertron.”

…

“No?”

Your voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “We’re on earth. We might be stuck in a cave right now, but we’re not lightyears away from everyone we know, and certainly not from any life. Haha… I think I saw some weird cave bugs in here. We’re surrounded by forests and animals and humans. I don’t think you're fan of that, but it’s life. And the Decepticons are on the Nemesis right now, flying somewhere around the earth, probably looking for you."

We're on earth?

“We’re not stranded alone, Shockwave. We just need to find our way out of here.”

His antennas twiddle, processing your information. You look so blurry without his lens to refocus his vision, but the light from the half-broken controls behind you illuminates you in soft hues, giving you an ethereal glow. You are the only thing that has made him feel this awed in a long time, something that isn't science. He can feel your breaths, your chest expanding and contracting in between his fingers.

How… marvelous you are, this tiny living organic.

“Shockwave? Shockwave…? say something,” you urge, “w-we can fix you, right? Shockwave??”

Did you have to, now? He doesn’t want to do anything else other than hold you close. Just for a little longer.

His silence makes you presume the worse however, and you shake one of his fingers.

“Shockwave! D-don’t go offline, please? There… there must be something I can do, right?”

You still when the scientist starts to laugh, a deep, resounding chuckle that shook your entire body. It’s a strange sound, even to Shockwave’s own audials. He never laughs. But the fact that you thought that pitiful explosion was enough to kill him permanently, tickled him.

It’s sweet. Funny, but sweet.

He feels something wet on your cheek, and he deduces that your tears have overflown. Delicately, he wipes it with miniscule movements of his thumb. He doesn’t want to see you crying, even if he can’t see it in high resolution.

Besides, there isn’t much you could do to help him on your own, that’s Shockwave’s job… but something does come to mind.

“If we are on earth, then I assume we are on my off-site lab. I’ve ensured to have a spare lens in all my labs, after the… incident on Cybertron. You can access it with a function on the panel. It should be small enough for you to carry.”

You nod, shakily. “O… ok. I can do that.”

You move to stand up but are immediately yanked back. Shockwave’s sharp fingers shut around your body like a bear trap, restrained in his fist. You look back at him with alarm, and Shockwave can feel your racing heartbeat.

“Shockwave?”

…

“Don’t leave.”

Suddenly he can’t bare the thought of having you away from him. The idea of being alone on the ground again, unable to see you makes something in his spark react violently, and his fingers squeeze you.

He hears your breathing. Nervous. Scared, even.

“I-I’m. I’m not leaving,” you assure him. “I’m going to get your spare eye, like you said. Then we’re going to fix your eye.”

That is the necessary actions for Shockwave to recover. Yet he still finds himself hesitant.

Nonetheless, the Decepticon releases you from his grasp, and lowers his antennas (he didn’t even realize they’ve shot straight up.)

You walk to the control panel. The further you go, the blurrier your form becomes, the more you blend in with everything around you, and you were nothing more than a moving blob in his vision.

“Don’t go far.”

His voice was a mix between commanding and something like a frightened sparkling. It's a lot shaky than he would've liked. Normally he would’ve called it pathetic if he wasn’t so terrified in this moment.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. Your voice comes from the control panel, perhaps while you were finding a way to scale it.

He wasn’t asking for reassurance, but Shockwave finds himself reassured anyway. Your voice calms him down. You were further away from him so you had to raise your voice, but still it sounded small. Everything you did sounded small. It’s one of his favorite things about you. The sounds of struggle as you finally reach the top of the control panel, of your feet running on the keyboard. Even from here with his poor vision, he could see the big exaggerated movements you were doing with your body just to operate the control panel, things Shockwave could’ve done simply by reaching with his hand and tapping his fingers.

If he were human, he would describe you like a mouse running through his laboratory. It’s cute.

Finally, with a hiss, you open a drawer under the panels and with a huff, you pick up the lens. He can’t tell how you got up there or how you’re going to get down, but you manage to do the latter easier than the former. The sight of your form becoming more distinct and sharper in his vision thoroughly excites him, and his antennas involuntarily wiggle in delight. Before you even reach him, Shockwave already has his hand extended to you.

Want to touch.

It curls around you by the time you reach his face.

“Thank you.”

It was unnatural for him to show gratitude. No Decepticon does, not much. But he wants you to know he appreciates you. His pointer and middle fingers land on your head and give it a satisfying rub, messing your hair. It feels so nice to touch you.

“Shockwave, your eye,”

You weren’t referring to his lens in your hands. He'd took out its shattered remains while you were busy fetching him the new one (he didn’t want the shards to injure you when you came back.) You’re looking right into his eye, in its most vulnerable form. A soft red glow from within his naked optic.

“It blinks when you talk,”

“It does slightly. It’s too miniscule, the lens too opaque for others to observe under normal circumstances.”

You’re paused.

“I… um. Sorry if this sounds bad considering how your eye is broken, but. I think it’s kind of cute,”

His antennas jolt.

“When you laughed earlier it was extra bright.”

… The patterns across his frame glow brighter, much to his chagrin.

"Oh… your…" your hands run across the lines and shapes on his body, making him glow brighter and his spark to shudder. He doesn't remember it ever doing something like that before.

"Why is it glowing-?"

"Not vital to our current situation." He blurts.

"O-oh right, sorry about that," you sounded chastised. But in reality, Shockwave just doesn't want you to be aware of his embarassing attraction.

You hold his lens in front of him. "Tell me what to do."

You sound so sure of yourself, so ready to help him, when you could've left when you had the chance, leave him damaged. He takes the lens in between his fingers, keeping his pointed claws away from it.

"You have done enough." He says earnestly. "I will do the next part."

When it clicks into place in the hollow of his optic, you come into focus. He can finally see you with all the details he's missed. He can see the folds in your clothing, your fingers curled at the base of your thighs, all the shapes that make up your face. You're no longer crying, but your eyes are a little red.

It reminded him that he isn't dreaming. You really did stay for him.

You smile at him.

It gives him the strength to push his way out of the rubble. The rocks and boulders that covered him were as light as sand to him. Of course, it was nothing to him, but the thought of being left alone weighed him down heavier than a mountain. Your presence made him feel like a proper cybertronian tank.

Gingerly, he scoops you into his hand and walks to the sparking, flickering panel.

A few taps of his fingers proves that "the communication link is damaged."

Just as he suspected. But it doesn't give him the sense of dread he'd felt earlier.

"How about your internal ones?"

"I have tried. With our main communications broken, I can't grasp a stable signal." He explains, his antennas probing the air for one.

You tap your chin.

"We should try to get out of here. Maybe the cave being blocked is interferring with it. Will it work if we get out of here?"

The both of you look at the blocked entrance. Nothing too taxing for Shockwave.

His antennas perk joyfully; his isolation won't last long, and really isn't an isolation at all, with your company.

"How wonderfully logical, my dear human."

[inseobts]

Can we get a oneshot the strawhat crew members with a fem reader like the wrestler mizuki? She’s dresses super cutesy but can beat the crap out of her opponent’s without breaking a sweat!!

Sugarbomb Slam!

strawhat crew x fem!reader (platonic)

a/n: omg I honestly didn't know mizuki, so I did some research and watched many photos and video AND OMG SHE'S SO COOL, I love it!! I hope I made the fanfic right tho

words count: 1.3k

tags: platonic, comedy, action, fluff, deceptively cute but deadly

masterlist || ko-fi

The Sunny drifts lazily across a glittering sea, the air warm, the skies clear, too peaceful for pirates this chaotic.

“Oi, Luffy,” Usopp calls from the crow’s nest, peering through binoculars “There’s someone out there… on a floating bunny?”

“Bunny?!” Luffy rockets to the bow of the ship “Let’s go get ‘em!”

“Wait—what?!” Nami shouts, already steering toward the mystery raft.

Sanji’s a blur, heart practically launching from his chest “A ladyyy?! No time to waste!”

Zoro doesn’t move “Sounds like a headache already.”

Within minutes, the crew is gathered around as Franky hauls up the soft, oversized bunny-shaped float.

Perched neatly on top of it is you, sipping a juice box, your boots laced with pink ribbons and your outfit a burst of ruffles and pastel colors. You look more like a candy shop mascot than someone lost at sea.

“Hi!” you chirp, like this is the most normal situation in the world “Thanks for the lift. That whirlpool nearly trashed my hair.”

Luffy tilts his head “Who are you?”

“Y/N the disaster magnet, that’s how people call me” You grin, eyes sparkling “But I make up for it with a cool dropkick.”

Usopp snorts “Wait, you what?”

“Uh-huh.”

Brook tilts his skull “With all due respect, miss… you look more like you wrestle with fashion choices.”

You smile.

And then you casually grab Brook by the collar and flip him overhead. His skull clacks against the deck as he lands flat on his back.

“Respect is earned” you say sweetly, patting your skirt back into place.

The crew freezes.

“Whoa,” Chopper gasps “She didn’t even try…”

“That was… hot!” Sanji whispers, nosebleed creeping in.

Robin chuckles “She’s got flair.”

Franky grins “And moves.”

Luffy’s eyes sparkle “Join my crew!”

“Huh?” You blink “You just met me.”

“You’re strong, you’re cool, and you beat up the skeleton,” he shrugs “That’s good enough for me!”

“I don’t even know where you’re going.”

“Neither do we half the time” Usopp mutters.

You look around. Pirates, but not the burn-and-loot kind. They seem… fun. Maybe even your kind of crazy.

You stretch, cracking your neck “Alright. But only if I get to beat up the next idiot who tries anything funny.”

“Deal!” Luffy laughs.

Zoro closes his eyes “Why do I feel like this one’s gonna be worse than the cook?”

Later on, the Sunny docks at a sleepy little island, just a quick stop for supplies, snacks, and the kind of chaos that always seems to follow the Straw Hats.

You bounce lightly on your heels, hands behind your back. Your puffy boots squeak a little “Alright! Who wants to throw down? Just a little warm-up match!”

Zoro glances up from where he’s leaning against a tree “…Why?”

“Because I need to move or I’ll go insane!” you say brightly “Also, I wanna see what you guys can do. And maybe you’d like to see what I’m capable of doing as well.”

Luffy’s eyes light up “Ooooh! Fight! Yeah, let’s see what you got!”

Sanji steps forward, already loosening his tie “My lady, if it’s a match you want—”

Robin, lounging under an umbrella with a book, raises an eyebrow “You going to break your code for her, Sanji?”

He freezes “…Tch. Damn it.”

You grin “You can’t hit girls, huh?”

“I won’t hit girls,” he says, adjusting his collar “There’s a difference.”

“Well, I respect that.” You crack your knuckles “But I still need a volunteer.”

Usopp immediately points at Zoro “Why not him?”

Zoro scowls “Why me?”

“Because you’re the only one who won’t cry if she throws you through a wall” Nami says, sipping her drink.

You smile “Aw, come on, greenie. Scared I’ll mess up your hair?”

Zoro stands up slowly “Fine. Five minutes. But don’t expect me to go easy just because you’re wearing ribbons.”

“You’re sweet,” you say, taking your stance “But I wouldn’t want you to.”

Five minutes later the crew forms a loose circle around you and Zoro.

He cracks his neck “Last chance to back out.”

You tap your boots together and blow a bubblegum bubble “Nah. You’ll be fine.”

He rushes first… quick, but not reckless. He goes for a clean sweep at your legs.

You jump way higher than anyone expects, twist in mid-air, and come down hard on his shoulders, flipping him flat on his back with a move that should not be humanly possible.

WHAM.

Zoro blinks up at the sky “…The hell was that?”

“A headscissor takedown,” you say, offering a hand “With extra sparkle.”

Luffy howls “YOU’RE SO COOL!”

Chopper’s fur is bristling with excitement “Can she teach us everything?!”

Sanji, conflicted but heart-eyed, mutters, “I’m fine with being kicked if it’s her.”

Robin flips a page in her book “This trip just got more entertaining.”

Zoro accepts your hand, dusting himself off.

“Not bad, but you’re lucky I didn’t fight you with my swords.” he says.

You grin, brushing your skirt back into place “You’re not so bad yourself, greenie.”

Later on you all decide to stroll into the small, quiet island town.

Luffy’s chasing the smell of meat, Nami and Robin are window-shopping, and you’re just enjoying the breeze.

Everything’s peaceful, until a scream cuts through the air.

The crew halts. Your eyes snap toward a side alley.

“What was that?” Chopper asks, ears twitching.

You don’t wait for permission, you’re already sprinting.

You turn the corner just in time to see a woman shoved roughly to the ground by a man with a long coat and bounty tags clinking from his belt. Three others stand nearby, laughing.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” the leader sneers, grabbing the woman by the arm “We were just askin’ a question—”

CRACK.

He steps back, hand now twisted in your grip. You didn’t yell. You didn’t threaten. You just showed up.

Your voice is light “Leave her alone.”

The man snarls “Who the hell are you?”

You smile “Someone who really hates cowards like you and your friends.”

He pulls a knife “You wanna get cute, princess?”

You sigh, glance down at your frilly dress, then back up at him “Too late. I already am.”

Behind you, the rest of the crew rounds the corner.

“What’s going on?” Usopp pants.

The bounty hunters were circle you, laughing like they’ve already won.

You crack your neck and bounce once on your heels.

“Alright,” you say, smiling “Who wants to be first?”

Ten seconds later you launch forward and take the knife guy by the wrist, twist, and throw him overhead. He slams into the ground and doesn’t get up.

The others charge. Bad idea.

You spin into a high kick that flattens the second one against the wall.

The third swings a bat.

You duck, sweep his legs, grab him mid-fall and powerbomb him into the cobblestones.

The alley echoes with the sound of bones hitting stone.

Then silence.

You’re still smiling as you dust off your skirt “Anyone else wanna bully someone smaller than them?”

The first guy groans from the ground “What are you…”

You lean down, voice sweet “I’m Y/N.”

The Straw Hats stare, completely frozen.

Luffy’s mouth hangs open “That. Was. AWESOME.”

Chopper’s eyes sparkle “She was like—bam! And then—WHAM! And then the suplex—!”

Nami blinks “I knew she was strong, but—damn.”

Robin chuckles “She’s holding back more than I thought.”

Usopp points “She... she was faster than Sanji to react at that scream. And did you guys see that? She broke the ground!”

Sanji clutches his chest “She’s… so perfect…I am totally in love!”

Zoro grins for real this time “Alright. She’s one of us.”

You turn back to the woman, gently helping her up.

“Are you okay?” you ask softly, brushing dust from her dress.

She nods, eyes wide “T-Thank you…”

You smile again bright, gentle, sweet as sugar.

“Of course. Guys like that piss me off.”

You twirl back to your crewmates like nothing happened “So... lunch?”

[moonstruckme]

Using this request again: I am once again asking for Prince!Sirius, perhaps a tryst in the royal gardens? A stolen kiss while practicing a waltz? An eventful evening at the opera for the “engaged” couple? A midnight motorbike ride throughout the city, away from the palace guards? Sneaking out in the night to see each other?

Thanks for the double inspo babe ;)

cw: hint at abusive dynamic between Walburga and Sirius, arranged marriage

prince!Sirius x princess!reader ♡ 1.8k words

Sirius has grown really terribly fond of you. It’s been happening for a while. First you were a curiosity, then an amusement, and then somewhere along the way he came to care for you more than he should likely admit. 

You’re resplendent in the glow of the lights from the opera house stage, warm yellow kissing the curves of your face and reflecting in your pupils. Your gown spills half out of your chair and into Sirius’ lap, gentle blue like the twilight sky. It looks lovely on you. When you sat down, the skirt poofed out in front of you and you shot Sirius a look like are you seeing this?

Being seated next to you is, he has learned, a privilege of betrothal. Your engagement happened overnight, swift and unromantic. Sirius had simply woken up yesterday morning to be informed by his mother that he was to be married, presumably around the same time that a courtier or your grandmother was delivering the news to you. It was a bit surprising, though Sirius reminds himself continually that this is a part of the plan you and he made together all those weeks ago; it is possible, however, that in Sirius’ fanciful imaginings of how he might one day ask someone to spend the rest of their life with him, it did not involve his mother listing it off like one of the day’s appointments as she vengefully drew back his curtains. 

Your engagement was announced to the press by later that day. Tonight marks your first outing as a betrothed couple, the opera chosen specifically for its visibility and silent nature; you’re to be photographed, but not to chat to the press. Every now and again, Sirius will catch you rolling your shoulders like you’re being conscious of your posture. 

You lean close to him. “Can you understand what they’re saying?” you murmur. “It’s so slow.” 

Sirius has to cover his snicker by pretending he’s clearing his throat. “No, babe. It’s Italian, I can’t understand it either.” 

“Oh. Oops.” He glances over, and your expression has gone adorably sheepish. You look to be repressing a smile. “Don’t tell anyone I asked, then.” 

“Philistine.” He tugs playfully on the fabric of your skirt. “I’m leaking that to Bazaar.” 

You make a stymied giggling sound. Something flares in Sirius’ chest. “Hey, we’re engaged now. If I’m going down, I’m taking you with me.” 

Sirius grins. “Wouldn’t have it any other way, beautiful.” 

“Sirius,” his mother hisses. 

Your lips disappear inside your mouth. Sirius rolls his eyes but obeys the implicit command, going quiet again. He reaches for your hand underneath the armrest, squeezing. 

Now that your relationship is public, your families know better than to let you and Sirius slip from their sights. During intermission you’re both kept in your seats while attendants leave the box to replenish food and drink. You shift a little in your seat, smiling and nodding politely at comments about the performance. Sirius suspects the gauzy underskirts of your dress are bothering you. You rarely complain, but when prompted Sirius can usually coax you into admitting some discomfort or another. You seem never to get used to the threads and trimmings of royalty. He’d pay a handsome fortune to see what you used to wear in your day-to-day life. Occasionally seeing you in your sleep clothes is treat enough; if he let his mind roam free, Sirius might indulge in fantasies of cutoff shorts, sweaters with threads pulled loose by age, thrift store sundresses and grass-stained trainers. 

You tap Sirius’ hand meaningfully before asking your grandmother to point you toward the facilities. The lights are down again, the press gone back to the foyer, so you’re waved off with no courtiers to follow you. Sirius waits a few minutes before saying he needs them as well. His mother snatches his wrist as he stands, but he’s made his announcement just loudly enough to be overheard; she can’t avoid letting him leave, though she makes sure to pin him with a baleful stare as he does. 

He finds you in a sitting area nowhere near the facilities, leaning against a wall with your lip caught between your teeth. You free it when you see Sirius, pushing off the wall to come towards him. 

“Hi,” you sigh, hugging him. 

Sirius enfolds you in turn. “Hi,” he says back, strangely breathless. It’s not unheard of for you to touch him, but to put your arms around him so unthinkingly, like you’ve been waiting all day to do it…Sirius wouldn’t have guessed such a gentle motion could knock the air out of him so entirely. He’d happily never breathe again. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Sorry.” Your hold tightens on his shoulders for a moment before you let go. “It’s just a lot.” 

“Is your skirt irritating you?” He grins. You mirror it, and Sirius watches with approval as some of the tension in your posture uncoils. 

“How’d you know?” you ask, something soft and almost coquettish in your tone.

“You’ve been squirming like someone let a colony of ants loose under there.” 

Your face becomes serious. “Really?” 

“No. You’re the picture of poise and good manners, I just have an eye for itchy formal wear. Stop worrying, sweetheart; the camera loves you.” 

“My grandmother said someone released a picture of me last week where I looked like a hunched-over tortoise.” 

“Well, your grandmother—and I say this at risk of a war between our nations—is a dunce.” 

There it is again. Laughter like fireworks popping in Sirius’ chest, hidden regrettably behind a raised hand. Your eyes are all impish delight. 

“You’re awful.” 

“You’re not a tortoise. It would be the flattery of a tortoise’s life to be compared to you.” 

“Isn’t it just…” You shake your head, expression unguarded in that way Sirius loves to think only happens around him. “Don’t you find all this engagement stuff a bit much?” 

He feels himself frown. “You’re upset about the engagement?” 

“Aren’t you?” 

“I thought,” Sirius says, somewhat offended though endeavoring not to be, “this was what we wanted.” 

“No, I know.” You blow out a breath. “I know. I just wasn’t expecting it to happen this fast, I suppose. Have they started talking to you about venues for the wedding yet?” 

Sirius lifts a brow. “No. Those sorts of decisions typically go through my mother, not me.” 

“Well, they’ve been talking to me about it.” You begin pacing, the layers of your dress swishing with every step. Sirius finds himself watching your restless hands. “Apparently, every member of my family has gotten married in the same church, but every member of your family has gotten married in a different church, and it’s only recently been brought to everyone’s attention that the members of both churches have been involved in some suspicious activities over the years. So now our advisors want to pick a new location, but your family wants to stick to tradition.” 

“Rather predictable of us,” Sirius owns.

“I’ve already had people asking me about floral color schemes. I don’t even recognize half the words they threw at me there.” You go by him once, twice, three times, your pace quickening with what Sirius presumes is the quickening of your heartbeat. “They want me to get allergy tested to be sure I won’t cause some sort of unexpected scene because of anything they serve at the reception. And—oh, I don’t know if you know, but we’re meant to taste cakes on Tuesday.” 

“That sounds fun,” Sirius says. “I rather hope I’m invited to that one, actually.” 

“It’s—yeah, that one does sound fun,” you allow, steps faltering slightly. “If we could just taste cakes, there really wouldn’t be any problem, but it’s not just that, you know? I’m supposed to start looking for a wedding dress soon.” 

“Alright. Hey.” Sirius catches your arm before you can pass him by again. You stop, looking down as though surprised to see his fingers denting gently into the crook of your elbow. He doesn’t let go. “Sweetheart, we can call it off. Okay? It’s alright.” 

You look confused. “Call off what, the engagement?” 

He nods. “We were never going to see it all the way through, right? We can end it whenever you like. Right now, if you want.” 

“I…” Your eyes move over his face. Sirius looks right back at you. “I don’t want that.” 

It’s absurd, the relief that washes through him. Sirius has a horrible feeling that he is setting himself up to be so, so heartsick. 

“No?” he asks, just to be sure. 

You shake your head. “I’m just…I’ll get used to it.” Your fingers find the end of his tie, toying with the silky material. “What about you? How are you doing with it all?” 

Sirius smiles. “There are worse fates than to be betrothed to a beautiful girl.” 

You get that look you do whenever he compliments you. Gaze fleeing his, lips curving bashfully, like they’re not sure if they’re allowed. “You don’t need to flirt with me,” you say. “We’re alone.” 

“Oh, but I love flirting with you,” he confesses. “Would you really deny me one of my scant joys in life?” 

Your eyes flick up to his, mirthful. “Your scant joys? The palace staff had out-of-season oranges sent from Brazil last week because you wanted an orange cake.” 

Sirius shrugs. 

“I’m just saying. There’s no one around to hear it.” 

“Lovely, I’ve been flirting with you since the moment we met.” He sweeps his thumb over the back of your arm, partly to tease you and partly just because he wants to. He pretends not to feel the goosebumps that rise from the action. “I’m not sure I could stop if I wanted to—or if you’d even recognize me. You might not like me without my flirting, did you ever think of that?” 

“I’d like you,” you say. Simply, unhesitatingly. 

“I suppose we’ll never know.” 

You shake your head again, your expression earnest. “I would.” 

Sirius’ heart thudders. He is suddenly, inescapably aware of the thickness of the air between you. It’s lessened in distance, somehow, heavying from your warm breaths and the heat of your bodies. His hand is still curled around your elbow. You have his tie between your fingers. Without thinking, Sirius closes the gap. 

You draw in a little breath. Your lips are soft and giving, and Sirius is terrified of you, he really is. You have his heart in the palm of your hand. 

When you don’t move after a moment, he draws back, his hand slipping down your forearm. Rejection is hot and sharp as a fire poker between his ribs.

He opens his eyes to find yours never closed. 

“I—” 

“Wait.” Your hand tightens on his tie, the other gripping his arm back. Your chin tips up, and your voice is breathless, ardent, pleading. “Sirius—” 

You push up at the same time as he pushes down, and your mouths crash together. 

[clarkeysbedchem]

d.i.l.f

will lenney x fem reader

summary: your son comes home with some interesting news about will after the school run.

masterlist | main masterlist

You were lying on the sofa with yours and Will’s six-month-old baby girl, Matilda (or Tilly for short), babbling away on your chest, chewing on a teething toy as you nodded along to her noises, pretending to make clueless conversation with the baby.

Will had gone to do the school run to pick up your eldest, Noah, who had just started nursery - something he did every day while you did the drop-offs.

You gasped at Tilly’s cooing, leaning into the moment like you were gossiping with a friend. You made her head bob with the sounds, and the teething toy slapped against your chest, making you grimace as the slobber covered your chest. “Oh, thank you, sweet girl,” you said, wiping your chest with a muslin cloth and placing a soft kiss on the top of her head.

“You want this back?” you asked, offering her the blue teething toy as she reached out to grab it. “Well done!”

The sound of the front door clicking open made a smile spread across your face. You scooped Tilly up to sit her straight, preparing for the impending tackle from your three-year-old.

The uncoordinated running of little feet filled the house, followed by Will’s familiar protests to take off shoes. 'Mummy!' Noah’s voice echoed through the house, and your heart melted.

“Hi, baby!” you greeted, opening your free arm for him to climb into your hold while balancing Tilly on your side. “How was school?”

“So fun! I painted, I played with friends,” Noah replied enthusiastically.

He buried his face into your hip as he recounted his day at nursery. Will walked into the room, his face lit with a smile as he looked at his little family with pride.

Noah suddenly sat up straight with a serious look on his face. “Guess what, mummy?”

“What, sweetie?”

Will took a seat next to you, gently transferring Tilly into his arms. He kissed the top of her head, causing her to squeal before she snuggled under his chin.

“Daddy got called han’some,” Noah stated matter-of-factly, making you glance at Will in amusement. He avoided your gaze, his face flushed with a sheepish smile.

“Did he?”

Noah nodded, humphing as he climbed onto your lap, tugging lightly at your hair. “Yeah, by Wes’ mummy.”

“By Wes’ mummy? Really?” you questioned, raising an eyebrow. Will cleared his throat awkwardly, glancing at the floor.

“What did daddy say to Wes’ mummy?”

Will rose from the sofa, lifting a sleeping Tilly into his arms as he carefully walked her to the travel cot beside the coffee table, planting a soft kiss on her forehead as he placed her down gently - clearly trying to escape the conversation.

“Tank you. My wife thinks so too.”

“Why don’t you go play while mummy and daddy make dinner hm?” You ushered your son off your lap with a soft tap on his hip, and he ran to his playroom excitedly.

A laugh escaped your lips as you turned to face your husband. His face was now bright red.

“You cocky bastard.” You shook your head in disbelief. “Did you really say that?”

“Well, obviously,” he shrugged nonchalantly. “You do think I’m handsome, so I weren’t lying.”

You rolled your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “You’re very lucky that it’s true, Mr. Lenney, and that I love you.” Your hands cupped his jaw, turning his face gently toward you as your fingers traced circles over his pale skin.

Will’s eyes never left yours, a soft intensity in them as he studied the features of your face - the ones he fell in love with so many years ago and has continued to fall in love with every day since.

“I was going to tell you.”

“Will, I don’t care,” you chuckled. “I’m the one you come home to at the end of the day.”

A smile broke out on his face as he leaned into your touch. “I love you.”

“I know,” you replied with a playful smirk, making him shoot up from his peaceful position on the sofa.

“I love you too,” you murmured, he tackled you into his arms, pulling you onto his lap.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispered, holding you tightly as you giggled to yourself.

You leaned down, pressing your lips to his in a soft kiss. Will melted into you, his warm hands trailing up under your sports bra.

You pulled back with a teasing smile. “Stop it.”

He held his hands up in mock surrender. “Can’t blame a man for trying.”

You stood up, glancing over your shoulder as his eyes followed you. “Later,” you teased.

“That better be a promise, missy.”

You turned your head just enough to catch the look on Will’s face - smug, hopeful, and utterly besotted.

“Depends how well you help with dinner,” you said over your shoulder, smirking as you wandered into the kitchen. You could hear the familiar creak of the sofa as he stood, followed by the quiet thud of his footsteps trailing behind you.

“Are you bribing me with affection to get out of chopping onions?”

“Maybe.” You grabbed the chopping board, sliding a few vegetables toward him. “Besides, I distinctly remember promising later, not never.”

Will stepped behind you, arms snaking around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “Then I’d better earn it.”

You hummed softly, leaning into him just for a second before nudging him away with your hip. “You’re not getting out of helping. Baby monitor’s right there. Let’s see if we can make it through dinner without waking the baby or setting off the fire alarm.”

As Will began slicing with exaggerated care - tongue poking out in mock concentration - you glanced toward the living room where Noah’s happy chatter floated in from the playroom. Tilly stirred briefly in the travel cot but settled again, her tiny chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm.

The house smelled like garlic and warmth, filled with the kind of background noise only families produce - chopping, humming, little footsteps, soft baby breaths.

Will leaned over suddenly, brushing his lips against your cheek. “You know,” he murmured, “I never imagined I’d get so lucky. You, the kids... this.”

You turned to face him fully, fingers still holding the wooden spoon. “This is the dream, right?”

“The absolute dream,” he said, pulling you closer again. “But I still expect to cash in on that promise.”

You laughed, head falling against his chest. “I’m counting on it.”

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