#*points towards an oil slick*

[randombush3]

(extremely talented, creative) stalker

alexia putellas x reader

based on this and a poem from when i was little. i chose alexia because she fit the character more and i rushed this immensely because i was being pestered for attention by multiple creatures. oh and i went for something decently light-hearted bc these hozier fics have been affecting my soul and ruining my spotify daylists.

happy monday people x

p.s. not proof-read because it's lunchtime and i'm hungry (edit: i just did my proof-read now and i've realised that it was in fact not lunchtime??? it was past lunchtime and i was just zoned out!)

Alexia doesn’t care much for art. Sure, she admires the effort, the time such talent sits behind a canvas and marks something that was once blank until others begin to value it. She agrees with the masses about the beauty of quaint watercolour paintings of the coast, and she lets Mapi rave about charcoal and graphite and oils as if she understands what is so special about the varying media. 

She knows she is only here today because the art is about sports. The gallery seems almost reluctant to allow the athletes in, worried they have brought with them their football boots and cones to dribble around, but it would be bad practice to prohibit the muses from the collection. She isn’t an idiot, though, and she knows that no amount of forced reading about the artist and other sophisticated matters will slip her seamlessly into the crowd. 

There are lots of people; people she has never heard of, but make it clear they are far superior to her by the way in which their eyes politely drop to the tattoos inked onto her calloused hands. Their skin is soft, accustomed to the stems of crystal champagne flutes, and the drawings that hold so much personal meaning to the footballer are scrutinised to the point of silent… offence.  

So much for appreciators of art, she thinks to herself, counting down the minutes until it is acceptable for her to leave. 

With a huff and a vow to never – no matter how much she earns – forget where she has come from, Alexia staggers, uncomfortable in these particular heels, towards the painting she deems easiest to understand. 

It is the largest in the room: deep, crimson reds on top of familiar greens, streaks of gold falling out of a ponytail. 

Call Alexia egotistical, but anyone would be drawn to a painting of themselves. 

The artist has done a good job, she guesses, not entirely sure if there is a deeper meaning behind the grass stains on her socks or the crumpled shading of her Spain jersey. It is a little creepy that someone she does not know has captured her likeness so expertly, so practised. 

“The nose isn’t quite right,” a voice says beside her. 

Alexia turns in surprise, amused enough by the stranger’s observation to examine her painted face, eyes not drawn from how majestic her image is beginning to seem. She sees no obvious issue, and so she replies, “I think it’s fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

She is still staring at herself, now impressed by the grandeur of the painting; its size, its quality. “Well, I am unsure how someone painted me so accurately when I was never called in for a… I don’t know, a consultation? And it seems a little weird to me that my hair is loose, because I tend to slick it back so it doesn’t fall out of my ponytail, and, you know, I always have something written on my boots, but otherwise, it’s fine. I doubt anyone here has ever watched a football match, so none of this will matter to them.” 

“It doesn’t bother you that someone might pay millions for a painting that you have deemed not-quite-right?” 

The voice is somewhat too interested, and suddenly Alexia swivels around to face its owner properly, worried she has spoken her mind to a journalist. 

“Those millions go to a charity that will improve women’s sports every–” 

You are definitely not a journalist, although once, when art really wasn’t paying, you had off-handedly typed out a few articles for one of the bigger galleries. 

Alexia knows you are not a journalist because you are dressed to be in front of the cameras, not behind them. 

Your hands hang by your sides, but in a rather unnatural manner as though you are itching to do something else, and she is briefly overcome by the horror that you seem elegant enough to be a potential buyer. Has she put you off? 

“Oh,” you interrupt, “don’t be so profound. Sometimes you footballers sound like change-making machines.” 

“There is change to be made,” she responds indignantly. 

“Hence the exhibition,” you allow with a little smirk, nodding towards the rest of the room. Although the biggest of the collection, you had asked for your painting to be displayed in the corner; a filter, in a sense, to ensure no one throws money at the largest thing in the room just because they can. “It creeps you out to be painted?” 

The question is curious, but Alexia no longer feels like she has been caged in an interrogation room. 

She thinks about her answer for a moment, torn between returning to gaze at the expanse of the scene in front of her or staring at you, wondering if you count as one of the works of art on display. 

“I have never met the artist,” she explains neutrally. You laugh, and it sounds infused with champagne and nervousness. “What? It’s like having a stalker. An extremely talented, creative stalker, but someone who studies me in secret nonetheless.” 

“No, I understand. She must have researched you until the ends of the Earth.” 

“The artist is a woman?” She isn’t sure she is surprised, but she asks you anyway, wanting to anchor you to the spot. 

“Alexia, this is an exhibition for women’s sports.” Your point is valid, but you have said her name and she is far more intrigued by the way that had sounded to praise you for your intelligence. You let out an airy breath and click your tongue. “I’d even say, given by the way she has painted you from the back, that the artist fancies you.”

“It’s the squats,” she easily replies with a giggle. “Who is the artist?” 

You take a step towards her, the sharp points of your heels clacking against the concrete floor. She follows your index finger to the white plaque beside the canvas, reading the name written in small, black letters. 

“I haven’t heard of her.” 

Alexia sounds so thoughtful that you have to hide your smile behind your palm, coughing to provide an excuse for the action. 

“Because you’ve heard of quite a few artists, haven’t you?” 

“I know the main four.” 

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” 

“No.” 

Again, you laugh, and it is melodious and rich and Alexia wants to hear it for the rest of her life. Which is not normal, she tells herself, because you are some loaded stranger and she is only here for another hour before she can escape back to the pitch and her teammates who like her tattoos and admire her and respect her hard work without seeing her as some tacky social-climber who scrounged an invite to an area of society where she is institutionally unwanted. 

“Picasso,” she then offers, rather petulantly, looking at you with a childish frown. In her head, she estimates the distance between your bodies, noticing how you have not returned to your original position. 

“Ah, well done. He’s quite niche.” She doesn’t appreciate the teasing, and so she steps sideways to… put a stop to it somehow. Obviously, the plan had never truly been formulated, and it comes across as a half-lunge to push you away, but then you are swinging your arms as though the conversation is boring you and she desperately wishes you’d stay put. 

“What do you think about the painting?��� she fires into the shortened space between you, the question wrapping around you like a rope that ties you to the spot. 

“It’s boring.” She scoffs, because after all, it is a painting of her. “The poor artist must have been tortured by the task, having to force her eyes to stay open while watching football matches.” 

And if Alexia were not so distracted by the way your swinging hand has begun to brush against her own, she would probably catch you out there and then. 

(But your touch is electric and she is otherwise engaged.) 

“Like, come on, can’t the sports photographers just get their pictures blown up? No one needs such an outrageously huge portrait of Alexia Putellas in their home, or stadium, or whatever. I reckon the artist is now regretting the angle she painted from, anyway, in case some pervert with more money than sense bids for it and hangs it up in his bedroom.” 

“Bedroom?”

The tips of Alexia’s ears go red, a stark contrast to the expensive silver hoops she sports, and you stop your fidgeting, hand resting on top of hers – perhaps unintentionally – as her misunderstanding wedges an awkward pause into the middle of your rant. 

“Sorry,” you apologise, “that was probably not the best thing to say, considering it’s a painting of you.” 

Alexia runs through what you have said, hoping her subconscious has caught it while her mind was preoccupied with what your sexual orientation might be. “Why have you come here if you are so against the principle of it?” 

“I was required to,” you explain, through half-gritted teeth and a jaw that tenses with leftover annoyance from a conversation you had with the coordinator. 

Seizing the opportunity to get a humorous punch back, Alexia quickly fumbles out a, “someone’s important.” 

She’d celebrate her victory over you, the way you blush in embarrassment, if you hadn’t started anxiously playing with her fingers. Suddenly, the air that bridges the gap between you is set alight and Alexia stares at where you are connected. 

You hastily pull away. “Sorry,” you say for a second time. “I have to sell this, and I’m nervous.” 

“Sell wh– The painting?” 

“No, Alexia, I’ve been sent by Real Madrid to hold you hostage so I have to sell this act.” Briefly, fear washes over the footballer’s face, tanned skin paling at the idea that you have a weapon concealed in the satin folds of your dress. Then, your hand makes a decisive movement and your fingers are intertwining with hers before she can run to safety. “I thought it was best to lure you in by flirting with you.” 

“You’ve been… flirting with me?” 

“God, imagine if I actually were here to kidnap you.” You hold up your joined hands so that she can see for herself. “Is your weakness women who bully you?” 

She blushes again, unsure how to handle what you have insinuated. 

Alexia grasps onto what little dignity remains and straightens herself, shoulders rolling back as she emulates the confidence she has been painted with. “Only pretty women,” she drawls. 

She is about to use whichever line appears in her mind first, completely unashamed by it because she has guessed you would tease her no matter what leaves her mouth, but some evil, cruel person clinks a small fork against their glass, clearing their throat, and your hands quickly return to your body, your attention drawn away from the conversation. 

“Thank you all for coming,” announces the event coordinator, clearly gearing up for a speech. “There will be time for more chatting later, but I cannot resist showing off our most talented artist any longer.” 

You roll your eyes. The expression is directed at Alexia, who chuckles privately, sunshine blooming in her chest that you have spared a silent comment just for her. 

“Y/n, darling, where are you?” 

An authoritative gaze searches through the crowd and lands on you.

The dots connect, Alexia begins to feel like an idiot, and you are sashaying away before she can ask you to stay.

[ddejavvu]

I need anakin to bend me in half, my legs over his shoulders with his hands intertwined above my head to hold me in place and rabbit fuck me until he fills me up with his seed and holds me upside so not a drop spills then do it all over again the next morning. and then pulls up my panties, pats my clothed pussy and tells me to go on with my day with all his cum snug inside me🧎‍♀️

keep the anakin thoughts coming please <3 just like he'd keep me comi- [gunshots]

this post is 18+, minors dni.

the part about- the- the part about... patting it. like a little reward. please i'm convulsing i need him so carnally

he spends a fair amount of time in the morning loving on you, because he's been touch/love deprived all his life and he's enamored with the concept of just being with you. But he's like a leech, and more often than not, when he gets his hands on you, he's gonna latch on and suck and take take take take take from you, so having your knees over his shoulders just becomes a regular morning routine for the two of you.

it's really very casual, too. that's not to say it lacks passion, because anakin is passion in human form, and it would be impossible for him to do anything without an underlying current of it running through his veins like scorching oil, fueling his every move. but it's routine, it's usual, it's expected.

all he has to do is tilt his head up, chin pointed towards the bedpost, and you know to wrap your hands around it and hold on for dear life. he doesn't even need to say it anymore, but sometimes a sleep-thickened, groggy 'bedpost' will fill the anticipatory silence that your blearily buzzing bodies exude.

he is a pussy !! eater !! if you're not already slick and wet and begging for his cock from whatever varying degree of foreplay he'd managed in his freshly awake state, he parts your thighs with an easy wedge of his hands and buries his face in your cunt to say good morning. he probably talks to it too, squishing his nose up against the underside of the hood of your clit and offering a murmured 'morning' to your pussy. he likes when it elicits a response, a shudder of your spine, a fluttering clench around the slack ring of his lips, and he's more than happy to tongue-fuck you open in preparation for his cock. he's rutting it against the bed, ignoring the squished discomfort in search of stimulation that you can give him so much better.

he eats you out the same way he kisses you; a confident, probing tongue and a lot of spit. so much, in fact, that you can't tell what of the foamy residue he sucks up and spits back out onto your cunt is your own juices, or his. but it's wet, disgustingly so, and it's enough lubrication to aid in his master plan.

once you're sufficiently wet and ready, he doesn't hold back. he's been grinding against the stiff mattress for too long to take it slow, once the crown of his cock breaches your eager hole he's blacking out and going all in. his hips start at a jackrabbit's pace instantly and don't slow until he's pulling out of you, a relentless rhythm that you're always woefully unprepared for in the early morning.

you always cry out things like 'ah! anakin!' or 'easy- gentle! please, ani' you sob with tears brimming in your sleepy eyes as you grip at his cheeks, trying to tame whatever wild beast has him in its clutches while your cunt sucks him in, 'easy, baby, please.'

you're lucky you can use your hands, too. because he used to restrain them with the force, something that anakin knows obi-wan would be satisfyingly disapproving of if he ever found out. but once you'd learned to keep them around the headboard, you'd been permitted to hold them there yourself, and you can get away with touching his face or clawing at his back. as long as you don't use them to shift your weight somewhere, or touch your clit, or anything that he can handle. your legs burn as he's thrown them over his shoulders but don't move them, he wants them there.

anakin's a voracious kisser, licking your mouth out and providing it with an abundance of saliva and the residue of your own wetness. it's another hole he can fuck, his tongue prodding at the suction of your throat like his dick does to your cunt. he likes making you gag on it, sticking his tongue so far down your throat that you choke. all the while his drool is leaking into your mouth, pooling and swirling obscenely with your own, and making his cock twitch inside of your sloppy cunt.

he's very vocal during sex, but sometimes the morning sleepiness still has its clutches on him, and he's not very verbal. typically, though, he's grunting and groaning at every thrust, his mouth squelching as his tongue slides wetly against your own and his pornographic growls flowing straight down your throat and to your core.

He always holds himself back from cumming until after you have, maybe because he revels in how sensitive you get while he's still pumping his cock into you like you haven't just finished and spasmed around him. he usually spills warm, thick loads of cum into you not long after you work through your own orgasm, the feeling of your climax pushing him to his own.

but he doesn't slump down onto you, he doesn't roll over, he doesn't go fetch a washcloth, no. he slides his strong hands under your hips, one flesh and one durasteel, and lifts your hips off of the mattress, folding your stomach in half and keeping your cunt elevated.

His seed spills obscenely from its clutches but he prods at it with sloppy, haphazard fingers and licks them clean once it's no longer spilling outside of you. he wants it to sink into you, he wants it to take and be trapped in your cunt for the entire day. he knows gravity isn't on his side in that wish, but he dips down to nudge and kiss it between your puffy lips, tasting it on his tongue as he pushes it further into your sex.

when he's satisfied with its placement, he takes your underwear, sliding it over your ankles and hiking it up to your waist. it takes a little maneuvering to secure it under your ass, but once it's there he pats over your now-clothed, still filthy pussy, offering up an appreciative, 'good job, angel'. you can't tell if he's talking to you or your pussy but your brain is simultaneously exhausted and on fire at the same time, so you let him get up and shower for the morning while you recover beneath the bedsheets. when he leaves for his duties he drops a kiss to your lips, much more chaste and quick than it had been before, and tells you to have a good day, pretty girl.'

and that's it.

like he hadn't just fucked you raw and rough into the mattress. like your hands don't have imprints of the bedpost on them.

'have a good day, pretty girl.'

[blackleatherjacketz]

If you are taking reqs for fics, you should totally do one where reader is sore from training or something else(😏) and Miguel offers to massage readers legs, in which turns into him eating reader out!

Miguel O'Hara x Female Reader

Summary: Miguel insists on helping you stretch out your hamstrings.

Warnings: 18+ Only!, Explicit Smut, Mature Content, Mutual Pining, Sassy Miguel, Persuasion, Power Dynamics, Dom Miguel, Touch-Starved Reader, Avoidant Reader, Thigh Stretching, Thigh Riding, Thigh Kissing, Vaginal Fingering, Cunnilingus, Miguel Using His Nose *Creatively*

Word Count: 1.7k

Notes: I hope you like this, Nonny! It got a way from me a bit:)

Read my other MIGUEL stories!

“You’re doing it wrong.” His voice is slick like oil as it spreads through the air and into your ears, coating you in its deliciously dark warmth as he approaches you from behind.

“Oh really?” You keep your palms pressed against the wall as that warmth intensifies, stretching the muscles in your calf as you feel the heat from his breath reach the back of your neck. “How so?”

“You’ve been groaning every time you stand up from your chair.” The weight of the mat beneath your feet shifts and bends with each step he takes toward you until he stops just a few inches short, inhaling a little longer than normal before speaking again. “That stretch isn’t going to help your hamstrings any.”

“No?” You keep your back to him, switching legs before continuing your usual stretches to ease your well-earned muscle pain. “Maybe my calves hurt, did you ever think about that?”

“I can help with those, too.” That dark, inky tambre oozes itself around your body, dripping down your torso and into your core as his words blow a few strands of hair away from your shoulder.

It’s only a matter of seconds now before he touches you, before that black abyss takes you under completely; rendering you helpless against his charm that you’ve been trying to ignore these past few weeks. Those innocent looks he stole from you across the room had quickly morphed into longing gazes that kept you up at night, spurning a fire inside that could only be stoked by one thing. You wonder if being submerged in this desire with him is something that could put this flame out for good; or if succumbing to your primal urges would only ignite this chemical reaction into a combustion impossible to recover from.

“By mansplaining my own stretches to me?” You bring yourself out of your own head and lean further into the wall, extending your muscle in a slow, aching release as he stands still behind you.

“I’m not…” he trails off, backing away only slightly. “I’m not mansplaining.”

“Really?” You finally turn to face him and notice that instead of his usual red and blue suit, he’s wearing shorts and a tank top to match your own. A fresh stain of sweat dampens the worn down collar that stretches across his muscular chest, testing your resolve even further as you try to keep your cool with a casual wink. “What would you call it then, huh?”

You turn to walk away from him, stopping only as he instinctively grabs hold of your arm in a quick attempt to keep you near. He steals another glance, stalling your departure with a gentle tug back in his direction, only this one lasts a little longer than those before it. This one allows you to see the varying colors of red, brown and black in his eyes as they carefully study your face, matching the color of that dark, salacious fluid that reaches the very tips of your toes and glues your feet to the ground.

Uh oh.

Now you’re sinking.

“You’re touching me,” you point out, glancing down at his hand before looking back up at his gorgeous face.

“Do you want me to stop?” The boldness of his question forces you to inhale as his fingers encircle your wrist, his calloused fingertips sending a rush of warmth up your arm as they gently pull you in even closer.

Well, do you?

“No,” you whisper, barely able to recognize your own voice as the word allows him to trace his way up your forearm. “No, I don’t,” you clarify.

“Then what do you want?” He asks again, his voice dropping an octave as it vibrates in his chest.

You shiver in silence as his thumb nestles into the crook of your arm, grazing back and forth over its delicate skin like a pendulum, raising the tiny hairs on your skin as he awaits your answer. His lips are closer than they’d ever been before, full and parted as you allow him to alter your center of gravity with another gentle pull. You’re close enough now to smell his sweat as it mixes in with the sandalwood of his cologne, that intoxicating concoction making it that much harder for you to resist sinking down any further.

“I want you to touch me.” You finally give in, figuring you have nothing left to lose with his breath now hot on your cheek. “I want you to keep touching me.”

“Good,” he smirks as if that’s all he’s been waiting for, nodding his head toward the space behind you. “Now get on the mat, flat on your back.”

Like one of his new recruits you follow his orders blindly, surrendering to this inevitable seduction as you cautiously lay down at his feet.

“Now, I know you’re allergic to accepting help from anyone else, but you’re holding back when you stretch, you know that?” He wastes no time in taking your foot into his hand before pushing your leg up toward you, straightening it out just enough to make you wince. “That’s why you’re still groaning every time you stand up.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right,” you laugh, trying to ignore his pelvis as it presses against you, stretching your inner thigh out even more than you were capable of doing by yourself. You groan again as he pushes your body to its limit, his palm snug against your calf as he extends it up to the level of your head, pinning your opposite thigh in place with his hip. You hiss as a sharp pain quickly follows, shooting its way up the synapses of your largest muscle as he continues to splay you apart.

“Miguel,” you stifle a whimper as he grins, a glint of his fangs showing as that pain burns its way through the rest of that muscle group.

“Oh, it��s gonna hurt before it feels better, mami,” he goads, stretching you out even further as his pelvis grinds against yours, the evidence of his arousal more than damning.

“I know, I just…” You pause as the expression on his chiseled features changes from playful to knowing, his endlessly dark eyes glancing down at your junction before looking back up at your face.

“You’re soaking wet.” He keeps his hand on your leg while snaking the other between you two, testing the polyester layer of your shorts for the moisture that you both know is there.

Words fail as your jaw falls open in disbelief, that smug look on his face interrupted only by a strand of hair falling in front of his eyes as he touches you.

“I know you’ve been trying to hide it for as long as you can, mami.” He rubs your swollen lips up and down over the cloth, forcing that all encompassing heat to burn like molten hot lava deep inside your core. “But I can smell it on you the second you walk into a room; the change in your hormones, the sweetness of your sweat, and even this.”

You moan pathetically as he pulls your shorts to the side, sliding his fingers beneath them to collect your juices and spread them up and down your length. “No panties either, huh? Turns out I was right about you.”

“Jesus, Miguel,” you plead, grasping onto his forearm just to make sure that he stays close enough to keep kindling your flame.

“Your body’s never gonna lie to me about what it wants.” He leans down and pushes his fingers inside of you, grinning against your ear as you nod helplessly in agreement. “No matter how hard you fucking try.”

He presses his thumb against your clit while kissing his way down your neck, shoulder and knee as he continues to hold your leg in its prolonged stretch. His hungry lips leave a delicious trail down the bottom of your thigh that grows more sensitive as he thrusts his fingers in and out of your burning desire with such delicate ease only he could bring forth.

“There’s no way you’re gonna relax enough for this stretch to work,” he teases. “Not like this, anyways.”

He kisses the skin around your hips, releasing his grip on your leg just enough to let it fall onto his shoulder as he lowers himself down your body. “Now, if only there was a way I could get you to relax...” He looks up at you with nearly blackened eyes, reminding you of that onyx slick as it mixes with the sparks and embers his fingers send into your core before he licks a stripe up your dripping wet center.

Without another word, he parts your folds with his nose before tasting your inner layer, savoring the mere taste of your scent as he rubs his face all over it like a warrior with his paint. He allows himself to get lost in your unique flavor, marking himself with your sex as he all but forgets to hold onto your thigh as his tongue traces over every inch of your lower lips. His mouth encompasses you entirely as his fingers continue to work inside you, pumping spark after spark of pleasure up into the molten core of your body before drenching your swollen bud in his sensual spit.

You find yourself running your fingers through his auburn locks as he takes your clit between his teeth, licking and sucking on it with eyes fixated only on you as your hips rock in tandem with the rhythm of his wrist. His fingers pound deep inside you as he hums against your bud, brushing against that bundle of nerves until that flame inside you finally bursts into an eruption of ecstasy you’d never even thought possible. Every nerve in your body ignites in a series of blissful explosions, catching fire the more he devours your raw flesh until you’re crying out and violently shaking beneath him, completely combusted.

That pain in your thigh seems to disappear entirely as a healing wave of warmth coats your skin and muscles, vibrating in your bones as he moans his approval into your well spent sex with one last lick.

“I think that oughta do it.”

[shotmrmiller]

@magicislikelove said pathetic!simon with single mom reader.

pathetic!simon sees you the first time when you move in, dragging a heavy box through to your door, and he is enthralled.

he also doesn't move to help you because the grunts that escape your lips from the effort set his loins ablaze.

your flushed skin glistening with sweat— a rosy hue across your face, perspiration dripping from your temple down to your chin, where it collects like dew drops. (he wonders if you taste like brine, or sweet like golden wheat)

the swell of your soft hips peeking from under your damp shirt that rides up whenever you bend down to get a good grip on the edges of the cardboard box. (he wishes those dainty fingers would caress his scarred back, leaving trails of red in their wake)

every noise that spills from your bow-shaped lips the color of petals sends a lick of pleasure up his spine, white-hot and agonizing. (what he wouldn't do for you to spit into his mouth, or maybe just on him altogether and make him clean it up)

he watches you raise your arms to pull your sweaty hair away from your face with delicate hands— slender, fragile wrists twisting it into a makeshift sloppy bun. (would you tug on his hair like that? would you pull until you felt the cropped strands pop from his scalp?)

and then you look up and notice him standing in the hallway, right by his front door. your eyes lock onto his, and he feels the oxygen in his lungs being siphoned away.

"uh, hi."

his breath lodges in his throat, or maybe it's spit because he's spinning on the balls of his feet, his back to you as he barks out dry coughs until he can breathe again.

"are... are you alright?" the slight worry in your voice has his cock twitching.

he'd be better if he could use that shirt you're currently wearing as a mask— the wet spots right over his crooked nose.

"yes. sorry. i'm a little ill," he hoarsely utters before turning back around to face you. "it's just a mild cough, so i can help ya with tha', if ya like." his head tips toward the box he's been watching you fight with for the past half-hour.

"i'd, i mean, yeah...okay." he doesn't care that you sounded almost coerced, simon moves with the speed he uses in the field, and is by your side in seconds, hoisting up the box wordlessly.

he stares at you, waiting for you to turn around and invite him into your home.

"uhm, right this way," you push open the door quietly, and point at the kitchen floor. "there please."

simon does as you say, (like a good boy, he thinks, won't you let him be your good boy?) when he hears a child's cries come from behind a closed door.

"ah, duty calls. i really do appreciate you helping me," you give him a small grin. "i'll see you around, yeah?"

simon slowly nods at you before turning to leave, opening your front door when he notices that you've begun to walk toward your wailing offspring. (he didn't see a ring on your finger)

he discreetly swipes the scented plug-in (just a touch too hot in his roughened palm) by the door and heads toward his own flat.

simon doesn't even fully undress, just hastily undoes the button of his jeans and lets them drop mid-thigh before he slams his back on the living room wall and begins to unscrew the plug-in.

the slick, hot, aromatic oil pulls a sibilant hiss from his thin, chapped lips as it touches the sensitive skin of his meaty cock and lathers himself in it with a couple of experimental strokes.

he squeezes the base of it, encircling it with his large hand, so tight it hurts.

that's what you'd feel like around him.

simon grips himself and starts to fuck his fist— choppy, desperate thrusts that has his toes curling in his muddy, creased boots.

his hand is calloused, just on the edge of too rough, but it doesn't stop him from imagining it's you that's on his cock, bouncing on it with fervor.

his nostrils sting with the overwhelming smell of the oil even through the thick fabric of his mask— a heady mix of lavender and vanilla— and it makes his head spin.

the web space between his thumb and pointer drags along his frenulum, and white spots dance behind his eyelids. sweat beads his brow as he gets closer to his end, the ecstasy coursing through his veins threatening to consume him whole.

simon replays the sounds you made earlier in his head, and for once, it drowns out the usual low ringing in his ears, intensifying his arousal.

he's pumping himself roughly now, fast and jerky as he rears his peak.

would you let him come inside of you? paint your silken walls with his unworthy spend?

when he thinks of you trying to hook your ankles at the base of his spine to keep him deep inside of you as he tries to weakly pull out is what breaks him.

his cock spasms as thick spurts of warm cum dribble all over his scarred knuckles and pants.

simon's hand is slippery as he continues to pump his softening length, and squeezes right under his flared head, the remnants of his pleasure beading at the tip.

his gait is awkward, and stiff as he waddles toward the kitchen with his trousers still by his wide, hairy thighs— plugging in the wall scent on his way there.

unbeknownst to him, he was giving you that kubrick stare and it made the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

you also thanked the stars that he wasn't a serial killer.

[heliads]

You and Me (A Whole Lot of History)

Based on this request: "y/n is a historian with access to old schematics so kaz hires her for a job. he keeps inventing reasons to find her afterwards until he’s forced to admit his feelings"

masterlist

You only get to study about half a chapter of your textbook before you’re interrupted by a criminal. It’s not like you mind having to put down the heavy tome you’ve been leafing through; estate law of centuries past is not your idea of some fun light reading, but you’ve been helping to piece together some fragments of an old mansion from pre-Unsea Kerch, and you’d really like to be able to decide if the master of the house your tattered documents keep referring to is the eldest son or the second eldest. 

It all depends on very specific details that refuse to make themselves known to you. So no, having an excuse to stop all this isn’t terrible, you’re just a little distracted by the fact that you’re in a private study room in the historical library of Ketterdam, and you know for certain that you locked the door that has just been opened.

You know who’s just broken into your study space. Not personally, that is, but just as well as any resident of the Barrel knows the one they call Dirtyhands– through bated breath, in stolen whispers of expensive heists and bodies left behind, no traitors tolerated and none allowed to live. The fact that Kaz Brekker has taken it upon himself to enter your study room of all the empty ones still available in the library is not promising, to say the least, although you have absolutely no idea what you’ve done to appear on his radar.

You are, in fact, quite possibly the last person Kaz would even be aware of. You’re a historian, specializing in a few select centuries and powerful families in the Kerch area. This means that you spend most of your time in old and crumbling buildings, not out in shady dealings or shootouts or any of the other places Brekker tends to frequent.

This doesn’t seem to stop Kaz from closing the door behind him and taking a seat opposite your desk. He folds his hands in front of him, idly contemplating the textbook you’re still supposed to be perusing, but remains frustratingly silent.

It falls to you, then, to pick up a conversation, which is unfair considering the fact that he’s the one who’s barged in on your space. “That door was locked for a reason, you know,” you point out.

Kaz arches a dour brow. “Yes. I opened it.”

He’s not making this easy for you. “Why?” You ask.

Instead of answering you, Brekker jerks his chin towards the book in front of you. “What’s that about?”

There is no earthly reason one of the most notorious gang leaders in the Barrel should be asking about the homework you’re doing for your job. Still, he has, so you must answer, no matter how confused you are about it. “Inheritance disputes of the fourteenth century Kerch nobles. Why, are you interested in checking it out after me?”

Kaz scoffs. “No. I just want your information, not that book.”

You feel yourself leaning back slightly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Trust me, whatever information you’re after won’t be found from me.”

Kaz shakes his head once. “No, actually, I think it will be.”

He reaches for something under his coat, and you’re hit with the brief terror that he’ll get a gun or something and you’ll die here and now, but then his gloved hand comes back out into the light carefully holding a rolled up piece of paper, which he smooths out onto the desk before you. You tuck your textbook away so you can get a better look at the thing, more curious now than afraid.

It turns out to be a copy of house blueprints. As you study it, you realize that you recognize the place. You were there recently for a project for your employer, checking up on the preservation of a few rooms. “Is this the old van Haarst mansion?” 

Brekker’s eyes flash, reminding you of the slick of oil on water. “You know about it?”

“Yeah,” you say, peering further at the blueprints. “I’ve worked there before.”

Kaz nods, looking pleased. “I’d like to buy your services. I need information on this building and your silence on the matter. Are you interested?”

Your brow furrows. “What information do you need?”

To answer you, Brekker tosses a stack of kruge onto the table. You can see the numbers on the edges, and know even without counting that this payment will be far more than what you’d earn even for a year at your job. This is the deal, then. He’ll only tell you more if you accept his money, and if you accept his money, you agree to whatever he wants.

Honestly, not the worst bargain. Ghezen knows you’ve had worse supervisors on other jobs. At least you can trust Brekker to be honest so long as you are too.

You put the stack of bills into your bag, and turn back to the blueprints with renewed interest. “Are you trying to get in or get out?”

“Both,” Kaz tells you. “I’m assuming you’ve heard rumors of Marysa’s Diamond?”

You choke out a laugh. “Have I ever.”

Marysa’s Diamond is like the Saints in flesh for historians. The van Haarst family was exceedingly rich, and one of their matriarchs, Marysa van Haarst, was said to be in possession of an incredible gemstone, the diamond named after her. It disappeared when the family abandoned Kerch for Ravka following the death of three of Marysa’s sons, and no one has seen it since.

You blow out a low breath. “You think it’s in the old house somewhere? Historians have been all over the place, we would have found it if it was there.”

“It wasn’t always,” Kaz tells you. “It’s been moved there. I have good information that the van Haarst house will act as a safe house for the stone while it’s being moved from hand to hand. They’ll keep it there overnight. I will be entering the estate with a team and taking it.”

He goes silent, as if waiting for any objections. You don’t really care about the morals of the affair, though. You have your money and you get to be the foremost expert on a historical favorite of yours. Robberies happen every day, not something to get teary eyed over.

When you don’t speak up, Kaz continues on. “They’ll be keeping the stone in a place no one can find. There will be a window of exactly one bell in which the old owner leaves the house and is replaced by the new owner, carefully staggered so the stadwatch aren’t alerted by too many people in the estate after hours. That means it would have to be a damn good hiding spot. If you were hiding a gemstone in this house, where would you put it?”

You consider the blueprints before you again. There are a thousand and one places you could hide something in there– tucked inside the grand piano, in a safe, under one of a hundred carpets– and there’s no way Brekker’s men could find it in time.

However, that means the person meant to be picking up the diamond wouldn’t be able to find it as well. They would have to find somewhere in the estate hidden to everyone else but the recipient of the gemstone.

The answer occurs to you in a flash. “Oh,” you say, “Secret room.”

Brekker blinks at you. “What?”

You point at the map. “It’s totally going in the secret room. I mean, they don’t want it to be found by anyone else, right? That’s, like, the whole point of a secret room.”

Were it not for the fact that he��s, well, Dirtyhands, you’d swear his voice turns sarcastic. “That was my understanding of a secret room, yes. Where is it?”

Were it not for the fact that he is in fact Dirtyhands, you would roll your eyes. “There’s an entrance off of the secondary hallway leading off of the dining room. Unlock the door using a little latch under the bottom of the ugly painting of the old duchess of Belendt.”

He stares at you. “How do you know that? It’s not on any map.”

You lift a shoulder. “I wanted to know why they’d keep such a foul portrait around. The elites of that time period were huge on perfectionism, every one of their paintings had to be absolutely glorious or it would get removed from their sight. That’s why there are so many old paintings in the surrounding villages, actually, the nobles would just leave these expensive oil paintings outside the castle because they couldn’t take the sight of them anymore. There was no reason they’d let such a dreadful portrait stay unless it was hiding something.”

You had been focused on the map in your hands during the majority of this little speech, fondly recalling little anecdotes from your history classes, but you remember yourself soon enough. You look up and Kaz is staring at you, almost fascinated.

You feel your cheeks heat up. “Sorry, I’m rambling. Got distracted.”

He shakes his head brusquely, although there’s a hint of pink on the tops of his cheekbones that wasn’t there before. “No, no. It’s important information. So we should be aware of any suspicious paintings?”

“Yeah,” you muse, “just look for the bad ones. Pretend you’re an art critic or something.”

The edges of Kaz’s dour glare turn themselves up into something of a humored smirk. “Will do. Thank you for the advice, L/N.”

You nod. “Have fun with the heist. Hey, if you see any older books on the history of the family, would you mind grabbing one or two for me? I’ve been trying to do some research for ages, but the library keeps stalling on getting resources to me, no matter how many requests I send.”

Kaz’s brows draw close together. “That would be unbelievably risky. We can’t take more things than we need or we could be caught.”

You grin. “I know, I’m kidding. Just a joke.”

Kaz’s expression lightens microscopically. “Yes, a joke.”

He leaves soon enough, pushing his chair away from the desk and rolling up the blueprints with a crisp snap of the paper. He warns you to keep your mouth shut about the plans, but you’re not sure that he does it with the fire you expected of a notorious gang leader. Instead, the words are soft, like he’s cautioning a friend.

You don’t hear from him again, not for a while. You’re not sure when this mysterious diamond deal is going down, and you doubt the unlucky men Kaz will grift can go to the stadwatch about this. In fact, you have no idea if it’s happened at all until about a week later. You had gone about your day like normal, not suspecting a thing until the moment you unlocked your door.

And there, centered perfectly on your desk when you get back home despite the fact that you never gave keys to your apartment to anyone, are three books. Aged, cracked covers, gilded writing. You hesitantly pick up one and read the title under your breath:  A History of the Bendtsen Family, 1200-1500. Another:  The van Almelos of the Belendt Region:  Two Centuries of Political and Economic Legacy.

Kaz. He actually got the books. Never mind that you were joking, never mind that he knew that, Kaz Brekker went out of his way to risk a heist just so he could help you out with a research project. Saints. And they say chivalry is dead.

You don’t expect to get the chance to thank him for it until he randomly crosses your path not two weeks later. He’s alone again, miraculously turning up outside your company door just as you leave to walk home. Kaz informs you that he’ll need your services again, exchanging some kruge for more words. This time, he wants details on an office building down the street, one that used to be a city hall. You’re able to take him in yourself thanks to access granted to all historians for historic places, and turn a blind eye when he grabs a few documents regarding interport commerce.

He walked you to your door that night, lingering over the threshold like a teenager not wanting to leave a first date. He shows up again after a month, using an excuse that’s less polished and more finicky. The next time, he doesn’t have an excuse at all. It’s just him, standing in front of you. No money, no plan. He just wanted to see you.

Kaz calls it ‘checking up on an investment,’ but you get the feeling that it’s not something he usually does. He walks with you by the water, he buys you drinks at a bar not even in his own pocket. It’s unusually sweet, so you can’t bite back your questions anymore and confront him about it when he hovers in front of your door for the dozenth time.

“What is this about, Kaz?”

He blinks at you in surprise. “What?”

You gesture between the two of you. “All of this. This isn’t for a job anymore. Why?”

Kaz looks away. It’s rare for him to not have a perfect poker face. Perhaps it’s yet another sign that this means something more, something that you can’t help but wish for. “I wanted to make sure you were safe. I’ve called on you for several jobs that can risk the players involved in the game.”

You shake your head. “You’ve gone out of your way to make sure no one knows about me. It’s just us, Kaz. You did that on purpose.”

“Yes,” he admits at last, “I did. I wanted something for myself. Something that wasn’t as bad as the rest.”

He risks a glance over at you, and his shoulders square slightly when he realizes you aren’t trying to fight him on this, or worse, leave. “You’re good, Y/N. Good things don’t last long around here. I want to make sure you do. I want you to stay forever.”

With me, he means. He wants to keep you in his life. His eyes flicker to your hands, and although you know he won’t take them, not yet, he wants to. That’s why you finally put together the pieces. Kaz Brekker is not good at verbalizing his feelings. Perhaps he never will be. This is the best shot he can give you, and he could not even say the word ‘love’ if it ripped his heart out with bleeding fingertips.

You've had so much over the years, and it has never been enough. Not once, not ever. A thousand coffers could empty themselves, a hundred men die and be reborn. It has never once stopped you. This, by contrast, is nothing. A canal rat's promise, most likely broken before the night is through. You know it, Kaz knows it. This is nothing. 

Yet it is the most true thing you have ever had, the one solid stone in a wall about to come crumbling down. It is small, barely there at all, but still worth it. Maybe that is why you stay, for the hope. For him. It is enough.

grishaverse tag list: @rogueanschel, @cameronsails, @deadreaderssociety, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @eclliipsed, @mayfieldss, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy

[satorusugurugurl]

Ferris Wheel

Summary: Marie’s Summer Fest prompt: Ferris Wheel

Pairing: Fushiguro Toji x AFAB!Reader

Warnings: public play, fingering, exhibitionism, degrading, dirty talk, sort of dom themes

Word Count: 1,242

A/N: The Tojo brain rot has been so real! bark bark bark wooof!! 🥵

The smell of deep-fried food and motor oil from the amusement park did not sound like a very good combination of smells, but as you held your boyfriend's hand wandering through the park, you had to disagree. Smelling all the different scents, from the fried Oreos to the cotton candy being made, had your mouth watering! The bright lights, the sounds of delightful screaming, and the way to Toji squeeze your hand

“Hey,” a large hand ruffled the top of your head, pulling your attention away from the different food vendors. “Did you still want to ride the Ferris wheel?”

Toji strokes some of your stray hairs away from your face while he carries the giant turtle plushy. He had one for you under his other arm. He had completed a well-paying job and decided to take you to an amusement park after you complained about it while Shiu drove you back to the hotel. You insisted to him that it was an excellent way to unwind after getting a fat paycheck

“Yeah!” You beamed, grabbing his hand and tugging him towards the Ferris wheel, only for him to stop.

“I gotta wash my hands first; give me a second.” You cocked an eyebrow taking the turtle plushy from your boyfriend while waiting off to the side for him to return. Why would he need to wash his hands before getting on another amusement park ride

His strange behavior disappeared to the back of your mind. But once you slid into the swing on the Ferris wheel, you couldn’t help but notice how his hands remained in his pockets until you got into the swinging seat. You only realized why his hands remained in his pockets as soon as you were out of any eyes when his hand gripped your thighs, squeezing it gently as the multicolored lights of the Ferris wheel danced across his face.

‘Have I told you how sexy that little sundress looks on you?” To emphasize his point, Toji’s fingers slid under the hem of your lilac dress.

“No, you haven’t.”

Fingers further up, running along the inside of your thighs. “Well, I had planned on taking you back to the hotel room and worshiping you in it. But somebody wanted funnel cake and wouldn’t shut up about it.” An almost breathless giggle passes through your lips.

“Yeah, it was delicious.”

“Hmm,” his rough fingers push your soaked panties to the side. “But it’s not as tasty as you.”

Oh fuck, this was why he had washed his hands

Just as the realization strikes you, he slides his index and middle finger slowly over your slick folds, lubing up his fingers. Once he deemed them wet enough, Toji shoved them inside of your cunt, growling at the way your wet walls hugged him as he set a slow pace, pumping them in and out of you. Your boyfriend smirked at how you brought the turtle plushy up to your mouth to muffle the sounds of your moans. He slowly focuses on your weak spot, that sweet, spongy spot inside of you, since he doesn’t have much time to get you off.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, T-Toji.” Your voice muttered into the plushie. “Nnngh fuck—”

“Yeah, does my pretty little girlfriend like when I finger fuck her stuffing her tight little pussy in public?” The bustling of the crowd, rides, and games are nearly drowning out the wet squelching sounds of Toji’s fingers fucking into you. Your boyfriend, however, could hear every sweet sound that your pussy made, along with the moans and cries you fought back. “You don’t have to answer that. Your pretty little pussy squeezing down on my fingers already did.”

Toji uses his thumb to rub teasing circles around your clit as your fingers dig into your stuffed animal as the swing you’re in stops at the very top of the ride. You can hear the couple below you laughing and talking. Unaware of the fact that your boyfriend was knuckles deep inside of you, pushing you closer towards your orgasm. Toji’s navy eyes were glued on your pulse, watching it quicken with each carefully calculated stroke of his fingers. Your boyfriend knows you're close by the way your thighs clamp around his hand and how your breath quickens as your eyes dart towards him, full of unfiltered.

“Close,” you whimper, your hips slowly rocking against his hand.

“Close? Are you gonna cum baby?” You nod. “Alright, you can cum when I count to zero. How does that sound?”

“Yes, please.”

“Ten.” Toji rubbed your sweet spot harder. “Nine, fuck you’re so cute, eight—” your mind is fuzzy, lost in pleasure as the Ferris wheel slowly starts to move again. “Oooh, would you look at that? We better hurry up.”

You feel like you’re going to explode as Toji continues to slowly count down as you get closer and closer to the end of your ride. Your pussy twitches as you turn your head, lips slightly parted with soft cries. Your dark-haired muscle mass of a boyfriend smirks, speeding his fingers up, fucking into you faster, savoring the way you tilted your head back

“Three~”

“Toji, please—”

“Please, what, baby?”

You can hear the sounds of the crowd lined up to get on getting closer. “Please let me cum—” The smell of sandalwood and gunpowder wafts over you as Toji leans close to your ear.

“What was that? Say it louder?”

“Please let me cum—” You please in a harsh whisper.

“That’s a good girl, two—” fingers curl inside of you, moving in and out faster. “—one—” God, you’re so close to the end of the ride, and you’re close to reaching that sweet release. “It would be fun to edge you right now.”

“Toji, please!”

The desperation and tears in your eyes have all thoughts of edging out the window. “Zero, cum, you little slut.” Toji commands, pressing down on your g-spot as hard as he can.

You were mere seconds from screaming out his name as you gush over his fingers, but Toji luckily catches your lips on his, sucking in every moan that slips out of your mouth as you cum all over his fingers. Just before you reach the bottom, Toji adjusts your panties and dress before seductively licking and sucking his fingers clean as your ride reaches the end.

The smirk on your boyfriend's face is wide as you struggle to stand up. Your struggles don’t go unnoticed as you win a concerned look from the ride operator. Instead of continuing to watch you struggle, Toji wraps around your waist, helping to steady you as he grins at the questioning, watchful eyes of the teenager who focuses on your shaking legs.

“She’s scared of heights,” Toji answers the question that isn’t asked. In turn, he ignores skeptical glances from the other park-goers as he leads you down the stairs.

“You asshole, I’m gonna make you regret that stunt you just pulled.” There was, however, not much heat in your tone, which means you weren’t all that serious.

A firm smack on your ass is how Toji responds before blowing on your ear. “Oh baby, I’d love to see you fucking try.”

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe @chilichopsticks @reap3erslov3

Summer Fest Tag List:

@typicalife-101

[carmenberzattosgf]

carmy somehow manages to keep the tattoo hidden from you until it’s properly healed and when he finally reveals it he’s so happy that you like it!! you gently touch it and that’s what makes him lose it—taking your clothes off and settling you on his thigh saying “make yourself feel good f’me. that’s your initial on it, yeah? so it’s yours. i’m yours.” doesn’t help that it feeds into his thing for marking, feeling how wet you are against his thigh -💫

Oh my beloved 💫 anon your thoughts always HIT. I’m thinking Carmy legit keeps one of those big bandaids on it until it heals, blaming it on getting hot oil spilled on him in the kitchen or something if you asked about it. More under the cut!!

You’re in the bathroom, finishing up brushing your teeth when he calls for you in the bedroom. “Baby, can you come here really quick?” When you enter the room, Carmy’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing only boxer briefs. “Will you rip off this bandaid for me?” He says, pointing to the large bandaid that’s covering a spot on his thigh. “I don’t wanna do it myself.”

“It’s been on there for like a week now. Are you sure you want me to? It’s going to hurt like hell.” Little did you know that Carmy has been putting on the bandage every day at the restaurant before heading home. That way, the tattoo could properly heal. You walk over to his feet, kneeling in front of him. Carmy swallows deeply, nervous as you peel up the very edge of the bandaid.

“Yeah, I’m sure. Just count to three and go for it.”

“Alright. One, two, three—“ Carmy doesn’t even flinch. Your eyes shift down to his thigh and you finally see it. It’s your initials in cursive script right in the middle of his thigh. The tattoo isn’t huge. Honestly it’s quite dainty compared to his others. “Carmy— is that?” You look up at him in complete shock.

“Mhm. Uh— do you like it?” He scratches the back of his neck nervously, awaiting your answer.

“Of course I do! You got my initials on you, Carm. I love it.” You begin to reach your hand out to touch it before pulling back. “Wait, can I touch it? Is it healed?”

“I got it two weeks ago. It should be all healed up.”

You’re careful as you run your fingers over the lettering. Goosebumps rise on his skin from your touch. “It’s so pretty, Carmy. Thank you for getting it for me.” Without a wasting a second, you lean down to press a delicate skin on the inked skin.

There’s something about you on your knees in front of Carmy, kissing his thigh, that gets him hard in a matter of seconds. Carmy pulls you up quickly. You know from the second you see the look in his eye, and the bulge in his pants, what he’s thinking. “Need to take these off,” he mumbles as his hands push into the waistband of your pants. “Can I take these off?” His movements pause as he waits for your permission. His blue eyes are completely blown out as they look up at you.

“Y-yeah. Please.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, Carmy pulls down your sweatpants and underwear in one go. He grabs your waist, shuffling you towards him to stand with his tattooed-adorned thigh in between your legs.

“Sit,” he instructs. His strong hands at your side urge you to sit down on his thigh. You whine when your soaked core meets his skin, right on top of your initials.

“Carmy—shit.”

“Already so wet. You must really like seeing your initials on my skin. I’m marked up forever now.” His voice is rough, completely filled with arousal. “I want you to ride my thigh and make yourself feel good for me. Can you do that baby?”

“Mhm,” you respond. Your hips move eagerly on his thigh. Your slick makes the movement easy. Your eyes are drawn to the sight below you, Carmy’s tattoo completely covered in your arousal. Carmy notices where your eyes are locked, and his follow suit. His hands tighten on your hips, watching as you desperately grind on his thigh.

“That’s your initials right there. All yours. I’m all yours, now,” he whispers into your ear before moving down to press kisses to your neck and jaw. You’re already close, cunt throbbing against him.

“Carm, fuck. I’m—I’m close,”

“Let go then. Make a mess all over me. Soak your initials.” Carmen’s words send you over the edge as you cum on his thigh. Your legs shake as your head falls into the crook of his neck. “Good job, baby. Did so good for me.”

When you have the strength again, you lift up your head and plant a huge kiss onto Carmy’s lips. “I love you so fucking much. Thank you for getting this tattoo. It means the world to me.”

“Gotta show people who I belong to somehow,” he laughs.

“Let me try and show you just how much it means to me, yeah?” You say, slowly sinking down to your knees in front of him.

[ki-yomii]

encore | jjk

➥ pairing | jeon jungkook x f!reader

➥ word count | 871

➥ warning(s) | 🔞 smut; dirty talk, established relationship, edging, handjob, teasing, switch!jk, orgasm control, soft dom!reader

➥summary | continuation of two for the show

➥ notes | for @keroppitae​, hopefully you enjoy this one just as much 😘 

🤎 series masterlist | masterlist | inbox | AO3 🤎

“Just relax,” you breathe, mouth tracing along the cut of Jungkook’s jaw, feeling the muscles bunch and flex against your tongue, “You asked, so let me take care of you now.”

Ever since you walked in on him with a fistful of your panties and a guilty consciousness, you’ve been taunting him. However long ago that was, you’re not sure.

The sparks of sadistic pleasure as you wring precious little whimpers out of him with every teasing half-stoke blur together until you’re throbbing between your thighs, and Jungkook’s desperate and dripping.

Jungkook’s taking it so well, looks as pretty as a picture; spilled across the soaked sheets like an oil painting. The messy briar of his hair clings to his furrowed brow in thick, sweaty clumps.

His slick body glitters with every rolling flex of his hips, his thick cock rutting up into the elusive grasp of your hand.

Whenever he presses a little too firm, thrusts a little too deep into the circle of your fingers, you pull away - a little game that makes him clench and groan in displeasure, pre-cum dripping from the flushed head.

“My handsome baby.” You hum in the back of your throat, stroking your finger up the side of his shaft before lightly digging your nail into the weeping slit. “So big and strong.”

“Shit!” Jungkook hisses, his head slamming back against the pillow. His body jolts, thighs tense and hips twitching as his cock bobs against his stomach.

When he says your name, he sounds absolutely wrecked, “P-Please, that feels - that feels so  - hng! Ohmygod.”

Pausing, you appreciate the debauched sight your boyfriend makes, a bloom of satisfaction unfurling in your chest. God, he’s so gorgeous like this - it’s hard to believe he’s all yours. So fucking lucky.

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

“Baby, seriously, I can’t…” Jungkook pants, another spurt of clear fluid dribbling down the back of your knuckles. The tips of his ears are cherry red, his pupils blown wide. “No more.”

“But you’re doing such a good job for me,” you reply. As much of a punishment as it is a treat, you tighten your grip on his shaft, tracing the thick vein running up along the underside. “I’m so, so proud of you.”

Hands fisting in the sheets, Jungkook yanks hard as his broad chest rises into a pleasing arch, his abs clenching with overstimulation. “– Haaah fuck.”

“Mm, you look so hot like this. Can’t wait for you to fuck me with this big cock, spread me open and stuff me full.”

He whines.

You smile, and suck at the crook of his neck, lashing your tongue over his thrumming pulse. When you speak, your voice is a lust-filled whisper in his ear, “Would you like that, Kookie - wanna put that big cock of yours in my pretty little pussy?”

The lack of a response makes you frown, and you grind your palm into the sensitive tip of his erection in retaliation. “Not gonna answer me, huh?”

Thrashing in place, Jungkook simultaneously tries to buck up into your touch and escape from the overwhelming waves of pleasure. He’s been edged over and over for the last hour or so, his nerves quickly approaching the point of pain.

You know he won’t be able to take much more - he’s about to burst, pressure building behind his hips.

“Gonna - shit - ‘m gonna...” Heels dig into the mattress, his toes curling in the sheets as his balls draw up towards his body, swollen with cum and aching for release. “Baby - baby, can I? Please, wanna cum.”

His breath hitches desperately, every word a pleasure drunk slur as his eyes meet yours, hazy and fucked out. His mouth is slack, lips puffy and bitten raw. His tongue darts out to swipe along his lip ring.

Beautiful.

“I don’t know…” You smirk, reaching down to tug at his balls. “Are you sure?”

He strains against your touch, gasping, “Please!”

The impending orgasm’s about to slam into him with all the force of a semi-truck, his body locking up as the pit of heat in his belly flares and ecstasy burns through his blood.

Your hand is so soft and warm and wet, and he’s so so close…

“Can’t - fuuuuck, I’m - I’m -”

He gulps down air, his chest heaving with every stuttered breath. His hips rut up into the circle of your slick fist, ready to blow his load. The rhythmic squeeze of your hand milks him for all he’s worth, his cock jerking once, twice and then -

You pull your hand off his cock, dragging your nails along the base of his shaft as a parting gift. A wounded noise leaves him, his desperate little cry making your pussy clench.

Jungkook slumps against the bed with a hoarse cry of your name, a puppet with cut strings.

Little tremors shake through his limbs, his muscles twitching with aftershocks. His face is slack, his eyes glassy. A weak pulse of cum drools from the swollen head, pooling in the dip of his belly.

“Not yet, Kook,” you say, wicking away the spit clinging to his bottom lip, “Want you inside me first. Think you can handle that, baby?”

[gloryy-vs]

Omg, I just read your Ao’nung, I was wondering if you could do another one where the reader is the one to do his hair before he goes out to like do his daily task. It’s been floating around and my brain and I think you’d be the perfect person to write it. I love your writing, and it’s totally fine if you don’t feel like writing it. 💗

||

yes ofc >:) couldn’t think of a title so pls give recs 🤲🏻 a lil short but it’s still cute

characters: ao’nung x reader

ratings: fluff , sfw ,

||

You pulled his shoulder down, having him sit on the floor while you sat on the hammock behind him. “If you want me to do you hair then you can’t sit next to me.” You said, running your fingers through his fluffy curls. He whined, “That’s bullshit.” You smacked the back side of his head playfully, “You want you beside to look lopsided?” He stayed silent, and you retorted, “That’s what I thought.” You began to massage his scalp, taking your time to ease the tension.

He put his head back, taking great joy in the way your fingers worked his scalp. Having his braids in for a long time made his scalp tense and almost sore, so it was a relief when you took a cold oil that was used when braiding and started from his scalp, all the way down to his ends, making his hair more manageable.

“Ma Eywa, this feels amazing.” He said, a goofy smile rising on his face. You shook your head, slicking his hair back and pulling it back for a second before releasing it. “I know you love it when I do your hair.” You said, grabbing a sturdy twine to secrion off where his braids would start. “You want the same as usual, my love?” You questioned, while your face remained concentrated on parting his hair. Ao’nung nodded curly as to not disturb your work. “You always do my hair the best, when you braid em’ it doesn’t hurt as bad when they’re fresh.” He responded.

You smiled, slicking the sections you made with oil to keep them in place while you worked on the other ones. You grabbed a section of his hair, finally starting to braid his hair against his head while applying the cold oil every so often. You wanted to make them braids tight enough to stay, but not so tight that Ao’nungs’ scalp would hurt.

He sat there comfortably, his eyes closing and then fluttering open while you took your time with his hair. You stopped all the braids you got to so far towards the middle of his head, leaving the rest undone so you could make his signature bun. you took a thicker oil, pressing the ends of each braid down in place so that when you tied up his hair they would come loose. Taking more of the thinner oil you slicked the remained hit of his hair, seeing how the oil made his fluffy curls more defined made you smile in content. You loved the texture of his hair, and you especially loved playing with it. You twisted his hair into a half bun, using a thin vine to tie it up and keep it in place, leaving the good bit of hair left to hang down from it. You rubbed the remaining oil on your hands together, running your fingers through the loose ends of his hair to define his curls again, and made it your finishing point before tapping him on the shoulder.

“All done.” You said. Ao’nung put his head in between your legs, pushing his head back to look up at you. He placed his hands on your thighs before saying, “Thank you.” Putting your hands on either side of his face, you kissed his forehead. “Anytime, skxawng.”

[justblades]

⋆｡˚ ♰・oiled up! with luka, gepard, blade & jing yuan x gn! reader

┈─・(ex)plicit, mdni.

oiled up! luka's actions are heavily hinted with hesitation as his heart thrums against his ribcage. "are you sure this is necessary?" he asks with curious aqua eyes meanwhile you resolutely reply. "this is just a little maintenance for your mechanical arm." you utter lowly and drizzle the lubricant all over the gleaming titanium parts, your body seemingly getting closer to luka's that your lower part is hardly pressing against his knee.

luka's posture stiffens, lips tightly pursed and rose hues tint his ears, similarly to his lush crimson hair. "i can manage though, no need to focus on me." he insists and you could only chortle in exchange. "is the renowned wildfire fighter getting shy now?" luka's eyes widen in realization, breathing deepens. "no, it's just that—" hushing his lips with your index finger in an instant, "it's okay, i understand." you guide his mechanical arm to your sex, uncurling his machine fingers to tease with your sensitive spot. "should i do the same with your other hand next?"

oiled up! gepard is flustered, watching the sticky liquid trickle from his pecs all the way down to his sculpted v-line, a good portion of his blond happy trail peeking from the lax white pants he's sporting. on the other hand, you — who's been watching along behind him, reach your limits that you couldn't resist not flicking your tongue on his bare shoulder blade. he flinches from his seat but hands remain still given the tie on his back, slithered on his wrists, gepard's lips twitch.

"are we not done yet . . ?" he asks, voice lowered yet weak, almost as if his own tongue betrayed him. "there is much more for you to feel." you respond and face him this time, descending to his position and inch your face towards the plane of his chest. "tell me how you like this." speaking up once again, you poke your wet tongue, aiming for gepard's erect buds. gepard's legs jerk at the foreign sensation, the oil being an additional factor to increasing his sensitivity.

oiled up! jing yuan loves handjobs so much that everytime you'll pump his throbbing cock, he whips out the bottle and smother your hands with the oil - not caring if the liquids drip all over his office floorings, desk, bed, wherever you're doing it. he'll also wrap his large calloused hands around yours to assist you, "tighter." he coos, hand resting over your shoulder while you sat across him, biting your lip in anticipation. your digits now tightly curled around his girth, you skillfully stroke his dick, meriting you guttural moans from the general's slicked lips.

he groans whenever you'd complete one pump, to the point that he cannot mute himself from saying such lewd words - "your handjobs are the best." "yes, just like that, keep it like that." "hah, i'm so close!" the silver haired became so whipped he'll request for your presence even during his general duties. a view you've long ingrained in your mind was him bucking his hips upwards to sync with your tempo, truly an arousing sight to behold.

oiled up! blade doesn't like to get messy with himself only, he'll make sure you are too. he lathers oil from his scarred hands, coating his digits with the liquid until the substance overflows past the margins - oozing on your naked body he'd come to adore so. he caresses your frame, massaging the flesh like a therapeutic session: reaching pleasure points you didn't know existed. you couldn't help but let out a mewl from the satisfaction but blade's hands travel somewhere else, a spot you already predicted he would toy with.

adorned with the lubricant bedaubed all over your body, he tugs lightly on your hard nipples. your breath hitches in return, but you feel your soul dissipate as blade fondles the plush of your ass, only to leave it with a loud spank right after. the spank sounds, it stings, "that's too much!" you yelp underneath his towering figure. however, he doesn't respond but completely flips you over, your back facing him now. "i'll reward you something good right after." he replies in a low tone, leaving yet another swelling slap on the cheeks of your ass.

[fatherenoch]

Perhaps I have grown too eager, but I decided it was time for Ambrose's ordination. I had to bring him to the Bishop for all the formal things, the proper ceremony, as I waited to give him the true ordination he needed. When I laid hands upon him in the ceremony, I had to remember who was watching, and that I could not let them wander down his body like I normally do. As we had to come to the cathedral, I still had to wait after -- when we stayed the night in the Bishop's rectory, on the trip back to town. By the time we returned home, I let Father Ambrose rest, though I couldn't resist a light touch or two as he slept.

The next evening, as he went to undress, I came to him and told him to leave on his cassock. We made the short walk back to the church and I lit a few candles for us inside, as less than half the moon shone in through the stained glass. My darling seminarian, now priest, remained as doe-eyed as ever watching my little pyromancies. I brought with me his surplice and stole, and wore my own vestments for mass.

As with his "proper" ordination, I had him lie on his front, but upon the altar. He obeyed, climbing up a bit clumsily as he tripped a bit on his cassock.

"Do you remember the vow of obedience you made to the Bishop?" I asked him as he settled into his position. When he said yes, I continued, "You will make a vow to me, more important than that one. My will shall always come first. You have seen the special blessings I receive, you know that my authority is more true. Swear to me that you shall follow my command, above all others."

"I swear, Father," he whispered. I walked around the altar to the side, to lean down and snatch his chin.

"You swear what?"

"I swear I will obey you above all else."

I let him go to grab his stole, using it to tie his hands behind his back. "Let us see if you can maintain your oath. You've learned so much of how the body is used in worship, so you will demonstrate that for me. Arch your hips up for me."

Underneath him, I slipped a decently sized wooden crucifix, which sat below his cock when he let his body back down. "I want you to show me the pleasure of God. I will not touch you, nor can you touch yourself. Make a mess of yourself upon His body, through your sacred garments. Only then will you receive your blessing."

He whined. "How am I supposed to...to make myself...without touching?"

"You will find a way. After all, you promised to obey my command. I will sit here and watch, so do entertain me, if you don't mind." I couldn't help but laugh a bit as I sat in one of the front pews, seeing him struggle to get comfortable again. There was no use, though, as the crucifix bulged up towards his body, giving him his solution. It took him a moment to realize what he had to do.

His hips began moving slowly, hesitantly, like a hand testing the coolness of water. Knowing how easy it is to work him up, I knew he already had to be had just from having his hands tied. A few little whimpers stumbled out of his mouth. All his moving stayed on his lower half, though his legs began searching for a position to get a good angle.

"Father...can I sit? It's quite difficult...to do it like this." he pleaded, pulling at his restraints.

"If you could sit, I would have told you to sit. Obedience does not involve questioning me," I said, starting to unbutton my own cassock at the middle.

He whined a bit again, but still said, "Yes Father, I will obey you," as he shifted himself further. It was then he really began to try, his ass high up while he was grinding against the crucifix. With some of my holy oil in hand, I stroked myself to his pathetic noises, his desperate movements. The acoustics of the church made it sure he could hear my slick fingers on my cock. At that point, he stopped worrying about humiliating himself. His head turned to the side and his tongue stuck out, panting like an animal as he knew I was enjoying his little show.

When he became desperate, his legs tightened around the side of the altar and he started to fully hump the crucifix, almost slamming himself on it. His nails started to dig into the flesh of his hands. I couldn't help but moan along with him, while trying to keep myself from coming yet. The speed of his hips fed off my voice, and though I knew it was making his task easier, there was no way to restrain myself. He was just too pathetic for me not to.

I knew he was close when his eyes began to well. He chanted "please" to himself, to the crucifix, almost thrashing against it. His voice cracked as he tipped over into climax, though his movement didn't stop or slow for nearly a minute after. When his breath and body finally began to slow, he let his legs go limp on the side of the altar, almost as if he was straddling it. I had to bring myself from the edge of climax as well before I stood.

Seeing how he went slack, I moved the crucifix and turned him on his back instead of making him stand. The front of his cassock showed just what I wanted: a complete mess of cum that soaked through the fabric and onto the crucifix, dripped onto the altar cloth.

"Naughty boy, making such a mess on the savior's tortured body... but you obeyed me well. Let me give you your real ordination." I untied his hands and helped him kneel before me beside the altar. He anticipated what I wanted and he took my cock in his mouth as soon as it was in front of his face.

I pulled out of his mouth and slapped my cock lightly on his cheek. "Ah, did I tell you that you can do that? First, you need to clean up after yourself," I said, presenting him with the crucifix again to lick. Just watching him suck on the crucifix almost sent me over, but I waited until he was done and presented it back to me.

"Good. Now you can take me in your mouth. Don't do anything, just let it sit on your tongue." He opened his mouth for me, and I grabbed the back of his head to shove his face onto me. His light choke around my cock made me come down his throat, and I held on to him for stability as my knees started to tremble. "That's it...good boy, good boy..." I mumbled.

He looked up at me, and as he took me out of his mouth, he asked, "Am I really a priest now?"

"Yes, Father Ambrose. Wasn't this much more fun than the formal ordination?"

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Aftermath || LN4 {9}

Pairing: Lando Norris x widow!reader Summary: Lando risks upsetting the FIA to give you the memorial they denied a year ago. Warnings: 18+ only, alcohol, fluff, tearful Lando 🥺 WC: 2k

F1 Masterlist || One || Two || Three || Four || Five || Six || Seven || Eight || Nine || Ten || Eleven || Twelve || Thirteen || Epilogue

“Ride with us!”

You frowned down at Lando’s grinning face from the balcony above the garage thinking you had heard him wrong. “What?”

He pointed to the grid where the trailer for the parade was hooked up and waiting. “You too, maman.”

Maria squeezed your arm with a smile as she turned towards the stairs. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

Lando met you at the bottom, his arm curling around your waist as he guided you to the gate at the back while Zak walked with Maria. His lips brushed your cheek as he dipped his head to whisper, “Think something’s going on with those two?”

You smiled at the sound of Maria’s laugh and shrugged. “I don’t know, but as long as she’s happy then it’s got to be a good thing.”

Lando’s hands gripped your waist and lifted you into the back of the trailer before he leapt up to join you. It was only once you had taken hold of the rail tightly that you spared a glance around the other drivers and noticed they all carried wreaths.

“What’s that?”

Lando shrugged shyly as he stepped in behind you, one hand holding the rail with you and the other waving to the crowd. “Since you missed the memorial at home I thought maybe we could have one of our own.”

You turned away from the crowd and he dropped his waving hand to cage you between his arms as the truck began to drive down off the grid, saving you from jostling at the sudden movement.

“Won’t the FIA have a problem with that?”

“What can they do? Penalise all of us?” he laughed. “And if it’s a fine, we’re happy to pay it.”

“They’ll blame you.”

“They’ve made so many wrong conclusions, but at least they would be right this time,” he joked. “Relax, love, it’ll be fine.”

Lando went back to waving to the fans and you smiled at the ones who held up signs for René, most of them orange hearts or the French flag with his driver number in the middle. 

It wasn’t long that the smooth ride slowed and the trailer came to a stop at the barrier that had long since been replaced but you still saw the mangled metal and oil slick in your mind's eye. 

You startled a little when Lando’s hand came to rest on yours and gently pulled it free of the rail. You shook your head to clear the image and the sounds of the track returned along with Lando’s calm voice as he murmured encouraging words in your ear. 

You focused on his voice as he jumped off the back of the trailer before offering his hands to catch you next. Already the other drivers had made their way off track and were placing the bouquets and wreaths along the barrier. Some whispered quiet prayers and signed the cross, while others took a moment to reflect in silence.

You drifted over to the barrier with Lando at your side and sank to your knees in the soft grass running your fingers through the blades, waiting for the crushing weight to settle into your chest. The seconds ticked by as the wind picked up, the breeze a cooling welcome touch to your skin, but still the pain never came. There was only the permanent sense of sadness that hung like a small cloud in the sky no matter how sunny the day was.

“I miss you,” you whispered as you plucked a single red rose from the bouquet Lando held. Its sweet scent reminded you of the garden you had planted with René at home and the thorns dug into your palm as your hand tightened around the stem before you laid it among the rest. “You should see your fans. There’s so much love for you here, I can feel it all around me. Your mum was right.”

The drivers started to make their way back to the trailer and Lando pressed a kiss to your forehead. “When I was waiting beside him at the altar he made me promise if anything happened to him that I would take care of you. I never got to say the words to him because the doors opened and you walked in looking like an absolute angel,” his voice was thick with emotion and he cleared his throat before placing his bouquet with the others. “You have my word, René, I swear on my life.”

He grabbed the sunglasses tucked into the collar of his hoodie, pushing them over his red eyes and you wrapped your arms around his waist as he buried his head in your neck. 

“He knows, babe,” you murmured as you rubbed his back until the small shudders of his silent sobs eased, being his strength for once. Neither of you acknowledge the damp marks on your shoulder, neither of you said a word as he looked at the flowers once more before heading back to the trailer. 

“Take as long as you need, love,” he said quietly as he went.

You stood alone absorbing the moment, basking in the love that was surrounding you as you touched the cold metal barrier and looked back at Lando to see Maria placing her hand on his shoulder with a small smile. “Watch over him, Ren. Please keep him safe, for me.”

You were drunk, and so was Lando. There was no other way to put it. Finishing third had not been expected after the car’s performance in qualifying but, by luck or miracle, the conditions had been perfect for him to set a fast pace and move up the grid. So, needless to say, you were celebrating the hell out of the accomplishment with Lando in a packed nightclub full of his supporters and team.

“I’m so proud of you, baby!” The smile hadn’t left your face since he passed the chequered flag but with all the alcohol in your system you couldn’t feel the ache of the muscles in your cheeks. You cupped his face and traced his dimples with your thumbs before kissing him and getting lost in the spur of the moment.

“I love you and I am so lucky to have you.” There was no stopping the words flowing from your mouth, you were too excited for him since it had been a while since his last podium. The pressure from his Principle to get more points could finally ease a little and he was already looking more relaxed. “I think I drank too much, the room's kind of spinning.”

Lando’s laugh was contagious as he took the glass of champagne from your hand and finished it for you with a suggestion to dance instead. It took far longer than expected to make it through the crowd to the dance floor with everyone wanting to stop and congratulate him but you were happy to take it slow seeing how happy it made him.

He eventually extracted himself from the crowd and caught up to where you had found yourself under the lights and amongst the swell of people dancing the night away. His fingers laced with yours as he drew your hands up his body before he draped them around his neck and he pulled you closer.

You didn’t even notice the hundreds of people around you when Lando started moving against you. There was nothing but him and the music that his hips moved to, and the sound of his voice as he brushed his lips below your ear.

“You are breathtakingly beautiful, love.” The song changed and you turned in Lando’s arms deciding to tease him back as you danced against him, rolling your hips to the sensual music. His hands tightened their grip, his fingers digging into your hips where they had come to rest. “We need to leave before I do something very naughty right here in front of all these people.”

You peeked over your shoulder to see his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his glazed eyes full of promise. “But this is your party.”

“So I can do what I want, and I want you.” He kissed the space where your shoulder met your neck. “You’re driving me crazy.”

You stepped out of his touch, immediately missing the warmth of his body against your back, and took his hand. A grin grew on his face when you tugged him forward and he was quick to overtake you on the way to the door, separating the crowd and keeping you tucked in behind his body like a shield.

The cool air of the night hit your lungs and a shiver rolled down your spine at the sudden drop in temperature until Lando pulled you closer and waved for a taxi. It was hardly worth putting the seat belt on for how far down the road the car was going to take you but after Lando had opened the door for you he had walked around the car and taken his seat he had tutted after seeing the belt buckle empty.

“Not on my watch, love,” he said as he reached over you and grabbed the belt. “I need you safe and sound.”

Your lips pressed into a line when you tried to hide your amusement at his protectiveness. “Yes, daddy.”

His eyes flashed to yours and he curled an eyebrow up before he started biting his bottom lip again. “What did you say?”

The taxi pulled into the hotel entrance and you didn’t wait for Lando to come and open your door. You were already walking to the room as fast as your high heels would allow while he rushed to pay for the fare.

You could hear him racing to catch up when you turned down the hall that your suite was on. A squeak escaped before you could silence it when he caught up and pinned you to the door with his body, his lips stealing the soft moan that followed.

“What. Did. You. Say?” he enunciated between each kiss as he swiped his card over the handle and opened the door.

You almost fell backwards as it suddenly swung open but Lando’s arm curled around your waist and pulled you flush against him. Your lips parted with a heady sigh as you felt his hard length begging to be freed from his jeans but he smirked and shook his head when you tried to reach for him.

“Uh-uh, I’m still waiting,” he tutted as he walked you backwards into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. “I want to hear that little quip again, love.”

You teased him with a smile as you reached behind your back for the zip that kept your dress on. “I didn’t realise you were so eager to be a father.” 

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he chuckled as he moved your hand and dragged the zip slowly down your spine. “But with you it wouldn’t be so bad.” 

“Wouldn’t be so bad?” you repeated with a cocked eyebrow and a playful smile. “I understand the ‘no rizz Norris’ now.”

The material slipped down your body and you felt Lando’s exhale warm across your neck before he kissed your racing pulse. “Do you want me to tell you how much I would love to settle down with you, start a family and grow old with you? Because I will. I want it all. With. You.”

You tilted your head to give him more access as his words and the alcohol made your head spin. All of the futures you had once thought would be with René had died with him, but they came crashing back with Lando and you could see it playing out in your head. “When were you planning on telling me this?”

He smirked as his hands trailed down your body before he grabbed your thighs and picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he made his way to the bedroom. “When you called me daddy.”

Click here for part ten.

Tagging: @yunnie-f1 @neiich @zendayabelova @stillbreathin @dr3lover @writerscurse @christianpulisic10 @alwaysclassyeagle @alexisquinnlee-bc @purplephantomwolf @lightsoutletsgo @pleasantducktimetravel @pierre-gasllllllyyyyyy @holy-macncheese-balls @belennasif @ophcelia @love4lando @ryiamarie

[jihyoruri]

❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ ❚ 𓍢 YOUTUBE SERIES huh yunjin

previous. masterlist . next

🧋💿 yn and yunjin best vlog moments 85k views

clip one 🧋(we find out that yunjin sleeps in yn’s room)

“I’m gonna do a makeup tutorial like those youtubers.” yn said the camera, picking up her makeup bag.

yn talks to camera as she does her makeup, also telling fans the stuff she’s using because she’s not a “gatekeeper.”

“I like using diors lip balm and then going over it with their lip oil.” yn says as she does what she explains.

yn looks at the camera and realizes that fans are probably not gonna focus on what she’s saying but instead focus on the lump on her bed.

“in case you guys are wondering, that’s yunjin.” she points to the bed behind her. “she slept with me last night and didn’t wanna get up this morning.”

“we didn’t need to know that yn.” (the editors put that at the bottom of the screen)

clip two 🧋(yunjin calling her and yn’s outing a date)

“me and yn are going on a date today.” yunjin says to the camera. “wait- I mean outing we’re going on an outing today.”

yunjin knocks on yn’s door. “YN.”

yn opens the door. “help me find a shirt.”

“what’s wrong with one you’re wearing?”

“I don’t look good in it.”

yunjin turns to camera to face yn. “you look really good actually, don’t change it.”

“really?”

“yes, come on let’s go.”

clip three 🧋(yunjin calls yn babe.)

yn holds on to yunjin’s arm as the two girls walk enter the mall.

“okay babe, let’s shop around and then get something to eat.” yunjin says to yn as she scans the mall looking at the store’s.

yn freezes and looks at the camera in her hand with wide eyes like she got caught stealing.

“what ?” yunjin asks as notices how tense yn got.

“nothing, nothing.”

the editors put this 🤨 emoji at the bottom of the screen

clip four 🧋(yunjin picks out a skirt for yn.)

“how about this.” yunjin picks up a tennis skirt that she thought would nice on yn.

“isn’t that a little too short.” yn asks as she takes the skirt from yunjin.

yes - the editors put at the bottom screen

“WHAT ? noooo.” yunjin says. “you should get it, it’s your size.”

*YOU AINT SLICK YUNJIN 🤣*

clip five 🧋(yunjin getting both her and yn matching bracelets)

“OH.” yunjin yells. “let’s get these.” she picks up two Tiffany & Co bracelets (the heart ones) one blue one pink.

she hands you the pink one.

“they’re so cute oh my god.” you say as you look at the bracelets. “yeah let’s get them.”

yn pulls out her her wallet only for it to be snatched out her hand.

“I’m paying.” yunjin says. “ think of it as my gift to you.” she kisses yn’s cheek.

clip six 🧋(yunjin feeding yn)

“here” yunjin says as she holds the pizza towards yn’s lips.

yn bites into it, laughing at the cheese pull, she hums at the taste of the pizza “thats good.”

“I know.” yunjin says, now picking up a cheese ball lifting it to yn’s lips like she did with the pizza.

“you have cheese on your fingers.” yn points out to yunjin.

“you wanna lick it ?” yunjin brings her fingers to yn’s face, laughing as yn leans back as she scrunches up her face.

yunjin continues to laugh, but the picks up her drink and brings it to yn’s lips.

“here drink.”

“wow that’s tastes good what type of ice tea is that ?”

blooper beep sound effect

THANKS FOR WATCHING

🧋💌 im gonna post another one sometime this week 🤭

[mistatsunrise]

Shards of Loyalty

Amidst the shadows of betrayal and loyalty, one rebel medic must navigate fractured bonds in the heart of the Empire's darkness.

Fandom: Star Wars, The Bad Batch

Pairing: Wolffe x Reader

Content: Angst as the reader briefly reunites with Wolffe on Teth

Warnings: Spoilers for TBB S3ep06+07

Word Count: 2,978

A/N: I watched the episode, cried, then spent all my time writing this. Also, I couldn't help but have Gregor simp for the reader in this one. Art in divider is by lornaka.

Sitting around the grey flexsteel table, laughter danced around you, as soft giggles spilled from your lips. Your eyes closed briefly as your cheeks rose, a toothy grin wide across your face in a way that made each corner hurt. Across from you was the other source of joyful sounds, in his worn, white plastoid commando armour. His features were spread into a similar grin, crow's feet crinkled about his chestnut brown eyes that glinted in the artificial light of the ship’s interior, and the worn lines upon his tan skin stretched about his smile. A small, stray strand on his dark, slicked-back hair had fallen out of place, which he brushed back into place with a quick swipe of his gloved hand.

As you calmed your laughs, you shifted your hand to take hold of your cup of caf that sat on the table in front of you, the earthy smell of it curling in your nose as you inhaled. Before taking a sip of it, you tilted your head towards the clone opposite you as he rubbed the side of his face, trying to calm his laughter that was greater than yours.

“As soon as we land, I’m going to go get Nemec to confirm that, Gregor,” you teased him softly, to which the clone burst into another bout of laughter.

“You don’t trust me?” Gregor cooed as his laughs subsided again, pointing an accusatory finger at you. It wasn’t serious though, the lop-sided smirk on his face making it evident.

You rolled your eyes softly, placing your hand around the warm cup and lifting it to take a sip. The caf inside tasted too dry and was bitter on your tongue. Yet, you focused on Gregor, paying the poor taste of the caf little mind. “That mission was wild, I need to hear Nemec’s account. I believe you… but, maker, I need to hear more.”

Gregor chuckled softly at that, raising his cup of caf to his lips as you spoke. Yet, you noticed his dark chestnut hues shift from looking at you, moving to looking at the stairs towards the cockpit. The heavy sound of metal prosthetic legs, slightly muted by boots, traveled down to the table. In the doorway, Echo emerged, his pallid features holding a sense of alarm. He cut to the chase, his caramel eyes settling upon both you and Gregor as he spoke.

“Rex commed. Imperials have discovered the base at the spire. They need extracting, ASAP. We’re about five parsecs away.”

You flicked your eyes back to Gregor, whose dark eyes had now hardened with solemnity. There was an unspoken understanding between you three. Your voice vocalized before you even registered it, holding an almost emotionless tone to it.

“Affirmative.”

You pushed yourself from your chair as Gregor simultaneously stood. You all knew what needed to be done, no orders were needed. That’s how this little group of rebels worked, efficiently like a well-oiled droid; not like the Separatist clankers, but like the whirring of a reliable R-series astromech.

Gregor shifted past you on your right, raising a hand to place gently on your shoulder. His digits gave a gentle, but brief squeeze before departing, a small gesture of reassurance. It was all you needed to push yourself forward, to walk down the familiar corridors of the ship towards the medbay.

Once in the dark room, surrounded by dim blue hues and softly blinking lights of green, red, white, and blue, you didn’t need to turn on the main light to navigate about; you knew this place like the back of your hand. You had transitioned from a medcenter medic to a field medic for the clone rebels, and this place was now as close to a home as you could probably get. You missed your life before, at the medcenter, but here, in this dim room, it was easy to put away the memories, the good and the bad, and be enveloped in the blanket of shadows and low light.

As you sought for your medical bag, fingers grazing against the embroidered section of the fabric, a memory surfaced.

“It’s a gift, for helping with… well, everything.”

Wolffe’s voice echoed in your mind as if he was there. He’d stood before you, a small bundle in his outstretched hand. It was wrapped rather poorly, the edges of the paper coming unfolded as it sat there, as if the commander either hadn’t bothered to find an adhesive, or he simply couldn’t find one. It seemed too awkward for him, in a way, and that was coming from the person who’d been there for… well, everything. At least from the moment he’d arrived, fresh red scar and painfully burnt eye from a lightsaber wound. There had certainly been some awkward moments in his recovery, but somehow, it was not as awkward as this moment. Perhaps, because for once, Wolffe was the one giving, and neither of you was used to it. You’d taken the gift, fingers pulling at the paper to unveil an embroidered patch in the middle, the symbol of the Wolfpack in the middle. “I want you to be an honorary member of the Wolfpack,” Wolffe had explained, still rather awkwardly. At the time, you didn’t know why, but when you went home, to sew the patch to your medpack bag, you’d found his comm details written in the paper wrapping too. That moment felt like a lifetime ago. All memories of Wolffe did. You had been so close. So close, that you’d almost admitted to him that you loved him. But that never came to pass. The world as you knew it shattered, and you had to rebuild. The medbay you currently knelt in was a testament to that.

A sigh, heavy and warped with longing, passed from your lips, falling into the air of the dark room. You had to focus; Rex, Nemec, Fireball, and Howzer were relying on you for the extraction, and you needed to be ready in case anyone was harmed… which was inevitable. Hopefully, all injuries would be minor. Pushing the past where it belonged, in the past and away from your conscious thought, you grabbed the medpack, pulling the straps over your shoulders. No time to dawdle. You stood straight, pack weighing on your shoulders, and you navigated the hallways the way you had just walked, back to the mess room, and then further, up the stairs to the cockpit.

At the very front was Echo, facing ahead as the blue streaks of light shot by like endless blaster bolts. A few seats back sat Gregor, leaning forward with arms crossed over his knees. Both sat in silence; apprehension hung in the air, the deep breath before plunging into conflict, something both clones were used to. You certainly weren’t, yet you were not one to let the unease overwhelm you. Taking a few steps forward, you plant yourself in the leather of the chair opposite Gregor, your voice cutting through the silence.

“How long until we get there?”

Echo tilted his head back slightly, the caramel hues of his irises glinting in the light of hyperspace, coming in from the viewports. “Another couple of minutes. Rex and the boys will need to hold on until then.”

Gregor’s voice quickly cut in after Echo finished his sentence, drawing your attention to him. He’d swiveled his chair to face you, having grabbed something from the small side sill at the edge of the cockpit. “Here, take this blaster,” Gregor extended his hand out, holding a DC-17 hand blaster to you. “Not sure if we’ll have to fight. Be safe than sorry.” His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, momentarily going higher pitch before lowering to his usual pitch. After the voice cracks, a small burst of nervous laughter escaped the clone. It was not long ago that you and Gregor shared humorous laughter, and now all that joy had dissipated. You leaned forward, outstretching your arm to take the blaster from Gregor’s hand. Your fingers curled around the weapon and softly brushed Gregor’s hand, warm still through the gloves. As you pulled the blaster back to rest on your lap, Gregor offered you a small, yet warm smile, sincerity glinting in his eyes, wordlessly telling you not to worry.

At the console, Echo moved to pull the ship out of hyperspace. The streaking lights of passing stars shortened, congealing into pin-prick dots of light. Outside the transparisteel before you, the looming, dark shape of Teth emerged. As you got closer, you spied a bright white light at the location, and Echo deftly moved to send an alert to Rex that you were inbound. Gregor stood, leaning over one of the chairs closer to the console, and so you joined him, to get a better look at the scene. You saw a line of Imperial soldiers - you couldn’t quite make out their armor from here. Huddled before them, alert yet holding fire was Rex and the others… A glance over them showed you easily that some were missing - who you didn’t know. Blasted Imperials, you always lost good clones to them. What surprised you was that they didn’t try anything against the ship.

You pushed yourself to stand from your chair, and Gregor nodded to you, standing up straight himself. Echo swung the ship around for easy access to Rex and the others, and quickly you and Gregor sprinted down the halls towards the door. You gripped the blaster tight in your hand. If it came to blows, you were ready to take down a few of the Empire’s men in exchange for the missing troopers. With a swoosh, the door lowered, spilling white light from your ship against the bright spotlights of the Imperial ship. Before you stood the shadowy figures of both your men and the Imperials. It took you a moment for your eyes to adjust upon those who stood there. You looked to your troopers first - only Rex and Howzer remained, the rest were the Bad Batch, with their child and pet. Nemec… Fireball… Both of them were gone.

Anger surged through you, and you raised your gaze to glare at the leader of the Imperial troopers, intent on giving him the most venomous stare you could muster. Yet, as the details of the man were revealed to you, a crack suddenly shattered your heart in half. The blaster in your hand fell slack as you just stared… The one behind this, who’d allowed the deaths of Nemec, Fireball, and the others, was none other than the man you loved. Wolffe.

Beside him, the clone commando eased forward slightly, yet Wolffe raised his arm to tell the trooper, his voice quiet yet rumbling in a commanding tone, “Stand down.” You just about heard it, although his actions spoke louder than his words at that moment. He was going to let you all go, despite likely being ordered to take down your group. Before you, Rex nodded his head with respect for the commander. They were brothers, and loyal to each other even if they fought on opposite sides. That loyalty gave you hope, sparking up inside your chest where the ruins of your heart now lay cracked, perhaps to mend and bond that wound taken to it.

The Bad Batch, followed by Howzer, moved quickly back up to the ship, and Rex himself turned his back to Wolffe. With them, everything had been said and done, but you… You didn’t quite understand. Wolffe was disobeying the Empire at this moment, but he appeared to still be staying with them. You stepped forward down the ramp, brushing past the lanky figure of Crosshair, onto the rocky ground below. Wolffe’s gaze shifted from the turning figure of Rex towards where you stepped, pushing past those retreating in an almost defiant manner. Your eyes met, and the firm expression of the Commander shifted. His eyes widened in surprise, his lips parting softly; his left, natural eye with its caramel hues seemed vulnerable at that moment. Standing opposed to his brothers was different from standing opposed to the person he’d loved. Looking at him, you saw that too awkward stance again, echoing the past when he first truly opened up to you. There was hope, yet this was not a moment, or even such a thing, to be easily navigated. Not with the troopers at Wolffe’s back, and the Empire too. Not with your ship, your group of rebels about to depart. It wasn’t even as easy as giving commlink details on a crumpled piece of paper.

Rex’s hand met your shoulder as he stopped by you. It was hard to break away from Wolffe’s gaze, but you did. The look on Rex’s face told you everything you needed to know. That pair of amber eyes showed understanding, but an urgency, that nothing could be done now, and it was time to move on. You nodded your head slightly, your gaze meeting Wolffe’s, which had shifted to a more guarded look. There was still a hint of uncertainty in his singular natural eye, but his cybernetic one seemed dull and void. All you could do was offer the commander a nod, not unlike the one that had been shared with Rex, but this one told him that you’d be back, and that you’d both be able to reunite someday. Rex’s hand slipped from your shoulder, and with that, you too turned around. The captain allowed you to slip ahead of him so that he could secure safety as you finished boarding.

The steps onto the ship were hard, but you knew that this was not the last time you would see Wolffe. You did not dare look back, for if you did, you feared you’d lose your composure. Yet, thankfully, as you stepped back onto the firm flooring of the ship, you were surrounded by the clones that had supported you during this new reign of the Empire; Rex at your back, Gregor at your side, and Howzer at the front. The ramp raised and the door swooshed shut, leaving you standing there. The Bad Batch lingered around you too, and in that moment, you wished for them to be gone, to leave you with the ones you trusted, but you knew Echo would scold you for that, as they were his squad too. The conflict was evident on your face, it must be, because the pet of the Bad Batch snuffled its nose and came up to you, sniffing at you and rubbing against your legs in a friendly way. The child smiled at you, “Batcher’s just saying hi, don’t worry.” She seemed to have mistaken your expression for a reaction to the animal. It eased your mind a little, and you gave the kid a smile in response.

Rex shifted, stepping around you, and he headed over to the doorway that led to the corridor through the ship, “Come on, let’s settle down and… well… that was a lot. We all need some rest.” The largest clone in the Bad Batch, Wrecker, heartily agreed, followed by the child, then Hunter and the slinking Crosshair. There was no use in lingering here yourself, so you made your way down the corridor after them. In that walk, you realized that you felt as though part of you was missing, like there was a hole in your heart. It seemed that when it cracked when you saw Wolffe with the Empire, a part of it fell and was now left with him. You really would have to go back for it.

Once the ship was traveling at hyperspeed once more, and the Bad Batch was settled down in the cockpit with Echo, you found yourself sitting around that same table you’d been sitting at with Gregor before this all occurred. This time, you sat right next to Gregor, instead of opposite him, and Howzer sat in the chair you had occupied. Rex was standing to the side, stirring some sweetener into his cup of caf. Surrounded by your little mismatched squad, you finally felt able to breathe and to speak. Letting out a sigh, you voiced that which you’d been dying to say since you saw the commander. “I can’t believe Wolffe sided with the Empire.” Gregor shifted slightly, wordlessly putting a hand on your shoulder. These few clones were the ones that knew about your connection to Wolffe, so you felt safe to speak of it here.

Rex turned his head slightly, looking at you with his amber gaze, holding sincerity within it. “Wolffe doesn’t seem to know everything the Empire’s done. He’s likely still under the influence of the chip. But, like with all of us, he did show signs of resistance.”

Howzer added to Rex’s comment, shoving a thumb in the direction of the cockpit, “If Crosshair can be redeemed, then Commander Wolffe can too. That clone showed that he truly had changed today… and I still almost find it hard to believe, even though I saw it with my own eyes. If that can be done, then getting Wolffe to see sense would be like a sandstorm on Geonosis - inevitable.”

The missing clones from your gathering came to mind though, and you frowned, “But… Fireball… Nemec… Wolffe didn’t-”

“Actually,” Rex cut you off, “They were firing at us with stun rounds. There was one of those shadow troopers after us… That was who got Fireball and Nemec. Wolffe’s men appeared to be ordered to take us down with stun rounds.”

You exhaled softly. Wolffe was still loyal to his brothers, even those who fought against him, that was clear. There was no reason to lose hope, even under the dark rule of the Empire. It gave you purpose too; to keep fighting until Wolffe was finally by your side once more.

Thanks for reading!

[rainychaoloveshack]

ﾟ ⋆ ﾟ ☂︎ ⋆ ﾟ 𝐓𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐲. 𝐒𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐡𝐨𝐠.

your boyfriend scourge comes over while you’re baking to bug you.

content. scourge x gn!reader, reader is baking 🍰 (not implied to be a full-on baker, moreso a one time thing), teasing, smoking, slight fluff, suggestive behavior and language around the end

☂︎ wc. 1.1k ☂︎ a/n. hi hi hi!!! we have scourge for our last one :) i actually rlly like how this one turned out… im working on ur guys requests dont worry <3 

likes, reblogs, and especially comments are extremely appreciated!!!

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⋆｡˚ 🌨 ˚｡⋆｡🌩˚☽˚｡⋆ 

☂︎

“Hey, sweet stuff.” A voice draws out from behind you, interrupting your baking at hand as your boyfriend emerges from his nap this late. “Smells damn good in here. What’cha makin’?” It’s already 00:48, and he wants to come over here like it’s the crack of dawn. Ugh.

Scourge tilts his head at your displeased expression. “What?” He says, enjoying your physical reaction of annoyance as you turn your heel, focusing on the dessert at hand. “I ain’t even do nothin’ yet.” Emphasis on ‘yet’.

Scourge makes his way into the kitchen with you, leaning against the kitchen counter as he eyes your latest creation; some beignets, soon to be dusted in powdered sugar and slathered with delicious honey. “Why’re ya’ bakin’ so late?” He murmurs, obviously finding interest in your random antics at this hour, but you shrug your shoulders and empty the freshly cooked beignets away from the oil onto a plate set with a paper towel. 

Well, you were hungry. And shit, when you’re hungry, you’re gonna eat. Obviously.

He scoffs lightly, and you hear a small shuffling behind you, making you turn your head towards him.

“Y’ always doin’ somethin’ weird when yer up late." Scourge mutters, flicking his lighter repeatedly until it finally hits, and he holds a cigarette close to his mouth, lighting the end and taking a small puff in. Did he already forget about you telling him not to smoke inside so often? You pout, putting a hand on your hip as you glare at him, giving him the sort of look that screams ‘put it out’.

But he doesn’t, looking at you with a cheeky grin, and even blowing the smoke in your direction afterwards. “I ain’t forget.” Ah, great. Now you have to add mind reading to his list of tricks he can use against you. “Y’ aren’t gonna be too mad, right?”

A terrible but also good thing about Scourge is that he knows your limits. He knows to what point you’ll handle his antics, but on the opposite side of that, he knows when to tone it down. It leads to some mildly annoying situations, but nothing big enough to bitch over.

You roll your eyes, lightly dusting some powdered sugar over your fresh beignets, then quickly drizzling some honey on top. God, they look so good. The first bite is gonna-

“Lemme get one.” Scourge bumps into you, pushing you aside slightly to take a beignet off its plate. Of course he doesn’t ask for permission.

Well, you were gonna let him have one anyway, but still. Some manners would be nice, but manners are pretty much nonexistent with him.

He’s quiet for a few seconds, licking his lips briefly before going in for another bite. That’s a good sign coming from him. After being with Scourge for this long, you can almost read him like an open book.

“‘S good.” Oh. Guess he got you there. 

You tilt your head over at him, not expecting the small, genuine compliment. Usually, he’d say something slick out the side of his mouth; maybe a little joke or something. Maybe he’s feeling sweet tonight?

Scourge taps his cigarette lightly onto the kitchen counter near the sink, ash falling onto the marble as he licks some honey off his fingertips with the tip of his tongue, making another scowl form on your face. “Oops.” He says, his eyes widening slightly as he taps the rest of the ash into the sink. “My bad, babe.” Dirting your counters and everything. He notices your scowl and smirks at you, dragging his finger up his tongue, and then licking some extra honey off his lips. “What? Ya took away the ashtray.” True. It’s still lying away from Scourge’s gaze even now, hidden in your room in an attempt to get him to smoke inside less. Shame it didn’t work. Stupid idiot…

“So the chef’s not gonna take a bite of their own shit? C’mon.” He chuckles, holding up a beignet to your mouth. It’s hard to fight the smile on your face, and you take a bite of it eagerly, savoring especially the rich honey you drizzled all over the dessert, coupled with the sugar and soft beignet. Yum.

“Got something there.” Scourge grazes his thumb against your bottom lip, wiping unknown honey you had accidentally smeared there while savoring the pastry. He then meets your eyes, licking the honey off his thumb with a smug grin. “Good, yeah?”

… Idiot. He really knows how to get you going.

Suddenly, the smoke from the cigarette flows in your direction, and you wince from the smell. Eugh. You’ve never been one to smoke often at all, maybe once or twice (if the mood's right with Scourge), but other than that you’ve never been fond of it. Scourge reads your expression and his cheeky grin falters.

“Hmm?” He draws out lazily. “Somethin’ wrong?” As soon as he asks, he eyes the cigarette set in his left hand, still emitting smoke. “Oh.”

He takes another draw from it, but to your shock, he wordlessly flicks the cigarette into the sink, a short sizzling sound emitting from it as a bit of water puts it out. “All ya had to do was ask, babe.” Scourge mutters. “You know I wouldn’t keep the shit around if it really bugged ya. M’ not that much of a dickhead.” He tilts his head down, blowing the smoke down to the floor as he looks up to meet your gaze again.

… He really has changed. You struggle to push back the small smile on your face at the thought of it.

“Hmm? Whatcha’ smiling for?” For him. For the way he is today. Even if putting out his cigarette is such a small gesture; it’s progress. It’s there.

Scourge pauses at your heartfelt words, shock lining his features before he tries to shake it off, tugging you over slightly by your shirt. “C’mere, babe.” He says gently, pressing a kiss on your lips as he cups your cheek, his tongue grazing your bottom lip and tasting the mix of sweet sugar and honey in your mouth. The mixed taste of slight ash and honey fills yours, but you really don't care right now. It’s such an easy thing to ignore when he’s such a good kisser.

After what feels like forever, you two break away from each other, panting as your breath mingles with one another's. 

Fuck. He’s so sweet… Even when he tries to hide his embarrassment with a kiss.

“Lemme show ya’ a good time, honey. Bet cha’ taste just as sweet as it too…”

(i’ve always wanted to try beignets. they look so yummy… with the powdered sugar and everything 🤤)

[just-some-user-hunny]

More soft pinocchio headcanons...

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~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~

~ Pino has this fascination with your hands. After discovering that humans have their own unique lines on their palms, he takes note of yours and fixates on them. He'll cradle your hand in his and trace the delicate markings and lines of your palm.

You only start noticing when he starts to purposely reach and hold your hand whenever he comes to spend time with you, or even in simple passings. He'll stand before you and listen to you talk, all the while lightly tracing your hand in his with gentle fingertips, sapphire blue eyes gazing deeply into yours.

~ he'll bring you back things occasionally on his risky outings, usually little things like new books or flowers he's plucked from flower gardens. Just Imagine Pino returning to the hotel, his sword caked in slick oil and his expression hard and focused, but his eyes just subtly melting once he sees you whilst shyly handing you a daisy pinched between his fingers.

~ he may not speak, but he gradually becomes more and more expressive with you. Shared looks across rooms, glances towards your form entering the library as he's drawn to you at once, Pino has a language all of his own when it comes to you.

~ spoiler!! For this part, but when he encounters the gentleman whos partner was a puppet, Pino takes a lingering moment to eye the wedding ring in his grasp. Observing the little gold band and how he had just plucked it off the finger of the puppet wife, his expression still but... yearning.

~ playing the piano with Pino!!! <3 he is naturally skilled at it, his movements meticulous as he plays like it's known all his life. If you struggle he'll sit close to you on the stool and guide your hands, and you're so flustered because he's pressed to close to you with his chin nestled into your shoulder. Pino will cock his head, appearing oblivious, but at this point he knows he's making you flustered and just smiles softly at you.

~ comparing his freckles to constellations and it makes him so flustered!!! Just lightly tracing the light freckles on his pale face with a fingertip and muttering softly how his face holds the stars and his eyes hold the sky. This man will get so flustered <3

~ Pino teaching you how to hold a sword, and he's just so patient and sweet whilst doing so :(( he'll position himself behind you with his hand clasped supportively against yours that's holding the handle of his blade, and he helps you position your feet and stance. He takes it quite seriously, meanwhile you're playfully swishing it around like a pirate 😭 he can't help but watch in amusement though, you're very precious to him you know?

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~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~~⚜️~