#I really really hope you like it thank you for your request!

[urdreamydoodles]

MARVEL COMICS CHARACTERS X FEM!READER

You kiss them when they least expect it

Characters: Peter Parker, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Thor, Loki, Clint Barton, Natasha Romanoff, Bucky Barnes, Matthew Murdock, Frank Castle, Bullseye, Marc Spector, Taskmaster, Johnny Storm, Reed Richards, Ben Grimm, Susan Storm, Felicia Hardy, Stephen Strange, Namor, Johnny Blaze, Eddie Brock / Venom, T'Challa, Elektra Natchios, Muse, Victor von Doom, Peter Quill & Nova

Reply to anon: As promised...your little Catholic boy. I spend my days writing to keep my mind off my surgery. I'm a really anxious person, so I have to fill my head with my pleasures (my fandoms). So the requests will come out quickly, I'm happy and you're happy... win win. Thank you for all your requests and support. LOVE YOU GUYS SO MUCH ♡

Peter Parker

- Peter Parker has been kissed before. He has known the warmth of affection, the giddy rush of young love, the slow ache of something deeper. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for the moment your lips press against his, sudden and unannounced, shattering the rhythm of his thoughts like a lightning strike in the middle of a quiet night. His brain short-circuits instantly.

- His body reacts before his mind does, his breath catching, fingers twitching as if unsure whether to hold you or simply let himself drown in the moment. There is a fleeting second of hesitation, a half-formed thought that this must be some kind of dream, some cruel trick played by the universe. But your warmth is real, your presence undeniable. The city fades around him, the constant hum of responsibility momentarily silenced beneath the press of your lips.

- When you finally pull away, Peter blinks—once, twice—like he’s trying to process what just happened. Then, without warning, his face erupts into a deep crimson flush, spreading down to his neck like wildfire. “Oh,” he breathes out, voice slightly strangled. “Okay. Cool. That was… um. Wow.” He rubs the back of his neck, a nervous chuckle escaping him. “Was that, like, a scientific experiment? Because if so, I volunteer for more data collection.”

- Despite the awkward attempt at humor, his hands are still trembling, his pupils blown wide with something raw and unspoken. And then, after a moment of hesitation, his fingers curl around yours, his grip steady despite the lingering nerves. “But, uh… just so we’re clear,” he murmurs, voice softer now, more certain, “if you ever wanna do that again, you won’t have to catch me off guard next time.”

Tony Stark

- Tony Stark has spent a lifetime mastering control. He anticipates every possible scenario, every variable, every consequence. His mind is a constant whirlwind of calculations, solutions, contingencies. But when you kiss him—when you seize the moment and steal his breath away with no warning, no preamble—his mind goes completely, utterly blank. For the first time in years, there is no plan. No exit strategy. Just you.

- His body reacts on instinct, hands coming up to grasp your waist, a sharp inhale against your lips. But it’s not just the physical contact that undoes him—it’s the fact that you did it at all. That you, beautiful and untouchable in a way he never dared to hope for, have chosen him in this moment, with no ulterior motive, no expectation. It is not a conquest. It is not a game. It is real. And Tony Stark has never known how to handle real.

- When you finally break away, his lips are still parted, his usually sharp tongue momentarily silenced. Then, ever so slowly, a grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, something dangerous and delighted and entirely Tony. “Well, well,” he muses, his voice a low hum. “That was unexpected. Not that I’m complaining, of course.” He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with mischief. “But, uh, you might wanna be careful, sweetheart. You kiss me like that, and I might just start thinking you like me.”

- And yet, beneath the bravado, there is something softer, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger against your skin, in the way his expression shifts—just for a fraction of a second—into something almost reverent. Because the truth is, he is already lost. And if you kissed him again, he wouldn’t just let you—he’d make damn sure you never stopped.

Steve Rogers

- Steve Rogers is used to the world moving too fast around him. Time slips through his fingers like sand, people come and go like ghosts, and every moment is a reminder of just how much he has lost. But when you kiss him—when you break through the steady, predictable rhythm of his days with something as sudden and undeniable as your lips against his—it is the first time in a long, long while that he feels truly, absolutely present.

- He freezes at first, caught between instinct and shock, but it lasts only a second. Then, without thinking, his hands find your waist, steadying you both as though the moment itself is something fragile, something sacred. His heart is hammering against his ribs, a deep, resounding drumbeat that he swears you must be able to hear. And when he finally exhales, it is not out of hesitation—but out of something else. Something like surrender.

- When you pull back, his blue eyes are searching, tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t joke or tease or stumble over his words. Instead, he simply watches you, memorizing every detail of the moment, committing it to memory as if he is afraid it will slip away. And then, at last, he lets out a quiet, almost incredulous chuckle. “You really do like keeping me on my toes, don’t you?”

- But there is warmth in his voice, something gentle and unshaken. And then, after a moment, he does something you don’t expect—he leans in again, slower this time, deliberate. His lips brush against yours, and this time, he is the one who takes control. And when he pulls away, his hand lingers at the back of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin. “Just so you know,” he murmurs, a small smile playing at his lips, “next time, I won’t let you take me by surprise.”

Thor

- Thor Odinson has been kissed before. He has known the passion of warriors, the devotion of gods, the fleeting tenderness of mortals who looked upon him with awe. And yet, when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without hesitation, without prelude—it is not reverence that he feels, nor expectation. It is something deeper, something that sinks into his very bones. It is you.

- There is a moment of stillness, as if the entire world holds its breath. Then, with a deep, rumbling exhale, he reacts—not with hesitation, not with shock, but with the full force of a man who has never done anything by halves. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him, his grip firm yet careful, as if you are something both fierce and fragile, something he is terrified of losing.

- When you pull back, he does not release you immediately. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin, and for a moment, he simply exists in the aftermath of what you have done. Then, with a slow, wolfish grin, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes bright with something unmistakably pleased. “Ah,” he rumbles, his voice thick with amusement, “so the battle has begun, then?”

- And before you can question him, before you can even think, he leans in once more—this time with purpose, with certainty. His lips claim yours in a way that is both a challenge and an offering, a promise and a declaration. And when he finally pulls away, his fingers trail down your spine, his grip unwavering. “A warning, my beloved,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming. “You have started something you may not wish to finish.” But the way he holds you—the way his touch lingers, possessive and warm—tells you that, in truth, he is hoping you never do.

Loki

- Loki is a creature of calculation, of control wrapped in silver-tongued deception. He reads people like poetry, anticipates betrayals before they are spoken, dissects affections before they can wound him. But when your lips find his—without warning, without preamble—it is the first time in centuries that someone has truly caught him off guard. His breath halts, body rigid, as if the universe itself has shifted beneath him.

- He does not pull away. He does not return it immediately, either. Instead, he remains perfectly still, sharp eyes searching yours with an intensity that borders on dangerous. You can almost hear the gears turning in his mind, the war between disbelief and hunger, between skepticism and the undeniable thrill of being wanted without agenda. And then, ever so slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, something dark and pleased blooming in his expression. “Interesting,” he muses, voice velvet-smooth, though there is an unmistakable edge of breathlessness beneath it.

- When you move to step back, he does not allow it. A hand—cool, firm, deceptively gentle—curls around your wrist, anchoring you in place. “You think you can best me in my own game, little one?” he murmurs, amusement dripping from every syllable. “That you can steal a kiss and escape unscathed?” His voice is teasing, but there is something else beneath it—something raw, something aching, something that trembles on the edge of longing.

- And then, with a slow, deliberate certainty, he leans in once more. This time, there is no hesitation, no caution. His lips claim yours in a way that is both challenge and surrender, fire and ice melting together in something neither of you can quite name. And when he finally pulls away, his thumb traces the edge of your jaw, his smirk lazy yet predatory. “You are playing a dangerous game, darling,” he whispers. “And I do hope you intend to see it through.”

Clint Barton

- Clint Barton has been trained to anticipate the unexpected. He is a man who survives on instinct, who sees what others miss, who never lets his guard down—not truly. But when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his without warning, without prelude, it is the first time in years that someone has managed to slip past his defenses. And it floors him.

- His breath stutters, muscles tensing as if expecting some kind of punchline, some cruel joke at his expense. But then—then—your hands brush against his jaw, gentle, grounding, real. And suddenly, the world feels quieter. The weight of it all—the missions, the past, the scars that never quite fade—momentarily lifts, leaving nothing but the steady, warm press of your mouth against his. And for once, he lets himself sink into it.

- When you finally pull away, he blinks as if shaking off a haze, lips parted in something like disbelief. And then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face—lazy, crooked, entirely Clint. “Well, damn,” he breathes out, a chuckle escaping him. “Gonna be honest, didn’t see that one coming.” He tilts his head, eyes alight with mischief. “You always go around ambushing guys like this, or am I just special?”

- But there is something softer beneath the teasing, something unspoken in the way his fingers linger near yours, as if debating whether to pull you back in. And then, with a quiet exhale, he murmurs, “Not that I’m complaining, but—maybe next time, give a guy some warning?” He smirks. “Or don’t. I kinda like the element of surprise.”

Natasha Romanoff

- Natasha Romanoff is not a woman who is easily caught off guard. She is control, precision, danger wrapped in elegance. She anticipates every move before it happens, never allows herself to be vulnerable, never lets anyone too close. But when you kiss her—without warning, without calculation—it is the one scenario she never saw coming.

- Her body tenses immediately, years of instinct screaming at her to assess the threat, to react. But then—then—your lips linger, warm and unhurried, and something in her falters. There is no ulterior motive, no expectation, no game being played. Just you. And that, more than anything, leaves her shaken. She does not kiss you back, not at first. She is too busy deciphering why—why you would do this, why she doesn’t hate it, why the world suddenly feels too small with you this close.

- When you pull away, she does not speak. Instead, she tilts her head, studying you with an unreadable expression, emerald eyes scanning your face as if searching for an answer you have not yet spoken. And then, at last, a small smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. “Brave,” she murmurs, voice smooth, almost amused. “Reckless, but brave.” But there is something else in her gaze—something uncertain, something hesitant. As if she is not quite sure what to do with the warmth still lingering on her lips.

- Then, before you can respond, she steps closer, closing the space between you. There is no hesitation this time, no calculation—just the slow, deliberate press of her mouth against yours. And when she finally pulls away, her voice is softer, quieter. “Don’t do that unless you mean it,” she warns. But the way her fingers trail against your wrist, the way her breath lingers against your skin, tells you that she is hoping—just this once—that you do.

Bucky Barnes

- Bucky Barnes is a man who flinches at softness. He does not know how to accept kindness without suspicion, does not know how to be wanted without expectation. He has spent years being used, being controlled, being nothing more than a weapon to be wielded. But when you kiss him—when you press your lips against his without warning—it is the first time in a long, long while that he is simply Bucky.

- His entire body stiffens at first, muscles coiled as if expecting an attack, a trap, a trick. But then your hands brush against him—gentle, grounding, real—and something in him cracks. His breath shudders against your lips, something raw and unspoken trembling just beneath the surface. And for the first time in years, he allows himself to be held instead of holding himself together.

- When you pull away, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. His expression is unreadable, blue eyes stormy with something you can’t quite decipher. And then, ever so slowly, he exhales. “Why?” The word is quiet, hesitant, as if he doesn’t believe he deserves the answer. As if he is bracing himself for you to tell him it was a mistake. But you don’t. You just look at him, and that alone is enough to undo him.

- And then, after a long moment, his fingers brush against yours, tentative, uncertain. “Do it again,” he murmurs, the words barely audible. But when you do—when you kiss him once more, slow and patient and real—his hands finally come up to hold you, steady and warm and home. And this time, he doesn’t let you pull away.

Matthew Murdock

- Matthew Murdock is a man who lives in anticipation. Every breath, every footstep, every heartbeat in his vicinity is accounted for, cataloged, expected. He senses things before they happen, navigates the unseen with the certainty of someone who has never truly been blind. But he does not sense this. The moment your lips press against his, his world—usually so finely attuned—stutters. For the first time in a long time, Matt is truly caught off guard.

- His breath hitches, his fingers twitch at his sides, and for a brief moment, he is frozen in place. The taste of you lingers—warmth and surprise and something maddeningly sweet. His senses flood with you, and it is overwhelming in the best and worst way. His pulse is erratic, his mind a mess of tangled thoughts. He has fought the devil inside himself for so long, denied himself softness, pushed away love because it only ever ends in ruin. And yet, here you are. Kissing him.

- When you pull back, he exhales shakily, his lips parting as if to speak, but no words come. Instead, his hand finds you—fingertips ghosting over your cheek, as if to make certain you are real. His voice, when he finally manages to use it, is quiet, reverent. “You shouldn’t do things like that,” he murmurs, but there is no conviction in his words, no true protest. Only the lingering tremor of someone who wants—desperately, deeply—but does not know if he is allowed to have.

- And then, as if unable to resist the temptation you have placed before him, he leans in. His kiss is not hasty, not fevered, but something far more dangerous—slow, deliberate, inevitable. It is an unspoken confession, a quiet surrender, a promise that he may not be ready to put into words. But his hands find your waist, his lips press deeper into yours, and the way he sighs against your mouth tells you all you need to know.

Frank Castle

- Frank Castle has lost too much to believe in second chances. Love is a thing he buried alongside his family, a thing he does not touch, does not deserve. He is a man made of violence, of war and grief and cold, unrelenting vengeance. He does not get soft things. So when you kiss him—when you, in all your warmth, in all your reckless beauty, dare to press your lips to his—he does not know what to do with it.

- His entire body goes still, as if the world has caught fire and he is standing in the center of the blaze, unscathed but bewildered. He does not pull away. He does not push you back. He simply exists in the moment, feeling something that is not rage, not pain, not the gnawing emptiness that has been his only companion for years. The taste of you lingers—something achingly sweet against the bitterness of his own existence.

- When you finally step back, he exhales sharply, his breath uneven, his jaw clenched. His eyes—dark, stormy, battle-hardened—lock onto yours, searching, questioning. He wants to tell you this is a mistake. That people who get close to him only end up hurt, that his hands are meant for killing, not holding. But he doesn’t say it. Because for the first time in a long, long time, he does not want to push something away.

- Instead, his fingers curl at his sides, his voice low, rough. “You sure you wanna be doin’ that?” It’s not a warning—it’s an invitation. A chance to walk away before he inevitably ruins you the way he ruins everything else. But when you don’t—when you meet his gaze and kiss him again, slower this time, softer—his resolve cracks, and he kisses you back with something that is almost desperate, almost alive.

Bullseye (Lester)

- Bullseye is used to taking. He takes lives, takes power, takes anything he wants because no one can stop him. He is a monster, and he knows it—embraces it. There is nothing good in him. Nothing worth saving. And yet, you—beautiful, foolish, unafraid—have the audacity to kiss him as if he is anything but ruin incarnate.

- The moment your lips meet his, something snaps in him. His instincts scream at him to turn this into a game, to take control, to make you regret ever thinking you could surprise him. But for once, he does not move. He lets himself feel it. The warmth of you, the softness, the maddening contrast of something so pure against the corruption that coats his soul like tar. It is unexpected, undeserved, and utterly intoxicating.

- When you pull away, his smirk is slow, sharp-edged, dangerous. His eyes—dark and gleaming with something predatory—drag over your face like he’s memorizing every detail, committing your recklessness to memory. “Well, damn,” he drawls, voice slick with amusement. “Didn’t know you had it in you, sweetheart.” His fingers ghost over his lips as if testing whether the sensation was real or just some twisted hallucination.

- And then, with a sudden, startling speed, he moves. One hand grips the back of your neck, the other pressing against your waist, and before you can react, he’s kissing you back. But this—this is something else entirely. It is wild, chaotic, consuming. A warning, a promise, a claim. And when he finally pulls away, grinning like the devil himself, he murmurs, “Hope you know what you just started.”

Marc Spector

- Marc Spector is used to ghosts. His past, his mistakes, his fractured mind—he carries them all like shadows that never fade. He does not trust happiness, does not trust peace, because both have been ripped from him too many times to count. And love? Love is not something that belongs to men like him. But then there is you. And then there is this. Your lips against his, unannounced, unexpected, real.

- The first sensation is shock. Not fear, not rejection—just shock. His mind, always a battlefield of shifting identities and whispered voices, goes silent for one aching, beautiful moment. The warmth of your mouth, the way you lean into him with no hesitation, no fear—it is something foreign, something he does not know how to hold. And yet, he wants to. God help him, he wants to.

- When you pull back, his breath is unsteady, his hands curled into fists at his sides as if fighting the urge to pull you back in. His eyes—haunted, desperate, yearning—flicker between you and the ground, as if struggling to find something solid to anchor himself. “You shouldn’t…” His voice is raw, broken. “You shouldn’t do that.” But there is no weight behind the words, no real protest. Just the quiet, trembling confession of a man who does not believe he deserves to be touched with kindness.

- And then, with a slow exhale, he makes a choice. His hand—scarred, trembling—reaches for yours, fingers brushing tentatively before curling around them. He does not pull you close, does not claim you the way others might. Instead, he simply holds on. A silent plea, a fragile hope. And when he finally kisses you back, it is not with hunger, not with dominance—but with something far more dangerous. Need.

Taskmaster (Tony Masters)

- Taskmaster survives by reading people before they can act. He sees a shift in weight, a flicker of intent, the smallest twitch of a muscle, and he knows what comes next. It’s how he wins fights, how he predicts every move before it happens. But not this. Not you. He doesn’t see it coming when your lips press against his, a ghost of warmth against the cold edge of a man who has spent his life being untouchable.

- His entire body stiffens, instincts roaring at him to react, to counter, to do something—but he doesn’t. His mind, trained to memorize, analyze, replicate, suddenly falters. He can mimic a thousand fighting styles, anticipate attacks from the best in the world, but he has no defense for the softness of your mouth, the way you kiss him like he is something more than a weapon. And it unsettles him.

- When you pull back, his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing as if searching for the right response. His mask hides his face, but you can feel the way he’s staring at you, the sharp intensity of a man trying to process something he can’t categorize. “The hell was that for?” he finally mutters, his voice low, rough—gravel scraped over steel. But there is no anger, no mockery. Just a quiet, dangerous curiosity.

- And then, something shifts. A decision made. He moves faster than thought, a gloved hand catching your wrist, pulling you in before you can slip away. And when he kisses you back, it is not soft, not hesitant. It is sharp-edged and confident, like a man reclaiming control over the one thing that has ever caught him off guard. You wanted to surprise him? Fine. But now, he’s the one in charge.

Johnny Storm

- Johnny Storm burns hot—always has, always will. A fire that never quite settles, never dims. He is loud and reckless and bright, and he wears his confidence like a second skin. But beneath it all, there is something deeper, something hidden behind smirks and easy laughter. And it is that something that flickers the moment you kiss him.

- At first, he doesn’t process it. One second he’s talking, maybe making some cocky remark, and the next—your lips are on his. His brain short-circuits. Johnny Storm, king of comebacks, has absolutely nothing to say. There’s just heat, not from his flames but from the rush of you, the sudden realization that this thing he’s been pretending not to feel is very, very real.

- When you pull back, he blinks—once, twice—before a slow, almost disbelieving grin spreads across his face. “Damn,” he exhales, voice a little breathless, a little stunned. And then, because he is who he is, he recovers. “If you wanted a piece of me, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask.” But his voice wavers slightly at the end, betraying the fact that he is not nearly as unaffected as he wants to seem.

- And then, before you can say anything, he moves. A hand curling around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he crashes his lips back to yours, kissing you with the full force of his fire—burning, consuming, alive. Because Johnny Storm never does anything halfway, and now that he knows what you taste like, he is never going to pretend he doesn’t want more.

Reed Richards

- Reed Richards lives in a world of equations. He understands the mechanics of the universe, the fabric of reality, the infinite complexities of time and space. But there are some things even he cannot predict. Some things he cannot quantify. You are one of those things. And when you kiss him, it is a complete and utter anomaly.

- His breath stills, his mind goes blank—something that has not happened in years. He can usually calculate the likelihood of an event before it occurs, but this? This wasn’t factored into his reality. His hands hover in the air, as if unsure of the proper response, as if the laws of physics themselves have momentarily escaped him.

- When you step back, he does not move immediately. He is frozen, recalibrating, processing. Then, slowly, his lips part, and a quiet, stunned “Oh” escapes him—soft, unguarded. He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, as if needing a moment to refocus. “That was… unexpected.” His voice holds no rejection, only fascination, as if he has just witnessed a scientific miracle.

- And then, something shifts. His hand reaches for yours—not hasty, not desperate, but careful, deliberate. His eyes meet yours, and for the first time in a long while, Reed Richards abandons calculations in favor of instinct. When he kisses you again, it is slow, exploratory, like a man learning a new language and savoring every syllable.

Ben Grimm

- Ben Grimm does not get soft things. He does not get stolen kisses or tender touches or the kind of love that isn’t weighed down by pity. He is The Thing. A man made of stone, of battle and loss, of aching loneliness that he never speaks of. And yet, here you are. Kissing him. As if he is not a monster. As if he is just a man.

- He stiffens, his whole body locking up. His heart—too big, too hopeful despite everything—stumbles in his chest. He has dreamed of things like this before, but dreams are cruel, and reality is harsher. He expects you to pull away, to realize what you’ve done, to see him and regret it. But you don’t. You don’t. And that, more than the kiss itself, threatens to undo him.

- When you finally step back, his throat works around words he can’t quite form, holding the weight of years spent convincing himself he doesn’t get to have this. His massive hands twitch at his sides, as if afraid to reach for something too fragile, too precious. “You… you sure about that?” There is doubt in his tone, not because he doesn’t want you, but because he doesn’t know how to believe you’d want him.

- But when you step closer again, pressing your hands against the solid breadth of his chest, when you tilt your head up and kiss him again, slow and sure and certain, something in him cracks. A deep, shuddering breath escapes him, and his massive arms finally—finally—come around you, pulling you close. And when he kisses you back, it is hesitant at first, reverent. But then it deepens, something raw and aching in the way he holds you, like a man who has been starved of love for far too long.

Susan Storm

- Susan Storm is a woman of grace, of careful composure, of quiet strength that bends but never breaks. She is a leader, a protector, a force of nature wrapped in silk. And yet, for all her brilliance, for all her ability to phase in and out of sight, she does not see you coming. Not when you step close. Not when your fingers graze her cheek. Not when your lips press against hers in a kiss that is as sudden as it is soft.

- Her breath stills, caught between the moment and the impossible realization of what it means. Her mind races—was she blind to this? Had she misread the signs, the weight of your glances, the unspoken words hovering between you for so long? But all thoughts unravel when she feels the warmth of your lips, the unguarded tenderness of it. She has spent her life holding herself steady, but now—now she is the one being unraveled.

- When you finally pull back, she blinks, slow and breathless, a flush creeping up her neck. “Oh,” she murmurs, a small, almost disbelieving smile tugging at the corner of her lips. A rare moment where she is not Susan Storm, the poised and polished heroine, but simply a woman standing before someone who has just shaken her world.

- And then, that moment of surprise shifts into something else—something warmer, something braver. Her fingers find your wrist, curling around it in a silent request. She meets your gaze, eyes shining with something unreadable, something soft. And when she kisses you again, it is no longer hesitation, no longer surprise—it is intention, steady and sure, as if she has made up her mind that this—you—is something she does not want to let go.

Felicia Hardy

- Felicia Hardy is a woman who dances on the edge of danger, who thrives in stolen moments and the rush of risk. She is a thief, a phantom in the night, a creature made of silver laughter and sharp edges. She knows the art of seduction, the game of push and pull, and yet—when you kiss her, it is not part of the game. It is not calculated, not played for leverage. And that is what stops her dead in her tracks.

- Her lips part against yours, a stunned exhale slipping free. For the first time in a long, long time, Felicia Hardy is caught off guard. She is used to controlling the moment, to being the one who sets the pace, who dictates the terms. But this—this—feels like something stolen from her. And she doesn’t know if she wants to steal it back, or if she wants to let herself fall.

- When you pull away, her signature smirk wavers, something uncertain flickering behind those sharp, clever eyes. “Well, well,” she purrs, but there’s a breathlessness to it, a vulnerability beneath the velvet tone. “Didn’t know you had it in you.” A tease, a cover. But her fingers twitch at her sides, as if resisting the urge to reach for you, to pull you back in, to demand more.

- And then, as if making a silent decision, she moves. She closes the space between you with a sharp, deliberate kind of grace, tilting her head with the confidence of a woman who has decided to play a game she was not expecting—but one she suddenly wants to win. When she kisses you again, it is slow, languid, laced with amusement and hunger, as if savoring the way you are the one who caught her off guard for once.

Stephen Strange

- Stephen Strange is a man of logic, of precision, of control honed by years of discipline. He bends reality to his will, commands forces beyond human comprehension, and yet—he is utterly unprepared for the moment your lips press against his.

- His body locks up, his breath caught between disbelief and something deeper, something dangerously close to longing. He does not move at first, too caught in the sheer absurdity of it. He has faced cosmic horrors, rewritten fate itself, but he cannot seem to process the feeling of your touch, the warmth of your mouth against his own.

- When you step back, he blinks, slow and calculating, as if searching for some rational explanation. “That was… unexpected,” he says at last, his voice measured but carrying the faintest waver. He looks at you as though you are a paradox he cannot solve, an anomaly in his carefully structured existence.

- And then, after a long pause, his lips curl in something resembling amusement, a rare, genuine softness breaking through the rigid control. “I suppose,” he murmurs, stepping closer, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, almost reverent, “it would only be fair if I returned the favor.” And when he kisses you again, it is with the deliberation of a man who refuses to leave anything to chance.

Namor

- Namor is not a man accustomed to surprise. He is a king, a warrior, a god walking among mortals. He has stood against empires, defied the heavens, and shaped history with his own hands. But when you kiss him—you, with your infuriating defiance and your breathtaking boldness—he is, for the first time in centuries, at a complete and utter loss.

- His entire body tenses, as if bracing for an attack rather than an act of tenderness. And yet, despite his initial shock, despite the sheer audacity of you, he does not pull away. He does not stop you. Instead, his sharp, piercing eyes darken, a slow and simmering heat curling beneath his ribs—dangerous, unrelenting.

- When you finally part, he does not speak immediately. He simply looks at you, gaze heavy with something unreadable. And then, after a moment, his lips curl—not in anger, but in something far more unsettling. Amusement. Interest. Challenge. “You are either very brave,” he murmurs, voice rich and edged with something unmistakably possessive, “or very foolish.”

- And then, before you can respond, before you can think to retreat, he moves. His hands—strong, unyielding—catch your wrist, his body closing the space between you with the effortless command of a king reclaiming what is his. And when he kisses you again, it is not a question. It is a declaration, a silent vow that whatever game you have started, he will be the one to finish.

Johnny Blaze

- Fire and damnation have clung to Johnny Blaze for as long as he can remember. He is a man marked by hellfire, by a fate he never asked for, by the weight of every soul he has ever sent screaming into the dark. He does not expect kindness, not really, not from anyone. And yet, when you kiss him—suddenly, without warning, like a spark catching dry earth—he is stunned into absolute stillness.

- The scent of smoke and leather clings to him, the remnants of something infernal lurking beneath his skin, but you do not hesitate. Your lips are warm, soft, a stark contrast to the cold edges of his existence. He has faced demons, outrun the devil himself, but this? This simple, quiet moment? It terrifies him in a way nothing else ever has.

- He exhales sharply when you pull back, as if he’s just come up for air after drowning. His blue eyes burn like embers, searching your face as if trying to understand what the hell just happened. His throat works around words he doesn’t know how to say, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t trust himself to. “You don’t wanna do that,” he finally mutters, voice rough with something dangerously close to longing.

- But when you tilt your head, when you don’t flinch, don’t pull away, don’t fear him—something in him cracks. His jaw clenches, his hands curl into fists, and then, finally, finally, he lets himself move. He grabs the back of your neck with a touch that is both possessive and reverent, and when he kisses you again, it is with the desperation of a man who has spent too many years in the dark, suddenly blinded by the light.

Eddie Brock / Venom

- Eddie Brock is a man who has lost too much, fought too hard, and learned to trust too little. He is rough around the edges, worn down by anger and regret, always bracing for the moment when the world inevitably turns against him. He is not used to gentleness—not from others, and certainly not for himself. And so, when you kiss him, when you press your lips against his like it is the most natural thing in the world, his brain short-circuits entirely.

- His first instinct is to pull back, to question, to doubt. But Venom—Venom is faster. The symbiote rumbles in amusement, in approval, wrapping around Eddie’s ribs like a second heartbeat. "We like this one," the alien purrs inside his mind, and Eddie swears under his breath because of course Venom would be delighted by this.

- “You’re—” Eddie starts, but stops himself, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying to physically shove down the confusion. He shakes his head, glancing at you with something that is half bewilderment, half hunger. He wants to say something cocky, something to brush it off, but all that comes out is a breathless, “What the hell was that for?”

- And then Venom moves, slick tendrils curling around his shoulders, shifting his posture. "Kiss her back, Eddie," the symbiote urges, a wicked, knowing grin in his voice. And—God help him—Eddie does. He surges forward, his grip strong, his kiss a mixture of frustration and want, like he’s fighting against how much he needs this, how much he needs you. And when he finally breaks away, his breath is ragged, his pupils blown wide. Shit.

T’Challa

- T’Challa is not a man who is easily surprised. He is a king, a warrior, a strategist who sees every angle before the game even begins. His mind is always ten steps ahead, his composure an unshakable force of nature. And yet—when you kiss him, when you step close without prelude or warning, tilting your chin up to press your lips to his—he is caught entirely off guard.

- His breath hitches, just slightly, so small a reaction that most would not catch it. But you are not most. You are you, and you notice the way his body stills, the way his fingers twitch at his sides as if warring with the impulse to pull you closer. His heartbeat is steady, measured, but beneath the surface—oh, beneath the surface, you have sent ripples through a man who does not bend easily.

- When you part from him, his dark eyes study your face with a sharpness that borders on unreadable. “You are bold,” he says, but there is no admonishment in his tone—only observation, only something deeply considering. His gaze is heavy, knowing, like he has already unraveled every reason why you did it. And yet, for all his brilliance, there is one question left unanswered.

- And so, after a pause, he tilts his head ever so slightly, a slow, deliberate movement. “Was that a challenge?” The words are a whisper, rich and silken, spoken against your lips as he closes the space between you once more. His kiss is not hurried, not desperate—it is a promise, a declaration, a reminder that T’Challa does nothing without intention. And you? You have just become something he intends to keep.

Elektra Natchios

- Elektra moves like a shadow, like a blade cutting through the dark, like something that cannot be held for long. She is sharp edges and silken danger, a whisper of death wrapped in a dancer’s grace. She does not trust easily. She does not love easily. And yet, when you kiss her—fast, sudden, without warning—she does not push you away. No. She freezes, her entire body tensed, not out of resistance, but because she did not see it coming.

- For a woman who has spent her life reading people like open books, you have just managed to turn a page she did not anticipate. Her lips part against yours, not in invitation but in sheer, startled stillness. The moment you step back, her gaze is already piercing into you, unreadable and electric, the air between you charged with something taut and dangerous.

- “That,” she breathes, eyes narrowing just slightly, “was foolish.” But the way she says it—it is not a warning, not truly. It is curiosity, the ghost of something far more wicked lurking beneath the surface. She watches you like a cat watching its prey, her fingers twitching at her sides, as if deciding whether to draw a weapon or pull you back in.

- And then, just as quickly, just as effortlessly, she moves. Her hand catches your wrist, yanking you forward with a force that is not violent but possessive. And when she kisses you this time, it is not hesitation—it is fire and fury, a battle won with the curl of her fingers at your nape, the press of her body against yours. If this is a game, you have just signed yourself into a war. And Elektra Natchios? She never loses.

Muse

- Muse does not feel things the way others do. Art consumes him, violence is his language, and the world is nothing but a blank canvas begging to be marred. He has wandered through blood-soaked streets and carved poetry into walls with trembling hands, but this—this sudden kiss, this moment where your lips press against his without prelude or warning—is something entirely new.

- He does not flinch. He does not gasp. He does not react in any way that might be considered human. Instead, he listens. To the way your breath hitches. To the way your heartbeat stumbles in your chest. To the way the world stills around him, just for a moment, like existence itself is waiting to see what he will do next. And oh, how he loves the weight of expectation.

- When you finally pull back, his blind eyes remain locked onto you, empty and unreadable, yet somehow knowing. His lips part—not in surprise, but in something closer to fascination. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word almost a sigh, almost a prayer. “Do it again.” It is not a request. It is not a plea. It is a command wrapped in velvet, spoken like a secret only you were meant to hear.

- And when you hesitate, when you wonder if it is wise, if it is safe, he simply tilts his head, his smile carving itself into his face like a brushstroke on an unfinished painting. His fingers ghost over your jaw, not quite touching, not yet. “I wonder,” he muses, voice lilting with something dangerous, something close to reverence, “how many shades of red I could pull from your lips alone.”

Victor von Doom

- Victor von Doom does not tolerate surprises. His mind is a kingdom unto itself, a fortress built upon knowledge and control. There is no action he takes that is not calculated, no movement that is not deliberate. And yet—when you kiss him, when you dare to step into his space and press your lips against his without permission, without warning—it is the one moment he does not anticipate.

- His body tenses, not in shock but in something colder, something unreadable. There is steel in his stance, in the way his fingers curl ever so slightly at his sides. For one impossibly long second, the world feels as if it has stopped, as if the very air around you is waiting for his verdict. And then, his hands rise—not to push you away, but to cup your face with the precision of a sculptor, as if he is considering whether to keep this moment or cast it aside.

- “Foolish,” he murmurs, though his grip does not loosen. His green eyes burn into yours, heavy with something unreadable, something vast. “You mistake me for a man who yields to impulse.” But you can feel it—the faint tremor beneath his touch, the war waging behind his gaze. You have shaken something in him. Something he does not have words for.

- And then, Doom decides. His grip tightens just slightly, his gaze darkens, and when he leans in, it is not hesitant. It is not uncertain. No, Victor von Doom does not do anything halfway. His lips capture yours with the finality of a ruler taking his throne, with the weight of a choice made, a fate sealed. And when he pulls away, he exhales sharply, as if he has allowed himself one moment of indulgence—and nothing more. “You are either very bold,” he muses, voice quiet, “or very foolish.” And then, after a pause, after a second’s hesitation— “Perhaps both.”

Peter Quill

- Peter Quill has been kissed before. By strangers in bars, by lovers who knew better, by the lingering ghosts of memories he refuses to let go of. But this—this kiss, your kiss—catches him completely off guard.

- He is mid-sentence, probably saying something ridiculous, something cocky, something meant to make you roll your eyes—and then, suddenly, your lips are on his, stealing the words right from his mouth. His brain short-circuits so violently that for a full second, he just stands there, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

- And then, like a delayed reaction, like an aftershock, he grins. A slow, lazy, completely obnoxious grin that spreads across his face like wildfire. “Well, damn,” he breathes, blinking at you like he’s just been hit by a starship. “If I knew that’s how you felt, I would’ve shut up ages ago.”

- But then—just when you think he’ll ruin it with another joke—he tugs you forward, his fingers curling around your waist with an easy kind of confidence. And when he kisses you this time, it is deeper, slower, like he’s savoring it, like he means it. And maybe, just maybe, Peter Quill has finally found something—someone—worth holding onto.

Nova (Richard Rider)

- Richard Rider has been through hell. He has seen galaxies burn, has carried the weight of worlds on his shoulders, has fought and bled and lost more than he can put into words. He is tired. He is so tired. And yet—when you kiss him, when you pull him down from the weight of the cosmos and remind him of something as simple, as human as this—he forgets, just for a moment, how heavy the universe feels.

- His breath stutters. His entire body tenses, like he’s waiting for something to go wrong, like he’s bracing for an impact that never comes. He has been hurt before, has been broken in ways that no amount of power can fix, and yet—this is different. You are different.

- “I—” he starts, but the words get lost somewhere between his lips and yours. He laughs, but it’s not the cocky, confident sound most people expect from him. It’s breathless, unsure. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Didn’t see that coming.” But the way he looks at you—the way his blue eyes soften, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for you and doesn’t know if he should—tells you that maybe, just maybe, he’s glad you caught him off guard.

- And then, slowly, hesitantly, he steps closer. He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones with a gentleness that feels at odds with the battles he’s fought, with the wars he’s survived. And when he kisses you again, it is not hurried, not rushed. It is quiet. It is careful. It is real. Because for the first time in a long, long time—Richard Rider is not fighting. He is simply here. With you.

[lazysoulwriter]

caught on camera! - pedro pascal.

requested! hope u like it. ♡ - requests still open!

----

Sitting under the bright lights of Jimmy Kimmel Live!, you can’t help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves as you watch Pedro answer questions with his usual charm. You’re not on stage, of course— you’re sitting just off to the side, hidden from the audience’s view, but that doesn’t mean you’re safe from whatever is about to happen.

Pedro has been doing press non-stop for his latest project, and somehow, this is the only interview you’ve been able to attend in person. He had smiled when you told him you’d be there, reaching for your hand and squeezing it. “Just don’t laugh too hard if Kimmel roasts me.”

Now, watching him on the big screen behind the stage, you know exactly what’s coming. Jimmy leans forward, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Pedro, I gotta ask— have you been enjoying your time off between projects?”

Pedro nods, resting his elbow on the chair’s arm. “Yeah, it’s been nice to have a little break.”

Jimmy hums. “A little vacation, maybe?”

Pedro shifts slightly. “Something like that.”

The audience chuckles, sensing where this is going. You sink lower in your seat.

Jimmy grins as he turns toward the screen behind him. “Because, you know, the thing about vacations is… sometimes the paparazzi find you.”

And there it is.

A picture flashes on the screen— you and Pedro, standing in the middle of a quiet street in some European city, locked in a kiss. It’s not just a peck; it’s the kind of kiss that looks straight out of a movie, with his hand cradling your jaw and your fingers curled into his jacket. It’s intimate, raw, and completely undeniable.

The audience erupts into cheers, whistling and clapping.

Pedro leans back in his chair, groaning as he rubs his face with both hands. “Oh, man…”

Jimmy is grinning like a kid who just found the best gossip. “Now this is what I call a vacation, Pedro!” He turns to the audience. “Look at this, folks! That’s not just a casual kiss— that’s ‘leading man in a romance movie’ energy right there!”

You cover your face with your hands, feeling your entire body heat up.

Pedro exhales dramatically, shaking his head. “I knew you were gonna do this.”

Jimmy raises his hands innocently. “Listen, I didn’t take the picture! I’m just… appreciating the art.” He gestures to the screen. “And let’s be honest, this looks like a scene from The Last of Us if Joel actually got to be happy for once.”

The crowd laughs, and Pedro shakes his head, biting back a smile.

Jimmy leans forward. “So, come on, tell me— who is the lucky lady?”

Pedro hesitates just for a second— just enough time for Jimmy to put two and two together. His eyes widen, and then he gasps dramatically, turning toward the audience. “Wait. Is she here?”

The cheers grow louder. You bury your face in your hands again as Pedro laughs, shaking his head. “You’re evil.”

Jimmy gestures toward the side of the stage. “Come on, let’s just say hi—”

Pedro raises a hand. “No way, absolutely not. I’d like to make it home alive, thanks.”

The audience erupts into laughter. You peek up at Pedro, who’s already looking at you with that soft, knowing smile. Your face is burning, but you can’t help but smile back.

Jimmy sighs, feigning disappointment. “Fine, fine. I won’t push… for now.” Then he turns back to Pedro, grinning. “But I gotta say, man, you look really happy.”

Pedro doesn’t hesitate this time. He nods, his smile widening just a little. “Yeah,” he says simply. “I am.”

Your heart flutters.

Jimmy claps his hands together. “Well, folks, there you have it! Pedro Pascal: officially the internet’s boyfriend, but privately off the market.”

Pedro groans, but it’s playful. The interview moves on, but you can still feel his gaze flicking toward you every now and then, as if making sure you’re okay.

And the truth is— you are.

You’re more than okay.

----

[invoncible]

i loved your mark and popstar girly piece, it made me imagine the popstar girly making a song about mark but not telling anyone, but he knows because it describes his appearance and a moment he had with popstar girly perfectly. not a request just an thought i wanted to share

MARK GRAYSON & popstar! girly! reader (II) ✧˚. — this is basically a whole story at this point but no regrets

— thank u for sharing ur thoughts anon !! now you have to take responsibility for giving me brainrot cuz i fs went overboard with this one !! <3 — i hc the music career as sabrina carpenter coded, but tbh you can envision whoever u want !

being as big as you were, you liked to keep your private life under wraps. but if people listened to your music they'd be able to piece the story together.

when I talk to my friends so quietly / (who he think he is?) look at what you did to me

you and mark weren't dating yet when your debut album came out. you had finished your one year of fake school with him, amber, william, and eve. within that time, you fell for mark hard.

he was a dork, cute and funny, and he was the sweetest when he was with you. never talked about your wealth and actually treated you like a teenager instead of a spoiled daddy's girl.

you just had to write about him. your audience noticed a huge shift in the tone of your music. when you released your album, the love songs really hit because you really sounded like you were in love. they could hear the smile in your voice on the tracks.

when mark heard it, he wasn't as pleased as other fans for the exact same reason. he could tell you were feeling something for someone, and as far fetched as his hope for being with you was, he still felt some kind of way when you reminded him that you were out of his league. way out of his league.

william threw you a listening party to celebrate, and out of the corner of your eye you could see mark deflate more and more with each song.

did he hate it? you thought in a panic.

he got up abruptly to help out with 'family work,' as he called it.

"are you sure you can't stay?" you shot to your feet as he threw on his jacket.

he smiled sympathetically, a heavy sigh escaping his lungs. "m'sorry. it sounds so great so far, though. you're gonna blow up for sure. you look... uh," he cleared his throat, eyes darting back to the TV where your music video was playing. "really good, too."

heat rose to your face as you nodded minutely. "thanks." you mumbled.

he reached out to you on an impulse, his hand hanging in the air when he hesitated halfway through. he settled for awkwardly patting your shoulder.

"i'll listen to it all the way through once i'm done with work, promise." he shut the door with a swiftness.

"ughhhh, i give up. i hate him." you groaned, head in hands. william rubbed your back soothingly as you complained. "this is so embarrassing."

you thought you made it obvious that you liked him. you flirted and everything, but either he was stupidly dense or ignoring your advances.

"don't..." william exhaled tiredly, like he was close to giving up on mark himself. "don't give up. he's stupid, but he gets the point eventually."

"i must look crazy," you dig your wrists into your eyes in frustration. you hated feeling like this. your heart was swirling with affection but your head was telling you to stand up and drop him since he was obviously set on dismissing you.

"you're not crazy. i'll talk to him."

"don't do that!" you whined. "i'll look desperate..."

he raised an eyebrow, a smile spreading on his face. "you are desperate. but so is he."

i can see the stars all the way from here / can't you see the glow on the window pane? / i can feel the sun whenever you're near / every time you touch me, i just melt away

the whole world could tell you had a man when released your next few singles. the beats were bubbly and the lyrics were so sickly sweet that the only reasonable conclusion for being able to write them in the first place would be for you to be deep, deep, deep in your feelings.

with the help of william's nudging, mark finally confessed. it took a lot of encouragement, but he did it.

he stopped you from going home with a pull to your wrist, threading you along to a secluded corner of the school grounds. he looked tired, and you couldn't tell if that was a bruise or not on his cheek, but whatever he was going through did not dim the light in his eyes.

"look, um..." he took a slow breath in as if meditating. fear pounded in your chest. he was looking at you with a gravity one would expect to have when delivering bad news. was he delivering bad news?

"i like you." he blurted out.

oh.

"i like you," he repeated with a firmness, making the world stop on its axis. "and i would really like to take you out sometime. please."

you blinked at him for a moment, searing his cute determined expression to memory: the nervous pull of his brows, pouty frown, and clammy fists at his sides.

"yeah." you answered quietly but resolutely. "i'd like that."

he brightened, the tension on his face gone in an instant. poof! "really?"

his excitement was infections and rooted in your bones too, straightening up and mirroring his grin. "mhmm."

"okay." he muttered, stepping closer to you and hesitantly hugging you. you rolled your eyes and embraced him fully, circling your arms around his waist and squeezing. he smiled into your hair and wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

dating mark was easy. for a time, that is.

i've never seen an ugly truth that i can't bend / to something that looks better, i'm stupid, but i'm clever / yeah, i can make a shit show look a whole lot like forever and ever

a couple months into your relationships, your audience picked up a little animosity in your lyrics towards the reoccurring 'boyfriend' figure you often sang about.

being busy was something you were familiar with—your entire life was busy. so that's why when mark was off in university and balancing a full time job (that he always described too vaguely for your liking), you understood.

but there came a time you were just sure he was cheating on you. he left to take calls, promising the person on the other end he'd 'be right there,' and disappear for weeks at a time. can someone really have five different work trips in the span of a month?

"mark," you accepted his hug with a heavy heart. you hated to do this when he just got back, but you couldn't go on without knowing.

"missed you," he mumbled into your shoulder, squeezing you tightly. he pulled back, pausing at your downturned expression. he frowned. "what's wrong?"

"mark." you started, glossy lips pursed in a pout. "is there someone else?"

the mere idea of cheating made him want to punch a hole through a wall. the fact you thought he was cheating—you thought he was cheating on you? the most perfect thing in the world, the reason he worked so hard? it made his heart twist painfully.

"no!" he scoffed in disbelief, cupping your face and looking into your watery eyes. "of course not. how could you think that?"

you shrugged his hands off and stepped back. "you're always talking to someone. after you get their call, you run off. i just—it doesn't make sense—"

"it's work stuff, y/n, you know that!" he chased after you, letting his backpack fall off his shoulder with a loud thud to the floor.

"what's work?" you snapped. "you always say it's work, but what are you doing, really? that you have to be away from home for so long?"

his mouth opened, then closed. his breath caught in his chest as the thought raced through his mind: do it. you trust her, so do it.

but no matter how much he wanted to tell you the truth, he couldn't bring you into that life. he wouldn't turn you into his mother. for as happy as she was by his father's side, one wrong move, one mistake... it could cost you your life.

you had so much life in you, he couldn't bear to be the one who takes it all away.

you watched him wilt in real time, nothing but a sigh leaving his lips.

"unbelievable." you whispered. "you're not going to tell me?"

he grappled for the words, hanging his head when he came up short. "i can't."

"can't what?"

"tell you," he shot back, fists curling at his sides dangerously. "i can't tell you."

"why?" you crossed your arms and jealously and paranoia rear their ugly heads. "is there someone else?"

"no!"

"then what, mark?" you snapped.

nothing. he said nothing, standing in the entrance of your room numbly.

"fine. don't tell me." a confusing mix of heartbreak and embarrassment pulsed through your veins, mustering up whatever bravado you had left to end things. "get out."

you couldn't handle the desperation on his face as he stepped forward. you turned around to save yourself the trouble of giving in.

"y/n, it's—"

"get out."

pour my feelings in the microphone / i stay in, and when the girls come home / i want one of them to take my phone / take my phone and lose your / number, i don't wanna be tempted

there wasn't a lot of activity from you when you broke up with mark. your first real boyfriend, gone, without so much as closure. you never understood his secrecy about his job and it gnawed at your soul. could things have worked out if he was honest? or would it have wrecked your relationship even more?

"you need to get out of this house, y/n." william was gentle with you, dutifully listening to you vent and offering real advice.

"i can't." you choked, curled in blankets that hadn't been washed in weeks.

"you can."

"i don't want to." you revised, letting your heavy eyes fall shut.

william was torn. he knew everything about mark, including his secret identity, and he felt like shit withholding that information from you. but it wasn't his place to tell you as much as he wanted it to be. he was both your friend and mark's friend which made it all the more harder.

you hand him your phone. "will you... delete his number for me?"

william slumped in his seat, a deep frown on his lips. "y/n... are you sure?"

"just do it." you muttered, tossing your phone to the cushion between you and burrowing back into your cocoon of misery.

"sure." william whispered, taking your phone. his finger hovered over the block button, but...

he set your phone down and called mark instead, demanding he make things right.

[]

that's how he ended up outside your window. you were just about to sink into your fluffy sheets and doze off when you heard the faint tap tap tap at your giant bay window.

you frowned, prowling over to the glass and peering through.

"ah—!" you shrieked when mark's face popped up, looking like nightmare fuel itself hanging there in the darkness.

"shh!" his voice was muffled on the other side. he smiled sheepishly as he pointed to the window lock.

your first instinct was to rip the window open and pull him into your arms, but...

"you're ... flying..." you whispered, staring at him in disbelief. after a moment, you let him in.

he hovered outside before slipping in, touching down on your carpet. he pulled off his civilian clothes to reveal the invincible suit underneath. "this is what i didn't want to tell you." he murmured.

you just stared at him, your mind already putting together the pieces. all the times he's had to run off, all the days he's come home tired... if you weren't so busy with your own career, you'd probably have picked up on it sooner.

"i was scared that i'd put you in danger." he frowned, walking up to you and placing a gentle hand on your arm. "i didn't want to put that burden on you."

you instinctively leaned into his touch, the familiarity overwhelming your confusion.

"you don't look so good," he mumbled, cupping your face and dragging his thumb over your cheeks. dark circles had bloomed on your skin.

"yeah, well..." you sighed, trying to steady your breathing. "i missed you."

mark softened, pulling your into his chest and tucking your head under his chin as he cradled you. "i missed you too, baby. i'm so sorry. i would never cheat on you, you know that, right?"

"yeah." you exhaled, burying yourself into his chest and soaking up his warmth. it felt good to be in his arms again. then your nails dug into his back.

he hissed. "wha—"

"don't make decisions on my behalf." you began, glaring up at him. "you're so sweet for thinking of me, but i'll choose what burdens to bear."

there was an apprehension on his face, as if he thought you didn't understand the gravity of being in a relationship with a superhero entailed, but he wasn't going to push you away again.

he needed you as much as you needed him.

"okay?" you pressed for an answer.

he smiled and kissed your forehead. "yes, ma'am. i love you."

you tumbled into bed together and the rest is history.

who's the cute guy with the wide brown eyes and the big bad mm, like—

after you and mark were completely open with each other, you were so full of joy and love; of course it seeped into your music. as well as your hornier thoughts.

you and mark didn't have to go anywhere in particular to feel like you were spending time together. relaxing in bed, hanging out with his family, or visiting your studio were the most common ways you enjoyed each other's presence.

you were recording your latest album, the tracks ranging from an i love you vibe to i want to fuck you vibe.

mark was there when you were recording one of the later, lounging on the couches in the producer's box as they listened to what direction you wanted to take the track.

he was always so enraptured with your singing. however when he started clueing into the lyrics, he might as well have shut down.

the first time he heard these lyrics, he sunk into the couch and pulled his hoodie over his head. it was obvious to the crew that the song was about him and everything he did to you, but thankfully they didn't pass him any weird looks or anything. how could they, when you were smiling so brightly in the booth as you giggled over these references, ones that only two people in the world would truly understand? he kept their talent happy, and that was what mattered.

of course, he didn't mind you writing about him. he loved it. but hearing your thoughts—how you talk so sweet when you're doing bad things, or how you're looking at me, yeah, i know what that means, and i'm obsessed—was the best gift in the world.

after your workday ended, mark had so much pent up energy to release.

"'bed chem', huh?" a lovesick grin spread on his face as he pulled his shirt over his head. "s'that what you think we have?"

"yeah." you giggled, pulling him in and rolling on top of him. your hand trailed down his chest. "you like the song?"

"love the girl who made it," he craned his neck to peck your lips, delighting in the giggle he drew from your lips and ramping up to give you more inspiration for your next album. better to start early.

wanna try out some freaky positions? ...have you ever tried this one?

it seems he gave you too much inspiration.

it was no secret you and mark were freaky. literally, it wasn't a secret—the team at the GDA always kept tabs on the people their heroes engaged with, so of course they knew of you and what you did.

mark learned this the hard way when your album finally released. the entire world loved it, tiktok dances and trends popping up left and right. unfortunately, because of its popularity it reached guardians' HQ and the pentagon (thanks to the younger employees who enjoyed a couple coffee breaks).

rex snorted as he blasted this song from the computer. "what do you and your girl get up to for her to be making bangers like this?"

mark's lips twitched up, his skin warming as he remembered the many times he gave you reason to write these lyrics. "i mean, she's telling you, isn't she?"

rex's smile grew as the song progressed. "fuzzy pink handcuffs?"

"nothing more you need to know."

the sound of someone clearing their throat made them both whip around.

cecil stood in the landing, unimpressed that they were using government property to listen to bubblegum pop.

"didn't realize this was a recreational facility, boys." he grumbled as he walked up the stairs.

mark's cheeks reddened. cecil's frown deepened when the chorus grew close to it's end, where you sang one of me is cute, but two though?

"...please don't be having children any time soon." the director's eyes flickered up to the lyric video playing on the screen. "you and your brother are trouble enough—"

"okay, okay!" mark cut him off, embarrassed this was even a conversation. his arm reached to pause the video when the bridge neared, knowing how crazy you went when writing it.

"no, no, i wanna hear it." rex pouted, slapping his hand away from the keyboard.

"yeah, you can listen to it all you want when our boss isn't in the room."

cecil rolled his eyes, waving him off. "i've already listened to all of it. against my will, of course, y/n is very popular at the pentagon."

in that moment, mark wanted the ability to teleport.

i'm working late 'cause i'm a singer / oh, he looks so cute wrapped 'round my finger / my twisted humor make him laugh so often / my honeybee, come and get this pollen

this song was dubbed the song of the summer; it played multiple times on the radio, in grocery stores, in coffee shops... mark couldn't escape it. and that's how he liked it.

mark is your number one fan. to have such a smart, loving, funny girl write songs about him was a blessing in of itself, and sometimes he watched your performances from the front row like ... how did i bag her?

100% started crying at the end of your concert. his phone was filled with hundreds of photos and videos of you. as confetti floated down from above and the colorful lights danced over the crowd, he felt overwhelmed. he's been surviving for so long, but with you it's like he finally got to just... live. exist without the weight of the world on his shoulders.

he was allowed backstage after you signed off on another successful night. he came up behind you, pulling your back to his chest and squeezing you tight.

you squeaked, trying not to spill your mouthful of water, setting down your water bottle. you gulped and pat his arms around your abdomen. "hey, baby."

he nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, uncaring as you squirmed away from him.

"mark," heat grew on your face as you laughed. "i'm sweaty and hot—"

"you are hot."

"hot, as in warm." you chuckled with a shake of your head. "lemme shower and we can cuddle?"

mark let out a small laugh against your neck, his hold on you firm but gentle. "don’t care. i just wanna be close to you."

your heart squeezed at the way he said it... so soft, so full of love. you turned in his arms, brushing damp strands of hair from your face as you looked up at him. you knew you smelled like hairspray and hours of dancing.

"you okay?" you asked, voice gentle.

he nodded, but his eyes were a little glassy. "i just… what did i do to deserve you?"

you cupped his face, pressing a tender kiss to his lips and rubbing away the lipstick sticking to the corner of his mouth. "you don't have to do anything to 'deserve' love, mark. "

he exhaled shakily, a wobbly smile breaking through.

you rested your forehead against his. "and if you give me fifteen minutes, we can cuddle properly."

he pulled away, taking off his hoodie and offering it to you. he helped you get it over your head and found it so cute when your eyes peeked out of the huge hood. he chuckled as he squished your cheeks together, kissing your pursed lips. "with this pretty outfit on, it's definitely gonna take more than fifteen minutes to take it off and shower."

you hummed, thinking. he could see the idea pop into your head.

"you can come watch, if you want?"

mark was a simple guy. of course he took you up on your offer.

but if you want my kisses / i'll be your perfect mrs. 'til the day that one of us dies

you didn't tell him about your deluxe bonus songs. he listened to them on his own as soon as he could. something about this line made him contemplate his future with you.

he immediately flew to your house.

"mark!" you exclaimed, sitting up when he shot through your window. you settled for leaving it open nowadays, with how often he sneaks in.

"you mean this?" he panted, catching his breath. he held his phone up with your voice playing out the speaker.

you recognized the verse he was referring to, a bashful heat blooming on your face. "of course i mean it. but if—"

"no." he cut you off with a swiftness.

he chucked his phone aside, ripping off his mask and jumping onto the bed. he crawled between your legs, resting his head on the fluff of your tummy. he breathed in deeply, eyes fluttering closed as his arms snaked around your waist. "i love you."

you giggle, heart squeezing as you ran your fingers through his hair. "i love you, too, baby."

"i'll make it happen."

"yeah?"

"yeah," he smiled against your skin, pressing a sweet kiss to the apex of your thigh. "anything for you."

© invoncible

[norrisainz33]

baby blue || cs55

☆ summary: carlos sainz is married to famous pop star y/n who has been connected to the f1 world for years having been a mercedes ambassador and good friends with lewis hamilton. after a video of y/n and lewis surfaces, y/n shares some big news with the spanish driver.

☆ pairing: carlos sainz x famous!wife!reader x lewis hamilton

☆ fc & warnings: rihanna! a little angsty, mentions of pregnancy, translated spanish

☆ requested: yes! thanks for this idea and for your patience. had to add in some written parts to this to tell the story! hope you enjoy xxoo

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

ynuser has made a post

liked by zendaya, tatemcrae, carlossainz55, lando, williamsracing, sabrinacarpenter, dualipa, and 2,435,768 others

ynuser: 📍 bahrain

view all comments

user1: pink is your color

dualipa: real! miss u my sweet gorgeous girl

user33: you just gonna post like we didnt see the video from the paddock

user18: no for realllll like girl be soooo for real

user1: nah nah nah you guys need to but out you know nothing!! they're just friends. we dont need to scrutinize everything they do

tatemcrae: my icon fr

user2: ynlewis supremacy

user8: seems like shes a ynlewis truther herself bsed on that video

user3: lewishamilton come get your girl

user4: more like carlossainz55 come get your girl yikes

[comments on this post have been limited]

✿

staring down at your phone you watched as the video played over and over each replay making your stomach twist a little more. you cursed yourself for not remembering where you were before having your very public breakdown in front of lewis at ferrari hospitality. what was supposed to be a quick visit to tell lewis (one of your closest friends) that red suited him and say a quick hello to alexandra had spiraled into something entirely different. one moment you were complimenting him and the next you were sobbing in his arms. of course, the media caught every second of it and in true fashion they plastered the video everywhere. the rumors started flying almost immediately with the world convinced you and lewis were more than just friends as they have been for years.

but here's how the conversation really went:

"hi lewis!! god that red is doing wonders for you right now," you smiled as you took in the sight of your best friend decked out in ferrari gear.

"thanks, y/n/n. i think so too," he grinned - his confidence and happiness clear.

"you ready to hop in that car and show everyone you’ve still got it grandpa?"

"absolutely. you know better than anyone how much i want to make this work." his voice was full of sincerity and something about the way he said it made your chest tighten and tears started welling up in your eyes.

"oh no, don't cry on me now…" he said his hand gently brushing at your cheek.

you laughed but it was shaky as the tears fully spilled down your face. "sorry, sorry… i just - i'm so excited for you, and i miss danny and checo," you rambled suddenly feeling overwhelmed. he gave you a confused look not exactly sure where all of this was coming form.

"something tells me there's more to this, y/n/n," he said his tone shifting as he took a step closer.

without thinking, you blurted it out. "i’m pregnant."

lewis froze for a split second before pulling you into a tight hug, letting you cry into his shoulder. the kind of cry that left you feeling both raw and relieved at the same time.

"hey, hey— the cameras are loving this," alexandra’s voice suddenly broke through and she frantically pushed both of you toward the ferrari hospitality area her tone full of urgency.

as she led the way you couldn’t help but feel the weight of everything.... the unexpected turn your life had taken and the way the world was watching every moment unfold and it was too late to take it all back now.

✿

ynuser has posted a story

view all story replies

user1: wow a rare carlos sighting on a story.. awk timing after that vid....

carlossainz55: wow posting me? surprised its not lewis.

ynuser: carlos don't start please. you know its not like that

carlossainz55: then why was it lewis holding you while you were crying and not me? and why won’t you even tell me what happened?

ynuser: i did tell you. it’s just been so overwhelming lately especially with the pressure from my label to release new music. on top of that i haven’t been feeling great which makes everything harder. you literally held my hair while i threw up all night. come on carlos please.

carlossainz55: mi amor you know I’ve had a hard time with your relationship with lewis. and now that he’s taken my seat… it just gets harder to see him in ferrari red while comforting my wife. it’s hard not to feel jealous!

ynuser: i’m really sorry carlos. i can’t even imagine how that feels. focus on your last practice session and get the data you need. we can talk properly when you’re back at the hotel ok?

carlossainz55: fine but you’ll explain everything word for word right?

ynuser: of course. now go -- i see on tv that the power’s back on

carlossainz55: yeah yeah ill go. i love you -- even when im upset

ynuser: i love you too. always

user33: damage control?

alexandrasaintmleux: love you pretty girl. please let me know if you need anything both charlie and i are here for you too

ynuser: i love you more alex 🤍 thank you for always supporting me. oh and for noticing the cameras before they got too much

alexandrasaintmleux: thats what friends are for. please please please keep me updated

user10: i just know everyone's tearing u up in these replies so im here to say i love and support you bb

lewishamilton: did you tell him yet?

ynuser: considering you’re both at the same testing... no I haven’t

lewishamilton: oh don't give me that. you could have told him last night!!

ynuser: yeah well i was scared!!

lewishamilton: sweetheart, the faster you rip off the bandaid the faster he (and everyone else) stops getting the complete wrong idea

ynuser: i know i know i know!!!!!! easier said than done here lewis.

lewishamilton: he tried to approach me this morning and i was able to avoid it but if he comes to me and starts asking what is up... i'm not going to lie

ynuser: alright message received. him and i agreed to talk everything out tonight.

lewishamilton: good.

user11: idc abt this man release new music pls im begging its been ages

schecoperez: mi amiga what in the world is going on?

ynuser: too much honestly... i'll call you bc BOY do i have a lot to share and ALSO i miss you SO MUCH

schecoperez: will be impatiently waiting :)

user44: tbh idc abt f1.. id rather see pics of u. free my queen from this nonsense sport!!!!

✿

you flopped back onto the giant hotel bed letting out a big sigh. alex and lily had just left after giving you the pep talk of a lifetime and dropping off the cake. if it wasn't for them and all the effort they’d put into running around bahrain to find someone who could make you this cake, you probably would’ve chickened out of telling carlos altogether. it wasn’t something either of you had planned for yet. you’d only gotten married a few months ago and between carlos switching to a new team and the insane pressure your label had been piling on you, it felt like the wrong time to be having a baby. hence, your breakdown in the paddock with lewis. but like alex and lily said everything happens for a reason and maybe this was just the moment it was meant to happen, no matter how daunting it all felt.

you quickly sat up when you heard carlos fumbling with the door to the hotel room and immediately, tears started to well up. you tried to hold them back but they came rushing down as soon as carlos stepped through the door. his brow furrowed when he saw you crying on the bed.

"mi amor..." he sighed setting his things down on the couch and shrugging off his williams jacket. "what’s going on with you?" he asked gently kneeling in front of you and placing his hands on your bare knees.

you were fully sobbing now desperately wiping away the tears as he watched you in silence. "i just... i..." you tried to speak but the words got tangled up in your sobs making it harder to get them out.

"cariño take a deep breath," he said softly taking your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. you obeyed and took slow, deep breaths, trying to calm yourself down. which wasn’t easy these days with all the changes your body was going through. eventually you shook your head not being able to calm yourself enough and pointed toward the box on the table hoping he would understand. carlos’ eyes followed your finger and he stood up walking over to the table. "y/n, what is...?" he stopped mid-sentence struck silent as he stared down at the contents of the box—a small cake with 'we’re having a baby' written on it and a pregnancy test sitting next to it.

you kept focusing on your breathing summoning the courage to look at your husband who stood completely still. in the endless seconds it took for him to react - guilt, panic, and despair began to settle in. "i’m sorry, carlos, i know this is a horrible time. i should’ve told you earlier, we should’ve talked about this first, and i just—i’m sorry this—"

"stop, y/n," he interrupted, his voice thick with emotion. you couldn’t tell if the tears in his eyes were good or bad. but then in the blink of an eye, his face softened and his expression lightened up. "don’t apologize for this, my love." he picked up the test and glanced back at you. "this is real?"

"yes," you whispered.

he dropped the test moving swiftly toward you and pulling you into a tight embrace. "we’re going to have a baby chili," he mumbled into your neck holding you like he never wanted to let go. and with that all of your worries melted away.

✿

ynuser has posted to their private story

view all story replies

lando: what u posting close ups of food for

ynuser: you’ll find out when you’re older

lando: tf that supposed to mean

ynuser: means you can’t keep a secret to save your life

lando: a man accidentally includes a photo from a wedding in 1!!!! photo dump and he can’t ever come back from it

ynuser: exactly

lando: 🤨

lilymhe: THE CAKE HAS BEEN EATEN???

ynuser: it has!!!!!! and everything is ok

lilymhe: i’m so relieved

carlossainz55: the best cake i’ve ever had 🤍

ynuser: i'm really quite glad you think so

carlossainz55: of course gorgeous. i am so excited that we get to be parents

ynuser: i'm so happy that you're happy

carlossainz55: over the moon actually. i already called the florist and local bakery near casa de mi familia to get everything sorted for when we tell them in a couple weeks. i also sent you room service and some special deliveries so if you hear a loud knock on the door this morning, just know its from me

ynuser: carlos 😭😭😭😭

carlossainz55: i also may or may not have already slipped and told teto..........

ynuser: I THOUGHT WE WERE TELLING HIM AND GIGI AT DINNER ONCE YOU OFFICIALLY FINISHED TESTNG

carlosainz55: ....... i mean that was the plan originally but we were cycling this morning and he could tell something was up and well i couldnt lie!! i swore him to secrecy it is ok

ynuser: i'm making my lawyers send him an nda

carlossainz55: LOL

ynuser: i'm serious

carlossainz55: oh... well in that case… whatever makes you feel best my love!!!

alexandrasaintmleux: details mon ange

ynuser: he finally got back after testing and i completely broke down into tears bc of course i did—im a mess with these hormones. he immediately was worried ofc and was like “mi amor, what’s wrong?” but I couldn’t even stop crying long enough to explain. so i just pointed at the cake box instead and then be opened it, stared at it for what felt like an eternity… honestly, it was probably 8 million years and then HE started crying. which just made me cry even more. but honestly after we got everything out it felt like really good. he was beyond excited like already talking about the little one and brainstorming names and looking up where to buy baby clothes in spain and already planning how to tell his family and mine

alexandrasaintmleux: 🥹😭 see!! it was all ok!!! i’m so so so glad he was excited. i knew he would be!! he wanted so badly to be dad

lewishamilton: so?

ynuser: i told him

lewishamilton: thank god!! now i can assume uncle duties without getting my face bashed in

ynuser: you’re so dramatic

yourbff: i’m so happy for you guys 😭

ynuser: thank you sweetheart 😘

dualipa: assuming i’m missing context here

ynuser: i’ll face time you baby girl

carlossainz55 has posted to his story

[sharing the joy with our family ☀️💙]

view all story replies

anasainzvdec: mi hermano i am so excited for you. i can't wait to be an auntie 🤍

carlossainz55: i love you ana! you will be the world's best aunt

user2: PINON!!!!!!

carlossainzoficial: ¡tal vez la mayor alegría que hayas podido compartir con nosotros! [perhaps the greatest joy you could have shared with us!]

carlossainz55: me alegro. no puedo esperar a que seas abuelo, papá. [i am glad. i can't wait for you to be a grandfather, dad]

carlossainzoficial: estoy muy orgulloso del hombre en el que te has convertido y de la vida que has construido con y/n. [i'm so proud of the man you have become and the life you have built with y/n]

carlossainz55: ¡no me hagas llorar papá! [don't make me cry dad]

user4: sharing joy??? with your family..... what does this mean?

lando: google translating this as we speak

lando: and what joy are you sharing and why are you not also sharing it with me?

carlossainz55: i will be on sunday muppet. you are coming to dinner at my house no?

lando: oh heck yeah ill be there

user18: what an interesting wording you have here mr.sainz - what are you talking about?

ynuser: petition to bring pinon with us everywhere

carlossainz55: jajaaj i don't know that she would like that

ynuser: 😭😭😭😭😭 fair ig. tho i think a baby and a puppy would be a perfect pair......

user55: the world is healing youre back with pinon

alexandrasaintmleux: EEEEEEK!!!!!! y/n filled me in on how it went. truly so excited for you. i can't wait for the big dinner party where you're telling all of us 🤍

carlossainz55: i am very much looking forward to this weekend. we'll see you soon mi amiga

carlossainz55 has made a post

liked by lando, willamsracing, alex_albon, ynuser, charlesleclerc, lewishamilton, carlossainzoficial, and 765,102 others

carlossainz55: spent the weekend celebrating the news with some of my favorite people. you are so loved already baby chili. you're mommy, daddy and loads of aunties and uncles can't wait to meet you so very soon 💙🌶️

view all comments

user55: crying my eyes out rn you have no idea

ynuser: thankful for you, our baby boy, and the amazing people we have supporting us 🤍

carlossainz55: even more thankful for you for giving me the greatest gift i could have ever asked for my beautiful wife

user85: may a love like this find me expeditiously

user1: well…. a baby wasn’t on my bingo card

lando: dibs on teaching baby chili how to drive

charlesleclerc: i already called dibs

georgerussell63: no i believe i did

carlossainz55: frankly, i dont trust any of you to teach him

charlesleclerc: WOW

user4: congratulations 😭 i'm seething with jealousy 😭

alex_albon: can't wait to be the favorite uncle

lilymhe: with me as the favorite aunt

alexandrasaintmleux: um hello? i'm going to be the favorite aunt

lando: FALSE I AM THE FAVORITE AUNT

ynuser: guys please lets not fight

user23: carlando having their own pic at the end is sending me. classic carlando behavior

user13: man this vroom vroom got my girl and now they’re having a baby? smh

lewishamilton: congratulations you two! overjoyed to see two of my favorite people becoming parents ❤️

carlossainz55: thank you 💙

user88: tea

user56: so many of the drivers being at their baby shower has me in genuine shambles im not ok this grid baby is going to be so loved

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: phew this took me forever... hope you enjoy!! likes and reblogs appreciated as always ❤️‍🔥

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[nightbeforethend]

Hello!!! Not sure if you are still doing the requests but I would really like to see one about missing boyfriend Ateez when they are on tour, if you haven’t done this already.

Thank you very much., sorry for my English!

missing you // ateez

a/n: I’m very late but I hope you like it anon! I kinda mixed you missing them and them missing you so I hope that’s cool. Also your English is great!

(I’m one request away from being done with the ones from last month, we love to see it)

warning(s): swearing (may not actually be any swearing, it’s just a cautionary warning for when I’ve triple checked all of them and don’t feel like glancing through again to make sure)

[gf2bellamy]

hi lovely !!

im back again :)

i was thinking about one where the reader is from england (again totally not projecting, just like with the head scratches one.. hah…) ANYWAY. where the team are constantly making fun of her (but in a friendly way of course) for her accent but spence always takes it seriously so he sticks up for her randomly and everyone is all “huh??” and then something happens idk.. i didnt think it through too carefully my bad :( probably just garcia and morgan being teasing bitches and rossi and hotch looking at each other like “yeah i see what’s going on here”

- 🐚

accent — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: reader has an accent ( not specified which one ) , teasing from the team a/n: i got so many requests like this ( all different accents ) so i didn't specify which one it is and i hope that's okay <333 also so sorry this took so long !! <3333

You closed your eyes the second the word left your mouth, bracing yourself for what was coming.

It took approximately 0.2 seconds.

“Ohhhh, sweetness,” Garcia gasped dramatically, one manicured hand flying to her chest.

Laughter erupted from the other side of the BAU’s roundtable, loud and unapologetic. JJ covered her mouth, trying to muffle her amusement, but Derek had no such reservations. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table, a slow smirk stretching across his face as he repeated your words in an exaggerated version of your accent.

"Say it again," he teased, chuckling. "C'mon, one more time for me."

You sighed, sinking further into your chair.

JJ, still giggling, gave you a sympathetic look. “It’s just adorable, that’s all.”

"Yeah, well, I'm glad my adorable accent is so entertaining." You rolled your eyes, trying not to take it personally. It wasn't the first time this had happened—people always seemed to get a kick out of your accent.

Derek nudged your shoulder playfully. "Aw, don’t be like that. It’s a compliment!"

Before you could think of a retort, a voice cut through the laughter.

"I don’t see what’s so funny about it."

The teasing died down almost immediately.

Spencer.

You turned to look at him, surprised to see the slight crease in his brow and the way his lips pressed together in mild disapproval. His eyes flickered between everyone at the table, his fingers drumming against the table in that fidgety way of his.

"There’s actually a fascinating study about linguistic variation and how accents are shaped by geographical and social factors," he continued, adjusting his sweater sleeve. "It’s not just about pronunciation—it’s about identity and -"

Derek held his hands up in surrender, a grin still tugging at his lips. "Alright, alright, genius, we get it."

Spencer didn’t back down. His gaze softened slightly when he looked at you. "Personally, I think accents are… charming.They tell a story about where a person comes from." He hesitated for a beat before adding, "And I happen to really like yours."

Your heart did an embarrassing little flip at that.

JJ gave you a knowing look, her amusement now directed elsewhere, but for once, you didn’t mind.

Rossi, sitting across from you, took a sip of his coffee and side-eyed Hotch. He didn’t say a word, but the look between them was obvious.

Hotch exhaled through his nose, giving the tiniest of nods. 

Derek let out a low whistle. "Man, you’re smooth when you wanna be."

Spencer blinked. "I wasn’t—" He paused, suddenly realizing how his words sounded, and a flush crept up his neck. "I was just stating a fact."

"Right," Derek drawled, winking at you.

You bit your lip, hiding a smile, before turning back to Spencer. "Thanks," you said softly.

His lips quirked up in a shy, lopsided smile. "Anytime."

And just like that, the teasing didn’t seem so bad anymore.

[xislyns]

may I please request a Luffy x fem reader where they encounter an enemy who’s devil fruit makes people reveal the truth which ends up with Luffy confessing his feelings for the reader and leaves him all embarrassed and the rest of the crew in shock. maybe he even says something along the lines of “I think y/n looks cute when she’s wearing my straw hat” idk, I just had this thought I hope it makes sense cause I feel like it would be super adorable! thank you!!

AWW WAIT I SEE THE VISION thats so fucking cute , 😭😭

𐙚Luffy's confession..

characters : Monkey D. Luffy x Reader

summary : The strawhats were met with an Enemy who has came onboard on the sunny, wielding the truth-truth fruit, the fruit that causes the victim to speak out the secrets hidden in the depths of their heart.

── .✦ The Thousand Sunny was alive with its usual chaos, Zoro was napping in the sun, Sanji was cooking up something delicious in the kitchen, and Nami was scolding Usopp for his latest invention that had somehow messed with her map collection. You were perched near the bow of the ship, enjoying the breeze and smell of the ocean waters. Luffy, as always, was sitting high on the mast, grinning like the dork he was, with his iconic straw hat sitting nicely on his head.

but the environment suddenly turned gloomy, The sea turned eerily calm, a dark figure had emerged from the mist. the same figure who is the cause of the sudden change, stood on a small boat, his strange appearance made even more unsettling by his wild grin.

“I am Verità, The wielder of the Truth Truth Fruit,” the man announced, his voice echoing unnaturally. “Anyone within my aura cannot tell a lie. Beware, Straw Hat Pirates, for your secrets will betray you!"

“Oh, great,” Usopp groaned. “Another weird Devil Fruit guy.”

Before anyone could act, Verità raised his hand, and a shimmering wave of energy washed over the ship. It was subtle at first, but then you felt a strange feeling in your stomach.

“I’ve always hated Sanji’s soufflés,” Zoro blurted out, his eyes wide in horror in his own words.

Sanji dropped his spatula. “WHAT?!”

“I think Chopper’s transformation is creepy ” Nami yelped, clapping a hand over her mouth too late.

The chaos spread quickly, and you tried your best to stay quiet, but your gaze was drawn to Luffy. He stood frozen, looking unusually serious for once. You could see redness creeping up his neck and ears. Then, in a voice uncharacteristically soft and hesitant, he said:

“I think Y/N looks really cute when she’s wearing my straw hat.”

The chaos seemed to stop. almost tso silent that you can hear the dropping of a needle. Every eye on the Sunny locked on to Luffy, who now looked like he wanted to disappear forever.

“WHAT?!” you and the crew exclaimed in unison.

Luffy yanked his hat down over his face, his voice muffled as he continued to speak, completely unable to stop himself. “And… I like her smiles. And I think about holding her hand a lot. And I want her to stay by my side forever because I… I love her.”

The silence was deafening. Luffy’s words hung in the air, leaving everyone in stunned disbelief. Sanji’s cigarette fell from his lips. Usopps eyes looked like they were going to bust from their sockets. Even Zoro’s usual stoic demeanor cracked with raised eyebrows.

You, on the other hand, felt your face heat up as you stared on at Luffy. He peeked out from under his hat, his cheeks bright red. “Uh.. I didn’t really mean to say all that. but, I mean, I did, but-”

Before he could dig himself into a deeper hole, you stepped forward, your heart pounding. Reaching outto him, and took his hand. “Luffy… I think you’re cute too,” you said softly, smiling at him.

His eyes widened, and then his signature grin broke out across his face, despite the embarrassment. “Really?!”

“Really,” you replied. And, without thinking, luffy picked up his straw hat and placed it on your head while his smile got bigger and his head tilted slightly

The crew erupted into laughter, and teasing. Sanji dramatically declared he was robbed, while Robin and Franky exchanged knowing smiles . Luffy just stood there, his grin stretching wider than ever as he took your hand and held it tight.

Verità watched the scene with an amused smirk, his presence seemingly forgotten in the midst of Luffy’s unexpected confession. He cleared his throat dramatically, pulling attention back to himself.

“Touching , But don’t think this little love story will be able to save you "

“Ugh, can’t we have one peaceful moment?” Nami groaned,rolling her eyes.

“Doesn’t look like it,” Zoro replied, cracking his knuckles and stepping forward, his normal stoic look returning to his face.

As the crew fought , the two of you couldnt help but stay side by side, Luffy’s hat resting comfortably on your head while you fought.

even though this wasnt how he thought it would happen, He cant lie it certainly was easier!

[superblysubpar]

@carolmunson 💛

I actually don't know if I can really sum up how I feel about this fic! As a rom com lover, insatiable consumer - devourer if you will - as well as someone who like, reads one or watches one and just is filled with this immense hope and inspiration to do it herself one day - this is no exception. I wish I could watch it like a real rom com.

And, sure, maybe I'm biased cause it was my request and I know you reached out for some little nods towards me - but I always smile and feel so touched when I read them! Also when I requested this, I myself was working at a bookstore and I really did love that job and every time I read this I wish I still had it/it could have sustained me (if only there was a Steve working with me).

But anyways. All this to say, I admire your writing, the love and attention you pour into descriptions and details and I'm forever inspired by this story in particular (as well as many more of your fabulous creations).

Thank you so much for creating this and sharing it with us all 💛

wake up slow | barista!steve harrington

entry for my fall frenzy requests this request comes in from @superblysubpar: 'there's a scenario with bookstore / library date AND a dialogue prompt that says "what are you reading?"' with steve harrington summary: it's 1990. you're on the opening shift at the bookstore you work at, only to be surprised at a newcomer claiming to be up for an interview for the open barista position in the cafe at the back. sort of put off to start, it's no surprise when things start to bloom over time, and i'm not talking about coffee grounds. tl;dr carol writes a mini romcom.

tw: minors dni, there's nothing too out of whack in this one but i still don't want minors in here. reader is a little sassy but also like, pretty normal overall.

That damn key jams every time it rains -- doesn't help that you left your umbrella at home. Doesn't help that the 'light mist' turned into a heavy downpour the closer you made it to the book store. Doesn't help that you had to park a street over because of street cleaning and had to walk a block in the rain. Now the damn key.

"Come on," you grumble, jiggling an wiggling to no avail. Insert, r-insert, slight tilt to the right, jiggle, pull out a little, turn a little left and then -- nothing. You take the key out only for it to fall to the ground with a fairy like tinkling.

"Come -- the fuck -- on," you nearly growl under your breath while your coat gets heavier and heavier with rain, hood soaking through and dripping water onto your face. You bend down to get the key with a sigh meant for people with back pain, coming back up again to see the coffee bar manager on the other side of the glass door. He chuckles, salt and pepper beared thick over his chin and cheeks. Ruddy skin beams red even in the cool grey light of the morning, 30 years a butcher who pivoted into coffee when he turned fifty and had a really good knack for it.

"Easy morning?"

"Does it look like one, Carl?" you ask, stepping in when he opens the door. He laughs again, a hearty belly laugh that might as well have transported him into a Santa suit in December. "What happened to you?" he asks, following you into the back room where you start putting your stuff in your cubby. You switch out your wet sneakers and socks for the platform loafers and knee highs in your bag. Now that the fall weathers hit, it's all corduroy and knit sweaters, circle skirts and tall socks. If you're going to be on your fifth year working at an idyllic bookstore, you might as well look the part.

"Weather app lied, street cleaning, forgot an umbrella," you shrug, "Just another manic Monday, y'know?" "I know," he nods, "Gimme one second." Carl comes back with a white paper cup and black lid that makes you smile from the inside out, "Is that what I think it is?" "Isn't it always?" he smiles, "I got it ready the second I saw you on the schedule. Caramel latte, hint of cinnamon. Since its -- ya know, fall officially, I put a little maple in there, too." "You spoil me," you sigh, taking the cup from him and letting the warmth radiate through your hands.

"I do," he nods, "But, that latte was the last of my regular milk so I need to run out and grab a few gallons before we open up. You okay to be hangin' out by yourself?"

You nod, of course you're okay to be hanging out by yourself. You take the first sip, letting the caramel flood your tongue. The maple is a good addition. You're about to tell Carl to add this to the seasonal menu but he's already out the break room door with his coat before you can. You hear the jingle of the bell and the lock of the door and eventually the silence settling into the store around you.

You start to re-organize the window display which should've been done last night but 'last night you' said that 'this morning you' could handle it. You wish you could punch last night you in the face, but this is what you get for taking an assistant manager position.

You stack the back to school reads next to your knees where you're sat on them. The dust billows when you move them, making you sneeze with each turn of your head. You rub at your eyes, realizing at that very moment that the mascara you put on this morning has now definitely smudged -- you can't even find the emotional capacity to check considering the store opens in forty five minutes. You wipe down the display shelves, letting the oak gleam under the spot lights. The color is a warm reminder of the cozy moments to come the way that they do this time of year. As you start separating the 'cozy reads' from your 'spooky reads' in the pile on the other side of your knees you hear a knocking at the door --that's not very like Carl to forget his key.

You look over your shoulder, not seeing Carl at all, and if it is, he had some kind of Seventeen Again magic happen to him in that time at the store. You stand up, wiping off your knees and straightening your skirt before getting to the door where the rapping continues against the glass. "We aren't open yet!" you call out.

"M'here for Carl!" you hear, muffled through the panes. "For the barista spot?" you yell back. The guy nods under his hood, the rain picking up in heavy sheets. You sigh, unlocking the door and letting him in. "Carl's not here, he ran out to get some more milk but um, you're welcome to wait in the break room if you want," you explain, wiping a palm over another display through the main hallway and wiping the dust off on your hip. "Thanks," he says, hood coming down to reveal a head full of thick chestnut hair. A gold ring shines on the the hand that runs through it, looks like a family crest type, right on his middle finger.

"I'm Steve," he says with a smile, hand now outstretched to take yours. You look at it and then at him, finally taking in the sight before you. Prominent straight nose, warm amber eyes, lips that definitely use chapstick regularly. He has a nice smile, the kind you read about in the romance novels in the back of the store, the kind people write about.

You take his hand and introduce yourself, he has a business major handshake and you only know that because you dated a handful of them back in college. You try to stifle a chuckle but it comes out airily out of your nose.

"Something funny?" he asks when you both let go. "No, no, sorry, I just thought of something from the other day," you shake your head, "Don't worry about it." He nods, taking off his coat and closing his umbrella following your lead to the back, "It's a cute place."

"Yeah, it's nice in the morning," you nod, "I normally close but -- doing a favor for a key holder today; so you have the pleasure of seeing the troll of the store in her natural habitat."

"What?"

"Nothing -- nevermind," you shake your head, cheeks burning with a wave of embarrassment when you look back and notice that he's genuinely very handsome. You get to the break room, pointing out the spare cubby where he can hang his coat and umbrella. He's in a sweater you swear you've seen on the Cosby Show -- dark green and patterned, a perfect combination of colors against his skin. It cuffs at the wrists, you can see a sliver of his white t-shirt underneath at the collar, a whisper of a gold chain tucked beneath it.

"Yeah um," you start, feeling your heart start to patter in your chest when he takes a seat at the table by the cabinets, "You can just wait here. I'll let Carl know when he comes back."

"Okay," he smiles, "Thanks."

You nod again, heading into the employee bathroom to collect yourself for a moment -- seeing your reflection. You forgot you had rubbed your eyes, masacra smudged in black smears nearly down to your cheeks. "I look insane," you whisper in horror, "Oh my fucking god."

You cover your face for a moment, trying to hide yourself from the embarrassment racking your chest. Definitely looking like the troll of the store, you silently scream into your palms, another dramatic whisper of, "I should just fucking kill myself."

Despite the humiliation, you know it's funny. This would happen to you. This hot guy would come in when your mascaras a mess and your hair is fucked up from the rain, when the weather is bad and your tights have a run, when your allergies are rampant from the dust. Of course he would!

You wet a paper towel and do your best to wipe off the smudges, happy to look a little less insane after a dab of tinted lip balm makes it onto your lips and cheeks.

When you re-emerge he's fiddling with his CD player and his over ear headphones, working on a knot in the wire. You go back over to the counter and take a sip of your forgotten latte.

"What do you drink?" he asks.

"Carl makes it special for me, it's not on the menu," you tell him over the black plastic top before taking another sip. He grins, a soft nod moving his hair with him -- so it's like that. "I didn't ask if it was on the menu. I asked what you drink," he says, leaning back in the chair. His eyes lingering on you sends a zip up your spine, wondering if he's giving you a once over or not.

"It's a caramel latte with maple and cinnamon," you tell him. His confidence both intruiges and enrages you, both making you want to tell him to get out but also learn more about this hot guy that wants to be a barista with a Wall Street handshake, "So why do you wanna work here?"

"Is this the start of my interview?" he laughs.

"No, I'm just wondering," you shrug.

"I'm back in school about twenty minutes away," he says, "Did it for a little when I was in high school -- coffee, I mean. Ice cream shop after that, video store after that. Went to school, took a break, back in it. My dad thinks having jobs like this builds y'know -- character and whatever."

"Jobs like this?" you ask, jaw tensing with annoyance.

"Like, y'know, jobs with the people," he tries to explain, pink building on his cheeks when he realizes he might've said something shitty, "They're not like bad jobs, that's not what I mean -- I mean like, y'know -- not suits kind of jobs. Regular shit."

"Regular shit," you nod, biting back what you wanna say. That gold crest ring should've been enough to tip you off, but your next question is the ace in the hole, "What're you back in school for?"

"Getting my MBA."

Of course.

"Nice," you lie, fake smiling into your next sip -- the latte going cold as your insides when you come to the conclusion that he's just some hot grade A asshole, "Well, good luck."

"Thanks," he calls out while you make your way back to the floor, "I really like your name, by the way! It suits you."

You try not to let that compliment change your mind.

He gets the job, but you don't see him a lot. He opens an then goes to classes at night, you close most of the time -- only catching him really in the first hour of your shift and the last hour of his. You're both too busy to be finding time to talk; him with his mid-shift clean and you with your hourly sales goals and mid-day schedule re-adjustments.

But he does wave when you come in. He calls out your name when you bustle past the coffee counter and weave through the tables to get to where you need to go. It's nice of him, you guess, but the stain of him explaining that the job he's doing is just for regular people taints it for you. Maybe he thinks you're just some menial worker bee that he only knows for now, since his daddy probably has a job lined up for him once he pays through his masters degree.

Job with a suit where the bookstore will be a distant memory for him, whereas you're on a two year track to becoming the manager and likely future owner when the owners get too old to manage it. Job with a suit where he'll pass by the store and shake his head at 'how stupid it was', a 'can you believe people work there?' head toss to a coworker while he get a coffee somewhere else. Meanwhile, it's your entire life, and so are all the stories inside.

A few weeks pass and the days get a little colder, the nights starting earlier as they go. You have an opening shift that chills your bones, hugging your wool coat tight to your body while you fiddle with the key at the door, groaning at the tinkling of it hitting the concrete again.

"Rough morning?"

You look up to the door opening, seeing a pair clean white Nike Air Force 1's singaling who it is.

"It is now," you mumble, grabbing the key and bustling inside.

"Surprised to see you here," he says, following you to the back, "You're not on the schedule." "Last minute switch up, Rochelle has a christening," you say, hanging your coat in the cubby and switching out your sneakers for platfoms again.

"Oh, nice," he grins, "So why is it a rough morning? 'Cause I'm here?"

"Sorta kinda," you shrug, "Did you alread--"

"I got sales report from yesterday on the check out desk, yes," he crosses his arms, leaning against the door frame.

"And th--"

"And the inventory report, and before you ask, yes I checked that all the milk is in stock and that we aren't low on beans. I've been here for a month, honey, I know what I'm doing," he mutters.

"Gross," you pull a face at him over your shoulder, "Don't call me honey."

He shrugs with a smirk, "Rochelle likes it."

"Can you go skulk to your caffeine den and leave me alone?" you snap, "I'm trying to open a store, here."

"Skulk, huh?"

"Too big of a word for you, Harrington?"

"You're on fire this morning," he smiles, that smile they write about.

"I kinda like it," he adds before turning out of the door and back into the warm light of the store towards the coffee bar. You swallow while you watch him leave -- I kinda like it ringing in your ears and floating down to your chest where is settles in, cozy and kind.

The reports are where he said the would be, neat and organized like he was the manager and Carl was his employee. You normally spent at least thirty minutes trying to figure out what Carl had written in chicken scratch on the forms, but Steve's sharp and elegant script was easy to read and perfectly spaced. Annoying.

Even his signature was handsome.

After you get the registers counted and ready you file the forms and mark the reports so they'll be ready for your manager when they get back in store. You check the list of what needs to be done, the chilly late October air swooping in from the cracks under the door. Your face sours while you make your way over to the coffee bar in the back, seeing Steve set up the pastry delivery in the cases on the side.

"Did you come back here to yell at me about something?" he asks, focused on the task at hand, "I got all morning."

"You didn't turn the heat on," you cross your arms, "That's like, the first thing you're supposed to do."

He scoffs quietly, shaking his head, popping back up to lean on glass of the case, "Did you read your morning report or just sit there and admire my handwriting?"

"Excuse me?" you bite back.

"Heats fucked," he shrugs, ducking back down to finishing his display, "They're sending someone to take a look at it later today."

"Whatever," you grumble, turning on your heel to go dust the front shelving and reshelf the returns from yesterday.

"Hey," he calls out, waiting for you to turn around before he continues. Your eyes catch his amber ones, sparkling with a mischief reserved for school boys who are mean to the girls they like, "You look nice today."

You look him over, sucking in your cheeks to kill the smile growing on your lips. His navy sweater hugs a bit across his chest and shoulders, giving way to billow slightly over his midsection and arms. Kahki chinos cut just at his ankles so his sneakers don't even look stupid paired with the outfit, socks just the right height to look cool and not forced. Awful.

"Yeah, you too Harrington," you agree quietly before walking away; and while you killed the smile, he was able to catch that crease in your eyes, the twitch in your shoulders. You thought that was nice, he wonders if he can make you do that again.

You head over to the back of the cafe during your break, no windows near your designated 'break chair'. It's close enough to the fireplace that it always feels like a rainy day even when it's nice outside. Now that Carl started his shift he got your drink ready to go the moment you walked over.

"Well la-di-da," Steve cocks his head when Carl walks over to greet the customer at the register, rag in his hands wiping up the pick up counter, "Expert service and you're not even gonna tip?"

"Here's a tip: leave me alone when I'm on break," you bite. Why did he have to be so handsome? Slight pink on his cheeks from the heat of the espresso and coffee machines, the lights overhead. The heat finally works again and it's almost working too well from the small bead of sweat forming above his brow. He runs a big hand through his hair again, the same way he did when you first met him. You try to ingore the way his bicep bulges in his sleeve when his arm stretches.

His tongue runs over his teeth, settling between them for a second before looking straight at you, "Good one."

"That's what you get when you read books," you say sarcastically, "You should try it sometime."

"You should teach me," he leans over the counter, resting his chin on his palm, "Bet you're a great teacher."

You bite your tongue, pulling in your lips and squinting your eyes to keep the smile from brewing a second time. You pick up your mug and sip your latte while he crosses his arms over his chest. "Nothing this time?" he asks, waiting for you second blow. You shake your head no, occupying your mouth with the rim.

"No?" He asks, you shake your head again, somehow glued to the spot under his stare. He slings the rag over his shoulder, still looking at you. "Well I don't wanna keep you standing here," he teases, offering you a wink that is so soul crushingly charming you could just die, "Enjoy your break."

You've never turned around so quickly in your entire life.

The following week you take another opening shift, happy to settle into the quiet of the cafe now that the morning rush of moms, dads, students, and aspiring writers have cleared out. The fire crackles just right, the leather warmed up to your body heat while the book sucks you in further an further. Thirty minutes pass when you hear a shift infront of you, the subtle squeak of leather being sat in with a soft crunch.

"What're you reading?"

You peer over the top of the spine to see Steve sat in the chair across from you, legs open wide while he leans his forearms on his knees. His long fingers slide together, gold ring shining in the light again to remind you of who he is and where he comes from. As handsome as he is today in his black henley and white t-shirt combo you'll never quite forget the fact that some MBA bro is perched in front of you like a puppy with nowhere to go.

"Sound out the cover, that should tell you," you boredly mumble before tucking back into the chair. His fingers peak over the spine, pushing the book down from the top. He pulls the leather chintz closer to yours with ease -- of course he does.

"Or you could tell me," he says with a softness you weren't ready to hear. Your chest gets warm again, creeping up your neck to your cheeks.

"It's Pride and Prejudice."

"S'that your favorite book or something?" he asks, elbow driving into his thigh so he can rest his chin on his fist.

"One of them," you shrug, "I always read it this time of year, kind of fits the mood of the season."

"Hm," he nods, like he's really listening, "What's it about?"

"Basically," you start, thinking of a way to describe it in two sentences or less, "It's like -- hm -- it's about two people, a love story. One guy is some super rich asshole and he's a jerk because the girl isn't as rich and him. And the girl isn't from the same social standing so she's a jerk because she already assumes that he's a super rich asshole. Like...I don't know, idiots in love who are too stubborn to love each other."

"Hm," he nods again, grin splitting his face, "Interesting."

"What's your favorite book?" you ask, wanting to wipe that smug grin right off his face. His dumb handsome face with that perfect sloped nose, and eyes that look like they're looking directly into you.

"I don't have one," he shrugs.

"You have to have one," you balk, "Like, even if it's one you read in school or something." "Hmm," he sits back up, leaning back in the chair with his hands resting just under his chest.

"You have to know how to read to run a business," you shrug.

"I know how to read, honey," he laughs, "I just don't have a favorite book."

"At least try," you ecourage, albiet annoyed. He taps his fingers on his diaphragm, one knee bouncing while he thinks about it. His shirt rides up just a smidge in the back, revealing a sliver of skin you didn't think you'd ever see.

"Shel Silverstein," he says finally, "Where the Sidewalk Ends."

"You didn't strike me as a poetry guy," you say, closing your book over your finger to hold your place.

"My mom went through this poetry phase -- and I'm my mother's son, so I had a poetry phase with her," he shrugs, "We wore that book out, think we had to get a second copy cause the first one was just like -- destroyed."

"Well that's...you know," you lean your head from side to side, "That's nice. It's cute."

"You'd know, right?" he smiles, that god damn smile Shel would write about in a new book. You'd bring back book burning just to throw it in the flames after it was published. He gets up, disappearing behind you for a moment and reappearing with your favorite green mug. He gingerly places it on the side table next to you.

"Compliments of the chef," he says, presenting it like a Michelin star meal.

You look at it, a perfect pour -- the cream rosetta leaf striking against the warm brown espresso. You can smell the caramel and maple already wafting off it, cinnamon sprinkled delicately on top.

"Um, thanks," you say quietly, taking the mug to your lips. He looks down at you eagerly when you take a sip, waiting for your reaction.

"Did you do something to it?" you ask before you take one.

"No I'm just -- damn, come on. I'm excited to see you try it," he sighs, "I worked hard on it."

"Fine, fine," you murmur, letting the latte flood onto your tongue. Its -- regrettably -- one of the best iterations of you've had in a while. The perfect creaminess without being too milky, enough caramel and maple without being too sweet, the espresso's bitterness cuts the sugar in just the right way to make it smooth. He knows he did it right by the way you go for a second sip without saying anything.

"I did good?" he quirks a brow.

"You did good," you nod.

"Good," he smiles, tapping the top of your chair, "'Cause Carl's putting it on the menu starting in November."

"How come?" you ask into your third sip, the steam billowing over your cheeks.

Steve lets his eyes flicker over your face slowly, offering a half shrug, "I told him to."

November brings the first pre-season snow, not that it mattered now that your favorite drink was a regular menu item now. Caramel and maple always in stock, espresso machine always on first thing in the morning.

You open twice a week now, seeing Steve more often than not. Dropping your key became less common now that he was normally at the door when you'd get there, ready to let you in.

"Another great day, right?" he'd tease.

Now that the holidays were in full swing the bookstore was busier than ever -- sales, bundles, events. You even started carrying children's coloring books and crayons in the kid's section; a whole set up just for kids to sit and color while their parent's browsed.

The stress was getting to you, constantly checking and rechecking the end of day sales versus last year, wanting to make sure everything was on a steady incline with a nice cushion for the next. It helped that the cafe seemed to be absolutely climbing in numbers since September. More and more people wanted to spend time over there, and the more time they spent the more time they looked at books or started reading. It wasn't shocking to see people checking out at the counter with a second coffee and a new book or two in hand.

You don't want it to be true, but you're sure the new barista had a play in what makes so many people stick around. You'd see the way Steve would flirt when he took orders, how he's listen to them intently, make every customer feel like they were the only person in the room.

At least that's how he'd make you feel when he caught your gaze from over the shelving, helping find books for new patrons from the college nearby. You both started to wave at each other at each passing glance, each look caught by surprise, each accidental yearning stare.

Mid-November greets you with a bitter chill, the very early morning doesn't even have the decency to greet with you the rising sun. It'll be atleast another half hour until then.

For the first time in a long time you don't drop the key, pushing into the store with ease. You waste no time turning the heat on, making sure the radiators bled a bit before hand. You rub your hands together while they settle in, putting your coat away in the cubby and switching out your shoes in the break room.

Opening on a Saturday morning isn't common for you, but it's the first event you've planned by yourself. A very simple read-along story telling with some kids from the neighborhood and their parents. You collected three solid winter time reads: The Mitten, The Snowy Day, and A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. A solid hour of reading while the parents could peruse, or sit and watch while their kids tuned into a book instead of cartoons on Nick Jr.

Once you've given yourself the onceover for the morning you feel more confident about the upcoming next few hours. Your knit tights fit snugly over your legs, a touch sheered out with the stretch over your thighs but the pleats in your plaid maroon skirt cover that just fine, hitting just above your knees -- still covered, still sensible. Still cute enough to snag a single dad if one were to show up.

Your feet stay tucked in a pair of worn in platform mary-janes stolen from your sister's New York City closet when you went to visit her over the summer. The chunky knit sweater over the whole ensemble completes you, a spitting image of a 'caught on the street' look you saw in a Seventeen magazine that you still get delivered to you despite being well past the age group.

You thrifted the sweater with Steve in mind, it looked like something he'd wear.

Anyway.

As you set up the 'reading rug' in the cafe area you hear the familar unlocking of the door. The sun finally starting to seep in in golden shards through the panes, leaving squares of light on the wood floors and carpets below.

"Hey Carl!" you call out, "I got everything up and running for you."

You hear the keys jingle but not his smoker's cough, not his heavy steps finding their way to the cafe area. Instead you look up to see Steve with his hands on his hips, watching you struggle to move the leather chintz to the back wall as your reading chair.

"Redecorating?" he asks, looking around the cafe. Under his shearling lined aviator jacket is an open hunter green flannel you wouldn't expect to see him in, his white t-shirt underneath hugs tights to his chest and stomach. You unfortunately noticed how great of a view that is for you.

"Um," you started, looking around the room and the dissaray you seem to have made without realizing, "Why are you here?"

"Same reason your here," he says, stepping forward to shoo you away from the chair, "I'm on the payroll."

"You don't work weekends," you say, crossing your arms over your chest while he lifts the chair over the rug with a soft grunt.

"I do today," he says with a slight strain, "Where do you want this?"

"Uh," you start, "Just right in the center against the wall so everyone can see me."

"Oh, so you're reading to the kids this morning?" he laughs to himself after putting the chair down. He wipes his hands off on each other, shrugging off the jacket and holding it in one arm, "Bitter Betty is gonna entertain the young minds of Main Street?"

"Bitter Betty, huh?" you challenge, following him into the back room, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what that's supposed to mean," he shakes his head.

"I am very sweet," you tell him, a serious edge to your voice, "There are so many customer reviews saying how sweet I am."

"Sure," he nods, putting his coat away in his cubby, "I bet there are; since y'know, you're selling them something."

"I'm not just nice when I'm selling something," you say softly, arms coming protectively across your chest. A frustration bubbles in your chest while you look at him, following him back out into the cafe so you can keep getting the place ready before the families start to show up, "You think you know everything."

"I don't," he shakes his head, smiling while he checks over the machines and gets the first pot of coffee started.

"Yeah, you do. You walked in here two months ago and swear you know everything," you huff, getting the cafe back to a place of organized coziness.

"Okay," he chuckles, "Whatever you say, boss."

"You're infuriating," you mumble under your breath.

"Got that caramel latte coming right up for you, by the way," he says warmly.

Your head turns to see him watching you, he smiles, "Maybe you're a little nicer after you've had a coffee."

You smile back, unable to stop it this time.

"So that's a yes, right?" he cocks his head, fingers drumming on the counter while he watches you. That Harringtom charm pumping out at full speed.

"Y-yeah," you nod, "Whatever. You gonna go chop down a tree, Harrington? What's with the flannel?"

He looks down at his shirt and then back up at you with a soft shake of his head, "I better hurry up and get that started for you."

The kids look up at you with starry eyes, their parents smiling along with their coffees, lattes, espressos, and pastries. The Mitten was a hit and The Snowy Day is so far showing up to be a great follow up.

You take your time to really point out the pictures and adding on to the story since all three of them are pretty short. However, you're finding that kids between two and five are pretty easy to entertain if you do enough counting and make enough sound effects. Maybe you should've been a kindergarten teacher -- or maybe not. Maybe you should just keep doing book events.

You're halfway through when you show the illustrations to the group again, listening to them ooh and ahh at all the snow.

"Did um -- Miss -- did you know -- it snowed? It snowed at my house," one of the older kids announces, arm straight up in the air.

"It snowed last week, Michael, that's right," his mom pipes up, "Daddy had to shovel outside."

"Has everyone else seen snow? Raise your hand if you've seen this much snow!" you announce in your perfect parentese, watching while the older kids and parents raise their hands. The two year olds don't really get it so they just sit there and laugh.

You look up at all the hands, an enthusiastic 'Wow!' coming out of your mouth -- but you barely hear it. Behind the hands are a set of warm amber eyes looking at you from the coffee bar, soft and gentle. Enthralled even. You swallow and lick your lips quickly before smiling, catching his smile back as you look back at the book to start again.

After each couple of pages you catch each other, the pink on his cheeks rising when he looks away -- pretending to be occupied with something else. Cleaning, organizing, resetting the espresso machine. He can tell you're flustered by the way you clear your throat whenever you start to read again.

After The Snowy Day you take a ten minute break so that the parents can take their kids to the bathroom or re-up their beverages. The tip jar is full to bursting because nobody knows how to make a single mom feel like Steve Harrington does; and husbands will pay anything to get him to leave their wives alone.

You reset your chair, making sure the books you're reading are on display for purchasing on the shelving close by in your Winter Children's Bundle for a discounted price. As the ten minutes closes up you feel a soft tap on your shoulder.

"Here," you turn around to Steve with a green mug in his hands, "It's just regular coffee this time, but -- figured you could use it."

You take it body first, reaching around for the handle only to feel his fingers brush against yours at the hand of. The soft touch isn't electric like it is in the books, it's like that but better. Warm like an oven, the gooey parts of you rising in a slow bake when you see him look down and turn away -- running that same hand through his hair on his way back to the counter.

"Thanks," you say over the chatter of parents and kids coming back to sit.

"Can I have something ready for you for your break?" he asks back.

"Surprise me," you shrug, sitting back on your chintz chair and taking the final book onto your lap. The kids cheer when they see Snoopy on the cover, a well loved favorite cartoon to finish off their morning. With the crack of the spine you can already smell the sales coming once this little event is over.

You work through your break, ringing up and helping customer after customer on easily one of the busiest Saturday's you've seen in a while. It normally doesn't get busy like this at least for another couple of weeks.

The stress of working through lunch barely matters though because your event was a bigger success than you could've hoped for -- logging in the notes for Rochelle that you should probably start doing this throughout the season just for good measure.

It's starting to get dark by the time your shift ends and the store closes -- early on Saturdays at a tight 4 PM. You let your sales girl go a little early, wanting to take the time to close up the store properly since you were the one who made it such a mess this morning. As you start to put the chairs back that had been moved from the cafe to the children's section you hear him, fingers tapping on the counter.

"You didn't come by for your break," he says, "And I put a lot of effort into that drink."

"Sorry, we can't all be flirting through our shifts like you can, Harrington," you snark with a grin, flipping the last chair over onto it's accompanied table.

"You don't have to clean up the coffee part of the store," he says, coming around with another mug in hand, "That's my job, y'know."

"I know," you say, "But I kind of fucked it up this morning so -- just doing my part."

"Well, here," he says, mug outstretched in his large hand, gold ring gleaming back at you, "For doing your part, I guess."

"You guess, huh?" you laugh lazily, taking it -- he places his fingers in a way that you have no choice but to touch them. You wonder if he did it on purpose, "What do you call this one?"

"'Surprise me'," he replies in a mocking drawl, flipping the rag over his shoulder again and leaning against the counter's edge. The first sip is unfortunately one of the most even temperatured hot drinks you've put past your lips.

"You're good at this," you blurt out, almost offended.

"Well don't look so upset about it."

"I am upset about it," you nod back over the lip of the mug, taking another sip. Mocha -- something. It's like hot chocolate and espresso but better, still caramel, still cinnamon, like a hug from your past but caffienated like your present.

"Consider me surprised," you nod, licking your lips again, "It's good -- it's um -- yeah. It's really good."

"Thanks," he smirks, "A few of the mom's thought so, too."

You let out a sigh through your teeth, rolling your eyes. He expected that, taking a step forward when your gaze comes back to center. You can smell the left over wraiths of his cologne and Old Spice deodorant, count the moles on his neck adorned with his hidden gold chain, see the hair on his forearms from his rolled up sleeves.

"You know something," he says quietly, "If I didn't know any better -- I'd think you like me."

"Like you?" you balk, eyes widening, "You wish."

He clicks his tongue when you get so defensive because it just proves him right. He crosses his arms with another step forward, head cocking to the side slightly while he sizes you up. Why did his creator need to make his forearms so beefy? So perfectly sculpted that you can't look at them without losing your train of thought? Stupid.

"I don't think I have to wish, honey," he says softly, Doc Martins creaking on the wooden floors, "I think...uh, I think I must allow you to tell me how ardently you admire and like me."

Your mouth falls open, staring at him with eyes as glassy at the kids who watched you read this morning.

"You -- no -- you read it?"

"Maybe," he says, another step forward, his arms bumping against your chest.

"Maybe?" you ask back, brow quirking.

"Yeah, maybe I did," he runs a hand through his hair, falling back away from his face to show off his sturdy brow bone, watching you with admiration down the slope of his nose.

He reaches down and takes the mug out of your hand with smooth finesse, arm long enough to reach back and place it on the counter behind him. When he leans back in place he's closer than before, toe to toe, nearly nose to nose.

"Maybe I bought it the day you told me about it," he shrugs, "Maybe I thought it was pretty close to something I had goin' on with a girl I know."

"A girl you know?" you challenge. You know exactly who he means, but it might be fun to hear him say it. "Yeah, sometimes I only see her like, an hour a day. But sometimes I get to watch her read on her break, sometimes I get to close with her on Saturdays," he explains warmly, the timbre of his voice deep against the crackling of the fire in the back corner of the cafe.

"This is the only Saturday you've closed with me," you counter, head tilting up slightly, close enough that the tip of your nose brushes his.

"Who said I was talking about you, honey?" he murmurs back, mischief in his eyes that are half hidden by his eyelids. You feel a puff of his breath over your top lip, still minty fresh like he just brushed his teeth.

"We both know you're talking about me," you smirk, self satisfied while his gaze flickers to your lips and back to your eyes. He steps at an angle, making you step back so you're against the pick up counter.

"So sure of yourself," he he scoffs quietly, leaning over you and getting into your space. Each hand coming to the side of you to lean on the granite, caging you in, "I like that in a pretty girl."

"Most do," you shrug matter of factly.

"Yeah," he nods, "Think that's what I like about you."

"Maybe that's what I like about you, too," you nearly whisper out.

"Maybe?" he asks, lower lip ghosting over yours. "Mayb--"

The hand he uses to run through his hair finds itself flat over the back of yours, sliding down to over your cheek and jaw where he keeps you angled just right. He closes the millimeters between you, warm lips catching yours in a kiss that feels like passion but a power play you want to match.

Your hands find their way to his shoulders, heads moving in soft tilts when you change angles. When you find yourself sat on the edge of the counter he uses the leverage to pull you close to him, hips between the fullness of your thighs.

His tongue skates over yours when it slides into your mouth, free hand ridding up the soft material of your tights, tips of his fingers inching under the hem of your skirt in an innocent tease.

Even the way he breathes through it is sexy, leaving you with a lingering guess of what he can do when he presses his lips against your neck. Tongue flitting and striping while he nearly nips a bruise onto your skin. You let out a gentle gasp, enough to admit defeat to him -- much to your chagrin. Steve comes back up to your lips to meet you with a few final deep kisses before you break apart.

He steps back once, the deep golden light of the sun setting cracks through the panes of the back window in the cafe, adoring him in a glow that shines of his hair and eyes. The kind of glow they write about, the kind of glow you read about.

You both take deep breaths, eyes hungry for each other -- unsure if you should go for more. He lingers, coming forward again to rest his hands on your thighs.

"I didn't read it," he confesses. "Pfffft. Why am I not surprised?" you huff, exasperated.

"But! But, but, but," he argues back, pecking you feverishly, "I had to go to like, five different places to find the movie from 1980 so -- I did actually put some effort into it."

"I love that one," you say back.

"I get points for that, right?" he asks expectantly.

"Yeah, fine. You're luck you're cute," you explain, "But you do definitely have to read it, at some point. If you wanna keep making out with me in the cafe after closing."

"Oh, absolutely," he grins, hand reaching to pull you in by the back of the neck for a final searing kiss, "You'll have to teach me, remember?"

You of course start closing together every single Saturday.

masterlist | fall frenzy | ko-fi

[lesservillain]

congratulations on 2000 followers! 🍀

could i request baby daddy eddie with the smut prompt 22 ‘are you doing that on purpose?’

thank you so much you're so kind! hope you enjoy :)

join the 2k celebration!

cw: baby daddy!eddieverse (non canon compliant), unprotected piv (but he pulls out), reader testing eddie's resilience on purpose

wc: 2.5k (I am so sorry lol)

Eddie was sure he was going crazy. He was positive. There was no way you were wearing those little sundresses just for him. No way you were leaning forward or bending over in front of him to get his attention. You were just comfortable around him. Something that he was happy about after living together for a month and a half now. 

But, damn it if it wasn’t getting him riled up. He swears he saw a peak of your ass when you bent over in front of him to pick up Autumn’s toys in the living room. You had stretched out really far to grab something and the hem of your dress rode up to expose the curve of it, and he swears you lingered there long enough for him to get a good look on purpose. 

He gets it’s getting into the mid 80s, but did you have to wear a thong? He didn’t know how he could keep going on knowing what you had on under those dresses. The dresses that were so short they showed off your legs to him, making his mind wander into places that they shouldn’t as they disappeared into the flower printed fabric.

And don’t even get him started on the fact that you weren’t wearing bras around the trailer. There was little left to the imagination when he could see your hard nipples barely covered by the material covering them. Not to mention your tits were practically spilling out at all times and he could barely keep his eyes off of them. 

But Eddie kept his cool. He pretended that it didn’t bother him around you, only to beat off in the shower after a long day of suffering through you prancing around the house in front of him. Work was his only reprieve from the torture you were putting him through, because as soon as he came home to you plating the table in that short denim skirt, he was immediately getting hard.

After weeks of suffering through this, Eddie had finally reached his breaking point. The two of you had put Autumn to bed when you ran into the bedroom to get ready for bed. It was starting to stay hot at night and Eddie expected you to come out in a t-shirt and some sleep shorts like you normally do. But here you are, sitting next to him on the couch in nothing but a pair of skimpy underwear and one of his shirts.

”Sweetheart,” Eddie says, turning to face you on the couch. You look at him with wide eyes and give him a smile.

”What’s up?”

Eddie swallowed thickly, trying to keep his eyes off your exposed skin. ”Are you doing that on purpose?” He gestures at your legs and he watches the way they shift when he gives them attention. You tilt your head at him, a confused look on your face.

”Doing what?” You say with a giggle, seeming unsure of what he’s referring to.

”Are you…y’know, wearing that to get a reaction out of me?”

You look down at yourself then look back at him. “I’m sorry, does me wearing your shirt bother you?” You ask with genuine concern.

”No, not at all,” Eddie says waving his hands. “It’s not that you’re wearing my shirt. Well, it’s kinda that, but it’s not a bad thing.”

”I don’t understand, Eddie,” you say, shaking your head slowly.

”Ugh, I just…” Eddie takes a deep breath in before fully facing you. You mirror his actions, worry etched on your face. “Listen, I know it’s hot and all that, but I can’t…can’t help but notice the things you’ve been wearing around the house.” Eddie’s eyes are downcast, not feeling the courage to look you in the eyes as he confesses what he’s been feeling.

”What I’ve been wearing?” You ask, trying to get him to continue.

”Yeah, like the short dresses and the skirts…the low cut tops…no bra…” Eddie’s mind begins to wander as all of your outfits flash into his mind. He’s trying to will himself not to get hard in this moment, but it seems to be a losing battle.

”What about them? Do they bother you?”

”It’s not that they bother me in a bad way. More like…the exact opposite.” Eddie knows his face has to be red as he says these things to you. “And I guess I just got it in my head that you’re wearing these things on purpose, to try and get a rise out of me.”

The room is silent for a moment. Eddie doesn’t dare look at you, because he’s sure you’re about to laugh at him for making such a stupid assumption. Why did he think this was a good idea? He should have just kept his big mouth shut.

”Is it working?”

The tone of your voice has Eddie’s eyes snapping up to look at you. You’ve got a devilish look on your face that makes Eddie feel like he could melt into the cushion of the couch right now.

”W-what?” Eddie stutters out, not sure if he heard you right.

”I said is it working?” You repeat, leaning forward into his personal space. Oh god, what’s happening?

”Are you being serious right now?” Eddie doesn’t want to mistake this for something it’s not. The last thing he needs is to make you uncomfortable and have you leaving him.

But when you start to climb on top of him, he starts to think maybe he was right all along.

”As serious as a heart attack,” you say, your eyes on his lips as you inch your face closer to his. Eddie feels his heart skip a beat when you brush your lips against his, subconsciously leaning forward to chase after them. You didn’t resist as his lips met yours, slowly moving them against his in a passionate kiss. Eddie swears he sees sparks every time he gets to kiss you and this time is no different.

You wrap your arms around his neck and lean into him, pushing your body against his as the kiss picks up, getting more heated with every passing second. Eddie is impossibly hard in his jeans right now and all you’ve done is kiss him, but in this moment he doesn’t even care. He doesn’t even care if this kiss doesn’t go anywhere, he’s just happy to have this with you right now, his dick be damned.

But you seemed to have other plans as you lower yourself into his lap, fully seating yourself against the tent in his pants. Eddie lets out a low moan as you start to rock your hips over him, the friction feeling so good that he can’t help but grab your hips and keep you moving over him. The feeling of your soft, bare skin in his hands was enough to drive him crazy. 

“Wanna take this to the bedroom?” You suddenly ask, pulling away from him. The sultry look on your face was enough to do Eddie in, and he wasted no time wrapping his arms around your legs and lifting you up on the couch. You let out a giggly squeal as he picked you up, your grip around his neck tightening as he carried you into your shared bedroom.

Eddie playfully tossed you into the bed, eliciting a laugh from you as you bounced on the mattress. You beckoned him with grabby hands and he obliged you by crawling over your frame on the bed. Grabbing his collar, you pulled him into another kiss that made Eddie’s head spin. It makes him feel brave enough to let his hand slip under the hem of your shirt, gliding over the expanse of your soft stomach until he reaches your chest. You must like this, because you gasp against his mouth as he begins to fondle your breast in his big hands.

Suddenly, your hands leave his shirt and make their way lower until you’re at the button of his jeans. You pop it open with little resistance, the old zipper coming undone on its own from the pressure of how hard he was straining against them. With little warning, you slipped your hand into his boxers and grabbed at his length, making Eddie’s breath hitch from the contact. Eddie retracted his hand from your chest to help you pull his pants down enough that you could release his cock from its confines. 

You immediately start to stroke him, moving your hand up and down his aching length. The way you rolled your hand over his tip had his brain going dumb, turning him into putty in your grasp. “Shit,” he breathes out, looking down to watch you work him. And when you stop he wants to whine out like a pathetic dog. But his complaints die on his tongue when he watches your hands reach down for your panties and pull them down. He sees the little wet patch in the crotch and starts to salivate. Would you let him eat you out again like last time?

He got his answer in the needy way you called his name. You looked at him with lidded eyes and Eddie was a goner, ready to give you whatever you wanted. “Please,” you beg, grabbing for him again. “Need you.”

“Awe, you poor thing,” Eddie cooes at you.

“Don’t make fun of me,” you pout, crossing your arms.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”

“Well, you better hurry up and get to it before I change my mind.” Eddie took that threat very seriously. He moved himself until he was situated between your legs, staring at your exposed center as you opened up for him. He goes to line himself with your entrance when you put a hand against his chest to stop him.

”Not to ruin the mood, but do you have a condom?” Eddie blinks at you, sweat forming in his hairline.

”N-no,” he says, brows coming together. He didn’t think this was going to happen again so he never went out and got any, even after your last encounter. He won’t be mad if you decide to call it since he doesn’t, but he really hopes that you don’t.

”Ugh, okay,” you say defeated, and Eddie feels all the excitement drain from his body. “Just make sure you pull out this time.” Eddie’s ears perk up at this and he gives you a harsh nod, accepting your request.

”Yes ma’am,” he says, giving you a salute. You roll your eyes at him, but can’t stop yourself from smiling. 

Eddie lines himself up again and starts to push himself inside of you. Your head falls back as he pushes further in, only stopping once he’s fully inside. Eddie’s not faring much better than you, the way your cunt is squeezing him feels like heaven on his cock. He gives you a second to adjust after having no prep before he starts moving, not wanting to hurt you.

”God, you’re so big Eddie,” you breathe out, and the words go straight to his cock. He starts to rock his hips back and forth, starting slow at first until he gets a good pace going. Your moans are music to Eddie’s ears, only egging him on. 

“Harder.” Your words are strained, driving Eddie crazy to hear you beg like this. He leans forward, caging you between his arms as he gets into a better position to really fuck you. His hips smack against you as he delivers harsh thrusts into you, his cock hitting you deep inside.

His name leaves your lips in a series of chants intermingled with curses and calls to the lord. Eddie should be trying to shush you so you don’t wake your daughter up, but he doesn’t want to give up having to hear you like this either. So he settles for the next best thing, which is bringing his lips to yours and kissing you to shut you up. You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him in closer, faces mushing together from how close you were. 

You start to claw at his back, his shirt riding up to expose the skin there for your nails to dig into. The pain felt so good, like you were marking him as yours with each scratch that you left behind. Not like you needed to make it known he was yours, you were the only one for him anyway.

”Fuck, I’m close,” Eddie says, panting against your lips.

”Mmm, need a little more,” you say, and Eddie gets the hint right away. He puts his weight on his one arm and reaches between you to rub your clit. He’s never done it before so he has to do some guess work down there, but when you sigh as he comes in contact with what he thinks he’s looking for he gets to work on your bud.

”Oh my god,” you moan, and Eddie swears he can see hearts in your eyes when he looks down at your fucked out expression. While he’s focused on your pleasure, you bury a hand in his hair and pull his head back, exposing his neck to you. Eddie’s eyes roll back at the feeling, discovering something about himself in that moment. 

And when your lips land on the exposed skin of his neck he has to take a moment to refocus himself so he doesn’t cum right then and there. The way you’re completely devouring his neck is definitely going to leave a few marks tomorrow, but he doesn’t care. He’ll walk into work with pride tomorrow knowing that you were the one to mark him up for everyone to see. 

With the sensory overload, Eddie can feel himself about to reach his end at any moment. He was determined to make you cum first though, so he held off and picked up the speed on your clit. You started to flutter around him so he took that as you getting close and continued to pound into you.

”Fuck, Eddieeeee!” He feels you cumming around his cock and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt in his life. As he’s about to cum, he stops his movements and grabs his cock, withdrawing it from you at the last second to cum on your stomach. His hand works himself quickly to ride out the feeling as he paints your skin with his cum, working every last drop out of him.

”Shit,” he grunts, grabbing the tip of his cock and holding it as the last of his spend leaves it. He unscrews his eyes, blinking them open to look at the mess he’s made of you. He feels something tugging on his hair and he looks up at you to find you playing with it, a satisfied grin on your face.

”You okay?” He asks, and you give him a lazy nod for an answer. “Let me get you cleaned up.” He goes to get up but you call his name to stop him.

”I was thinking we could get in the shower…together.”

Eddie’s heart soared at the suggestion, wanting nothing more than to do that with you. Things might not be clear between you now, but he’ll do whatever he can to keep you close to him for as long as you’ll allow it.

[lyn31]

Do you mind if I request a pure fluffy oneshot about pregnant MC feels lonely since Zayne always busy at work where in fact, Zayne already planned a long holiday to take care of his pregnant wife?🥺🥺

Omg this is so cute! Thank you for the request/idea! I try my best for pure fluff! Hope it's what you're thinking of!

Lonely?

Summary

You thought you’d have to endure more lonely days, waiting for Zayne to come home late from work. He’s always been attentive, making sure you’re comfortable, checking in on your cravings, and doing everything he can to care for you—even from a distance. But it’s not enough. You don’t just want his care. You want him. And what you don’t realize is that he’s already made sure you won’t have to wait much longer.

Ao3 link

My Masterlist ✨

Notes

Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader If you've been reading my stuff, you know I'm prone to getting carried away—but not too much this time! Anyway, pure fluff incoming!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The morning sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the kitchen. The smell of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faint sweetness of whatever simple breakfast you managed to put together. Across from you, Zayne sits with his usual composed demeanor, sipping his coffee as he reads something on his terminal. He looks effortlessly put together, as always, dressed in his usual crisp attire, ready for another long day at the hospital.

You try not to pout. You really do.

But the disappointment settles in your chest before you can stop it.

It’s not like Zayne has been neglecting you—far from it. Even with his busy schedule, he still makes sure you’re eating well, checks in on your cravings, and finds small ways to take care of you. But it’s not the thoughtful gestures you want right now. It’s him. His presence. His warmth—well, as warm as he can be. You just miss having him by your side.

“Another long shift?” you ask, poking at your food without much enthusiasm.

Zayne glances up, his golden eyes calm as ever. “Hm?”

You roll your eyes. “At the hospital. You’ve been working late every day. It’s fine, I’m just asking.”

There’s no accusation in your tone, but you still feel a little guilty for even bringing it up. It’s not like Zayne is staying late for fun—he’s a doctor. His work saves lives. But still, a selfish part of you wishes he could just… be here.

Zayne sets down his coffee cup with a quiet clink, studying you for a moment. Then, instead of answering directly, he asks, “Did you sleep well?”

You huff. Typical. He always redirects the conversation back to you. “Yeah, I guess.”

“Back pain?”

You shake your head. “Not really.”

“Hm.” He reaches for a small dish beside him and slides it toward you. “I picked these up on the way home last night. You mentioned craving something sweet.”

You glance down, finding a delicate pastry, the exact kind you’d been wanting the other day. Your heart squeezes. See? He never forgets. But the ache in your chest doesn’t go away.

You pick it up, turning it slightly between your fingers before taking a bite. The flaky crust melts in your mouth, the filling perfectly sweet without being overwhelming. Exactly the way you like it.

Your mood should lighten. And in some ways, it does—just not the way you need. Zayne always remembers these little things, even when he barely has time to breathe.

You swallow, glancing at him as he returns his attention to his terminal, seemingly unbothered. Like picking up pastries at an ungodly hour just to make you happy is the most natural thing in the world.

Your lips curve slightly. “You really don’t have to do this, you know.”

Zayne hums, not looking up. “Do what?”

You gesture vaguely with the half-eaten pastry. “This. Bringing me things. You’re already busy enough.”

Finally, he meets your gaze. “It’s hardly an inconvenience.”

The words are simple, stated like a fact rather than reassurance. But you know what he means. If it’s for you, it’s never a burden.

The warmth in your chest grows, just enough to quiet the selfish ache—at least for now.

You take another bite, letting yourself enjoy the moment. Even if he has to leave soon, at least for now, he’s here.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There’s not much to do when you’re off work and pregnant. Ever since you and Zayne found out, you’ve both been buried in pregnancy books, but now that you’re in your second trimester, there’s more waiting than anything else. At least your pregnancy has been on the milder side so far.

It’s not like he’s neglecting me. You keep telling yourself that, fingers absently tracing patterns against your stomach. He still calls. He still buys me whatever I want. I’m fine. The house is quiet—too quiet—and before you can stop yourself, your gaze flickers to the clock. I don’t need to be so clingy. But somehow, the weight in your chest doesn’t ease.

So here you are again, texting Tara and catching up on the latest gossip.

Tara: Oh, and get this—remember that newbie from last week? The one who swore up and down that they could handle a solo mission?

You: The one who nearly got flattened by a Normal Wanderer?

Tara: Yep. That one. Well, guess who had to bail them out today?

You: No way. You?

Tara: Of course me. Because someone didn’t read the mission brief properly and walked straight into a nest.

You: LMAO, you’re kidding.

Tara: I wish. I had to listen to them apologize every five seconds while I cleared the area. If I hear one more “I’m so sorry, Senior Tara” I might actually lose my mind.

You: Pfft. Sounds like a fun day for you.

Tara: Oh, absolutely. Thrilling. The highlight of my week, really.

You: LMAO.

Tara: Anyway, why aren’t you asleep yet? You need a lot of rest—you and the baby, that is.

You: I’m waiting for Zayne to get home 🥺

Tara: Eh? He’s not home yet?

You: He’s supposed to be, but there was an emergency he had to take care of 😩

Tara: Well, that’s rough. But still, don’t you see him when he gets home anyway?

You: Barely. I keep falling asleep early 🫠 And now, for the morning I keep waking up later and later… Damn hormones, I swear to god.

Tara: LOL, what can you do? It is what it is. Just don’t stay up too late!

You sigh, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you. Just this once, you want to stay awake—just to see him properly, not only in passing before he leaves for work.

“I get it. He’s busy. I shouldn’t complain.” The words come out light, almost dismissive, but your fingers catch on the hem of your sleeve, twisting the fabric between them. Even saying it out loud doesn’t make it feel any less hollow.

And, of course, your body has other plans. Because when you open your eyes again, it’s morning.

You're no longer on the living room sofa but tucked into bed instead. The sheets are smoothed around you, and the weight of a blanket drapes comfortably over your body. A pillow has been carefully adjusted against your belly, positioned just right to relieve any strain.

You groan into your pillow, frustration muffled against the fabric. You missed him again—just like every other night these days.

A cool, gentle touch lands on your shoulder.

You peek up, already knowing who it is.

Zayne is squatting beside the bed, his hazel eyes level with yours. Dressed in his usual crisp attire, he looks as composed as ever.

“Are you feeling any discomfort?” His tone is clinical, but the concern beneath it is unmistakable.

You shake your head, your voice still heavy with sleep. “No, I’m good. I just keep missing you coming home.” You pout without meaning to.

Zayne leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips, then another to your temple. “Sorry.”

Your heart squeezes. A tiny, selfish part of you wanted him to feel bad for leaving you behind so often. But not like this.

You shake your head, frowning. “What are you sorry for? It’s your job—just like when I get emergency calls for Wanderers, remember? I understand.” You smile, actually meaning it.

Zayne takes your hand, bringing it to his lips, kissing your palm. “You won’t have to miss me for much longer.”

You blink. What?

But before you can question it, a thought occurs. Right. He’s probably pushing himself harder just to get home earlier.

You huff. “Just don’t overwork yourself, got it?” You reach up and pinch his cheek lightly.

Zayne merely hums, his lips twitching slightly before he leans down, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. Then, he stands. “I made breakfast. If you’re ready, I can help you get up.”

You narrow your eyes at the curve of his lips, recognizing the teasing edge in his voice.

Still, you reach for him anyway, stretching out both hands toward him. “Well, husband, help your wife up, then.”

His low chuckle is your only warning before he pulls you into his arms with practiced ease.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Take care, Mrs. Li.”

You reply with a smile, “You too.”

The person—whom Zayne hired at the start of your pregnancy—gives you a polite nod before stepping out, leaving your home spotless as always.

Honestly, sometimes your husband is even more dramatic than you. It’s sweet that he refuses to let you lift a finger, but now you’re left with nothing to do. The house, now silent and empty, feels even bigger than usual.

You huff, shaking off the creeping loneliness. You could dwell on it… or you could find something to entertain yourself with.

Speaking of entertainment, Zayne should be on his break around this time.

So, of course, you text him.

You: Zaaaaayyyneeeeee.

Mine♥️: Yes? Did something happen?

You: Send me your selfie ☺️

Mine♥️: My selfie? How about you send me yours first?

Did he just? This man, you swear. You shake your head grinning while you type your reply.

You: Hey! I say it first! The baby’s asking.

You can practically see Zayne’s deadpan stare through the screen, and the thought alone makes you giggle.

Mine♥️: The baby is asking?

You: Yes. The baby wants to see their dad’s face 🥺

You stare at your screen, waiting, watching the three little dots appear… then disappear. Then appear again. Then disappear.

You know he’s hesitating.

Mine♥️: That doesn’t sound medically accurate.

You snort, already imagining his flat expression.

You: Wow. Are you denying your child’s request? How could you, Dr. Li?

Silence.

Then, finally—a new message arrives.

It’s an image.

You open it eagerly, only to burst into laughter.

It’s exactly what you expected. A slightly blurred, poorly angled selfie, as if he took it at the last second just to shut you up. His expression is his usual composed neutrality, though you can see the faintest arch of his brow, like he knows this is ridiculous but indulges you anyway. The lighting is terrible, half his face is cropped out, and yet—it's still unmistakably him.

You: LMAO, Zayne, still?? Are you sure you know what that is?

Mine♥️: A selfie.

You: This is a crime against photography.

Mine♥️: You asked. I delivered.

You can’t stop grinning. Even with his reluctant participation, it’s these little moments that make you feel closer to him, even when he’s away.

You: Fine, fine. You win. But I’m adding this to my Zayne’s selfie collection.

Zayne doesn’t reply immediately, but when he does, it’s only two words.

Mine♥️: Of course.

And maybe it’s just your hormones, but somehow, that single message makes your heart flutter a little too much. After a beat he sends you another text.

Mine♥️: Now, where’s mine?

You debate teasing him for a few seconds, but you’re feeling generous, so you take a picture of yourself, angling a bit to show you holding your baby bump, and winking at the camera. Then you send it.

Mine♥️: Perfect.

You stare at the screen, re-reading his response. Perfect.

It’s such a simple word. Just one. But somehow, it makes your chest feel warm and achy all at once.

You puff out a breath, suddenly feeling ridiculous. Why is this making you emotional? It’s not even that serious. It’s just Zayne being Zayne. Calm, composed, and effortlessly sweet in that way of his.

But then you glance back at your own selfie—the one with your baby bump in clear view—and your eyes start to sting.

He thinks you’re perfect. Just like this.

Hormones. It has to be the hormones.

You sniff, rubbing at your eyes, and quickly type back before you can get any more sappy.

You: I’ll let you have that one, Dr. Li. Just this once.

His reply comes instantly.

Mine♥️: I appreciate the honor.

You roll your eyes, but you’re still smiling. Even if you feel lonely right now, at least moments like this remind you—Zayne is still with you, no matter the distance. And yet, no matter how sweet these moments are, the ache of missing him doesn’t go away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Another morning dawns, light filtering softly through the curtains, painting everything in a muted golden hue.

You wake up feeling... off. Not upset, not really, but there’s a quiet heaviness in your chest, a weight of reluctance. Maybe it’s just that your bed is so comfortable, or it’s the cool presence beside you—one you know will be gone in just a little while.

Zayne is still half-asleep, his breathing slow and steady. The moment you shift closer, he stirs. He doesn’t say anything, but his fingers find their way to your hair, smoothing down the strands with that same absentminded gentleness he always has.

You press your face against his shoulder, sighing. Just a few more minutes. Just a little longer before the day starts and he leaves again.

But time moves too fast. Before you know it, he’s getting up, moving through the familiar motions of getting ready. You stay in bed longer than usual today, even though you’re already awake, not feeling like facing the day just yet, but eventually, you shuffle out of the room, just in time to see Zayne placing the food on the table.

He glances up when he notices you. “Come sit. You need to eat.”

You hum noncommittally but let him guide you to your chair. Breakfast is warm, comforting—just like always. You eat quietly, and while Zayne doesn’t comment on it, you know he notices. He always does.

And now, here you are, standing at the front door, watching him as he prepares to leave for yet another work day. You keep your expression neutral. Or at least, you try. But it must show anyway, because as Zayne smooths out his sleeves, then glances at you. “You won’t be waiting much longer.”

You blink. “Huh?”

He tilts his head slightly, as if this should be obvious. “Today is my last shift before my extended leave starts. I’ll be home starting tomorrow.”

Your brain stalls. You just stare at him, completely thrown. The words don’t quite register at first, like your mind refuses to take them in all at once, because—what?

You open your mouth, then close it again, struggling for words before finally managing— “You’re…staying home starting tomorrow?” The words come out small, hesitant, like you’re scared to believe them. But the look on Zayne’s face—calm, assured, like this was never even a question—makes it all too real.

Then the realization crashes into you, and before you even know it, your eyes burn—tears spilling over, completely unprompted, catching even you off guard.

Zayne’s expression shifts in an instant. His hands reach for you immediately, one settling on your back, the other tilting your chin up so he can study your face. “What’s wrong?” His voice is calm, but you can hear the thread of concern beneath it. “Are you in pain?”

You shake your head rapidly, even as another choked-out laugh bubbles up between your tears. “No, I just—” You sniffle, gripping onto his coat.

His touch is gentle as he tilts your chin up again, but before that, his thumb brushes the corner of your eye, catching a tear before it can fall. He exhales softly, barely more than a breath, and murmurs “No tears, love.” low and steady, as if grounding you with just his voice.

And that you make your tears flow even more. “I’m just really happy. And I feel ridiculous. Oh my god, I can’t stop crying—”

Zayne blinks, still looking slightly lost. But he tightens his hold on you, shifting slightly to the side so he doesn’t squeeze you or the baby, his hand stroking your back in slow, steady motions. Then, as if something clicks, he exhales softly. “Didn’t I already tell you? That you wouldn’t have to miss me for much longer?”

You let out a hiccup, still clutching his coat. “You were being vague! I thought you meant coming home earlier or something!”

His lips twitch slightly—amused, but choosing not to show it too much for your sake. “I see. My mistake.” He presses a kiss into your hair, exhaling a quiet chuckle. “You think I’d leave you lonely if I had a choice?”

You huff, burying your face against his chest. Zayne lets out a quiet breath before wrapping his arms securely around you. “And you’re not ridiculous,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss to the top of your head. “But you do need to breathe.”

You let out a watery laugh. “I am breathing.”

“Barely.” He smooths a hand down your back, his voice quieter now. “You really missed me that much?”

You nod against his chest. “Yeah. I really did.”

Zayne says nothing for a moment, just holds you there, his grip firm and steady. And then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, he says, “Then I’ll make up for all of it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by just how much you love this man. “You’re not allowed to leave me for even a second, you hear me?”

A pause. Then, so casually, “That might be difficult. What if you need to use the restroom? You don't usually let me follow you there.”

You pull back just enough to glare at him. “Zayne.”

“Hm?” His expression is calm, but you can see the slightest glint of amusement in his eyes now.

“You’re ruining the moment.”

Zayne hums, entirely unbothered. “I thought I was making it memorable.”

You sniff, narrowing your eyes at him. “You’re so lucky I love you.”

“I know.” He smooths his hands down your sides one last time before stepping back, adjusting his coat. “Now, go inside. You shouldn’t be standing out here too long.”

You cross your arms, still pouting. “Fine. But you better come home on time.”

Zayne lifts a brow. “I always do.”

“Liar.”

He exhales through his nose—just barely amused—before leaning in, pressing a brief kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you tonight.”

And with that, he turns, heading off without another word. You linger for a second longer, watching him go before finally stepping inside.

By the time evening comes, the moment Zayne steps inside, you immediately cling to him. His hands settle at your waist, steadying you, and just when you’re about to pull back, he shifts his grip—lifting you effortlessly.

“Zayne! Are you insane? Put me down! I’m the weight of two people!”

“This is why I work out,” he replies smoothly.

You gape at him before bursting into laughter. He just walks, carrying you as if it’s the easiest thing in the world, before gently setting you down on the living room sofa. Squatting in front of you, his eyes flick toward the kitchen, probably catching the scent of the food you just finished making. One brow lifts.

“You were cooking?”

“I’m pregnant, not invalid.” You challenge his stare with a pointed look.

He exhales, clearly holding back a remark, then concedes with a small nod. “Alright then. Do you want to eat first?” He asks, even though he already knows your answer.

Now that your mood feels much lighter, you flash him a sweet smile. “I’m eating with you, obviously. Speaking of, husband…”

You toy with his collar, dragging a finger slowly down his chest. Zayne watches you with a suspicious gaze.

“Do you want to eat first, take a bath, or…” You drag out the words teasingly. “Me?”

You wink, fully expecting him to scoff. And he does—but not before his eyes flick down to your breast, then back up. The way his gaze darkens for half a second makes your breath hitch.

Then, without missing a beat, he says, “You first, then.”

“What?” You laugh, eyes widening as he shifts to sit beside you, pulling you against him. His cool breath brushes against your skin, lips grazing the curve of your neck.

“You asked, darling.”

And just like that, the day ends in the most perfect way possible.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Notes

Hehehehehe 😳 sorry ahahahaha love how this turn out actually, gosh they're so cute 🫶🏻😩🥹 This is ended up connected ahaha either way, if we're going for chronological order here it is: (this is part 2) part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 smut one perhaps? ahahaha

[daenysx]

you KNOW what i'm going to ask for............... (probably not but anyways :•) )

can i get one sleepy sirius? unless you're not feeling like it, could i request a domestic intimacy drabble with him looking very pretty as usual?

ALSO, can we gossip abt your crush???? i need all the juicy details of this lucky individual

i knew it, angel!! i hope you enjoy- and also of course we can gossip about him, he's literally consuming my mind these days (all i can say in this post is that he kinda looks like ben barnes and he's so tall, i'm fucked)

-send me drabble requests!

sirius black x fem!reader, fluff

"Oh, fuck," Sirius groans next to you. What time is it, and why is he awake before you? Something terrible must have happened. You blink your eyes open to clouds filling the room's air with grey and blurry. Sirius mumbles a few words, his hand in his hair.

"What's wrong?" you ask, unable to find your voice. "Are you okay?"

He turns in bed, his eyes are almost closed, and he's frowning. It's so early to frown, you think, already dreaming of your morning coffee. Sirius' arm, the one he currently wraps around your waist begs to differ, though.

"I put my head wrong on the pillow and my hair's ruined," he murmurs. "Look, no waves. It doesn't feel soft at all."

So sleepy and yet he worries over his hair. In your defense, his deep black locks look the same every morning, you don't know why he decided to be upset over it today.

"You haven't even looked at the mirror." you say.

"I don't need to, lovely, I can feel it just fine."

You're silently asking for him to fall back asleep. Just for a few hours more.

"Baby, it looks okay," you tell him, snuggling into his bare chest. "You can always fix it the way you want, right?"

Sirius takes pity on your sweet words, you tangle your legs with his and kiss his shoulder. He rubs a big hand on your hip as a response.

"It's frustrating, waking up like this after having shower," he murmurs with a hazy voice. He stretches slowly and settles down again in the warm sheets.

"You look perfect."

"Thank you, my angel, it was my intention to hear this all along."

Sirius loves sleeping. He loves how you sound when you get closer to him, how your fingers seek his chest to keep them on his heart. He loves the moment before falling asleep, almost unconscious, but still feeling you in his arms. It's like a practiced performance, a routine he adores. He kisses your collarbone lazily, mouth gentle and warm against your skin. Your breaths tickle his neck, he cups the back of your head to pull you even closer.

"What time is it?" you ask. "Do we have to wake up?"

To be honest, he doesn't know the time, has no idea about it really. Guessing is an easy process, though, urging you to sleep in his arms is even easier. "I don't think so," he replies with confidence. "Go back to sleep."

You do as he says in a few seconds, your head tucked in his shoulder nicely. His fingers wander on your back to keep you there, your lips are faint against his neck. "I meant it," you say, words slipping away. "You're so pretty."

It takes every bit of control in him, to not kiss you in a way that will wake you up. He sighs, a warm feeling spread on his chest, something soft crawling in his belly. You give away your affection like it's in your nature and Sirius is amazed every time. He presses his lips on your forehead, warm lips pulling you into a deeper slumber.

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Sunburn

♥ masterlist | request rules | based on this request | part of my 1k event

♥ pairing: ollie bearman x fem!reader

♥ synopsis: due to your sister’s demanding job you babysit your niece very frequently. she’s taken a liking to your boyfriend ollie and fans have since become obsessed with their dynamic.

♥ smau - fc: women on pinterest - as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: swearing !!!

♥ a/n: i actually combined an old ollie draft of mine for this fic! i hope you like it!

-April 12, 2024-

liked by yoursister, lilyzneimer, alexandrasaintmleux, and 135,802 more

yourusername babysitting duty

tagged; @/olliebearman

view comments

user1 the little bear cookies 🥹

paularon_ I didn’t know you baked?!

yourusername just every now and then 🥰

paularon_ you should def bring me one of your treats to try next time you visit ☺️

yourusername i’ll consider it

paularon_ i’ll have a cupcake

kimi.antonelli i’ll take a bear cookie

yourusername apparently i’m a cater now ??

yoursister thanks for helping me out! love you <3

yourusername of course! she’s obsessed with ollie so i’m sure she’ll have a fun time lol. love you more 🫶

user2 loving the pink aesthetic

user10 she’s so cute right?

prema_team the paddock has missed you

yourusername tell the paddock i’ve missed it too 😽

olliebearman i’ll be over in 10 xx

charles_leclerc i thought i said no boys over ☝️

yourusername @/charles_leclerc try and stop me

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

”Ollie!” your niece Laney shouted, dropping the toys out of her hands and sprinting over to your boyfriend.

He laughed, picked her up, and carried her on his hip back over to you.

“What’re you playing?” he asked, looking down at the scene.

On the floor was a cutout paper race track and a group of cars following along it.

She hopped out of his arms, “This one’s you,” she pointed to a red car. “You’re in the front because Lando and Max crashed into each other.”

An orange hot wheel was placed on its side next to a flipped over blue one. Ollie covered his mouth to laugh as she dragged him around the track.

He sat down on the floor with his knees up as she explained the rest of the race, “Here’s Charles, your teammate. He’s in the back though because the pit wasn’t good. They almost messed up yours but I stopped it.”

“What would I do without you?” he giggled.

“I dunno,” she responded with a shrug.

She grabbed the ‘Alpine’ to DNF it before her eyes narrowed, finally noticing a bag he placed by the door.

Ollie stood up and grabbed the gift, bringing it over to her with a smile, "I got you something in Japan."

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

yourusername posted two stories

view story replies

user2 duffy!!

user8 ollie bear 🥺

user10 oh stop it they’re so cute

user3 omg I love them

user27 do you really think ollie likes your pink bed? 😐

yourusername @/user27 he more than likes it

olliebearman @/yourusername you can't say that 😭

kimi.antonelli 🫣

olliebearman @/yourusername I'm glad she liked the bear tho

liked by yourusername, kimi.antonelli, frederickvestiofficial, and 123,593 more

olliebearman monaco's just not the same without her

view comments

yourusername I'm there in spirit 🥹🫶 I'll see you in a few weeks

♡ by olliebearman

user9 oh god they're so cute

arthur_leclerc so what I'm hearing is boys night??

olliebearman ...

kimi.antonelli well yes

charles_leclerc well no!

arthur_leclerc @/charles_leclerc club tonight, boys night tomorrow.

user21 ain't you a millionaire fly her out to Monaco !!!

olliebearman she's with the kids

frederickvestiofficial @/olliebearman kidS plural??? 😧

kimi.antonelli papa bear

user1 HELPPPP KIMI 😭

user7 @/kimi.antonelli LMAOOO

-

yourusername posted two stories

view story replies

charles_leclerc je t'aime xx wish you were here to celebrate with us

arthur_leclerc 🫂

olliebearman still can't believe I witnessed this in person

yourusername @/olliebearman you don't have to rub it in 🙄

user9 this is so important to me

user1 I have no one to talk to about this to

user8 oh I bet laney was so excited

user6 @/user8 aren't we all

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by olliebearman, landonorris, charles_leclerc, and 804,985 more

yourusername some much needed boyfriend time

view comments

kimi.antonelli aw (ew)

yourusername @/kimi.antonelli ew you

kimi.antonelli a date without me is crazy 😔

user8 everyone needs ollie time

user38 where's Laney?

yourusername with her mother...?

user10 wish that was me in his hotel

yourusername real

user10 @/yourusername bitch

user7 what do I have to do to get an Italy date night

antoniogiovinazzi99 in my home country and you didn't even visit?

yourusername NOO :( I'm sorry I'll stop by soon

arthur_leclerc woww yn and I thought Ferrari was a family

-

liked by olliebearman, lewishamilton, georgerussell63, and 304,658 more

yourusername packing for the British Grand Prix <3 Good Luck to the Brit boys this week @/alex_albon, @/lewishamilton, @/landonorris, and @/georgerussell63

view comments

oscarpiastri erm 🤓☝️

yourusername are you 1/29th british

lilyzneimer cant wait to see you <3

yourusername can't wait to see you more

georgerussell63 don't worry I'll win the race for you

landonorris @/georgerussell63 be sooo serious

user2 shout-out british men guys

yourusername WE CAN GO BAND FOR BAND 🗣️🔥🇬🇧☕

user5 LOVING the red

user6 she has to rep the team !!

user7 you're so gorg

kimi.antonelli lewis fan club: meetings at isack's

yourusername I'll be there

user8 I could 100% see isack being the president of a Lewis fan club

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by frederickvestiofficial, haasf1team, francolapinto, and 593,972 more

yourusername I can't believe I had to keep this a secret! @/olliebearman this has been your dream since we were kids and you’ve finally done it 🥹 i couldn’t be prouder <3 I love you so much

view comments

olliebearman couldn't have done it without you

user1 and the cutest couple award goes to

estebanocon welcome him to the grid for me. can't wait to see you two in the garage

♡ by olliebearman

alexandrasaintmleux love you guys

yourusername love you alex xx

charles_leclerc @/yourusername do you love her more than me

yourusername @/charles_leclerc I love her more than ollie

olliebearman @/yourusername ???

olliebearman @/alexandrasaintmleux way to ruin our moment

user7 I'm so happy for him

yoursister laney is ecstatic

♡ by olliebearman

yourusername so proud of her uncle <3

user8 " her uncle" JUST KILL ME

user9 if they break up love is dead

user10 my parents

user6 she's so proud of him 😭🫶

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

"There's a very special supporter in the Ferrari garage right now," Martin said on the pre-race broadcast as the camera zoomed into Laney with her bear.

"There is Oliver Bearman, joined by well—little Ollie Bearman," he said with a chuckle.

"Isn't that just adorable, Martin?" Crofty asked.

"It definitely is, I might need to snag me one of those bears myself," he laughed. "He could probably make a merch line out of that I'm sure it would sell."

"I'd buy it," Crofty added.

"Well, either way," the camera panned back to you and your niece. "Those are some great fans to have by your side."

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by yourusername, haasf1team, kimi.antonelli, and 1,903, 294 more

olliebearman my day ones 🫶

comments have been restricted

[wendichester]

hi💕 would you please write something sweet about (possibly gender neutral) reader having a very young sibling (talking about VERY young. like 6 or 7 years old or younger) that has grown very attached to the boys?

they met on a hunt and decided to stick together, and ever since the little kid can't stop spending time with Dean and Sam, always keeps them company etc.

(bonus idea: one night maybe Sam is looking after the kid since reader left for a hunt, putting them to sleep, and the kid reveals that reader has a thing for Sam.. and always talks about him to their sibling. idk it could be cute)

₊˚⊹ ᰔ bedtime secrets,

summary. kids and their blabbering mouths. no secrets are safe! especially possible crushes.

pairing. sam winchester x gender neutral reader

wordcount. 400

notes. first time writing gender neutral reader, so I hope I was able to do it well! thank you so much for requesting sweets 🩷

Sam tucks the blanket up to your brother's chin, smoothing it out the way he’s seen you do a hundred times. He blinks up at him sleepily, small hands clutching the stuffed rabbit he refuses to sleep without.

“You comfy?” he asks, voice soft.

A slow, drowsy nod. “Mhm.”

Outside, the motel room is quiet—just the occasional hum of passing cars and the faint murmurs of Dean watching TV in the other room. You’re still out on a hunt, and Sam had offered to keep an eye on your sibling for the night. It’s been… nice, honestly. The little kid has been glued to him and Dean ever since you all met, and Sam can’t deny that it’s kind of adorable.

He moves to stand, but before he can, a tiny hand reaches out, grabbing his sleeve.

“Sam?”

He sits back down. “Yeah, kiddo?”

He hesitates, eyes darting toward the door like he’s making sure you’re not about to burst in. Then, in a conspiratorial whisper, he says, “Y’know, they talk about you a lot.”

Sam blinks. “Who does?”

“[Reader],” he whispers, like it’s a top-secret mission. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up with his little hands. “They looove talking about you.”

Sam’s lips twitch. “Oh yeah?”

Another big, dramatic nod. “All the time. Like—like how you’re super tall and smart and really nice and how you always smell good—”

Sam chokes on a laugh. “They said that?”

“Mhm.” His little face scrunches up in thought. “And one time they said your hair looks soft. And one time, they said your hands were really big but in a cool way, not a scary way.”

Sam bites the inside of his cheek, warmth creeping up his neck.

“Oh, and they always get excited when you say their name. Like, always.” The kid yawns, eyes fluttering sleepily. “I think they like you.”

Sam is still recovering from the hands comment, so that one hits hard. He clears his throat, unsure what to do with the ridiculous smile tugging at his lips.

“They say anything about Dean?” he teases, trying to shift the attention off of himself.

The kid shrugs, already halfway to sleep. “Sometimes. But mostly just that he’s loud.”

Sam snorts.

A moment later, his tiny voice murmurs, “You won’t tell them I said that, right?”

Sam chuckles, tucking the blanket up one last time. “It’s our secret.”

ꔛ. navigation 𓂃˖ ࣪ all drabbles ; compatibility readings ; support my work .ᐟ

want be part of the taglist.ᐣ ⋆.˚ ★— @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing ⋆ @deans-daydream ⋆ @taurus0queenie33 ⋆ @ambiguous-avery ⋆ @itsdearapril ⋆ @whereiwakewarm ⋆ @nymphet-quenn ⋆ @bluemerakis ⋆ @titsout4jackles ⋆ @hauntedrose555 ⋆ @chevroletdean ⋆ @dulcescorderitas ⋆ @blackmarketfruitrollups ⋆ @impala67rollingthroughtown ⋆ @rulesareshadesofgrey ⋆ @nervoussystems ⋆ @daryls-luvrr ⋆ @sunnyteume ⋆ @drakelover78 ⋆ @angelblqde ⋆ @mostlymarvelgirl ⋆ @whisperingdaze ⋆ @bossyblondie ⋆ @iluvnewtie ⋆ @dyhsversion ⋆ @s0urw00lf ⋆ @mrs-pondwater19 ⋆ @myceliumsunshine ⋆ @idk6505 ⋆ @giggles1026 ⋆ @idontwannabehere7 ⋆ @bamboobooshark ⋆ @ocelotlist51 ⋆ @lelapine ⋆ @pwin098 ⋆ @lacysretribution ⋆ @i-love-gvf ⋆ @lemonswinchester ⋆ @4k1vrr ⋆ @defnot-svnshine ⋆ @szyszoszelest ⋆ @angelicalm3ss ⋆ @writtenbyhollywood ⋆ @larasalii ⋆ @yeehawgiddyup13 ⋆ @xo-zeze ⋆ @jules-pagie ⋆ @freeluigihesbae ⋆ @viarasvogue ⋆ @ladykitana90

[moonstruckme]

hello mae!!!

if inspiration strikes i'd love to request either a bruise in the shape of a boot print or blood seeping through clothes with spencer x bau!reader? thank you in advance, i hope your weekend was lovely! <3

Hi, thank you sweetness I hope your weekend was lovely too! <3

cw: injury? I'm not sure how to put it exactly but bau!reader gets moderately hurt while working basically. Oh also a squatter is taken into police custody for basically nothing but don't worry he's going to be questioned and released he's okay

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 579 words

You hold your breath as Spencer brushes his fingertips over the discoloration on your ribs. You hold your breath, but you don’t wince. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs anyway, eyes scanning you over. He wants to flick on his flashlight to see better, but he knows you’d run away before he could really look. Or hobble away, whatever you’re capable of right now. “I think he broke your rib.” 

You’re sitting on the curb a few meters away from your crime scene. It’s dark out, early morning, but an anonymous call brought the BAU out to check out a body that may be the latest victim in their case. 

There wasn’t supposed to be anybody around. The squatter caught you all by surprise and you him, Spencer and JJ chasing him down from the second floor. You’d been at the bottom of the stairs. Hadn’t even drawn your weapon before he kicked you down like a door to get you out of his path. 

“Just one rib?” you ask, wry. 

Spencer tilts his head, inspecting the bruising. “Maybe a few.” 

“Ah.” You lean your head back. You’re far enough into the country that you can see the stars, fading one by one as the sky lightens. “Perfect.” 

Spencer wants to reach out his hand more intimately, to touch you, to pull you closer, but he knows better than to make you look like you need taking care of. Not with your team so nearby, not with the reputation you’ve worked so hard to earn for yourself. Instead, he says in a soft voice, “Breathe.” 

You inhale. It looks like it hurts. 

Spencer’s chest aches faintly. He wonders whether it’s due to sympathy pains or something else. “This never should have happened.” 

Now you wince. “I know. I’m sorry, I should have been prepared.” 

“No.” He frowns. “You weren’t supposed to be prepared. JJ and I should have caught him before he got to you.” 

After the squatter knocked you down, Hotch caught him on the way out the door. They’re taking him in for questioning because he was found at a crime scene, but you all know he’s not your unsub. It makes you getting hurt feel even more pointless. 

“It’s not that bad,” you say.

“I can see his boot print on your chest.” 

“Can you really?” You look down. It causes you to bend slightly, the sort of minute movement you normally wouldn't notice, but now you suck in a breath. “Ow.” 

“Ow,” Spencer agrees compassionately. He covers your side with his hand, gentle but steadying. 

You shift, trying to find a comfortable position. “Could you make out a boot size?” you ask. 

“Probably. Why?” 

“Just curious.” 

“You know we already have him in custody. And he’s not our unsub.” 

“Yeah I know.” You shrug, wincing. You’re discovering all the things rib fractures make inconvenient. “It’d just be cool. Like, if I ever did get kicked by an unsub. In theory.” 

“You’d probably just catch them,” says Spencer. 

“Didn’t catch this one.” 

“Well, you were caught offguard. I’m sure it won’t happen a second time.” 

You laugh, then gasp, hand covering Spencer’s on your side. “Ow. Stop that.” 

“Sorry,” he says, genuinely contrite. “You’re going to have to go to the hospital.” 

“Yeah, I know.” It takes a moment to subdue your grimace, but you push out your bottom lip a little, meeting his eyes. “Hold my hand?” 

Spencer knows you’re likely teasing. He thinks he’ll do it anyway. 

[surveillancy]

Good day/night! If the request are still open, may I request something about your last fic of Shadow milk "Sweet words" ?

Basically Y/n with the same accent but this time they're singing like a whisper so not him or nobody could hear them

But Shadow milk was listening without Y/n noticing

Thank you so much! ★

"sweet melodies" - shadow milk cookie x reader

✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧︎

shadow milk cookie wasn’t looking for you. not this time.

for once, he had no grand scheme, no elaborate trick to set into motion. he had simply been drifting through the spire of deceit, trailing his hands along the twisting walls, letting the shadows shift and coil in his wake. it was boredom, he told himself, just boredom that led him to your door.

and then he heard it.

soft. fragile. a breath of melody so delicate into the air that it almost slipped past him.

he stilled.

you were singing.

oh. ohhh.

his grip on his staff tightened, his fingers curling against its surface. a slow, wicked grin stretched across his lips as he pressed himself against the cold frame of the door, tilting his head just enough to drink in every note.

it was mesmerizing. you were mesmerizing.

that accent of yours, already so intoxicating, became something otherworldly in song. every syllable was dipped in honey, laced with a weight that sent shivers crawling down his spine. it was a sound that shouldn’t exist, something too lovely, too pure, too-

he swallowed hard, ignoring the way his heart clenched. no, no, he was the trickster here. the one who watched and laughed and spread chaos across the world. and yet…

here he was. entranced.

you had no idea he was listening. you must have thought yourself alone, unaware that every whispered note sank into his very soul, branding itself into him like an unforgiving flame.

he was utterly, hopelessly enthralled.

and then... your voice cut off. a moment of silence. then...

"…shadow milk cookie?"

ah. you had noticed.

for once in his long, long life, he was at a loss for words.

your eyes met his, wide with dawning horror, while his lips quirked into something smug, but... oh, his face were burning, wasn't it? his pupils had dilated, and he felt warm, too warm...

but he refused to let you see how much he had unraveled. so he did what he did best.

laughter spilled from his lips, his usual mockery, as he pushed off the wall with a slow clap. "well, well! what do we have here?" his grin was sharp, but his voice was breathless, still clinging to the remnants of your song.

"a performance so divine, and i wasn't even invited? truly, i am wounded!"

your face burned. you sputtered something that only made his grin stretch wider because, oh, there it was again, that accent. he leaned in, impossibly close, eyes glinting with something far too indulgent.

"you really should sing louder, my dear. why keep such a delightful little secret all to yourself?"

his voice dipped, teasing, knowing. "unless, of course… you were hoping i’d hear?~"

you shoved him away, flustered beyond reason, and fled before he could say another word.

but oh, it was too late. the melody was seared into his mind, looping, echoing, haunting him in the most delicious way.

and he would never let you live it down.

‪‪✧︎‬‪‪ ‪‪✧︎‬ ‪‪✧

r︎equests: open!

sorry for not posting for so long, life's been super chaotic so bare with me while i try to get back in the groove of things again (:‬

[wingedhallows]

Hey, i really like how you write fluff, can you write about taking care of sick Abby???

— THROUGH SICKNESS AND HEALTH —

⋆₊˚⊹♡ PAIRING : abby anderson x reader | 0.9k words ⋆₊˚⊹♡ AUTHORS NOTE : hey, babes! i had so much fun working on this. thank you for the request. i hope u like it :)

♡︎ navigation ♡︎

The night is peaceful, wrapped in a hush of quiet save for the steady rhythm of Abby’s breathing against your neck. Her arms are draped around you, warm and steady, the weight of them grounding you in a way that makes the world feel smaller—safer. The blanket cocooned around your tangled bodies only adds to the comfort, a protective shield against the night.

Then, like a bucket of ice water, she’s gone.

Her warmth vanishes in an instant, the blanket slipping away as she bolts upright, hands trembling as she pushes herself out of bed. The sudden movement stirs you, but it’s the rush of cold air against your skin that truly jolts you awake.

A shiver runs down your spine as your eyes flutter open, disoriented, catching the faint outline of Abby stumbling toward the bathroom, her breaths ragged and uneven.

Then, the unmistakable sound of retching.

Your heart clenches. Of course. She should’ve listened to you. Should’ve worn that damn jacket instead of brushing you off with that cocky smirk and a “Nah, I’ll be fine.”

You push the thought aside and slip out of bed, padding softly across the dark room. The second you step into the dimly lit bathroom, all your irritation melts away.

Abby is hunched over the toilet, her shoulders trembling with the force of each heave. She grips the porcelain edge like it’s the only thing tethering her to the ground, and the sound she makes—a raw, awful gag—makes you wince.

You kneel beside her without a word, placing a gentle hand on her back, rubbing slow, soothing circles over the tense muscles there. Your other hand gathers her long hair, sweeping it away from her flushed face, holding it back as she retches again.

She doesn’t say anything. Neither do you.

You just stay there, solid and quiet, the warmth of your touch a silent promise—I’ve got you.

She leans back slightly, sucking in a shallow breath between the violent retches. Her face is flushed, her glassy eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, and your heart clenches at the sight.

She looks so small like this—so unlike the strong, confident Abby you’re used to.

"More?" you whisper, your voice barely carrying over the silence of the dimly lit bathroom.

She shakes her head weakly, another shaky exhale escaping her lips. Relief flickers through you, but it’s overshadowed by the worry tightening in your chest. You don’t push for words, just give her a small nod before flushing the toilet.

Carefully, you help her onto the closed lid, your hands firm yet gentle as she leans into your support.

Her fingers tremble slightly as she presses them against her forehead, trying to steady herself. Without a second thought, you reach for her toothbrush, squeezing a little toothpaste onto it before handing it to her.

Leaning against the sink, you watch her. Every trace of irritation you might’ve felt earlier has dissolved into something softer, something heavier—worry, devotion, the overwhelming need to make sure she’s okay.

She brushes her teeth in slow, lethargic movements, rinsing out her mouth before slipping her hand into yours. It’s warm despite the chill clinging to her skin, and you hold it a little tighter as you guide her back to bed.

Abby sinks into the mattress with a weary sigh, her head barely hitting the pillow before her eyes flutter shut. Her lips part slightly, but she doesn’t say anything, too drained to do more than exist in the space between wakefulness and sleep.

"I’ll get you something," you murmur, your voice soft as your fingers sweep a few stray strands of hair from her damp forehead.

She barely nods, her exhaustion swallowing her whole, and you linger for just a second before slipping away to fetch the medicine.

You return with a glass of water and a pill, your eyes immediately landing on Abby—curled up on your shared bed, her brow furrowed even in sleep, her face drawn with exhaustion. The sight tugs at something deep in your chest.

Gently, you shake her awake, and she stirs with a weak groan, barely cracking her eyes open. The sound is soft, but it hits you like a punch. “The meds, baby,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

She blinks sluggishly before forcing herself up, her body protesting every movement. You watch as she swallows the pill with a slow sip of water before sinking back into the mattress, her breathing shallow, her limbs heavy.

You rack your brain for something—anything—that might help ease her discomfort, but before you can move, she speaks, her voice barely audible.

“Hold me, please.”

It’s so small, so fragile, and it undoes you completely. How could you ever deny her, especially when she sounds like this? When the strongest person you know is curled up and hurting, reaching for you like you’re the only thing anchoring her?

Without hesitation, you slide under the blankets beside her, wrapping your arms around her and pulling her close.

Her head rests against your chest, her breath warm against your skin as your fingers run gently through her hair.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to her temple.

Because this is what love is, isn’t it? Not just the laughter, the easy moments, the fun—but this, too. Holding each other close through sickness and health, through every quiet, vulnerable moment in between.