#If there's anything I can do to help let me know!!!
Explore tagged Tumblr posts
luveline ¡ 2 days ago
Text
𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝
You try to break up with your boyfriend. Aaron just wants to know why. (And what he can do to fix it.) [4k]
c: fem, stripper!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff epilogue, suggestive themes mdni. requested here 
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
I don’t want to see you anymore. 
The text doesn’t compute at first. He reads it twice. Reads the sender’s name, his heart stopped clean in his chest. 
He puts down his pen.
The idea that the text wasn’t meant for him crosses his mind, but that might further break his heart. He knows you have clients, but you don’t contact them outside of the club. 
His second thought is that he’d been a client unknowingly, but he made it clear to you those few months ago that he liked you as you, not as a service provider, and not as something to be bought. You thought he was trying to acquire you as a private escort. He explained it as what it was truthfully, if vulnerably.
He’s being broken up with, he surmises. Over text. By a woman he adores, who he’d thought was happy. Aaron opens his phone to call you, clicking your contact, bringing it to his ear. You don’t answer. He calls again and he’s clearly declined three rings in. 
He puts his phone down and has a few minutes of unbreathable heartbreak. Just a few minutes, his hand to his stomach, trying to think of things as reasonably as he can. 
Aaron doesn’t care that you’re a stripper. He might’ve at first. Denied his attraction to you, because of course he had feelings for you when you were standing against the side of the club in your dancing lingerie, who wouldn’t fall in love with you? Every fool lucky enough to see you undressed must assume the same thing. He thought it wouldn’t work, and that you’d never be interested in a man like him. 
Interviews for information lended themselves to rare moments of conversation. He liked how you talked, how your eyes moved to his, the way you watched his mouth. Your unusual friendship with Spencer drew you closer, and activated a rare seed of jealousy within him that helped him place you in his life. He had real, tangible feelings for you. 
And now it’s over. 
He scrunches his eyes closed and gets up from his desk. Puts his coat on, but leaves his things where they are on his desk. 
“Hotch?” Morgan asks as he descends the steps down from his office into the bullpen. 
“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” 
“What happened?” 
Aaron turns to Morgan, hiding his panic as well as he’s able to. “I have a small emergency. It’s fine. Can you make sure things are okay here?” 
“Hotch?” Morgan asks again. 
Aaron keeps on going. He tries your number again on the way down. Three times, a fourth by the time he’s at the parking garage. 
The fifth time, you answer. 
He almost breaks the phone, its plastic body creaking in his hand. “Honey?” he asks. 
“I don’t want to see you anymore, Aaron. Is it hard to understand?” 
He’s taken aback. Some part of him had held onto the hope that it was a mistake. “Yes,” he says slowly, struggling to pull his keys out as his car comes into view, “it is.” 
“I don’t want to be with you.” 
“Have I upset you?” 
“Would that make it easier?” 
“No. I don’t think anything would make it any easier. Honey, this feels so sudden. Can’t we talk about it?” 
“I don’t want to see you.” 
“Please.” He can’t imagine never seeing you again. Just a few days ago he was sitting at the dinner table with you laughing opposite, your socked toes brushing his ankle. “Please, give me the chance to fix this.” 
“Aaron, it’s not really fixable. Please don’t call me again.”
“Y/N,” he says, firmer now. Anger leaks into his tone —what’s going on? “Let me come over. We need to talk about this.” 
“No–”
“It’s not fair to me for you to do it over the phone.” 
“…Okay. Fine. I’m at home, but I have work at six.” 
“I’m on my way.” 
He hangs up. Your terse allowance is all he needs to get in the car and drive, checking his watch. There’s plenty of time between now and six. He can figure out what’s wrong and hopefully change your mind.
He thinks about it more seriously as he’s parking outside of your place. Perhaps he doesn’t want to change your mind. You aren’t acting like you, none of your kindness can be found in such a swift dismissal, but he thinks of your foot under the table, your sock rubbing along his ankle without comment. 
He takes the stairs to your apartment. It’s not the nicest place to stay, but it’s far from a slum, either. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re home beyond the usual everyday fears: Is she eating? Sleeping? Having a good day? 
Now he’s thinking, What did I do? 
He gets to your apartment and pauses at the threshold. After a moment's deliberation, he knocks. 
“Come in, Aaron.” 
He pulls down the handle and lets himself in. You’ve mail piled on the sideboard and your shoes tucked under it, a coat rack further in bragging scarves and coats and jackets of all different colours. He’s always liked the interior of your apartment. It doesn’t feel as cold as his own, parts of your personality peeking in through everything, from the flowered tiles in the bathroom to the glass lampshade in the bedroom. 
You’re sitting in the kitchen with the light off. “Hey,” he says, voice already laden with relief he doesn’t mean to share. 
“Hi.” 
“Can I sit down?” 
You gesture for him to do as he likes. 
Aaron sits down at your table. It’s a small square just big enough to share dinner, plain wood edged in a darker slate grey outline. Sometimes when you’re feeling especially pretty, you’ll lean heavily on an elbow and grin at him, enticing him in for a kiss.
“What’s this all about?” he asks quietly. 
“I just think we’re… at the end of our relationship.” 
You don’t sound truthful. He knew there was something strange in your voice over the phone. 
“What’s making you feel that way?” 
“Does it matter?” 
Again, avoiding and evasive. 
He meets your gaze unflinchingly. “I care about you. I love you,” he says. “I know I can’t be who you pictured for yourself, and if you really can’t see a future for us, then… I’ll have seen it alone. I just wish I could understand this sudden change. Did I do something wrong?” 
“You’re not who I picture for myself,” you agree. 
“No?” he asks. 
“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I can’t see us together. We’re not the right fit.” 
You twist a ring around your middle finger. He thinks he’s starting to understand. “Do you think we’re not the right fit?” 
“Please don’t use your psychoanalysis on me.” 
“It’s not psychoanalysis, sweetheart, it’s– I know you.” He grimaces. “I’d like to think I do. And I’m allowing myself the audacity to believe you were happy with me just a few days ago. What happened between then and now to change your mind?” 
You stare at your two-toned table. Your mouth opens to talk, little but air making it out. Your shoulders begin tightening like you’ve been keyed between them, twisting and twisting. 
“What do you want me to say?” you ask. 
Dramatic, he’d hope you could say you don’t love him, or don’t care about him enough to let him convince you the rest of the way. “Is this really what you want?” he asks instead. 
Your staring turns to squinting. With a start, he watches a small tear drip from the corner of your eye to your nostril, to your cupid's bow. 
“No,” you say carefully, “it’s not what I want. I don’t like you being against me.” 
“Then what’s making you feel this way?” 
You cover your eyes with one hand. “I wanted to do this over the phone,” you say in a squeeze. 
He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “I couldn’t let you.” 
“I just want you to be happy,” you say, so high he can barely understand you. “I’ll never be like you, Aaron. You’re so smart, and you’ve done so much. You’re a hero, and you must look so stupid with me. What do you think people say when they realise what I am?” 
“It doesn’t matter to me what they say. I know you, and they don’t.”
“What about what I think?” 
“What do you think?” 
You wipe your face roughly, eyes lit with an anger he’s unprepared for. “I told you, don’t psychoanalyse me. I don’t want to have to explain it, I just want to say what I have to say. I don’t want to be with you because you won’t be happy, and neither will I.” 
Aaron isn’t too prideful to recognise when he needs to fight for what he wants. He reaches over the table and takes your arm into his hand, picking it up, feeling down The length of it until he’s curled his hand over your smaller fingers. “We are happy,” he says softly, giving your hand a small shake. “I understand where you’re coming from. When we first met, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be here with you now. I do wonder what people think when they ask me what you do and I tell them you’re a performer. I know we agreed to it, but there are moments where I feel like I’m being cruel to you. But just because there’s a stigma surrounding what you do, it doesn’t mean that you’re any lesser than me. You’re not less intelligent, or less accomplished. We chose different paths and I’m glad we did. If you weren’t a dancer I never would’ve met you.” 
“Do you know how it feels for me to come home to you sometimes?” you ask weakly. 
“I’d hope it feels as it does for me. Every time I see you, I’m relieved.” 
“Aaron, I get this rush of safety, like you’re– I’m finally safe. I can take care of myself, you know that, but now I have you it’s that I don’t even want to. And that’s stupid. I know that that’s stupid.” 
“What I’m thinking,” he says, soft, not as worried about being without you now as he is of the horrible way you’re feeling, “is that you’ve thought about all of this a lot. I’m glad you’ve taken time to reflect on us and your life, but I wish you’d thought more about what we both want.” 
“I want you to be happy,” you argue, as you had a few moments ago. 
“And I’m never happier than when we’re together.” He shrugs. “Love isn’t about work. Your job shapes you as mine shapes me, but you have to know that who you are is what’s important.” 
“I don’t know who I am…” 
“I know exactly who you are,” he says, rubbing a loving thumb over your knuckles. 
“I’m… I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, on the phone. I knew if I talked to you like this I’d be too much of a coward to really see it through.” 
“I see. You’ve planned my heartbreak weeks in advance.” 
You shake your head sadly. “Aaron, we’re not good for each other. You make me this awful, weak version of me, and I’m no good.” 
“We have been nothing but happy since we met.” Aaron pulls your hand up and kisses the side of your wrist. He isn’t ashamed of you. He doesn’t make you weak, you aren’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like we’re from different worlds, but it’s not that melodramatic. You’re my partner. I love you. It’s hard not to think about what others think of us, but I know exactly what I think of you, and I know what you think of me, too.” 
You share a look. 
“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” you say, your frown fading. “I’m sorry.” 
“You haven’t done anything wrong.” 
“When I thought I couldn’t get any more embarrassing,” you mumble. 
“You aren’t embarrassing. Please, put the thought out of your head.” 
“Thought out of my head,” you repeat, still mumbling as you flex your fingers, pushing them between his and intertwining your hands. You bring them linked to your forehead and take a heavy breath. 
“Do you really want to break up?” he asks softly. 
Your breath warms his arm. “No.” 
“You can have the things you want, you know? I imagine that there are people who laugh when I tell them about you, but you have to know that their opinions would never matter to me.” He pulls his hand from your head to encourage you to meet his eyes. “No one else matters but me and you. We don’t have to factor in other people. We can just be together.” 
“I’m not worth all the fuss,” you say under your breath. 
“What, this fuss? Honey, a few weeks ago you cried in my lap because I got you that cake from the bakery. And you know what? I didn’t want you to cry, but getting to rub your back?” He chances a smile. “That made my night.” 
“You like making girls cry.” 
“Yes,” he says, trying not to grin like a fool as you stand from your chair and put yourself in front of him. He is no saint. He pulls you onto his thighs and wraps an arm around the small of your back, your legs either side of him. “That’s my goal in life, sweetheart.” His voice falls to a whisper as you hang your head against him, tip of your nose to a rough cheek. “Making you cry…” 
Your arms creep to his neck. Resting on him, rather than hugging. He doesn’t mind, he’ll do the hard work. 
“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 
“It’s okay.” He turns your face with his to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s alright, honey, bumps in the road happen with everyone.” 
“All my fault.” 
“Maybe next time, if you feel so strongly about something, you can just extend me that little bit of faith and… know that I’m here for you. Even if it did mean we wouldn’t be together, it doesn’t have to be that you’re alone, making such a big decision. Valiant,” he adds, enjoying the warmth of you seeping into his shirt, his face, his neck where your wrist is laid against it. “You’re not a coward. But I wish you wouldn’t be this brave about breaking my heart.” 
“Stop making me feel guilty.” 
His laugh is a breath against your cheek. “No, it’s fine, isn’t it? Use me and abuse me.” 
“Shut up. Stop, what is this weird guilt tripping you’re doing?” You laugh at his absurdity. “I’d never abuse you.” 
“I know. Just step on me a bit.” 
“Stop, stop,” you mumble, your voice turning slowly from self-pitying to honey, all that love for him he knew you still had like threads of gold shooting through it, “I don’t wanna step on you, I never would…” 
“Just rough me up a little.” 
“Never.” You press your face to his neck. “Thank you for not letting me do it.” 
“I won’t let you go so easily.” His hand trails up your back, feeling the softness of you beneath your t-shirt. Fat, muscle, all of it familiar, and treasured by his touching. 
He squeezes you rather tightly, then, but you don’t complain, you just sigh. 
“It’s not that you’re not who I picture for myself, like I said before,” you confess, leaning all your weight against him, barely held up by your legs either side of him. “You weren’t, but I didn’t realise that I could have you. I didn’t really know men like you existed. I should’ve known I was looking in the wrong age bracket.” 
“That’s not very nice. In my line of work they call that a feedback sandwich, honey. Something cruel between nice things to distract me.” 
“Sorry. Just had to get it in.” 
He considers your teasing a return to normalcy, guiding your head away from his with a hand to the back of your neck. “If this was a ploy to make me leave work early, consider it successful.” 
“I know your attention usually falls to other places, Mr. Hotchner–” You burst into giggles as he pinches the back of your neck, but it’s only to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your parted lips as your laughter fades away.
You scrunch his shirt in your hand and kiss him nicely. 
“Sorry,” you say. 
“Forgiven.” Even if he did almost go into cardiac arrest at his desk. “I like begging to stay. It builds character.” 
“How long will you be like this?” you ask, shaking your head slowly, your smile poorly hidden. 
You’d needed a reminder, is all. Aaron isn’t solely business and sternness, he’s an idiot, your idiot, who likes to tease you, and doesn’t care who knows that. When he’s working he’s one person, and when he’s with you, he’s another. Both have their qualities and faults, but only one version is the one he needs to be with you. 
“At my age it’s perfectly normal to have a young and beautiful wife,” he says. “You’ve seen some of the other Section’s worker’s wives.” 
“I’m not that young,” you say. 
“So you admit it?” 
You reward him with a tired sigh, cuddling into his collar. 
—
…I'll never be your beast of burden. So let's go home and draw the curtains…
Aaron’s humming from the bedroom. He knows every classic rock song to exist, every word to every Beatles song. When the chorus comes, he sings under his breath, but you can hear him regardless. “Am I rough enough, am I rich enough? I’m not too blind…” he fades off. 
The music hums under your feet. Record player open on the floor, his Some Girls vinyl on the plate. 
You press a hand down your side. 
To inspire less worry on your part, you and Aaron are trying to be more open about the other sides of your lives. His work feels alien to you, and you worry that yours is dirty to him, despite reassurance that a job is a job. You know that already, but you can’t make yourself believe that he’s as happy as he could be if you were, say, a checkout girl. 
You’d make a cute checkout girl, he’d said. 
This is cute, too. Babydoll lingerie with feather edgings, starkly white against your skin. You fluff out the ends and neaten the crotch of your panties. Nothing is on show that shouldn’t be, but it’s still lingerie. It’s meant to excite. 
“Honey,” he says, dulcet tone carrying to the bathroom, “are you stuck again?” 
You laugh. “I bet you hope so.” 
“That’s accusatory in nature.” 
“I’m coming.” You give it a last glance in the mirror and head into the bedroom. 
Aaron’s sat against your headboard, flowery pillowcases behind his head and back. He discards the little figurine he’d been playing with out of boredom and looks you up and down, corners of his lips curling. 
“Home only,” he says. 
“I knew you’d say that.” 
“You look stunning.” His eyes seem darker. All pupil. 
“I have to wear some of these at the club, Aaron, that’s why I bought them.” 
Something in your voice makes him smile. “You said I could veto the ones that are too beautiful.” 
“I said too slutty.” 
“Honey, they’re all revealing in their ways. And I don’t have a problem with it…” He takes a breath. “Much. But some of these are meant for…” 
“The man who loves me?”
“Exactly.” 
He’d said something similar about the light blue set with darker flowers, the black set that showed the curves of your chest, and especially about the pink one-piece with white ribbons. That one gave him pause. 
“Spin?” he asks. 
One day it might bother Aaron that you dance, but for now he’s gently approving. Just wants you to be happy. So you do a little spin without any attempt to be sexy and beam when he whistles. 
“Beautiful. Really, honey, that’s the nicest so far.” 
“I have a confession.” 
“Yeah?” 
“This one was for you.” 
He’d know if you were lying. “For me?” he says, in that tone bordering stern, as much of his professionalism as you’re used to hearing these days. 
“Yes, sir.” 
“Don’t,” he says, seductions gone as he tips his head back into a pillow patterned with lavender and peony. “Unless you’re done trying those on, I don’t want to hear it.” 
“This is the last one.” 
“In that case.” He covers his face with a cushion. 
You look down. Your stomach is a little bloated from lunch, and you have a shaving rash on your left knee, but Aaron won’t mind. He never does. Without worry, you tread to the side of the bed and climb onto it, one leg over his lap. The last time you’d been sitting in his lap, you’d been teary-eyed and regretful. Fuck, what was I thinking? you ask yourself, slipping a hand under his rising shirt to feel his abdomen. It’ll never not be weird, the FBI man and his stripper girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him and you. 
You ease the pillow down his face. 
“Are you blushing, Aaron?” you ask. 
“Not purposefully.” 
“You look a little… hot.” 
“That makes two of us.” 
It starts slowly. The heat of you atop him, the pillows moved out of the way. You didn’t expect him to stay unbothered as you paraded your new spoils, but his willpower is remarkable, and he only breaks when you let yourself settle on his lap. His big hand cups your face. 
“That’s funny.” You lift up enough to be in kissing range, but don’t kiss. You just wait for him to react, holding your weight off of his chest. 
He finds the small of your back and drags. Your gasp isn’t your own, a breathy, excited thing as he brings your face to his for a kiss. Your lips almost immediately part in anticipation of his eagerness, of his hand on the back of your neck, and the unflinching heat of his mouth as he turns his head. Your noses brush. He wades in deeper, his own breath already failing him as the bridges of your nose press hard. 
They aren’t rough kisses, but there’s something desperate there. He holds you to him until he can’t, ushering you onto your back, his weight bearing down sudden and steady. 
“I can’t believe I nearly lost you,” he utters, stroking your cheek, edging back in to kiss you before you can reply. 
You wrap an arm behind his back and hike your leg, soft thigh naked and waiting for his touch. You didn’t nearly lose me, you think. To be lost, you’d have to be something worth losing, and you’re not sure you are, but Aaron? 
“I don’t think you could,” you mumble, forcing him to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the line of your throat. He nips at your neck, a shudder racing through you. 
“I have no intent of letting it come that close again, sweetheart.” 
His hand dances up your side to the soft hill of your chest. 
You hold the hair from his face and let him kiss you. He’s here to stay, no matter how odd a pairing you might make. You love him. That’s all he cares about. 
“Want me to do that thing you like?” you offer softly, mildly playful. 
He laughs into your neck. “No,” he says, “I think tonight is about you, hm? You’re all dressed up. I think that deserves a reward.” 
You knew he’d like the white babydoll. 
˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗
792 notes ¡ View notes
earthtooz ¡ 3 days ago
Text
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
x : LUST FOR LIFE *+゚
in which: sunday discovers a new emotion when he's under you.
warnings: 1.5k words, sunday is B(h)ORNY and doesn't know how to deal with it, he wants reader so bad, lowkey implied switch!sunday, gn!reader being sunday's freak awakening, NO SMUT BUT UNDER 16 DNI, not edited
a/n: five likes and i'll write nsfw for sunday
Tumblr media
What good is a leader who can’t empathise with the lives of the people he was supposed to be leading?
This thought has plagued Sunday ever since he exiled himself from Penacony, since he joined the Astral Express in a journey of self-discovery and reflection, embracing the Nameless lifestyle so he can broaden the horizons that Penacony had restricted. There, he was so detached from the reality of the people he was trying to help, so trapped in a whirlwind of his own ideals to experience humanity, too buried in official duties to rejoice in the many wonders of the universe, the simple pleasures and the grandiose ones.
Since boarding, the former head of the Oak Family has experienced humiliation, desperation, and many close calls with death. It seems he underestimated how easily trouble found the Trailblazers, and the diary he carries with him has been updated with multiple entries, filled with exasperated recounts that ended with him being grateful that he is still well and unscathed.
Sunday has also experienced laughter, connection, and the bond of humankind- something he did not have before. When he controlled the Oak Family, had everyone under or at his fingertips, the only person he could depend on was himself. When Robin left to travel the cosmos, what was he to do than learn the bitter truth of independence and self-sufficiency? 
Yet, he sits on the couches of the Astral Express and there is bound to be another by him, trying to converse with him like an old friend. He is mentioned in the conversations like an individual who they keep around because they want to, not because he is crafty, not because of what he can offer. No, he can’t offer anything right now, and the crew still wants him to stay.
He learns more about humanity with each passing day.
However, perhaps one of the more puzzling feelings Sunday has had to confront was… infatuation. 
It’s a tricky feeling. It sends his heart into overdrive and his limbs to become jelly, and at the epicentre of this hurricane of uncharted territory, is you. 
“Sunday?” Your voice comes through muffled from the other side of the door. He almost jumps off his mattress at the sound. 
“Door is open,” he responds as calmly as possible, heart thrumming alive at the sound of your voice, beating in time with the rapid succession of your knocks. 
The door slides open slowly to reveal you on the other side. “Pom Pom just wanted to let everyone know that we will be jumping soon.” 
“I see, thank you for letting me know.”
“No problem,” your gaze then flickers to the angels that flock around him and he watches as your eyes gleam with fascination.
Then, without any hesitation or reluctance, you enter his room and approach him, the door sliding closed without your weight to hold it open. You stop before him without a bow, without a formal greeting of ‘Mr. Sunday’- no, you stop before him like an equal, which you most certainly are. In fact, he would even think of himself below you, but Sunday needs to unlearn this assumption of hierarchy, needs to not let it define the relationships he forms, even if he looks up to you and finds you reverent. 
“Hey, I’ve never seen these little guys before!” You exclaim, sticking out a hand to act like a perch for the angel-like summons. One of them flits up to you and stays on your outstretched finger. “Well, not this close, at least.”
It keens at your praise. Like owner like summon, Sunday supposes.
“I don’t tend to bring them out. They are for combat purposes,” he explains. 
Your eyes widen slightly. “Are you trying to pick a fight with me right now?” 
“What? No! That’s not it-”
“-I’m kidding, Sunday,” you snicker. “We’re friends, I wouldn’t want to fight you.”
“Right,” he exhales, “I wouldn’t want to fight you either.”
“Besides, we already did once.”
He freezes at the memory, remembers when he got hit with the exact train he is currently boarding. 
You, however, are unphased by the recollection, and even continue to rub salt in the wound. “I remember fighting against these little summons too, your owner was a real meanie, do you guys know that?” 
They flock around you, spinning and fluttering like little fireflies.  Instinctively, Sunday covers his flustered expression with his wings, and he doesn’t budge, even when he hears your laugh, the sound almost enough for him to melt into a puddle by your feet.
“Hey, hey, I was kidding, sorry if I took the joke too far.” 
He uncovers himself with an embarrassed sigh, not meeting your eyes. “It’s okay, I think the memory is just… humiliating, more than anything.”
“There are no more hard feelings. Everyone has accepted you on board and none of us think of you to be the same person you were when we first met, I promise.”
Your words are completely earnest, Sunday knows it, can feel it in the way you tell him so unabashedly. So who is he to deny it?
“Thank you,” he says, finally looking up at you, “it means a lot to hear that.” 
“I’ll say it as much as you need. Well, I’ll get out of your hair now, just prepare for the jump-”
Your sentence is interrupted by a shriek when you lose your footing, and Sunday feels it too, the force so strong that even he, while sitting, feels as if is being stretched and pulled into a miniscule hole. What he also feels is your body colliding on top of his, and his hands come to your waist to catch you in an attempt to prevent you from slipping, but it’s not enough and he’s falling with you onto the expanse of his made bed.
The Express is warping to some expanse of the universe, and his stomach drops at the sensation, spreading to the ends of his nerves before disappearing, just replaced by the extremely odd feeling of being pulled through the stars. He just hopes you’re comfortable, standing up whilst warping is tough, he heard the stories of when Stelle first tried to do it and how she fell flat on her face. 
When the feeling of normality returns and Sunday doesn’t feel like he has been stretched out, he opens his eyes and tries to take in the sight before him.
You. Your face. Centimetres away from his.
He’s always thought you were pretty, but seeing you this close… perhaps just pretty is an understatement. His gaze unwillingly flicks to your lips and he wished he hadn’t because suddenly the urge to sit up and lick into your mouth is raging; a fire that can’t be contained. 
Sunday wants you to push him down by the shoulders, with no gentleness or mercy, and just… devour him whole. His hands want to find you by the hips and pull you into him more than humanly possible, he wants you to indent yourself onto him so he can remember your taste forever, so that, in a way, you couldn’t ever leave him. 
Alternatively, he would happily flip around and pin you against the mattress. He would pry you open, explore the cavern of your mouth with his tongue and suck your sacred essence out of you so that it can stay and settle in his bones instead, replacing where marrow should be. He wants to lay you vulnerable so his hands can explore places only you want him to touch, wants to take you so that you stay forever, wants to feel your tongue against his, wants to hold your face and feel how you react when he takes his time cherishing you, revering you. 
This feeling is too much, these thoughts are overpowering, yet nothing has ever been more clear. Sunday wants you, lusts for you, even, and he’s never felt so intensely for someone before. 
How would the symphonies sound when they learn of the atrocities he wants to perform? 
Temptation holds him close and infects him with a desire so strong, he’s practically frozen in place as you recover from the shock, holding yourself up with your arms that were on either side of his head. 
“Ow, I’m sorry!” You immediately exclaim, before realising exactly what position you are in, your chests are pressed together, and you’re mortified to think about how close you were before you picked yourself off him, and- his… his hips… are pressed against yours- okay, you needed to leave as soon as possible.
You scramble off him like he had burnt you, frantically shouting apologies whilst doing so, the words clumsy and rushed, but neither of you can deny how you miss the warmth that was suddenly ripped away. 
(If he wanted to, you could have stayed in that position with him.)
Then, before you could get anymore thoughts, you turn and practically bolt out of his room without another word, leaving a hot and bothered Sunday behind.
Tumblr media
Š EARTHTOOZ 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.
795 notes ¡ View notes
fireinmoonshot ¡ 3 days ago
Text
your fiyero | fiyero tigelaar x reader
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Pairing: Fiyero Tigelaar x Reader Summary: Ever since Fiyero Tigelaar started at Shiz University, he found himself fascinated by you – the one student who didn't care about him. When he notices you starting to struggle with something, he'll do anything to make sure you're okay. Warnings: Mentions of fainting, falling over, academic stress/burn out Word Count: 2.2k A/N: I've seen Wicked (the show) three times now with the amazing Australian cast that's currently touring and I fell totally head over heels with Fiyero, and then yesterday I saw the movie and fell even more in love with Fiyero and so I had to write for him. I do intend to write more for him, especially if other people want to read more! He's so fun to write for and definitely a challenge compared to some other characters I've written for in the past. I hope you all enjoy! 💗
It’s not difficult to sense the presence of Fiyero Tigelaar behind you as you leave Doctor Dillamond’s classroom, shoving your books into the bag over your shoulder. With the way the students heading into the classroom are staring at someone behind you, it’s quite obvious who they’re staring at. Everyone at Shiz University wants Fiyero Tigelaar. 
Everyone, that is, except you.
“Classes are over, you know?” Fiyero’s voice comes from behind you as you round the corner, heading down the staircase leading to the courtyard. “You don’t have to rush off.”
Irritatingly, the fact that you can’t particularly care less about wanting Fiyero Tigelaar makes himwant you. He usually isn’t the type. If someone doesn’t like him – something he’s actually yet to experience – he would just let it slide. Why waste his energy? But ever since he’d started at Shiz and met you, he’d found himself unable to leave you alone. 
“I know,” you glance back at him over your shoulder. “But some of us actually want to study and spend their time here learning, Tigelaar.”
Fiyero hurries his steps a little so he’s walking alongside you. “Did you miss the part where I said it was my job to corrupt my fellow students when I started here? It’s never too late, darling.” He flashes a grin your way.
You can’t help but roll your eyes at him, right at the same time you almost miss a step and stumble a little. Fiyero is quick, catching your elbow to help steady you. You don’t look at him as you steady yourself, meaning you miss the look of worry in his eyes.
“Are you all right?”
You clear your throat and shake off his grip. “Consider me corrupted by your presence.” 
With that, you make a beeline away from him and you’re glad to notice that he doesn’t attempt to follow you. You highly doubt that he’s going to follow you all the way to the library. Fiyero and the library have never exactly gone hand in hand. 
~~
The next time Fiyero bothers you, you’re sat on one of the benches by the gardens. There’s a book in your hands and he can see you staring intently at it as he saunters over to you. It’s almost like he’s approaching a wild bird or something, he thinks. If he moves too quickly, he’ll frighten you and scare you away. It’s the last thing Fiyero wants to do.
He’s a few steps away from you when you look up from your book and meet his eyes. His face breaks into a smile as he moves the last few steps and takes the spot beside you on the bench. You turn to look at him, your eyebrows raised. 
“Now, don’t say I’m interrupting your study,” he begins. “That book is most definitely not in the curriculum. And yes, I did actually take the time to look the curriculum up after I saw you reading here the other day, if you can believe it.”
For a few moments, you only stare at him. Fiyero, for the first time probably ever, finds himself actually a little uncomfortable at your unwavering gaze. It surprises him. He’s never the type of person to feel uncomfortable. He’s confident in almost every situation.
You let out a sigh. “It may not be in the curriculum, but you’ve interrupted me nevertheless, Tigelaar.”
“Apologies,” he says, with a small smirk. “Am I corrupting you even more with my presence?”
“Something like that.” You close your book and sit it on the small space of bench beside you. You had actually just been reading the same page over and over for the last twenty minutes and trying to convince yourself to stop overthinking things. 
You had so much studying to do, so much to learn and so many assignments to do and so little time to do it all. It was probably a little counterproductive to be sitting outside, reading a book and doing none of those things, but if you didn’t try and have a break from them all, you were pretty sure you were going to burn yourself out, which was the last thing you needed. It would have helped if you’d actually been able to relax and enjoy your book, though.
“Is it any good? Your book. Not that I’d read it, of course,” Fiyero grins.
You try your best to conceal your amusement. “I’d offer to lend it to you but, as you said, you wouldn’t actually read it so… I’ll keep it safe with me. I doubt the Winkie Prince knows how to properly take care of books if he can’t read them.”
Fiyero gasps jokingly. “I’ll have you know I can read, I just choose not to. I prefer to fill my brain with much more useless things. That way, I don’t have to think. It’s a peaceful way to live, my darling.” 
You shake your head, this time unable to keep a smile off of your face. Fiyero likes the sight of it. It strangely makes his heart beat a little faster. He can’t actually remember the last time he saw you smiling… not that he’s been keeping track. 
“How about you join me?” He offers. “No more studying for the rest of the day and no more thinking? I’m positive I could find something we could do to fill the time.” 
The reminder of studying, however, brings you back to reality after you small moment of joking with Fiyero. You reach down and grab your book before standing up and turning to face Fiyero, who is looking at you with slight concern in his eyes at your sudden movement.
“I can’t,” you say simply. “I’ve been reading all morning and there is a lot I have to do. I’ll see you around, Tigelaar.”
He watches you with furrowed eyebrows as you walk away from him, clutching your book to your chest and heading in the direction of the library. Fiyero shakes his head and lets out a small laugh. He really thought today would be the day he’d win you over.
~~
A week goes by without Fiyero even getting to utter a word to you. He sees you, though, fairly often around the school. In the courtyard, in the library (where he definitely didn’t go specifically looking for you), in history class and in the dining hall. But every time he’s thought to approach you, you’ve disappeared before he could even make his move. It’s on the seventh day when he notices that something is different about you.
You’re coming out of the library, carrying several books and what looks like a stack of papers in your hands when you trip. Fiyero isn’t quick enough to cross the courtyard and get to you in time to stop your fall. He does, however, take off at a run to be by your side as you start collecting all of the scattered pieces of paper and books that had fallen out of your grasp.
“It’s all right, Tigelaar. You don’t have to help me,” you mutter, trying to shove books into your already overfilled bag. “It’s a Friday night. I’m sure you’ve got other places to be.”
Fiyero, truthfully, does have other places to be. He’s been invited to the Ozdust Ballroom by nine separate people today. But how can he leave you to just clean all this up by yourself? He can see just by the look on your face that you’re utterly exhausted.
“I do,” he says honestly. “But I’ll help you with this first.”
He’s surprised when you suddenly stop putting things in your bag and when he looks up, he finds you staring at him again. It makes him uncomfortable in the same way he felt last week when you’d looked at him in a similar way. 
“Okay,” you sigh. 
Your lack of energy in fighting him is the second thing to make Fiyero realise something is wrong.
After the two of you finish picking up all of the things you’d dropped, the both of you stand. Fiyero opens his mouth to say something when he notices you start to sway. He’s quicker this time, moving to catch you before you fall. His arm wraps around your waist to keep you steady, while his other hand takes the book bag off your shoulder and moves it straight onto his. He’s surprised by how heavy it is. 
“Woah, darling, what’s going on?” Fiyero looks down at you as you blink and push yourself away from him. “Hey, be careful, okay? I think you were just about to faint.”
You shake your head. “I just stood up too fast, that’s all.” You know the words are a lie, and you can tell that Fiyero knows that as well. First, he’d seen you trip coming out of the library, then he’d caught you when you’d almost fainted… you can’t hide it from him. That much becomes crystal clear immediately.
“Let’s get you somewhere you can sit down, okay?” Fiyero begins. “May I?” He gestures to you, asking silently if he can wrap an arm around you to support you incase you fall over again. 
You nod and allow him to guide you just around the corner into the small seating area off to the side of the library. It’s dark, the lanterns not being lit yet despite the fact that the sun had gone down over twenty minutes ago.
“I swear I’m not usually this clumsy,” you say sheepishly. “That’s twice you’ve stopped me from falling in the last two weeks… I suppose I should say thank you, Fiyero.”
Fiyero sits you down gently on the bench and sits your book bag down on the ground. He crouches down in front of you and reaches up to take your hands in his. He’s surprised when you don’t immediately pull away from him. “I don’t think you’ve ever called me by my first name before.”
“Oh,” you think on it for a second, trying to ignore the warm feeling of his hands and how comforting it is. “I guess I haven’t. Sorry, Tigelaar.”
“No, no,” Fiyero shakes his head. “Don’t go back to that. I like when you call me Fiyero.”
“Well, I suppose it is your name,” you offer a small smile.
“There’s that gorgeous smile,” Fiyero smiles back at you and squeezes your hands. “Now, are you gonna tell me why you almost just fainted on me and why you’re clumsier than you usually are, darling?”
You stay silent for a few moments and just when Fiyero begins to think that you might just brush him off and try to make a quick exit like you did last week, you start to speak.
“I haven’t really been sleeping well lately,” you admit quietly. “I’ve had so much work to do, I fell behind on my assignments and I took on some extra work from Doctor Dillamond and… despite my best efforts, I guess I let myself get a little burnt out.”
Fiyero looks at you with his eyes full of pity and you hate it. 
“Anyway,” you clear your throat, “that’s not important. Why would you care?”
Your attempt to make light of the situation fails spectacularly, judging by the look that Fiyero gives you afterwards. You’ve never seen him look that unimpressed before. 
“Of course I care,” he says, eyebrows furrowed. 
“Why, though?” You can’t help but ask. “Why are you so fixated on me?”
Fiyero sighs and moves to sit beside you, letting go of your hands in the process. “If you’ll allow me to be honest with you for a moment,” he starts, “I suppose… you’re the only person at Shiz that doesn’t treat me like the perfect Winkie Prince that everyone thinks I am. You’re the only person that doesn’t think I’m perfect, and half the time you act like you can’t stand to be around me, and for some reason that only makes me want to be around you more.” 
“Are you not the perfect Winkie Prince?” You ask.
Fiyero grins. “Oh, not in the slightest, darling. But let’s keep that between us. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine. How does that sound?” 
You don’t even try to hide the smile that comes to your face at his words. “You promise you won’t tell anyone about what happened today?”
“I promise,” he nods. “But only on one condition: you tell Doctor Dillamond you can’t complete the extra work you signed up for and you take a break to make sure you get plenty of rest before diving into your other assignments. I’m sure I can sweet talk some of the Professors if you need help.” 
He smiles as you hit him with the same look as before, but for the first time, he doesn’t find himself feeling uncomfortable at the sight of it. Now, he finds it slightly amusing and incredibly endearing. He has always found you endearing, he supposes.
“Sweet talking my Professors will not be necessary,” you chuckle. “But okay. It’s a deal. And I’ll keep your secret too. You can continue to be the perfect Winkie Prince to everyone… except me.”
Fiyero laughs. “I’ll just be your Fiyero, then.”
“My Fiyero?” You repeat after him, eyebrows raised. 
He ignores the way his heart beats faster at the sound of those words coming out of your mouth. 
“Yes, your Fiyero,” he hums. 
“Everyone will think that you finally corrupted me after all this time,” you joke, voice teasing. “I’ll just be like everyone else at Shiz. Part of the Fiyero Tigelaar fan club.”
Fiyero fixes you with a look. “Oh, darling. You could never be like everyone else.” 
582 notes ¡ View notes
bandgie ¡ 2 days ago
Text
Stuffing to Give
warnings! MDNI18+, fem!reader, AGE GAP, reader has an asshole family, hickeys (brief mention), cumming inside, Yunho bites once, clothe tearing, no protection, size kink if you squint, Yunho says 'young pussy', stomach bulge mention
3.5k words
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
notes! sorry I've been gone, life or whatever. buuutttt happy holidays! this fic took me too long but for being in a drought, I'm proud of it. hope you enjoy :) (divider from @/anitalenia) tag! @desirehorizon
Tumblr media
“You know, you should be looking for a husband. Not worrying about your classes or anything like that. No man likes a woman too smart for her own good.”
It was your mom who opened the can of worms during Thanksgiving. The air was already uncomfortable being that distant family who were more like strangers sat at the dinner table, but mentioning that you’ve been single for so long, at such an ‘old age’, made everything a thousand times worse. 
You’re not even old. Some would argue being in your mid-20s was still very young. 
But no matter how much you’ve tried to defend yourself. No matter how many times you said you just wanted to focus on furthering your education, your aunts and uncles pressed one and one thing only. 
Your uncle lifted his fork to his greasy lips, the white meat of the turkey forcing itself into his already stuffed mouth. “Y’know, your youth will only last you for so long. You’ll end up an old cat lady and regret not settling down.”
Regret. You hate that word, as if these people know anything about you, let alone have a right to say how you should live. The food you're trying to swallow feels too big for your throat. There’s a burning in your chest. A feeling you’ve tried desperately to suppress since the holidays started. 
Anger. Hate. Hurt. Disgust. Fear.
You don’t want to be here anymore. 
Dramatically, you throw your fork on the table. The silverware clatters harshly against your plate and bounces until it lands on the other side of the table. The chatter stops immediately, all eyes on you as you stand so quickly the chair topples to the ground.
A pin could drop and it would echo in the quiet room. 
“You know what? Fuck this. Fuck you. I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with me getting knocked up. It’s fucking weird. Get off my dick.”
Aunts gasp. Some Uncles laugh. But your mom, her eyes are so wide and shocked as if she wasn’t the one who started this whole issue and didn’t do anything to defend you. 
Her own daughter. 
“And you.” You look at her, but it’s hard when your vision blurs. “When I do find a husband, and when I do have kids, don’t expect to hear from me.”
Voices call your name as you turn away. Someone tries to hold you back by the forearm, but you tear from their grasp. Your only goal is to get the fuck out of there, heading for the front door and slamming it on your way out.
It’s cold. A gentle breeze blows your hair as you turn to the side of the house. The crunch of leaves sounds on the ground therapeutically. You can’t help but look at the pretty orange and brown beneath your feet. It’s the only thing keeping your frustrating tears from falling. 
But you don’t see that there’s already someone at the side of the house with your gaze on the ground. You forget how close the houses are in this neighborhood.
“Bad day I take it?”
You lift your head, surprised to see someone already at your spot. The sun is setting despite the early hours. The only thing illuminating his face are the porch lights. His cheekbones are high. His brown hair is decorated with a few gray strands, framing his handsomeness perfectly. His lips curve into a smile, but more friendly than humorous. 
Shit, you’re staring. “Oh you know, just family butting in when they shouldn’t.”
He grins at that. “Ah, good ol’ holiday joy. I can’t stand them either. Pretending they know me when they don't.”
Relief settles on your shoulders. At least you aren’t alone. “I know right? They change my diaper once and suddenly think they know what’s good for me.”
The man laughs. His smile lines deepen at his lips and his eyes close for a brief moment. You smile at him.
“I know the feeling all too well.” He studies you when he opens his eyes again, gaze dropping to your nylon-covered legs and the cut of your dress. He travels up to your face smoothly. “What was your name?”
It takes a second for the effect of his gaze to fade, but you manage to tell him. “I’m studying Chemistry right now. On my way to getting a Masters.”
His eyebrows shoot up. “Oh wow! That’s really impressive! You look too young to have all that under your belt already.”
His compliments make you burn. “Oh, thank you. I just study hard.” You tuck a strand of hair that blows annoyingly in your face. “And you are...?”
“Yunho.”
You furrow your eyebrows together. “You know? No, I don’t think I do.”
He looks just as confused, but then realization settles on his face and he laughs again. This time, he clutches his stomach and bends over, getting close to your bubble. Not that you mind, you like the smell of his light, earthy cologne.
“No- not ‘you know.’ Yunho. Y-U-N-H-O.”
That smile is still on his face when it clicks in your mind. You feel your face burn from embarrassment, covering your mouth with cold fingers. “Oh my god. I’m such an idiot. Yunho. Okay, I get it.”
You’re still burning when he chuckles again, deep and velvety. “No worries. I think that’s the first time that’s happened to me.”
The two of you laugh once more before you settle into silence. The quiet doesn’t last long when he asks, “So why are you out here? If you don’t mind me asking.”
Maybe it’s the warm, pleasant feeling in your stomach from talking to Yunho, but you don’t have an ounce of hesitation in telling him. “My family has always bugged me about starting a family. The moment I graduated high school, it’s like the only thing I’m good for now is popping out babies.”
Yunho scoffs. His jaw clenches attractively and you hate how your legs press together upon the sight. 
“I know completely where you’re coming from. Trust me, that nagging never goes away. I’m already well above my prime and my brothers still bother me about finding a wife. With all this gray hair? I don’t think the ladies would want an old man like me.”
A demon must possess you because you speak before you can even think. “What? Yunho, I know we just met, but you’re like…very attractive. Finding a wife won’t be hard for you, even if you think you’re old.”
The lift of his eyebrow says it all. He’s shocked, at the very least. He stands straighter, towering over you. You hadn’t realized he was leaning against the wall to appear smaller, but his height stuns you.
He cocks his head to the side. “You think so?”
It takes a moment to gather your thoughts. His defined chest shows through his black turtleneck, nipples pebbling in the cold. His lithe arms wrap over his chest, adding to the clothed cleavage. If his upper body looks this good underneath clothes, you can’t even imagine anything less.
“I…” Fuck it. “Yeah. I do. You’re tall, handsome, fit, and some chicks dig older guys.” 
He scoffs a little, but it’s more from embarrassment than pride. His full cheeks blush further and you know it’s not from the cold. If you manage to play your cards right, you can ditch your family dinner for a different type of feast.
Yunho’s smile turns darker, more sinister as he looks down at you through his bangs. “Oh yeah? What type of chicks?”
“If you want to get specific, maybe the one standing in front of you.”
His grin deepens. Bingo.
-
His car is nice. Like, really nice. The seats are leather and he's got interior lights that shine when he opens the passenger car door for you. 
What a gentleman. 
But it’s his flat that impresses you the most. The ones you see are usually in the movies, either too small for any average person to live in or big enough for a whole town. Yunho has the latter.
You want to compliment him. Or more so, ask what type of job he has to afford all this space, but the large hands on your back push you to the bedroom and remind you why you’re here in the first place.
He doesn’t bother closing the door when you two make it to his room. Yunho cranes his neck down, lips ghosting over your own before he finds your neck instead. You lean to one side, hands going up his back trailing to his hair that you intertwine with your fingers. His mouth is so warm on your cold skin. It has you shaking for a brief moment before you get used to his heat.
Yunho starts with pecks. His lips feel plush and delicate, causing your flesh to rise with goosebumps. He moves to the center of your neck and kisses there too, but just when your eyes are starting to flutter shut and your mouth opens to sigh, he bites. 
You gasp instead. “Ah! Yunho!”
He doesn’t pull away from your throat, but you can feel his body jolt with giggles. He presses his kisses harder where his teeth marked you, a tiny apology you grow wet from. The two of you are still standing mere inches from the bed, but you don’t want to part from him. Yunho’s leg fits perfectly snug between your thighs and though you aren’t grinding, your cunt likes the warmth it provides. 
But you can feel it throbbing. The aching for any tiny movement, but you force yourself still save for how you keep pressing yourself against him.
Yunho makes you feel so small. His hands feel as if they could hold you easily, and they seem to do that with your lower back. Long fingers dig into your skin, and it doesn’t take long for his hands to travel further down until he finds the fat of your ass.
He takes a moment to stop giving you hickeys and groans into your shoulder. “So fucking soft. Your ass looks so good in this dress.” He swipes his tongue from your collarbone to the place below your ears. Your nipples harden almost immediately, the wetness makes you cold for a moment.
“You should see how it looks without it on.”
Challenge sparks in his eyes when he raises his head to look at you. All it takes is a reassuring nod from you before he pulls away almost completely, save for the hands squeezing your ass.
“On the bed then. Let me see.”
You smile and pry his hands off you, lifting your dress above your hips, but not off your body completely. You turn around for Yunho to face your back, hands finding the bed so you crawl on the bed for him to see. Your knees are on the edge, but finding balance is easy when you arch, wiggling your ass in the air.
The nylons are still on, but the see-through fabric adds a layer of sexiness. Yunho’s fingers graze your ass, stuck on squeezing and spreading your cheeks. It makes your pussy lips move with it, opening and closing against your clit softly. 
It’s such a tiny movement to your pussy, but with how you’ve been ignoring its leaking, it feels like so much more. You moan in the sheets, gently rocking yourself back and forth to try and get Yunho to spread your ass more.
“Jesus Christ.” He puts his thumb on your pussy, guiding it against your slit until he finds the bundle of nerves underneath your nylons and underwear. “I can feel how wet you are. You need it real bad, huh?”
His fingers are muted from the layers of clothes, but that doesn’t stop you from whining. You press back until his thumb is hard against you, swiveling your hips for friction. 
“Yesyesyes. So bad. I want your cock.”
His one thumb turns into multiple fingers. You sing with pleasure, showing no shame as you ride his hand until you feel the subtle, but familiar feeling coil in your stomach. Your styled hair is now a mess as it covers your eyes from how hard you’re rocking. Though you can’t see, you can feel the arousal leaking down your thighs and gather at your nylons.
Your orgasm comes quickly. It gets easy to grind on his fingers when your body is desperately chasing the high. “Cumming! Fuckfuckfuck, I'm cumming.”
You lift yourself on your forearms, halting all your movements to let the blinding pleasure wash over you, hot and delicious. Moans tumble past your lips. The tiniest bit of drool seeps from your mouth as you shake. You rock again, this time, to milk out your orgasm to completion. 
But Yunho pulls away.
A desperate cry leaves you. “W-wait. M-more. I want m-”
Familiar hands push you back into the sheets. Yunho holds you by the back of the neck, forcing you to keep your trembling ass in the air. 
Your heart races. More gasps and heavy breaths filter through your chest, but it’s an excitement that bubbles in your stomach. So much adrenaline runs through your body that half of the shaking is from your nerves. 
You just know he’s going to fuck you good.
“You came on my hand and you’re already asking for more?” Yunho tuts. “So impatient, but don’t worry, you’ll get it. Girls like you love cumming their brains out, huh?”
There’s no denying that. You nod in the sheets and whimper a pathetic yes, but Yunho approves nonetheless.
“Yeah, that’s why you’ll take any cock you can get, right? Even if it’s a stranger…” His free hand smoothes over your ass, but once he finds a good grasp on your nylons, he yanks. Your entire body pulls back from the force. You have to grab onto the mattress to not slip off the bed. 
“Even if it’s a man who’s almost twice your age…”
Another harsh yank and you hear fabric tear. Yunho pulls and pulls until your ass and cunt are free from the material. It’s only your underwear in the way, but you doubt that’ll be a problem.
Yunho leans down until he’s at your ear. Your body breaks into chills. He feels everywhere. He is everywhere from how big he is. You know you’re safe, but the thought of being at his mercy heightens your pleasure.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll buy you a new one.” He sweetly pecks your head and pulls away.
You’d laugh from the drastic switch-up, but you moan instead when you feel his fingers at your cunt. He plays with your folds through your panties, poking where your entrance is and smearing the arousal staining the underwear. 
You’ve never been this wet before. It usually takes some lube or way more foreplay, but Yunho turns you on in ways you didn’t believe were possible. His deft fingers and how his brown eyes can be warm but threatening. Everything about him is captivating and you can only hope he thinks the same about you.
With a finger hooking to the side of your panties, he tugs until your bare cunt is finally freed. You clit peeks from your hood, throbbing between your lips desperately. 
For the first time since you’ve met him, you feel nervous. Yunho stares at your pussy longer than you’re used to, making you try and press your thighs together to hide it. 
“Nuh-uh.” He jiggles your ass. “Don’t do that. I wanna see your pussy.”
You whine but obey. You put yourself face-first into the bed, ignoring how your cheeks turn red. 
Soon, the bed shifts weight and you hear the sound of a zipper. You pick up your head to look back, but Yunho forces you to face the bed. 
You pout. “I wanna seeeee.”
“You just want everything, don’t you?” Yunho sounds condescending, but he rewards you with the head of his cock. Your lower lips wrap around his tip when he grinds against your pussy, making sure to keep your underwear out of the way. “You want to cum, you want my dick, you wanna see it…And the worst part is, you’ve got such a pretty pussy that you’ll get everything you want.”
Yunho pulls back just enough to line himself up. You still haven’t gotten over how his tip felt brushing against you. He’s slicked himself up nice and wet to press, intruding on your entrance. 
You squeal. His shape opens you so easily that his size doesn’t sting at all, but makes your brain fuzzy. Though Yunho won’t let you see, you know he’s big. You turn dumb too quickly, chest burning from the oxygen he fucks out of you when he buries himself to the hilt. 
‘Oh my-...fffuucckkkk.”
Yunho groans at your moaning. He opts to hook his thumb in your panties and splay the rest of his fingers on your ass. Messily, he gathers your hair to create a makeshift ponytail with his other hand, forcing your chest up. 
Out... In... Out... In…
The pace is slow, but that doesn't mean it’s dull. Yunho pulls out until his tip is barely inside before pressing back in. When his pelvis is flush against your ass, it has you kicking your feet up and down on the bed from the overwhelming sensation. 
He feels like he’s in your ass. In your throat. You can’t escape how deep Yunho drills into you when he keeps you still by the hair, forcing you to take every unbearable inch.
You love every second of it. 
“Nghhh. Yunnhooo. Fuck meee. Fuck me pleeasseee.”
The sound of your cunt squelching echoes in the room. Yunho grunts at your command, pulling you up a few inches. 
“Yeah, you want it? You want it? Then fucking take it.”
It’s like a switch. That cautious pace turns animalistic, rough, and quick until your breasts manage to slip from the top of your dress and bounce freely. 
Your breath gets caught in your throat. There’s no sound until a harsh thrust forces the moan out. Once you start, you can stop. All you can manage are gasps and whines from Yunho’s drive. 
Every vein, every curve doesn’t go unnoticed between your walls. The repeated pistons force you to know his shape. You know he’s carving a place for him. So deep and good that you don’t think you could ever go back to hookups at your university again. 
But it’s Yunho’s tip that does it for you. There’s no you could ever unknow how it kisses your cervix or how the shape digs into you. You can't stop clenching down on it, sucking it back in over and over despite the pleasure overload you’re enduring. 
Your pussy’s in loooove.
The haziness of your mind clears a bit when Yunho pulls you up more. Your fingers barely graze the mattress, but the pain in your scalp feels dull when you look into his eyes.
They’re dark, hungry, and possessive. There’s nothing but carnal desire when you dreamily look up at them, eyes losing focus rather quickly. 
“You’re gonna cum. I fucking know you are. You cunt’s so fucking loud, it’s begging for it again.”
You swoon. Yunho knows he can make you feel good, he can feel it. Something like affection burns in your chest and you look at his pink lips. 
He grins. “You want a kiss?”
You nod, but it must look silly since your entire body is jolting. 
Yunho looks borderline psychotic when he breaks out into a smile. “Fuck. I love how young and stupid your pussy is. I’m gonna cum all over it. You’d like that, huh?”
“Loooveee iiiit.”
Yunho quickens his pace. You swear if you look down, you could see his cock poking through your stomach from the angle. Instead, you’re held to look into his eyes, vision blurring as your second orgasm approaches. It’s so much more intense than your first. Now you have something to clench on. Something to cream on when you inevitably burst. 
And with your crossed eyes looking into his, you do. You feel a burst of warmth from your stomach speedily reach your pussy. It makes you feel hot, the even hotter arousal pooling down your thighs and onto Yunho’s cock.
He moans above you. His hips grow sloppy, hitting different parts of your cunt that have you squealing. Yunho doesn’t break eye contact when he stills in you, dick throbbing as his cum shoots inside. 
The two of you stay moaning into each other's mouths, lips a mere inch away until he finally gives you what you want. The kiss is sloppy, full of breaths and moans as you messily shove tongues inside.
He swipes the inside of your cheek. He twists his tongue with yours until salvia trickles down your chin. You suck on his muscle and he does the same, pulling away with a wet smack that leaves you buzzing.
Yunho stares at you for a beat, eyes blinking as he comes to a sudden realization. “I think I'll keep you.” 
You don’t have the energy to respond, but you're thinking the same thing.
484 notes ¡ View notes
fakevalentine ¡ 2 days ago
Note
mean liar abby who tells the reader "yes, doll, just the tip" and dumb reader who believes her, like "just one round, don't worry" greiwjhddhdhdhdhhd
Tumblr media
nsfw 𓈒ㅤׂ 𝜗𝜚 abby coos at your whimpers, the silicone of her strap rubbing against your clit. you shake your head softly, "i can't take it... it's too big, abs..."
she hums, watching your lips part around her strap, your arousal making it glisten. "i don't know, baby... looking pretty eager down here."
you shake your head, frowning up at her.
abby rolls her eyes, tugging you closer by your thighs and sliding her strap lower down to your hole, just pushing in.
a whine falls from your mouth, "'can't take it..." you repeat, looking up at her pleadingly.
"aw," abby pouts, her hand wrapping around her dick to start easing the toy into you. "just the tip, hm? think you can do that for me, angel?"
you contemplate, could you? you'd never taken anything before apart from her fingers— you hadn't even seen a strap until your girlfriend pulled it out of her pants unexpectedly and started to convince you to take it.
but... you nod, wanting to please her.
she smiles, spitting on her fingers and coating the end of her strap with it, making a tight grip around the silicone head to have full control over her movements as the tip slips inside.
her blue eyes watch intently as she guides the tip of her cock in and out of your cunt, listening to your soft moans and mewls. if you were this responsive to barely an inch inside you, she knew you'd be a wreck.
you get wetter as you get closer to your orgasm, abby's thick fingers rubbing your clit slowly as she takes the opportunity to inch more of her strap into you. your eyes snap open with a gasp, grabbing her bicep, "w-what are you—?"
"don't be such a pussy," abby mumbles, hovering over you as she fills you up, rubbing your clit to help you take it easier.
your hips writhe under her, nails clawing at her freckled skin as you let out an array of noises, babbling about how it's too big and you can't take it.
your girlfriend huffs in annoyance at your whining and complaining, ignoring you as her hips start to draw back and forth. "no— abby, please..!"
her big hand slaps over your mouth, forcing your head back against the pillows as the sound of skin slapping fills the room. "just take it, baby. don't make it difficult."
Tumblr media
664 notes ¡ View notes
n0vazsq ¡ 3 days ago
Text
Tired of being alone | OP81 x Reader
Tumblr media
pairing . . . oscar piastri x nurse!gf!reader
summary . . . Watching your boyfriend reveal your relationship on international TV, you realise that you missed him more than you realised
request . . . yes!! based on this request!
word count . . . 712
warnings . . . none!
faceclaim . . . N/A
alexavia yaps . . . i have a free lesson rn so why not be productive and write? it's a bit shitty and kinda rushed but my next lesson is eng and i can NOT be late for it </3 saur sorry pookie!!
taglist . . . @barcapix (lmk if you want to join the taglist!)
Tumblr media Tumblr media
. . . You slumped into the couch, limbs heavy from another exhausting shift. The hum of the TV filled the room, flickering softly in the dim light.
Your scrubs were still on, your shoes kicked off by the door. The thought of getting up to change or even eat felt too overwhelming after all those back to back shifts at the hospital. All you wanted was to melt into the couch and let the familiar background noise wash over you.
Oscar’s voice drifted into the room, steady and comforting. His interviews were always a joy to watch, making you smile and laugh, just like a kid watching their favourite cartoon. You hadn’t even registered what the interview was about; something about the upcoming Las Vegas GP, until the interviewer leaned in with a knowing grin.
"So, Oscar, we heard you stayed busy during the break between Brazil and Vegas. Anything special?"
You perked up, the exhaustion momentarily forgotten. Oscar’s laugh came through the speakers, soft and a little awkward. It was a laugh you knew well, the one he gave when he wasn’t sure how much to share. Your heart started beating a little faster.
"Well," he began, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit that always made you melt. "I spent most of it taking care of someone close to me. She works really long shifts and don’t always get enough rest, so I made sure she was… comfortable."
You blinked, sitting up straighter. Did he just-? Your heart skipped a beat, eyes widening.
The interviewer’s eyes widened at his sentence, just like how you did, as if he was mimicking your actions. "Interesting," he teased, leaning in slightly. "Care to share more details? Who’s this mysterious lady?"
Oscar’s smile was small, but it reached his eyes, soft and sincere. "Let’s just say she's in healthcare. A nurse, actually. She's been pretty amazing, and I wanted to make sure she had a break too."
Your breath caught in your throat. There it was. A soft launch, wrapped in his quiet, subtle way. Oscar wasn’t the type of person who did grand gestures or flashy declarations, but this? This felt perfect. It was a little secret, meant just for you, even with the world watching.
The interviewer pressed on, curiosity piqued. "A nurse, huh? Sounds like you’ve got someone special in your world."
Oscar’s eyes flickered with that shy warmth you adored. "Yeah," he admitted, voice softer. "I do."
You couldn’t help but laugh softly, pressing a hand to your mouth. The exhaustion of the day melted away, replaced by a warm, fluttering feeling in your chest. He always had a way of making you feel seen, even when you were miles apart.
Your phone buzzed beside you. Picking it up, you saw that it was a text from Oscar.
Hope you’re watching. Rest up, yeah? ❤
You bit your lip, a grin spreading across your face. He always knew exactly what you needed.
Busted, Mr. Soft Launch. I owe you a dinner.
Your phone buzzed again almost immediately.
Only if you let me cook.
You leaned back into the couch, the smile refusing to leave your face. The weight of the day didn’t feel so heavy anymore. Knowing that he’d spent his break looking after you, making sure you were okay, it made all the long shifts and sleepless nights worth it.
On the screen, the interview moved on to other questions, but you weren’t really listening anymore. You were too lost in the quiet joy of knowing you were loved; subtly, quietly, and now, a little bit known by the world too.
You texted back, fingers hovering over the keys for a moment.
I’m tired of being alone all day. Come home faster.
His reply came quickly, almost as if he’d been waiting for it.
See you soon. It’s worth it for you. Every time.
Your heart swelled, and you sank deeper into the couch's soft cushions, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a blanket. Even with the miles between you, he had a way of making you feel like you were home.
In that adorable way that made you feel loved and cherished, just like when you were a kid.
God, you loved him more than anything.
Tumblr media
544 notes ¡ View notes
mywritersmind ¡ 2 days ago
Text
UNCONVENTIONAL - LN4
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
summary : In which trying to make it home for thanksgiving fails and a cute british driver feels bad.
listen up : no warnings just cuteness! happy thanksgiving to all my americans <33 im thankful for YOU🫵 lando norris x american!driver!reader
word count : 1968
⋆༺
I groan out loud, dropping my phone onto the jet’s seat. “We’re stuck.” Lando sits up from his position across two seats, and frowns.
“Shit.” I look outside of the planes window, seeing the snow and fighting back tears. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not even december! Snow should not be here!” I wipe my eyes. I know Lando feels bad and I'm not making the situation worse by crying. But I’m having a hard time today because I'm supposed to be with my family.
Lando offered me and some other drivers a ride to Qatar for the next grand prix. Thanksgiving happened to fall the day before media day so I thought I could stop by my parents house and leave that night.
I never particularly loved Thanksgiving, but now that i’m traveling so much because of work, I've learned how much I truly can miss my loved ones.
Lando bites his lip as I sit back down and pull the blanket over me. The pilot informed us that we won’t be getting in the air for a few hours which means we have to go straight to the track instead of seeing my family.
I take a breath, “It’s okay. I appreciate you trying.” I hate crying in front of the guys, even if he is my friend. I hate it because it just plays into the whole emotional woman thing, and even though Lando is one of my best friends, right now I can’t help it.
Lando sits across from me, nudging his foot against mine, “How about we have thanksgiving here?” My head shoots in his direction as he puts on a small smile, “I don’t know a lot about it and I know I'm not your family… but I can try to be a substitute.”
I swallow, wiping my eyes again before I cross my my arms, “How would we even do that?”
I did not expect Lando to take my words as a competition. Still, thirty minutes later I'm sat with a full course meal spread out on the tiny table in between seats. There’s no huge turkey or array of pies, instead we have chicken wraps and fries. We have chips, popcorn, pesto pasta, orange chicken, a bagel, salad, and bread. A bottle of champagne sits next to me as Lando sits down.
His smile is wide as he looks down at the spread, “Good enough?”
“How did you…” I shake my head, laughing, “Yeah it’s good enough! Lando, this is really sweet.”
“It’s my first thanksgiving, I had to make it delicious, even if it is all airport food.” He shrugs and starts pulling things onto his plate. My legs are crossed on the comfortable seat and as I watch him pick his meal, I smile.
I bite into the chicken wrap that’s actually delicious. Lando taps on his phone before music starts playing over the speakers.
I smile at him as he chews, “So… what do Americans usually do on thanksgiving?”
I shrug and sip some champagne, “Eat, gossip, be thankful?”
“Okay! Let’s gossip then. Sounds easy enough.” Hes ridiculously committed to the bit and I adore him for it, “Did you know Franco’s signed with RB?” I start coughing, practically choking on my food.
“What!?” I scream.
Lando’s laughing now, “No I don’t actually know, I just couldn’t think of anything else.” I kick him under the table as he gasps.
“That’s evil! I got so excited.” I’m laughing with him now, our food picked apart and a mess in front of us. “What are you thankful for?”
He thinks for a moment, a curl falling into his face that makes my stomach flip a little. “Mmm… My family and friends.”
“That’s too generic. It’s thanksgiving- get deep, Norris.” He gives me a slight smirk before nodding.
“I’m thankful that the championship talk is over. I’m thankful for Chicken wraps.” He holds his up, proudly as I roll my eyes. “And I'm thankful for you.”
I’m a tad bit shocked, “For me?” I expect him to say something stupid or flirty, but he’s dead serious.
“You’re a really good person. I like being around you and for that, I'm grateful.” He raises his glass and I hit it with mine, “Now go on, brag about me.”
I roll my eyes, back to smiling humorously, “I’m thankful that I'm not alone right now.” His eyes don’t stray away from mine, “And I’m thankful for snow. Even if it’s pissing me off, it’s very pretty.”
We both look out the window in sync, the snow still falling. The runway is fully white, matching the trees and wing of the plane.
When I look back at Lando, he’s already looking at me. His face is relaxed, his freckles prominent and curls perfect. “Do you want to go?” I say suddenly as his expression turns confused.
“We can’t yet, we still have like two hours.”
A smile tugs at my lips, “I mean outside.”
He looks hesitant, “It’s freezing.”
I stand and grab my suitcase, unzipping it and pulling out my puffer jacket at record speed, “Did I mention every thanksgiving, something really random but really fun happens?” It’s true, for some reason this holiday brings out funny stories. “You’re not scared of some snow, are you Norris?” I step closer, narrowing my eyes.
He stands, grabbing his own jacket, “I’m just saying, don’t come complaining when you’re freezing and wet.”
“Me!?” I scoff, zipping up my jacket, “You’re the one who needs four layers for a sunny day.”
⋆༺
LANDO
I’m freezing my ass off but I would rather become a human icicle than tear my eyes away from her smile. She’s giggling and running into the snow, twirling around as snowflakes fall into her hair.
“Don’t slip, Y/n!” I yell after her as she turns around, the biggest smile on her face.
Her hand goes to wipe the hair that’s being blown in her face, snow falling around her, “Come catch me, Norris.”
I roll my eyes and hurry over to her as she laughs and dances around. I can’t help but laugh with her, it’s fucking contagious.
She sticks her tongue out, leaning her head back to catch snowflakes. Y/n is so perfectly caught in the haze of the snow and light peaking through the clouds that she looks like an angel.
She pokes my cheek and holds onto my jacket as if she’s about to fall. “Your nose is red.”
“You should get a job in detective work if the whole driving thing doesn’t work out…” She scoffs loudly and punches me in the arm.
Unfortunately, she’s stronger than she looks and because the ground is icy, we’re both falling seconds later.
She lands on top of me, laughing so hard that she’s crying, “Fuck! Are you okay!?”
“Like you care!” I sit up, holding her tightly still.
She laughs and plops down next to me, laying her head back and arms out. “Oh no-”
“Angel time, Norris!” She screams at me.
“I’m going to become snow!”
She doesn’t respond, just stretches her arms and legs out and waves them back and forth to make the snow part below her.
Something about her is my weakness and I honestly can’t complain when she looks so happy. I join her, my hair getting soaked and her laughs making me smile.
I make my angel in peace as snow floats down from the sky, landing on my face. I hear the rustle of her jacket as she turns her head to me, “Thank you.”
I smile softly, examining her face and the snowflakes that melt as soon as they touch her skin. “You’re welcome. I’m sorry that I'm not your family.”
She lets out a breath, “You’re my found family. That’s close enough.” her words make my heart beat faster, “Even if you are British and your first thanksgiving was on a grounded plane.”
“I wouldn’t wish it any other way. Although, next year we should try for a more friendsgiving approach. Maybe with the whole grid?” Her smile grows as she looks up at the sky.
“I'm very down for that.” As i’m mentally tracing her side profile in her mind, a voice and light comes very loud.
“You two!” I realize we’re in trouble instantly and stand up as fast as I can, slipping all over the place as the voice gets louder and the flashlight shines directly towards us.
Y/n is trying to get up with me but she’s laughing and slipping so it’s significantly harder. I grab her hand and we make a run for it, up the stairs and into the warm cabin. The door shuts behind us and I lean my head against the wall, sighing in relief of not being caught making snow angels.
Y/n is breathing heavily across from me, a smile permanent on her face as she looks at me. Her hair is wet and I'm sure mine is the same. I can’t feel my hands and I couldn’t care less.
“You look like a popsicle!” Y/n takes her hands and wraps them over mine, getting close enough that I can feel her breath on my skin.
I’d like to pretend that what happened next was a symptom of my cold state, but I’ve never been a good liar.
As soon as she looks up at me, her eyes big and glassy, I lean down and kiss her. Her lips are warm despite her cold hands gripping my own and as soon as she pulls back, I swear.
“Fuck. I’m sorry-” I didn’t even ask! God, I'm an asshole and now I'm completely stuck. Would I die if I ran outside and hid in the woods?
But she doesn’t look mad. She looks… pleased? Her hand slips out of my reach and moves to the side of my neck, “Don’t be.”
And then she kisses me. I think I blackout because I have no clue how long we’ve been kissing but I do know that I'm now completely defrosted and warm.
“You okay?” I whisper as Y/n pulls away.
She nods, “Thanks for kissing me.”
I laugh, “You’re very welcome. Thanks for kissing me back.”
She smiles again backs up a bit, fiddling with her rings, “So… was that just a thanksgiving thing or a way to warm up or…?”
I’m smiling big now, moving my hands under her jacket as she squirms because of the temperature, “I’ve been waiting for that to happen so if you limit me to once a year, i’ll be pretty sad.”
She nods, biting back a smile, “Good to know!” She slips away from me and pulls off her jacket, sitting in a seat and pulling her blanket around her shoulders.
I slowly walk so I’m in front of her again. She’s smiling at the floor, motioning me to come sit, “There’s one more thanksgiving tradition I do every year.”
She pulls out her ipad and scoots closer to me, I feel like i’m dreaming. “And that is…?”
She clears her throat, still avoiding eye contact.
“The Thanksgiving episode of Gossip Girl!” She starts rattling on about the backstories and starts the episode but i’m still stuck on her face and how her eyes won’t meet mine.
“Y/n…” I say it softly, bringing my hand to her chin and turning her face to look at me. She’s blushing. I don’t think I've ever seen her blush.
“Mhm?” She sounds like a mouse.
I brush her wet hair out of her face and press a soft kiss against her cheek, “I really like thanksgiving.” She just smiles and nestles into my side, my arm around her.
She lets me have some of the blanket and whispers, “I really do too.”
451 notes ¡ View notes
chuluoyi ¡ 6 hours ago
Text
𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐖𝐈𝐅𝐄
Tumblr media
- zayne x reader
everyone knows dr. zayne is cool as a cucumber, and it's a given for him that you're known as his wife, but when a fresh-faced new resident seemingly makes a move on you... what will he do?
genre/warnings: very suggestive, jealousy (a very jealous zayne, in fact), making out in his office, crack, fluff, hunter!reader, you and zayne have a daughter
note: inspired by that one kim min-kyu scene in business proposal :D this is actually an extension for nocturne of twilight and dawn's first light but can also be read as standalone
Tumblr media
You hadn't seen your husband for two weeks.
There was a spring on your step when you entered Akso Hospital right after your long intercity mission. You had acquired some bruises and they weren't anything serious, so you figured you’d just have Greyson treat them. Besides, it gave you the perfect excuse to hand him some cookies as a souvenir.
And, of course, ask him to ring for Zayne to meet you once he had the time.
"Miss, do you need help?"
But a curious voice addressed you when you loitered around in the lobby, and you turned around to find a bright-faced young man with red hair and wearing doctor's coat.
"Ah, yes, I want to meet Dr. Zayne," you smiled. "Or Dr. Greyson will do."
The young doctor perked up at the names you mentioned. "Oh, are you a patient? Do you have an appointment already?"
"Hmm, no, actually I am—"
You halted mid-sentence before the words his wife slipped out, rethinking your choice. You knew of Zayne's infamous reputation in the hospital, and while almost everyone in his floor knew you, this new doctor didn't, and you thought it was best to leave it that way.
"Yeah, I already have an appointment," you nodded, plastering an thin smile. "Just tell Dr. Greyson that Y/N wants to meet him."
"Right, right, I'll page him now..." he mumbled, pulling out his pager and his phone. "I'll text him too..."
"Thank you."
"O-oh, Miss! Wait!" the young man called after you in a hurry when you turned around. "I've noticed it for a while, you have a cut on the side of your lips..."
"Ah, this..." Your fingers instinctively brushed the dried blood on your lips. You hadn’t thought the small cut was noticeable. "Yes, it’s from earlier—"
"Actually, I’m an ER resident!" he interrupted with a bright grin. "Let me treat you first!"
Caught off guard by his enthusiasm, you barely had time to react as he gently but firmly guided you towards the emergency room.
Tumblr media
"Dr. Zayne! Dr. Zayne! Your wife is here~!"
Zayne had barely stepped into his office after a grueling surgery when Greyson barged in, all too casually, delivering the news with a grin. "She’s waiting in the lobby!"
He blinked, slightly taken aback. "Oh?"
You're back? He pulled out his muted phone, checking the notifications. Sure enough, you’d sent him a message an hour ago, letting him know you’d safely landed in Linkon.
His little, snarky wife. For the past two weeks you had been away, the house had felt lonelier. Sure, his daughter—who resembled you in personality, no less—was a bundle of sunshine and adorable beyond words, but without you, there was always that subtle void in the air.
Or maybe it wasn’t the house at all? Maybe it was just him—utterly, hopelessly whipped.
"Why isn’t she coming up to my office?" he asked suddenly, noticing the odd detail.
"Hmm, yeah, and it’s weird... why did the new resident say she’s asking for me?" Greyson mused, turning toward Zayne. "Don’t you want to meet her instead? Whatever she needs me for, I’m sure you could handle it."
Zayne promptly left his office and took long strides toward the elevator. As the doors started to close, he even half-sprinted, calling out to the person inside to hold it for him.
Okay, maybe he was a little too eager, but was it really so wrong to be this excited to see his wife again when the two of you had been apart for two weeks?
...then again, you didn't need to know. You would roast him to bits should you know he missed you this much.
Zayne got off at the lobby, expecting to find you there— only to find the usual flow of hospital staff and visitors. He was about to call you when he wandered past the emergency room and turned the corner—and that’s when he got his shock of the day.
There you were. But not alone.
With a guy.
Whose hand is touching your lips.
Tumblr media
"It must be tough being a hunter, huh?"
The red-haired resident carefully tended to your bruised arm, wrapping it in a fresh bandage as you sighed, thinking back to the mission. "Yeah, there are definitely some hard days..."
"But despite all that, you still keep yourself in shape!" he remarked, eyeing your toned arms with a hint of admiration.
You let out a sheepish laugh, remembering those pull-ups sessions with Zayne. "Haha, that's because my husband makes sure I'm getting enough exercise..."
"You're married?!" His voice was filled with disbelief, and it caught you off guard, yet he grinned afterwards. "Wow! Is he a hunter too?"
You would've never guessed, boy. This resident doctor was cute, you thought, ever so curious at everything. You could only imagine the look on his face if you told him that the Dr. Zayne was your husband.
You were about to refute it when his fingers brushed against your lips. "Oh, sorry, let me apply some ointment here first..."
His touch felt cool to your lips and you were momentarily stunned at the contact— but then a gruff cough startled you so much you almost jumped.
The towering figure of your husband behind him. Zayne's dark gaze was fixed on the man in front of you, like he could murder the poor guy with just a look.
"Z-Zayne...?" you squeaked against the ointment on your lips, and the resident quickly turned behind him in surprise, hastily greeting him, "Oh, Dr. Zayne!"
Zayne shot the poor man a single, pointed look before his gaze shifted to you, clearly unamused.
He suddenly grabbed your hand and, without sparing the resident another glance, swiftly pulled you away. The other guy was left standing there, speechless, as Zayne led you off, leaving him in the dust.
. . .
"Zayne!"
Oh, how he actually missed his name coming out from your lips.
"Are you done with your schedule?" you asked as he pulled you into the elevator, confusion evident in the way you tilted your head. But when he didn’t answer, you glanced down at his firm grip on your arm, suddenly realizing something. "Wait, no... are you angry?"
Sigh. It irked him so much, actually. Because, how could you, after weeks—
No, he actually knew he was being irrational. He shouldn’t overreact like this just because someone else touched you. But why is he so annoyed, still?
"Wait, why?" you kept asking, wide-eyed, as the two of you stepped out and made way towards his office. "I'm not injured! I'm fine! It's just some bruises—"
Without a word, Zayne pulled you into his office, swiftly locking the door behind him. Before you could say another word, he cornered you against the wall, and you fell silent instantly.
It had been a while since he’d seen you this way—stunned, caught off guard, and utterly silent under his gaze. He studied your face closely, watching the way your breath hitched as the tension between you both thickened.
It sparked something inside him seeing you like this, a sense of satisfaction that he couldn’t quite explain, but one he welcomed nonetheless.
That was when he saw the blood on your lips. "Did you get punched in the face?"
"Y-Yes, but— it's nothing severe!" you defended, trying to convince him. "It's such a small cut anyway!"
He frowned. "Why didn't you come to me?"
"What? Hey, I was about to ask Greyson, but—"
That got him frown even deeper, even irate. "Why Greyson? When you come home with any injuries, you come to me, not anyone else."
You let out a resigned sigh, slumping your shoulders in defeat. "Because I know you'll fuss over me, duh."
"I don't fuss," he retorted.
"You do," you shot back, pursing your lips. "You try to act like this cool, calm robot all the time, but you always drone on and on whenever you patch me up. You're worried, it shows."
Zayne huffed, shifting his gaze away from you as he felt his face burn. Was he that obvious? How could he not, though, when you managed to get hurt so often and yet acted so innocent about it?
Then as if inspired, you caught on immediately. Your eyes sparkled, and a mischievous smirk tugged at your lips. "Wait, just now... don't tell me... Are you jealous?"
Damn.
"Heh, Dr. Zayne, really?" Your voice was playful now, mocking him. "Whoa, how can this be?"
How had you figured him out so easily?
You continued in a sing-song voice, putting both hands on your chest, "Ah, my heart flutters! My husband is apparently—"
Enough. This time, his patience snapped.
He didn’t hesitate even for a moment. A low growl escaped him, and in one swift motion, he crashed his lips against yours, silencing you with the most effective method he could think of.
"Mmph!" You gasped in surprise, the teasing words at the end of your tongue completely forgotten. His gray eyes gleamed. Been too long, he thought, and now he was making sure you knew just how badly he craved this.
The kiss was searing as he deepened it, his tongue seeking yours with urgency. "Hngh!" You let out a feeble whine when he teased you by biting your lips.
Zayne held back a snort. One of his hand then strayed inside your hunter uniform, unclasping your bra with a flick.
"—?!" Your eyes widened as you realized what was happening, and before you could process it, he pulled away. But you were far from right in thinking it was over. The dangerous gleam in his eyes kept you tense as he swiftly removed his glasses...
...before he pulled you back towards him and claimed your lips once again.
With a swift, commanding motion, he guided you toward his desk. His papers scattered at the sudden movement, but he had you bent over it regardless, forcing your body to arch. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you firmly against him, while his right hand fondled your breasts, repeatedly squeezing, palming and switching between them.
"Mmm...!" You let out a strangled moan, instinctively holding onto his shoulder, feeling the way how he groped you ignited your core. "Ahh..."
Your body was tantalizing as always. Hardened and sometimes bruised from your work it may be, but to Zayne, you were still beautiful as ever.
When you gasped for air, he decided he was done with your swollen lips. His lips then trailed down to your neck, sucking hard on it, creating a squelching sound that sent a shiver racing down your spine.
"W-what's... gotten into you...?" you breathed out, tangling your fingers in his hair, hyperaware of his hands still roaming over your nipples.
In response, he nibbled at your skin and flicked your breasts at the same time, causing you to freeze and draw a sharp, hitched breath. "Haah...!"
Unbeknownst to you, his lips curled wickedly at your reaction, and he continued to pepper your neck with series of wet sucks as if to mark you altogether. You writhed under him, whiny and sighing, relishing his hot breath on your skin.
You were utterly at his mercy, pliant and helpless in his hands. There was a deep satisfaction in knowing he was the only one who could bring you, his lawfully wedded wife, to this state—
Still, he wouldn’t allow you to be indecent in a place like this. When he finally pulled back, he was breathing heavily, eyes dark with lust, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of your jaw. "Don’t tempt me," he muttered, voice low and raspy.
You gazed up at him, your heart pounding. "Zayne..." you whispered, a whine broke through the heat on your flushed face.
His expression softened just enough, a flicker of tenderness cutting through the intensity. Pretty. That’s what you were, undeniably so. How he had missed out on you so long once was his greatest regret.
Carefully, he helped you sit upright, his touch gentle as he clasped your bra and began buttoning up your uniform, disheveled from his earlier ministrations.
The gentle way he touched you was a stark contrast to how it was earlier. "Is that a new way to treat busted lip?" you nudged his collar, feeling a little braver now.
"For bad wives, yeah."
"I'm not a bad wife! Just disobedient on some occasion."
Zayne's fingers brushed your face as he finished with your uniform, his dark-gray eyes steady on you. You pouted.
"You're the one who's bad," you accused with slight resentment, not missing a beat as the heat between your legs started to dissipate. "Leaving me unfinished like that."
"Hmm? Am I?" he murmured, the faintest amusement in his tone.
"You have to take responsibility tonight, you big meanie," you mumbled, your pout deepening as you avoided meeting his gaze.
Zayne snorted at the sight of you—so precious in his eyes, his thumb lightly grazing the corner of your lips in a gesture so tender it made your heart skip, before whispering in your ear:
"Well, if your voice won't wake our daughter, that is."
Tumblr media
Epilogue
Not long after, just as you had gathered yourself and were preparing to leave the hospital to head home, a sudden knock at the door of his office startled you both.
Quickly, you moved to sit on the patient’s seat, feigning nonchalance as you braced yourself for whoever was on the other side. Zayne reached for the door, but before he could unlock it, a familiar voice called out.
"Excuse me!" the resident's voice sounded a bit hesitant but firm. "Dr. Zayne, the miss left her handbag earlier!"
Zayne let out a low, irked sigh. You glanced at him curiously, watching as he opened the door and came face-to-face with the redheaded resident.
Without a word, he extended his hand, and the resident blinked before handing over the bag.
"I-is the miss still here?" the young doctor asked, almost intimidated by his unfriendly gaze.
"Ma'am," Zayne corrected, his voice flat.
"Huh?"
"Call her ma'am. She's someone's wife."
"O-oh, and her husband is—"
"Me. I am her husband."
Your eyes widened in surprise at the matter-of-fact exchange, heat rising to your cheeks as Zayne’s words hung confidently in the air. He curtly thanked the young resident before slamming the door shut in his face.
Your jaw practically hit the floor. "Zayne!" you gasped, staring at him as he turned back towards you, entirely unbothered.
Your husband was as cold as the snowman he often made, but somehow the way he boldly declared he was your husband was just so him that it made you so giddy.
You tilted your head, crossing your arms with a playful smile. "You’re really jealous, huh? How?"
He didn’t answer, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, most definitely trying to save his dignity.
You chuckled softly, stepping closer to him with a teasing sway. Your fingers traced the sharp line of his jaw, turning him to face you, and you winked at him mischievously.
"Well, I’m all yours. But if it makes you feel better, maybe I’ll stay away from any ER residents for a while~"
419 notes ¡ View notes
ultraericthered ¡ 8 hours ago
Text
#i got to screen Wish before it released during a school trip and let me tell you something #even though we noticed the glaring problems with that movie immediately #i also noticed something i dont think many others did at that time #there was so much talent and potential being held back. if you read closely you can pick up on a cry for help from the creatives behind it #i want to elaborate but i think if you know. you know #and if you don't.. this post does a good job of shining a light on a small part of that cry for you #despite its many issues i think i still liked Wish. Not because i think it was a good movie but bc i think it could have been a great one had circumstances been different. #my heart goes out to those who put their souls and everything they had into that movie and others in similar situations #some of the creators had given a small talk before the screening and to me they seemed very emotional about it #i think what many people forget is that nobody can see a project's flaws better than the people who worked on it #but what they also see and you can't is everything more it was meant to be #please remember that the core of many issues in any project is that the people with the talent often do not have power to call the shots
Yes, all of that. And I find it ironic that the gifed scene is the one that got people saying "Hey, King Magnifico's not really much of a villain, he's got a good point! He's just upholding his part of a social contract with his citizenry and doing what he, as king, needs to do to protect their wishes but also protect Rosas by ruling out granting any wishes that might backfire and have dangerous repercussions for the kingdom and the lives of the people! Asha's just an ignorant spoiled brat for demanding anything more of him! Magnifico Did Nothing Wrong!" So when you take that position on what you're being shown by the story and not scratching the surface to look at what Magnifico is doing in-universe by not giving back the wishes he knows he will not grant and knows the people who gave them to him cannot remember and what the out-of-universe subtext of this is, you're siding with the Disney Corporate Executive Overlords. You're siding with Bob Iger's "they're not being realistic with their expectations" argument. You're siding with Chapek and Iger's practices done under excuses like "It doesn't fit the Disney brand", "mass appeal stories over personal ones", "people don't want to go and pay to see movies with girly princess titles", etc. You're siding with their practices of dumping content straight to streaming (or onto Disney+ not too long after they've hit theaters or TV) even when that actually limits profits that the actual creative teams can make from their own work, of tampering with the artists visions and how the finished product turns out and then punishing those artists if it doesn't turn out well, and of ignoring ideas for original creations in favor of contiunally milking their popular (and profitable) existing IPs. You're siding with people who make up an entire entity that say loudly to the faces of all those who put in the work, the skills, the talent, the passion and dedication to create art and content they feel people deserve to enjoy, in the forms they deserve to enjoy them "I decide what everyone deserves!"
Capitalism errodes into a force for human evil when the people at the top prove susceptible to three things in excess beyond mere greed and self-interest: unchecked power, irresponsibility, and indecency. King Magnifico is allegorical for that evil, with a bit of a communist dictator angle to him too since that's the end point of those exact same excesses and extremes for socialism. He's a major problematic fave for all kinds of reasons, but anyone who wants to tell me he's a good guy can kindly GTFO.
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
Wish (2023) dir. Fawn Veerasunthorn, Chris Buck
hey do you think the overworked creatives about to go on strike are trying to tell us something
article sources under the cut
Mattson, Kelcie. "How Disney Almost Killed 'Nimona.'" Collider, January 2 2024.
Earl, William. "Shelving Batgirl Was the Right Decision, Says New DC Studios Head Peter Safran: 'It Would Have Hurt DC.'" Variety, January 31 2023
Couch, Aaron. "Warner Bros. Reverses Course on 'Coyote vs. Acme' After Filmmakers Rebel." The Hollywood Reporter, November 13 2023.
Ridgely, Charlie. "Scoob! Sequel Director Revealed Film Was 'Very Close' to Completion Before HBO Max Cancellation." comicbook.com, August 2 2022.
Clark, Travis. "Staffers at the animation studio Blue Sky say it's 'heartbreaking' that Disney canceled its final movie, 'Nimona.'" Business Insider, February 18, 2021.
Harrison, Mark. "Why was the Batgirl movie cancelled?" Yahoo! Entertainment, January 31 2024.
Amidi, Amid. "Warner Bros. Shelves Fully-Completed 'Coyote Vs. Acme' For Tax Write-Off." Cartoon Brew, November 9 2023.
Lee, Alex. "Why Netflix keeps cancelling your favourite shows after two seasons." Wired UK, September 28 2020.
Tyrrell, Gary. "We All Knew It Was Coming." fleen.com, February 10 2021.
"Warner Bros. Reverses Course on ‘Coyote vs. Acme’ After Filmmakers Rebel." see: 3.
Bergeson, Samantha. "Warner Bros. Will Let 'Coyote Vs. Acme' Filmmakers Shop Movie to Other Distributors." IndieWire, November 13 2023.
Strapagiel, Lauren. "Disney's First Feature Animated Movie With Queer Leads May Never Be Released." BuzzfeedNews, February 24 2021.
"We All Knew It Was Coming." see: 9
@/scottderrickson. "I think it’s absolute bullshit that a studio can and does shelve the creative work of hundreds of people for a fucking tax break." Twitter, 10 Nov. 2023, 4:52 p.m..
12K notes ¡ View notes
buck-star ¡ 2 days ago
Text
Mobsters obsession | B.B
Tumblr media Tumblr media Tumblr media
>> He was obsessed with you — he didn't even know he could ever be obsessed with anyone. Not until you walked into his life and made him crave you like no one before. <<
Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Barista!Mom!Reader
Wordcount: 2.260 Words
Warnings: a lot of fluff, more fluff, sweet Bucky, even more fluff, did I mention fluff already, Bucky being obsessed
Authors Note: Divider made by me.
Events: Steve BB 200 Followers Celebration Writing Challenge [Bucky Barnes, Mob au, meet cute, “Be careful there, darlin’”] @steviebbboi
Alternate June-iverse [C4006, C2, Shop], Fandom-Free Bingo: Valentines Edition [Alternates Two, Meet cute], Multifandom-Flash Bingo [Row One-Two, It has been an honor]
Masterlist | Bucky Barnes Masterlist
Tumblr media
He was never addicted to anything or anyone. Not once, and it won’t change — that’s what he thought. If someone had told him that he’s in the wrong, he would have laughed it all off.
James Barnes — most feared mobster in town — would never be addicted to another person. He’s feared; he’s respected by everyone. The mobster has no soft spot; otherwise, he has a spot that could be attacked without him having control over it.
Little did he know that one day, as he walked through the streets, he would ‘meet’ that girl that’s going to change everything. Little did he know that he would learn how addicted even the most feared mobster in town can be.
But there he was, sitting in the small coffee shop in the corner by the window and staring at the coffee in front of him. After he found out where you’re working, he couldn’t help but appear in the coffee shop every day just to sit there and watch you your whole shift.
James came to the shop when you opened it in the morning, and he didn’t leave unless your shift was over and you were home safe. He did that over two weeks now, his obsession becoming worse with every day.
He was so close to you, almost able to touch you. But he just couldn’t — not yet. You were the first woman who didn’t freak out around him. Of course, you looked at him with a careful, slightly curious expression first, but you were always offering him a soft smile.
So he was sitting at his place once again, the third cup of coffee in front of him as he watched you make some more coffee. You were just as sweet as the food and drinks you offer, except his one. And sometimes he wasn’t sure if you weren’t too sweet for him.
He listened to the conversation you had with your coworkers or with some of the visitors in the sweet little shop. You had a sweet tooth, loving everything that was with caramel and chocolate. While Bucky liked his coffee black, he liked meat over sweets — but still, he would rather eat sweets for every meal instead of letting you out of his sight.
James knows that you had good taste; you were always doing the decoration. It looked aesthetic, perfect. Just like he loved it too, and he was sure the two of you would be perfectly fine to decorate his house for every celebration and every season.
“Sir, do you need anything?” You asked him softly; his ocean blue eyes shoot up to meet yours, and he smiles softly. Your voice was like the most beautiful melody he has ever heard.
“No, thank you,” he said, looking at his coffee for a second before his eyes met yours once again. James' stare was intense, almost like he wanted to look deep into your soul, reading all your deepest desires and secrets.
You nodded and turned around just in the right moment when the small bell above the door rang. A smile creeped onto your face as the small frame of a girl rushed into the little coffee shop. Her giggles echoed through the room the moment she placed one of her little feet in the coffee shop.
“Mommmmmmy!” She giggled as she ran in your direction. James' eyes widened as he noticed the name she called you. You were having a daughter; why didn’t he know it before? Maybe because he focused more on watching you.
However, his eyes were then on the little girl in front of you. Her little fingers were gripping your thigh, and she smiled up at you. James noticed that she had the same eyes you had; her smile was just as prominent and soft as yours, and he looked pretty much like you.
“Hey, my sweet plum,” you cooed, running your fingers through her soft hair. “How was it at your grandparents?”
“Granny said they have an appointment, important, so they just let me out here, but we had lots of fun!” She nodded and grinned, then her face turned toward James, and she smirked even wider. “Hiiiiii!”
Your eyes widened immediately, and you placed your hand on her head to turn it away from the man. She wiggled out of your grip and grinned at James once again. A smug grin crossed his face as he watched the small girl.
“Hi,” James replied. His blue orbs roamed over her face and up your body until he reached your face. “Don’t worry, I won’t bite.”
You chuckled softly, nodding with a soft sigh. Your daughter walked closer to him, climbing onto the chair next to him until she was sitting on her knees. The girl placed her small arms on the table and leaned over. She tilted her head up and grinned at him. James felt like he’s looking at the younger version of you, and it made him go crazy.
He just wanted to take you both home and make sure that he could protect the two of them.
“Who you?” She asked. Her small fingers tapped on the surface of the table like she was the boss, and James had to answer her. He loved her attitude already; this girl was his little princess, and neither of you knew it just yet.
“My name is James, but you can call me Bucky. Who are you, little girl?” Bucky asked her, his voice sounding rough but still soft. You shivered, watching the scene in front of you. Since her dad left the two of you for another woman, you never had someone who interacted with your little girl like she was the sweet little princess she was.
But James looked at her like she’s his own daughter, and he didn’t even know her. Your heart fluttered, and warmth spread through your body.
“I’m plum; that’s what my mommy always calls me because I do love plums,” she smiled and giggled then as she turned toward you. “Do you have plums for me, mommy?”
You chuckled. “Yes, but I have to change and end my shift before. Can you come with me?” You asked, but your daughter shakes her head.
“No, I have sooo many questions,” she pouted. Her puppy dog expression made your heart melt, and you had such a hard time saying ‘no’ to her.
“I will take care of her until ya back here,” James said, looking up at you. He still gave you the opportunity to say ‘no’ but you nodded. There were enough people around who wouldn’t let him leave the coffee shop with your daughter. Plus, he may have been a mobster, but he wouldn’t do anything to someone who didn’t do anything wrong or needed to pay for a debt.
You sighed and chuckled, turning around to change your outfit and get your daughter's favorite food — plums. While you changed your outfit, James and Plum talked — or your daughter talked, and he listened to her with a soft expression.
His eyes never left hers, and when she threw her small arms around to show him how big the blackboard in kindergarten is, he instinctively placed his hand against the corner of the table so she wouldn’t hit herself.
“Be careful there, darlin’” he chuckled and helped her sit down straight again. “Don’t want ya to get hurt.”
And then she threw a lot of questions at him. And James answered everything honestly, or at least as best as he could. Because when it came to his profession, he didn’t tell her that he was a monster — for her, he was a businessman now, which wasn’t completely wrong.
When you came back to the table, they still sat there, talking about whatever. James' eyes were immediately on you as you walked around the corner, and he sighed softly when you walked closer, and he was able to smell the sweet scent of your perfume.
“Mommy! He said he’s a businessman, and he said he has a big pool!” Plum said excitedly and pointed with her small hands at Bucky. “Can we visit him, please?”
The puppy dog eyes once again, and how could someone deny them, but you couldn’t say yes without knowing or even asking James. Plus, he was still a mobster, and while you knew what that meant, your daughter didn’t.
“Sweets, it would be fun, but we don’t know him, and he’s a busy man, so don’t you think we should go home now?” You tried, voice soft, and you brought your hand to her head, stroking her hair softly. While you moved your hand down to the small of her back to push her from the chair and get her home, the brown-haired man grinned at you.
“Not too busy for ya, babydoll. Now knowing me now doesn’t mean you can’t get to know me, babydoll,” James smirked and got up as well. He placed a few dollars on the table and took his jacket from the side. “How about I ask you out, this little princess here, and I would agree, so it’s only you who has to agree.”
While your daughter watched you with the sweetest expression, James didn’t make it much easier for you with the soft smile and the nickname he just gave you.
No one treated you like that before; no one treated your daughter like that before. And for just a moment you forgot about his profession. But only for a moment.
“M-James… you’re… I don’t think people would like to see someone like me with someone fancy like you…” You mumbled, looking down while you played with your daughter's hair.
“Someone like you? Someone who’s always smiling like the world belongs to her? Someone who’s nice and can make the sun shine even on rainy days? Someone like you, who appreciates when she would get just a thank you instead of a tip?” He asked, looking thoughtful for a split second.
You just opened your mouth when you noticed that he had another thought. One you shouldn’t interrupt because he wasn’t finished with whatever he was about to say.
“I’m also just a human, and even though I’m rough and fearful. I just discovered that a woman I don’t even know became my soft spot. Please, give me the chance to get to know you, to let me love you — to let me love this sweet little girl — because I already do,” he continued, and you giggled softly.
You really didn’t mean to giggle, but he was just so adorable when he started to confess what’s going on in his mind. And suddenly it made all sense why he was in the coffee shop whenever you were working there.
Little did he know that you’re not just his soft spot, but that his actions, his daily smiles, and his softness toward you made you feel things you hadn’t felt in a long time. And seeing him acting so soft and lovely around your daughter — it makes you want to get to know him, to let him love the two of you. To give him the love he offers to you as well.
“Okay,” you mumbled and nodded. James' eyes widened, and he looked at you with an intense stare. He didn’t know if that okay was a yes. But his heart started to beat faster already, and he shifted slightly.
“So… is that a… a yes?” He asked and cursed himself for sounding so out of breath. But he just couldn’t help himself; he’s feeling like he needs you like he needs air.
“Yes, it’s a yes. I would love to get to know you better,” you grinned. Your daughter was already on her way out of the coffee shop toward Bucky’s car — he explained where he parked it and what it looked like to her.
“So… We’re going to mine; she can go into the pool and watch all the movies she wants while I cook for us, and we can get to know one another." You nodded once again. Bucky’s big hand placed itself in your back, and he led you out of the small coffee shop and into the freezy, autumn air.
“Let’s see if she still remembers what I said when I explained where the car is parked,” Bucky chuckled as he watched your daughter walking toward his car. Your heart is beating faster, and you feel warmth spreading through your body.
He has watched you for a while now, but he wasn't the only one who watched the other one. You studied him just as much as he studied you. And finally he asked you out — what you thought he would only do in your dreams — but luckily this was not just an amazing dream; this was Bucky really asking you and your daughter out.
“Lasagna?” You asked, watching him. His eyes roamed over your face, and he smirked. They showed nothing but softness and love, and he may have been the most feared mobster in town, but he was so much more. He was Bucky Barnes, a sweet and lovely man who knew exactly how to treat a woman right.
“Definitely lasagne with pudding as dessert.” He chuckled and opened the car before watching Plum get into it and sit in the driver's seat. She looked like she was going to drive the car then. “Maybe with some chocolate sauce. I know you have a sweet tooth; I do have one too, but just for you.”
Tumblr media
Taglist: @pono-pura-vida @sergeantbarnessdoll @rogersbarber @kimmie113080 @sebastianstanisahotmf
370 notes ¡ View notes
goldfades ¡ 3 days ago
Text
COMFORT ─── PAIGE BUECKERS
Tumblr media
⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 2.1k
⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | (request: you’re injured and paige takes care of you w her knowledge from her own injuries) you tear your ACL during a pivotal time in your college basketball career, but paige makes sure you never feel alone.
⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | descriptions of ACL tear/recovery, hurt to comfort, sweet!paige, nothing else... just sweet hurt to comfort
Tumblr media
The world doesn’t end the way you thought it would. It doesn’t explode into fire and chaos. It doesn’t even slow down. Instead, it keeps spinning, indifferent to your pain, while you sit in the sterile silence of the trainer’s office with your head in your hands.
You hear the trainer’s voice—calm, practiced, rehearsed in a way that’s meant to comfort but fails miserably. The words barely register. Partial tear. Complete tear. ACL. Surgery. Out for the season. Each one feels like a slap, sharp and deliberate. They echo in your head, refusing to settle.
You were supposed to be untouchable. Unstoppable. Instead, you’re here, clutching your knee and trying to keep the tears at bay. Except it’s no use, and the first one spills over, hot and unforgiving, sliding down your cheek as you bite down hard on your lip to muffle the sob threatening to break loose.
“Hey,” a voice breaks through the haze, soft but sure, and you’d know it anywhere. Paige.
She’s leaning in the doorway, her face pulled tight with concern, her blue eyes scanning yours like she’s trying to piece you back together. You can tell she’s walked into this kind of scene before—hell, she’s lived it. She doesn’t wait for you to say anything. She just steps inside, closing the door behind her, as if the world outside doesn’t deserve to see you like this.
Her sneakers squeak against the floor as she moves closer, crouching down in front of you. “Talk to me,” she says quietly. Her voice is steady, but her hands are hesitant as they hover near your knee. It’s like she’s afraid touching you will hurt more than it helps.
You shake your head, throat too tight to speak, and look away because meeting her gaze feels like admitting you’re broken.
“Look at me,” Paige says, and this time there’s a firmer edge to her voice, one that doesn’t leave room for argument. “You’re allowed to be upset. You’re allowed to cry. Just—don’t shut me out, okay?”
You sniff, dragging the sleeve of your hoodie across your face like that’s going to fix the mess you feel like. “I—” you start, and your voice cracks. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Her expression softens, and she nods. “I know,” she says simply, like she really does know. Like she’s lived through this storm and found the words she wishes someone had told her.
You don’t fight it anymore. The tears come in full force, and she’s there, catching them in the space between her hands and your shattered pride.
Paige doesn’t flinch when you finally break. She doesn’t pull back, doesn’t make any effort to shush you. Instead, she stays close, her presence steady and grounding as the sobs wrack through you. She waits, letting you cry, like she knows there’s no point trying to stop the flood. She’s been where you are—she understands that grief is messy, raw, and loud.
When you finally start to calm, your chest heaving as you pull in shaky breaths, Paige shifts. Her hands settle on either side of your chair, her fingers curling lightly against the frame. She’s close now, closer than she was before, and it forces you to meet her gaze. Her eyes are so blue it’s almost unnerving, but there’s nothing cold in them. They’re soft and warm and completely locked onto you.
“You’re going to be okay,” she says, her voice low but firm, like she’s willing it into existence. “Not right now. Not tomorrow. But you will be. I promise.”
You huff a bitter laugh, wiping at your tear-streaked cheeks. “How do you know?” you snap, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “You don’t know what this feels like.”
Paige tilts her head, her lips pressing into a thin line. For a second, you’re afraid you’ve pissed her off, but then she shifts again, sitting back on her heels. “You’re right,” she says evenly, and you feel a flicker of guilt until she continues, her voice quiet. “I don’t know exactly what this feels like for you. But I do know what it’s like to have everything ripped away. To feel like your body betrayed you.”
Your eyes widen as the words hit you like a punch to the gut. You don’t have to ask what she’s talking about—her injuries are part of her story, the kind of thing reporters love to milk for drama. You’ve heard the whispers in the locker room, the jokes people make about her being made of glass. But hearing her say it, hearing the crack in her voice as she lays it out for you, is something entirely different.
She leans forward, resting her forearms on her knees as she looks up at you. “When I tore my ACL, I felt like my world ended. Like everything I’d worked for was gone, and I didn’t know who I was without basketball.” She pauses, glancing down at her hands. “And when it happened again? I didn’t think I’d ever come back. But I did. And you will too.”
The words land heavy between you, their weight almost too much to carry. You want to believe her, but the doubts are louder, screaming in your head like a storm. You shake your head, your voice trembling as you speak. “What if I don’t? What if I can’t—”
“You will,” Paige interrupts, her tone sharpening. She reaches out then, her hand closing gently over yours. It’s the first time she’s touched you, and the warmth of her palm against yours is enough to still your spiraling thoughts for a moment. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but this injury? It doesn’t define you. You’re so much more than just a basketball player.”
The sincerity in her voice catches you off guard. She’s not just saying it to make you feel better—it’s like she genuinely believes it, like she sees something in you that you can’t see in yourself.
For the first time since the trainer delivered the news, you feel the tiniest flicker of something—hope, maybe. It’s faint and fragile, but it’s there, tucked beneath the layers of hurt and doubt.
You nod slowly, your voice barely a whisper. “I’m scared.”
Paige’s grip on your hand tightens, just enough to ground you. “I know,” she says softly. “And that’s okay. But you don’t have to do this alone, okay? I’ve got you.”
Her words settle over you like a blanket, their warmth chasing away some of the chill that’s been clinging to you all day. You don’t say anything, but the way your fingers curl around hers is enough.
In that moment, you know this won’t be easy. It won’t be quick. But with Paige by your side, maybe—just maybe—you’ll find your way through.
A week passes, but it feels like a lifetime. In some ways, the days blur together—endless stretches of ice packs, pain meds, and quiet moments spent on the couch as your knee heals, your body’s recovery slower than you ever thought possible. The swelling subsides little by little, but the emotional toll still lingers. It’s not just the injury itself; it’s everything that comes with it—the sense of being lost, of not knowing who you are without the game you’ve built your life around.
Through it all, Paige is there. Every step. Every moment.
You didn’t ask her to stay. You didn’t need to. She just… did. She’s in your apartment more than you are, rearranging the furniture to make sure it’s easier for you to move around, grabbing your crutches when you forget them, offering you soft smiles that somehow make everything feel less heavy.
At first, you thought it would be temporary. Maybe she’d check in now and then, offer a few encouraging words, and then go back to her life. But Paige doesn’t leave. She doesn’t even give you a chance to feel like a burden before she’s sitting next to you, flipping through a medical textbook she found in your living room, looking up at you with that concerned-but-gentle expression as she explains exactly what your recovery is going to look like.
“You need to ice it after every physical therapy session, okay?” she says one morning, kneeling beside you on the couch. Her face is close—too close, but you don’t mind it. “And remember, no jumping for at least three months. Even if it feels okay, you’ve got to take it slow.”
You nod, your attention drifting to the way her hair falls into her eyes, the soft blue of her UConn hoodie clinging to her frame. She’s spent the last few days talking you through every little detail, but you’re more focused on the way her presence fills the space, making the room feel less empty. Less… lonely.
She doesn’t seem to mind when you have to ask the same questions over and over, doesn’t grow frustrated when you get teary or frustrated with yourself. She just holds you—gently, quietly, as if she’s got all the time in the world to wait for you to heal.
A few days in, you wake up from a nap to find her sitting on the floor beside you, her back against the couch, her head tilted back against the armrest as she takes a short rest. You smile faintly, surprised at how natural it feels to have her here, like this.
She stirs as you move, glancing up at you with a sleepy smile. “Hey, you’re up,” she says, pushing herself into a sitting position. She doesn’t even look tired, though you know she’s been here, practically living with you. The sleep-deprived bags under her eyes tell a different story, but she never complains. She just brushes it off and makes sure you’re okay.
“You don’t have to keep doing this, you know,” you murmur, your voice soft but filled with a weight you hadn’t expected to carry. “I mean, you’ve got your own stuff to do. Your recovery, your workouts—”
“Don’t,” she interrupts, her eyes serious. She reaches out to take your hand, her grip warm and steady. “You’re not a burden. You’re never a burden to me, okay?”
You swallow, the lump in your throat growing thicker. The truth is, you want to believe her, but you can’t shake the guilt that gnaws at you. It’s been a week, and Paige hasn’t left your side, hasn’t hesitated to show up for you in every way possible. She doesn’t even hesitate when she has to pick you up from your appointments, drive you around, carry your bags—her whole world seems to revolve around making sure you’re okay.
“I’m here because I want to be here,” she adds softly, her thumb running over the back of your hand. “I know what it’s like to be in your shoes, and I’m not going anywhere.”
She says it so easily, so confidently. You can see it in the way she moves, the way she holds herself around you. There’s a softness to her that’s more than just kindness. It’s her care, her understanding, her quiet insistence that you will get through this.
Later that evening, after another grueling round of physical therapy, you slump down onto the couch in exhaustion, your leg elevated with an ice pack resting on your knee. Paige sits next to you, gently brushing your hair back from your forehead. You glance at her, trying to keep your voice light. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Take care of me like this. I mean, it’s not like you don’t have your own recovery stuff going on, too. And yet, here you are—every single day.”
Paige’s smile is soft, but there’s something fierce behind it. She doesn’t look away as she answers, her voice quiet but filled with conviction. “Because I love you.”
You blink at her, the words catching you off guard. There’s a warmth in your chest that spreads like wildfire, catching you off guard, even as you try to fight it. But you can’t. Not with Paige here, not with the way she’s been by your side without hesitation, without complaint.
You pull your knee up, adjusting it so you can sit facing her. “I love you too,” you murmur, the words slipping out before you can second-guess them.
She tilts her head, her smile gentle and soft, her eyes searching yours like she’s waiting for something more. “You don’t have to say it just because I did,” she teases lightly. But you can see the glimmer of emotion in her eyes, the way she holds your gaze a moment longer before looking away.
But then, just like that, she’s leaning over to gently press a kiss to your temple. The touch is sweet, tender, and full of love—like a promise, a reminder that, no matter what happens with your knee, she’ll be there.
In that moment, with her warmth beside you, you know that you don’t have to walk this road alone. Paige will carry you through this. And maybe—just maybe—you can find your way back to the game, to yourself, with her by your side.
Tumblr media
↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !
↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡
334 notes ¡ View notes
endless-ineffabilities ¡ 2 days ago
Text
Tumblr media
It's not like I'm falling in love, I just want ya to do me no good (and you look like you could) (18+)
Ewan Mitchell x actress!reader
Ewan Mitchell isn't one for parties, but for you? He'd make an exception. Surrounded by stars at the GQ party, his revered muse on the big screen becomes a twisted angel in his arms—leaving him seeing stars again as he finds bliss within your warmth.
word count: 6.7k
main masterlist ▪︎ teaser
Tumblr media
Ewan thought he could keep up the celebrity facade, just for the night at least, but the ceaseless barrage of mingling is starting to get to him.
The boo hurled at him right outside the establishment still echoes in his ears. Maybe it wasn't even about him, but his annoyance had been triggered. He decides that it all has gotten to him. What a load of bull.
He had been on the fence about being tapped as an honouree of a lifestyle magazine. Like it means anything. What does this have to do with being an actor? How is this supposed to help his craft? He might as well have been tapped to do one of those videos where he shows everyone what's in his bag.
"It's exposure," his team had chirped in unison, practically reading from a PR handbook.
This wasn't the industry he'd envisioned when he first fell in love with the craft. But none of this is about craft. It's all publicity fodder, all noise.
What he really wants—what his entire being craves—is a BAFTA, a Golden Globe, a SAG award. Hell, he would trade every glitzy dinner party invite for the faintest whiff of Oscar buzz. That was the dream.
Instead, here he is, tethered to a seat at one of four long tables, littered with stars of every calibre—from industry titans to the disposable nobodies who would be forgotten by this time next month.
He had been encouraged to make connections. Socialize. He translated this as a polite way of being told to suck up to people. Maybe a casting director would remember him. Maybe some producer would pass his name along. Easy.
Flattery will get you everywhere in this business.
But at any given time, he would much rather suck on a bloody spliff.
Leaning over to Davey, he says, "I might sneak out for a smoke or something. That's fine, right?"
Davey snickers, sensing Ewan's agitation. "Oh, if you're asking me, I say do whatever you want, mate."
But then someone from his team, straight-laced, precious Lindsay, lets him know otherwise. "Ewan, I'd advise you to sit still for now. What if they call you up some time during dinner?"
Ewan doubles down, his leg anxiously shaking under the table. "Are they going to call on me?"
Lindsay balks. She hasn't heard Ewan sound this pressed before. "Well, we weren't told but—"
"Then I can go. They wouldn't care."
"Ewan, just—"
"Sorry, Lind, but I gotta take a breather. This is all just—"
Lindsay waves him off, resigned. Ewan has always been an easy client to manage, so she can't bring herself to begrudge him this. "Fine, whatever. Just make sure to hide the cigarette if the photographer shows up."
"Sure," he mutters, not meaning it in the slightest. Nobody would care if he is spotted smoking. They should be grateful he is not among the deviants doing lines in the bathroom.
He abruptly gets up from his seat, and backs right into... you.
Of all people. Ewan feels the blood drain from his face, his breath hitching as disbelief engulfs him. His hand instinctively rises, brushing against the silken warmth of flawless skin exposed by your backless dress. The contact sends a jolt through him, and for a moment, he's certain he might pass out. You—right here, in the flesh.
You flash him a dazzling, effortless smile and murmur, "Oops, excuse me," your voice a melodic tease that leaves him utterly undone.
"Oh, no... no problem." He stammers, fully aware that he should be the one begging pardon.
You hold his gaze, ensnaring him so effortlessly. He realises how stupid he must look, with his mouth parted and his eyes wide. He should say his name. He should introduce himself, goddamnit.
But the moment shatters when someone calls your name. You step away without hesitation, and Ewan feels the loss acutely, like an unhooked fish left gasping on dry land.
Then it comes. That fucking sound.
The high-pitched squeal you let out is sharp, almost grating, but somehow it still strikes him as endearing. He'd probably hate it if it didn't come from you.
"Hi! Oh my god, how are you? I haven't seen you since our ski trip in Courmayeur!" Your voice carries, your excitement encroaching his space like an air of warmth.
Ewan follows your trajectory, his eyes trailing as you glide over to Eve Hewson. The two of you embrace like old friends, giggling like co-conspirators, your champagne glasses clinking softly.
He nearly rolls his eyes but catches himself. He knows he's being ridiculous, standing there like a sulking idiot, but the irritation bites anyway. He wants to blame the squeal, or the scene you're making, or the way you seem so goddamn comfortable in this world of chatter and pomp.
But that's not quite it.
He knows the truth, and it gnaws at him like a persistent itch he can't scratch. He's annoyed because he wanted you—your dazzling smile, your undivided attention—to be aimed at him.
He forces his feet to move, making his way down the side hall, where the din of the party fades into muffled chaos. He needs a breather, a moment to reset, but even here, your presence clings to him like static.
It's maddening.
Ewan has spent years watching you. On screens, in interviews, on magazine covers. You're like an open book he's memorised, every detail imprinted on his mind.
That birthmark beneath your right shoulder blade, briefly exposed in that love scene with Glen Powell. He remembers it, even though the camera barely lingered. The way your laugh bursts out unguarded, lighting up every corner of a room.
In one interview, you mentioned Meisner as your go-to technique, and it stuck with him. Of course you'd say Meisner, he thought at the time, like you were someone close to him, because you're all about connection, about living truthfully in the moment.
And here you are, in the same place as him, vibrant and ever so magnetic. Princess of every party, muse of the silver screen.
But you don't know him.
Tumblr media
You didn't think you would be attending the British GQ party, but one of your Londoner friends happened to be throwing their birthday bash the night before, so you thought—why the hell not?
You were, of course, invited. Originally, the invite had been for the American GQ Men of the Year party the week prior, but filming schedules had other ideas. For the past two months, you'd been stranded in the icy landscapes of Winnipeg, immersed in the demanding shoot of David Lowery's latest thriller.
Grueling days and endless takes had left you with little energy for glamour. But now, with a few weeks off and the American crew taking a well-earned Thanksgiving break, you finally have some breathing room.
The London event seems like a perfect way to ease back into the whirlwind. And it doesn't disappoint.
The Roof Gardens is buzzing, the atmosphere heavy with the scent of expensive perfume and free-flowing champagne. You glide through it like you belong—because you do. Years of this kind of schmoozing have taught you how to navigate these waters. A charming smile here, a fleeting hug there, a bit of banter with a photographer who asks for the best angle.
You find yourself talking to your old castmate Eve Hewson near the bar, the two of you imbibing something bubbly and dry. She looks luminous as always, her dark hair framing her sharp, mischievous grin.
"Winnipeg, though?" Eve says, her tone incredulous as she leans in. "What the hell is Lowery making you do out there? Freeze to death for art?"
"Pretty much," you laugh, savouring the chill of your drink. "But it's worth it, trust me. The script is absolutely incredible. I just wish the weather wasn't trying to kill me."
"Classic Lowery. He probably thinks the suffering adds authenticity or some shit."
"Probably," you agree, rolling your eyes. For some reason, you find yourself circling back to an earlier incident.
"By the way," you say, leaning a little closer to Eve, "do you know who that guy was? The one I bumped into earlier?"
"Which guy?"
"Clip-on earring. Tall, kind of broody-looking in an overcoat? Wasn't talking much, just sort of... cruising awkwardly."
Eve shrugs, clearly drawing a blank. "I have no idea. Was he hot?"
It only takes you a second to consider this. "I mean, sure. In a tortured artist kind of way. Poor schmuck looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here."
"Oh!" Eve says, snapping her fingers. "Wait, he might be one of the honourees."
You arch a brow. "Not a goddamn influencer, right?"
Eve shakes her head. "No, don't worry. I think he's in that Game of Thrones spinoff. What's it called? House of Dragons?"
"Never saw it." You didn't have the time, truth be told. Also, the last seasons of its predecessor had been enough to edge it off your watchlist.
She taps her chin, thinking. "Wait... oh! Wasn't he that nerd in the movie with Jacob and Barry? Saltburn!"
"Oh my god. That's him? He did great in that role."
"Right? I could not have pointed him out. Kind of a chameleon, I guess."
"Guess so," you agree, the curiosity lingering.
The night unfolds exactly as expected. You exchange quips with Harris Dickinson, who flirts with you just enough to keep things interesting. You catch up with Nicole Kidman, who had been somewhat of a mentor to you when you acted alongside her in your third film at just 16. Jude Law joins your circle at one point, his charm as effortless as ever, and for a while, it feels like just another night on the circuit.
By the time you step outside into the crisp evening air, you're craving a bit of quiet. The gardens around the pavilion are softly lit, the gentle glow of fairy light casting long shadows over the manicured hedges. You pull your vape from your Loewe clutch, taking a long drag as you lean against a cold marble railing.
That's when you notice him again.
He's standing a few feet away, partially obscured by a stone pillar, a cigarette burning between his fingers. The faint smell of tobacco taints the pristine air, and you catch the same restless energy he had earlier.
You wander closer, the soft click of your heels against the stone catching his attention. He glances up, startled, as if he hadn't expected anyone else to venture out here.
"Hey," you say casually, holding your vape up as you stop beside him. "Can you hold this for a sec?"
Before he can respond, you hand him your purse, crouching slightly to tighten the strap on your heel.
He freezes, staring at the outstretched object. "Uh... sure," he relents, albeit hesitantly.
You straighten after a minute, taking the purse back with a quick "Thanks," and give him a once-over. Up close, he's sharper, more distinct. There's something remarkably intense about him that wasn't obvious before.
"I'm Ewan... Mitchell," he blurts, his words a little rushed.
You smile, tilting your head. "Nice to meet you, Ewan."
He fumbles for a response, his cigarette dangling precariously from his fingers. "I, uh, think we bumped into each other earlier. Inside."
"Yeah," you say lightly, your lips curving into a faint smirk. "I like your outfit, by the way. Very vampiric. Dior, right?"
He blinks, then chuckles softly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Yeah. Thanks. I like you too... I mean, I like... I like your dress, too."
You laugh at the accidental remark. There's something undeniably charming about him, despite his nervousness. "Why, thank you, Ewan."
The blush that creeps on his cheeks shows through the powder. He must have felt it, because he immediately trained his gaze down to his polished shoes.
Cute. So you make it your mission to break through his shell. These events tend to get repetitive after a while, but maybe tonight will be a lovely exception.
And so the game begins.
Tumblr media
The two of you peacefully take hits of your respective choices of poison, your bubblegum-flavoured vapour melding in the air with his Marlboro red.
"You're quiet," you point out the obvious eventually, a teasing grin playing at your lips.
He almost laughs at the understatement but only shrugs. "Not much to say, I suppose."
"Oh, I doubt that." You lean against the balustrade, studying him. Ewan feels his pulse quicken under the weight of it.
You're so at ease. It's infuriatingly attractive. Your disarming allure, your grace in this world of make-believe, only deepens his self-consciousness. He knows what he must look like: an odd man out, fumbling at the edges of fame while you shine at the centre of it all.
He exhales shakily and finally replies, "Don't let me bore you."
"You're not boring me," you reassure him, before playfully adding, "Not yet at least."
There's a flicker of something unclear behind your eyes when you move closer and ask, "So what are you thinking?"
What he's thinking is that he's out of his depth, that he hasn't felt this kind of raw attraction in years—if ever. He's thinking you're the kind of woman who doesn't even have to command attention, and he's already hopelessly drawn in. But what he says is, "Just... wondering how I got here."
Your laugh is soft, rich with amusement. "To this party?"
"Or this moment."
His words surprise him, his ears burning as they register. You don't say anything, causing Ewan's nerves to spike. Did he sound too eager? Too pathetic?
But then, you smile. That damned megawatt smile that looks even better in person than on screen. "Well, it's a good place to be, isn't it?"
You lean a fraction closer, and could swear his heart is about to burst out of his chest.
"Do you always look so serious?" you ask, your gaze flicking to his lips, admiring the way they seem to be in a state of being perpetually curled. "Or is it just the brooding artist thing?"
"I'll take it if it works," he manages, his voice uneven.
"Oh, it's working," you say softly.
Ewan shifts his weight, tapping the cigarette against the edge of the balustrade. "Sorry, I just... I don't get it. These things. Everyone pretending they know everyone, like it's all some bloody performance."
You exhale a stream of vapour, watching it swirl into the night. He's finally opening up, and there is no way you're letting this slide. "It is a performance," you reply. "That's the point."
He shakes his head, gazing at you with a genuine softness you haven't been at the receiving end of in far too long. "But why? Why not just let the work speak for itself?"
There's something innocent in the way he says it, and it's endearing and definitely rare among your crowd. Ewan Mitchell isn't like the men you usually find at these industry events. He's no preening peacock, no walking cologne ad praying to be noticed.
There's something boyish in the way he fidgets, and yet also something undeniably grown in the way his eyes linger on you when he thinks you're not looking.
You reply, "It's so people know who you are. Why would anyone want to go see your movie if they don't give a shit about you?"
"You see, darling, that's where talent comes into play."
"Hmm, okay. But do you not know how many thousands upon thousands of aspiring actors come to LA every year just to witness the death of their dreams, because nobody gave a shit about who they are? And I'm certain that a lot of them can outact us under the table."
Ewan takes a slow drag from his cigarette, buying himself time. The way you said "us" sends a thrill through him he's desperately trying to smother. "Well," he begins, "if you're talented enough, you'll eventually catch a break. People notice, don't they?"
"Talent isn't everything," you point out. "You need to have drive."
"That I have," he counters quickly, his voice laced with quiet conviction. He wouldn't have been able to climb out of a life of near-guaranteed anonymity in Derbyshire if he didn't possess drive. There's a confidence in him now, a spark you seem to notice, judging by the faint curve of your lips.
"And charisma," you add, your smile widening, "which, clearly, you also have."
"Thank you," he says on instinct. There's a pause, just long enough for him to wonder if he's again blushing under your watchful gaze.
"And," you continue, dragging the word out with deliberate weight, "in this day and age, you need to get people talking."
Ewan exhales, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "How do I do that, superstar?"
"A big, fat scandal usually does the trick." Your voice is casual, but your eyes gleam with mischief.
"Oh, brilliant," he deadpans. His sarcasm earns him another laugh, and he feels it in his chest like a warm shockwave.
"Or... you could date someone famous. Get on the PR train."
Ewan shakes his head, his brow furrowing. "Not for me, I think."
You drift closer, eyes narrowing slightly as if you're sizing him up. "Oh really? You wouldn't get with me if you had the chance?"
The question lands like a lit match in the conversation. He swallows nervously, "Of... of course I would. But I don't want it to be manufactured."
"How would it go then?" There's no mocking in your question, no cruelty in your smile—just curiosity, maybe a touch of challenge.
He falters, betraying the battle waging between his nerves and his growing comfort in your company. "How would what go?"
"How would you, Ewan Mitchell, get me?"
His throat goes dry. He considers dodging it, turning the conversation back to you with one of the rehearsed quips he uses for interviews. But that feels cheap in the face of your boldness, so unabashed and expectant. "Well, I'd ask you on a date."
"And I'd say yes... go on."
"And we'll go to... the cinema," he says simply, and for the first time tonight, he doesn't feel like treading water.
You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh, you're such a purist."
"What's wrong with that?" he asks, a touch defensive but also playful, emboldened by your attention.
"Nothing, you tortured artist, you," you tease, your tone lilting. "And then what?"
"Then... we could grab dinner or—"
"Would you kiss me?" you interrupt, your voice low and threaded with something heavier. Most would hesitate, worrying they'd gone too far, but you're not like most people. You never have been.
"If you... if you wanted me to," he replies, his own voice rough with honesty.
"But would you want to?"
His gaze flickers to your lips for the briefest of moments before snapping back to your eyes. The words spill out of him. "I'd be a fucking idiot not to want to kiss you, darling."
Back in the pavilion, music from the DJ booth intensifies, signalling the post-dinner stage of the festivities. But the booming bass that reverberates is nothing compared to the beating of your hearts.
"On this hypothetical date... do we take it a step further?"
Ewan's thoughts run wild, and they are betrayed by the way his pupils dilate. "What do you mean?"
"I am talking about hooking up." Your words are relaxed, but the way you say them is anything but. They drip with intention, with heat, as if you're privy to the fact that he has pictured that scenario a hundred times over.
"What do you take me for?"
"A warm-blooded man who's clearly attracted to me... and who I'm also attracted to."
"You like me?" he whispers hoarsely.
Instead of answering, you close the distance, your lips brushing featherlight against his. The tentative touch sets him ablaze. When you press harder, surer, he melts into you. His hands tremble as they come up to your waist, anchoring himself in the reality of you.
"Fuck me," he breathes when you pull back, leaving him dazed. "I can't—"
"Do this?" you ask, your lips hovering over his, pulling at the fringes of his restraint.
"No... I mean, I can't believe I'm kissing you." He stumbles over his words, clearly in awe. "I love you."
It's your turn to be taken aback. "Woah, what?"
"I mean, I've loved your work," he stammers. "You inspire me as an actor, you know. I've watched you since your early days. You're fucking amazing."
"Mmm." When he allows his hand to drift along your spine, you ask, "Have you ever... fantasized about... sleeping with me?"
"I... I don't—"
"I'm used to it. Being looked at. Thought of, in that way." There's a tinge of raw sensitivity in your admission, letting him see the real you.
Ewan wants more of it. After just a taste of who you are underneath the surface, he is left craving the rest. "Then I think you know my answer," he says.
You let out a low hum. "I know."
"You're such a goddamn liability," he murmurs, managing to sound equal parts affectionate and exasperated.
"I know that too. Come with me," you say, your tone suddenly commanding. You grab his hand, lacing your fingers through his, and tug him towards the pavilion. He follows without a shred of hesitation, his heart pounding so hard it feels like it might burst out of his chest.
The two of you weave through the edges of the party, slipping past clusters of inebriated guests until you find yourself in the dimly lit, unattended coatroom. The small space is as luxurious as the rest of the venue, the perfect backdrop for the tension threatening to explode.
The moment the lock on the door clicks shut, Ewan's restraint snaps like a taut wire. His hands cradle your face as he initiates the kiss this time, his hunger for you bleeding through every press of his lips.
The rest of the party fades away, and there is only you. He didn't care about any of it anyway.
"You are so fucking hot," he groans into the kiss. "I can't believe this is happening."
"Believe it, handsome," you purr, sliding your hands down the material of his coat.
"Are you sure about this?" His question comes out as a whisper, his forehead resting against yours, his cigarette-scented breath fanning your face.
"Ewan," you say, "get on with it before they all notice we've been gone too long."
He huffs out a nervous laugh. "The way you talk makes me think you wouldn't give a shit."
"No, I wouldn't," you confirm, your grin wicked. "They should fucking wait for us."
"You have an attitude, princess," he mutters, his fingers digging into your exposed back.
"Been told I have a big head," you joke.
He hums, before dropping a line that floors you. "Bet you have a sweet pussy, too."
Your eyes flash with amusement, drawing closer until your lips graze his Dior earring. "Wanna find out?"
"Fuckin' hell," his breath shudders out of him, "yes... yes... yes." He knew it might make him come across as desperate, as a damn simp, but he could not bring himself to give a single flying fuck. Not when you perch atop the gleaming marble edge of the table, and spread each leg out to the side, tantalisingly slow. A precious flower to be plucked, right there for the taking.
For him. He feels unworthy. He has half a mind to check the room for cameras—maybe this is all a prank. But what a lascivious, cruel prank that would be.
Is this some twisted initiation ritual into the Hollywood elite?
You trail a smooth, manicured finger along his jawline, igniting a shiver that ripples down his spine. His nerves come alive under your touch, each one crackling with electric anticipation, flipping a switch deep within him directly connected to his cock.
As he has revered you as a goddess on the silver screen all these years, he now reveres you in reality, sinking to his knees.
"Don't keep me waiting," you whisper silkily.
Ewan takes a steadying breath, before diving in. His hands lift the smooth material of your dress, revealing the sacred area between your legs, barely covered in a white sliver of a thong. You might as well have come with no underwear.
The coat suddenly feels too constricting, so he unbuttons it with a sharp motion, letting the heavy garment slide to the floor. But almost immediately, a flicker of concern crosses his face. The Dior number is a rental, and if it gets damaged, it won't be his head on the block—it'll be Davey's. With a hint of sheepishness, he retrieves it, carefully draping it over the back of an upholstered chair.
You notice the gesture, subtle but telling. He doesn’t quite belong to your world—or perhaps he does, but he moves through it without succumbing to its superficial trappings. Your friend Timothée wouldn’t have spared the coat a second glance, long since desensitized to the weight of designer labels.
But Ewan? He handles it all with a kind of quiet reverence, as if even in a borrowed piece of luxury, he remains grounded in something real.
And it only intensifies your desire for him.
There's a wanton intrigue in your eyes as you take in the bareness of his torso. His muscles are defined, but not in the off-putting gym rat kind of way. Instead, there's a natural leanness to his form—a testament to a body honed not for vanity, but for purpose.
Kneeling before you, eyes bright with awe, he gets right down to work. He pushes the fabric of your dress higher, out of his way, and you help him along, your fist bunching the skirt to one side.
"God, you're... perfect," he whispers. His palms rest on your thighs, and when his lips press to the sensitive skin just above your knee, you let out an involuntary sound that draws a low groan from his throat.
"Ewan," you breathe impatiently, unable to conceal your need for him. But he doesn't rush, dragging his mouth higher, trailing kisses along your inner thigh, his eyes fluttering closed as he savours the sensation.
He pauses just before pulling down the waistband of your thong, glancing up at you with wide, darkened eyes. "Tell me if I'm... if I'm doing too much," he says, almost shyly.
"You're not doing enough," you reply. "Keep going."
So he does. He slides the white lace down your ankles, then presses his mouth to your core, his tongue pushing between your folds with a fervour that makes your head fall back. His guttural moan is muffled as he goes down on you, the vibration of it causing heat to pool in your lower belly. You press the flat stem of your heel to the back of his head, drawing him closer.
"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp aloud, your hips rolling instinctively against his mouth as he works you over. He licks you, sloppy and desperate, his inexperience showing but somehow making it even better. He's so determined to give you pleasure, so eager to make you come undone, that he doesn't care about anything else.
He doesn't care about acting like a starved animal as he sucks on your pussy. All Ewan wishes for, in that very moment, is that you cum all over him—the sweet substance flooding his tongue, dripping down his chin, far more sumptuous than everything they have on offer in the party's banquet.
He's seen you fake an orgasm for a scene before, but this is real.
His tongue flicks over your bud, and when you cry out, he doubles his efforts. He wraps his lips around the aching nub to suck gently, then slides a finger into you, curling it just right. Adding another, he increases the pace, his fingertips pulsing into that damned spot within your walls each time.
The defined bridge of his nose is flush against your clit as he moves, augmenting your pleasure. The whole thing is messy, unrefined, and so damn good that it has you teetering on the edge in no time.
Your thighs quiver around his head, and when your orgasm crashes over you, you clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sound. Ewan keeps going, his tongue and fingers refusing to let up, coaxing every last shudder from you until you're trembling and gasping for air.
"Holy. Shit." You lean back on your elbows to recuperate as white spots flood your vision.
"Did I... was that... was that good?" he asks with his lips shiny and swollen, practically yearning for your approval.
"Yeah," you manage, but it escapes your lips as a small, incoherent sigh.
"Hmm? What? What was that... baby?"
Baby, he says. But with the way, he's being so sweet, so dumbstruck, he's certainly the baby in this dynamic.
"More," you give him a better answer, "C'mere." You pull him up to your level, tasting yourself on his lips. Leveraging your legs around his waist, you keep him caged in. The outline of his hardened cock presses against your pelvis, and when you grind into him, his teeth clamp down on your bottom lip.
"Aghhh, hey!"
"Shit, I'm sorry—"
"It's okay," you whisper, not letting him pull away. "I liked it. And I want more."
"Anything, baby," he promises, and the raw honesty in his tone makes your chest tighten. "Anything you want. I'll—fuck—I'll give it to you. I'm all yours."
You nod once, before he claims your lips again in a bruising kiss. One of the thin straps of your dress falls from your shoulder, and he visibly shivers in excitement at the sight of your exposed breast.
"Fuck," he sighs, his hand coming up almost hesitantly to cup you. His thumb brushes over your nipple, as he takes you in with lust-clouded eyes. He leans down and captures the flesh with his mouth, his tongue swirling around your tender peak until you're left squirming.
You reach for him, fumbling with his belt and his zipper, and he helps you, his movements even more hurried and uncoordinated than yours.
When he frees himself, you can't help but stare—his cock is long and hard, already slick with precum. The sight makes your mouth water, and when you drag your gaze back up to his face, you find him watching you, his expression somewhere between bashful and utterly wrecked.
Ewan's hair, once gelled to immaculate perfection, now lies in disarray. He'll need to borrow your comb before he dares rejoin the party. The lower half of his face bears the unmistakable traces of cum and smudged rouge, a vivid testament to the chaotic indulgences of the evening. And somewhere in the frenzy of fumbling and fondling, his clip-on Dior earring has gone astray. He feels the absence keenly, like a phantom limb, yet he resigns himself to the loss—for now, it's a dilemma best left for another moment.
"You're staring," he says, an uneasy laugh escaping him, but there's heat in his gaze, a newfound confidence grounding his nerves.
"Because I like what I see," you reply.
"Tell me if this is too much," he says, his anxiety resurfacing through the haze of lust. It's endearing—so much so that you can't help but smile.
"Ewan," you say firmly. "I want everything."
He groans faintly as he lines himself up. Carefully, he pushes into you, and the stretch is exquisite, sending a shiver rippling up your spine. You both moan, the sound echoing in the quiet of the room. He buries himself to the hilt, pausing to catch his breath, his fingers digging into your hips.
"Fuck, oh fuck," he murmurs, looking down at where your bodies meet. "Your pussy feels so good."
The compliment makes you feel something you can't pinpoint, but there’s no time to dwell on it. He starts to move, his thrusts tentative at first, testing the waters. But the whorish mewls spilling from your lips spur him on, and soon, he finds a rhythm—deep, steady, and just rough enough to leave you begging for more.
"Fuck, Ewan," you gasp, your nails scraping lightly against his back. "Yeah... just like that."
Your words are the only encouragement he needs. His pace quickens, and his grip on you tightens as if he's about to confess that he wants to own you. He's already yours, so it's only fair, isn't it?
He's spent years fantasizing about how your pussy would feel, squeezing his cock like a goddamn vice, and he's happy to find out that his imagination is nothing compared to the real thing.
"So sexy, baby," he mutters, his voice muffled as he nips at your neck. "Better than I ever—" He cuts himself off with a groan, his teeth grazing your skin.
You raise your legs higher up his torso to draw him deeper. The angle sends a bolt of pleasure through you, and your moans grow louder despite your attempts to keep quiet.
Then, suddenly, the doorknob rattles.
Both of you freeze, Ewan still buried deep inside your fleshy walls, his eyes wide with panic. The sound of a familiar voice seeps through the door, followed by a frustrated sigh.
"Where the hell did I leave my phone?" It's your friend, Florence Pugh. Her voice is unmistakable, and the realisation makes your stomach drop.
Ewan’s lips form a silent oh my God. You bite back a laugh, pressing a hand over your mouth as Florence jiggles the doorknob again.
"Seriously?" she mutters. "Locked? For fuck's sake."
You hear her footsteps retreat, her voice fading as she calls out to someone else. "Have you seen my phone? I swear I left it out here."
The moment the coast is clear, you both exhale in unison, the tension breaking into a mix of laughter and relief. Ewan drops his forehead to your shoulder, shaking his head. "This is insane," he whispers, though he doesn't feel a single ounce of regret.
"You're the one who couldn't keep it in his pants," you tease, rolling your hips slightly to remind him of your still-connected bodies.
His response is a low growl, and he resumes his thrusts, harder this time, filled with unfiltered desire. The near-miss only seems to have fueled him, the snap of his hips more frantic, more intense. The sound of your bodies colliding fills the room—mumbled curses, breathless moans, sticky slapping of flesh meeting flesh.
"God, you're incredible," he says, his voice strained. "I can't get enough of you."
You feel the coil in your belly tightening again, the pressure building with each thrust. Your delicate fingers dig into his shoulders, and he groans at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you. His rhythm falters for only a second before he recovers.
"Ewan," you gasp, your voice breaking. "I'm so close—don't stop."
"Come for me, baby," he says, his hand slipping between your bodies to find your clit. It sends you spiraling, your climax crashing over you like a tidal wave. You cry out, your body tensing and shuddering beneath him as he continues to move, chasing his own release.
He reaches up and twists your nipple, the sharp sensation making you gasp just before he comes. The sight of you—head thrown back, breast bouncing free from your designer gown, your smudged red lips parted in bliss—drives him to the brink. With a strangled growl, he slams into you one final time. His body shakes as he spills inside you, the warmth of his release flooding you completely. You both tremble in the aftermath, caught in the intensity of the moment, gasping for air, drenched in sweat and tangled in raw desire.
You blink lazily at him, a beautiful mess of tousled hair and make-up in dire need of a retouch. "Still think I'm a liability?" you ask.
"Oh, absolutely. But one worth keeping anyway."
Tumblr media
Ewan sits in his dimly lit London apartment, the glow of his phone the only other source of light in the room. A half-empty bottle of Guinness sits forgotten on his coffee table. The screen displays your Instagram profile—your impossibly gorgeous face beaming at him from your latest post, which happens to be a professional photograph of you at the GQ party.
His finger hovers above the Follow button like it's the trigger of a detonator.
His newly-created account is laughably barren—no posts, no followers, no following. Just a desperate, last-ditch attempt to tether himself back to you, even if only digitally.
Ewan had always sworn off social media, claiming it wasn't his style, that he preferred the privacy and the mystique. Yet, here he is, spiraling, drunk on the memory of you and of that night.
The coatroom had been a blur. The attendant had returned far too soon, a flurry of apologies as Florence appeared behind her, claiming her phone from her coat pocket with a triumphant smirk.
Ewan remembers how Florence had tugged you aside, your laughter ringing out as she swiped her thumb across your lips, erasing the evidence of that kiss—or maybe just rearranging it. You had been whisked away to the ladies' room, leaving him standing there, disheveled, speechless, and utterly entranced. He hadn't even managed to get your number.
It's been days since, but he still feels the ghost of your touch, the echo of your moans, the scent of you on his skin. He's tried to focus, tried to pick up his scripts, but his mind keeps replaying the way you looked as you came.
He has even rewatched a film of yours, with special attention paid to a particular love scene. Watching it over and over, repeatedly going back to the timestamp where you're seen riding your male costar.
He felt aroused watching you. Also, incredibly fucking jealous.
"Pathetic," he mutters to himself, his finger still hovering. His thumb twitches, brushing the screen, but before he can commit to his descent into full-blown thirst, his phone buzzes violently, the vibration startling him into dropping it onto the couch.
"Shit." He snatches it back up, squinting at the screen. It's a call from his agent.
"Ewan," comes the voice on the other end, crisp and faintly incredulous. "What the hell did you do at that party?"
His heart stops for a beat. "Uh... what?"
"The party. The GQ one. The one where you disappeared for, what, an hour? Maybe more?"
Ewan's brain scrambles. "I don't—I mean, I just mingled. Like you suggested,” he stammers, his voice cracking slightly. "Why?"
"Because," the agent says, drawing out the word like it's a prize reveal, "you've been shortlisted for a chemistry test next week."
"A chemistry test?" Ewan echoes, blinking. "For what?"
"For her film," his agent says, emphasizing the pronoun like it's blasphemous not to know who you are. "It's one of those secret big-budget Hollywood projects only top actors are getting called for. We didn't submit you because—well, not to be rude, but you're not exactly on their radar for that level yet."
Ewan's heart starts pounding. He sits up straighter, gripping the phone tighter. "Wait, wait. What film? Who's—who's her?"
But he already knows the answer.
His agent drops your name, exasperated now. "Apparently she petitioned for you, Ewan. Said you'd be perfect. So what did you do?”
Ewan is stunned into silence. He leans back against the couch, a slow grin spreading across his face as the pieces click into place. You. You'd done this. You’d reached out and used your pull to bring him into your orbit again.
"What did I do?" he repeats. "Oh, nothing much. Just... made an impression."
"Well, whatever it was, it worked. Chemistry tests are next week in L.A. They'll send over the details. And Ewan," the agent pauses, lowering their voice slightly, "don't screw this up. This is huge."
"I won't," Ewan says, his tone confident now. "I promise."
When the call ends, he stares at his phone for a long moment, the grin still lingering. He glances back at your Instagram profile, his thumb poised over the Follow button again. Then he snorts, tossing the phone onto the cushion beside him.
"What's the point?” he mutters to himself, his grin turning into a full-on self-satisfied smirk. "I'll see you soon enough."
He reaches for the bottle of Guinness instead, lifting it in a silent toast to fate—or whatever it is that's tied you two together.
Something came out of all that mingling after all.
Tumblr media
taglist: @bitchception @insideyourimagination @angels-wouldnt-help-youu @seamaiden @silverdragonfly @powpowjinxlife @starfishjellyfish5 @shellysa14 @delespresso @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @ninihrtss @believeinthefireflies95 @peachysunrize @darktrashsoulbear
307 notes ¡ View notes
xetlynn ¡ 3 days ago
Note
Hello!!!, I just wanted to request a Claggor x pregnant reader (in the good timeline), if that’s possible, thank you so much <3!
I had fun with this one
Arcane Imagines- Claggor
The Favorite
Tumblr media
[arcane] [main page]
Prompt: claggor and reader are expecting a baby in a few months. Their family come over with gifts.
“Sweetheart, don’t you dare.” My husband stopped me as I was about to pick up a part of our baby’s bed. I sigh, lifting myself back up while holding the bottom of my stomach. “Claggor I can pick up a piece of wood.” I walk over to him. He sat on the floor trying to figure out the directions to put the crib together. It was mine from when I was a baby that my mom surprisingly kept. 
“Not if I’m here. What if you trip and fall forwards? I would never forgive myself.” He looks up at me with a stern expression. I roll my eyes, nudging him with my knee. “I’m only 31 weeks, I don’t even have the pregnancy waddle yet. So I am very capable of picking things up without tripping.” I fold my arms, a little annoyed with this conversation that we’ve had before. 
Anytime I even lift a finger I get scolded. I can’t cook, I can’t lift anything over 5 pounds, I can’t pick things up off the ground anymore. “You’re in denial first off because you so have a waddle. And second I am here so you don’t need to be capable of picking something up. I got it.” He takes my hand, kissing it softly. I roll my eyes, taking in a deep breath. “Okay, whatever. When our princess comes out being a little diva that’s going to be on you.” I point a finger in his face, he pretends like he’s going to bite me.
“And I’ll be okay with a little diva.” He goes back to building the crib. 
I go out to our living room to sit down on the couch. I let out a bored huff. What am I supposed to do? Just sit here and read? Who does he think I am? I’m tougher than him. I used to be a professional fighter. Now I’m some sort of wife with a great husband who wants to take care of me. 
My hands land on my stomach and I think about our baby who is in my tummy. What will she look like when she’s born? I hope she has my eyebrows. Claggor’s nose. 
A bunch of knocks sound at the door and I frown knowing I have to stand up from just sitting down. I grab the back of the couch and try to push myself up. “Sit down, sit down. I got it.” Claggor rushes past me, getting the door. I blink a few times, now annoyed since I got halfway up!
Vander comes into the house holding two baskets. “I bring gifts for my grandchild!” He laughs excitedly, I grin up at him. “Thank you! You didn’t have to do that!” I appreciate Vander, he’s been such a good help with setting things up for his granddaughter. “Ah, yes I did. She’s going to be such a spoiled girl.” He clasps his hands together after Claggor took the baskets from him, setting them next to me on the couch. 
“Well, we love you.” I smile, taking the first basket and opening it to see little blankets, a thing of diapers and wipes. “This is so helpful.” I start to tear up, Claggor sits next to me pulling me into his arms. “Sorry, I’m just so grateful for this. You don’t understand.” A tear falls and my body wracks in a sob. 
“She’s been crying a lot more lately.” Claggor tells his dad and I sniffle. Vander snickers, “it’s alright. No worries, I know how it goes.” He waves my behavior off. 
“Powder, Ekko and Mylo are going to be stopping by. They told me to let you know.” He exclaims, his arms over his chest as he speaks to us. “Oh man, they’re so sweet!” I cry out, hiding my face in my husband's chest. I feel him shake as he laughs at me. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.” He rubs my back up and down. “Sorry,” I sat up, wiping my tears. “Pregnancy brain.” I grab the other basket, opening it to reveal some baby clothes. “Perfect, we’ve been needing to grab some more pajamas.” I take them out of the basket, holding them up one by one to check them out. “So cute.” I squeal, leaning my head on Claggor’s shoulder. 
Not even moments later there’s a pounding at the door and Vander gets it. Mylo sneaks under his arm holding a large golden necklace. “Got this for my niece so she will know who the best Uncle ever is.” He throws it over to Claggor who picks it up in between his fingers to inspect it. “Yeah, she’s never going to wear this.” He deadpans to his brother with an irritated expression. 
“What!? I spent good money on that. She’s going to love it.” He throws his hands in the air. “Mylo, this is fake. Her mother is allergic to fake metal so I’m sure she will be too.” Claggor throws it back to the shorter guy. “Ohhh! He told you.” Powder comes in with a small box, Ekko behind her with painting supplies. “Here ya go!” She places the box down in my lap. “I made them.” She proudly states, hands behind her back. I picked up a light pink rattle. I shook it and it was soft sounding. Perfect for a baby. I look at the others and there were some teething toys along with a few building blocks. “Powder, thank you! This is amazing.” I grin up at her. “Awe, it’s nothing much. I’m excited to meet your beautiful bundle of joy!” 
Ekko wiggles the paint supplies and I point to the bedroom. “Thank you again, Ekko!” I call after him. “No problem! I’m so excited to do this.” He pokes his head out to tell me and I chuckle. “Also, could you clean this mess up? Or is the crib supposed to look like this?” He looks to Claggor who groans. “I forgot all about it. I’ll be back, babe.” He plants a kiss on my lips before heading into our daughter’s bedroom. 
Powder plops down in his spot, Vander reprimands his other son about trying to give a baby a gold chain that ended up being fake. I giggle, turning to my sister-in-law.
“You’re so talented Pow.” I lift up her artwork and her face flushes. “Thank you, I didn’t know what to get you guys for her. Ekko said something about giving you little toys. Then I thought about how I could just make the toys myself.” She explains her process and I smile. “Well this is a great gift.”
“I’m going to be her favorite uncle, trust!” Mylo tells his dad who scoffs. “You don’t even know what to get a kid.” Vander places his hands on his hips. “You’re right but I know how to make the kid look cool. She’ll be beating up bitches left and right.” He announces and I snort. 
“That’s why you’re not babysitting. Ever.” Claggor comes back into the room. He turns to look at me but then sees Powder in his spot and he frowns. “What? Why not?” Mylo asks. 
“You want my kid to be violent. She’s not going to be.” Claggor pinches the bridge of his nose, not believing this was actually a question. “Yeah, that’s why I’m going to be the favorite. Praise peace and love.” Ekko peaks out behind my husband and I snicker. “You are not going to be the favorite! You guys will eat your words when the first thing she says is Uncle Mylo.” He points at all of us. I hold my stomach from how hard I’m laughing. Powder giggling with me, her hand grabbing onto my wrist trying to contain herself as well. 
“Her first word will be dada. Not her uncle who is an idiot.” Claggor argues, I raise my eyebrow. Dada? It’s definitely going to be mama but I don’t have the energy to join this fight. "I'm not an idiot." Mylo furrows his eyebrows.
“It could be Uncle Ekko. I top all you suckers.” Ekko says and now the three are all in a very heated argument about my daughter who’s not even out of the womb yet. 
Powder turns to me, putting a hand in front of my ear. “I hope they realize the favorite is actually going to be me… Gonna be so embarrassed when they find out.” She tells me and I grin. “You’re so right.” I nod my head. 
--------------------
Gonna try to grind more requests I do have over 25 at the moment so be patient with me!!!! I enjoy this so much. I love seeing all the love!!!! I am getting sick though so if I start to slow down on my posts that's why. I can already feel my body aching:(
N e wayzzz, love you guys!!!!!
200 notes ¡ View notes
liaculpa ¡ 2 days ago
Text
Well shit, this hit me like a brick to the face.
I've always been terrible at asking for and accepting help, or feeling like I'm worth helping in the first place. I always just assumed that when people said "if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know" when I was going through hell, it was just a figure of speech. I never took anyone's offer for help when I lost my dad, or when I was stuck in a depressive hell for years. People reached out, and I just said "thanks, but I'm fine" because their time was obviously better spent elsewhere. I wasn't gonna die without their help, I didn't NEED need it. But it would have helped me, and I never felt like I deserved that.
My mom once said to me that I deserved a better kitchen table than the piece of crap my dad used as his computer desk for 10 years, that I took after he died. I told her I didn't need one; what did she mean, I deserve it? What had I done to warrant that? I couldn't really wrap my head around it.
It's still true today. I have some money, I could get decent furniture. I still have that old table sitting next to me right now, covered in a cheap tablecloth so you can't see all the dents and scratches. I just never feel like there's a point to buying it, if it's just for me. What have I done to deserve something nice and new?
At least I'm taking better care of my body. That's kind of the one thing I want to keep. Since I came out, I've been putting actual effort into my skin, my hair, how I dress. I want to sculpt this shitty meat sack until my mirror shows the woman I know I am. But for everything else, it's just hard. I want to improve, but it's so hard to get past those mental hurdles. It's so hard to convince my stupid brain that I can accept help, whether it's from a friend or even myself.
Something to work on.
so many of the transfems i know spent their time pre-transition performing a kind of lifelong exercise in self-deprivation. the goal, for them, was to find out exactly how little a person needed to live. they starved themselves, dressed carelessly, shunned friends, and hollowed themselves out so as not to be burdens on anyone but themselves.
i see it now, too, in the girls around me. i'll ask if they want care – a home-cooked meal, relaxed company, sex without the expectation of reciprocation – and they say no, no, thank you, i don't need it; what would you like, what do you want, because in their head they're still doing that awful calculus, still training themselves to disappear in the eyes of the people around them.
i don't think i'd have died without transition – not in the conventional sense, at least – but to take that leap, i had to stop thinking of myself as a human experiment in fuel-efficient living and start nurturing the anemic, atrophied flame of desire in my heart. i had to learn to eat well, to exercise, to style myself beautiful, but harder than that, i had to learn to ask the people around me to work on my behalf in order to enrich my life and give me the things i wanted.
and i did it; i learned. and it was agony, but courage is a muscle you can train, and every day i get better at accepting gifts with the hungry gratitude i never learned in my years and years as a sad, scared, lonely boy.
so be patient with the trans girls in your life. better than that: be proactive, attentive, generous; be forceful, if you have to, and learn to distinguish real discomfort from the terrified reflex of self-deprivation that so many of us learned to rely on.
and if you are so lucky as to love a trans girl, you must insist upon her. you must insist upon her happiness, her comfort, her pleasure, and her rest, because she may still not yet know how to make those demands for herself. if you can devote any amount of energy to becoming an engine that nurtures the flame of even a single tgirl then there is a place for you in trans heaven, which as far as i'm concerned is the only one worth going to
37K notes ¡ View notes
vibeswithdivs ¡ 11 hours ago
Text
He’s more patient than he looks
pairing: Max Verstappen x reader
Tumblr media
The hum of conversation filled the Red Bull Racing headquarters as employees bustled about with an energy that was almost infectious. Engineers huddled over laptops, mechanics leaned against tool racks with grease-streaked hands, and the faint smell of coffee lingered in the air. It was a world that thrummed with purpose, speed, and precision—qualities that the newcomer sitting at her desk felt slightly out of sync with.
You can do this, she told herself for the hundredth time that day.
Being a social media manager for one of the most prominent teams in Formula 1 was a dream job. Yet, as she stared at the screen, where a half-finished tweet about race day statistics blinked back at her, that dream felt a lot more like a free-fall. She wasn’t just crafting posts about breakfast specials or gym memberships anymore—she was managing the online presence of an entire racing empire.
And, truthfully, she was floundering.
“Morning!”
The cheerful voice made her jump, and she turned to see her colleague, Sophie, leaning over her cubicle wall with a grin. “How’s the newbie settling in?” Sophie asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Uh… good!” she replied quickly, pasting on a smile that she hoped masked her nerves.
Sophie tilted her head, unconvinced. “You’ve been staring at that screen for an hour, and the only thing you’ve posted today is a retweet from Pirelli. Do you need help?”
“No, I’m just—” She paused, biting her lip. “I don’t even know what half these terms mean. DRS, power unit, undercut… it’s like everyone here is speaking a different language.”
Sophie’s face softened. “It is a different language,” she said with a chuckle. “Give it time. It’s only your first week. You’ll get the hang of it. And if you’re still lost, you’ve got plenty of people to ask.”
“Like who?”
“Like me,” Sophie said with a wink. “Or, if you’re feeling brave, you could ask the drivers. Max and Checo are usually good sports about answering questions.”
“Right,” she said, laughing nervously. “Because it’s totally normal to walk up to Max Verstappen and ask him to explain tire degradation.”
“You’d be surprised,” Sophie replied with a grin. “He’s more patient than he looks.”
She didn’t expect to test Sophie’s theory quite so soon. Later that afternoon, while she was setting up her phone to record a behind-the-scenes video in the garage, she heard a familiar voice behind her.
“Need help?”
She turned, almost dropping her phone when she saw Max Verstappen standing there, dressed in his Red Bull team kit and holding a bottle of water. His blue eyes were bright with curiosity, and his expression was disarmingly friendly.
“Uh… no! I mean, yes. Maybe?” she stammered, fumbling with the tripod. “Sorry, I’m still figuring all this out.”
Max chuckled, setting his water down on a nearby workbench. “Don’t worry about it. What are you trying to do?”
“I’m supposed to get some footage of the engineers prepping your car, but I can’t get the angle right, and—” She broke off, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. “It’s my first week. I’m still getting the hang of everything.”
“You’re doing fine,” Max said, his tone reassuring as he stepped closer. “Here, let me see.”
She handed him the phone, watching as he adjusted the tripod with practiced ease. He crouched slightly, angling the camera until it perfectly captured the scene in the garage.
“Like this?” he asked, stepping back to let her check.
She stared at the screen in amazement. “That’s… perfect. How did you do that so quickly?”
“Years of media obligations,” he said with a shrug. “You pick up a thing or two.”
She smiled, feeling some of her nervousness ebb away. “Thanks, Max.”
“No problem,” he replied, picking up his water bottle. “And if you ever need help with anything else—questions, technical stuff, whatever—just ask. It’s better than guessing.”
Max wasn’t kidding. Over the next few weeks, she found herself turning to him more often than she expected, and he answered every question with surprising patience.
“What’s a DRS zone?” she asked one afternoon during a lunch break.
“It’s where we can open the rear wing to go faster,” Max explained, demonstrating with his hands. “But only in certain areas and under certain conditions. You know, to make overtaking easier.”
“And what’s an undercut?” she asked the next day while filming a promo video in the paddock.
Max smirked. “That’s when you pit earlier than the car ahead of you to get fresher tires and gain track position. But timing is everything. If you mess it up, it doesn’t work.”
“Right,” she said, nodding along even though she still felt a bit lost.
Max seemed to notice her confusion because he added, “It’s like beating someone to the front of the line at a concert by taking a shortcut. Make sense?”
“Ahh,” she said, grinning. “That actually helps.”
With Max’s encouragement, her confidence grew. She started experimenting with different content ideas, from quirky Instagram stories to polished YouTube vlogs. Her colleagues noticed the change, offering praise and feedback that bolstered her even further.
But it was Max’s quiet support that made the biggest difference. He never made her feel stupid for asking questions or stumbling over her words, and his humor often turned stressful moments into something lighter.
One evening, as she sat in the media center editing a race weekend highlight reel, Max walked by and paused to watch over her shoulder.
“Not bad,” he said, nodding at the screen.
“‘Not bad’?” she repeated, turning to him with a mock glare.
He grinned. “Okay, fine. It’s great. But you missed the part where I overtook Checo in Turn 3. That was the best move of the race.”
She rolled her eyes, laughing. “I’ll add it to the blooper reel.”
“Bloopers?” he said, pretending to look offended. “That was pure talent.”
She shook her head, unable to suppress her smile. “You’re impossible, Verstappen.”
“And you’re doing a great job,” he said, his tone softening. “Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”
By the time the season reached its midpoint, she felt like she’d finally found her footing. The fast-paced world of Formula 1 no longer felt overwhelming; instead, it felt exhilarating.
One evening, after a particularly successful social media campaign, she found herself standing on the balcony of the team’s hospitality unit, watching the sun set over the paddock. Max joined her a few minutes later, leaning against the railing with a relaxed smile.
“Long day?” he asked.
“Always,” she replied with a chuckle. “But I think I’m getting the hang of it.”
“I’d say you’re more than getting the hang of it,” Max said. “You’ve been killing it lately. Everyone’s noticed.”
She glanced at him, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. “Really?”
“Really,” he said, meeting her gaze. “And in case you haven’t noticed, you’ve made this job your own. You’ve brought something new to the team. It’s good.”
Her chest swelled with gratitude, and she looked down, trying to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks. “Thanks, Max. For everything. I don’t think I would’ve survived my first month without you.”
He chuckled, reaching out to nudge her shoulder playfully. “Anytime. You’re part of the team now, and we take care of our own. Even if you still ask a million questions.”
She laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Get used to it, Verstappen. I’ve got plenty more where those came from.”
Max smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Bring it on.”
212 notes ¡ View notes
wonderjanga ¡ 2 days ago
Text
Workaholic
Billy doesn’t notice, but he’s a workaholic. Like a really bad one.
Supes and Marvel: *talking*
Hero 1: “Hey, Cap!”
Marvel: *pauses his convo* “Yes?”
Hero 1: “Could you cover me for monitor duty? I have it later today at three.”
Marvel: “Oh, sure! No problem!” *smiles*
Hero 1: *extremely grateful* “Thanks a lot, man.”
A couple minutes later…
Hero 2: “Hey, Marvel, could you cover me for monitor duty for tomorrow morning?”
Marvel: “Sure!”
Supes: “Back to back monitor duty? Are you sure you want that?” *sounds concerned*
Marvel: “Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”
Supes: “I… never mind.”
A couple more minutes later…
Hero 3: “Cap, could you cover me for monitor duty-”
Supes: *sounds firm because he thinks his friend is being taken advantage of* “No, he will not.”
Marvel: *sounds confused* “But I want to?”
Supes: “Marvel, you can’t just accept monitor duty for nearly two days straight. What about Fawcett?”
Marvel: “What about it? I can protect it just fine with or without monitor duty.”
Hero 3: “If it’s really that much trouble, you can just say no, Cap-” *feels bad*
Marvel: “But I want to say yes!”
or
Marvel: *zoned out and listening to the Gods arguing his head*
Batman: “Captain.” *walks over, holding a tablet*
Marvel: “Yes?”
Batman: “You’re going to sign up for the latest long-term missions, right? Like usual?” *hands him the tablet*
Marvel: “Of course!” *looks at three missions available for sign up* “Do any of them overlap?”
Batman: “No, but-”
Marvel: “Great!” *signs up for all three*
Batman: “Did even read the content of the missions?”
Marvel: “No? Should I have?”
Batman: “Yes?? Are you sure you wanna sign up for all three, Captain? You’d be gone for nearly 3 months.”
Marvel: “Eh it’s fine. Tawny will cover for me, and I don’t think any of my villains will attack Fawcett if I’m not there.”
Batman: *stares for a second before sighing* “Alright then.”
Bruce took this as confirmation that Marvel doesn’t have a personal life. Being gone for three months without a single person noticing would be impossible if he had one.
or
Worker 1: “Ugh… I can’t believe this.”
Marvel: *appeared from nowhere* “What’s wrong? Do you need help?”
Worker 1: “AGH- Wha? Captain Marvel??” *in disbelief that the Captain Marvel is talking to him* “Uhhh no. I don’t need help at all.”
Worker 2: “He does. Help him, Cap.”
Marvel: “Okay!” *quickly helps and trots off to go help someone else*
Worker 1: *makes sure that Billy is far enough* “Dude, why’d you just make Captain Marvel help me?”
Worker 2: “I didn’t make him do anything. I think he just likes to be useful. Not that I’m complaining. He always looks so happy when he gets to help too.” *pauses to think for a bit* “Point is, just let him help if you need it.”
So yes, Billy will take any work, and seek out any work. He’s just that type of little guy. Anyways, Billy eventually found out that his workaholic tendencies were a little extreme when Freddy started also being a hero.
Junior: “I can’t believe I’m in the Watchtower!”
Marvel: “Yeah, it’s amazing right?”
Batman: “Marvel. The new sign up sheets are out- who is this?”
Marvel: “Ah, Mr. Batman Sir, this is Junior. Junior, this is Mr. Batman Sir.”
Junior: “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir!” *hero worship is practically oozing out*
Batman: “Likewise…” *is internally confused* “Anyways, Marvel, the new sign up sheets for long-term missions are out. I assume you’ll be joining like always?” *offers the Sign uptablet*
Marvel: “How’d you guess?” *smiles and takes the tablet from him*
Junior: “Long-term missions?”
Marvel: *pauses just when he’s about to sign up for a mission, and looks over to Junior* “Oh right. Junior, I don’t know if you wanna come or not.”
Junior: “Uh…” *looks between Batman and Marvel* “Sure, I’ll go.”
Marvel: *smiles at Junior* “Good.” *looks over to Batman* “How long are they?”
Batman: *swears that just for a teensy weensy second, Marvel’s smile was fatherly* “Each of them should take approximately two weeks to complete.”
Marvel: “Really? That’s shorter than normal.” *looks over to Freddy nervously* “Are you okay with being gone for six weeks?”
Junior: “Si- six weeks?! Batman said we’d only be gone for two??”
Marvel: “Yeah, but that’s the length for one mission. There’s three listed here.”
Junior: “Wait, you’re signing us up for all three?!”
Marvel: “Yeah?” *sounds unsure* “How about I only sign you up for one instead? We’ll do that one together and I’ll do the other two alone.”
Junior: “Wha…? Why are you signing up for three in the first place?”
Marvel: “Because why not?”
Junior: “Dude, that’s not normal.”
Marvel: “Of course it is! Mr. Batman sir hasn’t ever said anything.”
Junior: “That doesn’t mean it’s normal.”
Batman: “He is right. Signing up for three missions in a row, leaving earth for occasionally months at a time isn’t normal for anyone besides Green Lanterns. Captain, when was the last time you haven’t signed up for the latest mission and instead relaxed?”
Marvel: “I don’t know… but I do relax! Every single minute of me not being a hero is me relaxing!”
Junior: “Is it though…?”
Billy still ended up signing himself up for the three missions. Freddy decided to join him on the other two as well, so he wouldn’t be leaving his new buddy alone.
(Also, I’m sorry, but I had to just sneak in that little itty-bitty piece of Dad Marvel)
357 notes ¡ View notes