#and a whole hidden MENACE too

[fumiko-matsubara]

Warm-up portraits of Takebayashi 👓✨

The way I've been making countless of promises that I will draw this kid the past few years and never done it until today is just unforgivable 💀

If we're talking about hidden visuals then this is the guy lmao. The fact that there's so much emphasis in his actual looks, that even Irina had dedicated a whole section of her fashion check on just his face alone is taking me out.

Like wdym there's a whole bishie in the class and we wouldn't have known at all if Koro hadn't dressed him up one time during his arc 😭

[gingermintpepper]

Someday, eventually, I will get an opportunity to talk about Celtic Apollo.

I see a lot of discussions and content (light-hearted and not) talking about Greek Apollo and Roman Apollo but y'all don't understand; it wasn't just that Greek Apollo had a second Roman Apollo hidden in his pocket, it's that Greek Apollo also has a secret third Celtic Apollo hidden behind his back like a tramp stamp he got in college and refuses to acknowledge or show to anyone.

[divinedomainn]

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

play previous song? || ◁ PART 1 ▷ || play next song?

summary : After another horny stream, you drop the bomb: fuck-a-fan fridays—seven weeks, seven fans, seven filthy videos. masks on, faces hidden, just you and one lucky subscriber tangled up on camera each week. All they have to do? strip down, get hard, and show you why it should be them. Auditions start now.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, horny simp men

A/N : and so it starts!!! is everyone ready to see the submissions from your favorite horndogs? :) (also i hope you can tell whose who hehehe) i'm trying to keep the writing inclusive for every sort of female presenting person so let me know how i've done!

The next few weeks passed in a blur of lace, lube, and direct deposits that made your head spin. What had started as a desperate half-joke had morphed into a full-blown empire - your empire. The girl who once contemplated selling her underwear for gas money was now clearing rent, tuition, groceries, and still had enough left over to drop serious coin on clothes and silk bed sheets.

You’d gone to the next level. Your friends were of course benefitting from your suspiciously newfound wealth, you casually said you had found a better part-time job, never letting them know the truth when you decided to take them shopping. Not yet at least.

Private requests were your bread and butter. You weren’t just good anymore - you were a professional tease, a digital siren with a library of toys, outfits, and vocal tones that could bring grown men to their knees. They paid for everything; soft whispers, rough talk, slow stroking, filthy roleplays. Some just oddly wanted to hear your moans on loop. Others wanted personalized videos where you called them by username and told them exactly what you’d do if they ever had the balls to show up in person.

You were making big bank. Like “accidental tax bracket change” big. Like “should probably consult a financial advisor” big.

And the men?

Oh, the men were obsessed.

Especially the regulars. Their usernames lit up your screen night after night, tipping with reckless abandon, flooding the chat with unfiltered thirst. You didn’t know who they were in real life, yet, but their personalities bled through the screen in such vivid, chaotic little ways.

EmoWithaBoner was yearning. Desperate in a way that made your chest clench and your thighs twitch. His messages were usually soft, almost sweet - You deserve everything, You looked so beautiful tonight - until something cracked open inside him mid-message and he’d type something crazy like: I would lick your cunt until you beg me to stop. Now that had gotten a small “Oh.” out of you. He wanted to worship you and ruin you all at once.

SixEyesOnly was a fucking menace. Flirty, cocky, constantly sending emojis that were way too smug for someone probably watching with only one hand available. His tips were ridiculous, like, spend $300 just to watch you eat grapes in a bad wig slowly sort of ridiculous, and his messages read like he was trying to fluster you on purpose. You assumed it was some sort of control thing with him, throwing money at people and getting them to do it. No complaints from you.

TempleOfSin was smooth, a little poetic, a little filthy. He asked for long, descriptive videos where you described what you were wearing, how you’d touch him, how you'd taste. He liked to also order roleplay videos where you pretended to worship him like he was some sort of God. Sometimes he called you his loyal little follower. You didn’t ask questions.

daddyissuez was feral. No other word for it. His requests were blunt, primal, always toeing the line of what the platform allowed and your own, now lacking, self-control. He liked spit, degradation, and power games. His tipping was sporadic and a lot less compared to the others, though, it was enough to keep him in your attention.

OfficeAfterHours was different. Polite. Polished. His messages came like little business memos laced with innuendo. “You looked stunning tonight. That color suits you,” followed by a $200 tip telling you to buy more in the same color. Never crude, always composed. It made him stand out more, somehow. Like a man who didn’t need to beg. A man who expected what he wanted, and always got it.

And then there was KingOfRot.

Unpredictable. Crude. Arrogant. He dropped tips like they were nothing. $500 just because you looked at the camera in a way he said was like a ‘deer in the headlights’. Odd, but $500 was a good amount to keep your mouth shut. He called you “pet,” “whore,” “delicious little thing.” You should’ve blocked him. Instead, you kept reading his messages twice over with your jaw unhinged and in wonderment whether or not he actually said that. His energy was intense and you hated how hot that was.

Which brings us to tonight.

You were perched in your new silk sheets, ring light warm against your skin, wearing your most transparent slip where your nipples were clearly on display and a smug little smirk behind that now iconic mask of yours. You’d hyped this stream for days - teased it on your feed, hinted at it in DMs. The chat was already on fire and you hadn’t even said a word yet. Tonight was a big one.

EmoWithaBoner: god ur so fucking hot tonight SixEyesOnly: i logged in 15 minutes early and i still feel late :(( OfficeAfterHours: You’ve outdone yourself this evening. KingOfRot: Come on, get to the fucking point, girl.

You grinned, slow and lethal, dragging your fingers along your inner thigh and ignoring KingOfRot.

“Well,” you purred, “I figured since you’ve all been very generous lately… it’s time I give something back.”

SixEyesOnly: oh fuck You licked your lips, loving the short little power trip it gave you. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice sweet and dangerous. “Maybe it’s time to start a little… tradition.”

You paused for dramatic effect.

“Fuck-a-Fan Fridays.” You bit your lip. Boom. Chat detonation. SixEyesOnly had sent you $200 just for the phrase.

EmoWithaBoner: you’re joking SixEyesOnly: oh shit baby TempleOfSin: Perfect. KingOfRot: You say when and where, pet. daddyissuez: i’ll be first. fuck the line OfficeAfterHours: I trust you've thought this through..

You leaned in close. OfficeAfterHours was cute in the way he was concerned for you. “I mean, why stop at one, right?” You giggled, cheeks burning behind your mask as you kicked your feet a little bit out of the view of your webcam. “I was gonna keep it casual, but um… yeah. What if I made it a thing? Like, a series?”

Another pause. You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried heat.

“One fan. Every Friday. For seven weeks.”

You crossed your bare legs over one another, your slip rising on your thighs as you did so. “Seven Fridays. Seven people. Seven chances to fuck the brains out of a very nervous, very willing woman who cannot believe she’s actually saying this live right now.”

You sat up again, brushing the slip back into place like your nipples weren’t clearly on display.

“I mean..obviously, we’ll keep it anonymous. Like, we’re not stupid here. Masks. No faces. Just hands. Bodies. And my camera.” The chat was still in full meltdown, comments stacking so fast the shitty platform could barely keep up. Your heart was pounding, your skin warm and tingling from the high of it all—of watching them fall apart just from your voice, your words, the soft shift of silk and skin. You hadn’t even done anything explicit yet, and they were on their knees.

God, it was addictive.

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft sigh, the movement pulling your slip just high enough to tease your hips. A final little gift before the curtain dropped.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” you said with a giggle, feigning innocence even as your gaze sparkled with something much dirtier. “You guys are gonna give me a heart attack.” SixEyesOnly: no no no don’t leave yettt!! :(( KingOfRot: You owe me for the buildup, woman. You tilted your head, lips curving into a sweet little smile as you leaned forward, giving them just one more generous view of your tits before the curtains closed.

“But before I go…” you said, voice slipping into something quieter, softer, like a secret you didn’t mean to share. “If you’re serious about Fuck-a-Fan Fridays… I want you to show me.”

The pause that followed had its own kind of weight. You watched the chat stall for half a second. The anticipation was thick enough to choke on.

“Send me a message,” you murmured, “with a picture. No face. Just your body, and cock, obviously.”

You let your fingers trail down your own torso, to your hips, your thighs, hinting at what you wanted to see. “Let me see what I’d be touching.. What I’ll be fucked braindead by.” EmoWithaBoner: fuck i’ll take a hundred SixEyesOnly: don’t lose your mind too much baby KingOfRot: It’ll be mine you dream about when you touch yourself. OfficeAfterHours: Submission will follow shortly. No face. Clean framing. High quality.

You had to laugh—giddy and a little breathless. You honestly didn’t think they’d go this feral.

“Think of it as an audition,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest, playing sweet again. “Show me what you’re offering. How you’d fit against me. In me.”

You smoothed your hand up your own thigh, lazily now, teasing.

“And just so you know,” you added with a little grin, “I’m only really looking at the ones who’ve tipped enough to keep my attention. You know who you are.”

Oh, they most definitely did.

The seven of them were already scrambling—photos incoming, tips rolling, blood leaving their brains. You didn’t need names. Their usernames were burned into your memory. Their obsessions with you were paying your bills.

“Goodnight, boys,” you whispered. “Impress me.” The second you ended the stream, you collapsed backward into your pillows with a dazed little laugh, limbs spread like you’d just run a marathon and won a gold medal in filth. The glow from your laptop cast a soft haze across your legs, the screen already lighting up with the chaos you’d left behind—tips still pouring in, messages stacking, your inbox begging for attention.

And the photos?

Oh, they were already flooding in, from people you didn’t want, but it was there regardless - upping your activity.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin resting in your palm as you clicked open the first one with a half-curious, half-unhinged smile.

No face, just like you asked. Neck down. The guy was standing in front of a mirror, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other lifting his hoodie to show off his chest. His abs were flexed. His cock hard enough to cast a shadow.

You blinked. Let out a slow breath.

“…Damn.”

Another one came in. Different guy, different vibe—tattoos on his hips, hand slick and stroking himself in a dimly lit bathroom, captioned: Fridays look good on me. Want to see how I look underneath you?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, laughing as you pulled your legs up behind you. “This is real. I’m really doing this.”

And you were. One fan. Every Friday. Seven weeks. Seven videos. Each one getting posted to your feed, available for your hundreds of subscribers to watch, rewatch, tip on, comment under, and probably break their dicks to.

It wasn’t just a hookup. It was content. Premium content.

Still riding the rush, you opened your messaging panel and started typing.

New Mass Message Sent to All Subscribers:

Hey babes— If you missed the stream tonight (rip to you), here’s your official invite.

Fuck-a-Fan Fridays is happening. Starting next week, I’ll be choosing seven of you to spend one very intimate night with me. Every Friday for the next seven weeks, I’ll be posting a new video. One fan. One full-length scene. Just me… and whoever impresses me the most.

How to audition:- Send me a photo. - Neck down only. No faces. Masks will be worn on camera, so full anonymity will be protected. But I need to see everything. Cock out. Hard. Your body. Your vibe. The way you'd look on camera—underneath me, on top of me, behind me, inside me.

Show off a little. Or a lot.

Make me want it. Let the auditions begin.

xoxo,

—Your girl

taglist : @frozenmallows @90s-belladonna @moncher-ire @kunareads @blublublubby @grignardsreagent @soozeu @mochiivqi @sweetsformysoul @killak9mi @celloccino @gurlhere4fluff @syubseokie

[fromrory]

𐔌 ⋮ “He gives you things, doesn’t he?”

– or, the language of devotion from a boy who was raised to conquer, not to love

It starts with the ring.

An emerald, cut sharp like a blade, set into gold with ancient Arabic filigree etched so fine it’s barely visible unless the light catches it. She finds it on her nightstand one morning—wrapped in black silk, warm as if it had been held in a palm all night.

The note is in his handwriting. Neat. Small. Precise.

“For your hand, which should always be protected.

She wears it. Of course she wears it.

She doesn’t expect the next gift—two weeks later, an anklet. golden, thin and elegant, a tiny د (the Arabic letter dāl) dangling from the chain. Damian doesn’t say anything when she finds it.

He just kneels down during a quiet hour in the Manor and clasps it around her ankle himself. His hands are steady. His touch reverent.

“I want them to know,” he says simply, eyes flicking up to hers. “Wherever you walk, you’re mine.”

She forgets how to breathe.

“Okay, but like,” Steph says later, eyes wide, “that’s not just romantic. That’s spiritual warfare.”

Jason whistles low. “Man’s out here forging rings like it’s Lord of the Rings, but hot.”

Dick smirks. “I told you. He’s an intense little poet when it comes to her.”

There are other gifts. A hair comb, made of dark wood and inlaid with jade. A carved pendant with lines from a pre-Islamic Arabic love poem, words so old they taste like desert wind and firelight.

He gives her a dagger once.

Not large. Not flashy.

But beautiful.

Etched down the spine, in Arabic script so fine it’s almost hidden, it reads:

“Whoever touches what is mine will bleed.”

She isn’t scared. Not of him.

She understands what it means—what he’s never been able to say without wrapping it in old language and older steel:

That he was raised by people who saw love as weakness. That he is fighting to unlearn that. That when he gives, it isn’t casual. It’s sacred.

They sit alone on the rooftop again.

Gotham sprawls below. The stars are faint. She’s wearing the anklet. The ring. A new necklace now—another gift, this one with a pressed green stone the color of his eyes, suspended above her collarbone like a vow.

“You’re mine,” he says softly, fingers brushing the pendant.

“Mm,” she murmurs. “Yours, huh?”

“I don’t mean that lightly,” he says. “I mean it the way temples mean prayer. The way altars mean blood.”

She smiles. “I know.”

“I would kill for you.”

“You have,” she says.

“I would die for you.”

Her hand finds his. “You don’t have to.”

Damian looks at her for a long moment. The kind of look that feels like burning incense and ancient gods and poetry that doesn’t rhyme.

Then he says, voice barely above a whisper:

“You are not mine like a thing to be owned. You are mine like breath is to lungs. Like fire is to a blade.”

She closes her eyes, heart thudding. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours too,” he says.

Tim finds the dagger a week later.

Jason reads the inscription and whistles. “This boy’s out here writing Arabic death vows.”

“Poetic menace,” Steph mutters. “I love that for her.”

Dick just grins, arms folded. “Told you. He doesn’t love. He consecrates.”

And maybe that’s what it is.

Not love like hearts and flowers and Hallmark cards.

But love like carved emeralds and sacred steel. Love like an altar. Like devotion. Like the whole world could burn—and he’d still reach through the smoke to clasp her wrist and whisper:

“rūḥī…”

i don't really what how i feel about this one .Taglist🏷️: @simpingmyassoff , @shootingstargirl2001 (if you want to be added,comment down below!)

[eraserbread]

please tell me you've seen the trend where divorced parents call each other to say goodnight 😩😩 teenage rin and ex-husband nanami INEEDTHAT

meet your ex-husband, nanami—the yearning final boss ✧

→ ex-husband!au, angst if you squint, fluff, sfw

"this is so stupid." you mutter, forehead in your open palm as you slide your phone open. lying on your bed, rin is propped up right next to you, familiar face hidden by her recording phone. she's giggling like a menace, promising that she wouldn't leave until you satiated her teenage antics.

it's been well over ten years since your divorce. co-parenting with kento is easy, but everything else is impossible. every time you two talk, rin's name is the centerpiece.

"shh, just do it." she whispers, sitting up on her knees as you navigate to his contact.

'hello?'

"hey, what's up?" you start, sheets pulling around you as you shift position. being like this in your huge, lonely bed with your seventeen-year-old daughter next to you wasn't unfamiliar—these stupid internet trends is the stranger, here. but you couldn't say no... it's just something about those hazel eyes that draw weakness.

his contact name hovers—his voice is deep. 'oh, uh- just getting home from dinner with a colleague. had a few drinks... i was actually going to call yo-

"oh, that's nice. what colleague?"

kento pauses, suspicious of your sudden friendliness. now, when you two are face-to-face, you hardly speak a sentence. everything is about your daughter; she is the center of your lives. he doesn't even know what to say, but he knows he wants to keep you like this for even a second longer.

'ino. i don't believe you two have met.'

"mm, no. you talked about him quite a bit, though." it's shameful just how well you're leaning into this prank—offering him your soft, sleepy voice like he deserved it after everything he put you through. "it's nice to hear you two are still working together."

'it's hard to come by competent, respectful people in this field... whenever I do, I tend to keep them handy.'

behind her phone, rin grows impatient—immune to the obvious flirtatious banter. silently, she calls for you, "come on."

"well... rin and i are back in from shopping around. we got some dinner too."

'that's so lovely to hear...' there's something there... clear as day. some type of yearning, rin isn't mature enough to pinpoint, but it sends a hot rush through your body. 'tell rin that I miss her dearly. i am happy she's having a good time with you.'

"well, i just wanted to call and say goodnight."

he falters—rin laughs again, almost blowing the whole thing. it makes it worse when you send her a sharp glare.

'o-oh? well, goodnight...'

"goodnight, ken."

ken? you haven't called him that in years. neither of you hang up—not yet.

until you remember you're being recorded. something snaps you out of the vicious daze his mature voice drove you into. "goodnight." you repeat once more, just for good measure. the line crackles like he's shifting in bed.

you glance up at your daughter, trying to play off the emotion with a smile on your face.

'goodnight, my dear.'

[tbaluver]

his treasure- sylus x reader

pairing: dragon!sylus x fem!reader cw/tags: MDNI, monster fucking-ish(?), size diference, p in v, sucking breasts genre: smut + drabble a/n: this is just inspo from his new myth that's coming out and omgee im so excited ٩(^ᗜ^)و i hope everyone that wants his memory gets it! enjoy reading! (ෆ˙ᵕ˙ෆ)♡

no one dared to enter the dragon’s cave. the tales of hidden riches of gold, jewels, and treasures beyond anyone’s dreams laid all out by a fearsome dragon who kept it all to himself.

groups and groups of townspeople have set out on the journey to see if the stories were true but have never returned to tell the horrible tale of what they have witnessed.

as they stepped into the cave, piles of gold in every corner of the room, mixed in with a pile of jewels and treasures they’ve heard from the tales. but as they stepped further in they witnessed the beast itself.

there he was, on top of a girl, marks littered all over her body as she whimpered in ‘pain’. his wings shielded over his and her body and the possible true horrors of what he’s done to her.

they had dug their own graves, foolishly shouting at the beast and raising their weapons as if it were to intimate him. the dragon- sylus, lifts his head from your neck. his growl menacing and filled with annoyance.

the torches that lined along the walls extinguished in an instant, the dragon striking each and every man that had decided to trespass his lair that day.

each time the townspeople refused to learn from the past group, stubbornly believing they would succeed with the dragon slain with hoards of golds and jewels in tow.

as weeks and months passed by, the townspeople's expeditions dwindled until no one dared to try again anymore.

at last, he has you all to himself. no more foolish humans to bother and no distractions. just him and you.

-

he laid you down onto the plush carpet, better than the rough surface he calls his throne. around you flickered the glow of candles, leaving a warm glow around both of your bodies.

sylus leans forward, placing a kiss on your nipple before looking up at you. his tongue slowly rolls around your bud, sucking it gently after. he found himself groaning, nuzzling against the valley of your breasts.

biting your lip, you watch as sucks the other, his eyes never leaving yours as his tongue continues to tease you. his warm mouth surrounds your nipple as his fangs barely graze your soft skin.

with a quiet pop, he pulls off your breasts, a string of saliva keeping him and your breasts connected. he sits up, his crimson eyes traced the delicate curves of your body. 

his tail coiled around you, wrapping you to keep you in place. the scales brushed against your skin, prickling you and leaving small marks. he made sure to lick each and every mark he had left, his tongue gliding across your skin making the lingering sting begin to fade.

sylus was always tender at times like this, treating you like find gold- not counting what he’s like during his heat.

you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as you continue to rock yourself below him.

he was big, almost too big for your liking. it took some time getting used too and no matter how many times you both fucked, your pussy was always so tight around him, the stretch burning you so deliciously.

his hard cock too thick and long to fit inside of you as he ruts between your thighs, shaking your whole entire body. its rough edges massaged your walls good that your drools pooled down to your neck.

your body twitched and trembled as he continued to plow into you and you knew he was getting closer. your walls were squeezing him and had him near the edge, ready to spill his load deep inside of you. 

his eyes fluttered shut, tilting his head back. groans escaping his lips as his hips picked up the pace. your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you felt a slight burn on the lower half of your body.

his knot stretched into you wider, his bulge in your lower abdomen growing as hot loads painted your walls creamy white.

he growls, careful not to place his claws on you. you were so tight, so warm, so perfect. his mind was spinning as his heart raced.

even with all this fine gold and jewels in this cave nothing can compare to the treasure he has cradled in his arms.

[formulafanfics13]

There’s Something You Need To Know - KA12

Masterlist

Summary: Kimi Antonelli confesses to Toto Wolff, just before signing his 2025 Mercedes contract, that he has a secret 18-month-old daughter with his longtime girlfriend. It’s emotional, vulnerable, and high-stakes. But instead of reacting with anger or doubt, Toto steps up — calmly, powerfully, and with absolute protection. He tells Kimi that if he’s in, Mercedes is in. That the team now includes Emma too. That Kimi isn’t alone anymore.

Warning: Emotional tension, secret parenthood, high-pressure decision-making, vulnerable teen fatherhood, and Toto Wolff being a dad-protector with enough calm menace to silence every media snake on earth.

The office is too quiet. Mercedes headquarters is clinical, white walls, chrome finishes, clean enough to swallow nerves like they don’t exist. But Kimi feels every second. Every heartbeat. Every breath. His palms are sweating.

Across the desk, Toto Wolff is reading over the final pages of the contract. Lewis’s replacement. 2025 and beyond. It’s real. It’s everything Kimi has ever worked for. Years of pressure, sacrifice, blood in the water, and now it’s here, on the table.

And he’s about to fuck it up. Because there’s something Toto doesn’t know. Something no one on the grid knows. Something that weighs heavier than every title he’s ever chased.

An 18-month-old secret. Your daughter. His daughter.

Hidden behind the public image. Carefully protected. Raised in a quiet apartment in Bologna with a private life no one’s seen, except your parents, his parents, and Ollie Bearman, who accidentally walked in on a FaceTime and saw Kimi singing nursery rhymes with his hair tied in a ponytail.

Kimi’s heart thuds like a hammer against his ribs.

Toto looks up. “You alright?”

Kimi swallows. This is the moment. This is the end, or the beginning. He’s not sure which.

“I need to tell you something,” he says.

Toto raises a brow.

Kimi’s voice shakes. “Before I sign. Before I step into this seat. You need to know.”

Toto leans back slightly. Still calm. Still unreadable. Kimi breathes in. And says: “I have a daughter.”

Silence. Toto doesn’t react at first. Just watches him. Waiting for a punchline. A clarification.

But Kimi doesn’t flinch. He keeps going. “She’s eighteen months old. Her name is Bianca. Her mom is… my girlfriend. We’ve been together since we were fifteen. We never told anyone. We didn’t want it to interfere with anything. We kept it private. But she’s real. They’re both real.”

He’s not breathing anymore. Just waiting. For Toto to yell. To pull the contract. To tell him he’s out of his mind if he thinks a teenage father can replace Lewis fucking Hamilton. But Toto doesn’t move. He just tilts his head. “Does anyone else know?”

“Our families,” Kimi says. “Ollie. That’s it.”

Toto nods once. Then stands. Walks around the desk. Kimi braces. But Toto doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t lecture. He just sits on the edge of the desk beside him and says, “You’re eighteen.”

“I know.”

“You’re about to sign with the biggest team in motorsport.”

“I know.”

“And you’ve been raising a daughter in secret for over a year?”

Kimi nods. His throat is burning. “She’s not a secret to me,” he says quietly. “She’s my whole world.”

Toto’s face softens. Just slightly. “Why tell me now?”

“Because I can’t walk into this seat with lies,” Kimi says. “Because if I crash, I want you to know what I’m protecting. What I’m driving for.”

Toto is quiet for a long time. Then he sighs. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, rubbing his face.

Kimi doesn’t move. Then Toto looks up. “I’m going to say this once,” he says. “And I need you to hear it properly.”

Kimi nods.

“You are a fucking child,” Toto says. “You should not be able to balance Formula 1 and fatherhood. No one should. And yet here you are.”

Kimi swallows. “I know-”

“No, listen.” Toto’s voice is low. Serious. “I don’t give a shit what the press says. I don’t care about the headlines. I care about my drivers. And now I care about your girlfriend and yourkid.”

Kimi stares. Toto continues. “If you’re in, I’m in. But that means Mercedes is in too. Your daughter is part of this team now. So if you need time off for her, you get it. If you need security for her, I’ll make it happen. If anyone even breathes wrong about that child in the paddock-”

He stops. Smiles grimly. “-they’ll wish they’d never met me.”

Kimi’s throat closes. He nods. Speechless. Toto claps a hand on his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Kimi. Not anymore.”

[rainrot4me]

what would each pasta's reaction would be when mc finally falls asleep on them (like for the first time since theyre dating)?

hope youre having an amazing day!

✦ . jeff the killer

“…Oh. Damn.”

He freezes. Not because he’s freaked out—but because you actually trust him enough to knock out on his chest, soft breathing syncing with his heartbeat.

He blinks down at you like, “Are we fucking serious right now?” But his hand instinctively rests on your back, holding you gently.

“Guess I’m not that scary, huh?”

He won’t move until you wake up, and God help anyone who tries to disturb you.

✦ . ticci toby

Soft panic mode activated

Toby was mid-sentence when he noticed your weight settle on his shoulder. Your breathing slows. His mouth clicks shut. He stares at your face—peaceful, relaxed—and his whole system short-circuits.

“You’re…as-asleep?”

He carefully adjusts his posture so you won’t be uncomfortable. He gets this little shy smile, rubbing the back of his neck. His tics quiet down like they don’t dare wake you.

He may or may not mutter a whispered “Night, babe,” even though you’re already out cold.

✦ . eyeless jack

Silent reverence.

You’re lying against his chest, the sound of his steady breathing lulling you into a dream. Jack knows the moment you fall asleep—and he goes completely still, one hand resting over your waist.

He listens to your heartbeat and feels…strangely human again.

“You trust me,” he thinks. You trust the monster.

He doesn’t say anything. He just brushes his fingers gently through your hair, over and over, until sleep takes him, too.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Protective stillness.

You slump against him on the couch, a film flickering in the background. He thinks you’re just cuddling—until your head tilts with that unmistakable weight of sleep.

At first, he doesn’t react. Then his shoulders relax. His hand shifts to cradle your side.

“…You picked a hell of a place to doze off,” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.

He watches over you like a guard dog, arms wrapped around you tight and safe.

✦ . hoodie (brian thomas)

Soft awe and a hidden smile.

You’re tucked against his hoodie-covered chest, exhaling softly. Brian’s arms are around you without hesitation—like muscle memory.

He blinks once, twice, and then leans back slowly, letting you sink deeper into sleep.

He doesn’t speak. Just presses the softest kiss to your forehead and lets his fingers trace your spine in slow, soothing lines.

If anyone enters the room, they get a look that says don’t. even. breathe.

✦ . kate the chaser

A soft grin and an even softer heart.

You fell asleep with your face buried in the crook of her neck, completely limp in her arms. Kate stiffens for a moment—not out of discomfort, but surprise.

She wasn’t expecting that level of trust.

“…Shit,” she whispers, half-smiling.

She settles deeper into the couch, making sure you’re supported. One hand brushes your spine, soothing and slow.

“Sleep easy. I’ve got you.”

✦ . ben drowned

Absolutely speechless for 0.5 seconds.

He was mid-rant about a boss fight when your head dropped against his shoulder. At first, he assumes you’re just snuggling—until you actually fall asleep.

“…Wait. Are you asleep right now?”

A flush rises on his cheeks. He pauses the game. (Yes. Actually.)

He gently adjusts the blanket over you, glancing down with a lopsided grin.

“God, you’re cute. Nerd,” he mumbles, then wraps his arm around you tighter, game forgotten.

✦ . clockwork

Grinning like a menace and melting like butter.

You drift off mid-conversation, curled up in her lap, and Natalie just beams.

“Oh? That comfortable, huh?”

She talks softly even though you’re asleep, thumb brushing your jawline as she studies you like you’re something rare.

There’s something sacred about the moment—you, safe and sleeping in her arms. Her voice drops, playful but low:

“You’re all mine like this, aren’t you?”

✦ . laughing jack

Still, quiet—eerily tender.

You’ve fallen asleep tangled in his patchwork coat, cheek smushed into his chest. For once, LJ doesn’t say anything.

Not a joke. Not a giggle.

He just watches your sleeping face, expression unreadable. His gloved fingers gently push a strand of hair out of your eyes.

“…You’re something else, you know that?” he whispers.

Then he wraps both arms around you, protective and possessive, and leans back to let you rest.

✦ . slenderman

Unmoving, otherworldly calm.

Your head has lolled against his shoulder. Your breathing is deep. Slender registers this fact in full. And though he doesn’t sleep, he shifts his form just slightly—softer, warmer, more solid—like a living cradle.

He stays still, his aura dimming until it’s nearly imperceptible, so you stay asleep.

He says nothing. But his hands rest over you, palms heavy and unmoving, a barrier between you and the world.

꩜ .ᐟ

[dcxdpdabbles]

More Menace!Danny please he's so funny

"What are you doing in my house?" A young voice whispers as softly as the spring rain pouring outside.

Clark screams, jumping a foot into the air. He wirls around only to come to a standstill as a young teenager, no older than fifteen, stares back at him.

His clothes hung off his body, but it looked more like that was a personal choice for baggy, checkered pajamas. His skin was pale, too pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in months. There were dark circles under the boy's eyes, as if someone had taken purple paint and rubbed it against his face until no amount of washing would get it off.

Bandages were wrapped around his arms and neck. Clark could see a few of them disappearing inside his shirt, indicating there were more treated wounds hidden away. His hair was in disarray, pointing in every direction like the top of a pineapple, but cut short enough that it almost looked like someone with scissors had gone at the strands with a personal vendetta.

In the teenager's closed fist is a chunk of hair.

Clark notices, with a growing sense of panic, that there is a breeze on the back of his head that wasn't there before. Accompanied by stinging is more proof that a good amount of his hair had been ripped out, and if he wasn't Kryptonian, then that would have been a whole lot worse.

If it wasn't for the yank on his hair, he would think he was staring at a ghost.

He gawks unattractively, feeling his heart run faster than the wild rabbits he used to chase out of the gardens with Pa. Clark hadn't heard the boy's approach at all, couldn't even pick up his breathing or his heartbeat.

Wasn't that just alarming? He had come to do an interview on Mr. Wayne's latest charity, one that would assist more than half the city get a college associate, so long as they graduated from a high school within Gotham. It was a generous offer, one the readers would adore hearing in his new Positive column.

Clark was finally catching his big break at the Daily Planet. He has been put in charge of a newspaper column of his choice, and he chose to report on all the good things that were happening. He felt that people chased tragedies too much when new worthy stories were everywhere.

Yes, his column was towards the end of the paper, near the comics, but it was his. It seemed to be doing well, too. Perry had increased his writing space as positive reviews started pouring in. Soon, Clark may even be assigned the big stories, the ones that would be put on the front page.

Mr. Wayne had made a comment about checking in on his son, who had vanished upstairs while Clark was busy setting up a recording device - with Mr. Wayne's permission, of course - when the boy had likely snuck in.

"Who are you? What are you doing in my house?" The boy repeats in a soft voice, but with the new amount of steel entering each syllable. Clark felt vulnerable as he scrambled back a few steps on instinct.

"I ugh, I'm here for Mr. Wayne-"

"If you think you can convince Bruce into your bed, you've got another thing coming," The boy hisses, lurching forward with his feet bent in two separate directions, appearing almost spider-like. Clark yelps, pressing himself against the wall, staring down in horror at what he's half convinced isn't human. "How many broken bones can a body survive before someone dies? You should know, shouldn't you, News Man."

The words are more growled out than spoken, and Clark is half convinced that he could go through with his threat even if he doesn't know Clark is Superman.

"I ugh-"

"Danny, there you are!" Mr. Wayne's cheerful voice breaks the spell as the boy straightens up, twisting his feet back in the direction they have to be and stepping away from the reporter with a nasty scowl.

Mr. Wayne walked over, throwing an arm around the boy and bringing him into an easy side hug that spoke of fatherly love, while beaming at Clark. "Mr. Kent, I've seen you've met my son Danny Fenton-Wayne. Adopted him only a month ago."

Clark stares between the two, drinking in the easy, warm disposition of Mr.Wayne by the darkness that surrounded Fenton-Wayne. If it wasn't for the slightly more effeminate features of Fenton-Wayne, which made him more tragically pretty than Mr. Wayne's classically handsome, they would have looked biologically related.

That and the fact that Mr. Wayne looked like he would cry to hurt a fly, while Fenton-Wayne would set a building on fire just to feel something.

Clark shivered but forced a strained smile on his face. "He's lovely. You must be so proud."

Fenton-Wayne's eyes narrowed in barely concealed violence while Mr. Wayne beamed brighter, "I am!"

Clark prayed he didn't have to see Fenton-Wayne often in the future. He could barely handle Batman breathing down his neck for coming to his city. The other hero didn't seem to like the idea that he was just doing his job, but thankfully, Phantom, the young sidekick of Batman, was holding him off.

Now that kid was the sweetest child he's ever had the pleasure of encountering.

[be4chywritez]

loathing? | luke hughes

luke hughes x fem!reader

rec: so luke gives bfb vibes so hard for some reason please write something like best friend's brother or like enemies to lovers

recs are open + prompt list

beachy’s masterlist🐚

Jack’s apartment felt like a second home to you at this point. You were always here, whether Jack invited you over or you just let yourself in. It wasn’t your fault his couch was more comfortable than yours, and besides, his fridge was always stocked with your favorite snacks.

Unfortunately, Jack’s apartment came with an unwanted addition—Luke Hughes.

Luke was the embodiment of an annoying little brother, except he wasn’t your brother, which made it worse. Every time you were over, he was there, too, sulking, chirping, or generally making your life difficult.

It started with little things. He’d steal your snacks, change the channel when you were watching something, or conveniently take the last bottle of water from the fridge. Once, you caught him wearing one of your hoodies just to piss you off. The rivalry was childish, petty, and utterly exhausting.

Then came the pranks. You swapped his protein powder with flour. He replaced your chapstick with hot sauce. Jack refused to take sides, claiming you were both equally insufferable.

One afternoon, after Luke had hidden your shoes before you had to leave, you retaliated by locking him out on the balcony in the middle of winter. Jack had to let him back in after twenty minutes, and Luke had vowed revenge ever since.

And now, it had come to this.

“Move, you’re on my side of the couch.”

You looked up from your phone, arching a perfectly sculpted brow as Luke stood over you, arms crossed. His stupid, messy hair was damp from his post-practice shower, and he was still in sweatpants and a hoodie, looking as effortlessly good as ever—not that you’d ever admit it.

“Your side?” You scoffed, stretching out even further. Your legs, bare thanks to the tiny shorts you wore, draped over the cushions as you made yourself comfortable. “Last I checked, this couch belongs to Jack.”

Luke exhaled sharply, clearly already at his limit with you today. “Yeah, and Jack’s not here, which means I get priority seating.”

“That’s not how it works, Hughes.” You gave him a slow, taunting smile. “You snooze, you lose. Go sit in the chair like a good little rookie.”

Luke rolled his eyes, but instead of arguing further, he did the worst possible thing—he sat down. Right on top of you.

“Luke!” You shrieked, shoving at his solid frame, but he didn’t budge.

“You wouldn’t move, so now I’m sitting.” His smirk was infuriating.

“You’re crushing me, you absolute menace.” You wriggled under him, but it only made him press down more, laughing at your struggle.

“Not my fault you take up the whole couch.”

“Not my fault you have no concept of personal space.”

“Oh, please. You love the attention.”

That made you pause, and Luke must have noticed the slight falter in your expression because his grin widened. You shoved at his chest, hard enough that he finally moved off you, but the damage was done. You were flustered, and he knew it.

“You’re such a pain in the ass,” you muttered, sitting up and crossing your arms.

“Right back at you, princess.”

The nickname, as condescending as it was, sent a jolt through you. Maybe it was the way his voice dropped slightly when he said it, or maybe it was the way he was looking at you now—like he was daring you to snap back.

And snap, you did.

One second, you were shoving at his shoulder. The next, his hands were on your waist, and your lips crashed together. It was messy, desperate, all of the pent-up frustration spilling over into something way hotter than either of you had planned. His hands gripped your hips like he’d been waiting for this, and when you bit down on his lower lip, he groaned against your mouth.

Your fingers curled in his hoodie, tugging him closer, and he gladly followed, pressing you back against the couch as his mouth moved against yours, demanding and hungry. The fire between you had finally found its outlet, and there was no stopping it now.

The air between you was thick with something unspoken when you finally broke apart, both of you breathing heavily. Luke’s forehead rested against yours for a fleeting moment before he pulled back, a knowing smirk playing at his lips.

“Didn’t see that coming, did you?” he teased, his voice lower now, rougher.

You rolled your eyes, even as your pulse hammered. “Shut up.”

He grinned but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for your hand, intertwining your fingers with a confidence that sent another shiver down your spine.

“C��mon,” he murmured, tugging you up from the couch. “Before Jack gets back.”

A thrill shot through you as you followed him down the hallway, your stomach twisting in anticipation. This was dangerous, reckless—but you weren’t stopping now.

Not when sneaking off with Luke Hughes had suddenly become the most exciting thing you’d done all night.

The near-misses started piling up after that night. A stolen kiss in the kitchen while Jack was in the other room. Luke slipping his hand under the table at dinner, brushing against your thigh as you tried to keep a straight face. One night, Jack almost walked in on you tangled up in Luke’s bed, forcing you to dive under the covers while Luke casually pretended to be scrolling on his phone.

It was thrilling. Addictive. But eventually, the excitement started to wear thin, especially for Luke.

One night, after slipping out of Jack’s apartment and into Luke’s room again, he hesitated before pulling you close. There was something different in his touch, something hesitant.

“This isn’t just—physical for you, is it?” he finally asked, voice low but vulnerable in a way you’d never heard before.

You blinked at him, thrown off by the sudden shift. “What?”

Luke exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “I just—sometimes it feels like that’s all we are. And I don’t want that.”

You studied him, heart clenching at the uncertainty in his eyes. “Luke, I wouldn’t be sneaking around for just anyone. This is more. I want more. I thought you knew that.”

His jaw tensed. “I want more too. I just didn’t know if you felt the same.”

You reached out, threading your fingers through his. “You’re not just a hookup to me, Luke. You never were.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and he pulled you in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Good. Because I think I’m falling for you.”

You swallowed, emotions thick in your throat. “Then fall, Hughes. I’ve already fallen.”

Jack found out in the most Jack way possible—by walking in on you and Luke curled up together on the couch.

He froze in the doorway, blinking as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Are you—kidding me?”

Luke groaned, dropping his head back. “Well, that could’ve gone better.”

Jack pointed a finger between the two of you. “How long?”

You hesitated. “Uh… a while?”

Jack groaned. “You two are the worst.”

But there was no real anger in his voice—just exasperation. And when Luke laced his fingers through yours, squeezing lightly, you knew it was all worth it.

[unsuperingyournatural]

just kissing, right?

Pedro Pascal x Actress!Reader

pure smut, getting caught in the act

sorry, Pedro

The house creaked with the wind rolling off the water, and there was something about that—about the briny air, the distant hush of waves, and the low hum of a too-expensive vacation rental—that made the movie theater room feel hidden away, like a secret you hadn’t meant to find but were glad existed. It felt private. Yours, in some small, perfect way.

You were curled into one of the oversized recliners, a thick blanket heaped around your legs, your drink nestled securely in the crook of your elbow. Pedro sat beside you—as he usually did—warm and comfortably close, one arm thrown over the back of your seat, his knuckles occasionally brushing your shoulder whenever he shifted.

The movie playing on the screen was fine. Not great, not terrible. A mid-budget thriller with just enough tension to keep you passively engaged, but far too many clichés to resist making fun of. The two of you had already had a few drinks—wine for you, something darker for him—and the pleasant buzz between you made every sarcastic comment land funnier, every shared glance heavier.

“Wow,” you murmured, lifting your glass in lazy commentary as the heroine fled upstairs. “She’s actually running toward the attic. She deserves what’s coming.”

Pedro huffed a laugh and leaned in slightly, his voice dipping into that amused register that always gave you away. “You’re cold.”

“She had options,” you defended, gesturing toward the screen as if the character might hear you. “I would’ve taken my chances on the front lawn.”

“I don’t know,” he mused, sipping his drink. “If someone were chasing me with an axe, I think I’d probably just drop and play dead. Maybe throw a lamp. Hide in a cupboard.”

You glanced over with an arched brow, trying not to smile. “You’d play dead?”

“I’d be excellent at it,” he said, tipping his head to the side dramatically and sticking his tongue out in a grotesque imitation of a corpse. You let out a burst of laughter and gave him a light smack on the chest.

“You’re such an idiot.”

“But I’m your idiot,” he shot back, grinning without looking at you.

And just like that, something inside you tightened.

You knew better than to read into it. You and Pedro had always been close—good friends, loyal and affectionate without crossing lines. You’d shared hotel rooms on press tours, swapped hangover remedies, spent long flights with your head leaning against his shoulder. It had always been safe. Always easy.

But something about tonight felt different.

Maybe it was the way the room felt removed from the rest of the house, or how the alcohol had settled in like a second skin. Maybe it was how he’d nearly doubled over earlier, laughing at something stupid you said, his whole face lit up like you’d done something remarkable. Or maybe it was how he was looking at you now—soft-eyed, barely blinking.

He wasn’t even pretending to watch the movie anymore.

“What?” you asked, trying to keep your voice light as you sipped your drink.

Pedro leaned in slightly, his voice suddenly quieter, steadier. “We should make out.”

You blinked. “What?”

He grinned, wide and unrepentant. “I said, we should make out.”

“You’re drunk,” you said, though the words caught a little on the way out.

“Absolutely,” he agreed without hesitation, as if he’d just confirmed his own name. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

You turned your head and really looked at him—at the warmth in his cheeks, the slow curl of his smile, the fingers absentmindedly toying with the edge of the blanket. There was no punchline waiting at the end of this. He wasn’t teasing you.

Your laugh came out thinner than intended. “Pedro…”

He didn’t lean closer. Didn’t pressure. Just waited. Still. Patient. Watching.

The flickering screen painted his face in shadows, but the heat you felt had nothing to do with the movie.

You turned away, your face burning. “You’re such a menace.”

His voice found you again—quieter now, closer. “Say yes.”

Your heart fluttered. You turned toward him slowly, just enough to meet his gaze. His smile hadn’t faltered, but something underneath it had deepened. Something serious. Something real.

“Just kissing?” you asked.

He lifted a brow with a spark of amusement. “You want more?”

You narrowed your eyes. “I said just kissing.”

Pedro raised his hands in mock surrender, though the grin on his face grew just a little more wicked. “Scout’s honor.”

You hesitated, weighing the moment. Then—breath shallow, skin tingling—you shifted toward him and closed the space between you.

The kiss started slow. Soft. The kind of kiss you didn’t know you’d been craving until it was already happening. Like breathing in the dark. Like letting go.

But it didn’t stay slow.

Because then his hands found your waist, and your fingers slipped into his hair, and suddenly you were in his lap, kissing like the world had tilted and you were falling. His mouth was hot and insistent. Your dress rode up as his hands roamed, and when your hips rocked against him, you felt him—hard and ready and not hiding any of it.

A soft sound left your lips, and Pedro groaned, forehead pressing into your shoulder, breath shaking.

“Jesus,” he whispered, kissing along your collarbone. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled against his cheek, breathless but teasing, voice curling with heat. “Thought danger turned you on.”

“It does,” he murmured, fingers digging in just slightly. “Usually when it’s not actively grinding against me in a recliner I didn’t pay the deposit on.”

Your laugh was low, wicked. “Then you better hold on.”

You moved against him again, slow and deliberate, your hips rolling in a rhythm that built gradually—teasing, testing the edges of restraint. The sound Pedro made in response was raw, breath caught halfway between a moan and a curse.

“Fuck,” he groaned, hands gripping your thighs like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.

You slid your fingers into his curls, tugging gently, then kissed your way along the line of his neck—slow, lingering, every movement deliberate. The scent of him wrapped around you, warm and intoxicating, and you felt the tension between your bodies coil tighter with every shift of your hips.

His breath stuttered when you whispered something soft just beneath his ear, and your thighs trembled as the pleasure crept higher—heat simmering, then sparking, then threatening to boil over.

“I’m getting close,” you murmured, voice uneven, the words tumbling out between shallow, shaking breaths.

Pedro’s eyes opened slowly, dark and focused. “You are?”

You nodded, lips parting on another shaky breath. “It’s been a long time. And this… this is getting me there.”

He blinked. His grip on you tightened just enough to steady you.

“That’s a fucking crime.” His voice was lower now, reverent. “Not since… whatever his name was?”

You let out something like a laugh—dry and self-aware—but it caught at the edges.

“No,” you said quietly, your tone clearer this time. “Not since him.”

He stilled, just for a second, like the words hit deeper than expected.

There was no need to explain. The history was already there, thick between you—unspoken, but understood.

Pedro had hated him. Always had. Said as much with every look, every tight smile, every protective nudge you didn’t always realize at the time was intentional.

Now, his jaw tightened slightly, but when his gaze returned to yours, it was gentle.

“He never deserved you.”

The words hit harder than you expected.

For a moment, you didn’t say anything. You just looked at him—really looked at him—and let it sink in. It wasn’t just what he’d said. It was how he said it—gentle, sure, without any expectation. You’d heard versions of those words before, always from him, always in the aftermath of things you didn’t want to face. But this time was different. This time it landed, deeper and quieter, without your guard there to deflect it.

You swallowed hard. Something cracked open inside your chest. You didn’t speak—not yet. There was too much heat swelling in your chest, too much ache behind your ribs. But you reached for him anyway, your fingers sliding across the space between you with the quiet kind of certainty that didn’t need words. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t showy. Just a touch—honest, unhurried, and unmistakably yours.

Pedro’s eyes searched your face for the briefest moment, then softened—like something unspoken passed between you and settled everything. He reached for you slowly, his fingers brushing your cheek before trailing down to your jaw. You leaned in, matching his pace, your breath caught somewhere between nerves and want.

The kiss that followed wasn’t rushed. It was deep. Measured. One of those kisses that lingered just long enough to say everything words couldn’t. And when your hands found the hem of his hoodie, slipping beneath it with careful reverence, he exhaled into you—relieved, maybe, or just undone.

The moment turned quieter, warmer. Your mouths moved in rhythm, lips parting, breath mingling, hands learning each other with the kind of touch that only came after trust had already been earned. His hands skimmed down your sides, settling at your hips. Yours trailed across his chest, slow and searching.

Your body shifted with his, hips rolling gradually, each motion coaxing more warmth into your bloodstream, more pressure into the space between your breaths. You could feel him reacting—his breathing deepening, his grip tightening—as the rhythm you found together began to draw out something deeper, hungrier, from both of you.

His hands followed the path your movements laid out for him, slipping from your hips to your thighs to the small of your back and back again, fingers mapping the places that made you shiver. And yours, just as restless, explored him in turn—slow, reverent, learning him like you were memorizing something sacred. Zippers eased down. Buttons slipped free. You kissed him like it had meaning because it did. Because it always had.

By the time he slid his hand between your legs and found you soaked and aching for him, your breath was already coming in shallow gasps.

“You sure?” he whispered, voice thick, low, reverent.

You nodded, your forehead resting lightly against his as your breath steadied just enough to answer. “Yeah,” you murmured, almost a whisper. “Very sure.”

And when he pushed into you—slowly, carefully, fully—it wasn’t desperation. It was inevitability. It was everything you’d been circling around for months, crashing together all at once.

You gasped his name, clung to him. Your whole body opened around the shape of him, and he held you like he’d never let go.

His thumb circled your clit, slow and steady, coaxing pleasure to the surface with every pass. His lips never strayed far from your skin—pressing kisses into your shoulder, your collarbone, the side of your throat. It was a rhythm he kept just for you, matching the way your hips moved against his, deep and deliberate.

You could feel it building—tight and hot, right beneath your ribs. The tension in your body wound tighter with every roll of his hips, every whispered word in Spanish that slipped from his lips and curled around your spine.

You clung to him, hands gripping his shoulders like you’d fall apart if you let go. Your breath hitched, and he felt it—heard it—and pulled you closer, his mouth brushing your jaw, your ear, your name spoken like it meant something ancient.

When it broke, it broke hard.

You came with a shudder that started in your chest and spilled through every inch of you. He held you through it, arms strong around your waist, his mouth murmuring soft things against your skin—reassurances, affection, reverence. Spanish, low and warm, threaded between kisses and the slow return of breath to your lungs.

But neither of you stopped.

Your hips stuttered, slowed, then picked up again. He was still hard inside you, and the moment hadn’t faded—it had shifted, deepened. His hands found your face, then your waist, guiding your rhythm back into something sharper. His mouth caught yours, hungry this time, and the pace built again—messier now, breathier, full of that second-wave heat that always came after the fall.

Time blurred.

At some point, Pedro shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your hips tighter just before he moved. You gasped when he flipped the two of you, your back hitting the cushions with a soft thump, and your surprised laugh slipped free as he hovered over you, breathless and grinning.

He dropped a kiss to your jaw, then muttered, half-laughing, "I’m too old for recliner sex."

You giggled, breathless and bright, and gave him a playful shove. "You’re not old. You’re just seasoned—with premium mileage."

He laughed, low and warm, then shifted back onto his knees, still grinning, breath warm between you.

Without a word, his fingers gripped the hem of his hoodie and peeled it off in one smooth motion. You watched shamelessly as it cleared his arms and shoulders—eyes tracing the cut of his chest, the soft line of leftover Marvel muscle still clinging to his frame. He tossed the hoodie aside without a second thought, then leaned back into you, skin bare and hot and so close it stole your breath.

You gasped, but it turned into a sigh as his mouth found yours again, swallowing the sound like a promise. And in that instant, it felt like more than just lust—like something had quietly tipped into something else.

His pace picked up—deeper now, more insistent—and that earlier softness evaporated, burned away by hunger. Your dress didn’t stand a chance. Somewhere in the haze of movement and heat, it had slipped higher, straps long gone from your shoulders. When his chest met yours, slick with sweat and flush with heat, you tugged the dress the rest of the way off—impatient now, wanting to feel every inch of him. It hit the floor in a forgotten heap. Now, with nothing left between you, every shift of your bodies lit something wild beneath your skin—something that had been rising since that first kiss.

The recliner groaned beneath you, shifting with every thrust. Heat clung to you, not just from your bodies but from the room itself, the air dense with want. There was only him—his breath in your ear, his body against yours, his hips driving into you with purpose. Your breath caught, lips tender from the unrelenting push and pull of mouth and heat. He bit back curses into your mouth; you moaned against his jaw, head spinning.

There was no gentleness left. No patience. Just fire—raw and immediate and scorching through every nerve.

He said your name like it grounded him. You said his like it was the only thing you knew.

And still, it wasn’t enough.

He whispered things that didn’t make sense anymore, voice wrecked, and you answered in the same language—touch, gasp, pressure. You were both chasing it now, harder and faster. Every movement was greedy, raw.

You moaned against him. He groaned into your neck. His name left your lips again and again as the tension climbed, and you felt him chase it too, closer with every thrust.

His mouth crashed back to yours, needy and open, and your legs wrapped around his waist almost instinctively. His pace turned harder, more desperate, the sound of skin meeting skin now sharper in the heavy air.

His hair was damp with sweat, curls clinging to his forehead as he braced himself above you. Your fingers clutched his back, your moans louder now, his name a broken chant.

And then—

The door flew open.

Bright light spilled in. A chorus of voices.

“WHAT THE FUCK?”

You shrieked, diving behind the first row of seats and grabbing your dress off the floor, fumbling to pull it over your head as fast as your shaking hands would allow. Pedro scrambled too, grabbing his hoodie and using it to cover himself as he reached for where his jeans had landed nearby. He managed to drag them halfway up his thighs, fingers fumbling with the zipper, all while trying to keep the hoodie in place. It was the kind of chaos that should’ve been mortifying, but the glint in his eye said otherwise. His expression landed somewhere between unbothered and amused, like getting caught mid-thrust was more of a mild inconvenience than a disaster.

Your friends stood frozen—wide-eyed, half-scandalized, half-delighted.

“I knew it,” someone whispered under their breath.

“Took them long enough,” another muttered.

You felt the heat climb from your chest to your ears, every inch of your skin burning with mortification. Pedro, still only partially dressed and entirely unfazed, lifted a hand like he was flagging down a cab. “Hey. Can we get, like, two more minutes?”

That broke the tension. Laughter rang out immediately—too loud, too knowing.

“Oh my God, Pedro,” your friend called from the hallway, her voice distinct in its disapproval. “Couldn’t you at least pretend to be discreet?”

“Was this on the itinerary?” someone else laughed. “Because I definitely didn’t see ‘cinema turned sexcapade’ listed under activities.”

“Two minutes?” one of the guys snorted. “C’mon, man. At least pretend you’ve got stamina.”

“And there goes movie night,” another groaned. “We’re gonna have to sage the recliners now.”

Someone groaned theatrically, and another muttered, “I cannot unsee what I just saw.” A few of the guys whistled on their way out, tossing in a chorus of mock applause and exaggerated claps as they disappeared down the hall, still laughing. The door closed behind them with a final thud, leaving only silence in its wake.

You exhaled sharply, dragging the dress higher over your chest, trying to collect yourself.

Pedro turned toward you, his expression softening. He reached for your hand first, then cradled your cheek, brushing a thumb gently along your jaw before leaning in to kiss you—slow, steady, and sure.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he murmured.

Your eyes found his, still flushed and catching your breath. “I’m not.”

Then, quieter, a touch more wicked: “I’m pissed we didn’t finish.”

He laughed, forehead pressing to yours. “God, I fucking love you.”

You blinked. Just for a moment.

Before you could answer, he pulled back with a grin. “My room’s right upstairs.”

Your answering smile was instant—bright, breathless, and unmistakably sure.

You didn’t make it to the hallway before you were on each other again.

That night was a blur of heat and laughter, of tangled limbs and breathless moans, of soft-spoken Spanish threading through the dark and the rhythmic thud of the headboard against the wall. The mattress creaked beneath every movement, each thrust drawing louder, rougher sounds from both of you—unfiltered, uncaring who heard. You came apart in his arms more than once. So did he.

Your friends would have opinions in the morning.

And even through the chaos, the teasing, the certainty that you’d never live it down—you knew you wouldn’t trade a moment of it. Not one.

Sunlight filtered through the tall kitchen windows, slicing across the hardwood floors in streaks of gold that felt too bright, too cheerful, for everything that had gone down just hours before. The smell of strong coffee mingled with toast and sunscreen, the early signs of a beach day in motion.

Your friends were already gathered around the long dining table—some half-asleep, some already scrolling through their phones, most pretending not to glance your way the second you stepped into view.

Pedro walked into the room first, unhurried and unapologetic, a pair of sunglasses perched lazily on his head like he hadn’t a care in the world. You followed close behind, still tugging your sleeves into place, cheeks warm but chin high. His hand reached back briefly, brushing your hip as you stepped up beside him—casual in gesture, but unmistakably his. You wore clean clothes—soft shorts and an oversized tee that wasn’t technically yours—and your hair was still a little damp. Pedro had changed shirts after your shared shower, the two of you having taken your time beneath the water. His curls were still tousled from your hands, and his expression was far too smug to be innocent.

The teasing started before you’d even sat down.

“Well, well. Look who decided to join the land of the living,” someone drawled, smirking over their cereal.

“Did you two even sleep?” another chimed in, raising an eyebrow. “Or were you just rehearsing your lines all night?”

Pedro didn’t miss a beat. He pulled out your chair with exaggerated chivalry and leaned down to kiss your cheek. “She’s very talented,” he said smoothly. “Deserves an Oscar.”

You nearly choked on your laugh. A few people groaned. One person muttered, “We heard everything,” under their breath.

“Like, everything-everything,” someone else added.

Pedro only grinned and shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

You buried your face in your mug, half from embarrassment and half to hide the grin that wouldn’t leave your face. You barely made it through a few sips before Pedro’s fingers found yours under the table, his thumb drawing small, lazy circles along your knuckles.

When you glanced at him, he was already watching you—eyes warm, that familiar look never quite gone. And just like that, whatever flicker of embarrassment still lingered melted away.

Moments later, he stood, stretching slightly, before turning to you with an open hand which you immediately took. “Beach day,” he announced, grabbing a banana off the counter like it was the only thing he needed. “Come on, hermosa. Brand new day.”

“The movie room was a brand new day,” someone mumbled as you passed, and Pedro laughed—low and unbothered, like it only confirmed how unapologetically perfect the night had been.

You didn’t turn around. Pedro slipped on his sunglasses with a grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth, then slid his arm around your waist as the two of you stepped outside, sunlight spilling across the porch like it had been waiting for you.

You had him. He had you.

And whatever came next, it could all wait.

For now, there was only sun, and sand, and the steady warmth of his hand on your hip.

hermosa - beautiful

[devdozes]

Spiderman phainon but what about Spiderman mydeimos???

SPIDERMAN MYDEIMOS‼️

AAAA I NEED TO START DRAWING SPIDEY MYDEI RN

Being Spider-Man's Girlfriend was supposed to be cool, but nobody told you it would involve this much damage control.

"Hold still, Mydeimos, you're bleeding on the couch again."

"It's fine," he said, tone as flat as ever, even as you pressed a disinfectant wipe to his arm. His golden eyes barely flicked toward the wound. "It'll heal."

"Yeah, but my couch won't," you huffed. "You keep doing this, and we're gonna have to invest in plastic covers like an old married couple."

"Tch. Ugly."

"So is your arm right now."

He exhaled sharply through his nose—his version of a laugh. His whole vibe screamed 'intimidating man who has no time for nonsense,' but you knew better. Mydei might look like a cold, blunt realist, but he had his moments of secret softness. Not that he'd ever admit to them.

"You saw the news, right?" he asked, switching topics while you bandaged him up. "Everyone thinks Spider-Man is terrifying. Some reporter said I move like a 'predator in the dark.'" He scoffed. "I'm saving them, and they still call me scary."

You patted his arm, amused. "To be fair, you do have that whole 'gruff, intimidating presence' thing going on."

"They can't even see my face."

"No, but you could stop glaring at people like you're deciding their fate."

Mydei clicked his tongue and looked away. He totally did that.

Once you finished bandaging him, you leaned back with a satisfied grin. "There, all done. Now you can go back to swinging around the city like a menace."

"I'm not a menace."

"You also saved a kitten today and pet its head for like a whole minute."

"Shut up."

You beamed. Got him.

He sighed and leaned back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ceiling as if contemplating the entire universe. This was the real Mydei. Not the scary, unapproachable figure everyone thought he was. This was your Mydei—the one who let you patch him up, who tolerated your teasing, who had a hidden love for cute things and a soft spot for you.

You nudged his leg with your foot. "Wanna watch something? I promise not to pick anything stupid."

"Liar."

"Okay, I promise not to pick something too stupid."

He huffed but didn’t object as you grabbed the remote. A victory. A small one, but still.

A few minutes passed before he moved again. This time, he didn’t just rest his arm around you—he practically wrapped himself around you, his strong arms locking you in place. His head buried into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

You blinked. "Uh... Mydei?"

He mumbled something unintelligible but didn’t budge.

A small laugh bubbled up in your throat. Everyone called him a tiger, but for you, he was just a big, clingy cat.

"You're really comfy," he muttered, voice low, almost sheepish. "And warm."

Your heart did an embarrassing flip. How was this the same guy who scared half the city?

Smiling, you brought a hand up, gently running your fingers through his hair. "I swear, for someone with a scary reputation, you sure act like an oversized cat sometimes."

"Don't make it weird."

"Too late."

Mydei groaned but didn’t move an inch. If anything, he held you tighter.

Minutes passed, and you realized he wasn’t just holding you—he was trapping you. His arms were ridiculously strong, making escape impossible. Even shifting slightly earned you a grumble from where his face was buried in your neck.

"Uh, Mydei? I can’t move."

"Don’t need to."

You huffed. "Okay, but I kinda wanna grab the popcorn—"

"No."

You tried to wiggle an arm free. Failed. "Mydei, you're literally Spider-Man. You can reach it."

"Lazy."

"You're the one pinning me down!"

"Mhm."

He was completely content like this, muscles relaxed, warmth radiating from him as he clung to you like some oversized, stubborn cat refusing to let go of its favorite person.

Eventually, you gave up and sighed. "You better not fall asleep on me."

No response. Just the steady rhythm of his breathing, still wrapped around you like a human blanket.

You were about to tease him again, but the comfort of his warmth, the quiet hum of the movie playing in the background, and the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours started to lull you into drowsiness. His breath was slow, his hold secure, and before you knew it, your own eyelids grew heavy.

Sinking deeper into his embrace, you let sleep take over, your fingers still loosely tangled in his hair. Mydei shifted slightly, adjusting his grip just enough to bury his face even further into the crook of your neck, murmuring something inaudible in his sleep.

And just like that, you both drifted off—tangled together, warm, safe.

Mydei woke up first, groggy but comfortable. The first thing he noticed was you, still tucked under him, breathing softly in your sleep.

His golden eyes softened. He was heavy, practically draped over you like a living weighted blanket, yet you hadn’t pushed him away. You let him stay.

Carefully, he loosened his grip—just enough to scoop you up in his arms, moving with the silent ease of someone used to carrying people through the city.

You barely stirred as he lifted you, your face nuzzling against his chest instinctively.

Mydei sighed, pressing a quiet kiss to your forehead before walking toward your bedroom. But Just as Mydei tucked you into bed, his entire body tensed. A sharp, unmistakable sting prickled at the back of his neck—his spider-sense screaming.

His golden eyes snapped toward the window, instincts already kicking in. Something was happening.

In one swift motion, he pulled the blanket up over you, making sure you were comfortably settled. His fingers lingered for just a second—reluctant, but there was no time to hesitate. Duty called.

He turned, moving across the room with silent precision, already shrugging on his suit and golden metal claws. The familiar fabric clung to him like a second skin, his mask slipping over his face as he strode toward the window.

He turns his head to give you one last glance, before jumping out the window off to where his senses were taking him. . . . . .When he reached the scene, the first thing he saw was chaos. A messed-up road, broken stones, debris everywhere—

And a car on fire.

His eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, scanning the destruction. His gaze caught on something small lying among the rubble.

A Spiderman plushie?

Before he could react, an immense force slammed into him from the side, sending him flying—straight into the wall of a shop.

The impact rattled through Mydei’s ribs as he crashed into the shop’s wall, shattering the glass windows with the sheer force of the throw. Dust and debris clouded his vision, the ringing in his ears a dull reminder that he’d let his guard down. His fingers twitched around the small Spider-Man plushie he had picked up—what the hell was that doing here?

But before he could process it, a deep, guttural laugh rumbled from the cracked road ahead.

"Not so tough now, are ya, Spider?"

Mydei’s sharp golden eyes snapped up, locking onto the massive figure emerging from the wreckage. The guy was built like a wrecking ball—easily over seven feet tall, muscles bulging unnaturally under his torn clothes. His skin had a rough, almost stone-like texture, giving him an armored appearance. His face was twisted in a grin, eyes gleaming with the thrill of destruction.

Super strength. That explained the obliterated street. But Mydei had already noticed something else. The brute’s movements were sluggish—slow to adjust, slow to react. He had power, but speed? Weak.

Mydei cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he tossed the plushie aside.

“Alright, big guy,” he muttered, voice laced with sharp amusement, “You’re strong. I’ll give you that.” He bent his knees slightly, fingers twitching as he prepared to launch. “But let’s see how well you handle someone who actually knows how to fight.”

The brute snarled and charged, the ground trembling beneath his heavy steps. But Mydei was already moving.

WHIP—

A web shot out, latching onto the crumbling remains of a streetlight. In a heartbeat, Mydei launched himself into the air, narrowly avoiding the devastating punch that cratered the pavement where he had just stood. The mutant’s fist sunk into the concrete, struggling to pull it back out.

“Too slow.” Mydei’s voice rang from above.

The mutant barely had time to look up before Mydei came crashing down with a devastating kick to his jaw. The sheer force sent the brute stumbling back, cracks forming along his hardened skin.

"HRGH—!" The villain spat out something red—blood? A tooth? Who cared.

But Mydei didn’t stop.

He was already moving again, flipping midair, using another web to slingshot himself behind his opponent. Before the brute could react, Mydei landed a flurry of precise, brutal punches—each blow aimed at weak points. The ribs. The back of the knees. The joints. The guy was a tank, sure, but even tanks had weak spots.

The mutant roared in frustration, swinging wildly, trying to catch him. But Mydei was untouchable. Ducking. Weaving. Flipping. His movements were as fluid as water, never in the same place twice.

"You know," Mydei mused, narrowly avoiding a grab attempt, "for someone with that much muscle, you’d think you’d be better at actually landing a hit."

The brute’s eyes burned with rage. "STAND STILL!"

“No thanks.”

With that, Mydei shot a web at the mutant’s face—SPLAT!—effectively blinding him.

The villain roared, clawing at the sticky mess over his eyes. And that’s when Mydei saw his opening.

Launching forward, Mydei twisted midair and delivered a final, devastating roundhouse kick to the side of the mutant’s head. The sheer force sent him flying—his body crashing through a half-destroyed car before finally going still.

For a moment, silence.

Then, a groan. The brute twitched, clearly still conscious but dazed.

Mydei landed smoothly, rolling his shoulders. “You’re still awake? That’s impressive. Too bad it won’t last.”

With practiced ease, he shot out several webs, wrapping the mutant up tight against a broken lamppost. Struggle all he wanted, the brute wasn’t breaking out of that anytime soon.

The sirens were already wailing in the distance. Cops were on their way.

Mydei exhaled, finally relaxing his stance.

Then, he noticed it—the little Spider-Man plushie he had tossed aside earlier, lying near the wreckage.

“…Tch.” Without thinking, he picked it back up, dusting it off. He glanced at the unconscious villain, then at the mess around him.

“…Still gotta get back before she wakes up,” he muttered.

Just as Mydei swung through the city, a sudden, searing bolt of energy shot past him—so close he barely dodged in time. Someone was watching. Someone hidden.

Golden eyes narrowed. Fine. If they wanted to play this game—

He’d find them first.

The cowardly villain was a lanky figure wrapped in tattered cloth, his gaunt face shadowed by a hood. His power? Energy-based projectiles. He hid in the dark, firing shots from afar, never engaging in direct combat. He was weak up close—he knew it, Mydei knew it.

Which was why the villain always ran when things got too heated.

And tonight was no exception. As soon as Mydei got close, the villain turned tail, attempting to flee.

But before he could escape, a flying baseball bat shot through the air at an insane speed, striking him directly in the head with a sickening thud. The villain's body crumpled to the ground instantly.

Mydei's gaze snapped to where the bat had come from, and there you stood, arms crossed, glaring down at him from your apartment window with an expression of pure annoyed fury.

"Dear Spider-Man," you said, voice dripping with passive-aggressive venom, "if you're gonna fight, please try to be quiet and not interrupt people's sleep."

Mydei blinked. Then sighed. Oh god hes fucked . . . . . Mydei landed on your balcony with practiced ease, his mask still in place as he crouched, golden eyes watching you with a mix of guilt and amusement. You were still standing at the window, arms crossed, your glare sharp enough to cut through steel.

"I was handling it," he muttered, pulling off his mask.

"Yeah? Well, I handled it faster," you shot back, tilting your chin up. "And now my precious sleep is gone, all thanks to my dear superhero boyfriend who can’t keep it down."

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I’ll make it up to you."

You raised a skeptical brow. "Oh? How?"

Without another word, Mydei scooped you up effortlessly, pulling you into his arms before stepping inside.

"Mydei—! Put me down, you dramatic bastard, or what do you call phainon? yeah HKS."

He ignored you, carrying you over to the couch and gently setting you down before disappearing into the kitchen. A few minutes later, he returned, holding a warm cup of tea in one hand and your favorite snack in the other.

He placed them on the table in front of you before sitting on the floor down beside you.

"Accept my offering," he murmured against your thighs.

You huffed, trying to hold on to your grumpiness. But between the warmth of the tea, the comfort of his hold, and the way he was resting his on your lap like some overgrown cat, your resolve crumbled.

"...Fine," you grumbled, taking the tea. "But you still owe me for the lost sleep."

Mydei smirked. "I can think of a way." "Shut the fuck up mydei" But then an idea flashed in your mind as you gave him a cheeky smile.

Mydei eyed you suspiciously as you flashed him a devious smile, pulling something from behind your back. His sharp golden eyes narrowed when he saw the fabric in your hands—a pair of matching Hello Kitty pajamas.

"If you want to make it up to me," you cooed, holding up the ridiculously cute pink pajamas, "then put this on."

Mydei's expression went completely blank. He slowly blinked at you, then at the pajamas, then back at you again.

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

"I fight crime in the dead of night, swinging across the city, getting smashed into walls, and dealing with the most annoying villains imaginable—"

"And now you're putting on the Hello Kitty pajamas," you cut him off sweetly, pushing them into his chest.

Mydei sighed, running a hand down his face. He was a realist, a straightforward man who prided himself on logic and practicality. There was no practical reason for him to wear pink Hello Kitty pajamas.

And yet, ten minutes later, there he was.

Standing in your living room.

Wearing them.

And looking absolutely massive in the cutesy, oversized fabric.

You barely held in your laughter, eyes sparkling with mischief as you twirled around in your own matching set.

"This is blackmail material," Mydei muttered under his breath, crossing his arms as he towered over you, looking both dead inside and resigned to his fate.

"You look adorable," you chirped, hugging his arm.

He grumbled, ears slightly red, before pulling you into his arms like a hostage.

"If I'm doing this, we're doing this right. Movie day," he declared, dragging you onto the couch.

"Exactly! Now, go order snacks," you said, shoving your phone into his hands.

Mydei gave you a long, unamused stare.

"...You're really milking this, huh?"

"Absolutely."

He exhaled heavily but started placing the order anyway. Because, despite his protests, he was completely wrapped around your finger.

And unfortunately for him?

You knew it.

[unconditionalcaretaker]

No one talks about how creepy Morrowind is. I don’t mean the plot lines, although a lot of those are quite dark too. But out of Morrowind, Oblivion, and Skyrim, it’s the only one that has that eerie feeling you get in Super Mario 64 that has led to so many creepypastas.

There are big empty spaces and mazelike dungeons where the game feels lonesome and suffocating, in the sense that you might be trapped somewhere forever. The lack of a quest marker system, and the use of verbal directions that are easy to misunderstand, enhances this lost feeling. The dialogue system, which is mostly reading, leaves tone of voice open to interpretation (potentially hostile interpretation) and offers the feeling of searching for secret information as you click different options to unlock hidden sections of the dialogue tree. Characters are strangely beautiful, yet not high-res enough for their expressions and movements to actually match their voices, so you end up with characters attacking while looking fairly calm. The voices themselves are gravelly and menacing, with battle cries that sound unnatural and desperate and sometimes quite hateful. In ambient dialogue, NPCs don’t talk aloud cheerfully, they whisper inaudibly to themselves, mutter about having strange dreams or the feeling of being watched, and they cough with unsettling realism. And of course, there are frequent glitches. I remember standing on the Vivec rooftop once and doing weird stuff with levitation when the skybox suddenly disappeared, leaving me under a void. I just stood there for a long time, looking up, admiring the surreality of the whole thing. This is all compounded by the fact that glitches can corrupt a save file or cause a quest to stop functioning, so there’s a sense that this eeriness could have real, upsetting consequences for you as a player.

Idk, I just love this aspect of older games.

[padmesweetheart]

My Little Menace

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Younger!Wife!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Light Angst, Humor, Protective Husband Mode

I enjoy feedback so here

It was supposed to be a quiet morning.

The sun was shining. Birds were chirping. Hayden was in full “wholesome husband” mode. he’d just finished feeding the animals, whistling happily on his way back inside the house, ready to start breakfast for you.

And then he found you.

Standing barefoot in the driveway.

Wearing one of his old T-shirts that nearly swallowed you whole, messy bed hair still everywhere, casually puffing a cigarette between two fingers while clutching a 12 oz Red Bull like your life depended on it.

You didn’t even see him at first. You were too busy, letting out a deep sigh like a stressed Wall Street broker in a 90’s movie, taking another drag, then another desperate sip of your beloved energy drink.

Hayden froze in the doorway, blinking. Once. Twice. Just staring.

The cigarette.

The Red Bull.

The utter dead-eyed exhaustion on your face.

He had to physically put a hand on the doorframe to steady himself.

“Baby,” he finally said, voice a little hoarse. “What… what am I looking at right now?”

You turned like a raccoon caught in the trash. “I’m fine!”

He slowly approached, like you were a wild animal that might bolt at any sudden movement. “Are you smoking?” he asked, even though he could see it right there, between your fingers.

You gave a sheepish little shrug. “It’s just a stress smoke.”

He stared harder. “And a Red Bull?”

Another shrug. “Just a little pick-me-up.”

Hayden looked at the can. The giant 12oz can. Then back at the cigarette.

Then back at your sleepy, guilty face.

“Baby…” He dragged a hand down his face in pure disbelief. “You’re out here committing war crimes against your own body.”

You blew a little smoke toward the sky and grinned. “It’s fine! It’s just a—”

“No,” he cut you off, reaching forward and plucking the cigarette out of your fingers with two fingers like he was disarming a grenade. “Absolutely not.”

“Hey!” you protested weakly, but he was already putting it out in a nearby flower pot.

He turned back around, pointing at the Red Bull. “And that,” he said firmly, “is not breakfast.”

You clutched the can protectively to your chest. “It’s… it’s hydration?”

He gave you a look so disappointed and pained it would’ve made a lesser woman weep. “Baby, no. That’s… that’s poison.”

You laughed, leaning your head against his chest when he stepped closer, still holding the Red Bull hostage.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you murmured. “It was a long night. I needed something.”

He softened immediately, his arms wrapping around you, pulling you tightly into his chest. His hand cradled the back of your head.

“You could’ve just woke me up, sweetheart,” he murmured against your hair. “You don’t have to run on fumes and battery acid.”

You closed your eyes, breathing him in. He smelled like fresh hay and clean soap, like every good thing in the world.

“I didn’t wanna bother you,” you mumbled.

“You are my bother,” he said immediately, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’re my problem. You’re my whole world. You could wake me up at two a.m. to tell me you wanted a cookie and I’d drive two hours to get it.”

You giggled into his shirt.

He pulled back just slightly to look down at you, brushing hair off your forehead tenderly. “No more smoking, alright? It scares me. And no more replacing your blood with Red Bull.”

You smiled shyly. “Okay.”

“Promise?”

You nodded, and he gave you a soft, relieved grin, kissing your forehead again.

“C’mon,” he said, finally stepping back and reaching for your hand. “Let’s get some real breakfast in you.”

As he led you back inside, he muttered under his breath, “Gonna replace your Red Bull with green juice if it kills me…”

You smirked behind him.

Little did he know, there was a secret stash of Red Bull hidden behind the flour in the pantry.

You weren’t going down that easy.

——-

It had been a few days since Hayden’s emotional “no more Red Bull” speech on the driveway.

You’d nodded, kissed his chest sweetly, given him the softest eyes imaginable — and then, like any self-respecting menace, you’d gone straight inside and hid your remaining stash behind the giant bag of flour in the pantry.

You thought you were clever.

You thought you were safe.

You thought wrong.

It all went downhill the following Saturday when Hayden, in his endless pursuit of husbandly excellence, decided to make homemade pancakes.

You were still half asleep, cocooned in blankets on the couch when you heard him rummaging around in the kitchen, humming quietly to himself. A domestic king. A man on a mission.

And then

A sudden, chilling silence.

A silence that felt dangerous.

You cracked open an eye just in time to see him emerge from the pantry holding a Red Bull can aloft like a biblical artifact, face shocked, betrayed, and heartbroken.

“Explain.”

The can crinkled slightly in his death grip.

You sat up straighter, panicking. “That’s… uh… that’s old! Vintage!”

He walked forward slowly, deadly calm. “There are fourteen more cans behind the flour.”

You winced. “They’re collector’s items?”

“Collector’s items,” he repeated, deadpan. “Behind the flour.”

You nodded solemnly. “It’s a… hobby.”

He cracked open the pantry wider and pulled out the entire stash — an alarming collection of various Red Bull sizes, from tiny shots to full 12oz beasts. It looked like you were running an underground black market.

Hayden turned back to you, betrayal etched deep into his beautiful face.

“You lied to me,” he said dramatically, pressing a hand to his heart like a wounded Victorian wife.

“I didn’t lie lie!” you protested. “I just… omitted.”

“Omitted?” His voice cracked. “You’re hoarding illegal substances! In my house!”

You giggled into your hands. “It’s not drugs, it’s caffeine.”

He pointed at the cans again, looking like he was going to cry. “You said you quit! You promised!”

You gave him your best puppy-dog eyes. “It’s not like I’m drinking them all at once…”

Hayden dropped to his knees on the kitchen floor, cradling two cans to his chest like fallen soldiers.

“My sweet baby angel wife,” he groaned to the ceiling. “Addicted to rocket fuel and lies.”

You couldn’t help it. You slid off the couch and crawled over to him dramatically, wrapping your arms around his shoulders from behind.

“I’m sorryyyyy,” you whined into his neck.

He sighed heavily but leaned into you. “You’re gonna give yourself a heart attack before you’re thirty.”

“I’ll slow down, I swear.”

“You said that last time. And the time before that.” He turned slightly to eye you with a raised brow. “You’re like a junkie. A Red Bull junkie.”

You pouted against his shoulder. “Don’t you still love me?”

He snorted, finally smiling despite himself, and turned to press a kiss to your temple.

“Of course I love you, menace,” he said quietly. “But if you don’t cut back, I’m gonna replace all of these with green smoothies. And broccoli snacks.”

You shuddered dramatically. “You’re evil.”

He grinned, setting the Red Bull cans down carefully, like defusing a bomb. Then he stood and offered you his hand to pull you up from the floor.

“We’ll negotiate,” he said magnanimously, like he was giving you a presidential pardon. “One Red Bull a day.”

Your mouth dropped open. “ONE?!”

He smirked. “Final offer. Take it or leave it.”

You grumbled under your breath, but took his hand anyway, letting him pull you up into his chest.

“One,” you mumbled.

“Good girl,” he teased, nuzzling your nose affectionately. “My heart can’t take watching you chain-smoke Red Bull like a divorced Vegas magician.”

You laughed against him, squeezing him tight.

And as he held you there messy hair, sleepy-eyed, and still half clinging to your caffeine addiction he kissed your forehead and whispered,

“My little menace. You’re stuck with me now. Red Bull and all.”

[elodieunderglass]

Rotating the Horse Boys in my brain and thought: What if they swapped places? IE: Charlie stuck around to do Horse Stuff and Killie fucked off to Be Happy? What would that look like, given that they'd still be who they are?

(The Horse Boys) Oh my GOD your MIND?!

hi. i don't know. how to feel about this.

press keep reading to continue

Charlie, who is personally committed to aging like milk as a carelessly freckly ginger in his own universe, is... a very different-looking person if he remains in the Horse Universe! Spending more time outside has made him all sunbleached and sundamaged, and this AU has put different lines on his face; not all mean, but different.

A core part of Charlie's character is that he isn't naturally an especially nice person; he makes the conscious choice to be kind, but he's a lot colder and more ruthless than Killie, so it's a choice he has to make CONSTANTLY, and would quite like a gold star for, actually! (Does anyone ever NOTICE the MASSIVE EFFORTS that Charlie makes to be a good, kind, patient person?? NO?? DO YOU NOT REALISE IT IS ALL AN ACT? ARGH.)

This Charlie doesn't worry about that at all. This Charlie is a snide, funny, fast-moving little fuck with a clearer physical resemblance to his father Bill, but an equally clear strain of no-fucks-given political-scheming catty little face from his mother Helena. He remains based at the family training yard in County Meath, being an absolute menace, but a massive change from Killie's circumstances is that Charlie domineers the whole family. Some things remain fixed (Bill is still disabled in a riding accident; Ciara still gets divorced) but in general Charlie has shoved, manoeuvred, manipulated and generally girlbossed his parents, siblings, and a significant portion of the extended family under his thumb, despite not being half the jockey Killie was. Then I realised that Charlie would have realised that too, clawed his way through vet school, instantly annexed Colm for his veterinary assistant/lackey, swung round to claim Uncle Bren and Aunty Blaw's loyalty, got the grandfather on side, and just completely cut Bill's legs from under him, leveraging Killie's exile and his status as The Family Vet in a total takeover bid to become head of the family and chief exec of most of the businesses. Why? Is he planning to take over the training yard? Nope! he just wanted to run all of their lives. He rides, but it's all local stuff - point-to-point and local chases - and probably, lacking Killie's sensitivity, goes hunting💀 Remains unmarried and unattached, knows perfectly well that he's bi, but manages to keep his assignations of all genders neatly hidden; all hookups in Dublin one county over; no kids, didn't even date Pippa. Pent-up, bitter, unhappy, mean: but scattering his energy so successfully in controlling 17 uncontrollable people and 2 stressful careers - essentially Patriarching the Dynasty, despite resolutely not fathering another generation for it - that he manages not to notice for DAYS at a time. Half the reason why Charlie made a calculated multidimensional bid for power was that he reckoned if he did ever get a different-gender partner, he'd have the social capital to carry it off, and everyone will have to deal, because this is Charlie's nation now. (The other half is that he's holding space for Killie to come home, ditto.)

But without his sincerity and warmth and joyful heart, he doesn't seem to be attracting the kind of people that Charlie's still-essential Charlieness would want to settle down with... and he remains enough of himself to realise that, if only subconsciously. So his birth family's all better off around him... at the expense of him not having his own spouses and kids :( oh that's so sad. Charlie loves his kids.

i don't know who this twink is omg

I can see Charlie so clearly but this guy... I don't know him. I mean, Killie's a Sunscreen User, but still. If you remove all the jock from Killie, what remains is almost unrecognisable?? This is Cillian Worthington; he's a very different animal, and I don't know that he's happy, and this is a STRANGER. Unsettling.

When Charlie went into Exile in his home universe, he made some fairly brilliant strategic decisions to avoid the usual fates of homeless queer kids, as well as the private investigators his family hired to get him back. He bolted for England and the evil posh Worthington family, alienated by their rotten daughter Helena for being rancid; they're awful and impossible to live with, but Charlie just wanted a landing pad. Consolidating his plans, buying breathing space, and changing his name, Charlie then springboarded into uni, supporting himself with bartending and music. If Killie did the same... the Worthingtons would welcome him out of spite for Helena, and then more genuinely. But he wouldn't have quite the same savviness and independence, and would find them soul-crushing. Regardless, once he adopted their name, they'd put him in uni and pay all his bills, and he would do weirdly well there - as long as he "kept his nose clean." With fewer temptations to bite, Killie would dutifully keep his nose clean indeed. From there - god! He could actually be an academic. Charlie didn't manage it but jesus CHRIST. Killie probably could.

Dr Cillian Worthington, pretending he isn't constantly fighting his demons, not setting foot in the countryside or looking at animals because it will remind him of his Horselessness. He wouldn't be able to deal with the Horselessness, and he would not be able to get enough capital to get any horses at all, and if he can't have them there's no point breaking his heart wanting them. A clean break is better. Put all horsiness into a box and punt it into the sun.

There would be a scene where Killie just snapped and stole a horse and it ALL CAME BACK OUT.

And another scene where they were reunited, and Killie could break Charlie down completely by just saying calmly, "You used to love music."

[orcasoul]

Falling Hard

Summary: Both you and Din have been dancing around your obvious feelings for far too long, much to Grogu's frustration.

Warinings: None, just fluff, and Grogu being an adorable little menace, as usual. Use of Y/N.

Word Count: 1, 486

This is just a silly, fluffy little idea I got after watching Mandalorian season 1 Ep7 where Grogu takes control of the Razor Crest and sends the ship rocking, don't ask, I just had to do this... 🙈

"Dank Farrick," you curse in frustration. No matter how hard you pull, this effing panel just won't come lose on this hunk of junk Razor Crest. For almost twenty minutes you've been struggling, building a sweat, but you really don't want to have to ask for help. The last time Mando had to get close to you it was almost impossible to concentrate; his smell, his body heat, just his aura made you want want to melt into a puddle. To say you have a crush is an understatement!

And even though you're 99% sure Mando feels something for you too, you're just too shy to find out, the fear of that 1% forcing you to keep your feelings hidden. "Urrgh, come on!" It's no use and now your fingertips are raw from prying the stubborn panel. Groaning internally, both from frustration and from the torture you're about to put yourself through you call out, "Mando? Could you come down here and help me out?"

Din heard your voice carry from the hull while sitting with Grogu in the cockpit. The little guy sat surrounded by his many plushie toys, making some float and some fight. "Be there, now," he called back before turning to Grogu. "I'll be right back, Pal," Din tickled his sons' ear. "Be good and don't touch anything." "Patu," Grogu babbled in response, watching Din descend to the hull. The moment he was alone, Grogu's attention went straight to the control panel, a devilish idea forming in his mind....

*****

Entering the hull, Din finds you struggling with the same panel you'd been working on since take off. You're in a wide leg stance, butt jutting out and Din can't keep his eyes from following the curve of your body. "I could use an extra pair of hands with this... kriffin thing," you huff, pulling the panel to no avail. Din forces back his chuckle; maker you're adorable when you get all wound up. Din walks up behind you, placing a hand at your hip to move you out of the way. "Scoot over, Cyar'ika. I've got this," he crooned through his modulator.

Butterflies erupted in your tummy at the sensation of Mando's hand on your hip, all coherent thought abandoning you. That is until he rips the panel off in one pull. "Twenty minutes I've been fighting with that blasted thing and you get it off in two seconds! No fair!" you moan, but your voice carries more amusement than annoyance. Mando just shrugs while tilting his helmet to the side, mock arrogance oozing from him. "Just gotta have the strength for this stuff."

You cross your arms over your chest, a smirk spreading over your face. "Well, if you're the brawn that must make me the brains." Mando rests his hands on his hips, and you just now he's smiling under his helmet. "I don't know about that," he teases. You match his posture, about to give a witty comeback when suddenly the entire ship violently jolts to the side, throwing Mando's huge frame into you, sending the both of you into the wall.

Quick as lightening Mando's hand cups the back of your head to cushion the impact against the wall, his other hand grabbing at the wall for stability. In any other scenario, having Mando's whole body pressed up against yours would have short circuited your brain, but fear is the main response right now. "Hey, kid!" Mando shouts over his shoulder as he scrambles to regain his footing. Loose cargo crates scrape along the floor, bric a brac fall from shelves and storage nets and the alarms blaze as you and Mando slip and slide your way to the ladder. "What the hell is he doing?!" you yelped while holding onto the bounty hunters' arm.

With great difficulty you clamber up the ladder after Mando, practically tumbling into the cockpit. Gorgu is in the pilot seat, squealing and giggling as he thrashes the joystick erratically from side to side, all the while watching you both fall about the place. "Grogu! What did I... tell you about... not touching anything?!" Mando sputtered as he pushed his way to the pilot chair. Grogu pulled the joystick back, purposely sending him crashing into you.

You are both a tangle of limbs now as you roll about the floor. Just as sudden as the chaos started it settled down, with you now on top of Mando, your face less than an inch from his black visor. Time seems to have frozen as you find yourself transfixed by the close proximity to the man you've been fantasizing of for months and, maker, his hands are on your hips again, gripping like there's no tomorrow.

Din has forgotten how to breathe! How did this happen?! How did you end up sprawled out over him just like he'd seen so many times in his dreams? Good gods, you feel incredible, so soft, so delicate, your hands pressed against his breastplate steadying yourself. Thank the force you can't see his blazing cheeks right now. Oh, but he can see yours; in fact his helmet is picking up the unmistakable rise in body temperature as you look at him with blown pupils. The spell is suddenly broken by the sounds of lips smacking together, both of you snapping your heads to the pilot seat, which has spun to face you.

Grogu is now holding two of his plushies in front of him, bumping their faces together and making kissy noises, stopping now and then to point at you both, then resuming the same action. Omg, the little stinker! Has it been that obvious that even Grogu could see how you both felt? Guess you did a crap job at keeping your feelings hidden after all. You slowly climb off Mando, resting on your knees beside him as he sits up. His helmet turns from Grogu to you and right now you're not sure if it's a blessing or a curse that you can't see his face. What do you even say? Grogu points at you both again, making an almost annoyed sound as if to say 'for goodness sake just tell each other how you feel already!'

Now there's no avoiding it, that much is obvious. You look from Grogu to Mando who's now rubbing a hand along the back of his neck. "I uh... think he's trying to tell us something!" Mando whispered awkwardly. "And what's that?" you ask, hesitantly. Mando exhales, slowly. "I think you know, Cyare." "I think I know too but I need to hear you say it," you smile, uncertainty in your eyes. Din knows it's now or never, and he also knows how shy you can be so he has to make the first move, even if he's not used to expressing his feelings.

"I like you..." he blurts out, cringing inwardly as he confesses. Couldn't he do any better than that? He tries again, "I like you Y/N, more than a friend. You're passionate and smart and funny, and so beautiful. I really like you. I have for a long time now." Din's heart beats wildly as he lays it all on the table. He's faced many enemies and deadly situations countless times, but this moment has to be one of the most terrifying moments of his life. However his nerves soon relax as he sees the beaming smile breaking out across your face. "I like you too, Mando, so much!"

Mando cups your cheek, smoothing his thumb gently over your blushing skin. "Din..." he whispers. "What?" you ask, still smiling although somewhat confused. "That's my name, Din Djarin." "Din Djarin..." you breathed quietly, almost reverently. It's such a beautiful name and more importantly, he actually shared it with you! This is big. "I really like you too Din. I care for you, more than I have for any other man, and I want to be with you." Din's entire posture loosens as you say those words, the weight of uncertainty draining from him and leaving a warm, fuzzy feeling in it's place.

Still holding your cheek, he pulls you closer, lowering his head to gently rest his forehead against yours, both of you closing your eyes and basking in one another. "I want that more than anything," Din purrs. An excited squeal erupts from the chair, two little green hands clapping together. Chuckling, you pull away from Din and scoop Grogu into your arms, cradling him between the both of you.

"Guess we have this little matchmaker to thank," you grin, booping his nose. "I guess we do," Din laughed. "But the next time you have a point to make try doing it in a less dramatic manner, you little womp rat." Grogu gurgled up at Din, his little toothy grin melting your heart. You pressed your forehead against Din's once more. You're finally a clan of three.

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