#another thing that's part of the game is that the item is wrapped up so u cant guess

[amethystarachnid]

I know your requests are closed, but daaaamn, I need another part of "Forced Marriage" 😭😭😭😭😭 a late honeymoon, oh, to Italy, I love Italy 😭 and more of Tony being the cutest, sweetest and the most loving and devoted husband EVER!!!! 🤧 also, KIDS 🥹 what about twins? One of each? Let the girl dream 😭 but Tony taking care of a pregnant wife and dad!Tony is the best thing ever, especially yours 🩷🩷

Again, I know your requests are closed, I 100% respect that, don't mind me 🫠

FORCED MARRIAGE - part 2

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre romance, fluff and spicy

ᯓ★ Word count: 8.3k

ᯓ★ Summary:what the asks said lol

ᯓ★ TW(s): nothing I think, just a little spicy scene

ᯓ★ Part 1

ᯓ★ Love is in the air - Valentine's Day special game

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Holiday Special

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

Italy is your idea, but Tony’s the one who makes it perfect.

He books everything before you can blink—private jet, villa in Tuscany, romantic dinners lined up for a week straight. “If we’re finally doing this,” he says, tossing you a smirk as he flips his phone shut, “we’re doing it the right way. No boardrooms, no cameras, no press. Just you and me.”

You glance at him over the top of your coffee mug. “So, no suitcases filled with arc reactors and gadgets?”

He lifts a brow. “I only packed one suit of armor, thank you very much.”

He’s joking—mostly—but the truth is, Tony’s been different. Since the gala, since that bathroom, since everything... he’s been present. He makes time. He listens. He loves you, openly and without shame, and you can feel it in everything he does. He doesn’t need to say it every day, though he does, in little ways:

In the way he brushes hair behind your ear without thinking.

In the way he sets an extra pillow where your knee gets sore sometimes.

In the way he kisses your shoulder in the morning and whispers, “Still here.”

The flight to Italy is quiet and calm. For once, neither of you needs to pretend. You fall asleep with your head on his shoulder, and when you wake up, he’s still holding your hand.

The villa he’s chosen is perched on a hillside, surrounded by vineyards and olive groves. The air smells like rosemary and warm stone and blooming flowers. The sky is impossibly blue.

You walk through the stone archway into the sun-drenched villa, and Tony whistles, impressed—even though he’s the one who bought the place for the week.

“Okay,” he says, dropping your bags inside the doorway. “I have a checklist.”

You give him a look. “A checklist? You?”

“Oh, don’t act surprised. I can be organized. Sometimes.” He clears his throat. “Item one: kiss wife in Tuscany.”

You arch a brow. “That’s oddly specific.”

“I’m a man of taste.” He walks over, grabs your waist, and kisses you slow and deep until your knees nearly give out. When he finally pulls back, he’s smiling like an idiot. “Check.”

You laugh against his mouth. “What’s item two?”

“Make pasta. Badly. Burn things. Throw flour at each��other. Rom-com level disaster.”

And he’s not wrong.

Later that afternoon, after a lazy nap wrapped in crisp linen sheets and a warm breeze drifting through the open balcony, Tony insists on making fresh pasta from scratch, despite the fact that neither of you really knows what you’re doing.

It starts with enthusiasm and ends in chaos. Flour coats the kitchen, your hair, Tony’s face. A cracked egg drips off the counter. You accidentally launch a handful of dough across the room, and Tony dramatically declares war by smearing tomato sauce on your cheek.

You shriek, lunging at him, but he catches you around the waist and lifts you up onto the counter, kissing you like it’s the only thing that matters in the world.

And maybe it is.

Dinner is a slightly undercooked mess. You both eat every bite anyway.

Afterward, barefoot and tipsy on a bottle of red wine Tony opened with too much force, you sit outside under a canopy of fairy lights, the stars just beginning to show.

Tony has his arm around your shoulders. You’re wearing one of his loose t-shirts, and he’s in soft linen pants and nothing else. The warm wind rustles through the cypress trees, and there’s music playing from a small speaker nearby—some classic Italian tune Tony insisted was necessary for the vibe.

You lean your head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

“I like this version of us,” you murmur.

Tony presses a kiss to your hair. “Me too.”

“Why’d it take us so long to get here?”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been thinking about that a lot too. “Because I was a coward,” he admits. “And I didn’t deserve you. But I’m not letting you go now.”

You lift your eyes to his, studying the way the firelight flickers in them. “I’m not planning to leave.”

His smile is soft, nothing like the smirks he used to give you. “Good.”

The first day of your honeymoon ends with you curled up in his lap, the air filled with the scent of wine and rosemary, your laughter echoing in the hills.

And for once, there’s no bitterness. No tension. No fear.

Just love. And peace. And Tony Stark, holding you like he never wants to let you go.

---

The next morning starts off peaceful—until it doesn’t.

You wake before Tony, sunlight streaming in through the sheer curtains, birds chirping somewhere outside. You stretch, a sleepy smile playing on your lips as you take in the soft warmth of the sheets, the way Tony’s hand is still resting on your hip even in his sleep.

But then your stomach lurches.

Suddenly. Violently.

You barely make it to the bathroom before you're on your knees, heaving into the toilet.

Tony stumbles in moments later, his hair a disaster, shirtless and wide-eyed. “Sweetheart?”

You wave him off weakly, spitting out the last of the bile. “M’fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says, kneeling beside you like he’s ready to call in a full emergency medical team. “Are you sick? Food poisoning? Was it the undercooked pasta? I knew we shouldn’t have eaten that. I swear if this is salmonella, I’m buying the entire food safety board of Italy.”

You groan and slump against the cool tile, resting your head against the wall. “Tony, calm down. It’s probably nothing.”

“Nothing?” His voice goes up an octave. “You were throwing up! That’s literally something. That's a huge, very alarming something!”

“I’m okay,” you mumble. “Just… nauseous.”

Tony’s already pulling his phone out, muttering to himself. “We need a doctor. Maybe two doctors. No, we’ll fly one in from Switzerland. Private jet. I’ll—”

“Tony!” you cut him off, grabbing his wrist. “Let’s just go to a pharmacy first, okay? It might just be… something simple.”

He pauses, looking at you with deep concern. “Fine. But if they don’t have what you need, I will buy the village. Just saying.”

—

The pharmacy is small and rustic, nestled between two cafes in the heart of the nearby town. It smells like lavender and lemons, with shelves stacked high with herbal remedies and charmingly mismatched bottles.

Tony sticks out like a sore thumb in his expensive sunglasses and hoodie, hovering behind you like a nervous bodyguard.

An elderly Italian woman emerges from the back, dressed in a floral blouse and bold red lipstick. Her silver hair is piled high, and she eyes you both with a mischievous glint.

“Americani?” she guesses immediately, grinning. “Luna di miele?”

“Honeymoon,” Tony murmurs, leaning toward you. “She knows we’re newlyweds.”

The woman winks. “Amore è nel’aria.” Love is in the air. She shuffles closer. “Come posso aiutarti, cara?”

You point to your stomach, trying to mime nausea. “I woke up feeling sick—stomach… blegh.”

The woman squints, then gives you a long, appraising look. She glances at Tony. Then back at you.

And with a delighted little “Ah-ha!”, she reaches behind the counter… and slaps a box onto the counter with a proud flourish.

Tony leans in to read the label.

Then blinks.

Then blinks again.

“A pregnancy test?” he says, voice cracking slightly.

The woman beams. “Sì! Congratulazioni!”

You stare at the box. Then at her. Then at Tony.

“Wait,” you whisper. “She thinks I’m pregnant?”

Tony looks at you, visibly pale. “Are you…?”

“I don’t know!” you hiss.

The woman pushes the box closer to you, her voice cheery and loud. “Due linee rosa! Pink lines, baby!”

You awkwardly thank her, pay for the test, and practically drag Tony out of the pharmacy, the woman shouting behind you, “Felicità! Fate una femmina, è meglio!” Make a girl—it’s better!

Tony’s quiet the entire way back to the villa.

You are too.

The test sits on the bathroom counter like a bomb.

You stare at it. He stares at you.

And finally, with shaking hands, you take the test and close the door.

Minutes pass.

Tony paces outside, muttering under his breath. “Okay. Okay, if it’s positive, we’ll handle it. We’ve got this. I mean—what even is a crib, really? Just a fancy baby cage, right?”

You open the door.

You’re holding the test.

Two pink lines.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

Tony sees it.

His face goes blank. Then slowly, slowly, the emotion starts to flood in—shock, disbelief, and something so soft it nearly makes your knees give out.

He swallows hard. “We’re… gonna have a baby?”

You nod, lip trembling. “Yeah.”

Tony doesn’t move at first.

Then, suddenly, he’s got you in his arms, lifting you off the floor and spinning you around in the hallway.

“Holy hell,” he breathes, kissing your forehead, your cheeks, your mouth. “We’re having a baby.”

You laugh, half-crying, clutching the front of his shirt. “I guess we really are on our honeymoon now.”

“Guess we are.”

He sets you down gently, pressing his forehead to yours.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And I already love this little person we made. And I swear, I’m gonna do this right. No matter what.”

You nod, wiping tears off your cheeks. “I know.”

And when he kisses you again, slow and full of awe, the world seems to stand still—just the two of you, your hearts beating in sync, in a tiny villa in Italy, already beginning the next chapter of your life.

---

The rest of the honeymoon is nothing like you expected—because now, everything is different.

Tony doesn’t let you lift a finger. Not even a coffee cup.

You try to protest—at first. “Tony, I’m pregnant, not fragile.”

But he just lifts a brow, gently takes the mug from your hand, and says, “You’re carrying my child. Which means you’re now a VIP-class spaceship. No turbulence. No sudden movements. Maximum comfort only.”

He’s serious, too.

He adds extra pillows to the bed, orders decaf espresso—grudgingly—for you every morning, and Googles every possible fruit, cheese, and spice to make sure you’re not eating anything “even remotely suspicious.” He downloads four pregnancy tracking apps and cross-references them.

Tony Stark is in full dad mode.

One evening, when you go to watch the sunset with him and try to sit on the stone ledge around the patio, he nearly has a heart attack.

“Nope,” he says, scooping you up like you're made of glass. “You’re not breaking any part of your body before this kid is born.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s like a two-foot drop, Tony.”

“I’ve seen ankles snap for less. Google ‘cobblestone hazards in Tuscany.’ I dare you.”

He makes everything dramatic, but it’s not just nerves—it’s adoration.

He touches your belly like it’s already precious. Talks to it when he thinks you’re asleep. Whispers things like, “You’re gonna love your mom,” or “We’ll start with science toys and then move to building suits,” or, “If you’re a girl, don’t even look at boys until you’re thirty.”

You hear it all.

And your heart falls for him a little more every day.

—

Three days after the pregnancy test, you decide to return to the pharmacy. You owe her—Nonna Rosa, as you find out—for the moment that changed everything.

Tony insists on carrying a bouquet of bright flowers and a bottle of fancy wine.

“I don’t care if she’s probably against drinking because she’s old-school and religious,” he says, adjusting his sunglasses. “She deserves something expensive.”

When you walk into the little shop again, she spots you instantly.

“Ahhhh! La bambina!” she cries, throwing up her hands.

Tony laughs. “Told you. Psychic.”

She rushes over, pulls you into a firm hug, then plants both hands on your cheeks and stares. “Si vede negli occhi! I can see it in your eyes.”

“You really knew,” you say in disbelief. “I hadn’t even missed a period yet.”

She shrugs like it’s nothing. “È l’istinto. It’s instinct. And the glow. And the way he looked at you.”

Tony smirks. “What glow? I was a nervous wreck.”

“You were in love,” she corrects him.

He goes quiet, squeezing your hand.

Nonna Rosa spends the next half hour giving you tea samples for nausea, a handmade charm bracelet for “protection of la madre e il bambino,” and instructions on what herbs to steep at different stages of pregnancy. You leave the shop with two bags of supplies, your stomach sore from laughing, your heart warm.

Before you go, she hugs you both again, then whispers in your ear, “He will be a good papa. You are already a good mama.”

You blink back tears. “Thank you.”

—

Back at the villa, Tony’s affection only deepens.

When you get emotional watching a commercial about olive oil, he doesn’t laugh—he just pulls you into his arms, rubbing your back until the tears pass.

When you mention feeling bloated, he books a private massage therapist who specializes in prenatal care and says, “I’ll tip her enough to pay her rent for a year.”

When you start craving fresh mozzarella and figs at midnight, he drives an hour to the next town to find it.

You fall asleep with his hand resting on your belly every night.

You wake up to forehead kisses and whispered I-love-yous every morning.

And somewhere in between all of that, it finally clicks: This isn’t just a changed man.

This is a man who wants to build something with you.

A life. A family. A future.

—

On the last night of the honeymoon, you stand on the balcony with him, watching the Tuscan sky fade into stars. He wraps his arms around you from behind, hands resting just under your growing waistline.

“You know,” he murmurs against your ear, “I used to think love was a weakness.”

You tilt your head slightly. “And now?”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Now I know it’s the only thing worth fighting for.”

You cover his hands with yours. “You’re going to be a great dad, Tony.”

He swallows hard, voice a little rough when he answers. “Only because you’re going to be the heart of this family.”

---

Coming back home feels different this time—like you’re stepping into a new chapter. One that hums quietly with anticipation and change.

Tony doesn’t let you carry a single bag off the plane, despite the fact that you’re still barely showing. “You’re carrying everything that matters,” he says, snapping his fingers at Happy, who takes your suitcase with a nod. “She gets airport princess treatment now.”

The Stark penthouse has been dusted, prepped, and stocked—Tony made sure of it before you even landed. There’s already a room cleared out across from your bedroom, not quite a nursery yet, but he looks at it with this strange sort of awe every time he walks by.

The next morning, he’s up at 6 a.m., pacing, already dressed and muttering to himself as he taps anxiously at his StarkPad.

You’re still brushing your teeth when he pokes his head into the bathroom. “Are you ready? We should leave in ten. Maybe fifteen, if we account for traffic. I already paid off three guys to clear the garage so Happy can pull the car around faster. Also—I downloaded the entire obstetrics textbook from Harvard Medical School and cross-checked it with six blogs. I’m ready for this.”

You spit into the sink and blink at him. “Tony. We’re just getting an ultrasound.”

“Exactly!” he says, eyes wide like you’ve just missed the apocalypse. “An ultrasound. Our baby. Who, by the way, has not responded to any of my nightly pep talks. I think they’re already ignoring me.”

You stifle a laugh and wipe your mouth. “It’s the size of a lime, Tony. It doesn’t know you’re talking to it.”

He scoffs. “Rude. I’m extremely charming.”

You roll your eyes and walk out to grab your coat, and he immediately follows, already fretting. “Do you want snacks? Water? What if you get cold in the waiting room? Should I bring a backup sweater for you? And backup for the backup?”

“Tony.”

“Yeah?”

“I love you. But if you don’t stop panicking, I’m going to need medical attention.”

He stops in his tracks. Blinks. Then smiles sheepishly. “Right. Sorry. I’m chill. Totally chill.” He takes a deep breath. “Super chill.”

—

He’s not chill.

Not at the clinic. Not even a little bit.

The poor nurse tries to ask you your name, and Tony blurts it out before you can. “Y/N Stark. She’s my wife. We're having a baby. We're very in love. Also, she's been nauseous, but not today, which I think is progress.”

The nurse gives you a knowing look. You just squeeze Tony’s hand and smile. “We’re here for the first ultrasound.”

They lead you into a cozy, softly lit room with pale blue walls and framed photos of smiling families. Tony paces while you settle onto the exam table, fidgeting as the tech preps the machine.

When the image appears on the screen, the room goes quiet.

There, nestled in the grainy black-and-white blur, is a tiny flicker.

A heartbeat.

Tony’s breath catches audibly. He reaches for your hand, slowly, as if afraid the image might vanish if he moves too fast.

“That’s… them?” he asks softly.

The tech nods, smiling. “That’s your baby.”

Tony doesn’t speak for a full minute. He just stares.

Then, very quietly, he whispers, “Hi, little one.”

You watch him fall in love in real time.

And you know—it’s not just the baby. It’s everything.

You. This life. What you’ve built together.

—

The decision to go public happens faster than you expect.

Tony insists on it.

“No secrets,” he says, pacing in front of the kitchen counter one evening. “I want the world to know. I want them to know. This kid is already the best thing I’ve ever done, and I haven’t even taught them quantum physics yet.”

You raise a brow from the couch. “Tony. I’m barely out of the first trimester.”

He walks over and kneels in front of you, hands on your knees, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “Let me tell them. Let me tell the world how proud I am of you. Of us.”

How can you say no to that?

The announcement goes live two days later: a candid photo of you and Tony on the villa balcony in Italy, your hand resting on your still-flat belly, his arms wrapped around you, both of you laughing like the world doesn’t matter.

The caption reads:

“Coming soon: Baby Stark. And yes, I’ll be building them their first lab by age two. Sorry not sorry.”

The internet breaks.

The press explodes.

Everyone—Avengers, friends, even business rivals—starts reaching out with congratulations.

Even Fury sends a one-word text: Finally.

But none of it compares to the way Tony wraps his arms around you that night, resting his chin on your shoulder as you both scroll through the comments and messages.

“Do you think the baby knows?” you ask softly.

Tony kisses your cheek. “They will. They’ll know they’re loved. Every second. Every minute. Every breath.”

---

Designing the nursery becomes Tony’s newest obsession—something he throws himself into with the same intensity he once reserved for building Iron Man suits and revolutionizing energy.

“We’re not doing boring pastel zoo animals,” he declares one morning, pushing open a tablet full of sleek digital mockups. “This kid’s getting a lab-themed nursery. Chrome mobiles, circuit-board wallpaper, floating shelves for STEM-themed books… I already made a list.”

You arch an eyebrow from where you’re sitting on the couch with swollen ankles and a glass of juice. “They’re going to be born, not code an AI straight out of the womb.”

Tony smirks, sitting beside you and gently lifting your feet into his lap to massage them. “Hey, never underestimate Stark genetics.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “Fine. But I want warm tones. Something cozy, not just… titanium chic.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Cozy, but genius. I can work with that.”

And he does. Every evening, you both find yourselves in what was once the empty guest room, standing in the center and imagining your future together.

Color palettes are tested. Tony builds a crib from scratch—out of wood, not metal, because you insisted. He even softens enough to let you choose plush animals for the shelves, despite his comments like, “That bunny’s IQ looks suspiciously low.”

You spend hours hand-painting little constellations across one wall, while he hooks up a night light system that projects stars onto the ceiling.

He reads to your belly at night.

And with every laugh, every tiny kick, every moment you catch him staring at you like you hung the moon—you feel safer. Stronger.

But as weeks stretch into months, something begins to feel… different.

It starts small. You notice that your belly seems to be expanding faster than you expected. You chalk it up to genetics, maybe even water retention, but at your next prenatal yoga class, a woman due at the same time gives you a sideways glance.

“How far along are you again?” she asks, trying to sound casual.

“Twenty-four weeks,” you answer, wiping your forehead.

Her brows lift. “Wow. You’re carrying… a lot.”

You try to brush it off. But later, while Tony’s measuring a bookshelf he’s installing in the nursery, you find yourself tugging down your maternity shirt, eyes lingering on the mirror.

Your belly looks… big.

Bigger than the books say it should be.

That night, lying beside Tony with your hand resting over your belly, you whisper, “Do you think it looks… too big?”

He immediately looks over, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean compared to other women this far along. I saw someone today—same week. She looked half my size.”

Tony sits up a little, his expression sobering. “Are you uncomfortable? Is something hurting?”

“No,” you admit. “Just… wondering.”

He rubs your arm gently. “Well, there’s a million variables. Body type, position of the baby, fluid levels. Maybe our kid just takes after me—big head, big brain, huge personality.”

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

“Let’s call the doctor tomorrow,” he says softly. “Just to check.”

You nod, heart beating a little faster.

And that night, even as he wraps his arms around you and rubs soothing circles against your side, you can’t help feeling something stirring inside you—more than just kicks and flutters.

A question.

A feeling.

Like your body’s holding more than it’s letting on.

---

The next morning, Tony insists on clearing his entire schedule—even cancelling a meeting with the UN tech board—so he can come with you to the OB-GYN.

He doesn’t pace this time. He just holds your hand the entire ride over, thumb tracing slow circles over your knuckles, lips pressed tight in a line he only wears when something's tugging at his heart.

You’re nervous, but not scared. Not really. You just… need to know.

The waiting room is quiet. The exam room colder than usual. And when the gel hits your belly and the ultrasound machine hums to life, your breath catches in your throat.

The doctor’s eyes narrow slightly at the screen, her lips parting. But she doesn’t look alarmed. Just surprised.

Tony notices immediately.

“Okay,” he says, his voice already loaded with anxiety, “that’s not your standard everything’s fine face. What’s going on?”

The doctor smiles, calm and steady.

“Well,” she says, turning the screen toward you both, “you were right about the belly size. Because you're not carrying one baby, Mrs. Stark. You're carrying two.”

You blink. Your brain stutters.

Tony's mouth falls open. “Twins?”

The doctor nods. “Fraternal. Two separate amniotic sacs. One girl…” She moves the probe slightly, points to one side of the screen. “And one boy.” She points to the other.

You stare, heart suddenly thudding so loudly you swear it echoes in the room.

Tony’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little,” the doctor chuckles. “Congratulations.”

He doesn’t speak right away. He just looks at the screen, wide-eyed, hands slowly releasing yours only so he can press his fingers to the monitor, as if touching it would make it more real.

Then he whispers, so soft it almost breaks you: “A daughter and a son.”

You’re too stunned to say anything for a few seconds.

Then your eyes fill with tears. Not panic. Not fear.

Overwhelmed joy.

Tony turns to you like he’s seeing you all over again.

“You’re incredible,” he says, voice shaking. “You’re actually growing two little humans in there. We made two.” He laughs—a little wild, a little breathless—and swipes his hands down his face. “I need to sit down.”

The doctor smiles. “I’ll give you a few minutes. We’ll go over all the details shortly. Everything looks perfect so far.”

The door clicks closed behind her.

Tony still hasn’t moved. He sits down beside you slowly, as if his knees have given out, and then pulls your hand into his lap. His eyes are shining now, and when he looks at you, it’s like you’re the only thing holding him to the earth.

“Twins,” you say, still not believing it. “I knew I was getting bigger faster but I thought maybe it was just… I don’t know. Pizza.”

He laughs, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. “We’re gonna need a bigger house.”

You run your fingers through his hair, still blinking away tears. “We already have a whole building.”

“Okay, then we need a wing.”

He lifts his head again, and you both look at the screen once more. Two tiny flickers. Two little lives.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. “Yeah. Are you?”

Tony doesn’t answer with words. He leans forward and kisses you—slowly, reverently, like you’re made of starlight and safety and everything good he’s ever wanted but never believed he deserved.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” he says against your lips. “But I do.”

And just like that, the weight of the world becomes something warm. Something shared. Something beautiful.

Later, in the car, he announces: “We’re going public. Today. No waiting.”

“Tony…”

“Nope,” he cuts in. “The people deserve to know. And by people, I mean everyone I’ve ever met, looked at, or cyberstalked.”

The new post goes up before the elevator even opens at the penthouse:

“Plot twist: there are TWO Starklings incoming. Yes, I’m panicking. No, I won’t be sleeping for the next 18 years.”

It takes 10 minutes for #StarkTwins to trend worldwide.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite the double-shock, despite the massive life shift ahead…

You feel calm.

Because he’s right here.

And for the first time, so are they.

---

Shopping for one baby had already been a bit overwhelming. Shopping for two?

That’s a whole new kind of madness—and Tony, of course, leans into it with full-throttle Stark intensity.

“Two of everything,” he declares the morning after the appointment, standing at the foot of your bed with a stylus in one hand and a digital checklist hovering in midair. “Cribs, monitors, sound machines, swaddles—God help me, even diapers. Y/N, do you know how many diapers twins go through?”

You blink blearily up at him, still nestled under the covers. “Please don’t start our day with horror stories.”

“I’ve done the math,” he says gravely, eyes scanning the list like it’s a mission report. “We’ll need at least 9,000 in the first year. That’s not a joke.”

You groan into your pillow. “Don’t say things like that before coffee.”

“Already brewing,” he says, flashing a charming grin. “Also, I hired a twin consultant.”

You sit up, eyes wide. “That’s a thing?”

“It is now,” Tony says, smug as ever. “She’s flying in from Copenhagen. Best in the field. She’s helping with layout optimization and efficiency training. No chaos. Only balance.”

You can't help but laugh. “You act like we’re launching a small army.”

“Babies are a small army,” he replies. “Except they cry, poop, and will destroy your sleep schedule for the foreseeable future.”

—

You visit every boutique in the city—and a few in Paris and Milan via video call. Tony buys out entire sections of one shop in SoHo and has a luxury baby furniture company build two matching custom cribs, one with silver inlay and the other with a star-and-moon motif to match the constellation wall you painted.

The nursery becomes a shared haven—one room for both babies. You and Tony stand in the center of it often now, surrounded by soft creams, deep navy, gold accents, and the twinkling of projected stars overhead.

“Think they’ll like sharing?” you ask one night, brushing your fingers along the edge of one of the cribs.

Tony comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, now fully rounded and glowing with life.

“They’ll be born into the same chaos,” he murmurs, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Might as well share a room and plot world domination together.”

You laugh, leaning into him. “They’ll be a team.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. “Like us.”

—

The names come slowly—weeks of gentle debates, late-night whispers, and quiet moments with your hands joined over your belly.

You go through everything from classic to avant-garde. Tony suggests “Nova” at one point; you counter with “Juliet.” He proposes “JARVIS Jr.” and you tell him he’s banned from naming privileges for 48 hours.

But one evening, long after the sun’s gone down and you’re curled together in bed, you whisper something that changes everything.

“Lyra,” you say softly, fingers resting just left of your navel. “Like the constellation.”

Tony’s silent for a moment. Then he nods slowly, thoughtfully. “Lyra Stark.”

You glance at him. “Too much?”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s beautiful. Poetic. Strong.”

You both look at your belly. She kicks gently, as if in approval.

“And for him?” you ask.

Tony turns his head to look at you. “Kyle.”

“Kyle?”

“Yeah.” He brushes a lock of hair away from your forehead. “Simple. Strong. Doesn’t sound like he’ll invent a killer AI. I like it.”

You smile. “Lyra and Kyle.”

He leans in to kiss you, slow and soft. “Perfect.”

From that moment on, they’re no longer just “the twins.” They’re Lyra and Kyle.

—

As the months pass, their room transforms into a blend of art and innovation—one side with celestial details, soft blues and silvers for Lyra, and the other in calm earth tones, burnt oranges and forest greens for Kyle.

The cribs stand side-by-side beneath a floating mobile of glowing planets and stars Tony designed himself.

Two nameplates hang above the cribs now—crafted from brushed gold and reclaimed oak.

You catch Tony staring at them often. Not with fear. Not with panic.

But with awe.

“They’re really coming,” he says one night, hands cradling your belly, now round and firm beneath your shirt. “I still can’t believe it.”

“They’re lucky,” you whisper, brushing his hair back. “They’ll have you.”

He looks at you, eyes tender. “No. They’ll have us. And they’ll know they were wanted. Every heartbeat. Every breath.”

And that night, curled against him, you feel them kick together for the first time—one, then the other. Strong. Sure.

A team already.

----

The gala is one of those high-profile events that Tony would normally glide through with ease—press, flashing cameras, board members with tight handshakes and tighter smiles. And normally, you’d stand by his side with calm grace, fingers looped through his arm, chin held high.

But tonight feels different.

You’re in your final weeks now. Your belly is undeniably big—so big you had to be sewn into your custom gown while standing because sitting was temporarily off the table. The dark green silk flows beautifully around your curves, but it doesn’t hide anything. Lyra and Kyle are front and center, snug inside you, and moving constantly like they know they’re being paraded through the public eye.

You adjust the shawl around your shoulders for what feels like the fifth time as Tony finishes shaking hands with a Stark Industries partner near the entrance. You shift your weight carefully, not wanting to put too much pressure on your back or feet, which have been swelling lately.

You feel eyes on you—discreet glances from women in body-hugging gowns and men in tailored suits, some with raised brows, others with polite smiles that barely mask surprise.

You try to ignore it.

But you still feel awkward. Huge. And far too visible.

Tony notices the moment your smile dims.

He excuses himself mid-conversation and makes a beeline straight to you, hands immediately landing on your waist and back, steadying you, grounding you.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, scanning your face. “Too much?”

You give him a half-smile, trying to sound lighter than you feel. “Just a little… self-conscious.”

His expression softens instantly, like someone flipped a switch inside his chest.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tipping your chin up with two fingers. “You are glowing. I mean it. You look like a goddamn goddess.”

You snort softly. “A swollen goddess.”

“An unstoppable goddess,” he corrects, kissing your forehead. “Who’s literally growing two new Starks inside her body and still managing to look like the cover of Vogue.”

You roll your eyes, but it helps. His hands don't leave your body for the rest of the night. Every step, every moment, he’s there—offering your hand to lean on, reminding you to sit every twenty minutes, checking that the event staff remembered your water and low-sodium snacks. He even shoos off the press photographers after ten minutes so you don’t have to stand for long.

“You're carrying my entire legacy,” he��murmurs once when he helps you into a velvet-lined seat. “The least I can do is keep you off your feet.”

He doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

—

Three days later, everything changes.

It starts at dawn. The sky is still painted soft blue and orange when you wake to a strange, warm pressure low in your belly. Not a kick. Not a cramp.

Something else.

You try to stand, and that's when it hits you—sharp and low, then easing into a dull, pulsing wave. You gasp, holding your stomach. Your water breaks seconds later.

Tony is at your side before you can even call for him. He stumbles out of bed in a flurry of blankets and panic.

“What? What? Was that a real gasp? Did something—?”

“My water broke,” you say breathlessly. “It’s happening.”

He stares at you, frozen.

Then: “Holy sh—okay. Okay, yeah. You’re fine. We’re fine. We practiced for this.” He’s already grabbing the go-bag, the phone, barking orders to FRIDAY to call the doctor and alert the hospital.

By the time you’re in the car, gripping his hand and trying to breathe through another contraction, Tony’s all business—but his other hand never stops stroking your back.

“You’re doing amazing,” he says, over and over. “You’ve got this. We’ve got this.”

Labor is long. Hours stretch by, filled with pain and sweat and exhaustion. But he never leaves your side.

Not when you scream through the harder contractions.

Not when you cry from the pressure and the fear.

Not when you beg for it to be over.

And when your body finally gives in and the room is filled with the high, wailing cries of not one—but two—new lives, Tony’s the first to cry.

A nurse lays your daughter on your chest—tiny, pink, with a shock of dark hair and fists curled tight. You barely have time to kiss her head before they bring your son, his cry a little softer but just as strong, his fingers already clutching at your gown.

Tony’s beside you, eyes full of awe and wet with tears. His hands shake as he touches them for the first time.

“They’re here,” he whispers. “Lyra and Kyle. They’re real.”

You manage a tired laugh, voice cracked. “They’re perfect.”

He kisses you hard and long and trembling.

----

Bringing Lyra and Kyle home is like stepping into a dream you didn’t know your heart had written.

But it’s not quiet.

And it’s definitely not restful.

The moment the elevator opens into the penthouse, the real chaos begins.

Lyra starts crying first—sharp and commanding, as if announcing her reign as the older sibling (by two minutes). Kyle follows almost immediately, softer but no less insistent. The sound echoes off the marble floors and sleek walls as if bouncing from every corner of the building.

Tony, still in a soft gray hoodie and cradling the car seat with Kyle, looks at you with eyes wide and shell-shocked. “Did anyone install a mute button? No? Cool. I’ll look into that.”

You’re too exhausted to laugh, but your hand reaches for his anyway, grounding yourself.

The nursery—your carefully designed sanctuary—suddenly feels smaller and louder and much less serene. You gently lay Lyra into her crib, her tiny arms flailing in protest, and immediately Kyle decides he does not want to be separated. His cries ramp up to what Tony calls “critical red alert levels.”

“Okay, okay, he needs backup,” Tony murmurs, scooping him up again with a gentleness that nearly breaks your heart. “Come on, little guy. It’s not that bad. You’re not even paying rent.”

The next 72 hours pass in a blur of feedings, burp cloths, diaper changes, and the faint sound of your sanity unraveling thread by thread.

You barely sleep—maybe an hour at a time. Your body aches. Your hormones are crashing like tidal waves. You cry for no reason sometimes, holding Lyra against your chest in the dark while Tony rubs your back and doesn’t ask questions.

But through it all, he’s there.

Tony Stark, billionaire genius playboy-turned-husband and father, rises to every occasion like he’s been preparing his whole life for this. He’s in the nursery before you even wake to the monitor’s buzz. He handles diaper duty without complaint—even when Kyle somehow manages to get him twice in one change.

He rocks Lyra for hours when she won’t settle, singing her old ‘80s rock ballads off-key, whispering jokes she’ll never remember.

He lets you nap uninterrupted by lying to the entire world that you’re “in a meeting” when reporters start requesting statements and the board tries to reschedule him for “important discussions.”

“The most important discussion I’m having today,” he says firmly into the phone, “is with two humans who weigh less than a cantaloupe and poop like it’s a competitive sport. So unless the building is on fire—no, you know what? Even if it’s on fire, deal with it without me.”

And then he silences his phone and lays beside you while the twins nap, his arm draped protectively across your waist, both of you catching a precious thirty minutes of sleep.

When you wake from one of those naps to the scent of warm food, you shuffle groggily into the kitchen to find him with Lyra strapped to his chest in a baby wrap and a pan of eggs cooking in front of him.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says with a grin. “Lyra says she likes her eggs over easy. She also says I’m her favorite. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.”

You smile so hard you almost cry again.

Later that night, when both babies are miraculously sleeping in their cribs at the same time—tiny arms thrown up in near-identical poses—you lean against the nursery doorway, arms crossed gently over your chest, and watch Tony fuss quietly over the room.

He’s rearranging things that don’t need rearranging. Checking the monitor angle. Adjusting the blanket placement in the cribs.

You walk over and wrap your arms around his waist from behind.

He leans back into your touch immediately. “Can’t believe they’re real.”

“I can’t believe we made them.”

He turns in your arms, eyes soft. “You did most of the work, let’s be honest. I just—”

“You’ve been amazing,” you interrupt gently. “Really.”

He smiles—crooked, a little tired, a little emotional. “I don’t want you to do any of this alone. Ever.”

You pull him down into a kiss. It’s quiet. It tastes like sleep deprivation and love.

---

Life with twins becomes a mosaic of moments—some loud and chaotic, others quiet and golden.

Lyra and Kyle grow faster than you ever thought possible. One moment they’re impossibly small, sleeping curled against your chest, and the next they’re crawling in opposite directions at alarming speeds while Tony frantically tries to babyproof a Stark-level security system from the babies themselves.

“They’re teaming up,” he says one evening, watching as Kyle opens the bottom drawer in the kitchen and hands a spoon to Lyra. “They’re forming a hive mind. You see this, right?”

You’re laughing, even as you pluck the spoon from Lyra’s grip and gently redirect her back toward her soft play area. “They're not a hive. They're siblings.”

“They’re mutinous,” he mutters, but his grin betrays his pride. “Tiny, adorable rebels.”

—

Their first steps come unexpectedly, of course.

You and Tony are both in the nursery one late afternoon, folding laundry together on the floor while the twins babble nonsense to their stuffed animals. Kyle is focused on his favorite one—a green plush dinosaur with a snagged eye—while Lyra, ever observant, is watching you.

You catch her gaze just as she starts to push herself upright.

Tony notices first. “Oh,” he whispers. “Oh-oh-oh.”

She wobbles—one foot, then the other, barely stable—and then she walks.

Three full steps.

Straight into your arms.

You burst into tears, laughing and holding her tight. “You did it, baby!”

Kyle, not to be outdone, immediately lets go of his toy and tries the same thing. He takes two steps, then falls dramatically onto his padded backside, completely unbothered.

Tony claps like he’s just witnessed a world record. “You guys! You guys! You’re walking now? We need helmets. We need security.”

From that day forward, it’s chaos all over again. Mobility changes everything. They explore every room. Open every drawer. Kyle develops a fascination with Tony’s gadgets, and Lyra becomes obsessed with books—she likes to flip through them, point at the pages, and babble nonsense words that sound oddly like commands.

“Mini CEO,” Tony says proudly, watching her point at the same picture of a rocket over and over again.

—

Their words start coming around the same time.

But they’re not exactly dictionary-ready.

Lyra says “muh-muh” when she wants milk and “dah-dee” when she sees Tony walk into the room. Kyle invents his own phrases—“boo-moo” for blanket, “wah-wah” for water, and something that sounds like “da-blurf” that could mean literally anything depending on the tone.

To outsiders, it’s pure chaos.

To you and Tony, it’s a fluent second language.

You translate with ease at the park, at brunches, at family gatherings.

“She wants her bunny,” you say when Lyra looks up at you with big eyes and says “bun-yah-nah.”

“He dropped his truck in the fountain,” Tony explains, deadpan, when Kyle starts shouting “wuh-bloop!” repeatedly and pointing furiously at the edge of the garden.

It becomes a running joke among your friends and staff that only the two of you can understand them.

“You’re like their personal interpreters,” Rhodey says one afternoon, watching the twins toddle around the tower’s rec room.

“More like their unpaid assistants,” Tony mutters, grinning as he catches Kyle mid-wobble and swings him onto his hip. “Bilingual in toddler and fluent in chaos.”

—

By the time Lyra and Kyle are two, your lives are unrecognizable from the ones you had before them. Your house is a blend of elegance and mess—designer furniture paired with foam corner guards, baby gates guarding arc reactors, and a fridge covered in crayon masterpieces you can’t bring yourself to take down.

You and Tony barely sleep some nights, but when you do, it’s together—your bodies curled protectively around each other in a house that now echoes with tiny feet and sweeter-than-anything laughter.

The twins babble to each other constantly—words and sounds you don’t always catch, but that clearly mean something to them. A private language. A world of their own.

Sometimes you watch them from the doorway as they sit together with books or blocks or their favorite stuffed toys, heads close, trading secrets.

“Do you think they know?” you ask Tony one night, as Lyra pats Kyle’s head before handing him her bunny.

“Know what?”

“That they changed everything.”

Tony wraps an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as the sunlight glows through the window and warms the nursery floor.

“They are everything,” he says softly.

---

Mornings in the Stark household now begin with chaos.

Not a metaphorical kind. No—this is toddler-level bedlam.

The twins wake up at exactly 6:14 AM every single day like little precision alarm clocks forged in the fires of mischief. Today is no different.

You're jolted awake by the sudden crackle of the baby monitor, followed by a loud—and completely unintelligible—battle cry.

"MAH-DEE BEEPBOOP!" Kyle shouts, his voice shrill and dramatic.

"NOOO KAH-LOOO! DABBA ME!" Lyra wails immediately after, and the sound of what might be a plush bunny hitting the crib bars echoes through the monitor.

You groan softly into your pillow. “They’re fighting over Beepboop again.”

Tony, face smushed into the pillow, mumbles, “I’ll give you two million dollars if you go get them.”

“Make it three and coffee.”

He sighs, rolls out of bed, and limps toward the nursery in pajama pants and a shirt that says “World’s Okayest Dad.”

You follow moments later to find him kneeling between two cribs, holding up the infamous Beepboop—a lumpy stuffed robot with one missing arm.

Kyle points with all the moral authority of a tiny Supreme Court judge. “BEEPBOOP me, Dadda. Me say dib-dib-dib! Lyyyyra cheat!”

Lyra scowls, pigtails wild. “NO! Bepbop NO dib-dib! Me hug Beepboop ALL night! Me! Me! Me! MAAAAAA!”

Tony’s trying not to laugh. “Okay, okay. Court is in session. Both plaintiffs, present your evidence.”

You squat down beside him and gently take Beepboop. “What if Beepboop gets two turns today? Lyra can have him during story time, and Kyle during nap time?”

They both squint at you like suspicious diplomats.

Kyle crosses his arms. “Hmph. Nap boring. Bepbop NO nap.”

Lyra’s lip quivers. “But me hug him! Hug like—like foreber!”

You hold Beepboop up and look between them. “Teamwork or timeout?”

A long beat.

Then—both toddlers sigh in unison, as if burdened by the unbearable injustice of compromise.

“Fiiiine,” Kyle mutters.

“Me HUG first,” Lyra insists one last time.

—

Breakfast is…something.

Tony makes pancakes, but Kyle insists on helping, which really means slapping the counter with flour-covered hands and taste-testing raw batter with his fingers.

“NOOOO EGGY!” he yells dramatically as Tony cracks one into the bowl.

Tony raises a brow. “What do you mean ‘no eggy’? It’s a pancake. Pancakes need eggs.”

“No eggy, no eggy, NOOOO!” Kyle insists, absolutely scandalized.

Meanwhile, Lyra has decided her only utensil today is a measuring cup, which she is currently using to ladle syrup from the bottle directly onto her pancake. The pancake is now more syrup than food.

You sit with your mug of tea and watch, amazed that these tiny humans are somehow so much like you and Tony and yet such chaotic goblins.

“Banana?” Lyra asks, holding up a pancake completely drowning in syrup.

“You want banana on that?” you ask.

She nods like it’s obvious. “Banana IN pancake. Like brrrrr-BAM. ‘Splode banana.”

Tony stares. “Okay… That’s actually a genius idea. Banana explosion pancakes. Trademark pending.”

—

Midday is supposed to be calm.

Supposed to be.

But then there’s the puzzle incident.

Lyra wants to complete a big animal puzzle. Kyle wants to climb on it like Godzilla.

Lyra screeches, “NO SMOOSH ELEFAMP!” as Kyle lays across the puzzle dramatically.

You’re folding laundry when she marches into the living room with two chunky toddler fists clenched and fire in her eyes. “MOM-MEEE. Bubba make puzzle DEAD. Him SMASH elefamp.”

Kyle shouts from the floor behind her, “HIM NAP with effa-famp! Nap! It cuddly!”

Tony watches the scene like a referee between tiny wrestlers.

“I have no idea what’s happening,” he mutters. “They both sound right.”

You lean over and whisper, “He’s cuddling the elephant piece. She thinks he’s committing puzzle war crimes.”

Tony nods solemnly. “That tracks.”

—

Nap time is sacred.

Except no one wants to sleep today.

Tony’s strategy involves lying between their little toddler beds and making spaceship noises. “The sleep ship is docking. Commander Kyle, permission to close eyes.”

Kyle blinks at him and deadpans, “Me NO commander. Me banana.”

Lyra giggles. “Commander Nana!”

Tony puts a hand over his heart. “You’re right. Commander Banana, lead the sleepy fleet.”

You stifle laughter from the doorway as he drones on: “Fueling dreams… activating nap boosters…”

By some miracle, both fall asleep fifteen minutes later. You and Tony high-five silently and collapse onto the couch.

“Remember when we thought we were tired before we had kids?” you whisper.

Tony nods, eyes already closing. “Fools. Arrogant, well-rested fools.”

—

Bath time is wet, splashy, and full of giggles.

Kyle babbles a long, incomprehensible monologue involving “tub-fish” and “soap army,” while Lyra insists the shampoo bottle is “Prince Bubble” and must not be harmed.

By the time they're in pajamas and tucked in, you and Tony are damp, exhausted, and laughing under your breath.

“Me lub you, Dadda,” Kyle whispers as his eyes flutter closed.

“Me lub you, Momma,” Lyra echoes.

You and Tony freeze.

Those are the clearest words they’ve spoken all day.

Your throat catches. Tony blinks rapidly, lips curving.

“I love you both more than the whole world,” you whisper, smoothing back Lyra’s hair.

Tony leans in and kisses their foreheads gently. “Even more than my vintage car collection. And that’s saying something.”

[lokh]

do u guys come up with like. stories between ur animal crossing villagers. i usually dont but i can see the appeal

[bunnis-monsters]

Late night thoughts about incubus husband…

He’s such a flirt. Every time you go out he dons a different human disguise. It’s always annoying seeing him flit about the bar, changing himself to cater to whichever person he’s talking to.

Really, your husband just wants to make you jealous. He’s a bit of an attention whore, and usually you’d just tug him away and ride his cock until he’s sensitive and crying, begging to fill your cunt with his cum but being denied because of how bad he was.

But he went a bit too far tonight.

You were finishing off your drink when you spotted him across the bar, his fingers twirling a woman’s hair. Already this was a bit much for you, and you stood to stop him.

But you froze in place when his eyes glanced towards you before he wrapped an arm around her waist. “Looks like I’m taking home a pretty lady tonight. Don’t worry, my wife won’t mind.”

He glanced back to gauge your reaction, excited to face some kind of kinky punishment for being a flirty brat… but instead he was met with your teary eyes.

Instantly the woman was forgotten as he followed you out. “W-wait, please, you know I wasn’t being serious, right? I was just-“

You turned on your heels, pointing a finger into his chest. “Maybe to someone like you marriage is just some kind of fun game, but it actually means something to me! I don’t exactly enjoy you treating my love for you like a joke!”

His eyes went wide with shock and hurt, his disguise disappearing as he reverted back to his original form. The sight of his tail twitching nervously almost made you soften… almost.

“My love… that’s not-“

You swatted his hand away, storming off. “… find somewhere else to sleep tonight. I… need to rethink some things.”

Your husband stared at your back as you left, his chest aching in a way it never had before. Could this really be the end of your marriage? No, no of course not. You loved him, and he would do anything for you. There’s no way such a small issue could divide the two of you that easy… right?

Oh how wrong he was.

When he attempted to come home the next night, his clothes and personal items were packed up on the porch, and the locks were changed.

This wasn’t something he could just smooth over with a few kisses and a good fuck. You were genuinely upset, something he could barely comprehend.

Upset? Why, because he was being a bit of a brat? His view only changed when he was complaining to a friend through tears and a glass of wine.

“Well, what would you do if she did the same?”

The glass shattered in his hand, his pupils turning into slits. The image of you walking up to a man, cooing and attempting to seduce him right in front of your husband made his heart boil in a jealous rage.

So that’s how you felt…

“I’m an idiot…” he murmured, looking at your picture. When he married you, he swore off ever having sex with another person. You were his sole source of sustenance and love, his only reason to breathe and live.

If he lost you, what would he even do besides sob until his heart stopped?

If he wanted to keep his beloved, he’d have to win you back…

Fortunately, the incubus knew just what to do.

Part 2? And should I go the yandere route or normal route?

—————————

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[kirbmey]

̩̩͙* ㅤ─────ㅤ 𝓟anties & 𝓒ream . . .

。 。 imagine dry humping with bigbother!caleb gone wrong [ 𝗍𝗐𝗍 𝗅𝗂𝗇𝗄 ] ♡ྀི

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ 𝒓eblog ⠀& ⠀𝒇eedback .ᐣ

you spent the whole friday with your stepbrother caleb, he took you to the mall and bought every single item you landed your eyes on— something that slowly became a habit at the end of the week.

you’ve noticed how he seemed unsettled, anxious when driving back home, something about the way you smelt, the way you hair fell down your back and the way your skirt hugged your body tightly was hard to ignore for him. caleb was trying to be patient with you, let things take a natural course, but there was only so much he could take. he was a man with needs after all.

the way you’d lick sauce off your mouth with that wet and pinky tongue of yours, blushing when he stared at you too intensely, the way you’d ask him to help you choose between dresses, having to witness your naked body inside the changing room. he wanted to play it cool, normalize your sister—brother relationship but it seemed his dick had a mind of its own.

how was he supposed to keep his hands to himself if you sat on his lap when looking for a movie to wrap up such a perfect friday? squirming while trying to find a comfortable position on top of his muscular and long legs. he could feel the fabric of your damn panties against the sweats he put on when stepping inside the house— if he tried harder enough he could smell a faint scent of sweat coming from your skin due to the body heat he emanated.

caleb just couldn’t do this anymore, couldn’t give you more time. he just had to place his feet flat on the ground while holding your hips, thrusting his own in a circling motion, the gasp escaping your plump lips another reason to keep going. your silky panties became wet and the friction was so much more smoother, grabbing your throat to push your back against his chest and pepper wet kisses all over your face, shushing you when questioning what he was doing— “ shh, pips, gege is just playing a little game cuz this movie is so boring. ” “ it’ll be a lot more fun, you trust me? ”

and of course you trust him :( letting your big brother manhandle you against the comfort of your bed, opening your legs wide to settle between them and take a look at the silky fabric, massaging your clit slowly. you were incredibly wet, but he needed it wetter. messier. his mind running foggy when the heat engulfing his balls became too much, having to take a second when his head started spinning.

he didn’t think about it and just took a bottle of cherry scented cream from your nightstand, pouring it over your stupid panties and his now free cock, moaning at the cold feeling. god, caleb knew he was even more sensitive than you, moaning louder than your vocal cords could allow you, starting to rut against your core with sloppy movements.

the softness of your unaware sighs pushed him to the edge, penetrating your pussy through the damp fabric, his glasses getting foggy and adding to the mush he had going on his fucked up head. — “ f-fuck, yes, yes… ” is all he could murmur, leaning over to spit in your droolly mouth and lick your parted lips :(

you (he) were like two puppies in heat who didn’t know how to get off, rutting against each other and spitting in your love—bitten lips, moaning harder against his when he turned you around, toying now with the hole you never dared to touch. — “ g-gege, nngh, not there ! ” “ shh, princess, take it . . . you’ll fucking love it. ” and so he fucked his cockhead into your ass, grabbing onto the fat of your hips.

hard, sloppy and wet.

it didn’t take long for both of you to come undone, his balls full of cum he had to hold on for the whole day, shooting warm white ropes against your back while your juices dripped all over the mattress, pooling underneath you, almost passing out against the soft and welcoming fluffy pillows.

you don’t even remember when caleb knelt behind you to lick your panties clean, spreading your pussy lips underneath the fabric with his thumbs as he fucked the cloth against you over and over with his tongue, not getting enough of the cherry taste. let’s say he edged himself over and over while you definitely passed out.

he waited long enough and now he would take you as long as he wanted . . . <3

[ram-bles]

Hello! Is it okay if you can write mouthwashing headcannons of how the crew members would react to the reader randomly attacking them with kisses? If you want to stick with one person, then I was thinking, Anya? (If you want someone else, then that's okay too!)

Have a great day/afternoon/night

tulpar crew x gn!reader

smooch attack headcanons.

⚠️ pushy jimmy. everything else is chill. not proof read.

[note: sorry I've been out for long everyone! I had some stuff come up but I'm doing some progress on the things you guys send! I hope you enjoy these imagines]

[ Anya ]

🟦 giggling mess if done right

🟦 if you do it, please don't jump her.

🟦 sth like swooping in first before kissing her. small signals that it's you.

Her eyes were glued onto the shelf, searching for that one book she needed. It was usually there. Did I misplace it? Her thoughts were immediately silenced by a hand taking hers, swift yet carefully. Her body tensed up by instinct but when she realized it was you, it had her giggling as you planted soft kisses on her knuckles. You raise the book that you hid from your back while you entered. "Sorry! I was reading it earlier." "I don't mind at all, don't worry." Anya shakes her head with a smile and cups your cheek and you beam. That was one of the small signals she gave that says she's fine with this. She brushes your cheek for a moment as you lean into her touch, then you feel her carefully tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. You immediately wrap your arms around her waist and lean in for a kiss- kisses. Lots of them. You start off on her cheek, then her nose, her eyelids, her forehead, then a peck to her lips and she was softly laughing the whole time, both from the affection and how ticklish it was.

[ Curly ]

🩹 Not a fan of PDA either. you gotta do it when you both get privacy.

🩹 So you do it with every chance you get.

You spot Jimmy lingering back at the lounge without your beloved Captain? You're beelining towards the cockpit. Alone in the kitchen? You're on him. Hallways? Oh, Captai—in! Even if he scolds and chastises you for it, he loves it. He does the same anyways. One time though, you were both in the lounge reading together when you eventually got bored. You peek at your partner who was heavily invested at the article when suddenly the item gets pushed away and replaced by you on his lap. Before he could even warn you, you grabbed his face and showered him with kisses. Curly gives in and hugs you, it should be alright since no one's here, right? He'll let it slide for now. When you part, he had a stupid grin on his face. "Darling, have I ever taught you how to aim?" With a chuckle, you shake your head and you both lean in for a kiss. "How does a lesson tonight in your quarters sound, Captain?" "Perhaps we could reschedule for an earlier time. How does right now sound?" "Perfect."

[ Daisuke ]

🌺 Usually, it's him who does the guerilla attacks. It's a little game you guys play. The more of a surprise kiss streak you have, the better.

🌺 So far he's on the lead, but not for long.

You had to borrow Anya's lipstick for this. Carefully planned this siege (it only took like 10 minutes). Daisuke had just finished doing inventory, Swansea's back in utility and you're by the storage closet by the hallway and you hear familiar footsteps. In approximately 5.0224 seconds, your target is going to pass by the said storage room aka your location right now. You brace for it, nervous. You push your doubts that it was another person for now and just go for it. Slamming your partner onto the wall as he squeals, you shut the door and yank on the string to turn the light on. It was dim but you could see the look on his face and you burst out laughing. "Dude, I thought we had some psycho hiding up in here! I thought I was gonna die!" "Yeah, you will." "Fuck you mean by tha— mpFfF?!" Your lips smash against his and you could tell some of the lipstick smeared. His awkward tense pose loosens up and his hands move away from the walls to your hips as he returns it and you part as he tries not to chase after you. "Got ya' good, huh?" "Whaaaaat?" He drawls out with a voice crack, looking away. "I don't know man, you gotta do that again so we can find out." With a pffsh, you start kissing him everywhere, his beauty marks, his lips, cheeks, jaw, neck, probably even on his collar. Next thing you know, you both pop out the storage room, Swansea looking like he almost had a heart attack while he stares at the both of you in judgement. Daisuke had a lovestruck expression while his face, neck, and shirt collars were filled with lipstick marks and yours were smudged on your lips.

[ Jimmy ]

🔪 he hates it. he likes it so much he hates it.

🔪 prefers doing it himself though.

Shitty day as always. He wasn't in the mood and he can't bother you which made his day a whole lot worse. It's stupid, why was he so dependent over your attention. It should be the other way around. Once you were done with your shift, you decided to find the co-pilot. At his usual thinking spot, chewing on a toothpick. God, he needs his nicotine. You were silent, only walking towards his way, too busy with his thoughts to even notice you. Not until you plant a kiss on his cheek and his head whips to your direction, almost bumping heads. You smile and peck his lips this time. "You okay?" Were you pitying him? "Fuckin' peachy." Suddenly, you were pressed up against the wall, caged in-between his arms and you look up at him confused. He flicks the toothpick somewhere and he starts peppering your face with kisses. It was all soft at first, not until he nips at your lip before kissing you roughly. Your lips would probably bruise later on.

[ Swansea ]

🦢 this can be interpreted as romantic/familial honestly

🦢 he seems annoyed by it but in reality, he thinks it's sweet. never admitting it though.

Wake rock was softly playing in the background. You were busy cleaning up in the utility room while Swansea was repairing some wires when he suddenly flinches and cusses loudly, shaking his hand. He got grounded. Now he's grumbling over where Daisuke was when he needed him to do the work. Probably needed to release his frustrations elsewhere by light-heartedly shit talking his intern. You knew he didn't mean it. Tilting your head curiously, you moved closer, peeking over his shoulder to watch him work for a moment. And just when he moves his hands away from the box, you hug him from the side and kiss his cheek repeatedly. "Jesus! Warn a man will ya'?!" "I'm done cleaning! I'll go on break now, boss!" "Yeah, yeah." He huffs. Unbeknownst to you, he had a small smile on his face as he continued working. Seriously, who does this to their mentor? Kids these days.

[boyfiechan]

[Party Favor]

…or the one where you're just two responsible adults planning your best friends’ joint bachelor/bachelorette party—until the box of sexy party supplies arrives and things spiral wildly out of hand.

Bang Chan x Reader Notes: Friendship and glitter on genitals, I guess. Content Warnings: AFAB reader, best friends to lovers, a hell lot of kissing, mutual pining, aphrodisiac use, mentions of drinking, explicit sexual content, sexy card games, fingering, use of pet names (baby), dry humping, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, use of warming gel and sensation enhancers, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, mention of sex toys, multiple orgasms, creampie, use of handcuffs, banter during sex, chaotic horniness. [22k words]

The box sat between you on Chris’s kitchen island like some cursed artifact neither of you wanted to be the first to open. You were supposed to be working—finalizing the plans for Mina and Jae’s joint bachelor and bachelorette parties, putting the finishing touches on the schedule, talking through guest lists and food allergies and whether the Airbnb allowed glitter—but instead, you were both just standing there, staring at a giant, metallic-wrapped package that had arrived earlier that afternoon with no return address, just a handwritten note that read, Have fun. You’re welcome. -Cousin Yujin. Chris had carried it inside like it weighed a hundred pounds, half-laughing, half-grimacing as he dropped it onto the counter. She said she was sending some party supplies. I thought she meant streamers, he said, still catching his breath. Not a whole suitcase full of questionable decisions.

You didn’t open it so much as peel it apart cautiously, as if expecting it to hiss or glow or otherwise confirm your suspicion that this would be a very different kind of planning session. The first layer revealed a cascade of pink and red tissue paper, scattered with tiny heart-shaped confetti, and beneath that—chaos. A deck of cards with the words Naughty Challenge in sparkly foil, a pair of red satin blindfolds, plastic handcuffs, massage oils in a variety pack labeled Dessert Flavors. A single feather tickler. A tube of something called Arousal Gel, which you held between two fingers like it might bite. Chris leaned in beside you, lips twitching with a suppressed laugh. Is that… whipped cream flavored? he asked, peering over your shoulder. You checked. Strawberry cheesecake. He let out a low whistle. Classy.

You weren’t quite laughing yet, but the absurdity of it all had begun to settle in—this was your job now, apparently, organizing not just a party, but a themed weekend that walked the line between slightly wild and entirely too intimate. You were both trying to do right by your friends, to make sure they had a celebration they’d remember for the right reasons, and yet here you were, elbows-deep in what looked like a bachelorette party starter pack from a very risqué Etsy store. Chris picked up one of the dice, a soft, neon pink set with verbs on one and body parts on the other and rolled them idly on the counter. Kiss… neck, he read, then looked over at you with mock solemnity. Very educational.

You leaned against the island, arms crossed, watching as he turned over one item after another. He wasn’t rushing—more curious than anything, like he was cataloging evidence and here was something comfortable about it, the way you could both hover here in this liminal space between teasing and planning, between two friends who’d known each other too long to be shy but not quite long enough to ignore the tension. You think they’ll actually use this stuff? you asked, nodding at the pile. Chris shrugged. Maybe some of it. Probably not the aphrodisiac serum. He held up a little amber bottle and squinted at the label. ‘Heightens arousal. Do not exceed recommended dose.’ Sounds intense. You smirked. Bet it’s just honey and cayenne. Or snake venom, he offered. Real test of love—survive the honeymoon.

It wasn’t awkward, not exactly, but you could feel a kind of charged stillness creeping in as the initial laughter faded. The box had gone from hilarious to oddly thought-provoking, as if you were both slowly realizing you’d just been handed a pile of questions you hadn’t planned to ask each other, not explicitly, not like this. Chris nudged a card your way—Act out your partner’s fantasy—and raised a brow. Think we need to screen these before game night? he asked. Some of these are kind of… a lot.

You hesitated, then nodded. Probably smart. I mean, we can’t exactly have Jae doing body shots off his fiancée’s cousin in front of his mom. Chris grimaced, then laughed under his breath. Okay, yeah. We screen them. He paused. Should we—like—actually go through a few? Just to get a feel for what we’re working with? He wasn’t looking directly at you now, more at the cards, the bottle, the chaos you’d unearthed together, like he was trying to keep it casual, and it was casual, just curiosityl just research, two responsible people doing their due diligence. Still, the question hovered there in the space between you, quiet and warm and just a little off-center, like maybe neither of you wanted to admit you’d already been wondering the same thing.

It had always been like this with Chris, comfortable in a way that was easy to forget wasn’t necessarily normal. He was the kind of friend who snuck snacks into your tote bag at the movies and remembered the name of your high school dog even though you only mentioned it once, smart, unflinchingly reliable, a little chaotic when bored—but gorgeous in a way that still, occasionally, knocked the wind out of you when you looked too long. Which was why you didn’t, usually, at least not on purpose. He was built like someone who accidentally became a Calvin Klein model and never told anyone, all long limbs and lean muscle and that infuriating combination of soft eyes, dimples and a sharp jaw. He didn’t act like he knew it, though, walked around in perfectly clean sneakers and a identical rotation of hoodies like he wasn’t an accidental heart attack waiting to happen. You had a whole system worked out for ignoring it, finely tuned over years of close proximity and just enough inappropriately timed thoughts to make your own life difficult, and besides, it was funny, you two were funny—quick banter, loud opinions, inside jokes that made other people squint. It worked, it had always worked.

Still, there was something about tonight that felt a little off-center, not bad, just off the usual track. Maybe it was the wine you’d cracked open an hour ago, or the slow glow of sunset spilling across the kitchen, or maybe it was the undeniable weight of the box sitting open between you, full of things neither of you were really pretending to ignore anymore. You could tell Chris felt it too, not in any obvious way, but in the way his movements had slowed just a bit, more deliberate, like he was giving the moment more room to breathe.

He picked up the deck of Naughty Challenge cards and fanned them out like a magician about to do a trick. Alright, he said, tone light, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. One test round, purely for quality control. You pick. You raised an eyebrow but reached anyway, plucking a card from the center. ‘Give your partner a compliment in the sexiest voice you can manage,’ you read aloud, then looked up, unimpressed. This feels like a trap. Chris laughed. Come on. Low stakes. I’ll go first.

He cleared his throat dramatically, then turned toward you with an exaggerated smolder. Your spreadsheet skills, he said, voice dropping an octave, make me feral. You choked on your sip of wine, sputtering as you doubled over against the counter. You’re a menace. He smiled. I’m a menace with a healthy appreciation for color-coded tabs.

It was stupid. Ridiculous. The kind of joke that should’ve fallen flat but didn’t, because it was him, because he could make anything sound almost sincere, just for a second. And then he was looking at you, and you were still laughing, but the space between you had shrunk without either of you moving. Just a hair, just enough to notice.

You flipped the card around in your fingers, trying to keep your face neutral, but you could feel the warmth rising in your chest, just below the surface. Okay, you said slowly, my turn. He tilted his chin up, mock-expectant as uou licked your lips, pretending to consider your options. Your arms, you said finally, pitching your voice low and overly breathy, are very… efficient. For carrying things. And lifting boxes. Big boxes. Chris stared at you a beat, then cracked up, resting both hands on the counter as he laughed. Wow, he said, wheezing a little. Are you flirting with me or hiring me for a moving company? You shrugged. Why not both?

The laughter lingered, but the air shifted again, subtly, the way a room quiets when someone walks in. You didn’t move away, neither did he and there was something about the fact that you could both feel it, but neither of you said anything, that made it feel heavier than it should’ve. Not awkward, just aware, a pause held between jokes, like the next card might change something if you weren’t careful. Or maybe if you were.

Chris tapped the edge of the deck against the counter like he was about to deal blackjack, eyes still a little crinkled at the corners from laughing. Alright, he said, voice mock-serious, we’re on a roll. Let’s see what other emotionally devastating challenges this box has for us. He slid another card from the pile and read it with the kind of gravitas usually reserved for Oscar speeches. ‘Demonstrate your favorite sex position. Using interpretive dance.’ He blinked, you blinked and for a long second, neither of you moved. Then you both completely lost it.

Chris doubled over against the counter, forehead pressed to the cool granite like he needed divine intervention. No, he gasped. Absolutely not. I’m calling the police. You were crying laughing, hand over your mouth, barely able to breathe. This box is unhinged, you wheezed. Yujin needs to be on some kind of government watchlist. Chris nodded rapidly, still recovering. She just sent us a live grenade. This is psychological warfare.

But then, because neither of you had ever been good at letting a joke die, you straightened up, wiped your eyes, and said, Okay but hypothetically, if I did have a favorite… And before Chris could stop you, you stepped back from the counter and started miming an aggressively interpretive series of hip rotations that could only be described as deeply confusing and possibly inspired by modern jazz. I call this one ‘Anxious Cowgirl,’ you announced, waving your arms like you were on a deranged cruise ship. Chris groaned and covered his face. I’m begging you to stop. I feel like I’m going to get arrested just for witnessing this.

You’re just mad because you’re about to get outdanced, you said, pointing at him. Let’s go, best man. Show me missionary with meaning. And somehow, somehow, he did, with the stiff awkwardness of a man deeply regretting his life choices, Chris shuffled out from behind the counter and launched into something between a body roll and a mime of spiritual suffering, hands raised like he was trying to summon something holy. This is called Two Minutes Before Cramps, he said solemnly, hips moving like they were operating on a six-second delay. It’s mostly forearms and disappointment. You collapsed onto the barstool, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. Oh my god, stop. That’s actually worse than mine.”

Lies, he shot back, pointing an accusing finger. Yours looked like a Zumba class for the recently divorced.

The energy was ridiculous, you were both borderline crying, red-faced, breathless, drunk not on the wine but on the sheer absurdity of what your night had turned into, but underneath the chaos, there was that little pull again, that thing you kept pretending wasn’t there. Because every time he looked at you too long, or your arms bumped, or he laughed with that quiet, real sound that he didn’t share with everyone, something in you pinged. Nothing big, just a moment, a shift, a question that hadn’t been asked, but maybe, maybe was getting a little closer to the surface.

Still, you weren’t touching that yet, mot with a ten-foot feather tickler. So instead you leaned back, wiped your face, and said, Okay, final round. Let’s find the dumbest one in here.

Chris, ever the overachiever, picked up the instruction booklet and squinted at the fine print. There’s one called Sensory Temptation Roulette, he said slowly. You blindfold each other and take turns guessing which body part the other person is touching you with. He paused. There’s a note here about ‘only consenting players should participate,’ which feels like a red flag.

You blinked. Do you think they mean like… elbow? Nose? Or… You trailed off, eyebrows raised. Chris didn’t answer, just held your gaze for a second too long, then very calmly picked up the blindfold from the box and held it out to you.

You stared at it. Then at him.

Then back at it.

You are so lucky I’m bored.

He grinned like he’d just won something, all bright teeth and boyish smugness, the blindfold dangling from his fingers like a prize. No one’s ever said that to me in a flattering context, he said, stepping closer, enough that you could smell the faint trace of his cologne, something warm and clean and irritatingly good, and see the slight flush in his cheeks that may have been from laughter, or the wine, or maybe just the rising temperature of this whole stupid, spiraling idea. You took the blindfold slowly, holding his gaze as if you were about to sign a legally binding document, and looped it over your eyes with exaggerated care. Alright, you said, sitting up straighter on the barstool. Let the scientifically rigorous examination of sensory nonsense commence. I’m ready for my doctorate in Guess the Body Part. You heard Chris laugh softly, close now, and then the sound of him moving, the quiet shuffle of socked feet on tile, the rustle of fabric as he adjusted or considered something behind the veil of your vision.

You tried not to anticipate where the touch would land, you really did, but there was something about being blindfolded—about giving over that sliver of control to someone you trusted, who also happened to be annoyingly hot and standing much too close—that made your brain short-circuit. When it came, it was light, barely a brush at all, somewhere on your forearm, and you startled a little at the unexpected texture. Okay, you said slowly. That felt… weirdly soft. Was that your cheek?

Chris made a buzzer sound with his mouth. Incorrect. That was my chin. Very different. My cheek is much more emotionally available. You snorted, blindfold shifting slightly as you laughed. My bad, I’ll recalibrate my cheek-to-chin radar.

The next one landed on your knee, a gentle bump that felt like knuckles, maybe. Knuckle? you guessed, biting your lip. A beat. Close. Elbow. He sounded weirdly proud, like his joints were something to be admired. Bonus points for not screaming. Most people panic when approached by a stealth elbow. You smiled in spite of yourself and it was really stupid, all of it, delirious and strange and deeply unserious, but there was something oddly sweet about how carefully he was doing it. Not teasing, not pushing boundaries, just playing the way you always had, except now you were blindfolded and he was touching you, and your skin was starting to keep score.

The next touch was slower, not rough, but deliberate, the back of your shoulder, maybe, or the top of your arm—warm and solid and unmistakably him. You felt it in your spine, that little flicker of tension your body tried to dismiss as nothing, just nerves or the wine or the thousand other excuses that didn’t account for the fact that his hand lingered. Fingertips, you said, and it came out quieter than you intended. Chris didn’t answer right away, just a small pause. Then: Yeah. His voice had dropped a little, still playful, still soft, but you could hear the shift too, subtle and unspoken, like the space between a joke and the moment it stops being funny, not because anyone said so, just because the air got heavier.

He stepped back, or maybe just stilled, and you exhaled slowly. Okay, you said, lifting your hands to the blindfold, my turn. I’m ready to exact blindfolded revenge. But when you pulled it off and looked at him, Chris was already watching you. He had that same grin, but it had changed, barely, into something steadier, something with less teeth and more weight as his gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second, then snapped back up, like he caught himself mid-thought. You felt it like a tug, small, sharp, not enough to pull you in—but enough to know it was there. You held out the blindfold. Your funeral. Chris took it with a shrug, but the way he tied it on was slower now, more thoughtful, like the whole thing had become a different game.

The blindfold settled over his eyes with practiced ease, like he wasn’t blindfolding himself in the middle of his own kitchen while his best friend loomed dangerously close with vague intentions and a wildly fluctuating heart rate. Chris adjusted the knot at the back, then held out his arms in theatrical surrender. Alright. Do your worst. But just know—if I scream, it’s only because I bruise easily and have a complicated relationship with trust. You rolled your eyes, grinning despite the thrum of something slower moving beneath your skin. You’re the most dramatic man alive, you muttered, stepping closer, already scanning the possible points of contact like this was some kind of twisted impossible math question. You weren’t nervous, not exactly, but there was a new sort of buzz threading itself through your limbs now, an awareness, taut and unfamiliar, that hadn’t been part of this game until just recently. Something about seeing him standing there, all stillness and stupidly good bone structure, mouth pulled into a smirk that he probably didn’t even know was doing things to your brain that it made it a lot harder to treat this like a harmless joke.

You went for easy first, brushing the edge of your forearm lightly against his collarbone, a soft pass that made him flinch just slightly. Was that your… wrist? he guessed, head tilting in thought. Wow, you deadpanned. No. That was literally my entire arm. Do you think I’m a small bird? Chris laughed, bright and sudden, the sound echoing in the kitchen. Sorry, sorry. I got distracted. It felt… graceful. He grimmaced. You’re unbelievable, you muttered, but your voice had gone soft at the edges. You were too aware of how close you were, too tuned in to the way he was still smiling even though he couldn’t see you, the kind of smile that always made you want to nudge him just to see how much further it would go.

Next you tapped the side of his neck with the tip of your nose, because you couldn’t help yourself, because it was stupid and unexpected and you wanted to see what he’d do. He jolted like you’d electrocuted him, swore under his breath, then stood perfectly still. Okay, he said slowly. That was… something. Was that your elbow? You leaned back with a grin, the air between you now oddly charged. That was my nose, you absolute himbo.

Jesus, he whispered, laughing nervously. Why is this starting to feel like foreplay? And just like that, the breath in your lungs turned into something else. You weren’t sure if it was a joke, half of what you said to each other was, but you didn’t laugh this time. You didn’t say anything, neither did he.

For a second, the silence stretched out, not uncomfortable, just expectant. You stared at him, blindfolded and a little flushed, his mouth parted like he was waiting for your next move and for once, you didn’t second-guess it, you stepped in again, closer this time, letting the tip of your fingers trace from his wrist to the inside of his elbow in a slow, unhurried pass. His breath caught, visibly, audibly. And when you stopped, he didn’t guess, didn’t speak. Just stood there, waiting. You swallowed, your voice was quieter now, unsure but steady. You gonna guess? Chris tilted his head slightly. I don’t think I care what part that was.

The silence after that wasn’t funny, wasn’t filled with jokes or banter or pretend. It was thick with something else, something that looked a lot like choice. You could feel it rising between you, soft and slow, unspoken and undeniable, something you couldn’t unplay and still, neither of you moved.

Chris was the first to crack. He cleared his throat, untied the blindfold with a flick of his fingers that was way too casual to be real, blinking like he’d just returned from war. Okay, he said, voice an octave too bright, so that game is obviously cursed. We were one round away from accidentally getting engaged. You laughed, high and nervous, stepping back like there was a trapdoor under your feet. Yeah, no, that felt like a gateway drug to emotions. Absolutely not. You turned back toward the box, sifting through the chaos of cards and packaging and absurd neon-colored nonsense like it was a life raft. Let’s eat something weird and reset our brain chemistry.

Chris, already halfway through inspecting what looked like edible lube in a tiny foil pouch, raised an eyebrow. Do you want the one labeled body chocolate or sugar lips? Because one of these sounds like a drag queen and the other sounds like an HR violation. You snorted and grabbed the one with a sketchy cartoon strawberry on the label. Let’s go with the one that looks the least like it’ll send us to the ER.

You peeled it open, sniffed it cautiously, then gave him a look. Why does this smell like Dollar Store Nutella? Chris leaned in, took a whiff, and recoiled instantly. That’s not Nutella. That’s Nuthella. As in, you’d have to be out of your mind to eat that. Your snorted. Oh, come on, you said, scooping a fingertip’s worth and sticking it in your mouth. It can’t be that— You froze. Chewed, slowly, then made a face like you’d just been betrayed by a trusted family member. It tastes like a candle. A very sexy candle. Chris burst out laughing. Give me that, he said, grabbing his own sample with way too much enthusiasm and popped it into his mouth, immediately making a noise of profound regret. Oh no. Oh no no. Why is it spicy? He paced a tight circle like a soccer player trying to walk off an injury. It tastes like someone dipped chocolate in cologne and then lost a bet.

I think it’s supposed to ‘awaken your senses,’ you said, flipping the package over. It’s definitely awakened my gag reflex. He flopped into the stool across from you, still grimacing, and picked up one of the tiny heart-shaped mints labeled Intimint Explosion. Dare me? he asked, already unwrapping it. Absolutely not, you said, but he popped it into his mouth anyway. He blinked, paused, then his face twisted into something between alarm and existential confusion. Okay, wow. That’s… aggressive. My tongue is having a religious experience. There’s like… phases.

You were cackling now, hunched over the counter as you rummaged through the next layer of the box. Alright, you said, breathless, we need a palate cleanser before one of us has to file a report with the FDA. You pulled out a plastic contraption shaped like a miniature cactus and turned it over in your hands. What the hell is this? A novelty back scratcher? A massage tool for emotionally distant partners? Chris leaned in to inspect it. No, no, look—it has a little switch. And like… these soft spinny things? He flicked the switch and the tiny rubber nubs started twirling with an aggressive buzz that neither of you expected. You both stared. Then looked at each other. Is it… for your face? you asked slowly. Chris tilted his head. Maybe your nipples?

That’s not the same category, Chris. You said, raising an eyebrow at him. Well, I don’t know what people are into! Don’t judge my ideas. You set it down like it might explode and pulled out the next item, a tiny feather on the end of what looked like a miniature riding crop. Okay, this one’s easy. This is obviously for… uh… You trailed off, twirling it between your fingers, then looked up at him. Okay fine, what the hell is this for? Chris took it, spun it once like he was about to do a magic trick, then flicked it gently against his own arm. I think it’s supposed to be seductive, he said, eyebrows raised in concentration. But I just feel like I’m being interrogated by a fancy bird. You doubled over laughing again, nearly crying now as he fanned himself dramatically with it and said, in a horrible British accent, I demand to know the whereabouts of the Duke's underpants!

It was good like this, stupid and unhinged and exactly the right amount of unsexy, just long enough to forget the undercurrent of whatever had passed between you during that blindfolded pause. You could feel it, still, flickering at the edge of things, but right now, wrapped in laughter and candle-flavored regret, it was easy to let it wait.

The laughter eventually tapered into something breathless and warm, the kind of quiet that came after a proper, cleansing laugh, where your face hurt and your stomach ached and you felt slightly high on nothing at all. You were sprawled across one stool, chin resting on your arms, and Chris was opposite you, still fidgeting with the feathery interrogation wand like it had secrets to reveal. Between you, the box lay half-unpacked, its contents scattered in an impressive array of shapes and suspicious functions, looking more like the inventory of a very unserious wizard than anything remotely erotic.

You reached blindly and came up with a sleek little thing that looked like an alien’s idea of a slingshot. Okay, you said, turning it upside down, this one feels like it’s for clamping… something. Maybe ears? Nose? A very specific kind of grief? Chris leaned in, elbow on the counter, eyes narrowing as he took it from your hands. I think this is one of those things that either goes very right or ends your relationship in five seconds. He tested the springy arms against his fingers, winced immediately. Yup. That’s going directly into the Maybe Not pile.

You reached for a wrapped chocolate heart still floating at the bottom of the box and unwrapped it like it owed you something. Okay, but real talk, you said, chewing slowly, is it getting weirdly warm in here? Chris was already halfway through another one, despite his earlier condemnation, and looked mildly betrayed by his own decision. Yes, he said through a mouthful, and also… is your mouth buzzing? Because mine is. Like… subtly. In a way that feels both delightful and deeply concerning.

You paused, tongue pressed to the roof of your mouth. …Yes. What the hell did they put in these? Is this FDA approved? You both stared at the shiny wrapper, no ingredients listed, just the words Velvet Ecstasy in swirly gold font, like it was a flavor and not a threat. Chris squinted at it. Do you think it’s like… some kind of low-grade aphrodisiac? Because that would explain why I suddenly want to flirt with the toaster.

You snorted, shifting in your seat, only now realizing how your skin felt a little more, like your clothes were one layer too many, or the air was just a few degrees too humid. Nothing dramatic—just enough to make you cross and uncross your legs under the counter, like you were trying to resettle your own mood as Chris seemed to be feeling it too; he’d stopped toying with the feather and was now fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, a light flush blooming at the base of his neck that might’ve been from laughter, or something else.

You reached into the box again, half for distraction, half because you were starting to feel too still. Alright, what’s next? you muttered, pulling out a smooth, curved silicone object in pastel pink. You turned it over once, then twice, then just stared. Okay. No idea what this is. It looks like a spoon from the future. Chris leaned in, peering at it like it might read back to him. Is that… a tongue thing? Like, a licking simulator? His eyes widened. Is that a robot tongue? You were horrified and fascinated in equal measure. Why is it shaped like a ladle? What kind of tongue has depth?He tapped it against the counter experimentally. Maybe it’s for ice cream. Emotional support ice cream. You grinned, finally setting it down with caution. No way. That thing has main character energy. It vibrates, I promise you.

Everything in this box vibrates, he muttered, tossing aside a suspiciously shaped ring with flashing LED lights. This one looks like it’s powered by rage and the tears of failed exes. The heat was building again, subtle but steady, underneath the humor, under the dumb jokes and the silly guesses. That candy was doing something, slow and creeping, just a haze at the edges of your skin, a heightened awareness that made you notice things like how close Chris’s hands kept drifting when he leaned in to see what you were holding, how his voice had gone ever so slightly lower, more deliberate and the tension wasn’t sharp, not yet, just simmering, waiting, sitting between you like another item you hadn’t unboxed yet.

Still, you kept reaching for distraction. Okay, final item, you said, pulling out a silk ribbon with tiny loops sewn into the ends. This looks innocent. Like something from a bridal shower. Chris took it from you and raised an eyebrow. That’s a wrist restraint, he said, voice far too casual. That or a very dramatic headband. He stretched it between his hands thoughtfully. Also, very soft. That’s a plus. He toyed with it. What, are you rating these now? you teased, leaning back on your palms. Gonna start a blog? Chris’s Kink Korner?

He grinned without looking up. I mean, might as well. I’ve seen enough tonight to qualify for a part-time job at a sex museum. He met your eyes then, still playful, still amused, but lingering just a second longer than before, and suddenly you were both quiet again, not like before, but almost, a shift, just a breath deeper than the last.

Chris set the ribbon down like it might whisper something compromising if he held it too long, and then he dragged his fingers through his hair in that familiar way that always made him look effortlessly hot and vaguely distressed, like a model who’d just gotten bad news in a shampoo commercial. You watched him without meaning to—tracked the way his eyes flicked toward you and then away, the subtle clench in his jaw when he bit back a grin, the silence was friendly, mostly, but beneath it was that same low hum, the weird edge that had crept in with the candy, winding tighter every time your knees bumped or your laughter ran too long. Still, neither of you said anything about it. You just sat there, elbows on the counter, surrounded by silicone and satin and glittery wrappers, pretending you weren’t both just a little warmer than you should be.

So, he said finally, clearing his throat as he reached for another chocolate heart and inspected it with the vague suspicion of someone handling a live grenade, do we think these are actually, like, scientifically engineered? Or is this just placebo horniness? He tossed it into his mouth before you could warn him, chewing like it owed him an answer. You leaned over, one brow raised. I don’t think there’s any science involved in something called Velvet Ecstasy, Chris. That sounds like a band that opens for Boyz II Men at a Valentine’s Day concert.

He snorted, one hand over his mouth like he was trying to chew through regret. Okay, but real talk, my face is kind of tingly. Like... arousingly tingly, is that a thing? He blinked. Do you want it to be a thing? you countered, mostly to distract from the fact that your skin was buzzing too, in all the inconvenient places. Not hot, exactly, but sensitive, like your nerves had been turned up a click. You weren’t thinking about Chris touching you, not really—but you were starting to wonder what it might feel like if he did, purely for research.

I think I’m gonna sue whoever made these, he muttered, grabbing his water like it might help. Not because they’re dangerous, but because now I have questions about my body I didn’t need to have tonight. You laughed, still fiddling with the ribbon absentmindedly. Oh, come on, maybe it’s just psychosomatic. Like ghost horniness. He blinked at you. You’re not allowed to say ghost horniness in my kitchen, he said. There’s boundaries.

You held up your hands. Okay, fine. Let’s go back to identifying mystery toys. It’s safer. You leaned into the box again and pulled out something shaped like a cross between a banana and a lightsaber. It was smooth, lavender, slightly curved, and more menacing the longer you looked at it. Okay, you said, turning it in your hands. What is this and why do I feel like it knows my deepest secrets?

Chris took it from you slowly, brows lifted. I don’t know, but if this thing ever starts talking, I’m burning it. He pressed a button and it whirred to life with a low, oscillating hum that was alarming. He froze. Nope. No no. Why does it sound like it’s about to summon something? You were laughing so hard now that your stomach hurt again, that warm, sweet ache that felt like safety and something else you couldn’t quite name as you reached for the toy and turned it off before it could open a portal to hell. That’s going straight into the Oh My God pile. Chris nodded solemnly, setting it down between the feather and the spinning cactus. That pile’s getting a little too powerful.

And then, as if summoned by the room’s growing warmth or the subtle pull of that unspoken thread, he glanced over at you. Really looked, this time, not like a joke was coming, or a dare, or a one-liner. Just looked, and the moment slowed again, just briefly, not enough to be awkward, just long enough for something to flicker behind his eyes. This is kinda fun, huh? he said, voice lower now, a little more grounded. Like… I didn’t expect it to be fun. I thought it’d be weird.You tilted your head. It is weird.

Yeah, he said, grinning, but like… in a good way. You looked at the chaos around you, the melting chocolate wrappers, the haunted vibrator, the tiny cactus. And then back at him. Yeah, you said quietly. In a good way.

You didn’t mean to grab something interesting, honestly, you were just stalling, sifting through the half-empty box for the sake of momentum, for something dumb enough to laugh about again—something that didn’t taste like perfume or hum like a spaceship. But your fingers closed around a slim, rectangular box near the bottom, tucked beneath a foil packet that said Cupid’s Syrup in a font that made your stomach turn. You pulled it out, inspected the cover. Dare or Bare: A game for the emotionally unstable and mildly horny, it read in looping pink script.

You held it up. Okay, this one’s already threatening me personally. Chris leaned over, squinting. Dare or Bare? That sounds like something invented in a college dorm. He snatched the box from your hands and popped it open, rifling through the cards inside. Oh yeah. This one’s dangerous. I love it. He pulled out a random card and read aloud with mock drama: Let your partner kiss any body part of their choosing—or take a shot of tequila with Tabasco. He looked up, deadpan. Wow. Nothing like an ultimatum between physical vulnerability and gastrointestinal distress. You leaned in, intrigued now. Alright. So we’re just… doing dares or mildly stripping?

Not even mildly, he said, flipping another card. Remove one item of clothing—or let your partner ask any question and you have to answer honestly. You raised a brow. Okay, this just turned into Truth or Strip. Chris grinned, already pulling out the little spinner wheel that came with the set. Which, incidentally, is exactly the right level of emotional risk for a Wednesday night.

You both knew you shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t, there was just enough of that candy lingering in your bloodstream to make everything feel a little more fun than it should be, a little looser around the edges, like the world had slouched sideways and neither of you had the good sense to sit up straight. And now Chris was holding out the spinner, casual to a fault, like it wasn’t the gateway to imminent chaos, like the smooth way his thumb tapped against the plastic wasn’t betraying how eager he actually was to spin the whole night off its rails. His knee bumped against yours beneath the table, the faintest nudge, and you felt your own self-control slip another inch, your heartbeat knocking just a little faster as the room leaned into the kind of silence that always meant trouble. You exhaled, the word dragging out on the tail of your breath, Okay, okay, tugging your legs up onto the stool, folding them beneath you, settling in like you weren’t already standing at the edge of a very, very stupid decision. But we set rules.

Chris nodded, solemn in a way that barely contained the smirk threatening to pull at the corner of his mouth, his hands stretching out in a half-hearted peace offering, palms open, fingers twitching with barely concealed amusement. Obviously, he said, voice smooth, almost reasonable. No questions about exes. No dares involving bodily fluids. His gaze slid over to you, steady and sharp, waiting for you to tack on more boundaries, waiting to see just how far you’d go before you flinched. You lifted a brow, chin tilting slightly, deadpan. No removing pants. His lips twitched, and for a second you thought he might let it go, but his eyes flicked to yours, dark with that particular glint you knew too well, the one that always spelled trouble long before he ever opened his mouth. Speak for yourself, he muttered, the words low and half-swallowed, like he hadn’t meant them to slip out, but he did, and the air around you shifted, light and charged. Before you could swat at him, his fingers wrapped around the spinner and set it loose, the plastic clicking and ticking in sharp little bursts, both of you leaning in slightly, as if proximity might somehow influence fate, as if it wasn’t already too late for that.

The wheel slowed, the pointer stuttering over the final few notches before landing on a card marked with a flame, and Chris wasted no time plucking it up, turning it over in his hand with a kind of lazy confidence, the kind that always meant he was about to make things worse. His eyebrows lifted, mouth curling into something delightfully smug as he read the dare aloud. Let your partner sit in your lap for one minute — or send a risky text to the last person you slept with. His gaze drifted back to you, slow and deliberate, his eyes already laughing before his mouth had the chance to. He tilted his head, shoulders relaxing into the inevitable, and the grin that split across his face was all teeth and mischief, bright and boyish in the worst way. So. You wanna—?

Absolutely not, you snapped, reaching out before the words had even fully left your mouth, snatching the spinner from his hand, your fingers brushing his in the process, warm and steady and stupidly solid, like touching him didn’t already do enough damage on its own. His laugh was soft, a low sound that felt like the slow boil of something just beginning, and you pretended not to notice the way your pulse stumbled as you spun the wheel, watching it go around and around, the room tilting slightly with every click until the pointer landed, quiet and decisive, on a blue truth card.

You plucked it from the pile, trying for casual, clearing your throat as you read, the words catching somewhere halfway through. What’s something you’ve thought about doing with the person in front of you but never said out loud? The second the sentence hung between you, the air felt different, heavier, sharper, like the room itself was holding its breath. You didn’t look up right away, too aware of the sudden stillness that had settled over him, the faint, unspoken shift in the shape of his silence. When you finally raised your gaze, his eyes were already there waiting, wide and startled, his expression balanced precariously between a smile and a choke, like the game had finally outplayed him and for once he didn’t know whether to laugh or lie.

Well, he said slowly, one hand drifting to his jaw, thumb brushing along the edge in absent circles, his voice warm and dry like he was stalling for time, I was going to say ‘stealing your hoodies,’ but now I’m thinking this game has a vendetta. The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to tug loose despite the heat crawling up your neck, your fingers tightening slightly around the card, knuckles whitening with the effort it took to stay still. You’re allowed to say that. That’s harmless.

Oh, sure. His head tilted, eyes narrowing just enough to spark a different kind of tension, voice dipping a shade closer to the line between teasing and dangerous. But now it sounds like a metaphor. The air stretched thin between you, a taut string pulled tight, and you held his gaze a beat too long, the question still lingering, still open, still waiting. Your voice came quieter, softer, heavy with the dare you couldn’t swallow back. What were you actually going to say?

The hesitation barely lasted a second, but you felt it, the faint stutter in his breath, the twitch of his fingers tapping once, twice against his thigh, the way his tongue flicked out to wet his bottom lip like the answer sat there, sweet and sharp, waiting to cut. Then the smile came, small and sly, the kind of grin that always meant he was about to say something dangerous but not quite criminal, the kind of look that never failed to unravel you. Yeah, nah. I’m not touching that one, he murmured, voice a little lower, a little softer, thick with all the things he wasn’t saying. Spin again.

The next few rounds passed with the kind of laughter that made your cheeks hurt. Chris took his hoodie off when a card demanded it, revealing a tight black T-shirt underneath that you pretended not to notice and you admitted to having a weirdly vivid dream about him last year, though you refused to explain it. He let you draw a heart with whipped cream on the side of his neck as punishment for skipping a card about sending a flirty voice memo. You both agreed to burn the box afterward, and slowly, too slowly to catch until it was already happening, yyour laughter kept brushing up against something warmer. Something charged.

Then Chris drew another card, the motion slow, almost absent-minded, his fingers hesitating at the edges like his brain had only just caught up to the fact that he was still playing. The room had gone quiet again, thick with something that wasn’t quite laughter anymore, and when he flipped the card over his eyes flicked across the words, lingering there a moment too long, his mouth twitching with a sound that barely qualified as a laugh — more like a breath that got trapped on its way out. He didn’t look up. He just sat there, turning the card between his fingers, thumb brushing slow circles over the paper as though it might soften the meaning, as though it might change the rules if he waited long enough.

Okay. This one’s… another soft huff of air, that same laugh-shaped breath, one that had no place in the tightness of the room, Let your partner whisper something they’ve always wanted to do to you — into your ear. If they do, you each keep all your clothes on. If not, both lose one layer. The words hung there, suspended in the dim light, pressing in on both of you from all sides. Your heart stuttered, sharp and unsure, tripping over the space where it should’ve landed cleanly, and for a second you couldn’t tell if it had stopped or simply skipped so hard you’d missed the beat altogether.

Chris finally glanced up, the weight of the moment tipping his head slightly, his gaze flicking toward you with something more cautious, more careful than before, like he was testing the air between you before stepping into it, like he wasn’t sure if the ground had shifted or if he’d just imagined it. He held the card out toward you, his hand steady but his eyes not quite matching, and his voice came quieter now, lower, the kind of soft that people used when they were offering you an out. We can skip, he said, like the words were some kind of life raft. We probably should.

But you didn’t reach for the card, you didn’t move at all, just sat there, staring at him, watching the tension curl around the space where the game used to be, realizing somewhere between the silence and the shallow rise of his chest that the shift had already happened. It hadn’t been the card, or the chocolate, or the dares. It wasn’t the game, not really, it was the way his voice had changed when he said your name two dares ago, the way your knee had stayed pressed against his for far too long without either of you adjusting. Somewhere between the whipped cream and the fourth dare, you’d stopped pretending this wasn’t real.

Your lips curled, slow and reluctant, a smile so small it barely made it to the surface, like you were still deciding whether it was safe to let it stay. Cautious, measured, but there, all the same. Okay, you said, voice soft but steady, your head tilting slightly, inviting the rest of the moment to close the distance for you. Come here, then. And just like that, the room folded into itself, the noise bleeding away until all that was left was the sound of his breathing and the long, quiet stretch of space that had never felt so impossibly close.

Chris didn’t speak, didn’t joke or stall or give you the easy out he usually would’ve offered without thinking, he just looked at you like he was recalculating something, something important, and then stood slowly, that soft grin slipping into something quieter as he rounded the counter. His movements weren’t dramatic, but they felt louder than they should’ve been and you could hear the way his socked feet shifted across the tile, the faint creak of the stool beside yours as he took the seat, knees brushing yours for the second time tonight—but now it didn’t feel accidental, but a dare in itself.

He leaned in close, closer than he ever had, and that was saying something, and tipped his head so his mouth hovered near your ear. You caught the faintest hint of chocolate on his breath, still warm from laughing, and your body locked up like it had just remembered you were alive in real time. His hand braced gently on your thigh, not grabbing, just grounding, the kind of contact that made your thoughts scatter like marbles on a floor. His voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. I’ve thought about kissing you when you’re mid-laugh, he said, slow and steady, like each word had weight. Like… when your head tips back just a little, and your eyes get kind of shiny? I always wonder if you’d let me. Then silence. Not long, just enough, enough for you to feel it, really feel it, settling under your skin like warm water in your chest.

When he pulled back, he didn’t look triumphant or smug, he looked nervous, quiet, in a way you’d never really seen on him, like saying it had actually cost him something. You weren’t sure what your face was doing, but you knew you were blinking too much and swallowing like your mouth had suddenly forgotten how to be normal. Your pulse was doing gymnastics in your throat and you didn’t even realize your hand was still on your lap until your fingers twitched against the hem of your shirt. Chris cleared his throat and made a vague gesture toward the cards. So, uh. Technically I didn’t lose any clothing, so… I win, right? he said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You laughed, finally, but it came out a little breathless. That’s not how emotional nudity works. He smirked at that—your Chris again, quick and full of mischief—but there was something in his posture now, something more alert. He wasn’t hiding it anymore, neither were you as you reached for another card. It was just easier than speaking. Alright, you said, throat dry. Let’s level the playing field. You handed it to him. You read this one.

He took it, eyes flicking down. Then his eyebrows shot up. Lick something off your partner’s skin—or let them draw something NSFW on your body blindfolded. He glanced up, and this time, the tension didn’t creep in, it slammed. You sat perfectly still for a moment, like your body was trying to decide whether it was allowed to want anything in this room, then you leaned back slowly, tilting your head. What counts as NSFW? you asked. Your voice was too calm, it didn’t match the heat curling in your chest. Chris blinked at you, then laughed, surprised. Wow. We are really doing this. You nodded once. Apparently, we are. And there it was again, that pause, the one just before the shift.

Chris stared at the card like it was a prophecy, some kind of ridiculous challenge issued by the universe that he’d been accidentally training for his whole life without knowing. You watched the wheels turn behind his eyes, the quick flick of thought, mischief, restraint, something warmer. It hit you all at once how stupidly gorgeous he was—how annoyingly sharp his jaw looked from this angle, how his lashes curled just enough to make you resent the unfairness of genetics, how his lips were parted slightly, caught between a grin and something else, something quieter. Your stomach fluttered without your permission, not a dramatic swoop, but something real enough to make you fold your arms, like your body was trying to protect the thought from forming too clearly. Chris rubbed the back of his neck, leaned back on his stool, and blew out a breath that bordered on a groan. Okay. Listen. I’ve made a lot of questionable decisions in my life, but I don’t think I’ve ever licked something off a friend before. I feel like that’s a line you cross and never come back from. You tilted your head, barely suppressing a smile. So draw on me, then.

That’s somehow worse, he said, laughing under his breath. Because then I have to think about it. I have to picture it. That’s practically a creative writing assignment. You were already reaching for the whipped cream again, amused and reckless and not nearly as unaffected as you wanted to be. Okay, fine. I’ll go easy on you. Just a classic little doodle. Maybe a peach. A heart. A deeply disturbing banana. He groaned again, leaning forward until his elbows hit his knees and his hands dragged down his face. Jesus. You’re trying to kill me. This is murder. You breathed a laugh. You picked the card. No backing out now. you reminded him, already shaking the can. I didn’t pick it, he said, the devil did.

But he was smiling again, almost helplessly, the way he always did when he lost a bet, or a game, or his composure. And then he was sitting up straighter, pulling his shirt off without ceremony and tossing it over the back of the stool like it was no big deal, even though the muscles in his shoulders tensed as the cotton slid off. His chest was lean, warm-toned, familiar in that distant way, something you’d seen before, at pools or late nights or friend group sleepovers, but never quite like this. Never under lighting this soft, never while his eyes locked on yours.

You swallowed once, then motioned for him to turn around a little and he did, back to you now, the ridge of his spine shifting subtly as he leaned forward. You knelt behind him on the stool, bracing one hand on his shoulder to keep your balance, the other holding the can like a paintbrush. You hesitated, then pressed the nozzle gently against the space just beneath his shoulder blade, drawing a lopsided heart that began to melt almost immediately against his skin. Jesus, it’s cold. Chris twitched. Yeah, well, you murmured, leaning closer without meaning to, you’re warm.

You hadn’t meant it to sound like that, not really, not like it meant something but the words hung there between you anyway, soft and weightless and still somehow too heavy, stretched thin with all the things you weren’t saying. He didn’t answer, didn’t shift, didn’t even lift his head. He just stayed where he was, sitting perfectly still, his shoulders faintly rigid, his head bowed slightly like the air had changed and he was bracing for it, like your fingertips brushing across his skin were doing far more than they should for something so innocent. You leaned back a fraction, putting just enough space between you to breathe, eyes flicking over the smudged, sticky shape left behind on his shoulder, the uneven edge of it catching in the dim light. There, you murmured, clearing your throat around the sudden dryness that wasn’t there before, All done. You’re a masterpiece. It came out lighter than you felt, thin and a little off-balance, but you let it stand.

That’s… generous, he muttered, voice dipping rough and quiet, glancing over his shoulder at you, his mouth twitching but not quite forming a full smile. I’m not even gonna ask what it’s supposed to be. His eyes lingered on yours a little too long, like he already knew, or like he was trying not to guess.

You pushed off the edge of the stool, hands brushing down your thighs as you reached for a napkin, trying and failing to rub the sugar from your fingertips, the stickiness clinging stubbornly no matter how many times you swiped. A melting heart, you offered, casual but quiet, the words folding smaller as you spoke them. Very symbolic. He raised both brows, slow and questioning, like he could already feel the shift tightening between you. Oh?

Yeah, you said, the shape of a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth but never quite making it there. It’s about two people getting in way over their heads with a stupid game. The silence stretched between you again, but this time it wasn’t empty. You were halfway back around the counter, trying to smooth your expression into something neutral, when his voice caught you, low, steady, a little too careful. Can I try mine now? The question stalled you mid-step, your pulse giving a sharp, unsteady kick as you turned back to face him. Your what?

My turn, he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if the ground hadn’t shifted at all. His gaze held yours, quiet and steady. The other option. Your breath hitched, barely enough to notice but enough for him to see. You blinked once. You want to lick—

No, he said, and the word softened under the weight of the small, crooked smile that followed. But I want to try something. Something not on the card. His voice wasn’t teasing anymore, not sharp or playful the way it had been earlier, just soft, softer than you’d expected, like he was already halfway past pretending and before you could ask what he meant, before you could even reach for the space to wonder, he stepped toward you, slow and careful, his body shifting like he was moving through deep water, like every inch forward was measured and deliberate, like he was giving you every second you needed to stop him. His hand found your wrist, light, barely there, just enough to guide, not enough to hold, and the way he touched you wasn’t reckless or bold or rushed. It was quiet, sure, almost tender, like maybe the game had ended a long time ago, and neither of you had noticed until now.

It should’ve felt too intimate, too sharp, but it didn’t. It just felt like gravity, like momentum that had been building long before this night, long before the chocolates or the spinning wheel or the whipped cream heart dissolving on his back. You swallowed, but your throat stayed dry. This part of the game has no rules, he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear, as he pulled you toward him with no real urgency. So technically we can do whatever we want. That made you laugh, breathy and strained. Pretty sure that’s exactly how people ruin friendships. He tilted his head. Or evolve them. You rolled your eyes, too fast, too nervous. Alright, Plato. Just tell me what I’m agreeing to.

He didn’t answer, just looked down, then back up, something unreadable working in the line of his jaw. Then, with a low hum of resignation, he reached for the whipped cream again and held it out like a truce offering. You blinked at it. You’re kidding. Chris just raised his brows. Game’s still on, right?

That was the out, right there, you could’ve said no, could’ve laughed it off, blamed the sugar and the cards and the tension and gone right back to sorting ridiculous plastic toys with your clothes on and your friendship intact, but you didn’t. You took the can, slowly. Where? you asked, and your voice sounded foreign in your throat—too soft, too steady. He watched you for a second, then stepped closer, close enough to touch, close enough that you had to tilt your chin a little to keep eye contact. Anywhere, he said. Dealer’s choice.

You should’ve picked somewhere safe, his forearm, his collarbone, maybe even the ridiculous whipped cream heart that was half-faded now on his shoulder, but your hand moved before your brain caught up, and you tapped the can gently against the center of his sternum, just above the hem of his shirtless chest. You sprayed a small dollop there, round and ridiculous, already softening with his body heat. This is getting weird, you muttered. Chris’s voice was lower now, the kind of voice that only existed in quiet rooms and slowed time. It’s just the game.

You nodded, like that made sense. Like you weren’t very much aware of the fact that he was about to lick something off his own chest because you’d put it there. But he didn’t. Not exactly. Instead, he looked at you once more, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes, then reached for your wrist again, guiding your hand forward, slowly, toward the spot you’d just marked. Here, he said. You do it. Your mouth went dry. Chris. He didn’t drop your gaze. It’s just the game.

And that was all it took, one more silent agreement, one more shrug of permission between two people pretending they weren’t doing exactly what they’d always said they wouldn’t. You stepped in, leaned forward, pressed your hands lightly against his chest to steady yourself, fingertips grazing the edge of the spot. And before you could overthink it, your mouth was there, warm, quick, tongue barely flicking the cream away before retreating again. He didn’t move, but he exhaled sharply through his nose, like the restraint cost him something. You stepped back slowly, suddenly aware of the way your palms still rested on his skin, the way the space between you didn’t quite cool. That’s not how you play this game, you said, a little breathless. He didn’t smile. No, he said. It’s not.

You turned toward the box again, desperate for distraction, for something—anything—to do with your hands, and grabbed the nearest toy without looking. It was a pair of fuzzy pink handcuffs, the metal heavy and cold and absurd between your fingers. Great, you muttered, holding them up. Finally, something wholesome. Chris laughed, that low familiar chuckle that made your stomach pull tight. You planning on arresting me for inappropriate gameplay? You tossed them at him. Don’t tempt me.

Chris tested the hinge of the handcuffs like he was auditioning for the world’s softest dominatrix-themed magic act, giving them a little dramatic shake before clicking the second cuff around his own wrist. Well, he said, lifting your joined hands up between you with a sage nod, I hope you weren’t planning on using the bathroom anytime soon. You raised a brow. You’ve chained us together and you didn’t ask for consent. Wow. I’m calling HR.

That’s fine, he said, gesturing with his free hand toward the mess of glittery boxes and melted chocolate casualties strewn across the counter. I think the entire bachelorette planning committee resigned three dares ago. Honestly, we deserve it, you said, giving the cuffs a little tug, He grinned, that boyish, bright kind of grin that always made you feel like you were about to get in trouble in a fun way. You realize we’re stuck like this until someone finds the key?

What do you mean someone? you asked, your voice pitching up just slightly, the first flicker of mild alarm tightening your throat. Your gaze snapped toward him, watching his face carefully. Did you already lose it? Chris blinked, a beat too slow, too casual to be believable. No? His mouth twitched, like the lie tasted funny even to him. You narrowed your eyes, tipping your head, waiting. That wasn’t very convincing.

Okay, maybe it fell under the couch when I was opening the box, he admitted, lifting his hands in mock surrender, but let’s not panic— You let out a sharp gasp, grabbing his arm in theatrical betrayal, your fingers curling tight around his sleeve. Christopher Bahng. He froze for half a second, lips twitching at the edges before he tilted his head at you. You never use my full name unless you’re mad or drunk. The words came out flat, dry, a little too honest. I’m both.

That did it — he cackled, the sound bursting out of him unrestrained as he doubled over, the handcuffs at your wrists tugging tight with every movement, your balance shifting closer as the chain shortened the space between you. His laughter only grew harder at the sight of your unimpressed glare. This is exactly the kind of chaos our friends would expect from us. I’m gonna give the toast at their wedding like, ‘Remember that time we accidentally handcuffed ourselves together and emotionally compromised your bachelor party plans?’

You raised your wrist, the weight of the cuffs tilting your arm slightly, metal cool and unyielding against your skin. And they’ll be like, ‘Yes, because we had to saw you apart with a bread knife,’ you deadpanned, your fingers flexed, testing the give — there was none. How do these feel both flimsy and unbreakable? Chris straightened, still slightly breathless, the warmth of his grin lingering even as his voice dipped into mock wisdom. That’s the magic of cheap kink gear, he said sagely, his thumb brushing along the edge of the cuff where it sat against his own wrist, the lightest of touches betraying just how aware he was of it.

You gave the cuffs another gentle tug, testing the play in the chain, and when you moved, Chris moved with you, closer, unintentionally, until the length between your bodies evaporated into heat and breath and proximity so palpable it felt engineered. It should’ve felt awkward, but it didn’t, just heavier than it should’ve as quiet crept back in, slow and sudden, and the laughter stuttered between you like it had been knocked sideways. You both stilled, just for a second, just long enough.

You felt him first—the way his chest rose unevenly, like he was holding in a breath without realizingl then the weight of his gaze on your mouth, brief but sharp, gone again before you could read it. Your linked wrists hovered between you, hands tangled in a strange, quiet knot, and you realized you’d both stopped pretending this was just a bit. There was no punchline now, no safe word for what this had become, only that quiet, gut-deep awareness that you’d crossed into something neither of you had named yet.

Chris didn’t move, but something about him had shifted, shoulders squared but not in defense, mouth parted but unreadable, like he was waiting for a sign you didn’t know you were supposed to give. Your gaze flicked down, just for a breath, to his lips, just curiosity, you told yourself, just a reflex, just— His voice, when it came, was barely more than a whisper. If I kiss you right now, he said, still not moving, we’ll have to blame the game. You didn’t speak, too startled by the clarity of it, by how your body suddenly felt light and weighted at once. Do you want to? you asked. And your voice didn’t even wobble.

He didn’t answer, not with words, just leaned in slow, careful, like a hand reaching into fire to test for heat. He didn’t close the distance all the way, just enough that you could feel the breath between you change, that warm, syrupy tension pulled taut as a wire, your noses almost brushing, your mouths aligned in the kind of delicate stand-off that shouldn’t have felt as intimate as it did. And then, of course, your cuffs slipped, just a little, a clumsy, stupid jolt as your linked hands dropped between you, and your shoulders crashed forward. Your forehead bumped his chin, and Chris yelped like he’d been tased. Ow—fuck—my jaw.

You stumbled back, laughing so hard your lungs burned, the sound shaking through you as you doubled over, your cuffed hands pressed tight to your ribs like they were the only thing holding you together. Oh my god—did I break your face? Chris groaned, one hand dragging over his jaw, fingers testing the spot where your heads had collided, but there was more amusement than injury in his eyes. No, but we definitely broke the moment, he managed, lips quirking crookedly. That was almost hot, you know. I was gonna go for like, a cinematic-level kiss.

You looked like you were trying to taste my soul, you wheezed, struggling to catch your breath between fits of laughter. I was scared. He snorted, the sound dissolving into more laughter, his head tipping back slightly, cheeks pink and voice still a little breathless. You should be. That much sexual tension should be a controlled substance.

The room slowly quieted around the tail-end of your laughter, the sound fading but the glow of it still lingering between you, leaving you both breathless and dumb and bright with it, but the air hadn’t quite gone back to normal, not entirely. That almost-kiss hung there, weighty and unspoken, suspended in the quiet space between your smiles, between the clumsy press of your cuffed wrists and the way neither of you had stepped back for real. Because you both knew exactly what had almost happened, and neither of you had pulled away.

Chris didn’t try to smooth it over with a joke this time, not right away. He just stood there, hand still absently rubbing at his jaw, mouth parted slightly like he was still thinking about where yours had been a moment ago. The laughter faded between you, trailing off into a soft, breathy kind of hush, not uncomfortable, but aware, a quiet that buzzed around your skin like static, humming beneath the shallow rhythm of your breathing. You were still cuffed together, hands awkwardly joined at your sides, like the game hadn’t quite let go of you yet, like it was still watching, waiting, pressing at your backs with a nudge and a smirk and the kind of permission neither of you wanted to admit you wanted.

Well, Chris said finally, his voice low and rough, like he hadn’t quite caught his breath. That went almost exactly how I planned. You snorted softly, eyes fixed on the floor. What part? The sexual tension or the headbutt? He grinned at that, the edge of it a little crooked. Ideally, less dental trauma. But otherwise? I’d say we’re right on schedule. You lifted your cuffed wrists between you with a wry twist of your mouth. Schedule for what, exactly?

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at your joined hands, then at you, then down again, like he was thinking way too hard about something that should’ve been stupidly simple. Nothing, he said. It’s just the game. Right? You nodded once, too quickly. Obviously. Nothing weird is happening.

Totally normal amount of eye contact, he agreed.

And tension.

And proximity.

And thoughts that we’re absolutely not having.

Exactly.

You stood there in silence for another beat, too long, too loaded, the air straining under the weight of everything neither of you were saying. Then, as if some invisible wire finally snapped, you both lunged for the game box at the same time, hands colliding mid-air with a soft, clumsy smack. New card, you both blurted in unison, voices a little too bright, a little too rushed, like kids caught sneaking candy before dinner, scrambling to cover the evidence.

Chris reached it first, fingers closing around the stack with theatrical triumph, and with an exaggeratedly solemn voice, he plucked a card free and read: Feed your partner something without using your hands. You blinked, staring at him, the words landing hard enough to make your pulse skip. This game is trying to kill us. He nodded, lips pressed together in mock gravity, though his eyes still danced. It’s sentient and wants us dead.

But even as the joke lingered, his gaze drifted toward the counter, scanning the scattered wreckage of snacks like he was actually weighing the options, fingers twitching slightly where they hung from the cuffs. There was something about the way he looked so focused, so casually unbothered, that sent another ripple of nerves straight through you. Okay, he murmured, still surveying the damage. What do we have left that won’t immediately make me look like I have a food kink? You gestured lazily toward the closest optio, a slumped, half-melted square of chocolate beside the game box. This seems least awful. Chris grimaced, nose wrinkling. It’s literally melting. That’s gonna be disgusting.

Then pick something else, you shot back, still lingering somewhere between laughter and something far more dangerous. You have teeth. Figure it out. That crooked, slow-burning grin started creeping onto his face, his eyes locking onto yours, sharp and playful and unmissably charged. Do not tell me to figure it out while we’re handcuffed. That’s not fair.

You should’ve rolled your eyes, should’ve shoved his shoulder and kept the banter going, but your laugh came a little too soft, a little too breathless, and your chest felt light in a way that had nothing to do with the sugar anymore. He kept looking at you—really looking, gaze lingering like he was learning new parts of you by accident, or maybe on purpose and then, without bothering to be subtle, he leaned forward, picked up the drooping piece of chocolate with his mouth, clamping it between his teeth, and tilted his head at you. You froze, the moment crystallizing around you, sharp and too sweet. Chris.

Mhm? he hummed, lips barely parting around the piece of chocolate.

You look like you’re about to kiss me. Not feed me. There’s a difference. His eyes flicked down, catching on your mouth, hovering there like gravity had its own ideas. Doesn’t have to be, he murmured, voice low and thick behind the chocolate. That shut you up, cut clean through your defenses, right to the part of you that had stopped pretending this was just a game hours ago. You stepped forward before your mind could catch up, letting instinct fill the gap, noses brushing, the heat of his breath mingling with yours, the scent of chocolate sharp and rich and unbearably soft between you. His lashes dipped low, eyes half-lidded, restraint hanging by a thread.

And then, slow, slower than either of you meant for it to be, your lips brushed his. Barely, a whisper of a kiss, light enough to question if it even happened at all, stolen through sugar and bad timing and the kind of mutual impulse that made your heart feel like it wasn’t yours anymore. He didn’t deepen it, didn’t push, just lingered there, close enough to still feel your mouth, the chocolate long forgotten, your hands tangled helplessly between you, the cuffs a cold reminder at your wrists. When he finally exhaled, it sounded like he’d been holding that breath for hours. Still the game, he whispered, voice too soft, too strained. But this time, not even he sounded like he believed it.

It wasn’t even a decision, not really. One second, you were standing there with your mouths barely brushing, your hands tangled between you and your breath too loud in your own ears, and the next, something in both of you gave way, like gravity just tipped the wrong direction. Like the joke had run its course and now all that was left was the answer that had been humming beneath every dare, every glance, every breathless laugh.

Chris kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it for years—no hesitation, no teasing, no half-measures. Just full contact, lips parted, tongue pressing past yours with a heat that startled something loose in your chest. You made a noise you didn’t recognize, sharp and soft at once, and he swallowed it, one hand still caught in the cuffs and the other coming up to cup your jaw, gentle in a way that contrasted the hunger behind it. There was nothing casual about it, nothing safe, he kissed like he meant it, like this wasn’t part of the game anymore.

The chocolate was gone in seconds, melted somewhere between your teeth and his, but neither of you noticed. All you could register was the taste of sugar and sin and him, his mouth warm, insistent, moving against yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of you from the inside. His body pressed closer, one step forward, and your backs hit the edge of the counter, he didn’t pull away, just angled his head, deepened the kiss, and groaned low when you leaned into it. Your cuffed hands twisted between you, caught in the fabric of his jeans now, tangled in the ridiculous pink fuzz and his body heat and the rising tension you couldn’t laugh off anymore. Your knees buckled slightly, not because he was forcing anything, but because your whole body felt like it was pulsing under your skin, like the air had thickened, like every brush of his mouth sent another wave of warmth sinking deep, curling low in your stomach.

And god, the aphrodisiacs. You hadn’t noticed them at first—had been too busy joking, dodging tension, pretending you were immune—but now it was like every nerve in your body had a direct line to your skin. Everything felt too sharp, too good, his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingertips threading into your hair, and it sent a shiver down your spine so strong you gasped into his mouth. Chris groaned again at that, breath hitching, and his free arm curled around your waist, pulling you flush against him like he needed to feel you without even thinking about it. The heat was unbearable, or maybe it was perfect, you couldn’t tell anymore.

You pulled back just a little, just enough to look at him, to see the flushed tilt of his mouth, the blown-wide pupils, the stunned expression barely softened by whatever restraint he was still clinging to. He was breathing hard, so were you, your hearts were practically racing in sync. You… You could barely find the words, lips swollen, throat dry. That wasn’t the card. Chris looked at you like you’d told him the sky was red. I don’t care. You blinked, dazed. You’re supposed to care.

He laughed once, short, breathless, a little shaky. I think I stopped caring somewhere between the chocolate and the part where you made that noise. You opened your mouth to fire back something clever, but nothing came out. Your head was spinning, your body was buzzing, everything under your skin was burning slow and hot and deep.

He didn’t kiss you again, not yet, but he didn’t back away either. Just stayed close, forehead brushing yours, the cuffs between you pulled tight, still locked, still binding. You could feel the tension radiating off him like a furnace, could feel his thigh pressed hard against yours, the subtle shift of muscle as he tried, tried, not to let it all go. Still blaming the game? you whispered, barely able to hear yourself. Chris nodded once, slow and quiet, like the movement cost him. If I stop, I won’t stop.

And you believed him. It happened the way everything else had, with momentum instead of permission, like the moment already existed and all you had to do was step into it. Chris looked at you like he didn’t know where to start and also like he’d already decided, his hand, still tethered to yours, twisted slightly so your fingers slid between his, and the intimacy of that one tiny motion almost undid you. You leaned in at the same time he did, mouths crashing together again, and this time there was no pretending, no joke to hide behind, no breath left to spare for denial.

His tongue met yours with more urgency, more heat, and your back arched as he pushed into you, his free hand landing on your hip with enough pressure to make you gasp. You felt it, how hard he was, how ready, and when your hips accidentally brushed his, both of you let out these quiet, ragged sounds, like you couldn’t believe it was actually happening. The counter behind you dug into your spine, but you didn’t care when all you could feel was him, his mouth, his hands, the way he kept shifting like he wanted more contact and didn’t know how to get it fast enough. Your cuffed hands fought for space between you, tugging, fumbling at his waistband like you were both half-drunk on sugar and whatever the hell was laced into those ridiculous party favors.

Chris’s lips trailed down your jaw, his breath warm against your skin, before his teeth scraped lightly over your neck. A soft whimper escaped you before you could stop it, the sound vibrating in your throat. This is a bad idea, you breathed, the words leaving your lips breathless, but your hands were already tugging at his shirt, already letting him press closer, feeling the heat of him between your legs. Terrible idea, he muttered against your skin, voice wrecked and raw, as if he were barely holding it together. The worst.

You swallowed, eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You’re supposed to be the best man, you whispered, voice faltering under the weight of the situation. And you’re the maid of honor, he replied, his lips dragging back up to yours, the kiss deepening instantly. This is just… diplomacy. You couldn’t help but laugh, a helpless, delirious sound, your body moving before you even meant to, grinding up into him, your hips jerking instinctively. You’re such a shit.

And you like it, he groaned, kissing you again, deeper this time, full of heat, all tongue and teeth, the urgency between you overwhelming. His hand grabbed your ass, pulling you closer, making your breath catch painfully in your chest. Jesus, you like it.

You moaned in response, the sound thick and raw, because you couldn’t think anymore. Everything was blurring, your thighs parting around him, the roll of his hips against yours, the way your wrists were pinned between your bodies like you couldn’t possibly separate even if you tried, every inch of you felt like it was reaching for him, your skin burning under the pressure, every inhale soaked in him, his scent, his heat. There was no slow build now—just sharp, desperate movement, your body clinging to his like it already knew the shape of this, like it had always known.

Chris’s hand was under your shirt before you could even register it, his callused palm dragging up your stomach with deliberate slowness and when his thumb found your nipple through your bra, you gasped so loud it bounced off the kitchen walls, sharp and needy. Fuck, he muttered, breath shaking, his forehead pressing against yours again, the tension crackling between you like static. Tell me to stop. You couldn’t. You wouldn’t. You’re the one who started this.

I didn’t think you’d let me. His voice was hoarse, raw, barely contained. I didn’t think I’d want to. He stilled, his eyes searching yours in the dim light, chest heaving with every shallow breath. So what now? he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, thick with anticipation. We just—fuck each other in the middle of the bachelor party planning?

You kissed him again, silencing any more words with the press of your lips, dragging his bottom lip between your teeth, just to feel him shudder, the pulse of his body under yours. I mean… we’ve done worse. He laughed then, but it was barely a sound, cracked open, raw, real. You’re high on sex chocolate. You nodded, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. And you’re handcuffed to me. He tilted his head slightly, his voice darkening with a teasing edge. I’m never getting out of these, am I?

Not if you keep touching me like that.

The words hung there, a challenge, a promise until his mouth was on yours again, and you weren’t laughing anymore. Just breathing hard, just moaning into each other, already half-undressed, already lost. The last thing you heard before you lost the thread completely was Chris whispering against your lips, Still blaming the game, like it was the only thing holding him together. And maybe it was, maybe it was the only thing holding both of you together, or maybe, just maybe, you’d already given in.

You didn’t even make it out of the kitchen, the counter cold under your thighs, your jeans halfway undone, the hem of your shirt bunched up around your ribs where Chris had pushed it earlier in a moment of hunger he hadn’t even tried to disguise. His hands were everywhere, broad palms dragging slow and deliberate over your sides, your thighs, the small of your back. His lips were red, kiss-bitten, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon, and the way he kept looking at you made it feel like your body was something he’d just discovered and now couldn’t stop needing to learn. But still, somehow, you hadn’t quite crossed that last line, your clothes partly on, your bodies caught in that hazy, frayed edge of foreplay where nothing had been decided but everything was possible, which, naturally, is when Chris spotted the bottle.

It was small and pink, the label curling at the edges like it had been sitting in the box too long, a little faded and worn. He picked it up with two fingers, like it might explode at any second. Okay. What the hell is this? His voice was laced with both curiosity and hesitation, the mystery of it hanging heavy in the air between you as you blinked down at it, still breathless, your heart thudding in your ears, the buzz of adrenaline mixing with something hotter. I think it’s… a warming gel? you ventured, unsure, but intrigued by the way the bottle seemed to pulse with its own promise.

Chris turned the bottle slowly in his hand, squinting at the text. ‘For use on sensitive areas. Results may vary. Not for the faint of heart.’ He looked up at you, his brows raised in disbelief, and then a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. That sounds ominous as fuck. You leaned in, your voice low and teasing. Sounds like a dare. Your eyes narrowed playfully, a dangerous spark igniting between you. Chris smirked again, his gaze full of challenge. Everything with you is a dare lately. The way his words dropped between you felt like an invitation, one you couldn't ignore as you grabbed the bottle from him with your cuffed hand, your fingertips brushing his in the process, just skin on skin, but it felt like a match striking, sparking something fierce and immediate. We’re already doomed. Might as well commit, you muttered, your voice thick with something that bordered on reckless.

Chris watched you uncork the bottle, his expression shifting to one of fascinated dread, the kind usually reserved for horror movies or impossible deadlines. What’re you gonna do, just… slap it on my neck and hope for the best? he asked, voice a little tight, like he was already regretting this. You shrugged, your lips curving into something mischievous. Unless you’d prefer I go for, like, direct application.

His mouth fell open slightly, eyes wide with disbelief. You're insane, he whispered, his voice catching in the back of his throat, the words laced with a mix of teasing and something darker. You laughed, but your cheeks burned with the weight of your own words. I’m kidding. Mostly.

Still, the curiosity was stronger than either of you expected as you squeezed a little of the gel onto your fingertips and, without overthinking it, reached for his collar. Your fingers brushed against the soft fabric, pulling it aside to smear the gel across the warm skin of his chest, just above his collarbone. He hissed—not in pain, but surprise—and his hand twitched against your hip like you’d just shot electricity through his veins. Holy shit, he muttered, blinking rapidly, his voice rough and unsteady. That’s—uh. That’s definitely not faint. You leaned back, studying him with a mix of fascination and amusement. Is it burning?

No, it’s like—fuck, it’s warm. Like really warm. And kinda… tingly? But not in a bad way. Just in a… He trailed off, his voice taking on a husky edge, low and uncertain. Okay, now I’m scared to know what it does to, like, actual sensitive areas. His eyes were dark, his pulse quickening and you raised an eyebrow, wickedly amused. So we’re not doing a field test? you asked, the words dripping with challenge, the air thick with anticipation.

Chris gave you a look, half impressed, half terrified, that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t expect. I don’t know whether to kiss you or sue you, he muttered, his voice rough with the mix of amusement and tension. You dipped your finger in the gel again, this time dragging it lightly along the inside of his wrist, just below where the cuff bit into his skin. He exhaled sharply, the sound a soft, jagged gasp that made your thighs clench, and his body jerked like he couldn’t control the reaction. Jesus, this is evil, he groaned, his voice trembling, heavy with both pleasure and disbelief.

Pretty sure this is what witches used in medieval times, you whispered, leaning in close enough that your breath ghosted across the skin of his neck, just below his ear. Bet you feel it everywhere now. You pressed your lips just below his ear, feeling the shudder that ran through him at your touch, the tremor in his body unmistakable. I do, he groaned, his voice cracking at the edges. It’s like—fuck, you don’t feel that? His eyes were on yours now, pupils dilated, his breath ragged as his entire focus locked onto you.

You raised a brow, a teasing smile playing on your lips. I haven’t tried it yet. Your voice was slow, deliberate, the words slipping out like a dare of their own. His eyes snapped to yours, dark and swimming with something you couldn’t quite name. Do it, he said, barely more than a whisper, the words laced with desire and something dangerous. I dare you.

Your heart punched your ribs, and before you could stop yourself, you were sliding your free hand up under your own shirt, smearing a dab of the gel just beneath your bra, right over your sternum. The warmth bloomed almost immediately—subtle at first, then sharper, like the touch of his tongue had been replaced with slow, creeping fire. Your mouth fell open, a soft moan slipping out before you could catch it, and Chris’s reaction was instant, his hips bucked forward, like the sound of you unraveling was too much. Okay, he rasped, watching your face with something dangerously close to reverence. That’s it. That’s illegal. That sound. You laughed, breathless, dragging your hand down to grab his shirt. The game made me do it. Chris leaned in again, kissing you like he meant to ruin you for every other person who’d ever tried. Then let’s keep playing.

It spiraled in the way only things with too much tension and too little denial ever could. The kiss deepened immediately, messier this time, less polished, tongue, teeth, a quiet gasp swallowed between mouths that couldn’t get enough. Your cuffed hands twisted in the space between your bodies, useless and clumsy but still greedy, and Chris didn’t seem to care, his fingers spread wide against your thigh, dragging up, up, until they found the curve of your hip and pulled you flush to the heat of him, hard and insistent through denim. The movement made you moan again, soft, wrecked, and the sound drew another kiss from him, open-mouthed and unrestrained, like he was trying to answer it with his body. The gel still burned gently where you’d touched it, a slow ember low in your sternum, and the warmth seemed to echo, to chase itself through every place his hands found.

He broke the kiss only long enough to press his forehead against yours, both of you panting like you’d been running. I don’t know if it’s the chocolate, or the game, or just—fuck—it’s you, but I can’t stop. Your voice came out rough, ruined. Then don’t.

Chris kissed you again, slower now but deeper, and you could feel the way the air shifted between you—less chaos, more control, but only just. You arched into his body as he finished unbuttoning your jeans with his free hand, his fingers fumbling slightly but determined, like he couldn’t not try. You could feel how badly he wanted it, and it lit something in you that went straight to your core and still, even now, there was a layer of ridiculousness to it all—the way your arms kept getting tangled, the absurd pink cuffs tugging at your balance, the scattered game cards still spread across the counter beside you. He was halfway through sliding your zipper down when he paused, breathing heavy, and glanced at one of the cards lying crooked beside your leg.

Okay, he said, voice hoarse, like he was struggling to catch his breath, his eyes flickered to the card in your hand. Tell me you didn’t plant this. You blinked down at the card, the words staring back at you like a joke you weren’t sure you wanted to get. ‘Give your partner a lap dance.’ You burst into laughter, the sound shaky and breathless, but the moment it escaped, a moan hitched in your throat when his fingers accidentally brushed too close to the waistband of your underwear. The heat from his touch lingered there, making everything a little sharper, a little more aware. That’s not even physically possible right now. You laughed again, but it sounded more like an exhale than anything else.

I mean, Chris said, voice dropping into that teasing tone that had been there all night, eyes darting down to where your thighs were still wrapped around him, define ‘lap.’ His grin was smug, a little too confident for your liking, but you couldn’t ignore the way his words made your pulse trip a little faster. You narrowed your eyes at him. I swear to god, if you make a stripper joke right now—

Hey, I’m just respecting the integrity of the game. You shoved at his chest, laughing, but the motion just made your hips grind into his, and whatever grin he’d had faltered immediately. His hands gripped your waist like he needed the grounding, like he was holding on to the last sliver of control, and when you looked at him again, really looked, you realized how thin the line was beneath all the jokes. He was flushed, breathless, jaw tight like he was holding himself back with both hands and losing the grip second by second. Okay, he murmured, voice dangerously quiet now. Tell me if you want me to stop. You didn’t even hesitate. I want you to keep going.

The shift was subtle but irreversible. His hand slid under your waistband, the heat of him stealing into the place you’d started to ache, his fingers moving slow, deliberate, teasing. You gasped, clutching at his shoulder, your cuffed wrists making the angle awkward but not impossible, and Chris groaned softly at the sound of you breaking again. You’re so wet, he whispered, eyes locked to yours. Fuck. Was it me or the gel? You couldn’t answer, not properly.

Does it matter? He smiled then, slow and devastating, like he knew the answer, like he didn’t care either way, and bent to kiss the edge of your jaw, trailing his mouth down to your neck. It’s the game, he whispered, against your pulse. It’s definitely the game, you echoed, even as your head tipped back, hips rocking into the press of his hand.

Neither of you believed it anymore.

Chris didn’t rush and that was the part that undid you, really—not the heat, not the jokes, not even the cuffs biting gently into your skin. It was the fact that, once he had you squirming and gasping and whispering his name through your teeth, he slowed down. Like he wanted to feel every second of it, like he'd been dying to do this and wasn’t going to waste the opportunity by rushing through the best part. His fingers stroked low, slow, maddening, just enough to tease, to draw that unbearable ache into something sharp and consuming, but not enough to tip you over, and the whole time, his mouth never left your skin. He kissed the hollow of your throat like it was sacred, licked just below your ear like he wanted to ruin you with subtlety, not force as you tangled your hands in the front of his shirt, or tried to, the cuffs making it awkward, ridiculous, but somehow more intimate, like even your restraint was shared now. I can’t— you gasped, hips bucking up against his hand, —I can’t think when you do that. Chris just smiled against your neck. Good.

Asshole.

Yeah. He glanced up at you, his expression half-wrecked and fully focused. But I’m your asshole right now, aren’t I?

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out, wild and breathless, and Chris grinned against your skin like he’d scored a point. It wasn’t supposed to be funny, none of this was supposed to be anything, you were supposed to be planning a party, you were supposed to be friends, but here you were—his fingers inside you now, slow and careful, coaxing little moans out of your mouth like he’d found a new language and wanted to learn every word. You rocked into his hand without thinking, chasing friction, chasing him, and it hit you all over again: this was Chris. Your Chris, the same one who’d spent years making fun of your terrible coffee habits and sending you cursed memes at 3 a.m, the one who'd picked you up from your worst dates and made you laugh until you cried, and now he was here, in your space, in your body, undoing you with a touch that felt more reverent than reckless.

You caught his eye again, dark, heated, a little stunned, and something in both of you slipped. You should try something, you whispered, trying to find steady ground and failing. You know. For science. Chris cocked an eyebrow, fingers curling just right. Are you offering?

I mean… Your breath hitched. We have, like, an entire box to get through. He kissed you once, slow and hot, then pulled back with a crooked smile. That’s true. Wouldn’t want to waste the budget. You half-laughed, half-moaned, and reached awkwardly for the box with your limited range of motion, dragging it closer along the counter with the heel of your hand. Chris kept his fingers moving—lazy, deliberate—while you fumbled through plastic-wrapped nonsense and tiny bottles with blurry labels. You found something round, neon pink, and utterly confusing.

Chris tilted his head, gaze fixed on the object in your hand like it was a riddle he didn’t want to solve, the teasing grin still there. Honestly? I have no fucking clue. His voice was soft, but the words had weight, like you were both caught in something that was spinning too fast for either of you to control. You squinted at the tag, still not quite believing what you were reading. Vibrating tongue ring. You said it with the same detached humor you tried to put into the rest of this ridiculous situation, but you both knew this wasn’t just a joke anymore. A heavy silence hung between you, and then—

Oh, absolutely not, Chris said, his grin widening into something darker, more dangerous, like he was daring you to make him. You stared at him, biting back a grin that threatened to spill over, fighting against the absurdity of the moment. You scared?

I’m not putting that anywhere near my mouth after it’s been in this box, he muttered, half-disgusted, half-amused, but even through the playful refusal, you felt that edge still there, like every word was tinged with something deeper. You waggled it at him, voice mock-serious. The people demand sacrifice. It was a silly thing to say, and yet it felt true, felt right in the moment, like you were playing a role in something far larger than either of you had intended.

He leaned in again, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin before his lips pressed softly against the corner of your mouth. He pulled back just enough to whisper, They’ll have to settle for this. The words were barely there, a soft promise that you couldn’t ignore, and for just a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just him, just that kiss, just the breathless, burning tension between you.

And then, in a move that was so deliberate, so intentional, the joke fell away entirely. The playful mockery dissolved in your throat, swallowed up by the desperate, strangled sound that left you instead, a sound that was more real than anything that had come before it. The touch of his hand, the way he shifted his weight against you, the heat of him pressing so close—nothing about this was a game anymore. You clung to his shirt like it was the only thing holding you together, your chest tight with need, your voice barely a whisper when you managed to force out the only thing you could say. More.

He kissed you like he heard that word on a deeper frequency, like it wasn’t just a request but a revelation, something he’d been waiting for without realizing it. His fingers slid out of you slowly, deliberately, dragging slick down your thigh as he leaned back, breath still shallow. You watched him through the haze, chest heaving, pulse pounding in your ears like it was trying to keep up with the sudden, disjointed rhythm of everything inside you. He looked wrecked, flushed and wild and barely tethered, the pink plastic cuff still dangling between you both like the world’s worst and most brilliant joke. You were sitting on the edge of your kitchen counter, jeans undone, lips kiss-bruised, thighs parted for your best friend and somehow, impossibly, it wasn’t weird.

Chris’s hands slid to your hips, gripping gently but with that quiet, coiled strength he always carried around like an afterthought. His gaze flicked over you, like he was memorizing, like something in him had shifted and he couldn’t quite pretend otherwise. And then, with zero warning, he grabbed one of the novelty bottles from the box, the tiny one labeled sensation enhancer: edible and held it up between you with a half-smirk. You dared me to try something, he said, still breathless, still flushed. You narrowed your eyes. That’s technically not edible in public. He popped the cap with his teeth and raised an eyebrow. So good thing we’re not in public.

And just like that, you were laughing again, high and unsteady and so far past the point of return that nothing felt real anymore. Chris dipped his finger into the gel, held your eyes, and then dragged it slowly, teasingly, over the inside of your thigh. Not where you wanted him, not quite, but enough to make you jolt, to hiss, to shudder. The gel was cold at first, then warmer, then impossibly hot, and you gasped, clutching his wrist like that could slow him down. Still funny? he asked, voice low and nearly smug.

Shut up, you breathed, already falling apart. He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours, his voice a thread of heat. Make me. You did. You kissed him like it was the only language left in your mouth, tangled and hungry and real as his hands slid back into your jeans, tugging them past your legs with just enough care not to rush, and you lifted your body to help him, legs shaking slightly. He paused only long enough to press one more kiss to the inside of your knee, soft and slow, and then he looked up at you, eyes heavy-lidded, reverent. You could see it on his face now—the shift, the way he was no longer pretending it was the game, or the chocolate, or the bottle in his hand. This wasn’t a joke anymore, this was you, and him, and a choice. He kissed up your thigh, slow and devastating, and your hands shook where they gripped the counter behind you. Still okay? he murmured and you nodded, voice barely there. Yeah.

Still the game? You didn’t answer. Neither did he.

He just kept going.

The moment he dropped to his knees, something in your chest cracked wide open, like the heat between you wasn’t just a slow burn anymore, but a kind of collapse. You were breathless, legs parting instinctively as Chris settled between them, his hands firm on your thighs, grounding you while everything else spun and his mouth hovered, not quite touching, his breath a warm tease over where you needed him most. You were still mostly dressed—jeans bunched awkwardly around your feet, shirt rucked up just enough to bare your stomach—but it didn’t matter. You felt exposed, devoured, like he was already tasting you just by looking.

His lips brushed against your inner thigh again, deliberate now, slower than before. You realize, he murmured, voice dragging low across your skin, this is gonna ruin all our future game nights. You let out a shaky laugh, the sound brittle with want. Only if we tell anyone. Chris chuckled, quiet, dark, and pressed a kiss just beside where you throbbed, still not giving in. You gonna keep it a secret?

He looked up, eyes hooded, lashes casting shadows over his cheeks. I could. Don't want to.

You weren’t sure if he meant the kiss, or the fact that your best friend was currently peeling your underwear down your legs with the same care he gave delicate electronics and bad injuries, measured, focused, unshakable, but you didn’t ask, you couldn’t. Because then he did kiss you there, properly this time, and everything inside you tilted like the room had gone off-axis. The sensation enhancer burned slow and deep, a creeping heat that made every pass of his tongue feel supernatural, unreal. He moved carefully at first, like he was listening to your body more than anything else, adjusting the rhythm of his mouth to every twitch, every breathless curse, every time you gasped his name without meaning to.

You’d imagined this before, more than once, in weak moments, when sleep wouldn’t come and the memory of his laugh had stayed in your chest too long, but nothing about those fantasies had prepared you for the real thing. Chris was good at this, almost too good, confident, thorough, unhurried, like he'd dreamed it too and was determined to get it right.

Your cuffed hands clawed at the counter behind you, desperate for something to hold on to, because your legs had already stopped obeying commands. You could hear yourself falling apart, the wet, obscene sounds of his mouth, your breath catching with every pass of his tongue over your clit, the muffled curses you kept trying to swallow and couldn’t, the heat from the gel had spread now, pooled deep in your core, and every time he moaned against you—like he was the one losing control—you swore you saw stars.

Chris, you breathed, broken and unsure if it was a warning or a plea. He hummed into you, the sound low and guttural. Say it again. You whimpered. Chris—fuck—please. His grip on your thighs tightened. Tell me what you want. You bit down on your lip, hips stuttering against his mouth. Don’t stop.

He didn’t.

His mouth stayed locked on you, wet and filthy, tongue flicking, curling, fucking you through every twitch and roll of pleasure until the pressure finally broke and when it did, it shattered you. The orgasm hit hard, violent, your back jerking clean off the counter as your whole body seized around the sharp, dizzy heat of it, his name torn out of your throat over and over, wrecked and hoarse, until there was nothing left but the sound of your own ragged breathing. Still, he didn’t stop, not until your legs were shaking around his head, not until your body sagged back against the counter, spent and soaked, your mind stripped clean, eyes glassy and lost.

And then—then—he pulled back, chin slick, pupils blown, and looked at you like he’d just climbed out of a dream and couldn’t believe it was still happening. You were boneless, ruined, barely able to sit up, but you still reached for him, awkward and tangled and desperate to feel more. Chris smiled, breathless, and stood, dragging you in by the cuffs until your foreheads met again. So, he murmured, nudging your nose with his, I think we need to give this party box a five-star review. You laughed, wrecked and breathless. We haven’t even gotten to the toys yet. Chris kissed you again, slow, deep, reverent. Then I guess we’ve got work to do.

Chris kissed you like he hadn’t just pulled you apart with his mouth. Like he wanted to start again from scratch, rebuild you slowly this time, piece by shaky piece, his lips were hot and unhurried, his hands still wrapped around your waist, guiding you off the counter with a care that bordered on reverence. Your legs barely held you, shaky, wobbly from the come-down, but he caught you, steadied you, murmured something soft against your temple that sounded suspiciously like got you. And for a second, in the quiet hum of the apartment, you let yourself rest there, half-dressed and cuffed, your breath syncing with his like it had always been meant to.

But then Chris glanced toward the living room. The couch, wide, soft. Closer than the bedroom but far enough from the kitchen to pretend you were making a more responsible decision. He raised an eyebrow, barely suppressing a grin. We’re not stopping here, right? You scoffed, chest still heaving. Do I look like I’m in any condition to walk? His arms slid under your thighs and back in one clean motion. Good thing I work out.You yelped as he lifted you, laughing into the crook of his neck. You are so full of shit.

He grinned, carrying you bridal-style through the apartment with an ease that was so Chris—half cocky, half chaotic, and entirely unbothered by the fact that your jeans were still around your ankles and you were cuffed like a tragic bachelorette party prop. He dropped you on the couch with too much enthusiasm, and you bounced once, landing in a sprawl that made you laugh again, limbs everywhere, your shirt riding up your ribs before kicking the fabric stuck to your feet. You’re lucky I’m too weak to kick you.

You’re lucky I didn’t just drop you.

Debatable. Chris dropped down beside you, legs spread wide, one arm thrown lazily along the back of the couch, but the second you sat up to face him, straddling his lap with your bound wrists tucked under his jaw, the energy shifted again, still playful, still ridiculous, but hotter now, closer. You could feel him under you, hard through his jeans, and the friction when you settled down against him made both of you stutter.

His hands gripped your hips like he was trying to be casual and failing spectacularly. So… we’re still blaming the game, right? You rolled your hips just once, slow and experimental, and watched his breath catch. Obviously. He groaned, dragging his hands up under your shirt to grip your waist properly. This is such a bad idea. You rocked again, deliberately now, and his head fell back against the couch. Yeah, but it’s fun.

The grinding continued slow, the kind of slow that felt more like teasing than relief, your hips rolling down against his in loose, clumsy drags, both of you laughing under your breath one second, gasping the next when the friction caught just right. It was filthy, uncoordinated, desperate, the kind of dry-humping that belonged to backseats and dark corners, all hunger and no patience, your bodies clashing together with clothes still hopelessly in the way. His hands locked tight around your thighs, fingers bruising at the curve of them, dragging you harder onto the thick bulge straining behind his jeans. You could feel the solid shape of him pressing against you, the rough seam hitting your clit with every rock of your hips, each brush sparking another low, breathless moan into the sloppy kiss he caught your mouth with.

His lips wouldn’t stay still, greedy and wandering, wet kisses trailing from your mouth to your jaw, your throat, then back again, like he couldn’t decide where to taste first, like he couldn’t get enough of your skin on his tongue. The heat between you bloomed faster than either of you could keep up with, the damp ache soaking through his pants, through the layers between you, and you couldn’t stop, couldn’t even slow down. Each grind made you hungrier for the next, chasing the high you could feel slipping just out of reach every time your hips lifted, only to crash down again even harder.

You feel that? he rasped against your mouth, voice so tight it barely held shape. How wet you are? The words were wrecked, shameless, his mouth brushing over the corner of yours, teeth catching on your bottom lip and you could only nod, dragging yourself against him, desperate and shaking. I can’t stop. His hands locked down on your thighs, pulling you in even closer, and the kiss that followed was messier than the rest, teeth knocking, breath tangled, a sound ripped straight from his chest like he was already half gone. Don’t.

You dry-humped him like a pair of kids too horny to know better, or too far gone to care, slow, grinding friction that bordered on unbearable, his cock thick and straining beneath his jeans, yours soaking though the fabric, every shift of your body sending sharp little jolts down your spine. Every time your clit caught on the seam of his fly, your breath punched out of you in broken gasps, the heat building so fast it made your vision blur. His voice cracked against your ear, breath coming harder now, hips twitching up beneath you. You’re gonna make me come in my fucking jeans.

The confession hit like a shock, sharp and hot, your whole body tightening in response. You bit down a moan, rolling your hips again, slower this time, crueler. Not unless I beat you to it. His mouth crushed against your shoulder, a low, helpless groan rumbling through him like the threat of breaking. This is the best fucking game night ever. You could barely manage the breath to answer, your body too wound up, too focused on the tight, obscene friction building faster and faster with every drag of your hips. Yeah, you whispered, voice shaking, and you meant it. God, you meant it.

And then somewhere between the breathless laughter and the cursing and the dizzy, relentless pace of your grinding, the air changed, the heat crested too high, the game tipped too far, and suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore. It was raw, it was real, you shifted a little too hard, hips driving down against the hard line of his cock, the friction tipping straight from playful to punishing, and the sound he made wasn’t a laugh this time—it was a choke, a curse, a warning.

Chris stilled beneath you, his hands flexing hard around your hips like the only thing keeping him from snapping was the sheer effort of holding on as his forehead dropped to yours, breath sharp and shallow, voice so low it barely made sound. I’m gonna lose it. You could feel him throb through the denim, every twitch against you making your pulse skip, your body tightening around the weight of it. You moved, just once, slow and deliberate, grinding down in one long, aching roll of your hips. Then lose it.

His eyes snapped open, wide and dark, searching your face for any trace of doubt, and when he didn’t find it, when you only nodded, heartbeat sitting like a lump in your throat, something in him broke. His hands moved, sliding up under your shirt, fingers dragging against bare skin, slow and reverent, like he was trying to commit every inch of you to memory. The ache of him pressed hard between your legs, trapped behind denim and cotton, hot and heavy and so fucking real, and when he kissed you again, rough, deep, no more jokes, no more games, it felt like something sharp split you wide open.

His fingers fumbled at his jeans, urgent and clumsy, yanking at the button, the zipper, trying to free himself without pushing you off. You couldn’t help, your wrists still bound and useless between you, so you just leaned in, caught his mouth in another kiss, teeth dragging on his lip, swallowing the growl that rumbled through him when he finally shoved his boxers down and freed his cock, flushed and leaking, the head slick and desperate. You looked down, breath catching in your throat, stomach flipping, because this wasn’t almost anymore—this was happening, this was real.

Are you— The question barely made it past his lips, voice cracking on the edges, raw and fraying apart from the inside out. Yes. The word broke sharp from your mouth before he could finish, your body already moving, your hips shifting in one slow, trembling roll, lining yourself up, the head of his cock pressing flush against your dripping heat. Your hands were useless, still bound at the wrists between your bodies, but you didn’t need them, the rest of you was already leaning into him, shaking, bracing, drunk on the sharp, staggering ache of what was about to happen. Are you?

Chris looked at you like you’d knocked the air from his lungs, his eyes wide, black with hunger, the last scraps of control fraying away under your stare. His head gave the smallest nod, jaw clenching so tight it shook his voice when it finally pushed free. God, yes.

His hands caught your hips the moment you started to sink down, fingers clutching hard enough to bruise, steadying you as your body slowly gave in to him, inch by inch. The stretch burned, sharp and deep and unrelenting, your body fighting the intrusion and begging for more in the same breath, muscles clenching down, struggling to adjust as he opened you up. Your breath shattered against his shoulder, the softest, sharpest gasp catching in your throat, and the cuffs clinked between you with every tremor as you fought for balance.

Chris groaned, the sound broken and hoarse, his head falling back against the couch as his cock pushed deeper, splitting you apart in the sweetest, filthiest way. He was so thick it made your head spin, the dull ache blooming into something close to unbearable, but you didn’t stop, couldn’t, your fingers fisted in the fabric of his shirt, your whole body shaking, barely hanging on as you sank the last few desperate inches until you were fully seated, the base of him pressed tight against you, buried so deep it felt like he lived there, like you were built for this exact kind of stretch. You couldn’t move, not yet.

The air felt too heavy to breathe, the moment too sharp to survive, your heart pounding wild and frantic behind your ribs. His hands smoothed up your back, slow, reverent, as though the motion alone could anchor you both, as though he was still trying to convince himself this was real. Your foreheads met, slick and trembling, and the only thing either of you could do was hold on, suspended between the ache and the heat, caught in the weight of the moment.

You okay? he whispered, voice ragged, like speaking hurt. You nodded, throat tight, the words barely squeezing free. Yeah. You? Chris huffed a sound, half a broken laugh, half a low, desperate groan. His thumb traced slow circles at the small of your back, grounding both of you in the quiet, in the way your bodies fit together so perfectly it was almost cruel. I’ve wanted this for so long, I don’t even know what okay is anymore.

You kissed him before he could say another word, lips catching his, slow but hungry, your body pulsing around the thick weight of him still stretched deep inside you. And then, when the ache softened just enough, you started to move.

The first roll of your hips was careful, tentative, your body adjusting to the impossible stretch all over again as you lifted and sank, grinding in slow, tight circles. Every shift sent new shocks of pleasure through your spine, heat tightening low in your belly, the friction a perfect, aching tease and Chris hissed, his mouth dragging across your jaw, your shoulder, his hands sliding down to grip your ass, fingers digging deep into soft flesh as though he could hold you there, make you stay, make the moment last longer. Fuck, baby, he breathed against your neck, voice falling apart with every word. You feel so fucking good—you’re so warm, so tight—fuck.

The way he said baby made your stomach twist, sharp and sweet and dangerous, and you didn’t call him on it, didn’t tease, didn’t joke, didn’t breathe a word about how much you liked it. You just moved again, grinding your hips harder this time, letting the angle shift until the thick head of him pressed flush against that deep, sensitive spot that made your mouth fall open, a moan breaking free before you could swallow it down. His hips twitched up, chasing the friction, building a rhythm between you that made the couch groan beneath your bodies, every thrust a little more reckless than the last. Your cuffed hands curled into his chest, needing something, anything, to cling to while your body threatened to fly apart. Your thighs trembled with every bounce, sweat slicking your skin, your breath nothing but gasps and broken sounds against his mouth.

Chris’s voice wrecked itself on the next moan, a helpless, hoarse string of curses whispered straight into your ear. You feel unreal. You’re gonna kill me. You’re so fucking tight, I can’t—shit—I’m not gonna last. You clenched around him on purpose, the sharp squeeze pulling a gasp from his throat so raw it sounded almost like a sob. His fingers bruised into your hips, holding you still, his self-control snapping by threads. Don’t, he warned, voice dark and shaking. Don’t do that unless you want me to lose my fucking mind.

Your lips brushed his, voice barely a whisper. What if I do?

His eyes met yours, and the shift that had been happening, slow and creeping, winding around the edges of your friendship for months finally snapped its teeth. He wasn’t just fucking you, he wasn’t just lost in the moment, or the heat, or the years of tension finally unraveling. He was having you, all of you, slowly, completely, like he wasn’t going to stop until he’d memorized every sound, every twitch, every single piece of you that would give itself up under his hands. And the truth was, you didn’t want him to stop, not now. Not ever.

You moved together, tangled and desperate, until the line between pain and pleasure blurred, until the room disappeared, until the only things that existed were his hands, his mouth, the heat building between your bodies, the stretch of him inside you, slow and thick and deep. Time didn’t matter, nothing did when Chris’s grip on your hips was bruising, his hands dragging you down, forcing you to take every inch, every slow, deep stroke until you felt like you were being split apart. His head was tipped back, mouth slack, brow pinched in the kind of concentration that only ever shattered at the very end and you could feel how close he was, the way his cock twitched inside you, the way his breath hitched every time your body clenched around him, instinctive and greedy. Fuck, baby, he rasped, voice wrecked, barely able to get the words out. I'm so—

But you already knew, you could feel it in the way he started to thrust harder, sharper, losing the smooth rhythm in favor of something more desperate, more broken as you met him, hips rolling down to meet each thrust, grinding when he bottomed out, tightening around him until he groaned so deep it vibrated against your chest. Your own orgasm had been coiling for minutes, strung tight on the edge, your clit aching from the relentless friction, your whole body tense and trembling, teetering on the brink. And when he shifted just right, the angle a little sharper, the thrust a little deeper, it hit, sharp and unforgiving, your muscles locking down around him as the pleasure rolled over you, thick and hot and endless.

The cry tore from your throat before you could stop it, high and broken and raw, and your body clenched around him so tight he swore, a breathless, hoarse plea of your name as his hips jerked up one last time, burying himself deep, holding there, locked to the hilt as he came. You could feel it, the hot pulse of him spilling inside you, thick and messy, filling you until the slickness dripped back out around the base of him, your bodies so wet and filthy it only pushed your own pleasure higher, leaving you shaking and gasping against his shoulder. Chris held you there, both of you wrecked and spent, his hands smoothing over your back with a tenderness that didn’t match the filthy mess between your thighs, the slow, warm trickle of him still leaking from where he was buried deep inside you.

Neither of you moved for a long moment, you just stayed, still joined, bodies locked together, hearts pounding in the same wild rhythm and let the aftershocks bleed through your bones, through your skin, through the space between you that wasn’t really space at all anymore. And then, out of nowhere, Chris muttered, I think I got glitter on my dick. You blinked, pulled back just enough to look at him, and sure enough—there it was. A faint shimmer, low on his stomach. From the untouched glitter lotion, the bachelorette tiara? Who the hell knew anymore.

You started laughing, the kind of laugh that spilled out reckless and unfiltered, all loose limbs and spent lungs, too empty and too full at the same time. It wasn’t graceful, it wasn’t soft, it wasn’t even a choice, it just tore through you, bubbling up from the wreck of your chest until your whole body trembled with it, half from the aftershocks still rippling through your muscles, half from the sheer absurdity of the scene laid out in front of you. The room was trashed, your bodies were worse, everything sticky and tangled and stained with sweat and the kind of mess that would cling to your skin long after the sun came up.

God, you wheezed, forehead dropping against his shoulder, the curve of his neck still damp and warm against your cheek, we’re gonna have to sanitize the apartment. Chris let out a broken sound, a laugh, but worn thin, the edges frayed and heavy, like it hurt to pull it out of himself. His chest shook under you, arms still looped lazily around your waist, fingers tracing slow, thoughtless patterns against your bare skin. Sanitize? he echoed, voice rasping through the word. Baby, we’re gonna have to burn it down.

You stilled. Your lips quirked slow, teeth sinking into the swell of your bottom lip as you lifted your head, meeting his eyes—those wide, dark, still slightly dazed eyes—and let the silence stretch, let the weight of that one unintentional slip sink into the air between you. Baby, huh? you teased, voice syrup-sweet, tilting your head just enough to watch him squirm. You really are soft for me. Chris groaned, dragging a hand over his face, scrubbing it back through his damp hair, like he could physically wipe the word out of existence. But his mouth was twitching, fighting a smile he was too worn out to win against. Shut up, he muttered, but the color creeping up his neck gave him away.

You grinned wider, the taste of it still sitting sweet and smug on your tongue. Not sorry about it, are you? He didn’t answer at first, just exhaled slow, dragging his thumb lazily along the inside of your thigh, his gaze trailing the movement like he was memorizing the shape of you all over again. His voice was lower when it came, soft and unshaken this time. Nope, he said simply. Not even a little.

You let the silence settle again, heavier now, not awkward, just thick, charged, like the current between you hadn’t dulled at all, even with your bodies spent and the last threads of your clothes hanging crooked, half-peeled off. His hands were still on you, your wrists were still cuffed, the metal biting red rings into your skin, and neither of you had made a single move to fix it. Speaking of, you hummed, flexing your fingers in front of his face, the cuffs jingling like some ridiculous badge of honor, you planning on letting me go or am I your prisoner now?

Chris blinked like he’d forgotten entirely. Honestly… he drawled, lips twitching, I kinda like you restrained. You arched a brow, breath hitching in something that wasn’t quite a laugh. Christopher. His fingers slipped up to the latch, slow and a little reluctant, and when the metal finally popped open, your hands dropped free, sore, tingling, but missing the weight almost instantly. Before you could pull away, he caught them, turned your palms up, and pressed his mouth to your wrists, once, twice, slow and unhurried, lips brushing the tender skin like it was some private ritual only he understood.

You let him, you let him even when your pulse jumped under his mouth, even when your throat ached with words you weren’t ready to say. Because the second he let your hands go, the second you shifted to climb off his lap, your legs rubbery and trembling and nowhere near trustworthy, his hand wrapped around yours again, anchoring you back, his thumb swept slow over the same angry little cuff-mark on your wrist, the gesture too gentle for the way he’d wrecked you minutes ago. So… he started, voice light, too casual, like he could bluff his way past what just happened, we’re still calling this a test run, right?

You snorted, staggering to your feet, steadying yourself against the back of the couch while your body remembered how to exist without him inside you. Your hips ached, your thighs were sticky and sore, and you could feel his cum leaking down your legs, messy and warm, dripping onto the floor as you shuffled toward the kitchen. You tossed a look over your shoulder, half-laughing. Sure. Let’s call it that.

But the second you turned away, you felt it, the way his eyes tracked you, the weight of his stare dragging over the stretch of your back, the bruises blooming along your throat, the way your knees buckled slightly every few steps. You heard the couch shift, his soft exhale behind you, and then his voice again, quiet this time, like a confession.

Need help, baby?. It slipped out before he could catch it. raw, unfiltered, like it belonged to you now. You paused, the glass you’d been reaching for still dangling from your fingertips, and glanced back at him, smile slow and sharp as a blade. Again? you teased, head cocking to one side. You’re really leaning into it, huh? Chris didn’t flinch, his gaze held steady, no panic this time, just calm and sure and worn thin with the truth.

Yeah, he said, voice steady, lips quirking into the softest, smallest smile. And I’m not taking it back.

[pukefactory]

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . SLEEPING IN STASIS . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

☆ Summary: Caregiver CatNap X Little Reader Headcannons

☆ Character(s): CatNap (Poppy Playtime)

☆ Genre: Headcannons, SFW, Agere

☆ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

☆ Image Credits: Mob Games

⏾ CatNap takes his role as your caregiver very seriously, especially when ensuring you get enough rest. If you resist nap time, expect his long tail to coil around you while he hums a soft, eerie lullaby. Resistance is futile; once you are wrapped in his embrace, sleep always follows. At least with him, your naps are always restful, and you never struggle to fall or stay asleep when cradled in his tail.

⏾ Despite the Red Smoke being a part of him, he has learned to suppress it in your presence. Instead, when you feel overwhelmed or deeply upset, he releases a faint lavender scent to soothe you. With a gentle claw, he rubs slow circles on your back, his deep, raspy voice whispering reassurances in your ear. “Breathe…” His touch and voice never fail to bring you a sense of emotional and mental clarity.

⏾ Playcare is his hunting ground, and no one—no one—is allowed to disturb you, even though visitors are an exceedingly rare occurrence these days. If another entity dares to intrude, CatNap immediately becomes a menacing force, prowling through the shadows with lethal intent. While eliminating the unwanted guest, he frequently returns to check on you, ensuring you remain secure in your little room within Home Sweet Home—a space he has practically barricaded to keep you safe. The moment he sees you, however, his demeanor softens. Kneeling beside you, his voice becomes gentle once more. “Don’t look at them, little one. You’re safe here.”

⏾ When you grow bored or fussy, he finds it endearing, as it gives him an opportunity to indulge in one of his favorite activities with you. Using his tail, he lifts you onto his back, ensuring you are securely positioned before setting off on a slow, calming walk around Playcare. As you relax against him, your fingers idly playing with his fur, the weight of your emotions gradually dissipates. With him acting as your personal chaperone, the vast, eerie halls of Playcare somehow feel less daunting.

⏾ His chest is the ultimate spot for cuddles. Though he no longer has a heartbeat and his ribs jut out in places, you always manage to find a comfortable position against him. When you do, he begins to purr—a low, deep vibration that soothes you completely. If you are upset, he allows you to rest against him, rubbing his head gently against yours while his purring lulls you into relaxation.

⏾ CatNap could watch you sleep for hours. Since he never truly sleeps himself, this is his peace. With a single claw, he traces the contours of your face, carefully adjusting your blanket whenever you stir. Sometimes, he murmurs softly to himself, “So small… so safe…” as though he is trying to convince himself of it. Though he secretly harbors insecurities about his ability to care for you, all doubts fade when he sees you curled up with a plush version of himself, peacefully sucking on your pacifier, a contented smile on your face. In those moments, he knows he is doing something right.

⏾ If you need comfort in the form of an object, he is always prepared. Whether it’s a plushie, blanket, or pacifier, he provides exactly what you need, each item carrying the faint scent of lavender. If he brings a plushie, it is always a clean, soft replica of himself. If it’s a blanket, it is fluffy, weighted, and a deep purple adorned with bright yellow stars and a crescent moon. If it’s a pacifier, it is a matching shade of purple with a transparent crescent moon at its center. You have no idea where he acquires these things, but they are always warm, soft, and inexplicably comforting. “For you, little star. Always for you.”

⏾ If you are too little to feed yourself, he assumes the responsibility without hesitation. Though his claws are sharp, his paws remain steady as he carefully cuts your food, offering each bite with a quiet patience. “Eat up, little one,” he says, watching you chew with the attentive gaze of a devoted guardian. You are unsure how he manages to find food in Playcare, but he always does—and he ensures your favorite snacks are safely tucked away for when you need them. Hunger is simply not an option under his watch.

⏾ His crescent moon pendant is your lifeline. Whenever you feel frightened or uncertain, he lets you hold it, sometimes wrapping his own skeletal fingers around yours to steady them. “Still here. Still yours. Hold tight, little one.” His voice is impossibly tender. Though the pendant is large enough to dwarf your hands, you cling to it whenever it is within reach, reassured by its presence. To you, it is more than an object—it is proof that CatNap is here, and with him, you are safe.

⏾ There is only one rule in Playcare: Never leave his side. If you wander too far, his presence shifts—his voice deepens, his skeletal grin remains unchanged, yet something about him becomes distinctly more menacing. But the moment he finds you, he kneels, pressing his large head against your significantly smaller one, his whisper carrying an unmistakable hint of desperation. “Stay close.” His expression may be fixed, but his voice betrays his worry. That alone is enough to convince you to stay by his side from that moment on.

[matchesarelit]

Imagine If You Will...

Acting as the Frontman's PA, and having the Guard harem wrapped around your finger.

This part is:

PA Announcer

Musical Fan!reader

This will be a choose your adventure kind of thing where there will be multiple with jobs/specialties/interactions.

a/n: Hope you like Mamma Mia xoxo

Please don't hesitate to request!!

Walking a few steps behind the Frontman, peering through your silver mask and analysing the clipboard in your hands you updated your boss on the status of everything being prepared for the games.

Based on the grunts and scoffs he let out you crossed out and marked different items on the list. For a man of little words, he sure was good at communicating. After the large doors to the hall closed, you looked first to your boss then to the militia-like staff.

Handing over the checklist to the closest square, you nodded to your boss and turned to leave.

“Squares 1 through 16, Your men will be painting the halls. Squares 18 through 21, Your men will construct the bridge. Squares 22 and 23..." As you approached your office the front man's voice faded away.

There was a surprising amount of paper work for a company that strived to leave no traceable evidence, you supposed they needed to be completely aware of the crimes that the company had committed as to better cover their tracks. That being said, you would swear that the pile had grown since before breakfast.

So sitting down in your little office you pulled off your mask and began to sort through the first few files. After certain issues and unauthorised branches sprung up in the command structure of the previous year's games, you been given the tedious task of vetting all potential contestants.

The main rules were; no one with medical training, we cant have another spout of organ harvesting, no one with knowledge that could reduce or alter the difficulty of the games, aka no more glass guys, and so on and so forth for what seemed to be an unending and ever growing pile of filters.

You'd made it through half of the pile, removing a few of the contestants for their quote unquote leadership qualities, when an alarm chimed from your phone. Tugging forward the microphone you grabbed the notes from today's agenda, before crackling the speakers to life with the press of a button.

'It is now midday. Lunch will be available to grab under the sun for the next 90 minutes. Today's music choice is... mine and will be the entire Mamma Mia musical soundtrack followed by twenty minutes of me replaying my favourite songs.'

Pressing play on the album and turning off the microphone you opted to return to your work for the time being, only now there was the occasional humming along.

When a tapping came from your window you finally stopped, slipping your silvery mask back into place and tugging back the unnecessarily extravagant curtain you observed a single circle giving you a thumbs up.

Waving to him you stepped closer and peered to the side, down the hall stood a group grooving, and as you pressed your ear to the glass you could hear their voices singing along.

Sneaking your secure and very dumb brick of a phone out of your pocket you started to record, before noticing the circle was now waving for you to join them.

Deciding... screw it you leaned your phone against the sill and slipped out of the office to join the gaggle of guards. Only then did you notice just how loud the PA system was set to as the concrete under your feet vibrated with the music.

Dancing and singing along, the group seemed to grow as the album played on... until your boss' brash tone cracked over the system;

'Okay that's enough, go get your food.'

Oh yeah... lunch.

[tofics]

You Owe Me - Part 1

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!Reader

Summary: Forced through circumstances out of your control to rely on Joel Miller, you end up traversing the country with him. You're not particularly enthralled with him, and neither is he with you - or so you think, until your period strikes, and you're practically bed-ridden. Or: Joel can't stop jerking off to you after he accidentally got a taste of your lips.

Warnings/tags: canon typical show/game violence, sort of dubious consent (reader gets kissed without being asked and only later agrees), age gap (reader is about ~25 years younger), enemies to lovers kind of, awful period + period cramps, jerking off, fluff

Word count: ~7.4k

Periods are not fun to begin with.

They're even less fun in a post-apocalyptic world, where sanitary products are hard to come by and more of a luxurious rarity than a given staple item in your average survivor's backpack.

You knew you were bound to begin your cycle eventually, and had you had more time, you'd probably have prepared yourself some way or the other. But, with the way things had gone in the past two weeks, you had not had any time to think about bodily functions beyond what your every day efforts demanded of you, and even that was hard to care for.

Ever since the night that you fled Boston's QZ, you hadn't had a proper night's rest, let alone a hearty meal to replenish your energy with. Your escape had been 'spontaneous' to say the least, a necessity brought upon by circumstances that you'd stumbled into rather than purposefully involved yourself in, and before you knew it, you were pointing your finger at Joel Miller, of all people in the world, hissing threats through gritted teeth about how he at least owed you this much if he was going to get you involved in his business without your consent and how you weren't gonna get hanged just because he'd dragged you into his bullshit.

Joel, of course, was not a man you could just point your finger at and demand things of, much less in a hissed tone, even less in the form of threats.

And yet, he'd smuggled you out of the city in a cloak-and-dagger-operation that same night, despite his hard glares and hushed warnings to keep your mouth shut. You'd been anything but prepared when he'd appeared at your side like a magician out of thin air. He'd laid his arm around your neck like a lover might on an evening stroll, but the gesture hadn't been kind, his arm too tight around your throat, pressing on your airway as he'd instructed you - commanded you - to follow him, like you'd have had any other choice with his arm wrapped around your neck like a boa constrictor, all the while a smile on his face that feigned nonchalance to possible onlookers. Nothing to see here, just two lovebirds on their way home after another long, hard day of work.

You'd shaken him off once the two of you were out of sight, ripped his arm off of your throat as you swiveled out of his headlock. "What the fuck, Joel," you'd hissed and he'd stared back at you with that same cold and hard look you knew him by. "Do you want out of the city or not?" His arms were crossed in front of his chest, his tone matching the iciness of his eyes. Your jaw tensed. The nerves of this guy. "The hell are you talking about?"

He scoffed like you were being dense. "Out. Flee the nest. Hit the damn road-" You cut him off with another pointed finger. "Don't be cute. I know what you mean. What I'm asking is, now?!" He eyed your finger like he was debating cutting it off if you jabbed it into his face one more time. His jaw ticked. "Yes, sweetheart, now." Your nostrils flared at the sarcastic tone of the nickname, but he gave you no time to interject. "Got tipped off. They're gonna do a raid tonight, hit everyone they know I'm involved with. Since you got all flustered about my - 'involvement' of yours-" "Oh, is that what you call that? Grabbing and kissing me out of the blue?" "-I figured I'd do you a solid by giving you a heads up," he talked over you, ignoring your comment entirely. You were seething. "Ever heard of a thing called 'consent', Joel?" He flicked his tongue, rolled his eyes. Clearly, he had no time to entertain your attitude. You didn't care. "It's when you ask someone if they wanna do something, and then only do it if they say yes. Now I know that concept might be a little hard to grasp for you-" You were slowly advancing on him, getting up all in his face, when his hand closed around your arm tightly. Your gaze fell down to his grip, your lower jaw pushing out slightly. His eyes flicked over your face like he was waiting for your next outburst. "Are you quite done? Cause we gotta go. Unless you'd like to stay and be questioned by FEDRA officers? I'm sure they'd be very interested in your lecture about consent." Joel's upper lip curled back in an ugly sarcastic smile.

And so you'd let him lead you through the city, begrudgingly at first and then bewildered when you realized you were heading in the opposite direction of your apartment. "What about my stuff?" He'd only shaken his head. "No time for that. We gotta go now. Got some backpacks waiting for us a couple blocks ahead."

He only realized you'd stopped walking when he was at least ten steps ahead. "You comin' or what?" You could tell by the tone in his voice that he was nearing the end of his patience, but as far as you were concerned, you were already at the end of yours. You didn't budge, just stared him down from where you stood, shooting icy daggers out of your eyes and your pursed lips quivering as insults swarmed in your head, all fighting to be let out at once. He looked back at you with dull disinterest in his eyes. "By all means, take your time. Ain't like we're on a clock here or somethin'."

"Oh, you son-of-a-bitch, you ignorant little cock-sucker, you absolute blithering idiot-" The stream of affronts sputtered out of you. Joel quickly closed the distance between the two of you and forcefully grabbed you by the arm, dragging you with him once more. "Walk and talk, yeah?," he said over your flood of offences, the jabs seemingly rolling off of him like water droplets against plastic. You kept up your clamor all the way down the next block, until he dragged you into yet another side-alley to avoid a group of FEDRA soldiers marching past.

The two of you stood closer together than both you and him would have liked. If it hadn't been for the parade of soldiers walking past you, you might've scratched his eyes out, something you made sure to convey with your eyes as you stared him down in silence. His indifference only fueled your rage. "Do you have any idea what you're asking of me?" You hissed at him when most of the parade had passed by. Joel wondered if he'd ever hear your normal tone-of-voice. "Come again?" He cocked his head. "The way I recall it, you asked me to get you out of the city, not the other way around. Now who's imposin' on who?"

He saw it coming before it was looming in his face again. That damn finger of yours, pointed right at his nose once more. His lips pursed, his hand twitched on the handle of the blade he kept concealed on his waist. Just one quick swipe. Your howls would likely attract the guards. Not worth it. Yet.

"We're only in this predicament because you couldn't keep your damn hands off of me!" You almost spat in his face, your voice all hoarse from trying to keep your shout down to a whisper. Your head looked like it was about to implode. Joel flicked his tongue again.

"You wanna discuss bygones again or you wanna get goin'? Time's not waitin' on us, sweetheart."

"Oufff." You growled in response, your finger so close to his face you'd take out an eye if he moved an inch in the wrong direction. "Get that thing out of my face," he finally snapped and smacked your hand down. "Now quit whinin'. You wanted out of the city, you're gettin' out of the city. Giddy up. Time's a' wastin'."

Without another look to check if you were following, he dipped out of the alleyway and marched down in the direction of his - your - first pit stop. You stood between the tight walls for another moment, breathing heavily. If FEDRA hadn't been breathing down your neck, you would've turned around on your heels and sent Joel off to whatever miserable adventure he was about to embark on, but alas, he'd made his miserable adventure yours against your will. You cursed under your breath, then hurried after him.

"All I'm saying is, what about my shit? You think I don't have any sentimentals at home? Necessities? Stuff I wanted to bring when I left?" You whispered to him as you kept up with his pace beside him. It could've been your imagination, but the people out on the street looked more hurried than usual. Something was definitely in the air. Joel's tip-off likely had been right. Something was brewing.

"You win some, you lose some," came his sullen reply, paired with a shrug. You had to stuff your comeback back down your throat as the two of you filed into the crowd of people heading home, hurried steps and hard, concerned faces all around you.

Escaping hadn't been easy. Every single guard had been on high-alert. It seemed that the tip-off must've come out - the number of guards had been tripled, and you and Joel had a hard time going by undetected, despite the added benefit of nighttime and the rain that had picked up, muffling your steps as you hurried from dark corner to dark corner.

The Firefly attack took him as much by surprise as it did you and the soldiers. The booming sound of an explosion just a few hundred feet ahead made you flinch and Joel instinctively pulled you down with him. Rubble rained down on the two of you, crashing into the muddied floor just inches besides you. You gasped and flinched away, losing your halt on all fours, but a strong arm caught you around the middle before you could slump to the ground. "Let's go," Joel urged in your ear and dragged you up to your feet in one swift motion.

Shouts erupted around you from all sides, then got droned out as FEDRA's sirens kicked up. You scrambled after Joel as he evaded spotlights that swiveled across the floor from all directions, keeping the two of you safely tucked away in the few shadows that remained. Smoke burned in your nose and lungs as you sprinted from safe haven to safe haven. Loud cracks cut through the uproar of your surroundings, accompanied by deep thudding sounds as more rubble fell to the floor. The fire from the explosion site was now spreading out, slowly licking at buildings in its path. Many of the decrepit structures quickly crumbled away under the heat, porous and unstable to begin with.

It was disorienting, frightening. For the first time in over a week, you were glad for Joel Miller. If it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have made it out of the chaos alive.

Granted, if it hadn't been for him, you wouldn't have been in this mess in the first place, but he kept his word and got you out.

You'd never meant to stay with him, but as things would have it, you weren't presented with much of a choice in that either. You made it out of the city just fine, save for a few jump scares along the road, but then ran into a hoard of infected that had been attracted by the ruckus of the explosion, just a few miles outside of the quarantine zone.

How you made it through that encounter alive, you didn't know, you just knew that Joel was a more-than-worthy asset in that debacle, as much as you hated to admit it. As if that hadn't been enough, you barely had one peaceful night before a group of raiders pulled through the section of outskirts where you and Joel had holed up for the night. It was an 'out of the frying pan and into the fire' kind of turn of events that kept you and Joel running and fighting for your lives for almost two weeks straight, stumbling from one disaster into the next, until finally, finally, you seemed to leave your losing streak behind.

It had now been three whole days since the two of you had found yourselves in mortal danger last, and though it felt almost wrong to be hopeful for a peaceful stretch of days, you couldn't help but be just that.

Until, of course, you felt that familiar sharp pull in your abdomen.

Crap.

"You didn't happen to pack anything female-related when you packed this, did you?," you asked as you rifled through the contents of your backpack. Well, Joel's backpack really, since it was the one he'd bestowed upon you the night of your escape. Your own backpack was still back in Boston, probably picked apart by FEDRA by now, along with all of your other belongings.

"Like what?" Joel was poking at the fire he'd set out to build. The flames wouldn't quite take, a few feeble blue streaks dancing between the twigs he'd collected.

"Like, I don't know, a pad, maybe? Tampons, if I'm allowed to dream?" You had almost emptied out the entire backpack now, and even though the contents you were bringing to light were certainly useful, none of them were what you were looking for.

Joel looked up, a kind of perplexed look on his face. You took in his facial expression and sighed. "I'll take that as a no. Crap." You slumped down on your butt in defeat. "That's gonna be a problem."

Joel scratched behind his ear, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "Yeah. Sorry, kiddo. Wasn't on my radar when I was packing." It could've been the dim light of the barely lit fire playing a trick on your eyes, but you could've sworn that some color rose in his cheeks. You just sighed once more and shrugged. "Eh, can't blame ya. Not something I'd expect to be on the mind of a..." You looked at him, eyebrow raised. "...something year old man."

He snorted. Sparks flew up from the twigs as he kept poking around. "Fifty-six," he said after a little while. "If you must know."

"Huh."

"What." He eyed you over the now growing flames. It looked like he was ready for you to pounce on him.

"Nothing." You raised your arms in defense. "Just... wouldn't have thought so. I just mean," you quickly added when you saw the expression on his face, "you've held up better than I would've thought. Jeez, relax. I'm not coming for your age."

"Right. Cause you ain't been jabbin' at me for just about anythin' else. S'cuse me if I'm just prepared."

"Cause you been jabbin' at me for just about anything else," you mocked under your breath. "And I got a right to. Need I remind you, I wouldn't be in this mess if-"

"-I hadn't dragged you into it." He interrupted you with a groan. "Yeah, yeah, I heard you the first trillion times. You ever gonna let it go?"

You scowled at him over the flames. "No." He quirked an eyebrow at you, and the exhausted apprehension on his face made you crack up. "Fine. Maybe. The jury's still out on that."

A day later, the sharp pull in your abdomen had grown into full-sized cramps, one of the four horsemen of your period riding in in full stride. You tried to ignore it as best as you could, but your period pains had always been on the worse side, sometimes leaving you crumpled into a ball on the floor. Your cramps could be debilitating, and a gnawing pit of worry formed in your stomach as the day went along.

Back in the QZ, you had your ways of coping: hot water bottles or hot potatoes wrapped in tinfoil tucked into a sweater so that their warmth radiated throughout your belly. There was even a bottle of emergency ibuprofen tucked away in a little secret corner of your bedroom. You longed for it now as the cramps begin to grow in intensity and longevity. You'd certainly planned to bring them along for your escape, but alas...

A groan escaped your lips as another cramp pulled on you from the inside. Your steps faltered and you leaned over for a moment with a hand pressed to your lower belly.

"Hey. You good?" Joel had been a few steps ahead of you, but he'd turned around at your groan. You'd been a trooper for the last two weeks, making him think more than once that getting you out hadn't been such a bad bet after all. You fought like hell, and when you weren't busy being mad at him, you followed orders quite well, especially when yours (or his) life depended on it.

Of course, he'd never say that out loud. You were still routinely giving him an earful about how he'd made you leave everything you owned behind, how you'd have had more time to properly prepare if he hadn't just dragged you into his mess, if he hadn't just kissed you that night-

You never missed a chance to remind him of all his wrongdoings, bickering on and on and on about the predicament you now found yourself in. As if he hadn't been the one to get you out. Sure, yeah, he did owe you as much after... having dragged you into his mess (his jaw clenched at the thought), but he'd paid his dues in full, as far as he was concerned. Hell, not only had he gotten you out in one piece, he'd even packed a whole get-away bag for you, survival essentials included. Had you thanked him for it? Certainly not. You hadn't complained about it either though, that was for sure, and Joel was certain that was about as much of a thanks as he was going to get from you.

You straightened, a somber and tight expression on your face as you nodded, but Joel could tell you were in more pain that you were letting on. Two weeks of fighting like crazy and just minutes of sleep to go on for days, and he hadn't heard a peep outta you. He had to give it to ya - you were tough, a fighter through and through. When you complained, it had nothing to do with where you slept, what you ate, who you fought. You just did it. He appreciated that quality in you. It made you a decent travel companion - if it wasn't for your bickering about everything else. That, he'd had decidedly enough of.

Today, though, you had been unusually quiet. You had yet to point an accusing finger at him, and though he could do without another finger pointed at his face for the rest of his life, he couldn't help but notice the change in your demeanor. Your pace was slower than the weeks before, even though you were now eating and sleeping better than you'd had in all previous fourteen days combined. Your movements seemed sluggish, almost lethargic, and you were hanging behind more often than not. This wasn't the first time you'd stopped either.

"We can rest for a moment, if you want." Joel gestured towards some trees on the side of the road. "Sit a moment in the shade. Catch our breath."

You looked like you were about to throw a snarky remark his way, but then you just nodded and trotted over to the patchy area of shade.

He sat down beside you with a groan, then stretched his aching legs out on the ground. Even if you thought he'd held up just fine, his legs certainly disagreed. If anything, they felt older than fifty-six. More like bordering on sixty.

Joel took a sip of his water, then nudged you with his elbow. You looked at him through hooded lids, exhaustion written all over your face. "Drink. Gotta stay hydrated."

Another wordless nod from you. No snarky comment. You got your own bottle out and gulped down a few sips.

"You sure you're good?" He eyed you carefully. There was a light sheen of sweat above your upper lip, some more pearls glistening on your forehead.

"I said as much, didn't I?"

Ah. There it was. Joel nodded. "There we go. Thought you were dyin' on me or somethin'."

You shot him a quizzical look.

"You haven't talked back to me all day. Was startin' to get worried," he shrugged with half a smile on his lips.

Your eyes narrowed at him. Joel Miller? Worried about you? Yeah, right. "What, you sweet on me or something, Miller?" A low chuckle rumbled through his chest. "Uh-huh. Glad to see you still got your wits about ya. C'mon." He got to his feet and dusted the dirt off his pants. "If you can jab, you can walk. Let's go."

You knew you had a couple of hours, maybe less, until hell's gates would open and the floods would come raining down your legs. Literally.

At least your periods were dependable that way, always following the same pattern.

Evening was fast approaching, and so was a town in the distance, just down the hill that you and Joel had just reached the top of. He raised a hand to his eyes, shielding his view from the evening sun that hung low on the horizon.

"Best bet is to go around it," he assessed, one hand on his hip. "No way to tell what's waitin' down there. Easier if we don't find out."

"Yeah, umh, about that."

He turned to you, a golden glow around the outline of his head. He looked like an angel. You blinked, cleared your throat.

"I need to find some cloth. Preferably clean, but anything will do, really. I know there's a spare shirt in my backpack, but I really don't want to cut it up..."

Joel frowned at you, visibly not understanding what you were getting at.

"Pads, Joel. I need to make pads. I'm about to start bleeding like a slit throat. I'm talkin' Niagara Falls."

He blinked, scratched behind his ear. "...right. Yeah. Okay."

It irked him that he hadn't thought of anything for your period. Granted, he hadn't had to deal with the topic in a long time, no woman in his life sticking around long enough (he made sure of that) that the topic could even come up. Still, he was a man who prided himself on being prepared, and he felt anything but as he helped you rummage through open and broken drawers to look for anything that might be useful.

You were tensing up more frequently now, pausing in whatever you were doing with shut eyes and a tight expression on your face. He knew what that meant, even if it had been a long time. You were cramping, and by the looks of it, quite hard.

Joel was irritated to find that he felt sorry for you. Though, no, that wasn't what irritated him. He may have been gruff and closed off on the outside, but he was still human after all, capable of empathy. What irritated him was the need he felt to alleviate your pain. More than once, he felt the urge to reach out and stroke your face, or worse even, to pull you into his arms into a comforting hug. Once, when your back was turned to him, he even saw his arm lifting on its own accord, and he had to bring it back down with his other hand before it made contact with you.

What the hell are you thinkin', he scolded himself. This ain't no more than a cargo run. She's cargo. Quit daydreamin'.

He scolded himself and then moved on, once, twice, thrice, until he had to tell himself off for the fourth time and he was beginning to get seriously pissed with himself. What was it with you that he kept thinkin' about touchin' you?

You were oblivious to his ordeal, having your own problems to deal with. You'd found some cloth that looked (and smelled) clean enough to be used as makeshift pads. Your hands made quick work of the fabric as you tore the old shirt into strips, then braided them into wider pieces until they roughly matched the length of the strip of fabric that connected the front of your panties to the back. Once that was done, you wrapped the braided piece fully around the bottom of a fresh pair of underwear, tying off the excess fabric when you had done so. It wasn't pretty, it was knobby and bound to be uncomfortable, but it was better than just wrapping pieces around the middle and hoping for the best. This way, you had a couple of layers underneath you, and if you didn't shuffle too much, the makeshift pad would perhaps stay in place. You sighed, inspecting your finished work. Behind you, Joel whistled. He sauntered over to inspect your work.

"Don't look too bad. You think this'll do?"

You eyed your handful of makeshift pads, a sorrowful look on your face. "It'll have to. But knowing my flow, I'll go through these in just a day - two, if I'm lucky..." Another wave of cramps tightened in your lower belly. You winced and leaned forward, one arm across your abdomen. A warm hand appeared on your shoulder.

"Tell you what. This town don't seem too dangerous. How 'bout we try and find a place here for tonight? Hm? Sleep in a real bed for a change?"

Joel didn't need to ask twice. You seemed more than relieved that your journey today would go no further than a couple of houses down the street, which was where you found a suitable candidate to spend the night in.

It had probably been a beautiful townhouse once, back in the day, complete with a white picket fence and a front- and backyard to show for. Now, though, the garden was overgrown, the fence was hanging in pieces, paint littering off its remaining poles, and the house itself looked sad and empty, as if it was mourning the loss of its previous inhabitants.

Unlike the rest of the houses on the street though, this building seemed to have all its walls intact. That, and the fact that your steps were getting slower by the minute, was enough for Joel to declare this house as your designated sleeping spot for the night.

The two of you did a quick sweep of each room, making sure everything was safe and sound. It was strange how quickly a routine could settle between two people who'd been nothing but strangers just barely three weeks ago. It wasn't the first time this thought occurred to you either: yours and Joel's movements seemed to almost flow into one another as you cleared the house from bottom to top. It felt a little like you could anticipate his next move before he announced it, and vice versa. He'd even said as much to you after the first week of the two of you fighting for y'all's asses, talking about how maybe you weren't as much of a princess as he'd initially thought. You'd just rolled your eyes at the comment, but there had also been a feeling of pride settling in your chest that you'd been unable to ignore.

It came like you'd said it would. Not long after you had dropped yourself on one of the worn-out sofas in the living room, you felt a particularly harsh cramp cutting through your abdomen, before something warm trickled out of you. You groaned silently to yourself. So it had begun.

Joel watched you from the armchair next to the couch. He was using the last couple of hours of decent daylight to take stock of his backpack, checking it for tears and what not, taking inventory of his ammo and cleaning and sharpening his weapons. Besides the fact that it had to be done, it gave him something to do. Made him feel like he was doing something sensible, practical.

He didn't like to admit it to himself, but watching you writhe in pain on the couch beside him didn't sit right with him. Even though it had nothing to do with a lack of care on his side, he somehow, against all logic, felt responsible for how crappy you were feelin'. It didn't help either that kept tellin' himself off for it. Ain't none of yer business, he kept repeating in his head and re-focused on sharpening the blade in his hand, right before glancing back at you when you'd moan again in pain.

You were definitely going through it. Once the dam had broken, so to say, there was nothing you could do but lay on the couch and wallow in self-pity. By now, the cramps had settled into a steady churning pain that had settled in your abdomen like a straight line, going from one of your tubes to the other. Your lower back felt like something was trying to break through it from both sides, forming an immense pressure that spread up the rest of your back. As if that wasn't enough, your neck was tense, rock hard and unforgiving, uncomfortable in whatever position you brought yourself into. And then of course, there was the bleeding itself, and the occasional harsher cramp that pulled through your entire abdomen.

You were certainly going through it, and the last two weeks had been too demanding. When a cramp cursed through you, you didn't hold back your whimpers. You just didn't have it in you to care. Joel could think whatever he wanted - no uterus, no opinion, that was as far as your thinking went in regards to him as you laid on the couch and wallowed in pain.

You had to give it to him, though. He was being remarkably quiet about your whole ordeal. You'd expected some dry comments, something about pulling yourself together, woman, you're not dying, but so far, there had been none of that, not even a distasteful scoff at your moans. You did see him looking at you from time to time, and it must've been your hazy mind, but you could've sworn he looked almost sorry for you. Almost.

Hours passed, and your pain didn't let up, if anything, it only intensified. While darkness slowly settled over everything outside, you did anything but on the couch. You turned and tossed with every new wave of pain, trying with all your might to find at least one position that alleviated your pain, but nothing helped. You had just flipped yourself over on your stomach with a groan, burying your face in one of the cushions when Joel spoke up behind you.

"Alright, enough. C'mon."

There was a light tap on your leg, then a more determined nudge when you didn't move. "Hey, c'mon. Move."

You just groaned into your pillow. I ain't movin' nowhere, it meant, but then your legs were being picked up and slowly lowered, until your knees touched the ground. Begrudgingly, and with a very fed-up expression on your face, you lifted your head from the pillow to shoot icy daggers at Joel, who was now kneeling beside you.

"Don't gimme that look," he grumbled. "Just tryin' to help ya. C'mon." He motioned at the sofa cushion. "Put your head down, get comfortable. N' put your knees a bit more together, so I can fit behind you. There you go." He instructed you until you were kneeling in front of the couch how he wanted to, your head resting on your arms on the sofa cushion. Attagirl. He shimmied behind you with some difficulty, his old knees not cooperating with him as fast as they once did, but then he finally sat behind you in a position similar to yours.

"What'cha doin," he heard you murmur into the cushion and promptly shushed you. "Shh. You about to see. Now don't freak, but you about to feel my hands on you."

You had no idea what the hell he was getting up to, but you didn't have the strength to care. For all you cared, he could've taken you off the chessboard in this very moment, and you wouldn't have minded. Everything hurt too much. It was all you could focus on.

You felt Joel's large hands on your waist, then your shirt being lightly pulled up. "Hey! What-"

You did turn around at that, furrowed brows and all, only to be met with Joel's fed-up stare. "You trust me or not?"

It took a moment, but eventually you put your head back down, not without your lips drawing into a pout. Course, you trusted him by now. Even if you didn't like it very much.

Joel waited until your head was settled on the cushion again, then he brought up your top a bit, folding it over once so it'd stay up over your tailbone. It had been a while, since he'd done this - hell, a long, long while - but he couldn't sit by no more and watch you toss and turn in pain. He'd had about enough of that.

He laid his palms flat on your waist, letting you get acclimated to his touch first so you wouldn't turn around and bite his head off once more in a second. Then, when he felt like a good enough time had passed, he lightly lifted his thumbs and pressed them down on your lower back, your tailbone right in the middle of them. Carefully, he brought his thumbs upwards, drawing two straight lines into your skin while keeping his pressure firm.

Your response was almost immediate. Joel could see your tense shoulders going down just a smidge, your back relaxing as you let out an elongated 'oh' sound, accompanied by a deep sigh. "Attagirl," he murmured, one corner of his lips slightly quirking up. "Just relax into it. I got you." He kept repeating the motion, digging his thumbs into your lower back to bring you some relief. A picture of how he'd once done the same for Sarah's mother flit across his brain. He quickly shook his head, dismissing the memory as quickly as it had appeared.

It felt like heaven, how Joel was working his thumbs over your aching back. It did nothing to alleviate your pain in the front, but it still felt a million times better than tossing and turning on the worn out cushions of this dusty couch. Just like you hadn't held back with your moans of pain, you were now not holding back your moans of enjoyment. You'd never felt anything quite like it before. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

You heard Joel chuckle quietly behind you. "I know a thing or two, kiddo. Been around the block once or twice."

You just hummed in agreement, then let out a load moan once more as his fingers dug into a specifically delicate spot. "Fuck, Joel. Yeah. Right there."

Joel was just glad you had your head buried in the cushions of the sofa. Otherwise you would've seen what your moans were doing to him, and boy, were they doing a number on him. He'd been able to ignore your first few moans of pleasure, biting down hard on his tongue and closing his eyes to focus, but then his mind started projecting pictures onto his closed lids of you, below instead in front of him, making those same sweet sounds of pleasure while he touched you elsewhere -

His eyes flew open and he grunted, willing the pictures away with all his might. He tried staring at his hands instead, but that was a dumb idea, seeing as how he could see your delicate skin being worked underneath his thumbs then, his fingers drawing out another moan from your lips -

Next was the wall. He could've drilled holes into the flaky wallpaper, with how hard he was staring at it. He could feel the tips of his ears burning with embarrassment and he could only hope, pray that you wouldn't turn around anytime soon to see how your moans were visibly affecting him, specifically in his crotch area.

"Fuck, oh my god, right there, Joel." Your voice was breathy and needy, and Joel's eye twitched. The hell had he gotten himself into with this?!

He prodded your back, trying to find the spot you'd just referred to. "Right here, sweetheart?"

He saw your head bob as you nodded, a satisfied hum vibrating through you. "Mhh, yeah. That's - oof - that's the spot."

He was digging himself his own grave, that much was for certain right now. He knew he should've stopped, should've went back to his armchair and returned to working on his gun, but he couldn't. It was like he was transfixed, glued in position like a fly to a trap. The whimpers falling from your mouth were too good to pass up, to sweet to resist. He hadn't had anything sweet in such a long time. And Joel was dying for a treat.

But he also knew it wasn't right. He knew it now and he knew it then, those few weeks ago when he'd grabbed you outside of your apartment and had kissed you out of the blue. You'd been shocked to say the least. The FEDRA guards had been on his heels and he'd needed to find a way to disperse of them quickly, and there you were, conveniently placed in his path like a lucky find, and his brain had snapped and he'd just gone for it. Pulled you into a kiss like you were his, hands flying up to your face to hold you in place. Your eyes had grown wide in shock and he'd briefly pulled his lips from yours to whisper to you. Work with me, please, I'll make it worth your while. His heart had drummed in his chest, a million silent prayers tumbling from his lips in the milli-second that it took you to subtly nod. A brief grin had flit over his lips before he'd crashed them back down on yours, kissing you like he'd been waiting to do so all day. And my god, had you worked with him. Your own hands had flown up to his head, one curling around the base of his neck and the other digging into his hair. He'd backed you up against the wall behind you, slowly walking you backwards until your back collided with the weathered bricks, and you had actually moaned into his mouth, much like you were doing now. It had sent his head reeling, and though Joel was not a man of faith, he'd briefly thanked whatever God he had seemingly pleased enough to allow him this sweet of a distraction.

The guards had trampled around the corner then, their heavy footsteps a stark contrast to the sweet moans falling from your lips. They'd cleared their throat - ahem - and Joel had unwillingly detangled himself from you enough to cast a look at them over his shoulder. What? A man can't make out with his girl in the street? Their eyes had wandered from you to him, and he saw then what they were seeing: a man in his mid-fifties pressing a what, late twenties? Early thirties? woman to the wall, her face all flustered, hair disheveled from where Joel's hands had dug into it. He'd seen the envy plastered on their faces, heard the murmurs. Lucky bastard. A triumphant grin had played around his lips, even though he knew he was treading on thin fucking ice. That he was indeed, a lucky bastard.

His luck had only lasted so long, though. When the guards had disappeared, he all but saw lucky stars in his eyes when you invited him up to your apartment. Was he really going to get that lucky?

Heavens, no. He'd been brought down back to earth swiftly when you had stood in front of him, crossed arms and expectant look on your face. So? What was that? He shrugged nonchalantly. What was what?

You, though, as he quickly came to learn, were not to be underestimated. You made him tell you in detail why the guards had been after him, then practically foamed at the mouth when he reluctantly explained what he'd been up to that afternoon.

It hadn't even been that big of a deal, just a casual, run-of-the-mill drug run, but you didn't seem to share his sentiment. Casual? Run-of-the-mill? He'd had to shush you from how loud you were screeching. Didn't you know the damn walls had ears?

My god, you could talk. Bicker, was the more fitting term. Or nag, really. You went on and on about how he'd went and done it now, how he'd fucked up your life, all because he had to go and get you involved in something that you had absolutely no interest in -

That was the first time your finger had flown into his face, all accusing and threatening, like you could do him any harm with just the tip of your index finger. Boy, had he been tempted to smack it out of his face. But he didn't. As much as he hated to admit it - you had a point. By putting you on the map as his lover, he had likely put you in a lot more danger than you were even realizing at the moment.

He'd tried to put you out of his mind. Even after you had made him promise to get you out of the QZ as a 'reward' - You owe me, Joel Miller - he'd tried not to think about you, not until his next run out of the city at least, which is when he planned to make good on his promise. Until then, he wouldn't think about you. You'd just turn into another headache, another problem he'd have to deal with, and he had enough of those as it was. Not to mention that he was almost twice your senior. He didn't have many principles anymore, but he still had some. And hell if he didn't at least stick to those anymore.

He kept his resolve up for all but two hours, when he was back in his apartment, laying in his bed and unable to sleep. You kept drifting through his mind, bickering and foaming at the mouth and red in the face, telling him how he'd went and fucked up your life, but more than that how your lips had felt on his, how sweet your mouth had tasted, how delicious your moans had sounded in his ear -

Fuck it. Joel growled and shoved his hand into his boxers. He'd rub one out to you, just once. Surely that would get you off his mind.

Well, it did, sort of. Until he was in bed again the next night, and he found himself with his cock in his hand once more, thinking about your lips and how they'd felt on him, and how they'd feel wrapped around his cock instead of his own hand -

He groaned as his release painted over his stomach, white silken strands mixing with the soft curls on his belly as he silently cursed you, then himself. The hell had he gotten himself into?

So of course he'd had no choice but to come and get you when he got intel that he was the subject of the upcoming raid, that very night. He barely had time to prepare two backpacks with the bare necessities before he went out to find you.

How all of that had brought him here, kneeling behind you as the sweetest moans fell from your mouth once more - he didn't know. Joel couldn't tell whether you were a blessing or a curse, if you were the price he had to pay or the price he received. Seeing as how his life had gone though, it was unlikely that you were the latter.

And yet he couldn't help but feel like he'd won when he brought his thumbs down on on the sides of your lower spine and earned a low moan in return, long and elongated and putting all kinds of pictures into his mind that his head momentarily fell to his chest, a pained expression painted across it.

No, no. You were both. A blessing and a curse.

Series Masterlist - Mobile Masterlist

Credits: plant divider by @strangergraphics

Read part 2 here!

A/N: Well, here we are. Like I said, the idea for this was born while needing comfort on my own period, and then this monstrosity flowed from my fingertips and eventually I realized that perhaps, 9.3k words were perhaps a bit too much for a oneshot, especially when said oneshot wasn't complete yet. Ahem. So! Here you have the first half of what is undoubtedly going to turn into a filthy, filthy second part. 🙃 I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did, I was kicking my feet giggling while writing this, lol.

No pressure taglist:

@peekyourinterest @vickie5446 @noisynightmarepoetry @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @picketniffler

@frogsdeservelovetoo @orcasoul @ashleyfilm @elli3williams @missladym1981

@spotty-boo90 @iamsherlocked-1998 @axshadows @justajoelsreader @oldmenenthusiast

[pearlzier]

tbh i think nerd!matt explaining fortnite terms, items.. guns.. ect to me would fix me

- 🧃

⠀⠀⠀ˑ   𓈒 𐔌  ㅤnerd.ᐟmatt  ×  nerd.ᐟreader   ͡꒱ ۫⠀

⎯⎯⠀⠀⠀your honour i love them !!! theyre so cutesy !!! also someone tell me if the layout is cute or not....... gdjdh yay :3 n also whether i should write more for these two gaspsies

YOU'D BEEN SAT BESIDE MATT as he played fortnite for a while now, maybe an hour or so. you didn't exactly want to bother him, so you'd been quiet for the most part. when matt plays fortnite, he takes it seriously, when he loses? yeah, he needs a little time to cool down after before he says things he's pretty sure he'll regret. his tongue idly flicks at the gum in his mouth, jaw working occasionally on it as he sits at the desk, meanwhile, his fingers deftly work at the mouse. your eyes linger on the veins on his hand a moment before you catch yourself, knowing he almost has a sixth sense for those sort of things.

eventually, he notices your silence. pushing back his headphones, he glances at you over his shoulder and gives you a soft smile. even though he was focusing on his game, he always preferred hearing your voice. "you're quiet, babe," he murmurs, multitasking glancing at you and also playing the game. you always wonder how he does it, but well, that's matt for you. "you okay?" his brow furrows a minute, biting his bottom lip before his head tilts to the side a little bit. at that, a soft smile plays on your lips, and you nod.

"yeah, yeah, just watchin' you," all you'd been doing was scrolling your phone, watching him. you were pretty content to be completely honest, but of course, you did want his attention. "m'not distractin' you, am i?" you say after a second, placing your phone down into your lap so you can focus your attention on him.

"distracting me?" matt scoffs, a quiet chuckle slipping past his lips. "in all respect, you're not exactly doin' anythin' to distract me," he teases softly, and his smile grows when he sees the way you roll your eyes. a warmth runs through him at the sight—god, he falls more and more in love with you each day, he's sure of it. "c'mere," he says, "missin' you." his voice goes a little quieter there, a tad bit needy in parts.

"needy," you retort, a giggle escaping you, but all the while, you get up and make your way over to him. his eyes rake over you, lingering at different parts of you. damn it, he loves the dorky little graphic tee that you're wearing, it suits you so damn well. "y'too far away," he's quiet for a minute, "if i asked you to sit on my lap would that be crazy?"

"might have to ask my lawyer," there's a playfully reluctant tone in your voice, and matt gasps, his mouth falling open with a little indignant noise. that in itself makes you giggle, and you peck a quick kiss to his forehead before planting yourself into his lap. matt leans back, letting you settle in his lap before he moves forward again to press his chest up against your back. shifting his weight beneath you, a soft sigh slips past his lips. "comfy?" he asks, head tilting to the side.

glancing back at him, you agree, "comfy," and he hums, resting his chin against your shoulder so he can look at the screen once more. wrapping his arms around you, he gets back to playing the game, humming occasionally. "gonna actually crash out if some kid starts campin' again," he scoffs, eyes rolling as he plays. your brows furrow a moment, a tad bit of confusion filling your gaze. "campin'?"

"y'know, people who stay in a certain area, jus' waitin' to kill you. campin', like they're settin' up a tent in a place just to shoot at ya," he explains it effortlessly, licking his lips after, not even giving it a second thought. he knows fortnite like the back of his hand, like he knows you. basically—he knows practically everything about it. "oh," you nod, biting your bottom lip before you release it with another nod. "you get it?" matt asks gently, wanting to make sure you understand what he's on about before he continues playing.

he enjoys telling you things about the stuff he likes, sharing his interests. though he knows you're not as into fortnite or gaming as he is, he knows you like learning things from him anyway. "okay, good, you'll be a pro in no time," he muses, placing a gentle kiss on your shoulder before he glances back at the game again. you watch him, seeing how he doesn't have to focus all that much and still be damn goof at the game. it's admirable.

after a few minutes, he realises the warmth that ran through him when he'd explained what camping was. it was simple, shouldn't have meant as much to him as it did, but it did. he's quiet, quiet grunts coming from him as he plays before he's speaking again, voice soft, "y'know what a dub is, baby?" it's hard for him to hide how giddy this makes him, getting to teach you this stuff.

"uh.." immediate thought? like, the english voice overs for animes and stuff, but you're 99% sure that's not what he's talking about right now. "no," you say, once you've considered his words. "mmh, a dub is just a win, i guess. what, uh, about a one pump? in game, of course, uh.. not anythin' else," he knows you don't know this stuff, which makes it a little better for him. eyes lifting to yours, a soft smile plays on his plush lips, followed by a flush on his cheeks when he clears up any misconceptions.

"you're askin' me like m'supposed to know," the words are grumbled as they leave your mouth, but you smile, shaking your head. you're not exactly into video games like he is, he's a video game fiend. you literally have to rip him off his console to get him to sleep or to get him to leave the house. meanwhile, you've got your head buried in a book or eyes glued to your phone screen 'cause of some good fanfiction. you'd get him to read some fanfics with you one day, you're sure of it.

"there's uh," matt sits up, "one sec," he waits until he's shot some guy in the game, so he can focus on explaining to you as he hides out in some corner of the map. "i mean, it got vaulted, but there's a pump shotgun, right?" you nod, not exactly understanding what he means by vaulted, but sure. seemingly, he notices this, and he adds, "vaulted s'like, they're not in the weapon rotation right now. so taken out, like, to balance the loot pool. you followin' so far?" you're a little busy looking at the way the light in his eyes shimmers with every word he speaks, but you mumble a quiet, "uh-huh," in response to show you're listening.

"okay, yeah, so s'called the pump shotgun, so what d'ya think a one pump is?" damn matt and his ability to teach so well. no wonder he tutored people for some extra cash on the side, he was damn good at it.

"one pump?" you ask after a few seconds.

one corner of his lips flits up, into a small smirk. "that's right, yeah, one pump. think about it," matt encouages, leaning his head against your shoulder a little more before he adds on, "you got this. real simple. like.. a type of shot."

"one pump.. uh, takes one shot to kill someone in game? with the.. pump shotgun?" it's a wild guess of yours, you had no clue, a shot in the dark, to say the least. but to your surprise, it's right, and he practically beams. "you're so fuckin' smart," he sighs, a little giggle of his own escaping him. nuzzling his head into the crook of your neck, he gives you a few gentle kisses as a little well done for getting it right. it was simple, sure, but he was so proud of you for getting it right.

"y'sure you haven't played fortnite before? might be even better than i am," matt mutters, and he revels in the way you laugh at his words. "you're laughin', i mean it!" he whines a little, poking you in the side which only causes you to laugh more. "mmh, okay, baby, whatever you say," though your words are a little muffled by the kisses you give him on his cheek, he hears you, and his smile only grows a lot more. "don't 'whatever you say' me.." he grumbles.

the moment is cut short however by him realising that the storm is closing in on him, and he quickly sits up, "oh, shit," he grabs the mouse again, "impromptu lesson on don't stay in the storm or y'die, you payin' attention? great."

ִ ֹ ★ @mattybsgroupie, @mattslolita, @stellasturns, @stevelacylovebot, @55sturn, @jetaimevous, @phone4pills, @aesthetixhoe, @venusiers, @chrissdollie, @stvrnmc, @sarosfilms, @beetlejenna, @funkycoloured, @v3nusasagrl, @imwetforyourmom, @deansbite, @beridollie, @pr3ttyf4wn, @sincerebabydoll, @cayleeuhithinknot, @j2ss7, @sweetrelieef, @l3sbiancvnt, @fallbhind, @beausling ִ ꒱

[societyfolklore]

The Cost of Access

Title: The Cost of Access

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Entrepreneur!Female Reader

Summary:  At a high-stakes D.C. fundraiser. You’re there to protect your start-up from political threats, not to play the donor game but Bucky surprises you. He sees past the surface, speaks your language, and for one charged night, the two of you find something raw, reckless, and unexpectedly sincere behind closed doors.

Word Count:  3.6k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, mirror sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), light dominance, light choking (hand on throat), champagne-fueled decisions, emotional tension, slight political themes, post-sex awkwardness

A/N:  Not a  Thunderbolts* fic… I will be making sure this space stays spoiler free for a few weeks since I don’t want to spoil for anyone until they get the chance.  

You weren't lobbying. Not really.

You were there to make sure your startup, barely past Series B funding and already on the radar of corporate predators, didn’t get chewed up and swallowed whole under the guise of 'infrastructure reform.' D.C. had a way of wrapping its greed in clean bills and smiling handshakes. You weren’t about to watch your work get buried under a competitor’s line item, or worse, co-opted by a conglomerate that didn’t understand the first thing about what you’d built.

Your company was scrappy, efficient, and bold, everything the legacy players hated. And you had no intention of letting a single careless vote collapse the years of sweat equity and innovation you’d bled for. You didn’t want favours. You wanted protection. An understanding. Leverage, if you were lucky.

But the fundraiser was unbearable.

Everyone either talked at you like you were some high-yield asset ripe for exploitation, or worse, like a walking checkbook with tits. You’d worn a sharp dress, tailored, matte black, the neckline modest, the slit at your thigh anything but, and still you felt like a prize pig at auction, trotted out for admiration, smiled at by men who never once asked the name of your company.

You played the part. Sipped the champagne. Nodded politely. It was exhausting, watching the glittering masks slip when they thought you weren’t worth the effort. And still, you stayed. Because someone had to protect what you’d built, and tonight that someone was you.

You were just deciding how quickly you could leave without burning too many bridges when you saw him.

Congressman Barnes.

Polished shoes. Classic black tuxedo. Crisp white shirt. Bowtie slightly askew, like he wanted to appear relaxed without actually letting his guard down. His posture was clean but coiled, all quiet control and unreadable calm. He gave you a small, acknowledging nod across the room, like he recognized the same bored exhaustion on your face that he felt in his bones.

He looked about as bored as you did.

Then his campaign manager leaned in, whispered something in his ear, you saw the shift in his shoulders, the faint sigh. You felt yourself groan inwardly. Another political animal sending their candidate your way, sniffing around to see what you were willing to pay to keep yourself ahead of the pack.

You’d seen the type. Hell, you’d dated the type. They smiled like wolves, hands warm and eyes calculating.

But Barnes didn’t start with a smile. He didn’t lead with a pitch, or some tired attempt at charm. Instead:

“You run that adaptive interface platform, right? For small logistics firms?”

You blinked, thrown slightly off balance. “That’s… oddly specific. Most people just call it ‘some tech thing.’”

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Genuine. Quietly pleased with himself.

““My campaign manager said I should try being more charming. I figured knowing what you actually do was a decent start.”

That earned him a raised brow and a small sip of your drink. “So this is you charming me?”

“I’m trying,” he admitted, voice low as he stepped in just enough to share your air, but not enough to crowd. “I don’t like asking for money. I’d rather earn what I get.”

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, the corner of your mouth tugging up. “That makes two of us. Everyone here’s just charming enough to take your money, none of them want to hear why you felt the need to offer it in the first place.”

His brow arched with quiet interest. “And why do you?”

You hesitated, fingers tracing the rim of your glass. “Because I’ve watched too many people like me, too many sharp, brilliant startups, get crushed under policy written by people who’ve never actually built anything. I have money now, sure. But the world’s... complicated. One bill, one amendment, one line in the wrong place, and everything collapses.”

He nodded slowly, expression shifting from polite to something more real. “Yeah,” he said. “Feels like it’s all turning into some elaborate game lately. Everyone pointing fingers, selling favors, whoring themselves out for donations. It’s about who you shake hands with, not who you help. And that’s not what I signed up for.”

You tilted your head. “So what did you sign up for?”

Bucky looked at you then, really looked. Blue eyes steady and piercing, the kind of gaze that cut through all your practiced armour and found the person underneath. There was no sales pitch in that look, no calculation. Just something honest. Something that made your throat tighten. “Just trying to make sure life’s better for people who don’t have the time or power to fight for it themselves.”

For the first time that evening, you felt your defences slip.

You stayed put.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

It wasn’t supposed to happen. But the elevator ride had been quiet and charged, a weight of unspoken tension thick in the air between you. The kind that buzzed in the bones and made your fingers twitch with anticipation. He’d asked if you wanted to see the view from the top floor. Just the skyline, he'd said. Just five minutes. You'd known the invitation carried more than one meaning, and you'd said yes anyway.

The elevator climbed too slowly and too fast all at once. Neither of you said much, just sidelong glances, soft exhales, the space between you alive with heat. When the doors opened, he stepped aside to let you pass, hand brushing your lower back with a quiet confidence that sent a bolt of want through your spine.

The skyline passed in a blur. You vaguely remembered the glittering lights of the Capitol, the outline of the Washington Monument, but mostly, you remembered the click of his keycard, the soft whoosh of the suite door, and the sound of your heartbeat pounding in your ears.

He didn’t say a word as you stepped inside. Just followed, silent and watchful. You felt the warmth of him behind you, the weight of his gaze tracing the bare skin of your shoulders. The brush of his knuckles down your spine made you shiver, and then you turned, and he looked at you like a man starving.

Like he'd wanted to taste you since the moment he saw you across the room.

"You still want to see the view?" he murmured, voice deeper now, rougher around the edges. You didn’t answer with words. Just stepped toward him, fingers tugging the lapel of his tux with a boldness that surprised even you.

He kissed you like he meant to burn the memory into your skin. Like he was starving and you were the only thing that would satisfy. Champagne lingered on your tongue, on his lips, between the clink of teeth and the soft drag of breath.

And when he backed you toward the table, fingers already skimming the edge of your thigh, you knew, this wasn’t politics anymore. This was something reckless. Something raw. Something that had nothing to do with influence or strategy.

Just the way he needed you. And in that moment, you let yourself want him right back- recklessly, breathlessly, without second-guessing the consequences.

The taste of champagne still lingered on your tongue as his lips brushed the sensitive skin at your throat, sending a fresh shiver down your spine and pulling you back into the heat between you. The click of your heels echoing against marble as he backed you toward the suite’s glossy dining table,. Your breath hitched when he slid your dress up your thighs with practiced ease.

“Didn’t peg you for the type to soak through your panties just from a little political banter,” he murmured, crouching as he tugged your panties down your thighs, eyes flicking up with that same smirk. “You gonna let me see what all that sharp talk was hiding?”

You rolled your eyes at the line, but the breath caught in your throat when his fingers slid through your folds, spreading you open with reverent, maddening patience. The pads of his fingers were calloused, warm, utterly unhurried. They moved like he’d done this before, but never quite like this. Like you were different. Like he wanted to learn you, not just make you moan.

“Oh, fuck, ” you gasped, hips twitching at the contact, thighs trying and failing to stay still as that first spark of sensation bled into a full-body ache.

He watched intently, eyes heavy-lidded and dark, focused like you were a puzzle he already knew the solution to but wanted to work through anyway, piece by trembling piece. One finger traced your entrance, then two pressed inside you, slow and deep, curling just right. The stretch was maddening and perfect, your walls clenching around him in a greedy flutter.

You whimpered, grinding down on his hand, shameless in the way you chased his touch. The heel of your shoe slipped a little on the polished floor, but he didn’t let you go, just steadied you with his free hand, palm flat on your thigh.

“Look at you,” he murmured, half to himself. “Could ruin me on the floor of a damn hotel suite and not even break a sweat.”

He brought the slick digits to his mouth, sucked them clean with a groan that went straight to your core, his tongue slow and deliberate like he was savoring the taste.

“Sweetest thing I’ve had in weeks,” he said, voice low, lazy, wicked, before picking you up and placing you gently on the edge of the table like you belonged there. Then he sank to his knees between your legs with deliberate care, hands sliding under your thighs to spread you open wider.

He looked up once, gaze molten with hunger and reverence, then lowered his head between your legs.

His tongue flicked through your folds with slow, luxurious precision. Lips sealed around your clit like a man on a mission, like the night didn’t end until you were wrecked and trembling, laid bare for him in every way.

You gripped the table edge hard enough to bruise, head tilted back as a moan slipped from your lips, loud and unashamed. Champagne warmth buzzed through your bloodstream, lowering every inhibition, making you shameless. His mouth was hot and relentless, tongue circling your clit with infuriating expertise, teasing and coaxing until your thighs were shaking.

"Bucky, oh my god- " you gasped, voice catching when he sealed his mouth tighter around you and sucked. The sound that left you was raw, desperate, the kind of noise that filled a luxury suite and made your face flush with heat.

He moaned into you like your taste was heaven, hands tightening under your thighs as he buried his face deeper. His nose bumped your mound, tongue flattening and stroking in long, slow passes. When he shifted the angle, dragging the tip against that spot, just right- your body jolted.

"There," you breathed, grinding into his face. "Fuck, right there, don't stop."

He didn’t. If anything, he doubled down. He groaned, one hand releasing your thigh only to slip between your legs again. Two fingers pressed in, firm and slow, curling in rhythm with his tongue until your whole body was a tight coil of want.

Your legs tried to close around him, thighs locking reflexively, but he held you open with a rough, growled "Let me have it. Let go for me, sweetheart. Come on."

You shattered.

Pleasure built like a storm inside you, cresting fast and hard until it snapped, tearing through you with a raw, blistering heat that left your legs shaking and your breath stuttering. Your body locked for one suspended moment, every nerve on fire, before the aftershocks rippled through you- deep, pulsing waves that made you moan, helpless and high on the intensity. Your hips jerked, your back arched, a high whine leaving your lips as his mouth stayed on you through every pulse. You heard your name tumble from your mouth in a breathless, broken cry.

Even then, he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, gentle now, tongue tracing soft, lazy patterns until you were squirming from overstimulation, a laugh-sob catching in your throat.

He finally pulled back, lips glistening, breathing hard like he was the one who’d just come.

"Told you," he said, voice wrecked and low, kissing your inner thigh. "Sweetest thing I've had in weeks."

He stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes heavy-lidded as he looked down at you. Then he reached for your dress, the fabric bunching under his fingers as he eased it over your hips and up your body. You lifted your arms, dazed and pliant, letting him strip it away and drop it to the floor with quiet finality. He stepped back just long enough to shrug out of his shirt, fingers popping buttons open one by one before he pulled it free of his shoulders and let it fall.

You watched him, heart racing. His tie came off next. Then his belt. His slacks hit the floor with a soft rustle, and you caught your breath as he stepped out of them, bare and beautiful and hard for you.

He circled behind you, the heat of his bare chest pressing into your back. His hands slid over your waist, up your ribs, fingers splaying across your stomach. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, slow, reverent, greedy. You tilted your head to the side, gave him space to devour the skin there. His cock nudged the curve of your ass, thick and hot and insistent.

"Come here," he rasped, walking you forward until the bed met your thighs. He turned you slightly, guiding you to the center of the mattress, facing the mirror across from it.

You leaned forward slightly, bracing yourself on your palms as he settled behind you. One hand slid between your thighs to guide himself as the other spread across your hip, grounding you. You felt the blunt head of his cock press against your entrance, and then, with one deep, slow thrust, he pushed into you.

Your mouth fell open, a moan tearing free as your walls stretched to accommodate him. Your eyes fluttered shut at the fullness, the thick, perfect pressure making your knees tremble. Behind you, Bucky groaned low and broken, hands tightening on your hips.

"Fuck, baby… you're so tight," he hissed through his teeth, voice strained with restraint.

You couldn’t find words. Just the burn, the ache, the pulse of pleasure radiating outward as he began to move, slow, dragging thrusts that had your eyes rolling back with every stroke. You heard the slick sound of your bodies meeting, felt the heat of his chest as he leaned in closer, his breath warm on your shoulder.

Then he pulled you upright, chest flush against your back, his hand sliding up to grip your throat with just enough pressure to hold you steady. The angle shifted, his cock spearing deeper as your spine arched and your legs widened in instinct. Your head fell back against his shoulder with a broken moan.

"Look," he rasped, turning your chin so your eyes met the mirror. "Look at me fucking you."

Your mouth parted as you watched the obscene beauty of it, his body pressed to yours, hips rolling up into you with power and purpose, your breasts moving with every thrust, that delicate chain swinging at your collarbone. His arm banded across your waist, anchoring you in place.

He rocked into you again, slow but deliberate, his breath ragged as he muttered, "God, you feel good, so fucking good."

You could only whimper in reply, eyelids fluttering, hips pushing back to meet him as slick pleasure gathered low in your belly again, tighter with every perfect stroke. Your eyes closed, breathing hard.

“Come on, open your eyes. Watch how good you look taking me,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “How perfect you look falling apart.”

You couldn’t look away.

Your gaze met your reflection, flushed skin, parted lips, the look of raw pleasure on your face as his cock filled you with slow, deliberate precision, each thrust deep and controlled, wringing gasps from your throat and arching your back with every stroke. Your fingers scrabbled behind you, finding purchase on his metal arm, nails digging into the vibranium plating as you gasped.

"Harder," you whispered, breath fogging the mirror. "Please, Bucky, "

He growled, the sound low and rough in your ear, and lost the last of his composure. Letting a go of the hold on you neck. 

Bucky bent you over the bed, hand gripping your waist like he meant to leave fingerprints, thrusting rougher now, deeper. Each stroke punched a moan from your lips, loud and wrecked. The slap of skin meeting skin echoed through the suite.

Your name fell from his mouth in a strained, reverent groan as your walls clenched around him and you came with a sob, body jerking under the weight of it. The pleasure was blinding, your muscles trembling, your thighs shaking as you cried out, caught somewhere between ecstasy and surrender.

Bucky's grip tightened on your hips, a guttural noise tearing from his throat. "Fuck, fuck, doll, that's it, " he gasped, hips stuttering.

He snapped forward with one last deep, punishing thrust and came with a harsh grunt, his cock pulsing as he spilled inside you. You could feelTitle: The Cost of Access the heat of it, the fullness, and it only made your body tighten again in response. His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades, breath hot and ragged against your spine.

Neither of you moved for a long, suspended moment, just the sound of breathing, the lingering echo of skin on skin, the scent of sweat and sex thick in the room. His hands softened on your hips, thumbs brushing soothingly across the skin he'd just gripped so fiercely. He leaned in, kissed the slope of your back, slow and reverent.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. The silence said everything.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

You woke before he did.

The suite was too quiet. Just the hush of morning traffic filtering up from the city streets, the hum of the minibar fridge, and the rhythmic, steady sound of his breathing. You lay still for a moment, letting the soft warmth of his body behind you linger before reality crept in through the gauzy light.

Sunlight spilled across the hotel floor in perfect rectangles. The room still carried the humid trace of last night- skin-warmed sheets, the musky whisper of sex clinging to the air, and the soft, fading note of his cologne drifting lazily through the quiet. You slid out from beneath the sheet slowly, quietly, careful not to disturb him. But before you moved too far, you glanced back over your shoulder.

His hair was a mess, dark strands falling over his forehead in soft, unruly waves. One arm was flung lazily over the pillow, the other tucked beneath it, his vibranium arm, glinting faintly in the morning light. His face was relaxed, softened in sleep in a way you hadn’t seen the night before. Vulnerable. Real.

You stared for a beat longer than you meant to, throat tight. Then you turned away and stepped lightly onto the floor.

You found your dress crumpled near the foot of the bed. Your shoes tucked half under a chair. Your phone facedown on the nightstand. No panties. You searched briefly, under the bed, beneath a cushion, and came up empty. Of course.

You didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t leave a note. Just smoothed your dress down, slipped your heels back on, and left with your hair a mess and your thighs sticky with the night before.

You didn’t want to be seen as the kind of woman who bought access with sex, who traded power and control for one night of heat and champagne-clouded recklessness. That wasn’t who you were.

And he… well, you weren’t sure if he’d think he sold it. If he’d wake and think you were just another wealthy donor slipping out before the illusion shattered.

You’d hovered for a moment near the minibar, fingertips grazing the notepad left beside the phone. You’d even picked up the pen. A part of you had thought about leaving a check, not for the good time, not for the sex, but because, for one brief, dangerous moment, you’d hoped he was the kind of man worth investing in. Someone who meant what he said, who could actually hold the line when others bent. Someone who might fight for the things that mattered.

But your hand had stilled.

What would he think if he found that? That you’d paid him for it? That he was just like the rest of them, bought and fucked and forgotten?

He wasn’t a whore. No matter what people thought of politicians.

You set the pen down.

Better to leave. You could make a donation later. Quietly. Through the proper channels. When it wouldn’t feel like an apology.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~

You were halfway through your third coffee of the morning, hunched over a stack of budgets and investor notes when the intern knocked twice on your office door before pushing it open.

“Hey, sorry to interrupt,” she said, holding out a slim envelope. “This came by courier earlier. It didn’t look like it was office mail.”

You frowned, setting your mug down and brushing your hair back. The envelope was plain, unmarked. Heavy cardstock. Your name printed neatly in the center. No return address.

You waited until the door closed again before sliding your thumb beneath the seal.

Inside: a familiar scrap of lace. Your panties, folded neatly, still carrying the faintest trace of his cologne and something unmistakably you. Your breath hitched when your fingers brushed the fabric, your cheeks flushing hot.

And a note. Typed. Crisp cardstock. No letterhead, no signature, but the message was clear. Unmistakably him.

‘We’ll finish what we started.’

Just beneath the line, in faint pen ink, scrawled as if added last second, in a hand you didn’t quite expect to look so neat, was one more sentence:

‘Next time, stay for breakfast.’

[little-fae-hero]

Linked Universe, Hero of the Winds

My headcanons/aus

Art by Atro Avis

Colored Version.

Long talk/ideas under the cut. Warning for general game violence and kidnapping. (Note: I may add stuff overtime but I will never delete from the list).

Twilight. Sky. Legend. Hyrule. Four. Time. War. Wild.

Wind (Wind Waker/Phantom hourglass). Other Nicknames: The Sailor, Pirate, The baby (hates this), Guppy (hates this as well), Island boy, Ocean child.

Hero’s Title: Hero of the Great Sea, Hero of the Winds, Hero of the Great Sea, Holder of the Wind Waker

God that has claim over his soul: Hylia (for the wisdom to actually find the pieces of the triforce)

Part of First’s soul: Childish Wonder (smallest piece).

History:

Link lived on an island with his sister and grandmother, and had a peaceful life like everyone in the great sea. He was given a green tunic when he turned 12, much to his annoyance. However his sister Aryll was kidnapped on his birthday, taken by a bird monster and he joins up with a pirate by the name of Tetra to get her back.

Through trying to get his sister back he learns that the Gerudo King Ganondorf is back, hunting for the Triforce, the Red king of the seas asks Link to take up the mantle of the hero. To which the young boy does, to make the seas safe for his family. He later learns the man’s reason, a place for his people; however he still tries to kill the hero and the princess. They actually succeed and plan to start another hyrule.

However This plan gets put on the back burner when Tetra and Link run across a ghost ship and Tetra goes missing, causing Link to start another adventure. Link get’s the phantom hourglass and a fairy and they go through the palace of the ocean king. He saved the great seas from the parasite known as Bellum and was finally able to go back home.

Death: Unknown…

Interesting Stuff/Headcanons:

has a sailor mouth from living around pirates. Others don’t let him swear (like grandma) but Time does.

The best thing to heal him is his grandmother’s soup. The chain learns how to cook it when they visit the Great Sea.

Link has a good sense of direction, to the point of it being scary. He doesn’t even need a map; it's like the wind tells him where to go.

Wind deals with a lot of self-doubt, he wasn’t born with the triforce of Courage, he had to find it and put it together unlike Tetra. So, he often feels like a fake.

He looks up to Time, since he was the hero of Time who once defeated Ganondorf, plus he also doesn’t treat Wind like he will break at any moment.

The others have a habit of jumping in to protect him, mainly because he reminds many of them of themselves of when they first started their adventures.

Wind actually prefers sandals since he lives on an island, but that’s not considered ‘proper shoes for combat’.

Wind cannot control his expression, whether in sneaking around or in combat, he cannot keep a poker face, which of course makes him terrible at keeping secrets.

Link has no concept of ‘personal items’ he grew up sharing stuff with his sister and then a pirate ship, everything is fair game, unless said otherwise or you're wearing it.

Anything he finds is worn as jewelry until he can get back home, to which the treasure is given to Aryll and Grandma.

He is actually really good with seagulls, I mean it’s not like his sister Aryll, but he can easily feed them without them getting startled.

He’s a great swimmer; however, his legs can get tired from a lot of walking, especially rocky paths, he doesn’t tell the group this.

No concept of ‘oh that’s dangerous’ will happily be shot out of a canon for the laughs.

Wind doesn’t have any piercing even though he wants to, any jewelry is limited to necklaces and ear wraps. 

Letters are a big comfort to Wind, as sometimes he panics that Aryll is missing, or grandma is sick again. The letters remind him that everything is fine.

Wind will fall into his big brother persona; he immediately will fuss others despite bringing the youngest of the group.

Besides looking up to Time, Wind also looks up to War, he doesn’t know why.

Koroks seems to really like Wind, he considered them his friends, Time doesn’t like the Koroks staying around or Wind going after them.

He cannot stand the cold because of growing up on an island. He’s in multiple layers or stealing others' scarves to keep warm.

Wind loves music, especially sea shanties, you will not know peace if one gets stuck in his head.

He knows how to shoot guns; he has one from Tetra and knows how to make ammo for it. It’s just very, very loud and he doesn’t like it.

He is slowly getting use to them and even started to build interesting items of his own.

He will correct anyone if they refer to Tetra as Zelda, since she prefers the name Tetra.

Wind loves fruit sense you can only really get them on islands, they are his favorite thing to snack on.

Wind sometimes realizes how stupid enemies can be, meaning he will sneak around them when others are planning something.

He is the most likely to do his own thing in battle and give the others heart attacks in the process.

The soul piece of the hero’s spirit is the smallest in Wind, it was the childlike wonder of the god, something the god couldn’t have a lot of considering his first life.

Because of this Wind doesn’t get the full burning in his chest that others might. But he does get the call to adventure.

[skalfy]

Misunderstandings pt 2 (aka understandings)

alexia putellas x reader, ~4.9k words, part 2/2

The very long-awaited (by me and maybe no one else) second part to this one!

Ingrid had been shocked, then eventually amused when you finally managed to explain Alexia’s presence in your apartment. You couldn’t help but to share her amusement at the situation, albeit tempered with the frustration at how avoidable the whole situation was. It seemed especially ironic that the crueler Alexia had gotten in defense of her friend, the more it had driven you to rely on Ingrid. Jenni had, of course, found the whole thing hilarious. The dark-haired Spaniard had spared a thought for you in acknowledging that it didn’t make your Barcelona career so far any less hellish, but then immediately dissolved into laughter as she made you recount every detail of the captain’s misguided trip to your apartment. By the time you got off the phone with her, Jenni had brought herself to tears with laughter at least three times, the last as she tried to do her best impression of how awkward Alexia would be as she tried to make up for her behavior.

Jenni had not been wrong. 

Alexia had started by apologizing. It was sincere, and she looked so miserable that you had no doubts that she had been thinking about her behavior. You had wanted to be tough, to make her work for it, but when she came up to you the next morning with bloodshot eyes and an apology that took full responsibility for her actions and acknowledged how hurtful she’d been, with the promise of more to come, you had accepted and told her you just wanted to move on.

For Alexia, “just moving on” apparently meant cautiously hovering at all times. On the field, she had turned from your greatest critic to your (mostly) silent guardian angel. She was the first to check on you at any sign of discomfort, and showered you with an assortment of items. Water bottle? Alexia was already handing it to you. Chance of rain? Alexia saw you didn’t bring your jacket and just grabbed an extra one, it’s here if you need it. It would have been a bit annoying if she hadn’t been so perceptive and thoughtful. As she paid closer and closer attention, she got quite good at predicting your needs.

—

A few weeks after the apology, Alexia’s hovering had died down to a less alarming level. She still seemed to be extra concerned with your wellbeing, but there was a lot less of the awkward lingering that Jenni had anticipated. 

Without Alexia’s poor treatment to contend with, you had also gotten more into the rhythm of the team as well, and you were enjoying time with the team, especially the regular team events. 

At the moment, though, you had been feeling the threat of a cold coming on for the past few days, and that plus a cool, rainy game, had left you feeling even more achy and tired than you expected. It was a bit disappointing to miss out on team bonding, but you hardly hesitated to send a message to Lucy and let her know that you wouldn’t make it to the movie night she and Ona were hosting. You loved the team, but you were certain your head wouldn’t be able to take the laughter and loud chatter, not to mention your shoulders and neck were knotted so tight that anything more active than lounging around on your couch sounded miserable.

A gentle knock on your apartment door roused you from the half-sleep you had fallen into. You were disoriented for a moment, head throbbing angrily as you raised it from the cocoon of blankets you had wrapped yourself in. Pirates of the Caribbean was still playing quietly on the tv, and at first you thought that was what had woken you, then another knock at the door sounded and cut through your confusion.

Dragging one of the blankets along, you crossed over to the door and opened it, revealing Alexia.

Unlike the last time she had appeared at your door, the midfielder didn’t push her way past you. Instead, she stood in place, fingers twisting nervously as she waited for you to acknowledge her. For your part, you just stared as your fuzzy head caught up to the situation.

“Hi,” your voice cracked, so you cleared your throat and tried again with marginally more success, “Hola, Alexia.”

“Hola,” she replied. “You weren’t at the movie.” It didn’t sound like a reprimand, but you felt tears prick at the back of your eyes anyway. You felt so uncomfortable and unwell and the thought that Alexia might be here to tell you off for skipping team bonding was overwhelming.

“Sorry.” You mumbled, tugging the blanket tighter around your shoulders and dropping your gaze to the floor.

“No, not sorry! I mean-- dios mio!” The captain sighed in frustration and your stomach dropped. You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for her to continue. Instead, you were startled by a cool, dry hand gently cupping the side of your head. You couldn’t resist leaning into the soft pressure, and after a second it shifted from your cheekbone to your forehead. “Lo siento, I just came to make sure you are okay. I did not mean to upset you.”

You opened your eyes as Alexia slid her hand from your forehead back into the loose strands of hair escaping your bun, guiding them gently away from your face. The light touch felt good on your aching head, and you fought a shiver at the sensation.

“You feel warm. Let me help, vale?” 

You weren’t expecting the offer, but you also weren’t in a state of mind to ponder it further. Plus, while you weren’t sure how you felt about the captain, you did trust that she meant well this time.

“Vale.” You answered, then turned to walk back to your couch. Behind you, the blonde hesitated for a moment before following you in and shutting the door. 

After removing her shoes, she entered the living room and hovered awkwardly above where you had laid back down. You scrunched your feet up to make room for her at the end of the couch, but she made no move to sit.

“Have you had paracetamol?” 

You shook your head no, then winced at the shot of pain the motion sent from your neck to the base of your skull.

“Is it your head or your neck that hurts?” 

“Both, and my shoulders. Just tight from yesterday.” She nodded slowly.

“Where is the paracetamol?”

“Bathroom. Above the sink.” That was apparently her last question and you listened with closed eyes as she walked away.

You half-drifted off for a few minutes as Alexia made her way around your apartment, eventually setting a few things on the coffee table near you. You heard her knees crack as she crouched down, then felt her fingertips trail along your shoulder softly. 

“Can you sit up, cari?” Her tone was kind and you complied with the request, moving gingerly. “Gracias. Have this first.” She passed you a mostly peeled banana. You shot her a look, but obediently took a small bite. The midfielder waited patiently as you ate the whole thing, then traded the peel for two tablets and a glass of water. You took the pills with a sip of water, then reached out to return the glass to the table. Alexia intercepted you and pushed the water back, a smile tugging at her lips as you gave her another look before drinking the rest.

“Buen trabajo.” The praise might have made you blush if you were feeling better, but as it was you just handed the glass back.

Before you could lie back down, Alexia grabbed the pillow you had been using and sat where it had been. Setting the pillow on her lap, she gestured for you to lay there, guiding you until you were comfortable on your stomach with the pillow under your head. Surprisingly, the position felt much better than when you had arranged yourself on one side before.

“Okay if I rub your shoulders? To help with the pain?” She asked, voice a little uncertain.

“Yes, please,” you breathed out, desperate for anything to ease how tightly the muscles were knotted.

“Vale.” Her fingertips sunk gently into the muscles of your upper back, thumbs working carefully against the tops of your shoulders. The pressure was light, but you could feel her warm, steady hands start to soften the tension. 

You had nearly started to drift off again when the Spaniard moved to slide one hand up to grip the back of your neck. Caught off guard, you surprised yourself with a muffled groan as she dug her fingers in. Her hand stilled, but didn’t move from where it rested.

“Hurts?” Alexia asked in a low voice.

You kept your face tucked in the pillow, but responded, “Only a little. Feels good.

“Good.” You could hear the edge of a smile in her voice.

It didn’t take long after she resumed the massage for you to slip back into sleep.

—

This time when you awoke it wasn’t to the sound of someone at your door. You blinked yourself slowly into full consciousness, realizing as you did so that you weren’t alone. There was a hand cupped protectively against the back of your head, fingers threaded into your hair, and the warm glow of morning light throughout your apartment.

You were surprised to feel only a mild twinge of pain as you tilted your head to look up at the midfielder who was still sitting under you on the couch. You were amazed to see she was fast asleep, tucked into the corner of the couch, but still mostly upright. It couldn’t have been a very comfortable position, but she looked remarkably peaceful. 

After another moment of studying the sleeping blonde, you mentally shook your head and began to slowly extricate yourself from her lap. You felt well rested and far better than the night before, but now your body was reminding you that your dinner last night had only been a banana. Just as you carefully started to sit up, Alexia’s hand moved, stroking softly through your hair as she mumbled sleepily.

“Estás bien, dormirse”

Your heart squeezed at the way she instinctively tried to provide comfort. 

“Gracias, Alexia. I’m okay.” You replied quietly, gently completing your move to sit up out of her grasp. “I’m just going to make some breakfast, you can lie down and sleep.”

The blonde didn’t acknowledge your words, but when you stood up and draped your blanket over her form she did lean deeper into the couch and burrow into it rather adorably.

—-

As you moved through the kitchen, starting the coffee maker and heating up a pan for eggs, you thought about your visitor. It had been clear already from Alexia’s actions that she was trying to make up for the way she had treated you at the beginning, but the concern and care she had shown last night was more than you had expected. It hadn’t felt like an act either, the midfielder had simply seen you feeling poorly and stepped in to help. If this was the Alexia the rest of the team had all along, then you understood why everyone else held her in such high regard.

You were pretty certain, deep down, you had already forgiven the captain, but last night had certainly washed away any last temptation to hold a grudge. Alexia may have been in the wrong, but she had shown that her opinion of you had changed, and that she felt guilty about how cruel she had been. And, not that it excused anything, but you did understand her motivation in a sense– if nothing else she was trying to be a good friend, you’d grant her that.

The midfielder had been one of the players you were most excited to play with and learn from, so finally realizing that you both might be able to put the rocky start behind you was a relief. You felt almost like a weight had been physically lifted from your chest, though maybe that was just another ache that such a good night of sleep apparently fixed.

“Bon dia.” You looked up from the stovetop at the sound of Alexia’s voice. She was standing in the entryway looking somewhere between sleep-mussed and frustratingly model-like.

“Bon dia, Capi” you replied. “Thank you. For checking on me and for staying to help, I feel much better now.”

She ducked her head, but you caught a flash of pink across her cheeks as she did so. “No hay de qué, I’m glad you are better. Thank you for letting me sleep on your sofa.”

Now it was your turn to feel your cheeks heat. Did Alexia not realize you’d spent the whole night half on top of her, or was she just trying to give you a chance to pretend otherwise in case you were embarrassed. You chose your next words intentionally. “You are welcome to it anytime you would like, though I don’t think I gave you much of a choice when I fell asleep on you.”

The blonde’s bright smile told you that you chose correctly.

“Do you want any coffee? Eggs?” You asked, finally remembering the breakfast you were in the middle of making.

“I would, but my sister has already texted me four times to demand I meet her. I just wanted to check to see if you need anything before I go.”

“No, you’ve done more than enough for me already, don’t make your sister text you a fifth time.” You said, sliding the pan off the heat and stepping over toward Alexia. She stood completely still as you approached, but when you reached up to pull her into a hug, she softened into it immediately, wrapping her arms around your back to hold you tight. It reminded you instantly of the comfort of Jenni’s hugs, and you couldn’t help but feel like you’d missed out all these months of not hugging Alexia.

—

In the weeks since she had spent the night, you felt like you had turned a corner with your relationship with Alexia. You weren’t holding onto the memories of her unkindness, and there was no longer any part of you that feared her attitude might change again. The only problem was that it didn’t seem like she had the same confidence you did. You couldn’t help but feel like the captain was still going out of her way to make it up to you.

It wasn’t that you didn’t appreciate the special attention she was paying you, but what you really wanted was to move on and put the whole thing behind you. Alexia’s guilt over something you’d already let go wasn’t necessary, and there was a not-so-small part of you that feared if you waited too much longer you were going to end up hurt when she inevitably pulled away on her own. Once the Spaniard realized that everything was fine between the two of you, she would go back to being a professional, a teammate and captain and nothing else, and you understood that. It was just that it made your heart sink a little to think about it. You had gotten used to her attention, nothing more than that– but you know that it would be better to cut things off before you got too used to it.

All these thoughts were not far from the front of your mind when you arrived at the last full practice before your first Champions League game. Alexia met you as you stepped out of your car (or, rather, Alexia materialized a foot away from you when you looked up after closing your car door, which startled you the first few times, but now was a normal part of your morning). The midfielder passed you one of the two coffee cups she held, giving you a quick smile in response to your enthusiastic “¡Gracias!”

The coffee thing was a relatively new part of the captain’s arsenal of apology gestures. She had appeared one morning and nearly forced the cup into your hand before walking away quickly. Once you had recovered your wits, you had taken a sip and discovered that it was a dirty chai– your favorite. It had only taken a little wrangling to get the story from Ingrid; Alexia had FaceTimed Mapi from the coffee shop and demanded to be handed over to her girlfriend so that Ingrid could give your order to a highly amused barista. Since then, the morning coffee had become a regular occurrence, and you had managed to get the midfielder to stick around and walk in with you.

You were intent on practicing your Spanish, so the two of you chatted the whole way, Alexia patiently letting you work your way through what you wanted to say without interrupting. She was one of your favorite people to practice with for that reason– so many of your other teammates were quick to finish your thought for you, or just wanted to practice their English instead.

It was exactly this kind of interaction, though, that was troubling you, and you resolved to fix the situation once and for all by the end of the day.

—

Practice had gone well, and you were feeling both nerves and excitement as you walked off the pitch knowing that there was just recovery and a light training session between now and your UWCL debut. The familiar sounds of Patri and Pina’s banter filled your ears as you followed the pair into the changing room, but when they suddenly went silent, you looked up to see both pairs of eyes looking right at you. 

“Someone has an admirer,” Pina said, giving you a pointed smirk. You were confused for a moment, then saw past the two of them to your locker. There was clearly a vase of flowers inside, along with a ribbon-tied white box. You felt your cheeks flush. Unable to come up with a witty response to knock the curiosity out of your nosy teammates, you just shook your head and slid between the two to reach your locker and the gifts inside. 

The flowers were beautiful, and you moved them carefully off of the box and deeper into your locker. Normally, you might have had the good sense to spirit the gift away from the prying eyes of your teammates, but you were certain you recognized it, and you couldn’t wait a moment longer to confirm. You pulled the red ribbon to release the knot, and as it fell loose, you raised the lid to reveal exactly what you suspected. 

Inside were four mouthwatering breads that you knew immediately were from the little bakery near your apartment in Nuevo Leon. It had become a tradition, almost a superstition, for you to stop there on the morning of an important game when you had played for Tigres, and it was a tradition you sorely missed. You felt a sting behind your eyes as you realized what someone had done for you.

You closed the box up carefully, protecting the perfect breads once again before you made your way to shower. As you crossed the locker room, you caught the gaze of your captain already on you. Her cheeks colored, but she didn’t look away immediately, offering you a bashful smile that confirmed what you already knew about the source of your gifts.

—

By the time you finished your shower, everyone but Alexia had filtered out of the changing room. She was quiet as you toweled your hair dry and dressed, eyes glued to a boot that she was holding and… inspecting carefully? You broke the silence as you .

“Someone left beautiful flowers and a very thoughtful gift for me. Maybe someone who did their research and found out one of my old traditions.” At your words, Alexia finally looked up.

“Hmm. A lo mejor.” Her tone was neutral, but the same bashful smile you saw before crept across her face. “They are right? I had to trust Jenni and she likes to… joke.”

“Yes, they’re perfect. Thank you, Alexia.” You crossed the room to pull her into a tight hug, whispering an extra “gracias, capi” as you pulled back.

“You are welcome,” she whispered back, sounding almost breathless. “I just want you to feel happy here like you did there. And I want you to score goals for us in Champions like you scored for Tigres.”

You laughed at her final comment, but even to your own ears your huff of amusement held a dangerous edge of affection for the woman in front of you. A woman who, you reminded yourself, was just trying to be a good captain to you and make up for the weeks of misguided ire.

“Maybe I’ll even score a golazo for you.” You said, cringing inwardly at how much it sounded like a line one of the men’s team players would try on you back in college. You tacked on “As a thank you, of course.” somewhat awkwardly. Alexia’s smile in response was so bright that you couldn’t tell whether she was laughing at you or genuinely pleased by the prospect. Either way, you couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Trato hecho. I will see you tomorrow.” The midfielder gave you one last quick smile as she turned to leave. As you watched her cross the room toward the door, you remembered your resolution from the start of practice. As much as you appreciated Alexia’s kindness, you had to rip off the proverbial band-aid. You called out to the blonde making her way out of the locker room.

“Alexia!” 

She stopped and turned immediately at the sound of your voice, walking back over to where you had both stood a moment ago.

“¿Sí? You are okay?” Her eyes scanned across you quickly as if checking to make sure you hadn’t somehow been injured in the last 30 seconds.

“Yeah, I just needed to tell you, um…” you trailed off, wishing now that you hadn’t called her back quite so impulsively. Her eyes had now settled intently on your face and it caught you off guard when you saw the intense, almost hopeful look in them. “You should know that I already forgave you, Ale. A long time ago. I appreciate how nice and thoughtful you have been, and the gifts and everything you’ve done, but I can’t let you keep doing it out of guilt. You can treat me like everyone else now, I just want to have you as my teammate and captain.”

“You.. que?” She furrowed her brows elegantly, face puzzled for a moment before it smoothed over into neutrality as she seemed to comprehend your words. When she spoke, her voice matched the blankness of her face. “Ah. Vale. Okey. Solo tu capitana.”

Her tone and words surprised you, but before you could react, Alexia mumbled a quiet “adeu,” and made a break for the door.

—

You had puzzled over Alexia’s reaction as you gathered up your belongings, flowers and box of panes included, and headed home. You had expected her to be, maybe not pleased, but at least glad to hear that you had moved past the earlier bad blood. She had clearly cared about fixing things, given the amount of effort she had put in to make it up to you, so why wouldn’t it be good news to her that you wanted to move past it?

The moment her face dropped into impassivity still hung in your mind as you set the beautiful vase of flowers on your kitchen table. As you rotated them slightly to appreciate the bouquet, a folded piece of paper caught your attention. It was nestled unobtrusively between soft petals, tucked away discreetly, probably so that prying eyes like Pina’s wouldn’t notice at a glance. You slipped it out carefully, unfolding and smoothing the creases so you could read the words inside.

Hola Y/N,

I hope you like the flowers. The florist said they mean luck and strength. You are already strong, and I know you don’t need luck, but they are very beautiful and extra luck is always good.

There was a crooked smiley face at the end of the sentence, and the thought of Alexia drawing it made you smile.

I am so happy that you are playing for Barca, and I am excited to watch you play in Champions League for the first time. You will be incredible, like you always are. No matter what happens in the game I am already proud of you, and I want to thank you for letting me earn your trust after how I acted.

If you have forgiven me, would you let me take you out to dinner after the game?

Con cariño,

Ale

The unfiltered kindness made your chest burn warm with affection, and you felt a swell of excitement at the invitation. It sounded almost like the captain was asking you on a date, and the idea filled your stomach with butterflies. Suddenly, your heart dropped. If it was an invitation to go on a date, then your words in the changing room must have sounded like an attempt to let Alexia down easy. You had clearly told her that you only wanted her to be your teammate. Thinking that you were freeing her from the burden of winning your forgiveness, saving your own heart from accidentally being strung along by the well-meaning captain, had you ruined the chance of more? 

Without thinking, you picked up the phone and called Ingrid.

“Hei du! What’s happening?” The norwegian answered after a ring.

“Ingrid. I think I fucked up.”

You explained the situation to her, speaking so quickly she had to ask you to slow down and repeat more than once. You finally finished with a wavery voice. “Do you think there’s a chance she might… have feelings for me?’

“Y/N…” Ingrid drew your name out slowly, then paused. “I think Alexia has been pretty well in love with you since about two days after she found out you weren’t stealing me from Maria. Herregud, you’ve been the only thing she talks or thinks about besides football. Maria’s been complaining for weeks that Alexia is too busy watching you to notice all the pranks she’s pulled on all children.”

You didn’t know what to say, and for a long minute Ingrid didn’t push you. Then, finally, she spoke again.

“Do you have feelings for Alexia?”

Your instinct was to defer, and “I don’t know” was right on the tip of your tongue, but before you said it, it felt wrong in your mouth. You thought about the way being around Alexia felt, the way you felt warm all over when she praised you, and how incredible it felt to be the center of her attention. You also thought about how good she looked on and off the pitch, the way her whole face lit up with a smile, and how she had looked standing in your kitchen, sleep-mussed from a night asleep on your couch. You bit your lip, cheeks rising in a grin.

“Yes.” You whispered.

“I think you better give our capitana a call.” You could just about hear the twinkle in Ingrid’s eye.

“Thank you, Ingrid.” 

You exchanged your goodbyes and ended the call, then after a deep breath, before you could lose your nerve, you called Alexia.

“Y/N?” She answered immediately.

“Alexia, hi. Hola.” You immediately stumbled over your words. “I read your note. I hadn’t read it yet when we talked before.”

“Sí, vale…” She said, imploringly.

“I thought everything you have been doing was to apologize, so that’s why I told you that I had already forgiven you. Because I have, and I like being your friend, and I like when you are sweet to me, and pay attention to me, and ask Jenni and Ingrid what my favorite things are. I was afraid that if you were doing those things because you felt guilty, that one day you would realize you didn’t have to feel guilty anymore, and you would start treating me just like every other teammate. Which would be okay, but it would also break my heart a little. So I wanted to make sure it happened soon, because I thought the later it happened, the more it would hurt.” 

You paused, and the midfielder made no move to interrupt your explanation.

“But after reading your note, it made me think that maybe I misunderstood. And it gave me hope that you might have feelings for me. Like the feelings that I have for you. So when I said I just wanted you to be my teammate and captain, I didn’t know that there could be an option for you to be more. So let me try to give you a better answer to the question you wrote in the note: I have forgiven you, and me gustaría mucho ir a cenar contigo.”

“Really?” Alexia breathed out.

“Really.” You replied. “I like you a lot, Alexia.”

“I like you a lot, too.” The smile in her voice was unmistakable, and you felt the last vestiges of worry drop away. You might have gotten started on the wrong foot, but things were looking pretty good after all.

Not planning for a part 3, but if anyone is really interested, let me know and I could be persuaded :)

tag: @marvelwomen-simp

[thelov3lybookworm]

Ice Cream (part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Summary: the shadow needs to be put on timeout.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1821

Warnings: literally just fluff. azzie being a shy baby again🥹ALSO SHADOWS BEING MENACES BWAHAHAHAA💀 az is like an old asian parent tired of his kids bs 😭

A/n: ooof i love the shadows omg there such a pain in az's lil ass lmaoo. the one smartass shadow in the first part comes back to steal the spotlight and to make az's life miserable by its jabs lol🥹

ALSO THIS IS THE LAST PART IN THIS SERIES IM SO HAPPY OML I LOVED WRITING THIS 🥹😭

anyways, enjoyyy🥹🤭

(ps. the idea for shadows writing yn's name on az was given by @ayme301 hehe so thank youuuu 🥹❣️)

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Azriel had a routine. He always did.

Wake up, train, have something to eat, send reports to Rhys, analyse more reports, go onto missions if he had any, and train some more. It was always the same variation of the same few things.

But for a month now, his routine had a new addition. Having her on his mind every moment of every day.

His mind kept wandering to the colour of her eyes, the texture of her hair, the slight tilt to her lips when she found something he did funny. The way her quick wit and subtle hints of her boldness showed through her cold exterior as she slowly began to let her guard down around him, the way her eyes began to light up ever so lightly when she saw him as the two spent more and more time together.

She had become an important part of his routine, and he did not have a single problem with it, even as it put strain on him to finish up his work sooner so no one would suspect he was getting distracted from his duty.

Having her on his mind constantly, it was hard to focus on what his family was doing as they all sat in a booth at Rita’s, because he was too busy wondering what Y/n might be doing tonight. Maybe she was at her home, reading and sipping tea. Maybe she was out with her friends. Maybe she was by herself, wandering through the countless shops displaying items irresistible to anyone.

Maybe she was thinking of him.

The last thought had sudden heat travelling to Azriel’s cheeks, and he willed his shadows to cover him in case his family took notice of it as he lifted his almost empty cup of the alcoholic beverage Cassian had shoved into his hands to his lips.

Azriel looked up, glancing out of the window near the booth his family occupied, hoping that if Y/n really was out, she would walk by. It would certainly be a treat to his eyes and a soothing distraction from the overstimulation that was the inner circle.

"Az?"

He blinked, glancing over to Feyre, who stared at Az with furrowed brows. "Yes?"

She stared at him for a moment, a moment in which Azriel quickly looked over everyone present over the table. All their eyes were fixed on him, some confused, some curious. "We asked if you’re in for the game?"

Az straightened, setting his glass on the table and wrapped his arms around his chest. "Sure."

Cassian lifted a brow. "Do you even know what we’re playing?" Azriel’s cheeks flushed at the knowing look in his brother’s eyes, and he glanced down at his lap, clearing his throat and waiting for a shadow to fill him in on what was going on.

Master needs to learn to pay attention.

Azriel turned his head slightly to scowl at the particular shadow, and it bobbed away happily, as if unaware of his glare. But thankfully, another shadow floated up to his ear to whisper.

Truth or drink. They wish to probe and do your work.

The shadow that had initially hurried away from Azriel slithered back up his neck.

Be nosy, that is.

Azriel would have glared had he not had to turn back to his family. He nodded slightly, clearing his throat. "Truth or drink. I’m in."

Cassian leaned back, shooting a look that irked Azriel to Rhysand, who leaned forward on the table with a shit eating grin. "Let’s start with you then, brother. Who is keeping you so distracted and bothered all the time?"

Azriel clenched his jaw, releasing a breath through his nose, contemplating whether it was worth telling his family and bringing himself to his doom at their gossiping hands.

Before he could settle on his choice to drink, his shadows had already made the decision.

"Y…" Mor squinted, her brows furrowed, and Azriel’s blood ran cold when he heard the first few syllables of her name. "Y/n?"

Azriel stared at Mor, who smirked, her eyes fixed on Azriel’s forehead as she leaned back. Azriel looked around at all his friends, wondering what the hell was going on and how they knew Y/n’s name. And then a shadow moved closer to his ear.

Y/n.

Y/n Y/n Y/n.

Azriel reeled in his frustration at the less than helpful chanting, but then the same shadow hit his chin, prompting him to lift it, and his eyes landed on her.

She wore a simple black dress, the thing covering everything and leaving everything up to imagination with the high neck and long sleeves and skirts. Her hair was open, and she looked just as beautiful as she always did.

And she was looking right at him, her lips spread in a smile as she stood right behind Cassian, seemingly having stood up from the booth next to them.

In the back of his mind, Azriel knew his family was looking at him in concern when he said nothing, but he couldn’t care less as he stared at that smile, the one he had seen for the first time ever.

She is beautiful.

She never smiled more than the slight tilts to her lips, and maybe it was for the good, because if he had seen that smile earlier, he might already be married right now. She was so mesmerising, it was a miracle Azriel hadn’t asked her to be his on the first ever outing to the ice cream shop the two had been to. But if he had seen her offer him that smile, he would have gone too far in love, he knew.

Master needs to stop drooling, he looks like a baby.

And ugly.

Azriel almost turned to scowl, but he did not want to miss even a moment of the smile on her face. But that also led him to the question. Why was she smiling?

She giggled lightly, and he only knew because he saw her throat muscles move as she lifted a finger to her forehead, then pointed at him.

And then Azriel realised.

He quickly lifted his hand to his head, whipping away the shadow that would not stop acting like a smartass teenager. After he was sure the shadow was gone and no longer using his forehead as some sort of writing surface to announce to the world his feelings for a certain bookstore owner, he swallowed and stood, trying to excuse himself.

But Cassian turned, looking right at Y/n. "Are you Y/n?"

The eyes Azriel always found himself lost in lifted to meet his own hazel ones, her cheeks turning a deeper shade as she tried to stop smiling. Azriel could see the blush on her face, even in the dim lighting, and he thanked the mother for his eyesight.

Y/n not having her guard up at all times was not a sight everyone was blessed to witness.

She nodded lightly, glancing around at the rest of Azriel’s friends before giving him a small wave. She turned and walked out after her friends, who laughed among themselves. She did shoot him a glance before she walked out, but then she was gone.

Azriel turned, trying to see if there was any way he could escape his confines, having been pushed to sit between the window and Feyre. And when he didn’t, he climbed onto the seat and stepped behind her, then Rhysand, whispering apologies as he hopped onto the ground and broke into a sprint, hoping to catch up to Y/n.

His family tried to call after him, but Azriel was a male on a mission, and a very skilled one at that.

He stepped out into the cold night air, his eyes landing on Y/n waving at her friends as they went the opposite direction. He swallowed, hoping she would not mind his presence and walked towards her. She probably felt his proximity, as when she turned, she only smiled at him and gestured for him to walk with her.

A shadow floated close to Azriel to inform him of the way his family was watching him like hawks from the window they had sat next to, and when Azriel turned to look, sure enough, Cassian and feyre scrambled away, while Rhysand, Mor and Nesta looked like they were trying too hard to act nonchalant.

"They really are nosy." Y/n’s soft voice reached Azriel, and he turned to offer her an exasperated look.

"And I deal with it everyday."

She laughed, gently slipping her hand to hold his arm. Instantly, his pulse was galloping.

Master is no better than a schoolboy.

Azriel shot a glare to the darned shadow, wondering if there was a chance he could put it in timeout.

"So… I keep you distracted, huh?" Y/n spoke after a moment, making Azriel’s ears go warm.

"I…"

She laughed, leaning her head against his shoulder as the two walked the rest of the way in silence. Azriel only heard her laugh ring in his ears, wishing and praying that he would be blessed enough by the mother to hear the beautiful sound for the rest of his life.

Only once the two were at her apartment doors did she pull away and step forward, towards the entrance before turning to him, around an arms length of distance between the two.

Too much.

"So?"

Azriel folded his hands at his back, smiling slightly. "So?"

She leaned back against the wall, humming. "When am I meeting the family then?"

His breath hitched. "You… want to?"

She lifted a brow. "You don’t?"

Azriel shook his head, looking down at his boots. "I don’t want you to be uncomfortable, and I know they can be a lot sometimes."

He heard her move closer to him, lifting his eyes to meet her gaze once both her hands had reached out to hold one of his. "I think I am ready, Az."

Az. She called me Az.

He leaned his head closer to her. "What do I get if I take you to meet them?"

She blinked at him. "Oh, I don’t know, maybe you get to tell everyone you are courting me? And you can stop having to sneak around to meet me?"

He grinned, hearing those words spoken into the space between them as he touched his forehead to hers. "Hmm… not enough. I want more."

She snorted. "And what is that?"

"Maybe you take me out to the ice cream shop again." He reached up to touch her cheek, his eyes fixated on the way her skin seemed to contrast with his.

"And this time, we will get a huge bucket of mint chocolate, and share it. Like a real couple."

She smiled again, rolling onto her tiptoes to press her lips to his cheek.

"Mint chocolate it is."

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Permanent Taglist: @berryzxx @sarawritestories @milswrites @throneofsmut

@daycourtofficial @sweetorangeblossom @serenescureforboredom @cassie6392 @harrystylesfan2686

@olives-main @hijabi-desi-bookworm @dnfhascorruptedme

Acotar Taglist: @bubybubsters @eos-princess @nightless @harrystylesfan2686

@cassie6392 @kennedy-brooke @tele86 @miluiel1

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@mybestfriendmademe @saltedcoffeescotch @lady-of-tearshed @starsinyourseyes

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@berryzxx @buttermilktea11 @loving-and-dreaming @yucanbmylxdy

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Azriel Taglist: @darthdumbasss @foreverrandomwritings @azrielsmate3 @celestialend

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@fandomarchiveilyd @nickishadow139 @angel-graces-world-of-chaos @okaytrashpanda

@celestialgilb @donnadiddadog

[r2d2lover]

Healing Touch Part 2

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Reader (QuidditchPlayer!Mattheo x Healer!Reader)

Rating: E

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: Unprotected sex, vaginal sex, F/M, cunnilingus, aged-up characters, Hogwarts Uni AU, fluff, like maybe angst

Summary:

Mattheo Riddle comes back for a check up and an answer. (AKA happy smutty October). Part 1.

“Mr. Riddle is back. He’s set up in the same bed as last night and only asking for you. Something about his arm not being set right. I thought I taught you better than that,” Madam Pomfrey scolded you the second you walked through the door to report for your shift. 

“Oh! Okay, I will check on him immediately,” You nearly dropped your items at the matron’s disapproval and hurry to set your things aside. You knew Mattheo said that he would be back the next day, but a part of you hoped that he had forgotten. You needed to buy more time to process what had happened between the two of you, so you had foolishly dodged him around the corridors and snuck food out of the dining hall just so he wouldn’t have an opportunity to corner you. You were surprised that he played you at your own game and decided to corner himself instead. You held your breath while you walked to the back of the infirmary while Madam Pomfrey gave you another look before disappearing into her office. With an embarrassingly shaky hand, you pulled back the curtains around Mattheo’s bed and revealed a smirk that drove a heat deep into your core. Mattheo leaned back in the bed, propped up with pillows with both of his arms folded behind his head. His expression didn’t change when he saw you; if anything, he seemed to grow more amused at the scowl etched into your face.

“I have a feeling you’ve been avoiding me,” Mattheo kicked his legs up on the bed with a big grin. “Now, do you want me to take my pants off or would you like the honors?”

“You can keep your pants on, thank you very much,” You sighed, turning away quickly so that Mattheo wouldn’t catch your reddened cheeks or creeping smile. You placed a temperature gauge into his mouth, which he opened up with a wink. You shook your head while rolling your eyes and a humored scoff, but still you brushed the back of your hand over his forehead and cheeks to feel for any clamminess. “I was told it was your arm that needed looking at.”

“Oh, I just had to say something that sounded serious enough for Pomfrey to let me wait on you,” Mattheo shrugged nonchalantly. “Your work is impeccable. I recovered fine after a good sleep and believe me, I slept really well after last night.”

“Your little stunt could put me on probation with Madam Pomfrey,” You frowned to fight your smile. You pulled out a fresh roll of bandages which delighted Mattheo greatly. He hooked his thumb through his belt loop and shook it in invitation. “And, by the way, I have not been avoiding you.”

“Oh really? Then maybe I was wrong. You don’t really seem the type to run and hide. You’re really bad at it, by the way,” Mattheo mocked. You bit down on your lip to save your pride while you started to undo Mattheo’s belt to get to his thigh. “Though, I will admit, I’m loving this new bashful side of you.”

“I’m not bashful, I’m just doing my job.”

“Are you really going to tell me you didn’t enjoy yourself last night? C’mon, you’re wounding my pride and I think there’s only one type of medicine that can fix it,” Mattheo watched you carefully as you slid his pants down. The memory of last night flooded your rationality and your mouth ran dry. Mattheo chuckled and assisted you in sliding his pants down further. You smiled upon inspection of your work, which was wrapped tightly enough that no extra bleeding seeped through. “Now you’re just a tease. Smiling at me with me exposed like this? Now’s not the time to act so innocent.”

“I told you it was a one time thing, Mattheo. If you need something for your pride, I’m sure you have a line of groupies who would gladly medicate you,” The moment you pressed the cold bandage shears against his leg, you could feel his entire body shiver, which in turn made you copy his movements. 

“Sure, but none of them are as cute as you. Or so adept with their fingers,” Mattheo let out a sigh of relief when you cut the bandage free, revealing a well healed scar thanks to magic. 

“Good news is that you don’t need another bandage. Your leg healed overnight,” You ignored Matteo’s joke and gave his leg a once over with the same salve from last night. He grabbed your wrist as a way to grab your attention. 

“Hey,” Mattheo’s eyes bore into yours. His gaze was much more serious than before and it made your skin erupt in goosebumps again. “I told you last night: This isn’t a joke. But if you want me to stop, I will.”

“I’m saving my own pride. You can’t blame me for questioning your intentions,” You reply, forcing the words past the stop in your throat. “Last night was fun, but that’s not really what I’m about.”

“This isn’t a one off thing for me, princess. I know that’s what you think of me, but you’ve patched me up more than once and you… you actually see me for who I am. Not my last name, not my jersey number, you know…” Mattheo ran a finger across your cheek before letting out a heavy sigh. You froze in place and let your mouth hang open while you tried to figure out a response. Is he serious? It’s all just a cliche. “Merlin… Did I misread this whole thing? Was your conversation just… good bedside manner? Please, just say something.”

“Mattheo- I… No, I do have feelings for you! I just- I…” You finally manage to spit something out in your flustered state. Your confession stuns the both of you into silence. Mattheo's eyes widened, a flicker of hope igniting in their depths. He leaned in closer, his warm breath fanning across your face. He opened his mouth but shut it quickly, but your heart was pounding so loudly in your ears that you wouldn’t have been able to hear a thing anyway.

“You do?” Mattheo croaked in disbelief.

“Yeah, I’m not great with feelings and such,” You laugh awkwardly. Mattheo shook his head and smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. You reached out and gently caressed the creases. He reached out in reply and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips lingering on your skin.

"I'm not great with them either," Mattheo admitted, his voice low and intimate. "But I know how I feel about you. I've known for a while now."

"I thought... I thought you just saw me as the team healer," You whispered, hardly daring to believe this was real. Your heart skipped a beat at his words. You searched his face, looking for any sign of deception, but all you saw was sincerity and warmth. Mattheo chuckled, shaking his head again.

"At first, maybe. But you're so much more than that. You're brilliant, kind, and you challenge me in ways no one else does. I can't stop thinking about you. In the infirmary… out of the infirmary," Mattheo’s voice deepened and he snaked his hand towards the back of your head. Your breath caught in your throat as Mattheo's fingers tangled in your hair. The warmth of his touch sent shivers down your spine, and you found yourself leaning into him, drawn by an invisible force. His eyes flickered to your lips and despite the two of you having seen each other naked, you never felt more vulnerable. "Merlin…May I...?"

You nodded, unable to form words. Mattheo closed the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a soft, hesitant kiss. It was gentle at first, a mere brush of lips, but it quickly deepened as years of pent-up emotions poured out. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat beneath your fingertips. You smiled slightly, an odd sense of pride bubbling at making the mighty Quidditch player nervous under your touch. Realizing where you were and on the clock no less, you had to pull away. When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless. Mattheo rested his forehead against yours, a smile playing on his lips.

“We actually can’t have sex in here again,” You scolded playfully. Mattheo stopped you before you could fully step away, his arm strong against your waist. “Madam Pomfrey isn’t too thrilled with me, remember?”

“Mmm, you’re no fun. Fine, I’ll restrain myself for now. Meet me in my dorm after dinner,” Mattheo let a brazen hand travel down to your ass and gave it a firm squeeze.

“What a romantic request,” You joked, pulling him off the bed. “Tell my boss I didn’t mess you up on your way out.”

“Will do, princess,” Mattheo spun you around for one final kiss. “And it wasn’t a request. It was a demand.”

Mattheo wasted no time in dragging you into his room after dinner ended. You barely had time to finish your meal before he marched over, made up some lie about needing your assistance with something, and pulled you out of the Great Hall with his arm protectively - no, possessively - slung across your waist. You laughed at the whispers and jealous looks thrown at the two of you, but let the man practically carry you out.

The moment the door to Mattheo's room closed behind you, he wasted no time in pressing you against it, his lips crashing onto yours with a hunger that made your knees weak. Your hands tangled in his curls as he deepened the kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth with a fervor that left you breathless.

"I've been waiting for this all day," Mattheo hummed against your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. You shivered, arching into him.

"Impatient, are we?" You teased, but your words were cut short by a gasp as he sucked on your pulse point.

"You have no idea," Mattheo murmured, his hands roaming your body with an urgency that matched his kisses. He slipped a feverishly warm hand up your shirt and began pulling the blouse apart with so much strength that you were worried the buttons would pop. "Do you know how hard it was to focus on Quidditch practice when all I could think about was you? I thought about falling off my broom just so you could come patch me up again."

“That’s pretty dark. You don’t have to go to such measures just for my attention,” You smirked, fumbling for his belt. You dragged a hand over the building tension of his pants, causing him to groan.

“Lose the attitude or I’ll lose it for you,” Mattheo warned, raking his fingers down your body. He stopped at your breast, tugging the perched bud to make you moan, then moved down to the thin fabric of your underwear. Your breath hitched as Mattheo's fingers danced along the edge of your underwear, teasing but not quite touching where you desperately wanted him. He slowly slid a finger between you and the fabric and grinned. “So wet for me already. Does being a brat turn you on?”

You could only moan in response and squirmed against the door, trying to create more friction, but he held you firmly in place with his other hand. His finger traced lazy circles, deliberately ignoring your clit that practically pulsed with desire.

"Answer me," Mattheo demanded, his voice low and husky.

"Yes, I do. But I’ll be good! I’ll be so good…" You whined, your hips bucking involuntarily. "Please, Mattheo."

"That's more like it. I love it when you beg," Mattheo chuckled darkly, finally slipping a finger inside you. Your head fell into his chest with a gasp as he began working his finger. With the little composure you had left, you unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off of him with frenzied greed. You could see the fabric of his shirt bunch up as you frantically unbuttoned it, revealing the toned muscles beneath. Thank you, Quidditch. 

You started placing kisses on his neck, eager to move your mouth down to his chest. You could taste the bitterness of his cologne, but the warm taste of his skin took over your senses. As your lips moved down his neck, you could hear Mattheo's breathing growing heavier and more ragged. He hastily tangled his hands in your hair and pulled it back up to press it against the door. 

“Get on the bed,” Mattheo growled, tearing himself off of you. You obeyed and shed yourself of the rest of your clothes before lying back on his unmade bed. You propped yourself up on your elbows to watch Mattheo to work on your poor attempt at undoing his belt. Mattheo's own fingers fumbled with the buckle, his usual dexterity hindered by his burning desire. You couldn't help but smirk at his struggle, a small act of defiance even as you lay exposed before him. Finally, he managed to undo his belt and pants, letting them fall to the floor with a soft thud. He was a sign of divinity proven in a full view of his carved muscles and dark briefs. You licked your lips, practically drooling at the sight. 

Mattheo climbed on top of you for a quick kiss of desperation while his hand returned to your breast. He massaged the soft flesh, flexing his fingers deep into the mound. His lips quickly moved down to the rest of your body, stopping like his hand did on your breast earlier and taking your nipple in between his teeth. You let out a shrill cry and pressed your back up to meet his mouth. However, he kept moving his mouth down further until he reached your core. Mattheo's breath was hot against your sensitive skin, causing you to shiver with anticipation. He looked up at you, his eyes dark with lust, before dipping his head and running his tongue along your folds. You gasped, your hands instinctively grasping at the sheets beneath you. Your hand flew to his hair, but he laced his fingers with yours and held it against the bed. His skilled mouth worked you into a frenzy, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick flicks of his tongue. Your hips bucked against his face, seeking more friction, more pleasure. You chanted his name and squeezed his hand tighter as his tongue worked you. Mattheo's strong hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he continued. You could feel the pressure building, a coiling heat in your lower abdomen that threatened to consume you. Just as you were about to reach your peak, Mattheo pulled away, leaving you panting and desperate. 

“Mattheo, I was so close-” You whined pathetically. Mattheo shook his head with a sinister grin. 

“That’s for your attitude and your cheeky little smirk earlier,” Mattheo licked his lips of your arousal. He crawled back up your body, pressing his lips to yours in a searing kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, and it only intensified your desire. His hand trailed down your side, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He hooked his hands under your legs and pulled you closer to him while pressing your knees to your chest. You felt the blunt tip of his arousal pressing against your entrance, teasing you mercilessly. Mattheo's eyes locked with yours, silently asking for permission. You nodded eagerly, your body trembling with need.

With a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered you, stretching you deliciously. You both moaned in unison as he filled you completely. Mattheo stilled for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size. It was different than the purely needy fever from last night, as if he trying to claim every inch of you. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling in the charged air between you.

“Fuck. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to your size,” You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut so that you would only be able to feel his every inch working you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, urging him to move. Mattheo obliged, starting with slow, deep strokes that had you gasping for air. His hips rolled against yours in a steady rhythm and he intertwined your hands with his, pressing you down into the bed while he started to move faster. You struggled to open your eyes as he started to scratch the spot you needed, but you knew that he would’ve wanted you to look at him.

“And I don’t even need to ask,” Mattheo snapped his hips with a grunt. “Such a good girl.”

The intensity of his gaze was almost too much to bear as he watched your every reaction, savoring each gasp and moan that escaped your lips. Mattheo's pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more forceful as he drove deeper into you. You mewled with every movement of his hips and let his name roll off your lips in drunken lust. The previous coiling heat in your abdomen returned with a vengeance, threatening to overwhelm you. Your fingers dug into his shoulders as you clung to him, desperate for more. Mattheo seemed to sense your need, angling his hips to hit that perfect spot inside you with each thrust. The pressure built higher and higher, your body trembling on the edge of release.

“Please, Mattheo,” You begged helplessly, bringing your hips up to meet his. Every word that followed was a filthily desperate drawl. “I’ve been good! You said I was good… I’m your good girl.”

“What a dirty mouth, but you can do better than that,” Mattheo dug his fingers into your thighs with a matched need.

“Mmm- I’m so close. Please, can I cum? Please,” You pleaded with no shame. Mattheo let out another growl and moved his hand down to your clit. 

"That's it, let go for me," Mattheo panted, watching you come undone beneath him with dark, hungry eyes. The combination of his skilled fingers and relentless thrusts pushed you over the edge. Your back arched off the bed as waves of pleasure crashed over you, your walls clenching around him as you cried out his name. Mattheo groaned at the sensation, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release. Your vision blurred with the white hot stars of desire and Mattheo followed soon after. Your body trembled as aftershocks rolled through you, but Mattheo didn't slow his pace. He gripped your hips tightly, angling you just right as he pounded into you. The overstimulation bordered on too much, yet you craved more. 

The moment stalled when Mattheo’s hips did and your breath finally caught up to you. He collapsed on the bed next to you, practically on top of you because of the small space. Your chest heaved as you struggled to catch your breath, your body still tingling from the intense climax. Mattheo's warm weight pressed against you, his skin slick with sweat. You turned your head to look at him, taking in his flushed cheeks and tousled hair. His eyes met yours, softer this time. He pressed a kiss on your forehead and lightly massaged your still-trembling thighs. Your fingers lazily traced patterns on Mattheo's chest, feeling the strong beat of his heart beneath your palm. He hummed appreciatively at your touch, his own hand skimming up and down your spine.

"That was..." You trailed off, unable to find the right words.

"Incredible? Mind-blowing? The best you've ever had?" Mattheo patted down your wild hair. 

"Don't get cocky," You rolled your eyes but couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. Mattheo let out a laugh before rolling back over you and covering you in kisses while you squealed. With him hovering over you, you could only smile and drink in his beautiful face. The gentle curve of his jaw, the sparkle in his eyes, the slight dimple that appeared when he smiled at you - all of it belonged to you now. As his mouth met yours, you felt like the real champion.

Divider by @chachachannah

[ginsengkitten]

☆ Hint by ginsengkitten ☆

☆ Slash One - Shot

☆ A/N: giggling and kicking my legs

☆ Synopsis

Current Slash starts taking favor of his young new assistant.

☆ Tags: heavy smut, age gap, daddy k!nk, size k!nk, fluff, praise

☆

At some point, the agency had contracted you out as an assistant for Slash. It was rumored that he had selected you specifically by his own request. It was a big job for you, but you admit you were such a fan of GNR, so you accepted graciously at the opportunity. You were young and new to the industry, but committed to doing your best! It ended up not being too difficult really. His primary Manager had delegated to you some basic duties like scheduling, errands and random loose ends type of things, and the rest of the time was usually free to hang around. You’d met Slash briefly when you were hired, but for the most part he remained a hidden figure behind the curtain with a few brief meetings.

He was preparing to release a new solo album, so things were a bit crazy recently. Maybe that’s why he had requested your assistance more and more. He’d specifically ask you for things that his primary manager could have done. Small things but in a closer vicinity to him. Getting coffee, organizing, etc. Rumors began to spill of favoritism. Soon, wherever slash was, you also followed behind. Paparazzi also began to take notice. Due to the large age gap, rumors spanned from you being his “daughter from secret affair?” Or even londons girlfriend. It was no secret that Slash had taken favor of you. You didn’t mind one bit. Plus, you always had found older men attractive, and he was no exception. It definitely made the job easier. However, conversations and interactions remained a professional surface level. Well, except for the time he accidentally brushed up behind you in the tour bus. Simple mistake. Or the time you caught him staring at your legs when you wore a skirt to work for the first time. Also a simple mistake. No need to make a fuss. Any attention from him was preferable honestly. You became addicted to it. -

The conference room was stuffy and full of the usual music heads and managers. Briefing Slash on certain agenda items for his album release, metrics, things of that boring nature. You sat in your usual seat, the seat that one day, suddenly had your name written on a place card on it. And everyone knew it to be your spot. Coincidentally the spot was directly across from Slash’s usual seat as well. Giving each-other a perfectly clear view of one another. Your seat was a high sitting directors chair in the corner of the room. It lifted you high up off the floor, almost like a pedestal. You’d sit every meeting there and take your notes as instructed. Almost like a trophy he was showing off. One time- a guest had mistakenly sat there before you, and Slash, with his rockstar power, declined to begin the meeting until you had your seat back, and made the guest switch with you. And then he’d watch you. The entire meeting. Glances and gazes over at you. He’d appear so concentrated on the meeting but you could always see him looking at you in between words. You secretly loved feeling his eyes on you. Watching you like a Hawk.

-

It was a busy week, and finally the weekend. You’d wrap up items around the house and prepare for Slash to come home and then normally, you’d take off before he got there. When it would be a few days before you’d see him again, you began playing a little game. You would leave small hints of yourself around his bedroom for him to find. One time it was your necklace on his dresser, then another was a spritz of your perfume on his pillow. Your lipstick on his bathroom countertop. He had caught on but never addressed it or asked you to stop. So you didn’t. A continuing tension between the two of you would rise. Each conversation still seemingly so surface level. Never very long or un work related really.

You were just finishing up things and decided to leave your hint in his closet. You loved this playful game you’d invented and he did too. You couldn’t think of anything to leave as the hint this time. Shoot. Then a wild idea struck you and you grinned devilishly at the thought. Would it be too far? Too risky? It could cost you your job. But fuck it would be so good! You knew it would be. You decided to risk it.

-

The next day on your day off, your manager called you and asked if you could run into work. Said it was an emergency, and Slash had requested you. Shit Shit Shit. You second guess everything. Fuck- okay well, this is it then. End of your career.

You dolled yourself up as you always did. You did your typical Barrettes in your hair. And the usual skirt and blouse. Nothing crazy.

You entered slashes house. Closing the large door behind you as you slipped in. It was quiet. You could smell the cigarette smoke from upstairs. You took your usual route around and then made your way to his office in the den.

“Knock Knock.” You nervously poked your head into the office. Slash was sitting at his large desk, that he himself made seem tiny from his own stocky and built up stature. “Hi Y/N” He greeted you politely enough. “You wanted to see me….?” You continue nervously. “Yeah, I did. Why don’t you come in here doll.” He requested. The nickname gave your heart a little flutter. You obeyed and stepped in fully. His eyes instantly scanning your body up and down. Glued to you. So unapologetically gazing at you like a piece of meat. “W-what’s up?” You ask. “Come over here sweetheart.” He commands with the beckon of his large, ringed fingers. You obey and join him behind his desk. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out your hint.

The black lace panties you had worn yesterday, you had hid them in his jacket pocket. The jacket you knew he would be wearing to a meeting earlier this morning. “I believe you left something of yours.” He says. Your stomach drops. “I-I oh my god I’m so sorry I -“ you start to scramble but he suddenly reaches out and pulls you closer to him with his large hand around your waist. You stood in between his spread legs. “Shhh doll. You can be loud later.” He says. Wait what? You start to blush. He traces your face and tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear gently. “My pretty girl….” He whispers in a trance as he eyes you. Your heart thumping wildly.

Your legs weak with desire and adrenaline as you stare back at him with Bambi eyes. He patted his lap, ushering you up. You pause for just a moment. “Come here baby. Come to Daddy.” He coos and pulls you up onto his lap in a straddle. Instantly you feel his hardness pressing up onto your panties under your skirt. His large hands cup your ass under your skirt and start toying with your hemline from behind. “Am I…in trouble?” You ask earnestly. He chuckles low and heavy. “Well, there has to be some repercussion doll..” he says as suddenly he lifts up your skirt and lays a hard smack on your ass cheek. The metal rings increasing the impact. You let out a gasp of pain and feel him bulge under you. He smiles devilishly at your pain. You’re too stunned to speak but really don’t have much to say except that you don’t want this to stop. He cradles your neck in his hand and pulls you to his land plants his lips on yours. You immediately reciprocate.

Things get sloppy and heavy quickly. You connect with wet passionate kisses. Months of tension and craving unleashed. You grind your hips into him and rub yourself on his hardened bulge. He lets out a pleasured grunt and you a series of soft moans. It feels so good you just want more but he stops you. “Be a good girl for daddy and get on your knees.” He commands. You happily comply and slip down to the floor in between his open legs. He unzips his jeans and releases his thick hard cock. He gives it a few pumps as he looks at you. “Such a pretty girl down on her knees for me huh?” He coos. He smacks your face lightly with his reddened bulging dick and you open your mouth for him to enter. He slips inside your mouth and fills it completely to the throat as he lets out a long groan. “Fuck sweetie.” He instantly grabs a fistful of your hair and starts face fucking you to the point that tears well in the corners of your eyes but you don’t wish to stop. He watches you through repeated loud scratchy moans. “That’s a good girl, that’s my pretty girl.” He huffs.

After choking, he drags your head off of him in strings of spit. “You’re my pretty girl aren’t you? You’re just for me.” He coos down at your disheveled state as you pant for air. He helps you up onto your feet, only briefly before pick you up effortlessly and place you on the desk. He leans in and kisses you again, forcing your legs to open with him standing between. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you doll.” He whispers in between wet sloppy kisses. Goosebumps run throughout your body like wildfire. “Really?” You ask in disbelief. “I knew it from the moment I chose you. My doll. My perfect doll.” He cooed again cradling your face roughly in his big hands.

His stature towered over you. He traced his fingers up your skirt along your thighs. You felt the cold metal of his rings along your skin. He thumbed your clit through your panties. “This is mine too.” He whispered, as you feel a finger slide into you. A moan escaped your mouth. “So wet for me already sweetness?” He held the back of your neck as he pumped two fingers into your pussy. He let out of soft groans of pleasure and satisfaction just from pleasing you. “I think its time to make you mine little doll.” He pulls out of you.

The two of you make your way - one clothing item falling to the floor with each step, onto the large pillowy sofa by the fireplace in the den. He throws you down onto the sofa. He towers over you, his eyes eat up your naked body as he gives his cock a few strokes. “Open those legs for me.” He travels his big calloused hands up your chest as he pushes into you. You both moan in unison. “Fuck you’re a tight little minx aren’t you?” He groans huskily. He swiftly starts pumping into you mercilessly. His size filling up your entire abdomen. You let out yelps of pain mixed with utter pleasure with each thrust. He smirks at each noise you make. “That’s my good girl, taking it all in that tight pussy. You’re doing so good doll.” He coos out.

Sweat beading on his brow as his dark gorgeous curls bounced around his face into yours. “You’re mine now. Mine.” Sweat beading down his happy trail and up his muscular, thick body. His grip on you was tight as he pounded stars into you. “That pretty body. You’re mine sweetness.” He said as he bit into your neck greedily sucking on your skin. More pain with more pleasure. His massive stature overpowered you and you felt like you might break in two if he wasn’t careful. Knots were tying in your tummy as the pleasure increased. “Oh fuck Slash-feels so-fucking good.” You moan. “P-please don’t stop.” You whimper out.

Your desperate whimpers leave him smirking, sending him to the edge as you came to it as well. “I-I’m gonna-“ “Cum for me sweet girl, my little minx, cum for daddy.” He encouraged. He had you seeing stars as you rode out your orgasm on his cock. Your walls tighten around his cock which sends him over.” Oh that’s it, that’s daddy’s good girl. I’m gonna fill you with my cum now doll.” With quick hastened thrusts you feel his warm cum flood your walls. The two of you panting as he leaves you. He kisses you and pats your hair tenderly. “You did so good. My perfect pretty doll.” His obsession with you was so magnetic and addicting. “I didn’t know you liked older men so much Y/N.” Slash smirked teasingly. You blush incessantly.

“I’m going to take such good care of you doll. You just wait. You’re mine now, all mine.”