#crafted studio apartments

[zeloinator]

Redecorating my ffxiv small housing garden for having it (and the house in general) be a good hangout spot for the static and A Corner Torments Me (pls pls pls just give me 5 more spots 10 if youre feeling kind ;-; 20 spots is not enough for a garden)

[dontpulloutman]

singer!yn x lewis pullman headcanons

an accompaniment to favorite muse !

like two cosmic entities, you two have been circling each other for years before you properly meet.

gaining fame and your celebrity status before the age of 18 doesn’t change the fact that you are a fangirl at heart. suddenly being invited to afterparties and high-profile events, you took the time to socialize, mingle, and meet the people who you only saw on your screen.

in one of those post-award show parties, you meet eden brolin. you’re both talking about music, how you’re at the height of yours, and how she and her band are in hibernation, when she gestures for someone to join you.

sporting a shy smile, lewis makes his way over to you. your eyes are stuck on his smile, ears tingling with his laughter when eden makes a witty remark you didn’t catch. you’re enchanted, captivated.

this is only the beginning.

songwriting has always been your strongest suit. as you always said, without it, you wouldn’t have it all. for almost a year, your relationship with harry has been on a steady decline. songwriting is how you’ve learned to cope with and understand it.

lewis was the one who helped you heal through it.

back and forth from new york to rhode island; los angeles and oddly enough, a home studio at lew’s montana ranch, your album was crafted. in this, you poured out your feelings and thoughts regarding your relationship with harry.

(if, in a few years, fans realize your entire album photoshoot took place in lewis’s montana ranch, what harm would it do? you can’t blame eagle eyed fans from connecting his recent 2024-2025 interview backgrounds to your album photobook)

after such a publicized relationship, you knew you had to take some time for yourself. never mind the fact that the internet always had something new to say about your breakup, how you’ve basically gone non-existent while harry has been spotted walking around with a new girl every other month.

in those months of hiding, you find your friendship with lewis developing into something more.

knowing looks, longing stares, and the feel of a warm hand against the small of your back. everywhere you went; out with friends, intimate gatherings with industry peers - he became your immediate and automatic plus one. it’s understandable; he’s your best friend.

one night, while sequestered in your new york apartment, deep into your second glass of wine, your eyes meet lew’s from across the sofa. there’s soft jazz playing from the record player, and you can’t stop your eyes from tracing the stubble he’s growing. you want to feel it against your fingertips.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you have a secret you need to tell.”

you bend down, putting your wineglass on the carpeted floor. slowly, eyes never leaving his, you get on your hands and knees, and crawl across the sofa to where he’s seated. back against the corner of the L-shape couch, his hands immediately move to your hips.

“Do I?” there’s a shit-eating grin on your face

you’re not sure who leaned in first, the world is totally blocked out. nothing to feel, nothing to think, nothing to see, except the press of his lips, earthquakes in your core, and fireworks behind your eyes.

like they say, the rest is history.

your relationship settles like puzzle pieces that have always been meant to be. “It makes total sense,” is the general consensus you hear from friends. even lew’s parents have mentioned how they’ve been expecting it.

2018

lewis joins the ensemble cast for Bad Times at the El Royale; it’s been two years since things ended with harry, and 4 months since this new, beautiful, yet still fragile relationship with lew started. you celebrate his new role by cooking dinner together, and watching your favorite films on the couch.

you also begin to write and produce songs for other artists

2022

top gun: maverick and press play.

at this point, you haven’t released any of your own songs. sure, your fans know that you’re making music, and you’ve joined in on a few collaborations with other artists, but people have been dying to hear from you.

it’s not something you’re worrying over. supporting lewis’s career, simply being there when Big Heart Manners and Crab Park were made and recorded; it’s easy to fall into domestic bliss with the love of your life

2023

and still, he never stops encouraging you to release your own songs again. with festering and long-awaited inspiration, you start to work on muses & anecdotes. a 13-part love letter dedicated to the man you know you couldn’t live without.

2024

after an accidental post on instagram, you both decided it was time to let the world know. releasing muses & anecdotes, and the accompanying “hard launch” posted on instagram, you felt a newfound freedom. almost like the weight of the past few years have been lifted, a declaration of starting anew. the whole world learning of your love with lewis was like a new page being turned.

your story has barely begun.

[coralquill]

I read your witch mc headcannon and lemme say, I love it. I have anotheR supernatural request if you don't mind. I wanted to request a vampire MC who drinks blood of others except the boy's bc she doesn't want to hurt them and what they're reaction would be to that and maybe how they'd ask her to drink theirs. KEEP UP THE AMAZING WORK 👏

ahoy, thank you for requesting! thank you for the kind words and im glad you enjoyed the witch reader hcs! this was also a fun piece to write i love writing requests out of what im used to. hope you enjoy!

pairings: xavier x reader || zayne x reader || rafayel x reader || sylus x reader || caleb x reader

contents: vampire reader, blood mention, biting, comedy, suggestive || wc.1221

— XAVIER

It was well known that Xavier cooks, (ahem, cough,) and he used garlic in most of his dishes to enhance the flavors. So after hours of slaving at the stove, he'd invite you to have a late lunch with him, and you accepted. Though on the table, you'd avoid eating anything garlic, having just the salad, the appetizers, and the fresh juices.

From his observations later on, he discovered you were a vampire—no garlic, avoiding silver and the sun, and a shifted sleep schedule.

Xavier would make adjustments to accommodate you, from banning garlic from his apartment to throwing away all silverware, making you feel more welcome in his world. Though, whenever the two of you shared a meal together, he always wondered, do vampires not need to drink blood to keep them alive and going? Human meals surely didn't fill up your daily energy quota, and he never saw you draw any blood from any source.

On finding out you fed on other people, he'd straddle you, keeping you in place and demanding you to feed on him, and only him.

And you could only accept, as the angry pout he had was working against you and making it hard to refuse.

— ZAYNE

Zayne would notice that something was up with you with how you were acting around certain shiny metal and certain aromatic dishes whenever he went out with you. His theories about you being a vampire were soon confirmed when you came to him late at night with a nasty burn on your hand.

You affirmed that you were indeed a vampire and were in dire need of immediate medical attention, and Zayne would tend to your burn at the best of his medical knowledge—at least, as much as it could apply to vampires.

Zayne wouldn't prefer you drinking blood from strangers as it could hold diseases and illnesses. He'd offer his blood to you, and he'd make sure he always stayed clean of anything, keeping his blood healthy.

Zayne would suggest packing you a fresh pint of his blood whenever you needed to part ways for a while. "Here take this with you." He slipped the bag into your backpack. He added ice cubes from his Evol to keep it cool and fresh for longer. "Drink it when you need to."

The smell of his blood wafted in the air, and it smelled so good. Your pupils dilated, grinning cheekily, "You think I could resist drinking your blood in the first hours of my trip?"

Zayne smiled and leaned in for a kiss, but you leaned in further to kiss the mark you had left on his neck.

— RAFAYEL

The first thing Rafayel would notice was that you didn't have reflections whenever you passed the mirrors of the studio—was it a Wanderer's curse? An Evol's effect perhaps?

He then noticed that whenever he got papercuts or small cuts from using sharp tools, your head would whip around, eyes zeroing in on the cut every single time—okay, you were definitely a blood-sucking creature.

"So you're a vampire." He'd point out casually, hands busy with the tools he crafted with.

You nodded. "I am."

"You never asked me to drink my blood. Kind of rude." He pouted. "How did you survive?"

"I went after random others. Didn't want to hurt you."

Rafayel scoffed, clearly offended that you drank blood from strangers rather than him.

Rafayel would make it his mission to seduce you by wearing wide, open collar shirts and sitting under open windows, allowing the sun to hit his skin in the most enticing angles—and it was working.

He was a temptation like no other.

You pounced and sank your canines into his neck.

Rafayel grinned at first, happy to be the victor in this little game he played, but moments after, his expression faltered at the delicious sting he felt.

"Oh."

You needed to be careful with your intakes as Lemurian blood was addicting, and you wouldn't want your little fishy to dry up!

— SYLUS

Sylus hoards shiny things. Gems, gold, and silver. Most of his kitchenware and utensils were made of silver: the water goblets he drank from, the plates he ate from, and the forks he took bites with. But when you told him you couldn't eat from them because you were a vampire and they'd burn you, he'd taken them out and locked them in a vault away from you to ensure you never crossed paths with what hurts you.

Sylus would keep you company at night, both of you having a common enemy—The Sun. Sylus and you would go on late night escapades and spread mischief in your wakes; brooding atop the tallest skyscrapers at the end of a well-spent night was a must.

Upon learning that you satiate your quench for blood by drinking from others, he wouldn't allow it again.

"But I don't want to hurt you," you said, worry clouding your eyes.

Sylus's eyes softened. "You don't have to worry about that." He reassured you he could self-heal and that whatever skin rips and marks you'd leave on him, he'd patch them up with his Evol.

Sylus would pull you into his lap and offer his neck, silently inviting you to drink as much as you needed.

After you were done drinking, all the blood that dripped would dissipate with swirls of his energy Evol, but the two canine punctures stayed. You had left your mark on him, and he was proudly wearing it.

— CALEB

[Notes: Things Pip-squeak avoids:]

No silver—check.

Caleb would get rid of all silver tools in his house when he saw you avoid touching them.

No garlic—check.

Once Caleb noticed a recurring pattern of you not eating garlic-flavored meals, he substituted all the garlic spices and stopped cooking recipes centered around garlic altogether.

No sunlight—check.

Caleb would cover the windows of his house with films to block the sun but were translucent enough to allow the light to brighten the rooms. He'd hang umbrellas next to all the doors for you to use whenever you left the house.

With days passing, Caleb would notice more unusual things you avoided or did. He noted your shift in sleep schedule. You usually slept through daylight and woke up in the late hours of the night. So naturally, Caleb opened up his notes app to add this tidbit about you.

Shifted sleep schedule—check.

Caleb read through the points he had written over time, and, oh—those weren't just points about quirks specific to you, but rather Caleb's accidental discovery that you were a vampire.

He'd obliquely market his blood to you, indirectly telling you to feed on him. He cooked his own meals, ate healthy, trained regularly, and was active most of the days of the week, and that was enough to keep his body pumping healthy blood.

But if that wasn't enough to get you to drink from his blood, he'd tell you flat out that he wanted you to need him and use him for your bloody needs. The mark you'd leave on him would be on the left side of his neck where his good arm was to ensure there'd be the most blood flow for you, (and he wanted to feel your bite every time.)

likes and reblogs will always be appreciated ♡ let me know what you think!

— set sail for more tales, sailor: ⚲masterlist

— until next tide, thanks for docking by ｡𖦹°‧𓇼

© coralquill 2025 – do not copy, steal, or translate my work.

[catiroll]

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ

Ambessa Medarda x Personal Assistant Reader

Synopsis: Her protective and possessive side shows when you want to leave her side. A/N: Contains possessive behavior, Manipulation, Power dynamic, Alittle sexual tension. also hint of yandere behavoir. Reader is younger than her

You had always been more than just a tailor to Ambessa. From the very first time you entered her life, you had become something irreplaceable—not only to her but to her daughter Mel as well.

You weren’t as young as Mel, but you were closer to her age than Ambessa’s, a few years older, just enough to serve as a bridge between the ferocity of bessa and the fragility of Mel’s youthful spirit. Your bond with Mel had always been gentle—nurturing, protective, and maternal in a way that Ambessa was never able to provide. While Ambessa’s presence in Mel’s life was powerful, intimidating, and sometimes suffocating, you had quietly stood in the background, a safe haven when Mel needed someone to lean on.

You were the one who had whispered to her when she was struggling with a design, the one who had reassured her when her dreams seemed too big for this world. You were there on the days when Mel couldn’t approach her mother, when Ambessa’s fierce nature pushed her too far away, leaving Mel to retreat into herself.

Your relationship with Ambessa, however, was a different matter entirely. You were more than just a confidante, more than someone who crafted her most beautiful and lethal designs—you were her family, her trusted ally. You’d stood by her side for years, helping to shape her image and her empire, and over time, you’d become as indispensable to her as she was to you.

But it was your role as a mother figure to Mel that set you apart, the one thing that had always been a subtle thorn in Ambessa’s side. She had never let anyone get too close to her daughter, never trusted anyone with Mel in quite the same way. Yet, somehow, you had slipped through the cracks. You had earned that trust—not with grand gestures or fiery speeches, but with quiet devotion and years of loyalty.

For years, you had been a constant in both their lives, a silent protector for Mel and a quiet but irreplaceable ally for bessa. It was a delicate balance, one that you had always maintained without truly questioning it. But lately, something had shifted. You could feel it—a slow burn building under the surface, a need to break free and see what else the world had to offer.

It was a late afternoon when bessa arrived for a fitting. She walked into your studio with the same imposing presence she always carried, her steps measured, her eyes sharp. Yet today, something about her demeanor was different, more tense, as if the usual calm confidence she exuded was laced with something unspoken.

she reached for the fabric you were smoothing over her body. She didn’t speak immediately but instead let the moment stretch, her eyes watching your hands. Ambessa’s gaze softened, and a faint smile tugged at her lips.

You were adjusting the hem of one of her gowns when she spoke, her voice breaking the silence in a way that caught your attention.

"You have such gentle hands," she said, her voice unexpectedly tender. "I love how your smaller hands mold the fabric to me... it’s like you’re shaping not just the gown, but something deeper. Your touch is... different. It’s like you hold the power, even in these delicate movements."

You froze, momentarily caught off guard by the praise. It felt heavier than usual, as though her words weren’t just about your skill with fabric, but something more personal. The sensation of her words lingered in the air, and you felt the weight of the trust she placed in you.

"…although, You’ve been distant lately," she said, her tone casual, but there was an edge there. "What’s going on with you?"

Ambessa stepped a little closer as you continued to adjust the gown. Her muscles shifted beneath the fabric, and you couldn’t help but notice how the strength in her body contrasted with your own gentleness. Your fingers brushed lightly over her skin as you continued your work, but this time, the touch felt charged. You tried to block out the growing sense of desire, but her presence, her body, made it hard to focus. She was right—there was power in these small movements, in the way you shaped her, the way she allowed you to.

You straightened up, meeting her eyes. "Nothing," you replied easily, but your voice betrayed you. The exhaustion in your tone was unmistakable, something Ambessa always noticed. "Just... thinking."

She stepped closer, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Thinking?" she repeated, as if the word itself didn’t quite fit. "About what?"

You set the fabric aside, your fingers brushing against the soft silk as you turned to face her fully. "About the future," you said, your voice steady despite the undercurrent of uncertainty within you. "I’ve been doing this for years, Ambessa. It’s not that I’m tired of it—it’s just... I’m starting to wonder if there’s more out there for me."

Ambessa tilted her head slightly, her gaze never leaving you. She was sharp, perceptive, and you knew the moment she realized what you were getting at. "More?" she echoed, her voice quiet but laced with something darker. "Are you saying you want to leave?"

You shook your head, trying to ease the tension. "No. I’m not saying that. I just..." You paused, trying to find the right words. "I want a new challenge. Something else to work toward. Something different."

"you sound like mel" she said faintly, more like she was saying it to herself. understanding this you ignore the comment.

Meeting the older women’s gaze you notice how she’s studying you with that sharp, calculating gaze. You could feel her eyes tracing the lines of your body, picking up every detail, every nuance in your behavior.

“What could you possibly need that I don’t already provide?" she asked, her tone suddenly sharp, like a blade hidden beneath velvet. Her eyes flickered with something that resembled anger—then something else, something harder, darker.

You met her gaze, unfazed by her sudden shift in attitude. "Nothing," you said, your voice even. "But I’m not just a tailor. I want to push myself further. Explore what else is out there."

Ambessa’s silence was thick, and you could feel her studying you, her calculating gaze boring into you as though trying to dissect the very essence of your words. "You’ve been with me for so long," she said slowly, each word heavy with meaning. "I’ve trusted you, depended on you. And now, you’re telling me you want more? What does that mean for us?"

You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you turned back to the gown, letting the silence hang between you. The air felt thick now, the quiet oppressive, like the calm before a storm.

"You’re not going anywhere," Ambessa finally said, her voice a low growl, her presence more forceful now, as though trying to anchor you in place. "You belong here. You belong with me."

Her words rang out with an undeniable authority, and you couldn’t help but feel the weight of them—the possessiveness in her voice, the unspoken claim she laid on you. It was a truth you had known for years: Ambessa didn’t take kindly to anyone she considered hers stepping away. You had become too entwined in her life, in her world, to simply walk away without consequence.

You tried to ease the tension, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I’m not leaving, Ambessa. I’m just... considering my options. It’s not about you. It’s about me."

Her gaze softened ever so slightly, but the tightness in her jaw remained. "I won’t let you go," she murmured, her words almost a promise. "You’ve been with me for too long. You’ve helped me build this. You are mine, and I won’t let anyone take you from me."

You knew then, in that moment, that she wasn’t just talking about the work. She wasn’t just talking about the gowns you created for her. Ambessa was speaking of something deeper—something far more dangerous. She was speaking about possession.

You tried to ease the tension, offering a small, reassuring smile. "I’m not leaving, Ambessa. I’m just... considering my options. It’s not about you. It’s about me."

Ambessa’s gaze softened ever so slightly, but the tightness in her jaw remained. "I won’t let you go," she murmured, her words almost a promise. "You’ve been with me for too long. You’ve helped me build this. You are mine, and I won’t let anyone take you from me."

Every glance, every word, felt weighted with something unspoken, a quiet understanding that things were changing. She could feel it, and so could you.

And so, when she invited you over for dinner that evening—an offer that had once been casual, familiar—you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was different. There was an unspoken challenge in the air, a game being played without either of you fully acknowledging it.

As you arrived at her estate, the familiar scents of cooking wafted through the air, but there was an unusual stillness to the house. Ambessa had already set the table, the atmosphere quieter than usual, and you could tell she was waiting for something—waiting for you to make a move, to finally say the words that had been hanging between you for days.

Dinner passed in relative silence, save for the occasional clink of silverware against porcelain. The food was delicious, as always, but there was something off about the whole evening, an underlying tension that neither of you could ignore. You felt it in the way Ambessa’s gaze lingered on you, how her eyes followed every movement you made. It was as though she was waiting for you to finally let the mask slip and reveal your true thoughts. But you weren’t ready to speak the words yet.

The silence stretched on, filling the space between you both, until the last plate was cleared. Ambessa’s voice broke the stillness again, her words carefully measured, but the sharpness in them was unmistakable.

"You still haven’t told me what this... new challenge of yours is," she said, her voice soft but edged with a possessiveness that sent a ripple of unease down your spine. She wasn’t asking out of curiosity anymore. She was testing you, trying to push you into revealing what had been hanging over you like a shadow.

You hesitated for a moment, your fingers lightly tapping on the edge of your glass as you weighed your words. "I’ve been thinking of working with someone else. Maybe... someone who needs a new direction. Someone who needs my skills, my creativity. Something different."

Ambessa’s hand froze on her glass, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the stem. The subtle shift in her demeanor was enough to make your heart race. Her eyes, once warm and steady, were now colder, sharper, calculating. There was a moment where the world seemed to stop, where you could feel the pressure in the air growing heavier, as though she was waiting for something more, something she knew she might not like.

"What do you mean? Who is this ‘someone’?" she asked, her voice cold now, laced with a possessive edge. "Who else could possibly need you more than I do?"

You knew that the question wasn’t as much about the "someone" as it was about your answer. She wanted to know where your loyalty truly lay. The words hung in the air, and you found yourself considering just how much you were willing to reveal.

"I’m not sure yet," you said, your voice steady, but there was a subtle edge of defiance in it. "But I have to find out. For myself."

Ambessa’s gaze didn’t waver. Her eyes narrowed, and the familiar storm cloud you had been anticipating began to form behind her composed exterior. She leaned forward just a fraction, her gaze darkening. The silence between you now was thick and suffocating, and you could feel her struggle to maintain control.

A thought flitted through your mind—a fleeting image of someone who had been in touch with you recently, Cassandra Kirriman. You hadn’t spoken about it aloud, but the idea of working with her, moving to Piltover, was starting to seem more appealing. The prospect of a new challenge, a fresh environment, of doing something entirely different was becoming increasingly tempting. You hadn’t voiced it, but it had been there—something in the back of your mind. You didn’t have a specific person or place in mind, but Piltover… it felt like it could be the place where you could carve out a new path.

Ambessa’s sharp eyes caught the fleeting thought in your gaze, the shift in your posture. Her lips pressed together into a thin line. The quiet understanding between you felt like it was cracking.

She was aware of your connection with Cassandra, of course. You had kept it brief, but Ambessa, ever observant, had picked up on the mentions, the small exchanges between you and the Kirriman family. Piltover. The city that had lured her daughter away. The city that had taken what Ambessa had treasured most. That realization was the turning point, the unspoken truth that hit her like a wave.

But Ambessa didn’t say it aloud. She couldn’t bring herself to. Not in front of you. Not yet. The connection was too raw, too personal. Her daughter had left for Piltover, leaving Ambessa to wrestle with the hollow ache of abandonment, a feeling she hadn’t been able to name until now. And now, here you were, talking about leaving—not for another person or nation, but for Piltover. The idea twisted in her chest. She didn’t want to admit how it stung, how it felt like a betrayal of the same kind she had experienced years ago.

Her voice, though still soft, became more insistent. "If you leave me," she whispered, her words almost a warning, a final threat laced with the kind of sorrow that could only be felt by someone who had already been left behind once before, "I won’t let you go. I will make sure of it."

" we will see"

Masterlist

[thesimstree]

List of 1000+ CC FREE NPCs for your The Sims 4 save

We recently promised you a selection of NPCs for all occasions. If you’re interested in the method of controlling townie generation through the MC Command Center but don’t yet have your own base of 100 gorgeous sims, the huge list below is for you :)

We made great efforts to find beautiful, unique and well-crafted characters. We want these NPCs not only to enhance your game but also to inspire you with new storylines through their hobbies and appearances. Maybe one of your dynasty members will find their soulmate among them! All characters are available for free download and are in the public domain.

Authors mentioned in the article:

@alienbabygamer   @blackpanda-ts4 @fridaikala   @helloavocadooo   @ice-creamforbreakfast  MAYAsnooze  @polarmoon  nicohesdude23  Nocturne   @nunamoona  pptichka  @rutasha-sims  @simsontherope  @simkhira  soulsurrender  @the-usual-stories

Let's start with large sets of NPCs that are easy to download, add to your game and forget about the problem of generation.

NPCs, IF YOU PLEASE

Author: helloavocadooo

NO CC

Nordhaven residents makeover

Author: the-usual-stories

NO CC

June 2023 CC-Free Sim Dump

Author: ice-creamforbreakfast

NO CC

AAAHH!!! REAL TOWNIES!

Author: helloavocadooo

NO CC

32 VANILLA SIMS WITH SKILLS AND JOBS

Thai friends | Base Game & For Rent EP

Author: the-usual-stories

NO CC

Sims have skills, careers, preferences,outfits in each wardrobe category.

September 2022 Sims Dump

Author: ice-creamforbreakfast

NO CC

32 CC FREE TOWNIES

Author: polarmoon

NO CC

Townies for your game

Author: Nocturne

NO CC

From cas with all the preferences

FAMILIES

Families - Pack II

Author: simsontherope

NO CC

Сaliente + Don Lothario 

Author: FRIDAIKALA

NO CC

YUKI & CANDY BEHR MAKEOVER

Author: FRIDAIKALA

NO CC

TEEN SIMS

Teenagers NPC pack

Author: blackpanda-ts4

NO CC

All outfits

Have preferences

No skills

STUDENTS

3 Newcrest Students (Gallery search by ID)

Author: nicohesdude23

NO CC

Foxbury Institute students (NO CC & CC)

Author: NunaMoona

NO CC

OCCULT CHARACTERS

Sages for Realm of Magic

Author: simsontherope

NO CC

Faba

Author: alienbabygamer

NO CC

Werewolves from Moonwood Mill

Author: simsontherope

NO CC

ALIENS

Author: the-usual-stories 

NO CC

CAREERS

High school staff for Copperdale

Author: simsontherope

NO CC

Ranch hands (NPC)

Author: soulsurrender

NO CC

Small Business Employees

Author: the-usual-stories 

NO CC

Medical Staff

Author: the-usual-stories 

NO CC

144 Service Sims

Author: the-usual-stories 

NO CC

・Hireable Services for Your Home: Maids, Professional gardeners, Emergency repair, Grocery and food delivery, Pizza delivery, Pet shelter worker 

・Community Service Roles:Gardener, Market stall vendors, Living statue, Café barista, Bartenders

・Other Services: Firefighters, Mail carriers, Landlord in San Myshuno and Evergreen Harbor apartments, Recycler, Manufacturer, Skilled manufacturer, City maintenance, Horse trainers

・Movie Studio Staff: Producers, Camera operators, Makeup artists, Other crew members, Paparazzi 

・High School Staff

・Secondhand Shop Owner

・University Professors

・Selvadoradian Locals 

・Henford-on-Bagley Locals: Mayor, Garden and grocery shop owners, Creature keeper, Grocery and prepared food delivery

・Forest Ranger

・Strangerville Locals: Military personnel, Conspiracy theorists, Scientists Men in Black

NPC Maids

Author: alienbabygamer

NO CC

Catering and Bartenders

Author: the-usual-stories 

NO CC

GROUPS OF SIMS BASED ON INTERESTS 

Lovestruck Sim Dump

Author: Simkhira

NO CC

32 (cc-free) singles who are based on the new relationship dynamics: "wholesome", "steamy", "strained", and "unpredictable".

MENTORS - only Base Game & EP 18 (&EP4)

Author: the-usual-stories

NO CC

Sims have skills, mentor-trait, careers, bonus traits, base preferences and likes-dislikes.

And don't forget to check NPCs in the Gallery using hashtags of your favorite bloggers. For example, you can find a lot using hashtags like #abarrington, #summerannj, from the player with the username UsualStory.

You'll find even more NPCs for your game in our article

🌱 Create your family tree with TheSimsTree

❓ Support 🌸 Our Blog

[crimsonmochi]

Personal ― S. Gojo

Synopsis. Pornstar!Satoru is used to fucking for money's sake. It's something he does often and something he does really fucking well. When he is requested to guest you, however, it shocks everyone to see an immediate energy shift.

Pairing. Satoru Gojo x fem!reader

Content. MDNI, fem! pornstar! reader, chubby! reader implied, gender neutral pronouns used for reader, no use of "y/n", smut, p in v, cunnilingus, slight choking, some semblance of onlyfans, pussydrunk! gojo, gojo is left handed canon, a little bit pathetic, and a little nasty, probable breaches of work boundaries, no beta

Word Count. 3.9k

Parts. one | two

A/N. baby's first jjk fic, be gentle </3 please give me feedback and lmk if i forgot some tags :3 reposts encouraged!

Rain dribbled and splattered on the window, the tiny water beads reflecting and refracting the dim light from Satoru's phone. He sat upright on his bed, muscular back against the headboard, upper arms aching from his last session two days prior. He had reluctantly agreed to participate in a "professional"―which, to Satoru, was just a word for more work, smaller pay―shoot with some girl he could barely remember the name of.

The result? The director had barked at him to put himself in impossible positions for the camera's sake, which left his limbs sore and not in a good way. Satoru forced the scene to end, left with his money and a vow to himself to never ever work for studios again. He hated being told what to do, especially from guys who don't actually have what it takes.

While painkillers and a nice massage from the spa below his apartment complex did not eradicate the pain, it did make it much more tolerable.

Satoru's thumb swiped across the screen, scrolling through comments from his latest post, a message to his subscribers asking for content ideas. Sure, he did not like being told what to do, but being kindly suggested by his fans to fulfill their desires was different. In the end, he was still in control.

And it probably won't land him in a pharmacy either.

The request that Satoru found came up the most was for him to do ASMR; some fans wanted to hear those pretty praises, those filthy words he gives to his co-stars, spoken to them instead. Although the idea was alluring, Satoru would rather be on camera than behind a fancy microphone in a recording booth—primarily because he was too proud to opt out of showing his god-crafted body (that cocky bastard). But then again, he could find a way to do both...

He shelved that idea for later.

Other requests were suggestions of people to shoot with. Some popular names came up, women and men he had already filmed with and didn't find too interesting. He could fake it, of course; he was an actor, it was half of his job―but he would be unsatisfied with the end result.

Satoru was about to quit reading requests, bored and uninspired until his cerulean eyes stuck themselves to a particular comment. The space between his eyebrows creased as his eyebrows furrowed. It was a subscriber recommending another star, explaining how they weren't very well known, but they believed them and Satoru would make a great pair.

The wording was not what caught his attention, he had gotten plenty of requests with the same exact sentence before. No, it was the name, your page's name―which, to Satoru, felt familiar yet distant. He hadn't shot with you before, no, that wasn't it. Yet he was certain he knew you, knew of you at least.

His thumb reached for the search bar to type in your alias, his eyelids flickering when his gaze fell on your profile, your soft face on display. Satoru felt his length chub up in his boxers, soft lips parting to accommodate for a sudden need of oxygen.

Just as his subscriber said, you were less popular than him, with less than half the number of subscribers he had and an inarguably cheaper paywall in front of your content. Memories of happily searching for his new credit card numbers to pay for your videos came back rushing to him, memories only a few months old.

Satoru recalled seeing a preview and being immediately smitten by your pretty figure, your plush thighs and your tummy, that tiny thrill in your eyes. Fuck, how he had spent half of his revenue giving you tips on an anonymous account―just to obtain a personalized picture of just those pretty thighs, fisting his aching cock to that image for days.

Just looking at that profile again, oh my god.

His eyes laid on the subscription button. He did not even bother getting on an alt account this time to press it, watching the confirmation request pop up on his screen to gather his fingerprint in order to complete the purchase. When the paywall finally went away, Satoru let out a breath he wasn't even aware of holding, his hand travelling to his boxers, palming himself through his briefs as he scrolled.

And oh, he was gone again.

Satoru had never sent a message to his agent that frantically in his life, asking her―no, begging her to contact you to secure a shoot with you. Asked her to do whatever she could to get you in the studio.

The next few days went by without a reply from your part, and Satoru was going mad. He could not remember being this nervous for anyone, this needy. In between sessions of overthinking (maybe he should have asked you himself or maybe offered something more), he found himself replaying videos of yours he had already seen, notably the ones with other men. He knew them by heart.

Those guys didn't seem to appreciate you nearly as much as you needed, as much as you deserved. It pissed him off beyond what he thought was possible, yet made him so hard; He knew he could fuck you so much better than those amateurs you were with, pleasure you in ways they wouldn't even dare.

Unbeknownst to Satoru, you were just intimidated by his offer. Too much money from too big of a creator and an offer that seemed too good to be real to not hold a catch, which is why you did not answer right away, anxiously weighing the implications. It wasn't until he, in a moment of pure desperation and haze, shot you a private message confirming the offer that you replied, shyly agreeing.

From then on, Satoru could barely contain himself, daydreaming about everything he could do to you with his left hand eagerly moving up and down his cock, breathy exhales escaping his mouth and shaky fists gripping his bedsheets. Too often, he found himself checking the calendar on his phone, awaiting the shoot date, disappointed every time that it was still the 15th instead of the long-awaited 21st. Satoru Gojo did not exactly believe himself to be a patient man.

He sent you little messages throughout the week with ideas and reassuring messages. He wanted to know everything about you, your likes and dislikes, what you thought of him, how your body worked, and how he could get you to whine and moan for him.

On the day of the shoot, Satoru was almost unrecognizable to others involved―his agent and the friends he'd stopped to visit on his way to his studio. The man people had described as cocky, overly confident, and self-absorbed was reduced to a nervous, lost-in-thought mess. All because of you, the pretty little thing he would get to have his hands on later that evening.

He'd showered three times, spent too long in his room figuring out what clothes to wear, as if that would matter, and freaked out over his hair. His hair.

And when you finally arrived at the studio with your assistant, he nearly forgot how to breathe. That, or he was purposely holding back for fear of scaring you off, this cute little thing before him. You introduced yourself, pretty eyes gazing up at him, taking a second to admire each and every one of his features. As soon as he saw your smile, here in person, he told himself he could die happy.

Well, he could die happy after having a taste of you.

You were shy while introducing yourself to him. The interaction could easily have been misread as awkwardness, and that was what Satoru would have gone with, too, if he didn't know any better (if he didn't think so highly of himself). Your softer voice, your pretty eyes, god, those eyes. He could tell you might've had a tiny crush on him as well, and he would be lying if he said it didn't make his head reel.

Your assistant all but confirmed it when you excused yourself to the restroom, admitting that you hadn't stopped gushing about this opportunity since you got it.

And when you got back, he had the most annoying smirk and glint in his eyes, looking down at you.

After discussing what he wanted for the scene, making sure you were comfortable and willing to participate―a gentleman, truly, asked you so many times that you started chuckling your answers―he had his agent and your assistant leave the studio after you agreed to dismiss them. He did not mind an audience, but he wanted this to be personal.

"I film all my own shit anyways," he hummed, hopping behind the camera to adjust the angle.

In the film room of the studio was a bedroom set with a queen-sized bed with navy sheets and a wooden frame. A sliding-door closet with mirrors stood tall on the left side, and a bedside table on the right.

The scene you and Satoru agreed upon was vanilla, but he was pleased with the gist of it. Any way he could have you is a way he'd be pleased with, however. It didn't really matter how for the time being.

You sat in the middle of the bed, your back against the cold headboard and palms against the soft sheets, gazing at Satoru as he grumbled at the camera, shifting through the studio to find a new battery with his lips pursed in a pout. It amused you, seeing a different side of him.

It was only three minutes later that he climbed onto the bed, knees against the mattress as he moved towards you, those blue eyes staring at your frame through those pale lashes. He moved to straddle you, his back straight, his body looming over yours.

"Fuck, you're so pretty," mumbled Satoru, his hand firmly landing on the headboard to support himself, making a louder sound than he intended. "You tell me if I'm too much for you, alright, pretty?" he followed in a softer tone.

You nodded, the pad of your index landing on his shoulder and travelling down his torso, trailing close to the sweatpants he wore. Satoru reached his own unoccupied palm to your face, his fingers hooking themselves at the nape of your neck to pull you towards him. His nose brushed against yours before capturing your lips with his.

Satoru had never felt drunk on a kiss until you entered his studio.

As if a switch flipped in his head, he kept you closer to him, desperate and unwilling to pull away from your lips. He breathed shakily, his minty breath fanning over your mouth.

"Oh, you're good at this," he laughed, an arrogant laugh that made your pussy ache.

"Yeah?" you murmured.

"Yeah."

The hand on your cheek moved to your throat, squeezing at the sides―not enough to hurt, just to make oxygen sparse in your system. "I'll make you feel good, sweetheart, hm? I'll do better than those fucking losers on your page."

The sweetest words said oh so cruelly.

Although it was increasingly hard for you to think, you were able to click the pieces together pretty quick, your eyes widening and your pupils dilating.

'Fourth wall break wasn't part of the plan.

Oh.

He watched.'

Satoru's gaze had changed. Deep, yet precise in conveying the exact energy desired. A short, almost inaudible gasp escaped your lips, and fuck, he fed on that, on your reactions to him, no matter how small or insignificant. It mattered to him.

Warm fingers slipped under your the black camisole hugging your body before you could even notice his hand had left your throat, caressing your skin until he his the jackpot, massaging the same breasts he had spent hours looking at only within the past week.

"Oh-ho— nothing, no bra for me?" Satoru chuckled. He captured your nipple between his index and his thumb, rolling and pinching at it until it pebbled, drawing out a whimper from your lungs.

Satoru was fascinated by what he had under his hand, taking a too-curious approach to exploring, as if he had never seen or felt another body before this point in his life. He took his time to gently remove the fabric off of your body, imagining all the ways he could bind and explore it, worship it, cum all over those pretty tits—

It wasn't until he felt your soft hands trying to discard his shirt that he snapped out of his haze, realizing he was fucking up the pacing.

Satoru latched his mouth to one of your breasts, biting and sucking gingerly while he focused on getting you out of those tight leggings you wore just for him, that truly left nothing to the imagination. He frantically worked to get those white laced panties out of the way with a tad more force than he should have, causing a tear to rip into the fabric.

"Satoru—" you gasped, only halfway acting.

"I'll get you another pair," he groaned against your chest, licking over one of the bite marks he had left before unlatching to look down.

Satoru's brain short-circuited.

Sure, he's seen your body time and time over, but that had only ever been through the careful separation of a screen, a paywall. It was different to have access to it, to be able to touch and feel.

He thanked his earlier self for asking if he could eat you out, for now, getting to have your supple thighs around his face and neck. Fuck, he could really die happy now.

Satoru caught sight of your dripping cunt, juices dripping and latching onto your skin. He felt hungry for what seemed to be the first time in his life, moving down your body to kiss right over your mound, your scent filling his senses.

"Oh, s-shit, look at that," said Satoru.

Had he just stuttered?

He nudged his nose in between your folds, brushing against your clit with a swiftness that made your figure jolt. He chuckled, moving his arms to trap your hips and pin them to the mattress, muscles flexing under his skin to intimidate.

"God, she wants me so bad."

Satoru languidly licked up and down your slit, careful to miss your sensitive bud in the meanest way. He whimpered at the taste of you on his tongue, sweet in a natural way, catching both you and himself off guard. If his face wasn't buried in your cunt, you could have seen the faint blush creep to the surface of his cheeks.

"You ever had someone do this, sweet'art?" he mumbled against your heat, lips finally latching on to your clit.

"N-No, not really," you sighed.

"Mh," Satoru hummed disapprovingly, toying with the bundle of nerves between his teeth, one of his arms sneaking away from your hips. He teased his ring finger at your entrance. "You're, fuck- fuck― you're so― taste so good..."

He pushed his finger past the ring of muscle until he was knuckles deep, groaning before he returned his mouth to your clit, sucking in small intervals as he pumped in and out of your velvety walls. Satoru whined when your hand flew to his hair.

And when you moaned for him, he was a goner. He noticed the usually loud and audibly altered sounds had turned saccharine and almost timid.

You had been faking your moans?

He snickered at his realization, breaching through the noise of your moans and the quiet slurps. "I think she loves me," said Satoru in between breaths.

"Wha-, who―"

"Wasn't talking to you, love." Satoru's words drastically contrasted with his soft tone.

He punctuated his sentence by curling his digits to find and abuse that spongey spot, earning a string of nonsense words and whines from you, only encouraging his endeavour. The soft squelch of your pussy around his fingers and his mouth was enough to drive him to buck his hips toward the mattress.

When Satoru felt your soft thighs tighten around his head, he forced himself to pull away, grunting as you desperately moved to grip your fingers in his hair, trying to keep him there. If he hadn't had such strong convictions, he might have stayed down there for the rest of his life, dying happy with his face buried in your pretty cunt.

Satoru straightened his form, his fingers pulling out to find your clit, rubbing it in soft circles. You protested, whining pathetically.

"I know, I know, sweet girl, I'm sorry. Wanna... wanna have you cum on my cock. Can y'do that love? Want you all over me.."

He was mumbling, staring into your eyes with his pupils blown wide. The blue of his irises was overtaken by those black orbs, capturing you in his sight. His chin was wet and dripping, and his lips were slightly swollen.

A gorgeous mess for you to gaze upon.

Satoru's eyes dropped down to the sweatpants he threw on earlier (and called Suguru about just to make sure it looked "casual but not fuckboy"―Suguru called him a dumbass and hung up), carefully bunching up the fabric as well as his boxers before pushing down. Hissing as his length perked up, angry and weeping pre, he breathed a little heavier than before, his shoulders rising and falling. Satoru hadn't felt this worked up in months, maybe years, all from this.

For you.

And you would not be lying saying that had to be the prettiest dick you'd ever seen.

"Shit― look at that, hah," Satoru softly chuckled. "Lift your legs up f'me, pretty, come on.."

He grinned down at you as he helped you push your knees up to your limit, delicately placing your ankles on his shoulders and leaning his torso forward. Satoru placed one of his palms behind your cranium, a small yet protective measure.

"This okay?" asked Satoru, nudging his tip against your folds, collecting your slick to drench his cock, gliding over your clit.

"Y-Yeah, this is fine..."

It was rare for you to be nervous, given that you were used to having sex, filming it, and posting it for hundreds to see. Intercourse was not something you had any insecurities about. Usually.

What caught you off guard was the look in Satoru's eyes, the way he carried himself with a gentleness foreign to anything you've seen from him.

Satoru leaned down to press kisses against your jawline, open-mouthed and delicate, exhaling as he guided his length past your entrance, satisfied at the small gasp he heard from your lips.

"Oh my god, it's even fucking better than I imagined," said Satoru, his voice strained.

He could feel the stretch, your walls fluttering to accommodate him, still so tight and fuck―the tiny high-pitched, almost inaudible whimpers that escaped your throat.

"Don't know if I'll be able to pull out, sweet girl, hah―shit―she's sucking me in, look."

"Then don't," you mumbled, turning your head to meet his lips.

"You can't say shit like that," Satoru scoffed.

"Why not? I want it."

If you were simply pretending for the camera, that was some damn good acting. Good enough to turn Satoru into putty in your hold, to shut his brain off and make him act on instinct alone, script be damned.

Satoru pushed in until his pelvis hit your flesh, his hold on you faltering in strength momentarily, a helpless expression on his face. He listened to your quiet whines, his free hand returning to your clit in hopes of easing the strain.

"Just fuckin' perfect, holy fuuuck―" he strained out.

He withdrew his fingers from your clit to taste you once more, addicted. He drew his hips back slowly, just enough to leave about an inch inside, before thrusting back in at a slightly faster pace, setting a rather slow, intimate rhythm for you to follow.

Satoru watched as your breath picked up, how the slow rock of his hips made your eyes unfocus, and your mouth hang open. He watched as your forehead started to sweat, how your hair moved along his movements.

More importantly, Satoru listened. He heard those moans, shakier and uncalculated. He knew he wasn't crazy earlier when he had the reflection that you had been faking them.

Actually pathetic, those "men" you had been with.

"You're so pretty, y'know that?" Satoru mumbled, out of his mind. Like he was a schoolboy talking to his second-period crush. "So pretty... s'not fair..."

"H-Huh―?"

"S'not fair how it's gonna be―mh, shit―over, how s'gonna be over."

Satoru angled his hips differently, aiming for that spongey spot he had found earlier. That said, he would have had to be able to think straight to get it on the first try; which he could not, not when he was buried deep inside your cunt.

"W-What―aah, fuck, Satoru~"

You couldn't recall any shoots you had done―or any sex you had had at all, actually―that felt as good as Satoru.

"Right there, right? S'that i-it?"

He drove his movements faster, his pelvis hitting the back of your thighs and your ass with a louder SMACK! than it did previously, his breaths becoming further shallow and desperate. His skin grew increasingly damp as his efforts increased, and what were previously grunts turned to shameless moans, whines and whimpers, wanton and needy.

The man was losing his mind, so unlike anything you had seen from him.

Satoru's thrusts soon became erratic and uncoordinated, his face buried in your neck, drinking all of the sounds you were making like he was getting drunk on them.

"Can't... won't last l-long, okay? M'sorry I can't..." Satoru wailed.

His hand found your breast, flicking at your nipple in hopes of making you cum faster, needing to feel you. You were teetering on the edge, and he could feel it, feel how your pussy drew him in.

"Y'know you've been― y'been teasing me for two fuckin' weeks―aah... shitshitshit, so so g-good―two weeks." He paused to groan, pinching your flesh between his index and thumb to elicit a reaction from you. "Can't get enough of you, you're so―and you know it, you fuckin' know it too, I-I know y'do."

"Satoru! So close, please d-don't stop," you yelped, walls constricting around his length.

"Y-Yeah, pretty, I know, fuck―I know, sweet thing. I got you," Satoru panted and tightened his grip on the back of your head as if to brace for impact. "Y'do know how to drive me fuckin' crazy, with―mh, you're so soft and pretty, m-makes me want to quit the business, make you my own, God, make you my pretty wife."

Satoru's mind was running on overdrive, trying to keep up with what the fuck he was saying and making sure you felt good, as good as him. No easy task.

"Shit, gonna make you mine, I promise, fuck―"

His his stuttered as he spilled himself inside you, crying out like a wounded animal. It felt too good, it was too much.

Satoru kept going, although fucked out of his mind, determined to make you cum. He lapped up the sweat from your neck, not caring if it was nasty, while he reached down to your clit once more, slapping the sensitive bud a few times, stopping when he felt your cunt constrict and clench around him, a nice little ring of creamy mixed arousal forming at the base of his cock, gliding down your ass and spilling on the bedsheets.

"Such a mess, oh my God," Satoru whined.

He gathered some on two of his fingers, wiping it right off of your skin. "Taste it f'me, pretty," Satoru groaned.

He could have ascended to heaven right then as you wrapped your lips around his digits, glossy eyes peering up at him through your lashes.

"I gotta keep you."

Parts. one | two

[saeun]

the husband and his type of style jujutsu kaisen ⭒ fem-reader.

⤹ list ﹢ nanami kento, toji fushiguro, gojo satoru, choso.

﹙ syn ﹚ headcanons — as husbands, they all have their own unique characteristic.

+ love ‘su: “i thought you hated cho—” 🔇🔇🔇

NANAMI KENTO : the “get dressed” husband.

nanami's a man of his word. you want to eat out for dinner? get dressed by 7:00 p.m. you feel like doing a random grocery run? be ready by lunch, he'll come pick you up.

to nanami, nothing is more important than his wife's wants. having necessary items serve their purpose, obviously, but who doesn't like having their wants satisfied? he can never be one to hold you back from it.

happy wife, happy life. the motto he worships. as a man of tradition, he'd take a sick leave from his job if you wanted extra attention. a spoiler to the bone. whatever you want, just say the word and he'll tell you when to get ready.

TOJI FUSHIGURO : the “i'll make it” husband.

the king of craft. toji not only serves as eye candy for your eyes only, he also serves as your person handyman! whether it's to make, break, fix, or repair, he'll have the job done in no time. give him two hours, a beer, and a hammer.

to be loved is to be seen. for toji, he knows when you wish for something to be added to make daily activity easier. since you often crave snacks during the night, he reworked the nightstand's drawers into a small pantry filled with snacks.

sometimes you like to continue watching your show despite what you're doing. with this in mind, his new project is to either make a space into the shower wall where you can safely place your phone, or make a table for the bathtub when you're relaxing.

GOJO SATORU : the “don't you dare throw that away” husband.

a hoarder. most of the time, the items that gojo's been piling up in his studio are things that no longer serve him any purpose nor value. he simply doesn't feel like trashing it.

he'd run up the excuses that it's there for nostalgia, but if you ask him where or who the object came from, he'd be unable to answer. many times this led to unnecessary arguments. there was a time it got bad to the point he'd place the objects around the house out of pettiness.

this downside has its upside. with his hoarder mentality, you're guaranteed to find something you swore to the heavens you lost. there is always good in bad!

CHOSO : the “i miss my wife” husband.

doing grocery runs alone? he misses his wife. seeing a couple holding hands? he misses his wife. someone holding something that's enjoyed or liked by you? he misses his wife.

it's gotten to the point where if he's ever invited to a boys' night, the sentence “i miss my wife” is banned. if he says it he'll have to clean everyone's vehicle. to them, it's annoying. to you, it's peak husbandnity.

choso depends on you as much as you depend on him. oftentimes he needs a moment alone and you're always there to hold his hand. he's gotten used to such behaviour, so when he's set apart from you, the “i miss my wife” gets wicked.

[withbroombefore]

I saw a poll earlier about participation in regular in-person activities, with numbers that make me wonder if a lot of people don't know what the options are or how to find them. Here are some that I have always found welcoming to new people; for me, these are ways to leave my apartment and get some human interaction without having to make much conversation (there is a reasonable amount of that if you want it, but since it's understood that you are there to do an activity, the thing you are doing is the point rather than pure socializing). A search for "[activity] [location]" should tell you what's available in your area.

Contra dancing: This goes at the top and gets explanation because it's my favorite. I grew up doing this and love it very very much; I always look for local dances when I move somewhere new. Most dances are very beginner-friendly (though there are some exceptions), and zero dance experience is required to participate. Many will include a lesson for beginners in the half-hour before the main event starts, and there are always instructions throughout the evening. You truly do not need to know anything going in. The convention is to switch partners throughout the night, and it's completely okay to attend alone and ask people you don't know to dance. Try Contra Dancing has a search tool by zip code. Typically $8-15.

Community theatre tech: Acting is an option if that's your thing, but in my experience, tech is easier if you're looking for an activity because there's not usually competition--you often can just volunteer without needing to worry about auditions or casting. Roles like run crew (where you move set between scenes and such) don't require any prior knowledge, and plenty of the other tasks can be learned with a little training. If you turn up reliably, the word will spread--good techies are invaluable. Free to participate.

Community band or chorus: Prior experience in playing an instrument is necessary for the band; for singing, it depends on the type of chorus. Some are auditioned, others are just thrilled by any participation. May require dues.

Shapenote singing: A more niche one and another of my personal favorites (I ignore the religious lyrics and treat them as poetry). This can take some time to pick up, but many places have a small monthly sing that is very welcoming to new people. fasola.org has lots of information about the tradition and where to sing. Free, optional donations accepted.

Library events: Find your local public library's website and look for a calendar or events page to see if anything appeals. Typically free.

Crafting groups: Yarn stores and other craft supply places often have regular open gatherings (typically free) and/or classes (may cost money for teaching and supplies).

Games: If you have a local game store, check their website for events. Or search "[location] [chess club]" or whatever is your thing. Usually free.

Dance: Depends on what is available in your area. A studio where I am has a monthly swing dance, with beginner lessons before, for $10.

Sports: I don't really do these but they presumably exist and can be found like the other things.

The important thing is to just go do the thing. It will probably feel awkward the first time--that's normal! These are all spaces where the point is for people to show up and participate. They want you to be there, and they want you to come back! Otherwise they can't keep existing. Several of these (contra dancing, shapenote, a lot of crafting groups) are especially excited about new people and younger participants and will be thrilled to teach you how to do the thing. And the only way to make it feel comfortable is to plow through the first awkwardness and go back until you decide if you actually enjoy it or not. When you find a thing you like, keep going, and after a little while you end up with a community of people to see regularly who share your interests. This is what humans are supposed to do.

[btsqualityy]

BTS Dating Series #18: Favorite Things

Members x Reader

Genre/Rate: 18+, fluff

Summary: Little things about one another that makes your heart flutter.

Warnings: None to note.

Kim Seokjin

"Finally," Jin sighed as he stepped through the front door of his apartment, hurriedly shutting the door behind him before kicking his shoes off and setting his bag down. He then raised his arms above his head, attempting to stretch out his sore muscles as he moved down the hallway into the living room. When he stepped into the space, he saw you laid out on your side on the couch, a book laid out in front of you.

It was a picture that Jin had seen at least 50 times by this point in your relationship but it was one that he never got tired of seeing. He knew that it took a lot for you to become comfortable enough to open up to him and to be your natural self around him unguarded, so he did his best to never take it for granted.

"Hey you," Jin spoke up, making you look up from the book and grin widely.

"Hi," you greeted him, waiting until he stepped over to the couch to pucker your lips and Jin instantly leaned down to press a soft kiss to them. "How was your day?"

"Good, long practice though," he sighed as he sat down next to you. "And what about you?"

"Ok, easy work day," you shrugged. "Then I came here, cooked some dinner, and then got absorbed in this book."

"I see that, you didn't even hear me come in," he murmured. "Which isn't good but I digress."

"The book is so good though," you chuckled. "You have to read it once I'm done."

"I will jagi, I will," he assured you before leaning down to kiss you again.

Min Yoongi

You were laid out on the couch that was placed in Yoongi's studio, watching with a small smile as Yoongi worked on tweaking his latest track.

Now, it wasn't the first time you had been in Yoongi's studio watching him work. In fact, it had become a regular occurrence since he was almost always working and you were more than content to sit there with him, watching.

The way that his focus never wavered, how he'd bite his lip and tilt his head as he tried to figure out how to fix whatever part was troubling him, it amazed you. You had never had such a passion for anything the way that he did about music so it left you in awe how much he dedicated to his craft.

"Hey," Yoongi spoke up, making your eyes widen in surprise as you broke out of your thoughts.

"Yeah?"

"You ok over there?" He checked in and judging by his smirk, you knew that you had gotten caught staring at him.

"Yeah, just admiring the view," you replied honestly with a shrug. "Don't mind me."

"Ok," he laughed. "Give me 30 more minutes?"

"Sure," you nodded, watching as he turned around to face the desktop once again.

Kim Namjoon

You hummed to yourself as you stirred the pot on the stove, doing a little dance in place as the music flowed from the speaker sitting on the counter next to you. You were so zoned out, that you jumped in place when Namjoon snuck up behind you and wrapped his arms around your waist.

"Hey!" You squealed. "I didn't even hear you come in."

"The music is the culprit for that," Namjoon laughed. "How's dinner going? Need any help?"

"You could chop up those onions and celery for me," you said. "I can handle everything else."

"Ok," he nodded, pressing a kiss to your cheek before releasing you and moving over to the counter. You continued to stir the contents of the pot while he grabbed a knife and proceeded to try and cut up the vegetables as you requested, and you couldn't help but laugh at his attempts.

One of your favorite things about Namjoon was the fact that he always tried to help you, even if he was helplessly inept at whatever you had requested. Anyone who knew Namjoon knew that the kitchen wasn't his strongest suit but he was more than willing to jump in if it meant helping you out, and that presented itself in every facet of your relationship with him.

"Ouch!" Namjoon huffed and you broke out of your thoughts then, your eyes widening when you realized that he had sliced the side of his finger.

"Joon," you huffed playfully, grabbing a paper towel and wrapping it around his pointer finger. "You're gonna chop a finger off one of these days."

"Sorry," he murmured sheepishly and you just shook your head before leaning up and kissing his lips gently.

Jung Hoseok

You grabbed your phone off of the charger that was placed in Hobi's bedroom, deciding to go downstairs and watch some tv after your shower. As you walked down the stairs, Hobi was coming up and he smiled at seeing you.

"Hi Y/N-ah," he said. "Good shower?"

"Hey and yeah, it was good," you nodded. "Gonna go watch some dramas."

"Ok, I have a conference call with the members," he told you and you nodded in response. After pressing a quick kiss to your cheek, you both continued on your separate ways. Once you made it to the couch, you made yourself comfortable and turned on the television, instantly becoming absorbed in it.

Before you knew it, three whole hours had passed and you found yourself getting hungry so you got up and walked into the kitchen. When you did, you saw Hobi sitting at the kitchen table on his phone.

"Hi baby," he grinned widely and you couldn't help but to laugh at how happy he was to see you. But then again, Hobi was never shy about letting you know how happy he was to see you and it always made you feel warm inside.

"What's funny?" He wondered as you walked over to him, chuckling when you bent down and gave him a firm kiss.

"Nothing," you shook your head once you pulled away. "What did you wanna do for dinner? I'm starving."

Park Jimin

"Y/N-ah!!!" Jimin screamed as he rushed into the house and you looked up from your spot on the couch in surprise as he ran into the living room.

"Where's the fire?" You giggled and Jimin ran over to you, grabbing your hands and helping you stand up off of the couch.

"Guess what?" He said and you shrugged your shoulders. "Y/N-ah, we got nominated for a Grammy!"

"What?!" You exclaimed, a wide smile appearing on your face. "You're lying!"

"I'm not!" Jimin chuckled. "That's what the meeting we had today was about! We're nominated and they want us to perform!"

"I'm so fucking proud of you!" You squealed as you literally jumped up into his arms, laughing loudly as he spun you around. Jimin's heart was already doing leaps and bounds but seeing how genuinely excited you were for him and his members, it warmed his heart.

"I want you to be my date to the ceremony too," Jimin told you as he set you back down on the ground.

"Really?" You gasped in awe. "You're sure?"

"No better place for our official first appearance together than on the biggest stage in the world," he smirked before kissing you firmly.

Kim Taehyung

You slowly pushed open the door to the practice room, doing your best to stay as quiet as possible as the members were in the middle of rehearsal. You crept over to a corner, huffing to yourself as you watched Taehyung struggle to keep up with the rest of the group as they flew threw the choreography.

See, the thing is: Taehyung was sick as hell. You'd heard it in his voice when he told you good morning when you woke up together, you could see it in the way he moved as he ambled around your bedroom getting dressed and you could see it now as coughs racked his body.

"Let's take a break," Hobi spoke up as he motioned for the music to be cut off and once it was, he turned and looked at Taehyung. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm good," Taehyung nodded, although he coughed immediately after.

"Could've fooled me," you spoke up, making everyone turn and look over at you.

"Y/N-ah," Taaehyung chuckled, moving over to you and pulling you into a hug. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to bring you this," you said as you held up the plastic bag in your hand that held Gatorade, soup, and medicine. "Figured you could use it. I also wanted to make sure you were doing ok."

"You came all this way just to make sure I was ok and to bring me food and medicine?" He questioned with a grin. This wasn't the first time you had shown your care towards him; in fact, it was a regular thing with you but he was surprised that you had come all the way to the HYBE building just to do it.

"Well, someone has to do it because you're sure not," you joked, making him laugh before he kissed your cheek.

Jeon Jungkook

Your eyes opened slowly, the sunlight from outside filtering through the curtains and shining down onto your face. You sat up slightly then, glancing next to you and seeing that Jungkook was missing. It didn't take you long to figure out where he was though, because you could hear his voice flowing from underneath the bathroom door with the sounds of the shower head in the background.

You couldn't help but to smile to yourself as you listened to him singing The Truth Untold. Jungkook sung all the time around you, the man was like the literal definition of a songbird but you couldn't help but to feel like when it was just you and him, that he was always singing specifically to you. His voice always touched a certain part of you and then melted it, and you felt yourself melting into the sheets as you listened to his gorgeous tone.

"Mmmm," he hummed as he suddenly opened the door and stepped out, a towel wrapped around his waist. He stopped singing once he saw you were awake, smiling widely as he stepped over to the bed and sat down on the edge next to you.

"Good morning," you murmured.

"Good morning," he replied before leaning down and pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips. "Sleep good?"

"I always sleep much better in your bed than I do in my own," you confessed with a small smile. "Especially when I get these wake up calls too."

"Wake up calls?" He wondered before he chuckled in realization. "My singing? I hope I didn't wake you up."

"You didn't but you even if you did, I wouldn't mind," you told him and he just responded by leaning down and kissing you again.

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[mourn-and-watch]

in all seriousness, dragon age being almost officially dead to me is, like, whatever. i'm used to hanging out in dead fandoms because i'm usually extremely late to the party so i think i'll manage. i was excited for veilguard but even if it was bad bad for me (which it wasn't. i have my problems with it but they didn't ruin the franchise for me) i would also manage because dragon age to me always was extremely flawed but had an enormous potential for fan content. at some point i started to treat it like my favourite fantasy playground where i can smash pre-existing barbie dolls with the ones i made myself. all my barbie dolls are in place and i still can do whatever i want (and i plan to continue to do so) and, i guess, i shouldn't be upset.

i am upset, however. for all the devs affected by laid-offs, but especially the writers. these people created dragon age as we know it, and it's been a messy series in every aspect, including the writing, it's been insensitive at times, at times dumb and undercooked, but there was always an immense amount of potential that's been inspiring fans for years, and also a feeling that all, or at least the most of it was created with genuine passion. and realizing that there is no one left from the team that made dragon age what it is, every installment of it, is just. genuinely sad. and it's not a theseus ship dilemma, because it's not like they were slowly replaced one by one. they were just fired. this ship is destined to sink, it's falling apart in front of our eyes because neither ea nor bioware cares about writing. not many companies do nowadays, to be honest. and it's kinda devastating. grifters will celebrate that like a "downfall of woke slop", but they'll get only more ai slop instead, lol, because good writing doesn't guarantee good sells. best selling games of 2024 are shooters and sports games. and elden ring which is a nice exception, but an exception nevertheless.

i don't think mass effect will save bioware at this point. even if it's an absolute banger it still has to meet ea's expectations. which are unrealistic, to say the least. also people who wrote characters like mordin, tali, legion, thane, garrus and liara are all gone. either they left themselves or were laid off. like, if you want "old bioware magic" to return, there is none. the same people who wrote your favourite characters and storylines in da/me were also working on veilguard. i may be wrong, but somehow i think they didn't all lose their ability to write here because they went woke or whatever. i think the inconsistent quality of datv writing that can only be described as 'we're so back/it's so over' pic is a consequence of multiple rewrites, constant director changes and shitty decisions, both internal and coming from bioware/ea higher-ups. i also may be wrong, but it wouldn't be such a big problem if writing wasn't at the bottom of priority list.

if i recall correctly, when gaider left willingly, he highlighted that bioware didn't treat its writers seriously at that point. and i'd say that tracks. like, from countless veilguard rewrites and scrapped ideas to lay-offs of every single studio veteran.

idk what else there is to say. i'll cheer for every studio that value its writers and i hope all ex-bioware devs will be able to do something new and exciting. i also doubt bioware is the last studio that will experience such a decline in the years to come. the narrative of this shitshow will also be twisted into 'go woke go broke' and it already slightly draws me insane. fuck ea fuck bioware fuck grifters. also i beg everyone to start appreciating writing as a craft because otherwise it's only going to get worse!

[szariahwroteit]

Doll House: A Jude Bellingham + Orginal Character Erotic Series.

18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 2

Tori adored teaching dance almost as much as she loved performing, but a last-minute call from another of the instructors meant she’d been tasked with taking the class instead, completely throwing off her dinner plans with Jude. 

Rather than having him collect her from her apartment, they decided that Jude would swing by the dance studio to pick Tori up before they made their way to his place, where his chef was set to prepare dinner for the two of them.

“Beautiful girls! One more run-through and we are done for the day.” Tori exclaimed to her class of preteens as she pressed play starting the piece of music they were dancing to over. 

The energy in the studio was electric as the music filled the air, a vibrant mix of rhythm and melody. Tori clapped her hands together, energizing her students, their eager faces lighting up with excitement. She loved moments like this, watching the girls, full of enthusiasm, moving in sync with the beat, their innocence reminding her of her childhood passion for dance.

As the music started, Tori took a step back, her eyes roaming over the eager faces, filled with determination as they followed her instructions. She couldn’t help but smile, swept away by their spirit. Each pirouette, every leap they executed, ignited the love she had for her craft—teaching them not only the moves but also the joy and confidence that dance could bring into their lives.

“Let’s focus on those transitions, girls! Remember to keep your arms fluid and your movements sharp!” she encouraged, her words ringing above the music, infusing her students with motivation.

Despite her excitement, Tori felt a longing in her chest. She had been looking forward to dinner with Jude, the thought of their intimate evening together floating in her mind like a sweet dream. But all of that anticipation had now transformed into a fleeting thought as she poured herself into the class.

“Five, six, seven, eight! And one, two, three… spin!” Tori counted, her body moving lightly along with the girls, demonstrating the moves with a grace she had honed over countless performances. The music surged, and she felt her energy rising, moving through the routine seamlessly.

As the final notes of the song echoed through the studio, Tori turned down the music and clapped her hands together, signalling an end to class. “Great job today, everyone! You’ve all worked so hard! I’m so proud of you!”

The girls erupted in cheers, giddy and full of laughter as they chatted and gathered their belongings. Tori smiled and waved them off, feeling the familiar warmth of pride fill her chest. 

Just as she was packing her bag, her gaze flickered to the clock on the wall. She hoped Jude had arrived by now. There was a flutter of anticipation in her belly at the thought of seeing him.

As she gathered her belongings and cleared what little mess the girls had left behind, Tori’s phone began to ring in her bag. 

She fished it out, her heart racing as she saw Jude's name flash across the screen. A smile broke across her face, and she quickly answered, eager to hear his voice. 

“Hi!” she said, trying to keep her tone light despite the rush of excitement. 

“Hey, beautiful! I’m outside the studio. Are you almost done?” Jude’s voice was warm and inviting, sending a thrill through her.

“Just wrapping up! I’ll be right out,” Tori replied, her heart fluttering at the thought of seeing him. She quickly finished packing her bag, her mind racing with thoughts of the kiss they shared the evening prior. 

“I can’t wait to see you,” he said, and she could hear the smile in his voice. 

“Me too! I’m sorry about the change of plans,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing slightly. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Jude reassured her, his tone light. “I’m just happy I get to see you. Plus, I’m sure your students needed you.”

Tori felt a rush of warmth at his words. “Thanks! They were amazing today. I love teaching them,” she said, her voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. 

“Sounds like you had a good time. I’m looking forward to seeing you,” he replied, and she could sense the readiness in his voice. 

“Definitely! I’m leaving the studio now. I'll see you in a second.” Tori said before handing up the phone so she could pull her sweats over the leotard she wore, before putting on her coat and sneakers so she could head out to meet Jude. 

The street outside of the studio was rather empty, barring a sleek black Mercedes parked at the curb, the low smooth rumble of the engine humming from the car before the driver door pushed open and Jude stepped out of it dressed casually in a black sweatsuit. 

Tori’s heart skipped a beat as their eyes met, his attire so much more relaxed than the tuxedo he wore the day before, but just as handsome. 

“Hi,” Tori greeted, her voice softening as she took in the sight of him. The way he stood there, exuding confidence and warmth, made her feel a rush of affection.

“Hi,” Jude repeated, his smile wide and genuine. He closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms around her in a warm embrace and Tori couldn't help but inhale his musky scent. She melted into him, as his arms tightened before he released her from his hold. 

“Can I take this?” Jude asked, his voice calm and warm as he reached out, his fingers gently grazing Tori’s as he moved to lift her gym bag from her side. 

“Thank you!” Tori responded, a smile illuminating her face as she surrendered the bag to him. She observed with appreciation as Jude effortlessly hoisted the bag into the trunk of his car, his movements smooth and confident.

Gently closing the trunk with a soft thud, Jude walked around the car, he reached the passenger side and pulled the door open, a warm smile on his face as he gestured for Tori to climb inside. The late afternoon winter sun casting a golden glow over the city. 

Still dressed in her ballet clothes and feeling rather sweaty, she anticipated arriving at Jude's house so she could use his shower. The entire arrangement was slightly bizarre for the first time two people were hanging out.

Their conversation was light and flowing as Jude drove to his house, the traffic not as heavy as expected for a Saturday afternoon much to his delight. 

Tori was in slight awe as she watched the cityscape gradually give way to the suburbs, each house they passed seemingly bigger than the last as they neared Jude’s neighbourhood. 

After an Instagram search of Jude when she got in the night before, it became apparent to Tori that he was a big deal. He had millions of followers across social media and frequent endorsements with massive brands. The realization made her heart race with anxiety.

She hated to make assumptions, but it was seldom that men like Jude came without a flurry of women behind them, regardless of their relationship status. 

Victoria had learned that she was two years older than him, he hailed from the West Midlands and before moving to Madrid he had lived out in Germany where he also played soccer. 

Tori’s mind was racing with thoughts. What if Jude was just another entitled man who enjoyed the thrill of the chase? Dispelling the nagging doubt in her mind she focused on the moment. He had been nothing but genuine with her so far, and their connection felt real.

“So, what’s your chef cooking for us tonight?” Tori smirked, shifting the conversation into safer, more playful territory as the suburban landscape unfolded like a movie set outside the window.

Jude chuckled, glancing over at her with a playful grin. “Whatever you like, that's the beauty of it.” 

Tori raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh really?” 

He nodded, a twinkle in his eyes. “Absolutely. But I have a few suggestions if you don’t know what you want.” 

“What's your favourite meal?” she asked, leaning back slightly in her seat, eager for his input.

“It’s pretty basic but I'm a sucker for a steak,” Jude admitted, a hint of mischief in his voice. “But I think homemade pasta is also a solid backup.”

“I’m not sure if you mean to, but you sound obnoxiously rich right now,” Tori said teasingly, making Jude laugh as he turned the steering wheel, rounding onto another street, showcasing homes that looked as though they could grace the covers of Architectural Digest.

Jude chuckled, shooting her a sidelong glance. “Well, I assure you, I’m really not. I just happen to enjoy good food and have a great chef who makes it all happen. It does make things a lot more enjoyable, though.” 

Tori smiled, feeling more at ease with the playful banter. “If that’s the case, I’m looking forward to dinner.” She paused for a moment, a flicker of curiosity crossing her mind. “What else does your chef cook? Besides the pasta and steak, of course.”

He thought for a moment, a grin spreading across his face, clearly enjoying the conversation. “I try to avoid sugary foods during the season, but he’s a fucking fantastic baker.” 

Tori couldn't help but laugh as she listened to Jude go on about his chef, it was evident that he didn't lead the normal life of a twenty-one-year-old man, but he still seemed extremely down to earth. 

“This is me,” Jude said as he tilted his head towards a tall black gate, before turning into its driveway. 

Reaching for a small fob in the middle compartment of his car, he pressed it and the gate slowly rolled open. 

As the car moved slowly up the gravel driveway, Tori gazed at Jude’s house, a stunning masterpiece of modern architecture. Its sleek lines and minimalist design exuded sophistication, with large glass windows reflecting the soft glow of the setting winter sun. The structure was both imposing and inviting, with a sense of warmth despite its grandness.

The entrance was decorated with two elegant sculptures, and the subtle outdoor lighting highlighted the clean lines of the building, creating an atmosphere of serene luxury.

“Wow, Jude, your house is beautiful,” Tori gushed, her eyes wide with admiration.

Jude parked the car smoothly and turned to her, a proud but modest smile on his face. “Thanks. I wanted it to feel open and welcoming. It’s a bit different from what I grew up in, but I love it.”

As they stepped out of the car, the crunch of gravel under their feet echoed softly in the quiet evening. Jude guided her towards the front door, using his key to open it before allowing her to enter first. 

“I can give you a tour later, but for now would you like anything to drink?” Jude asked as he kicked off his sneakers. 

“Water is fine,” Tori replied, feeling a little flustered but excited. She took in her surroundings, the spacious foyer adorned with modern art pieces and a stylish chandelier that cast a warm glow over everything. 

Following Jude into the kitchen she watched as he grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator before he turned and handed it to Tori. 

Gracefully accepting the water, Tori trailed behind Jude as he guided her into his living room. The space was warmly lit, and filled with inviting furniture that highlighted a blend of comfort and style. She settled into a soft armchair, the fabric plush against her skin, while Jude took a seat across from her, his demeanour relaxed yet attentive.

Despite the plush comfort of her cushioned seat, Tori couldn't shake the clammy sensation clinging to her skin after a long day of dancing. The remnants of perspiration lingered, making her feel uncomfortable. She turned to Jude, a hint of shyness in her voice, and asked, “Do you mind if I take a shower now?”

“Of course. The guest bathroom is just down the hall,” Jude replied, his smile warm and inviting.

Tori felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Thanks! I won’t be long,” she promised, standing up and making her way toward the hallway. She could feel Jude’s gaze on her as she walked away, a mix of excitement and nervousness bubbling in her chest at the thought of their evening together.

As she stepped into the bathroom, Tori quickly shed her dance clothes, grateful for the opportunity to wash away the day’s exertions. The warm water cascaded over her, soothing her muscles and letting her mind wander. She couldn’t help but think about Jude and how comfortable he made her feel, despite the initial anxiety she had about their relationship.

After a refreshing shower, Tori dried herself off and went to retrieve her clothes from her bag only to realize she’d left them in the living room with Jude. 

Opening the bathroom door, Victoria stepped into the bedroom feeling herself becoming slightly panicked.

Walking over to the bedroom door, she pulled it open and let out a sigh of distress. Tori stood looking out into the dimly lit hallway, feeling utterly exposed and at a loss for what to do. The soft fabric of the towel clung to her damp skin, offering little comfort as she weighed her options. She glanced nervously around Jude's house, its unfamiliar outlines and shadows amplifying her discomfort. Retrieving her bag and clothes from the living room seemed like an impossible task. The thought of wandering through the house, dressed only in a towel, sent a wave of embarrassment crashing over her. She knew she had to muster the courage to make the trek, but the vulnerability of the moment paralyzed her.

“Fuck,” she huffed as she crossed the threshold of Jude’s guest room into the long hallway, goosebumps covering the surface of her skin as she quickly made her way down it, attempting to keep quiet as she went. 

Making her way into Jude’s living room where she left her bag, Tori refused to lift her head as the murmur of the television and the soft glow of the screen filled the room. She could hear Jude’s voice, low and relaxed, as he chatted with someone on the phone. The sound made her heart race, a mix of excitement and anxiety swirling within her. 

Tori took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She could see her bag just a few feet away, but the thought of Jude catching a glimpse of her in just a towel sent her pulse racing. She hesitated, her mind racing with thoughts of how ridiculous she must look, how vulnerable she felt. 

“Okay, just grab the bag and get out of here,” she whispered to herself, steeling her resolve. 

With a glance toward the sectional where Jude sat, she darted forward, her bare feet silent against the cool floor. She reached her bag and fumbled with the straps, her fingers trembling slightly as she pulled it into her grasp. Just as she was about to retrieve her clothes, she heard Jude’s voice grow louder, and her heart dropped.

“Yeah, I’ll call you back in a minute,” he said, and Tori froze, her breath caught in her throat. She could hear him moving around, and she knew she had to act fast. 

In a panic, she stood up and quickly turned to head back toward the hallway, but as she did, she bumped into the edge of the coffee table, sending a small decorative item clattering to the floor. 

“Shit!” she whispered, her heart racing as she turned to see Jude’s head snap in her direction. 

“Tori is everything okay?” Jude asked sitting up, reaching for the television remote so he could mute it as he gave her his undivided attention. 

Tori felt her cheeks flush as she stood there, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. The towel felt even more inadequate under his gaze, and she could feel her heart pounding in her ears. 

“Everything’s fine!” she stammered, forcing a smile that felt more like a grimace. “I left my bag down here.”

Tori wanted the floor to open up and swallow her, it was only the second time of ever been in Jude's presence and she stood in front of him in nothing but a towel. The vulnerability of the moment was overwhelming, and she could feel the heat radiating from her cheeks. 

Jude’s expression softened a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “You know, you could have just called me,” he smirked unable to keep a straight face. 

“My phone is in here, too,” she explained clutching the bag a little tighter. 

“Then you could’ve shouted my name,” he teased, his tone light and playful. “I would have come running.”

Tori couldn’t help but laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing just a bit. “Yeah, right. I’d rather not have you see me like this,” she said, gesturing to the towel that felt like it was shrinking by the second.

“Honestly, you look fine,” Jude replied, his gaze steady and reassuring, although internally he willed himself not to make his gaze slip to her body. “But if you’re uncomfortable, I can cover my eyes until you leave the room.” 

Tori's laughter faded, replaced by a mix of embarrassment and relief. Jude's playful demeanour helped to ease the tension, but the heat in her cheeks remained. She could feel the weight of his gaze, and it sent a shiver down her spine, both thrilling and terrifying.

“Very funny,” she replied, rolling her eyes but unable to suppress a smile. “Although, I think it's a little late to cover your eyes.”

Jude chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. “Fair point. But I promise I’m not going to take a mental picture or anything,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’m just trying to be polite.”

Tori felt a flutter of nerves in her stomach, but there was something about Jude’s easygoing nature that made her feel a little less exposed. “Thanks,” she said, her voice softening. “I guess I just didn’t expect to be naked in front of you the first time we’re hanging out.”

“What about the second?” Jude teased, a playful glint in his eyes.

Tori laughed, shaking her head. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I think I’ll stick to clothes for the foreseeable future.”

“You’re beautiful in and out of them,” Jude replied, his tone sincere, and Tori felt her heart skip a beat at the compliment. 

“Wow, smooth talker, huh?” she said, trying to keep her tone light despite the warmth flooding her cheeks and stomach. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“Honestly, I’m just speaking the truth,” Jude said, his brow furrowed in sincerity as he looked directly at her. “But really, there’s no need to feel uncomfortable. It’s just a towel, after all. We’re all human, and these moments happen.” His tone was steady, aimed at easing the tension in the room.

Offering Jude a shy smile, Tori turned on her heels and left Jude’s living room so she could head back to the guest room to finally get dressed. 

When she returned she found that Jude was no longer lounging in his living room, making her way into the kitchen Tori couldn't help but smile as she walked into the room to find Jude enthusiastically talking to a greying olive-skinned man. 

“Tori, this is Chef Ruben,” he smiled as he turned to look at her before turning back to him. 

“Nice to meet you,” Tori said, her voice friendly as she extended her hand toward the chef. 

“Pleasure’s all mine, Tori,” Ruben replied, shaking her hand warmly. His eyes sparkled with kindness, and Tori felt instantly at ease. “Jude was telling me you were curious about what was on the menu tonight?”

“Yes, I’m curious! I’ve heard a lot about your cooking,” Tori replied, her enthusiasm genuine. She couldn’t help but feel a flutter of excitement at the thought of enjoying a meal prepared by someone who seemed to have such a passion for food.

Ruben chuckled, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across his face. “Well, you’re in for a treat! I’m making a herb-crusted rack of lamb with roasted vegetables and a side of creamy mashed potatoes. If you have room for dessert, I prepared a homemade salted caramel ice cream.” 

Tori’s eyes widened, and she felt her stomach rumble at the mention of the meal. “That sounds incredible! You’re making me hungry just talking about it,” she said, laughing lightly.

Jude leaned against the counter, crossing his arms with a smirk. “I told you,” he said, looking at Tori with a playful glint in his eyes. “Ruben’s cooking is legendary. You’ll never want to eat anywhere else after this.”

Tori chuckled, her excitement palpable. “I can believe it! You’re lucky to have such a talented chef at your disposal.”

Ruben waved a hand dismissively, his face lighting up with a grin as he turned back to the vegetables he'd been preparing. 

“Come with me,” Jude smirked as he held out his hand for Tori to take, leading her back into his living room to allow Ruben his space and give them more privacy. 

Although they had communicated a few times throughout the day, they had yet to bring up the kiss they'd shared the night before after meeting at Tori’s company's gala. 

As they stepped into the living room, Tori felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. The atmosphere was cozy, and the faint aroma of herbs and spices wafted in from the kitchen, making her stomach growl with anticipation. 

“So, what do you think of my humble abode?” Jude asked, gesturing around the room with a playful flourish. 

Tori looked around, taking in the elegant décor and modern furnishings. “It’s beautiful. Very… you,” she replied, smiling as she settled onto the plush couch. “I love how open and airy it feels.”

Jude chuckled softly as he sat down beside her, their knees nearly touching. “I wanted it to be a space where people feel comfortable. You know, a place where we can hang out, eat good food, and just enjoy each other’s company.”

The way he spoke sent a flutter through her chest. “I can definitely see that,” Tori said, her voice softening. “It feels welcoming.”

Jude leaned back against the couch, his gaze steady on her. “I’m really glad you could come tonight. I know our plans got a bit jumbled, but I’ve been looking forward to this.”

“Me too,” Tori replied, her heart racing slightly as she met his gaze. The air between them felt charged, and she could feel the warmth radiating from him. “I was a bit worried I’d messed things up.”

“Not at all,” Jude reassured her, reaching out to gently brush a strand of hair behind her ear. His touch sent shivers down her spine, and Tori felt herself lean into him instinctively. “I think it worked out perfectly. We get to enjoy a great meal and each other’s company.”

Tori felt her cheeks flush at the intimacy of the moment. “You’re right,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m really glad I get to spend time with you.”

“Me too,” Jude replied, his voice low and sincere. He hesitated for a moment, then added, “About last night… I just wanted to say that I enjoyed the kiss. I didn’t expect it, but it felt right.”

Tori’s heart raced at his words. “I felt the same way,” she admitted, her cheeks heating up as she remembered the warmth of his lips against hers. “It surprised me, but it was nice.”

Jude's expression softened, and he leaned slightly closer, closing the distance between them. “I’d like to explore that more if you’re open to it.”

Tori’s breath caught in her throat. She had been thinking about it since they parted ways the previous evening. “I’d like that,” she said, her voice steady despite her racing heart.

Leaning into her lips, Jude’s eyes met with Tori’s as they slowly moved closer, their breaths mingling in the space between them. The anticipation hung thick in the air, electrifying and intoxicating. When their lips finally connected, it was gentle at first, a soft brush that ignited a fire within both of them. 

Jude's hand travelled to the back of Tori's neck, pulling her in deeper as their kiss intensified. Tori instinctively leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body envelop her. The kiss spoke volumes, conveying unspoken desires and promises that lingered just beneath the surface.

As they pulled away, both breathless, Tori couldn’t help but smile at Jude, her heart fluttering like a butterfly in her chest. She could see the hunger in his eyes mirroring her own, and it made her pulse quicken.

“So…” Tori started, her voice playful, trying to lighten the mood. “Is this part of your plan to keep me entertained while Chef Ruben conjures up magic in the kitchen?”

Jude chuckled, a twinkle in his eyes. “Maybe. But honestly, I just wanted a reason to kiss you again,” he admitted, his gaze piercing yet inviting. 

“I think I can get on board with that plan,” Tori replied, her playful demeanour having returned, strengthened by the immediate chemistry they had. 

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps approaching from the kitchen broke the moment. Chef Ruben emerged, wiping his hands on a towel. “Dinner is almost ready.” He peered at them with an amused smile, as if he knew exactly what moment he had interrupted.

Tori felt her cheeks flush as she and Jude quickly pulled apart, both of them trying to regain their composure. The playful atmosphere shifted slightly, but the warmth of the moment lingered in the air.

“Perfect timing, Chef,” Jude said, a hint of laughter in his voice as he leaned back against the couch, trying to appear casual as Ruben turned and left the room.

Victoria chuckled, her eyes twinkling with amusement, turning to look at Jude as he stood to his feet holding out his hand for her guiding her into the dining room where Ruben had set two places at the table for them. 

Pulling out Tori’s chair for her, Jude gestured for her to sit down before taking his seat. A knowing smile on his face as he awaited their dinner being served. 

“Is this an everyday thing for you?” Tori asked as she took in the dining room before his eyes landed back on Jude. “Candle-lit dinners and gourmet meals.”

“No, most of the time my mum will cook for me or Ruben will just leave my dinner in the microwave for whenever I get around to eating it,” Jude explained. 

He understood how glamorous his life may have appeared from the outside looking in, and despite all he had, he still maintained as humble a lifestyle as a man in his position would. 

Time flew by as Tori and Jude sat in his dining room, the evening passing as giving way to the nighttime as they spoke about any and everything. 

Ruben had left around two hours prior after cleaning up the mess he made while cooking, before leaving their dessert in the refrigerator for them. 

It wasn't until Jude's phone rang in his pocket that Tori remembered her own, and when she pulled it out she was surprised to see it was nearing the hour of midnight. 

“Wow, time flew by,” Tori said, glancing at the clock on the wall. “I didn’t realize it was so late!”

Jude chuckled, a hint of surprise in his voice as he checked his watch. “Yeah, it’s easy to lose track of time when you’re having fun. I guess we got a little carried away with our conversation.”

Tori smiled, feeling a warmth spread through her at the thought of their evening together. “I enjoyed it. You’re easy to talk to.”

“Same here,” Jude replied, leaning back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “I enjoy your company.” 

Tori felt her heart flutter at his words. “Thank you, I've been told the very opposite before.”

Just then, Jude’s phone buzzed again, interrupting the moment. He glanced at the screen and frowned slightly. “It’s my manager. I should probably take this,” he said, standing up and moving a few steps away to answer the call.

Tori watched him, her heart racing slightly as she thought about how different their lives were. Jude was a rising star, and she was just a dancer trying to make a name for herself. She couldn’t help but wonder how or why their lives truly came to align.

As Jude spoke on the phone, Tori took a moment to gather her thoughts before standing to her feet so she could prepare to leave. The evening had been fun, but she didn't want to overstay her welcome. 

Grabbing the plates they ate from, Tori brought them to the kitchen so she could place them into the sink before going in search of her belongings. 

When Jude’s phone conversation came to an end, he returned to the kitchen, a slight frown still lingering on his face. “Sorry about that,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “Business never sleeps, I guess.”

Tori smiled, trying to ease the tension. “No worries, I was just cleaning up a bit. I didn’t want to leave a mess behind.”

Jude chuckled softly, leaning against the counter. “You didn’t have to do that. But I appreciate it.”

“I just figured it was the least I could do after such an amazing dinner,” Tori replied, feeling a sense of warmth at the compliment. “Seriously, the food was incredible. I‘m lucky to have experienced that. But it's super late and I should probably get going.”

“You don't have to,” Jude said, his tone shifting slightly as he stepped closer to her. “I mean, if you want to stay a bit longer, I’d love you to.”

Tori felt her heart flutter at his invitation. The thought of leaving felt premature, especially after such a lovely evening. “I’d like that,” she said, her voice softening. “But I don’t want to impose on you, I've known you twenty-four hours and you've already dropped me home and given me dinner.”

“You’re not imposing at all,” Jude reassured her, his eyes warm and sincere. “I genuinely want you to stay. Plus, it’s late, and I’d feel better knowing you’re safe here.”

Tori felt a rush of warmth at his words, her heart swelling with affection. “Okay, I’ll stay a little longer,” she said, a smile breaking across her face. 

“Great,” Jude replied, his expression brightening. “How about we watch a movie or something? I have a few good ones lined up.”

“Sounds good,” Tori agreed, feeling a sense of comfort wash over her. She loved the idea of curling up on the couch with him, enjoying the warmth of his presence.

Jude led her back to the living room, where he grabbed the remote and settled onto the couch, gesturing for her to join him. Tori nestled in beside him, feeling the heat radiating from his body as they sank into the cushions. 

As the opening credits rolled, Tori found herself stealing glances at Jude, who was focused on the screen. She couldn’t help but admire the way the soft light illuminated his features, the way his lips curved into a smile at the funny moments in the film. 

Halfway through the movie, Tori felt a wave of drowsiness wash over her. She leaned her head against Jude’s shoulder, feeling safe and content. Jude glanced down at her, a soft smile playing on his lips as he wrapped an arm around her, pulling her closer.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice low and soothing.

“Very,” Tori replied, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. She felt a sense of peace envelope her, the stresses of the day fading away as she relaxed against him.

As the movie continued, Tori felt Jude’s fingers gently brushing through her hair, a tender gesture that sent shivers down her spine. She looked up at him, meeting his gaze, and in that moment, the air between them shifted. 

Jude’s eyes darkened with desire, and Tori felt her heart race as he leaned in closer. “Can I kiss you again?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” Tori breathed, her heart pounding in her chest.

Their lips met softly at first, a gentle exploration that quickly deepened as the kiss ignited a fire within them both. Tori melted against him, her hands finding their way to his hair as she pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. 

Jude responded eagerly, his hands roaming down her back, pulling her against him as the kiss grew more passionate. Tori felt a rush of heat flood her body, her senses heightened as they lost themselves in each other.

Pulling Tori into her lap so she straddled him, Jude wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close as their kiss deepened. Tori could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and it sent a thrill through her. She couldn't recall the last time she felt so desired, so wanted, and it both exhilarated and terrified her.

As they kissed, Tori felt the world around them fade away. The flickering light from the television was just a backdrop to the intensity of the moment, and all that mattered was the connection they were sharing. Jude’s hands slid up her back, his fingers going beneath her top as he groaned into her mouth at the realization she wasn't wearing a bra. 

Tori gasped softly at the sensation, her body responding instinctively to his touch. The warmth of his hands against her skin sent shivers down her spine, igniting a spark of desire that coursed through her. She felt emboldened, the initial nerves washing away as the kiss deepened and grew more passionate.

Jude pulled her closer, his hands exploring the contours of her back with a tenderness that made her heart race. Tori’s fingers tangled in his hair, and she felt a rush of exhilaration as they lost themselves in the moment, completely consumed by the chemistry crackling between them.

But as the kiss intensified, a small voice in the back of Tori’s mind reminded her of the speed at which things were moving. She reluctantly pulled back, breathless, her heart pounding in her chest as she searched Jude’s eyes for reassurance. 

“I should go,” she breathed, feeling a mixture of apprehension and desire, unsure of where the night would head if she remained in his presence. 

“Stay,” Jude murmured, a frown on his browline as he looked into Tori’s eyes willing her to heed him. “Please,” he added softly, his voice laced with sincerity.

Leaning down Tori pressed her lips against his once more, her arms wrapping around his shoulders as he stood to his feet with her in his arms. 

He moved as of she was weightless as he moved from the living room and upstairs to the upper level of his house. 

Pushing open his bedroom door without parting lips with Tori, Jude used his foot to close it behind himself, locking them away from the rest of their world. 

All rationale had left Tori’s mind and she and Jude indulged in each other, giving in to impulse and desire as they stripped one another until they lay tangled between the sheets. 

Jude feasted on her until she was a trembling mess in the middle of his bed. He used his mouth and tongue to render her speechless—he lost himself in the act, tasting and torturing her with his skilled mouth.

“Jude,” Victoria moaned into his ear, her legs wrapping around his waist as he sank into her inch by delicious inch, his hands splayed either side of her head as their eyes met.

“You're so fucking tight,” Jude groaned in awe of the way she felt around him, the heat and sensation almost overwhelming. Victoria's body responded to him, clenching and releasing like she was designed to fit him perfectly. 

Her back arched as he filled her completely, sending waves of pleasure coursing through them both. “Yes, just like that,” she encouraged her voice a sultry whisper that sent a shiver down his spine.

He took a moment to drink her in— the way her hair fanned out on the pillow, the flush of her cheeks, and the way her lips parted slightly as she struggled to find words between gasps. Every detail contributed to fueling a fire in him, compelling him to go deeper, to claim her in a way that left no doubt of his desire.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he breathed, starting a slow, deliberate rhythm. Pulling almost all the way out of Tori before easing back in, moving his hand from beside her head to pin her right leg to the bed, his grip firm on the back of her thigh. 

The shift in position conjured a dull ache that felt sinfully good in tandem with the pleasure coursing through her body. His girth and length surpassing any expectation she may have had. 

As he pulled almost entirely out before sinking back in, Victoria let out an unrefined moan, her grip on Jude's shoulders tightening as if she might fall off the bed otherwise. "Oh, fuck, yes...just like that," she whined into his ear, her hips bucking slightly to meet his thrusts, the ache growing with every inch that slid back into her.

Her fingers dug into his hair, not pulling but coaxing him closer, her lips finding his neck in search of contact. "You feel so good," she gasped, her teeth drawing along his skin. "Don't stop, please don't stop!"

The pleasure was almost too much, her body trembling with the force of it, but she didn't want it to end, didn't want him to pull back just yet. Tori rolled her hips again, matching his rhythm with a desperate eagerness, urging him deeper, chasing that delicious friction that was fast turning into an inexorable need.

Jude snarled lustfully as he watched his length slip from her, her arousal coating his cock in a glistening sheen. 

Turning Tori over onto her stomach in one swift motion, he reached for a pillow at the head of his bed forcing it beneath her to create a deep, perfect arch in her spine that made her hips raise. 

Jude couldn't help himself, taking hold of his cock he used the tip to circle her slick entrance. 

“Shit,” Victoria cried out, her whole body tingling with suspense as Jude's thick cockhead circled her entrance, teasing her. She wiggled her hips instinctively, trying to urge him inside.

Jude wasted no more time, pressing the head of his cock against her pussy, pushing just enough to feel that gentle resistance, before easing in ballsdeep.

Victoria let out a throaty moan as Jude thrust into her with a force that made the bed tremor beneath the weight of bodies. She arched her back, pushing her hips against him as he began to move, his pace relentless and demanding.

Each deep, powerful stroke of his cock hit a spot inside her that made her eyelids roll shut. Tori's mind emptied of all thought, reduced to only sensations—the feeling of Jude's thick length thrusting into her, the sound of their harsh breaths and slick skin colliding, the way his hands gripped her hips and held her in place.

She wrapped her arms around the pillow, using it to steady herself as Jude fucked her with an intensity that left her breathless and overwhelmed. 

His thrusts picked up speed, becoming almost brutal in their execution, and Victoria met each one with an answering roll of her hips, lost to the pleasure that threatened to consume her.

When she felt Jude’s fingers come to grip the hair at the back of her head, all bets were off. Tori let out a cry of pleasure as her eyes rolled shut, the arch in her back deepening as her thighs began to tremble. 

Panting heavily, Jude gripped the back of Tori's head, tilting it to the side as he continued his merciless exploration of her depths. The new angle allowed him to go even deeper, the force of his thrusts hitting the spongy flesh of her cervix and sending shivers of pure bliss coursing through her. Her moans of ecstasy echoed through the room, fueling his own growing need.

As Jude's grip tightened, Tori's entire body went stiff, her cries becoming choked whimpers of pleasure. She'd never experienced anything like this before, Jude's size and strength pushing her to the very edge of what she could take.

“Cum for me, Tori,” Jude groaned, his pace slowing as he watched himself disappear inside of her, completely under her spell. 

"Tori," he groaned into her ear, his voice guttural and primal. The sound of his arousal hung heavily in the air as he pounded into her, her body moving in rhythmic time with his.

Victoria's mind shattered as Jude continued to take her, his relentless thrusts driving her to the brink. She felt so full, so completely filled and claimed by him.

"Yes, yes, y-yes..." she chanted brokenly, her words dissolving into helpless cries of ecstasy.

Jude's fingers dug into the flesh of her hips, gripping her as he laid into her, each stroke easing her closer to the edge. He could feel her walls spasming around him, her pleasure knotting tighter and tighter until it threatened to come undone.

She was going to come undone beneath him, and Jude was determined to be the one to send her over. He wanted to hold her in his arms as she committed herself to the pinnacle of pleasure. 

Despite the silent cry that fell from her mouth, Jude felt it as she came on him. Her arousal dripped down the innards of her thighs as she gripped the pillow beneath the sated body. 

Pulling out of Tori, Jude held his length in his hand as he eyed her sweaty body, between her legs flushed and slightly swollen. He watched as she turned over onto her back, a playful glint in her eyes. Victoria's lips curved into a sultry smile as she beckoned him closer with a gesture of her finger.

“Not yet,” Tori purred, her voice laced with mischief. She pushed herself up onto her knees, an inviting shine in her gaze as her tongue swiped across her lips. Jude's breath hitched in his throat, anticipation pooling in his stomach as he watched her.

With an intentional slowness to her movements, Tori leaned forward, her shiny raven hair cascading over her shoulders in a soft curtain that framed her face. She took her time, savouring the moment as she moved closer to his cock, barely an inch away. Her breath washed over him, warm and tantalizing, and she couldn't help but smirk at the way he tensed up.

“I want to taste you,” she whispered, her voice husky with desire. She opened her mouth wide, taking him in slowly, her tongue swirling around the tip before she sank deeper, relishing the sensation of him filling her mouth.

“Fuck, Tori,” he groaned, his hands instinctively tangling in her hair as she began to bob her head up and down, her mouth perfect seal as she showcased her talent. Her lips and chin glistened with drool, slicking his shaft as she pulled back, only to thrust forward again, taking him as deep as she could manage.

Tori could feel him throbbing against her tongue, the heat of him igniting a fire inside her. She revelled in the taste of him, the way he filled her mouth, an offering of pleasure she was more than happy to accept. Each thrust of her mouth was accompanied by soft, breathy moans that vibrated against his length, driving him wild.

Jude's fingers gripped her hair tightly, guiding her rhythm as he watched the bliss dance across her face. “Just like that, Tori,” he encouraged, his voice thick and deep with arousal. “You’re so fucking good at this.”

She picked up the pace, swirling her tongue around his shaft as she took him deeper, pressing down to the base. The sound of her wetness filled the air, a stimulating melody that only stoked the flames of his desire. Victoria loved watching Jude lose himself in the moment, the way his brow furrowed in pleasure and his jaw slackened, his breath coming in quick, erratic gasps.

She could feel his tension riding, his breaths growing more shallow as she wrapped her lips tighter around him, sucking hard while pumping the rest of him with her small, dexterous hands. His hand found her cheek, urging her to take him even deeper.

“Breathe through it, Tori,” he murmured, his voice throaty. “Give me your fucking throat.”

Just as he was about to lose his grip on control, she pulled back, her mouth popping off with a soft, erotic sound. Tori looked up at him with lust-filled eyes and licked her lips in a slow, deliberate motion.

Without a word, she parted her lips and tilted her head back offering herself to him. 

Jude's heart raced at the sight of her, so willingly surrendering to him, and he couldn't resist the urge to claim her once more. He moved closer, his length glistening as he approached her inviting mouth. The hunger in his gaze mirrored her desire, pooling in the air between them.

“God, Tori,” he growled, his voice low and rough. He took a step closer and positioned himself at her lips. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

With a firm yet gentle grip on her hair, he leaned forward, his cock pressing against her mouth. Without hesitating, she opened wider, welcoming him back inside. Feeling him slide into her mouth felt addictive, and she immediately went to work, sucking him in deep while her tongue expertly traced every ridge and vein.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the sensation exhilarating. “You drive me crazy.”

She made soft, sensual sounds, each one vibrating around him, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through his body. Jude began to rock his hips slowly, thrusting in rhythm with her perfect mouth, going deeper with each deliberate motion. The sight of her swallowing him, her eyes shining with intensity, only heightened his arousal.

“Just like that,” he groaned, losing himself in the rhythm of her mouth as she layered her movements with a tantalizing mix of speed and pressure. 

Victoria let him take control, relishing in the way he filled her mouth, the heat and weight of him overwhelming her senses. She could feel him reaching the precipice, his every breath quickening, the muscles in his thighs tightening.

As the tension mounted, she could sense his rising need. Just when he thought he would lose it, she pulled back again, teasingly bringing her tongue over the sensitive tip before letting him slip from her lips entirely. 

“Please, Jude,” she pleaded, her breath coming in bursts. “I want you to cum on my face.”

Jude's eyes darkened with desire, the raw urgency in her voice igniting something primal within him. “Come here,” he growled, his fingers curling into her hair, guiding her back down on him.

With a decisive thrust, Jude eased into her mouth once more, and Tori’s eyes widened in delight as he filled her instantly. She loved the way he took charge, how he lost himself in the pleasure. With each deep stroke, he seemed to pull her deeper into his world, a place where only he and she existed.

The heat of him was intoxicating, and her own desire soaring in response, each of his thrusts awakening a raw need inside her. She met him with soft, enthusiastic sounds, her moans sending vibrations through his hard cock, heightening the intoxicating pull between them. Jude looked down at her, his chest rising and falling with each heated breath, the way her face glistened with saliva driving him wild.

“Just like that, baby,” he growled, his control wavering. He moved faster now, a rhythm between domination and desire with every thrust. He watched as his cock disappeared past her luscious lips, the sight pure ecstasy. “You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

Victoria's desire erupted higher at his words. She pushed herself to take him even deeper, her throat working to accommodate him as she surrendered herself completely to the pleasure of the moment. Each time he hit the back of her throat, she felt herself flutter with excitement, her body yearning for more. 

Feeling a familiar tightness in his core, Jude knew he wouldn’t last long. Her compliance was like a drug, and the sight of her completely lost in the act—her eyes glazed over with pleasure—drove him wild. He groaned, his breaths rough and uneven, “I’m going to cum, Tori...”

“Please,” she urged with a sultry whisper around his pulsating length, her voice thick with desire. “I want it.”

That single command sent Jude spiralling over the edge. He gritted his teeth as he thrust one last time, burying himself deep within her warm mouth, his body quaking with release. “Tori!” he roared, surrendering to the pleasure that consumed him, his thick seed spilling as he held himself against the back of her throat. 

Victoria welcomed the warmth, her eyes shimmering with delight as she felt the salty essence hit her tongue, a warm splash of gratification that sent shivers through her body. She let out a soft, hungry moan as she savoured every drop, the taste of him only intensifying her desire. 

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” Jude panted, watching the way she licked her lips, ensuring she hadn’t wasted a single drop. The sight of her basking in his essence only fueled his need for her more, driving him wild. 

Tori leaned back, her lips still glistening, an alluring invitation in her eyes. “I’m not,” she smiled shyly. 

Taking her hand into his, Jude pulled her body against his once more, the warmth between them igniting again. "I think you are," he murmured, his voice a sultry growl that sent currents of anticipation racing through her.

He manoeuvred them both back onto the bed, their bodies colliding with a thud, as he wrapped his arm around her shoulder. 

“When are you heading back to the States for the holidays?” Jude asked, his fingers softly tracing the skin of her back. 

“I’m not,” Tori revealed, her heart dropping as she thought about her family back home, or rather the current chasm between her and them. 

“What?!” Jude asked as if he'd just been told she wasn't human. 

“I’m staying in Madrid, I’m contemplating a last-minute New Year's trip with a few of the girls I dance with,” Tori explained, ignoring the dull ache in her chest as she offered him a soft reassuring smile. 

“What about you?” she asked intent on shifting the attention away from her. 

“I have my last football match of the year and then I’m heading back home to England to be with my family.” Jude revealed feeling bad about his plans to enjoy some time off with his family. 

However, an intriguing notion, though slightly unconventional, suddenly blossomed in his mind.

“After Christmas, I'm heading to Dubai with a few of my teammates for an awards ceremony, but I plan on celebrating New Year's there too,” Jude explained. 

“If you’d like, I’d be happy for you to join me.” he continued, feeling rather nervous as he proposed the idea to her. 

Victoria's heart raced at his offer, the thought of joining him igniting a spark of excitement within her. “Are you being serious?” she asked cautiously. 

“Why wouldn't I be serious?” Jude asked with a pout. 

“I know we are just getting to know one another and I’m already in your bed, but why?” Tori asked, her brow furrowing slightly. She wanted to be sure about his intentions but couldn’t deny the rush of excitement that coursed through her at the prospect of spending more time with him.

“Because,” he began, searching her gaze for the right words, “I want to continue to get to know you, whether it be in Dubai or Madrid.”

Tori had already let it slip that she was thinking about travelling for the new year, but the thought of going to Dubai with Jude was incredibly enticing. The atmosphere of a new city, especially one known for its opulence and vibrant nightlife, combined with the thrill of exploring more of their connection sent a rush of adrenaline through her.

“I’m intrigued,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “But what's the catch? This feels… too good to be true.”

Jude smiled, a mixture of confidence and assurity in his demeanour. “No catch. If at any point you want to leave you can, I don't expect anything from you, but I would like for you to join me.”

Tori hadn’t known Jude for any stretch of time, but from their first encounter, she’d found herself drawn to him. “If I say yes, you have to promise me I won't end up regretting it,” she said, her eyes searching his for sincerity. 

Jude leaned closer, brushing his lips softly against hers. “I promise to make it a trip you won’t forget,”

[waitforyrlove]

☆ NEW FRONT PAGE, IT’S A CUTE HEADLINE. —

⟡ ݁₊ . INTRODUCING . . .

guitarist ! matt & pop princess ! reader.

in which… a rising pop star known for her glamorous persona and heartbreak ballads, crosses paths again with her brooding ex-guitarist, Matt, during the chaotic rehearsal phase of her new album tour. Forced to work together after a last-minute replacement, the two navigate the simmering tension of their shared history—the late nights spent crafting songs in dimly lit studios, the arguments about creative control, and the unresolved feelings they’ve both buried beneath fame and fleeting flings.

As they clash over music arrangements and creative visions, old emotions resurface. Matt’s lowkey demeanor and his refusal to be charmed by her usual tactics frustrate her, while she struggles to reconcile her glossy, public image with the vulnerability he once knew. The tattoos on his arms remind her of quiet moments they shared, and the unfinished song they wrote together lingers in the back of her mind.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Pop Princess ! reader — Always in towering platform heels, a rotating wardrobe of pastel-colored outfits from Versace, Valentino, and vintage Chanel. Accessories are an unshakeable constant: sparkling chokers, oversized hair bows, and rhinestone-studded cat-eye sunglasses. Her signature ponytail is a sleek, waist-grazing masterpiece, sometimes wrapped in a glittering scrunchie. Nails? Flawless almond-shaped with a pearlescent finish. Tattoos are understated yet provocative—delicate stars, moons, and secret dates inked where only those closest to her would notice. Lip gloss? Always bubblegum pink with a glass-like shine, or maybe a sultry nude for nights she wants to feel mysterious. She spends hours in her candlelit room listening to her own carefully curated playlist: Frank Ocean, early Mariah Carey, Britney Spears’ deep cuts, and her old demos that remind her of the simpler times before the fame. Constantly texting her best friend and stylist about a new stage outfit idea at 2 AM.Her drink order rotates between lavender lattes with oat milk, sparkling peach water, and the occasional vodka soda with fresh berries at afterparties.

She’s never seen without a custom crystal-encrusted mic when performing—a diva’s signature move. On off days, it’s all strawberry acai refreshers or chai teas while writing heartbreak songs in her journal.She’s haunted by the memory of Matt, her ex-guitarist who always knew how to bring out the best in her lyrics but also shattered her in ways only music could heal. The love songs she writes now always seem to trace back to their fights, his cigarette smoke mixing with her expensive perfume in the studio, or the way he’d call her out for being too controlling about her vision. She has a knack for dominating the room, whether it’s rehearsals or red carpet appearances, but always feels like she’s chasing an impossible standard. Loves being adored by fans but fears true intimacy—like the way Matt used to look at her before everything fell apart. Constantly torn between her undeniable talent and the fragility she hides behind it, she pours herself into her music, dreaming of a love story where she’s more than just the girl in the spotlight.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ Guitarist ! Matt — He’s the epitome of effortless cool, favoring baggy, oversized clothing in muted tones—think earthy browns, olive greens, deep greys, and faded black hoodies. Always slightly disheveled but never sloppy, his style is more about comfort than trend. Plain T-shirts, loose cargo pants, and old-school sneakers make up his daily uniform. No nail polish, no distressed fabric—just clean, understated style with a rugged edge. He might throw on a worn flannel or bomber jacket, especially when the weather cools down.His tattoos are his most distinct feature: intricate black-and-grey designs covering his arms. A bold bear’s face, a lighthouse overlooking waves, delicate wings, a seashell, and fine details like a buzzing bee and an anchor—each one tells a story he’s reluctant to share. He’s often spotted absentmindedly running his fingers over them, especially when lost in thought during a recording session or in the middle of a jam.Matt’s personality matches his aesthetic: quiet but intense, the kind of guy who speaks through his guitar more than his words. His music is raw, powerful, and carries an unmistakable edge, just like him. He’s the type to sit in the corner of a crowded room, strumming a melody on his acoustic, observing instead of mingling.

His drink of choice? Black coffee, plain and strong, or a beer at the end of a long day. He’s rarely seen without his guitar case slung over his shoulder or a cigarette tucked behind his ear. There’s a distant melancholy in his demeanor, as if he’s always chasing the high of the next riff, the next perfect song—but never quite getting there.

© eternaldecisions. all rights deserved. do not copy my works. or modify my work.

˙ . ꒷ 🪽 notes from author ˙— tell a friend to tell a friend? SHE’S BACKKKK, i’m so excited with this new alter universe, one of my favorites yet, because i love serving lovers to exes now enemies, and i’m using as face claim ariana in 2015, and making matt slightly toxic..

taglist: @secretlocket @pearlzier @et6rnalsun @mattscoquette @carvedtits @sirenedeslily @mattslolita @flouvela@jetaimevous @bella-loveschris @lovingregulusblack @sarosfilms @annsx03 @eliana-4200 @wakeupitschrizz

[nubiawrites]

chapter four

Pairing: Aaron Pierre x Black Original Character

Warnings: Slow burn. mentions of kissing, thigh riding, and dry humping. mentions of weed and alcohol. 18+

Summary: Aaron and Iriye toe the line of their connection at a celebration for Paradise Lost.

Notes: Y'all still strapped in. Cause I think y'all gonna hate me with this chapter. The ideas I have for the next chapter will be well worth it. Please reblog, like, or reply, as I love talking about stories and characters. Thank you for all the love so far.

MASTERLIST

It happened so fast, as Aaron would say, when the paparazzi and the press asked about his attachment to the project. Within three days of the first time he tasted whiskey on Iriye’s lips, the studio had sent to the trades that Lanoire Productions Paradise Lost was greenlit, Aaron smiling at the headshots of Tamara and Iriye, focusing on the latter more so. 

Seven days after feeling the weight of her straddling his lap as Iriye got herself off on his clothed length, the announcement that Aaron had been cast went out. He received many texts and calls from family and friends congratulating him on the role. But the one text he had been waiting on was from the woman who sounded so sexy grinding on his lap, nails digging into her neck and lips that were so soft. He was trying to be cool, but he was waiting for it. Two hours after the announcement, he saw her name pop up under his notifications, and he quickly read it, seeing she sent a screenshot of the article and the word congratulations.  

“Congratulations,” He muttered to himself. He didn't want to be rude, so he sent her the prayer hands emoji and a thank you. But the congratulations? It was going to haunt him for a bit.

Fourteen days after tasting the skin of Iriye’s neck, he finally saw Iriye in person. 

Aaron was focused, rerunning the scene with the actress with whom he was doing a chemistry test. Though he was filming on Lanterns, in the moments he had free time, pre-production for Paradise Lost was well on its way. 

Many execs were standing at Video Village, watching Aaron run through the lines with one of three actresses up for consideration for his romantic interest. They finished the scene, and Tamara came over, taking her headphones off her head. She began asking them to try it differently, but he zoned out as he saw Iriye chatting with Davis, the exec on the project. He probably wore rose-colored glasses, but he could tell she was happy. Anytime she was on the lot, she was. From the first time he saw her on the sound stage, taking it all in, he had to know why she was passionate.

Aaron watched as she shifted on her feet, heeled boots underneath a long denim skirt that hugged her curves nicely. The slit in her skirt peeked and showed her legs a little. She wore a graphic design shirt, and though it was simple, she looked all put together. Even if he could only think of how two weeks ago, she was falling apart in his lap from them grinding against each other through their clothes.

“So let's see how that feels?” Tamara stated. The actress, Samantha Ailey, with whom he was running his scene, nodded in agreement. “Aaron, that works?” Aaron nodded, taking in what she said and returning to the scene. He glanced over in Iriye’s direction again and saw her sit by Tamara, her peeking over at him for a second and their eyes meeting. A quick nod from her was all she gave as she returned to the video console.

Aaron turned back to Sam, noticing she was entering the space she had created for Nora, the romantic lead opposite Aaron’s Isaiah. Seeing another actor in their element, pushing and pulling in a scene, was why he was in the career. He loved the collaboration and the exploration you could do with a character. He was right at home when the scene began.

Every time Aaron read one of the words Iriye had crafted, sentences that ran together seamlessly, he was in awe. Since that night they kissed, he had reread the script, making notes and digging deeper into this character. And having fun doing so. Isaiah was quickly becoming one of his favorite characters to dive into.

“Cut!” Tamara said gently, one of the production assistants bringing over a water bottle for him and his scene partner. He thanked them, taking a sip before handing it back.

His scene partner tried to make small talk, and he indulged her, trying to stay present as he peeped over to Tamara and Iriye talking. Tamara nodded before Iriye began walking over to them.

“Hey Sam, how are you feeling?” Iriye checked in. 

“I’m doing good, Iriye. In great hands with Aaron here,” Sam said as she pointed toward him.

“Perfect,” Iriye said, turning her attention to Aaron finally. It felt like she hung the sun as her attention was on him. “So we want to try something different this time around,” 

Iriye explained the scene's underlying vibe to the two. Aaron listened, finding her perspective interesting, as he had a different idea of the scene. Iriye was just about to walk away when he stopped her.

“Yes, Aaron,” Iriye stated as she felt his hand on her arm stopping her.

“I get your reasoning behind the note, but I was wondering if we could discuss it more quickly,” Aaron asked. Iriye weighed her options momentarily before nodding, throwing her hand to Tamara. Their hand signals became apparent, and Tamara spoke to an executive.

“So, in the scene, Isaiah and Nora are weighing their options, their entanglement becoming more apparent and the attraction weighing on them. They know the repercussions, but they're drawn to each other,” Iriye explained.

“Hm. Kind of like us,” Aaron said, keeping his face neutral. Iriye narrowed her eyes at him. 

“Not like us,” Iriye shook her head.

“I said kind of like us,” Aaron replied. Iriye glared at him, and Aaron gave her a small smile.

“Focus,” Iriye breathed. “You guys are giving too much away in the scene. Pull it back. It should be a longing. A marathon. Not a sprint,” 

“I wanna see you again,” Aaron stated.

“You see me, Aaron,” 

“Not like this,” Aaron feigned concentration, but the look in his eyes was something more profound. Iriye tried to keep her cool for professionalism’s sake.

“Prove it. Get through this scene,” Iriye said before returning to video village. If Aaron could grin, he would be showing all his teeth, but Sam came back over, and they were asked if they were ready.

By the end of the scene, Aaron knew he did something right because Tamara clapped, rushing over as the camera test ended.

“We got it, folks. That’s a wrap,” Tamara said. The crew on the soundstage clapped. Aaron stepped aside so Sam could have the room and applause. 

Aaron was already searching for Iriye, seeing her clapping. He was about to walk her way, but an executive pulled her away, and he figured he would have to wait. As a production assistant handed him his water, Nelly came up, clapping her hands for him. 

“Hey big guy!” Nelly said, her loose waves framing her face. “Good job out there,”

“Thank you,” Aaron said, grateful for the woman. “But I owe it all to you, Tamara and Iriye,”

“If you say so,” Nelly said, brushing her shoulder off. “Okay, I have a request of you. And by request, more like a demand,”

Aaron let out a chuckle. As he looked down at the woman, who stood at five foot three, he could tell she was tall in personality.

“What do you need? Another birthday message,” Aaron joked. 

“No, but Auntie Devon thanks you, and you’re invited for dinner anytime you want,” Nelly pointed out. “I’m throwing a bit of a surprise celebration on Tamara’s rooftop for her and Iriye,” Aaron raised his eyebrow at the sentence. “Aaron, I may seem rich in heart and spirit, but I share a two-bedroom apartment with my roommate and her boyfriend,”

“I’m not hating, I swear,” Aaron raised his hands in defense. 

“Good. So you’ll come? It’ll be lowkey. Close friends and people we like only. I can even say cameras and no paparazzi for you,” Nelly joked. 

“No, we don’t have to do that,” Aaron shrugged. “I’ll be there,” Nelly clapped happily.

“Great. Bring something strong. And not just yourself,” Nelly stated before walking away.

Aaron shook his head before returning to his trailer so he could leave for the day.

Aaron stared at himself in his apartment mirror, brushing his waves before leaving the bathroom. He looked around his apartment, ensuring he had everything before grabbing the bottle of Whiskey that the liquor store clerk had suggested. He figured it would taste good on his lips and maybe Iriye’s if he got to kiss her again.

Aaron arrived at the apartment building in Culver City and parked his car in the garage, as Nelly had mentioned in her text message. He made his way up to the floor, knocking on the door. It quickly opened, and Nelly smiled, ushering him in. 

“Thanks for coming,” Nelly moved to take the bottle of whiskey from him. “Let me get you a drink,” She said, ushering him to the kitchen, where there was a counter littered with food and drinks.

A dark skin black woman with a curly bob set out plates, smiling as she saw Aaron.

“Tam and Iri should be here in thirty minutes top,” The woman said before leaning over to shake Aaron’s hand. “I’m Cece,”

“Tamara’s girlfriend, right?” Aaron asked, a big smile taking over the infamous Cece’s face.

“Yes. Nice to finally meet you,” Cece stated. “Your picture currently hangs in my home office, which has become Tam’s office. She says she doesn’t believe in bringing work home, and yet it happens,”

“My bad,” Aaron chuckled. Nelly offered to take his jacket, and he handed it to her before making himself a drink. “Anything I can help with?”

“Nothing really, but I appreciate it, and besides, this is your celebration too, as much as theirs,” Cece said. Aaron nodded as Nelly came back into the kitchen.

“Aaron, let me show you off to everyone,” Nelly said, pulling him along. Aaron followed her outside to the rooftop, where at least thirteen other people, different shades of black and brown, were hanging out. Aaron mingled, enjoying the conversations around him and chipping in when he could. It felt good to exist for a moment.

He was chatting with a cinematographer friend of Tamara’s, sharing the last film they watched with good lighting when Cece rushed outside. 

“They’re coming up. Look alive,” Cece said. Aaron moved to crouch somewhere, trying his best not to spill his half-sipped drink, but with his height, he sat on his ass to hide properly.

He listened for the footsteps after a few minutes.

“I better get girlfriend of the year. I drove across town for Cece’s favorite prerolls,” Tamara lamented. Aaron quickly heard Iriye’s laugh, and he smiled to himself.

“Surprise!” Cece called out, everyone joining in. Aaron stood up, a little of his drinking sloshing in the cup. 

Iriye covered her face momentarily, seeing a mix of her and Tamara’s close-knit friends when she put her hands down. Tamara playfully pushed her, looking across the little crowd and seeing Aaron standing amongst people. Her face warmed as she caught him holding his cup up before sipping.

“Babe,” Tamara said, going over to Cece and kissing her. Everyone hooted and hollering at the pair. 

“We just wanted to celebrate you two, the brains behind Lanoire,” Cece said, pulling Iriye in for a side hug and squeezing her side. “Nelly, get up here,”

Nelly headed for Aaron, pulling him through the crowd. “Don’t forget Aaron,” Nelly pulled Aaron beside Iriye before taking Tamara’s side. Iriye masked how aware she was of Aaron’s body close to hers.

Aaron stepped away a little to give the four of them the space, clapping along with everyone for them. Once things died down, Aaron stood off to the side and let them bask in their moment. Aaron was proud to be there, seeing Iriye’s smile as she enjoyed the spotlight.

Throughout the night, he tried to converse politely with others, but his eyes kept returning to Iriye. She had forgone her skirt and shirt for a denim dress, side peeking out from the sides having cutouts. But she still wore the boots from earlier, making her at least two more inches taller than she was. Whenever he tried getting closer to her, someone came up, or a song she loved popped on, watching her dance and sing the lyrics to the music blasting from the rooftop.

Aaron was about to get another drink when another song came on, the beat he enjoyed. 

Iriye rushed to the makeshift dance floor, hips swinging as she felt loose. All week had been something as she and Tamara prepared for the chemistry test. But from what the execs heard afterward, they all loved it. She felt she could breathe, her mind focusing on the man who had been a part of it all: Aaron.

Iriye saw him holding the wall, bouncing his head to it. If it hadn’t been for the shot Nelly gave her and the drink she mixed up, she wouldn’t have kept her eye on him as she danced. And Aaron was meeting her gaze; the two engaged in a stare-off as Iriye rolled her hips in a circle.

“Fuck it,” Aaron said to himself. He downed the rest of his drink before going over to her, two-stepping to the music. The group dancing around her whooped and hollered as Aaron joined. 

Iriye felt too good, watching Aaron enter her space as they moved together. The music was good, and so were the vibes. She caught his eyes, bright and full of energy. Iriye got closer, dancing with him, feeling like they were just the two on the dance floor. 

I need you so much, it scares me 

Hooked on you clearly 

No matter what I do boy, I'm fucked

Kelly Rowland sang from the speakers, and Iriye saw how Aaron matched her energy. She chuckled as she spun in a circle, playfully throwing it back. She saw the light stutter in Aaron’s dance moves and rolled her eyes.

“Can’t keep up,” Iriye taunted with a smirk. Aaron raised an eyebrow at her.

“You play too much,” Aaron threw back.

Aaron reached out for her hand, and he spun her in a circle, her dancing to the beat of the music before moving closer to him, them both moving in sync.

The song ended, and Iriye took a moment to catch her breath as the crowd dispersed around them, smiling at Aaron as she pulled away from him. “I’m getting a drink,” Iriye said, a mischievous sparkle in her eye as she looked at him. 

“I think I need one, too,” Aaron said. Iriye headed back into the apartment, Aaron following right behind her. Luckily, the guise of being thirsty didn’t bring too much attention to them as they were alone in the kitchen. 

Iriye grabbed two bottles of water from the fridge, handing one to Aaron.

“Here you go,” Iriye opened hers, watching him as he uncapped his. She took a sip of hers and swallowed it down, her eyes catching the sight of the tattoo peeking out the left sleeve of his shirt. “Nice tattoo,”

Aaron grinned when she peeped at it, seeing the ape on his bicep. “It’s Sonny,” He moved closer, lifting his sleeve to show her. Iriye looked at the tattoo, letting her fingers trace over the skin. He smiled as her fingers were soft against the skin.

“I always wanted a tattoo,” Iriye admitted. “But I don't think I’m patient enough to sit that long and let them stick me with a needle over and over again. But I can appreciate it on others,” She trailed her nails against it, and he groaned a little.

“I get it, but good things come to those who wait,” Aaron replied, taking another sip of his water. “I mean, look at you.”

“Are you talking about the other night?” Iriye said softly. 

“Yes, I am,” Aaron stated. “I can’t stop thinking about it,”

“What part?” She looked at him through her eyelashes.

“When you were on top of me. Quite the image burned into my brain,”

“Me too…” Iriye looked towards the balcony, wondering if anyone could see them.

“Look at me,” Aaron stated. “I’m not trying to be disrespectful of your space. I know I left last time afterward because I didn’t want to overwhelm you. But I want to take whatever this is at your pace. Whatever this is,” He moved his hand to trace up her arm.

“What if I don’t know what is going on between us? Because whenever we’re alone, and there’s alcohol involved, we are too busy kissing each other,” Iriye pointed out. 

“Not right now, though,” Aaron raised an eyebrow at her.

“But I want to kiss you. Since today. Since the last time I kissed you,” Iriye admitted. “Maybe even before that,”

Aaron was about to say something when they heard the door to the balcony open, and he moved beside her. They both watched as one of Iriye’s friends rushed to the bathroom. She chuckled before turning to him, her brown eyes peering up at his.

“Did you drive here?” Iriye asked. Aaron nodded. “Do you think you can drive us to your place?” Aaron straightened up more.

“Yeah, yeah, I can,” Aaron grinned.

“Okay. Just give me an hour. I’ll leave, and then five minutes later, you call it a night,” Iriye planned. “I’ll wait for you downstairs,”

“You are full of surprises,” Aaron smirked. 

“We’re two adults consenting to whatever this is,” Iriye stated. She took another sip of her water before heading back to the balcony.

Aaron tried his best not to check his watch too much while mingling with the others, but his eyes sought out Iriye. He found that she was acting wholly unfazed or maybe just good at hiding it. 

As the time ticked away, it was getting harder to focus, especially as he watched her legs in the boots she wore, how he would love to trail his hands up from her boots to her thighs to see how they felt. He wondered how they would look on his shoulders as he did the things he had daydreamed about with her.

He was broken out of his thoughts as he realized Iriye was doing her rounds. He was supposed to listen and wait a few minutes, but based on how she looked, he knew he should have been patient. He was growing impatient. He walked over to Cece and Tamara, who were hugging Iriye. 

“Cece, thank you for the hospitality. I had fun,” Aaron said. Cece moved to hug him, and he saw Iriye’s eyes looking at him. 

“Anytime,” Cece said. Tamara moved to hug him as well. 

“I get it. You’re like a big teddy bear,” Tamara stated as she hugged him.

“Someone smoked a little too much,” Iriye shook her head at her friend.

“I earned it. We earned it,” Tamara stated. 

“You’re not gonna walk out alone, are you?” Cece asked. “Aaron, do you mind walking her out on your way,”

“Not at all,” Aaron nodded, looking at Iriye. Iriye smiled politely before moving to hug them again. 

“Have a good night,” Cece said. Iriye and Aaron walked out of the apartment, Aaron watching her from behind as she went to the elevator.

“I thought we had a plan,” Iriye pressed the button on the elevator. 

“I thought I would hasten the plan,” Aaron shrugged. Iriye shook her head, and then the elevator opened. Aaron let her go in first before following. She pressed the garage button and moved close to Aaron to kiss him…

The door stopped closing due to a hand, and Iriye and Aaron moved apart as quickly as possible. But Nelly was quicker. 

“Your jacket,” Nelly said, her eyes looking between the two. Iriye just stayed on her side of the elevator. Aaron smiled charmingly at Nelly before pushing the elevator door back to grab his jacket. 

“Thanks, Nelly,” Aaron said, hugging her. Iriye moved to hug her next, Nelly chuckling.

“Night, Nelly,” Iriye said as Aaron held the elevator door for them. Nelly stepped back out of the way. Aaron let the elevator doors move as she heard.

“Don’t hurt him, Iriye,” Nelly teased. And the charming smile left Aaron’s face and turned into shock as Iriye chuckled. 

“How did she?” Aaron was shocked. 

“The mirrors,” Iriye tapped the mirror behind them in the elevator. Iriye laid her head back against the mirror. She chuckled as Aaron leaned close to her ear. 

“In any other situation with you, I would be thankful for a mirror,” Aaron said lowly, Iriye's laughter seizing. Oh, she was in for it. AN: Hey... so how we doing after this? @bluewatersfairy @coquitobby @honeysilkandcinnamon @insaneevanity @meleekabenjamin @theogbadbitch @slowlysteadycoffee @ashanti-notthesinger @thisbeautifullifeofmeandyou @mysticalbiscuitalien3 @irishmanwhore @alonahh @grooveoftiro @gabriellalover @ovohanna24 @ticalsstallion @strawberrymoon45 @hi888888sworld @msuncensered @yurfavdealer @honeys-archives @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @theunsweetenedtruth @blackpinup22 @niggaronnn @aritannahrocks1300 @htnqueen305 @333symone @appelle-moi-si-tu-te-perds-numb6 @bombshellbre95 @wildwomanalereyia @teenage-aria @skvrpion @absentmindeddreamer @blackpinup22 @liv10002 @styleismyaddiction @jungwonsgfs @hooliemooliedonutshawp @hippiesandpeacesigns @blowmymbackout @justagirlwho-believes13 @caribbeangyalsworld @melovedorks @moihasarrived @ashanti-notthesinger @xx-mintyxx @iluvchrisbrown @ash-ketchumzzz @deijalee @pyramidlight @xosharieee @kaylaahisthebestest- @chaniceandrea @kimmivlixx @saveadanc @kaylalb @queenbritbrat @kceeee @naughtynolly-blog @myawesome56 @chainingxday @nononoks-blog @kinginwithbreezy-blog @apple123cg @jazziejax @lauren1000000 @withoutmusiclifewouldbflat @venusincleo @loveschrisbrown20 @brwnskingirlll @iamfredtina @cozyashhh @modelmemoirs @kimiasinterlude @rpayn22 @mscarter123 @lolola22267 @thesweetestdrug @valarghoulis @nyifly22 @zimsilandela @teheeboo @blveeeeeee @5starsirl @yassbishimvintage @23jammy @prettiegal @vadeadiugularis @gabbywontlose @pinkkycherrish @slashervalley @aqueenwasmadehere @lee-jennie @wuzzzgoood

@bae1305 @fakxmbj @n3utral98 @truilyglori @whore-for-loki @wrecklessabandonment @secretlifeoofmarpessa @purpletigerpanda @invertedempress @disc0fairy @barbiezolanski @thisbeautifullifeofmeandyou @jaszys-fantasy @poshprincess88 @bigestyoutoo @sugarcookie-23 @hxneyclouds @notapradagurl7 @honeys-archives @goldenjasssy @oscarisaaclovebot

[leriexoxo]

SKZ HEADCANON SERIES (18+)

Chapter 2: Leeknow - The Cold Choreographer

OT8 SERIES MASTERLIST

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Minho didn’t like you. He made that clear from day one.

He didn’t bother hiding the eye-rolls when you walked into the studio. Didn’t pretend to like your style. He questioned your counts. Picked apart your blocking. Said things like “That’s not sharp, it’s sloppy” in front of the entire crew.

You fired back with the same icy venom. “If I wanted your input, I’d ask someone with rhythm.”

The dancers lived for it. Every rehearsal was a silent war, two choreographers co-leading a group and refusing to budge. And still—he never missed a session. Never skipped a beat.

Never looked at you without that quiet, infuriating heat in his eyes.

⸻

You were both assigned to craft a special stage for an end-of-year award show. A duet. “Perfect tension,” management said. “Push and pull. Fire and frost.”

You and Minho were the embodiment of both.

The song was sensual. The choreography called for intimacy. Close holds. Breaths shared. Fingers laced. You tried not to flinch every time he touched you.

He never flinched at all.

Just pressed close. Moved with control. Lifted you like you were weightless, spun you like you were a secret in his hands.

⸻

One Night After Everyone Left

The group had cleared out. You stayed behind, annoyed by a transition that didn’t flow the way you wanted.

You didn’t hear him come back in.

“You keep stuttering on the third eight-count,” he said from behind you, voice smooth, slow, unforgiving.

You turned around sharply. “And you keep breathing down my neck like that’s part of the choreo.”

He stepped closer. “Maybe it should be.”

You swallowed hard.

He crossed the floor, that feline grace in every step, and hit play on the speaker. The track echoed through the studio. He held out a hand.

“You want it clean? Let’s go again.”

You hesitated. Then placed your hand in his.

He pulled you into place with exact precision—body flush to yours, one hand guiding your hip, the other lacing your fingers.

The music dropped.

Every movement was slower. Tighter. Like he was dragging the tension out of your bones and molding it into something unbearable.

His fingers brushed your lower back. His thigh slipped between yours. His lips hovered by your ear.

“You’re always so uptight,” he murmured. “No wonder your moves are stiff.”

You exhaled, hot. “I’ll show you stiff.”

“Do it.”

The next step hit, and you pushed him back, grinding against him with the rhythm. He caught your wrist mid-movement and yanked you close.

That’s when it cracked.

He kissed you hard—no warning, no hesitation. Lips bruising, teeth grazing, his hand tangled in your hair. You gasped, and he used it, tongue sliding in like he owned your mouth.

You broke the kiss to speak. “You hate me.”

He smirked, breathless. “I really fucking do.”

Then he spun you around and shoved you back against the mirror. The cool glass stung your spine as he crowded your front, one thigh slotting between yours.

“You’ve been looking at me like you wanted this for weeks,” he whispered, fingers dragging your waistband down. “So shut up and give in.”

You did.

His hand slipped between your thighs, and you arched into him with a moan. His touch was rough. Confident. He knew exactly how to ruin you.

When he dropped to his knees, his reflection stared back at you—smug, hungry, glowing under the studio lights. You were panting, squirming, rocking your hips into his mouth as he licked and sucked you open.

“Minho—fuck—”

He hummed against you. “Louder.”

Your hands slapped against the mirror for balance. He didn’t stop until your legs trembled, until you were gasping out broken cries into the glass.

When he stood, he kissed you again, messy and eager.

“Condom,” he whispered against your lips.

You fumbled for your bag, handed it over with shaking fingers.

He turned you around—body pressed tight, breath warm on your neck—and slid inside slow. Deep. Delicious.

Your eyes caught the mirror.

It was filthy. Perfect.

His hand wrapped around your throat lightly, just enough to make you focus. His other hand gripped your hip, snapping his hips up into you with a pace that made your knees weak.

“Look at yourself,” he growled. “Look how good I fuck you.”

You did.

You watched your mouth drop open, eyes glaze over, body bouncing against the mirror to the beat of his thrusts.

Every filthy sound echoed.

Every moan was his name.

When you came, he held you up with one arm, still pounding into you like he was chasing his own high—and when he spilled inside the condom, he bit down on your shoulder and groaned like you’d taken the soul out of him.

⸻

Silence. Heavy breathing. Sweat on skin and glass.

You leaned your forehead against the mirror, trembling.

He pressed a kiss to your neck.

“I still think your counts suck,” he murmured.

You turned and kissed him again. Hard.

“Then help me fix them tomorrow.”

He smirked. “Only if we end rehearsal like this every time.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr @itvenorica124 @slut4junho @deepblueocean97 @thequibbie @yaorzu-blog @imagine-all-the-imagines @just-bria @mischievousleeknow @ifyxu @melanctton @thelostprincessofasgard @binniebb @sillylittlecat1 @darkwitchoferie @m-325 @headfirstfortoro @imseungminsgf @ihrtlix @vernorica123 @hwangjoanna @swordswallower2000 @niki007 @yxna-bliss @firelordtsuki @justwonder113 @mbioooo0000 @sammhisphere @nebugalaxy @cutecucumberkimberly @chancloud8 @sunflwerstar

[mrs-delaney]

Hide | An Unexpected Invitation | Chapter Two

Summary: Riley Carter never expected much from a simple text asking if she liked food, but Joe Burrow's direct approach catches her off guard in the best way. Between late nights at Electric Lady Studios finishing her band's new album and her growing anticipation for their first real date, Riley finds herself drawn to the NFL quarterback's refreshing authenticity. After a messy public breakup left her wary of relationships, especially with someone in the spotlight, she's surprised by her willingness to break her own rules for Joe. As their text exchanges and late-night calls deepen their connection, Riley faces a decision: maintain the careful distance she's built around her heart, or take a chance on someone new.

Pairings: Joe Burrow x Riley Carter (OC)

Word Count: 3.2k

Requested: No | Yes

Warnings: Mild language, flirty banter, mentions of past toxic relationships, public scrutiny, and undeniable chemistry.

This story is ONLY posted on Wattpad and Tumblr under miss_delaney. If you see it anywhere else, it has been stolen. Do NOT copy, repost, translate, or distribute my work on any other platform. Please respect my writing.

Want to be added to the taglist? Drop a comment or message me! 💕

Requests: Open

Author’s Note: Here we go! Sorry its late. This chapter is all about setting the foundation for Joe and Riley’s dynamic—playful, unexpected, and just a little bit risky. I love writing those early moments where two people click without fully realizing what they’re getting into. Their chemistry is building, and things are definitely about to get interesting. Let me know what you think! 😊💛

Riley stared at her phone, thumb hovering over the screen as she read Joe's message again.

Joe QB🏈: Do you like food?

A laugh escaped her lips before she could stop it. Was this his idea of a smooth opener? It was so direct, so oddly simple, that she couldn't help but find it endearing. She'd had guys slide into her DMs with carefully crafted messages, obviously rehearsed lines, and pretentious attempts at intellectual conversation. But "Do you like food?" That was new.

She tapped out a response, deliberately matching his directness with a hint of playfulness.

Riley 🎤: Yes, QB. I like food. Love it, actually. I'm always down for a nice meal.

She hit send and set her phone down on the kitchen counter of her rented NYC apartment, turning her attention back to the coffee brewing in front of her. The rich aroma filled the small space, mingling with the distant wail of sirens and the perpetual hum of the city that filtered through her half-open window. She was only in the city for another week—just long enough to finish the studio sessions for her band's new album before heading back to LA for meetings with their label. She wasn't expecting a quick response—the guy probably had a rigorous schedule with his sponsor events and appearances while he was in town. But barely thirty seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Joe QB🏈: Alright then, wanna come over Friday night? I'll cook you dinner.

Riley nearly choked on her coffee. Well, that was unexpected. Not the invitation itself—she'd had plenty of those—but the casual confidence behind it. No "maybe we could" or "if you're free sometime." Just a straightforward invitation to his place, with the added detail that he'd be cooking. It struck her as both presumptuous and refreshing.

She hesitated, finger hovering over the keyboard. The sensible response would be to suggest a restaurant instead—something public, neutral, safe. That's what her publicist would advise. Hell, that's what she would advise any of her friends. Never go to a guy's place for a first date.

But then again, this wasn't exactly a normal situation. They'd already met on national television. He'd already admitted to having a crush on her in front of millions of viewers. And something about his straightforward approach intrigued her.

Riley 🎤: You're telling me Joe Burrow can cook?

His reply came almost instantly.

Joe QB🏈: Don't sound so surprised. I can follow a recipe.

She grinned, shaking her head at his confidence.

Riley 🎤: Guess we'll see if they're as good as your QB skills.

Setting down her phone, Riley leaned against the kitchen counter and took another sip of her coffee, a strange flutter of anticipation settling in her stomach. She'd just agreed to a date—was it a date?—with Joe Burrow. The same Joe Burrow who'd turned bright red on The Tonight Show when she'd walked out. The same Joe Burrow who'd kissed her cheek and asked for her number with that endearing mix of confidence and nervousness.

It had only been a few days since The Tonight Show, but Riley's life already felt a little... different. Not dramatically so—she was still working with her bandmates on their new album, still navigating the busy recording schedule, still trying to make the most of their limited time in NYC. But there was something new weaving its way through the familiar rhythms of her life: the constant presence of Joe Burrow in her text messages.

She wasn't sure what had possessed her to say yes to his casual "I'll cook you dinner" text, but here she was, letting him monopolize her phone in the best way possible. What started as a simple exchange about food turned into hours of texting—playful, funny, and way too easy.

Each notification from him sent a little jolt of anticipation through her system—a feeling she hadn't experienced in years. Maybe it was the novelty of it all. Or maybe it was just him.

She liked his sense of humor. It wasn't forced or over the top; it was subtle, the kind of humor that made her laugh without even realizing she was smiling. And he paid attention. He actually asked her questions, remembered things she'd told him, and sent follow-up texts that felt genuine rather than perfunctory.

Like yesterday, when she'd mentioned in passing that she was trying to cut back on caffeine, and twelve hours later, he'd texted to ask how the caffeine withdrawal was going. It was such a small thing, but so few people actually listened to the details.

Joe Burrow was nothing like she'd expected.

She wasn't sure what she'd expected. Most athletes she'd encountered at industry events or award shows had come across as cocky—all swagger and practiced charm, their public personas polished to a shine. But Joe seemed different. He texted like a normal person—sometimes with perfect grammar, sometimes with abbreviations, occasionally with a meme that made no sense out of context but somehow made her laugh anyway.

There was something steady about him that settled her, a calm confidence that never veered into arrogance. In an industry where she was constantly surrounded by big personalities and bigger egos, his groundedness felt like stepping into a quiet room after hours in a crowded club.

And maybe that was why she didn't slam on the brakes like she normally would have. Why she was willing to consider having dinner at his place rather than insisting on a public restaurant with an escape route.

With a sigh, Riley set her empty coffee mug in the sink and headed to the studio. She had work to do, and she couldn't spend the entire morning analyzing text messages like a teenager. But as she settled in front of her keyboard, her phone buzzed again.

Joe QB🏈: What are you up to tonight?

She smiled, typing back quickly.

Riley 🎤: At Electric Lady. Long night ahead.

The response was immediate.

Joe QB🏈: What's Electric Lady?

Riley stared at the screen, momentarily taken aback. Was he serious? Electric Lady was legendary—practically hallowed ground for musicians. But then again, not everyone lived in her world, did they?

Riley 🎤: You're kidding.

Joe QB🏈: I'm not.

She shook her head, smiling despite herself. There was something endearing about his willingness to admit he didn't know something.

Riley 🎤: It's only one of the most iconic recording studios in NYC. Hendrix built it. Bowie recorded there. Springsteen, Patti Smith, The Clash... Do I need to keep going?

Joe QB🏈: Alright, alright. I get it. Sounds cool.

Riley snorted. "Sounds cool." As if she'd mentioned a trendy new coffee shop rather than one of the most significant musical landmarks in the city.

Riley 🎤: Cool doesn't even begin to cover it. It's my happy place when I'm in the city. Something about the history in those walls... it's like you can feel it when you're creating there.

There was a pause before his next message—longer than his previous replies had been.

Joe QB🏈: You sound like you're working late a lot this week.

The observation surprised her. Most people—especially people she'd just met—didn't notice or comment on her schedule unless she explicitly mentioned being tired or busy.

Riley 🎤: Yes, we are on a roll. We're finishing the bridge on this new track that's giving us hell. It's either going to be the best thing on the album or drive us all insane before we get it right.

She set her phone down, turning her attention to the keyboard in front of her. Her fingers drifted across the keys, finding the melody that had been haunting her for days—an insistent, driving sequence that contrasted with the vulnerability of the lyrics she'd been working on. It was the kind of song that would have their fans holding up lighters at shows, a perfect arena anthem with just enough raw emotion to make it personal.

But her mind kept drifting back to their conversation. To the way he actually seemed to care about what she was doing, not just when she'd be free to see him.

The rest of the week followed a similar pattern. When she wasn't at Electric Lady, she was either catching up on sleep or texting Joe. It was quickly becoming her favorite way to wind down after her long nights in the studio.

In the back of a sleek black Escalade, Manhattan's lights refracting through rain-streaked windows, her phone lit up with his name. Not a text this time—a call. She hesitated for only a second before answering.

"Isn't it past your bedtime, Burrow?" she teased, leaning back against the leather seat.

A low chuckle filled her ear. "Probably. But I figured you'd still be up."

"Good guess," she replied, watching the city lights blur past her window. "Just heading back to my place from the studio."

"How's the mysterious project going?" he asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.

This was what continued to surprise her about Joe. He was curious about her work, and unlike other people who would ask about her career out of politeness, Joe actually seemed interested in the details. It threw her off at first. She wasn't used to someone wanting to know her, not just the version of her that showed up on red carpets and album covers.

"It's going well," she said, more openly than she might have with someone else. "Today was mostly vocal tracking—the less glamorous part where I sing the same line fifty times until it's perfect."

"Sounds exhausting," Joe commented.

"It can be. But there's something satisfying about getting it exactly right. The guys are patient, though. Andy, our drummer, is practically a saint when it comes to vocal sessions. Nick keeps us laughing even when we're ready to kill each other over a single note."

"I get that," he said, and she could hear the understanding in his voice. "It's like when we run the same play over and over in practice. Looks boring from the outside, but there's something about the repetition, the precision..."

"Exactly," Riley said, surprised by how well he seemed to understand. "Different fields, same principle. The pursuit of that perfect execution where everything just clicks."

There was a comfortable pause before Joe spoke again. "So, we still on for tomorrow? Or are you going to be too wiped from your late nights?"

She smiled into the darkness of the car. "I'll be there. Seven o'clock, right?"

"Yeah," he confirmed. "I've already started prepping some things."

"Wow, taking this seriously, huh?" she teased.

"Can't have America's dream girl thinking I can't cook, can I?"

Riley groaned at the reference to the media nickname that had stuck after their Tonight Show appearance. "Please don't call me that."

Joe laughed, the sound warm and rich through the phone. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."

"Uh-huh. I'm hanging up now," she said, though there was no bite to her words.

"Goodnight, Riley," he said, his voice softening.

"Goodnight, Joe," she replied, ending the call with a smile lingering on her lips.

The car pulled up to her building, rain now falling in earnest. As she dashed inside, nodding to the night doorman, she realized she was actually looking forward to tomorrow night in a way she hadn't anticipated. There was something about Joe's direct approach, his genuine interest, his unexpected moments of vulnerability that made her want to know more.

Their calls had quickly developed a rhythm of their own. Late at night, her phone would light up just as she was finishing at the studio.

Their conversations rarely lasted more than ten minutes, but she found herself looking forward to them—this small, consistent connection across the miles between their separate worlds.

But as much as she was enjoying their easy back-and-forth, a part of her couldn't help but hesitate. A part of her kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the easy conversations to turn complicated, for the red flags to appear, for the inevitable letdown.

Her last relationship had left scars she hadn't realized were still there. Her ex—another musician, a guitarist whose talent was matched only by his volatility—had been part of her life for far too long. They'd spent years in an on-again, off-again cycle that was as exhausting as it was destructive. The kind of relationship that burned so hot it left everything around it in ashes, including the early days of her band when they were just starting to gain traction.

The breakup had been messy, the kind that made headlines and left her name plastered all over the tabloids. Paparazzi outside her house, speculative articles about who had cheated on whom, invasive questions in interviews that were supposed to be about her band's music. Her personal life dissected on social media by people who knew nothing about the actual relationship.

She still remembered the sting of the public fallout. The embarrassment. The frustration of people weighing in on something they knew nothing about. The way strangers felt entitled to judge her decisions, her emotions, her life.

After finally walking away for good, she'd sworn off relationships entirely. Not just publicly, but privately as well. She'd made a promise to herself: no more losing herself in someone else's orbit, no more putting her needs second, no more drama that derailed her creative focus.

She'd thrown herself into her career, traveled the world alone, and learned how to be happy without needing someone else to fill the gaps. And for the most part, it had worked. She'd become someone she was proud of, someone she didn't think she could've been if she hadn't taken time for herself.

The band's latest album—the one that had catapulted them from indie darlings to mainstream recognition—had emerged from that period of self-discovery. Their sound had evolved into something more powerfully honest, with electric guitar-driven anthems balanced by moments of intimate vulnerability. Critics had praised their ability to blend raw emotional lyrics with radio-ready hooks, and fans had responded to that authenticity in droves.

She still remembered the moment they realized things had changed for good—a sold-out show in London where the entire crowd sang their lyrics back to them so loudly that she'd had to step away from the mic, overwhelmed by the wall of sound. The guys had looked at her with the same stunned expression, all of them realizing simultaneously that they'd crossed some invisible threshold.

After a year of being single, Riley had found a comfortable rhythm in her independence. She'd learned what she actually wanted: someone who would respect her work while still making her feel cherished. Someone who understood her world without trying to dominate it. Despite the walls she'd built during her recovery from that toxic relationship, she was ready to open herself up again—just cautiously, and on her own terms.

So when Joe Burrow appeared with his straightforward texts and genuine interest, she found herself intrigued in a way she hadn't expected. There was something refreshing about his approach, something that made her curious enough to say yes to dinner at his place despite all her usual rules.

The truth was, she wasn't sure she was ready for anything serious, especially given their careers and geographical distance. But for the first time in a long while, she was willing to at least explore the possibility.

Friday morning arrived with unexpected anxiety. Riley found herself second-guessing her decision to go to Joe's place, wondering if she should text to suggest a restaurant instead. But before she could overthink it further, her phone rang.

Riley was still in bed when her phone buzzed, Joe's name lighting up the screen. She groaned softly, pulling the blanket over her head before answering.

"Hello?" Her voice was still husky with sleep.

"Morning, Riley," Joe said, his voice light and teasing. "Just checking to make sure we're still on for tonight."

She rolled onto her back, blinking up at the ceiling as she smirked. "Why are you calling me so early, Burrow? Don't you know I like to sleep late?"

"Early?" Joe laughed, and she could practically hear the grin in his voice. "It's eleven."

"Exactly. Early," she quipped, running a hand through her tangled hair. "I told you I like to sleep late, especially after a long night at the studio."

Joe chuckled on the other end of the line, the sound warm and relaxed. "Guess I'll have to keep that in mind. But I needed to make sure you weren't backing out on me."

There was something in his tone—a hint of vulnerability beneath the confident teasing—that made her heart soften a little. As if despite all his self-assurance, he genuinely wasn't sure she'd show up. It was those glimpses of real person behind the quarterback that kept drawing her in.

She rolled onto her side, smiling to herself. "Not a chance. I'm looking forward to tonight."

Joe's voice was playful when he responded. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she admitted easily, surprising herself with her own honesty. "You say you're cooking a meal for me. That's really sweet. I can't wait to see what you come up with."

"Just a heads-up to manage your expectations," Joe said, a touch of self-deprecation in his voice that she found oddly charming. "We're not talking culinary genius here."

"I'm sure it'll be fine. What time do you want me there?" Riley asked, sitting up and pushing the blankets aside. Sunlight streamed through the gap in her curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the still air.

"Seven," he said without hesitation, as if he'd had the time planned all along.

"Perfect," she said, already mentally planning what she was going to wear. Something casual but flattering. Something that said "I made an effort" without screaming "I spent three hours getting ready for you."

She had a busy day ahead—a final vocal session, then a meeting with their manager about the upcoming tour schedule. The album wouldn't be out for months, but they needed to lock in venues for the fall tour now. Eleven cities in fourteen days, starting on the East Coast and working their way west. The thought of the grueling schedule would normally make her anxious, but today it seemed manageable. A problem for future Riley.

There was a brief pause before he added, his voice warm with amusement, "Do I need to send you a calendar invite so you don't forget?"

Riley laughed, the sound more carefree than she'd felt in a while. "I'll be there, Burrow. Don't worry—I wouldn't miss this."

Joe chuckled. "Good. I'll see you tonight then."

"See you tonight," she echoed, ending the call and dropping her phone onto the mattress beside her.

She exhaled, staring at the ceiling for a moment, a strange mix of anticipation and nerves swirling in her stomach. This wasn't just some guy she'd matched with on a dating app. This was Joe Burrow. NFL quarterback. Someone who lived as much in the public eye as she did, whose career came with its own unique pressures and scrutiny. Someone who seemed like he might actually understand her world in a way few others could.

But more than that, this was someone who made her laugh, who paid attention, who showed genuine interest in her life beyond the glamorous surface. Someone who didn't seem intimidated by her success or intent on competing with it.

A slow smile tugged at her lips as she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She had a date to prepare for.

Yeah. She was definitely looking forward to this.