#escaped made another masterpiece

[lemoodle]

WAHHHH BLUE INFINITY IS COMPLETED AND I’M ABSOLUTELY BAWLING RN!!

Escaped, this is gonna be the last time you make me shed tears 🫵🏽🥲 how dare you make me feel emotions!!

But everyone did an amazing job as the extra characters! 10/10 for everyone 🫶🏽 10/10 for the amazing story as well ✨🫡

[fangdokja]

They’re not heroes. They’re your tormentors, and you’ll love every second of it.

❤︎ Synopsis. Four men, each consumed by a darkness that binds them to you, will stop at nothing to claim your soul. In their world, love is a twisted cage, and you’re the captive—lost in a nightmare where escape is impossible and desire is the cruelest torment.

♡ Book. Forbidden Fruits: Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Pairing. Yandere! Mr. Reca x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Mydei x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Anaxa x Fem. Reader, Yandere! Phainon x Fem. Reader

♡ Headcanons. The Game of Surrender - Part 2

♡ Word Count. 4,326

♡ TW. dom + top + older + slightly sadistic yandere, general non-con + manipulation, suggestive themes, psychological + mental conditioning, fear play, emotional manipulation and abuse, hints at rough play and sex, psychological + emotional trauma, isolation, monitoring, lack of boundaries, non-con kissing and/or touching, forced relationship, BDSM, manipulation of circumstances, threats, Stockholm Syndrome

♡ Note. This was made before the official releases of characters, so be warned that some information may be inaccurate once additional lore comes out.

♡ Mr. Reca.

"Every thought you have, every breath you take, is a scene in my film—my masterpiece. And don't worry, darling, I'll make sure you never forget your lines. Not even when you're screaming them in your sleep."

The universe had always been a canvas to him—a vast, writhing tapestry of chaos and order, the kind of unpredictable beauty that Mr. Reca found utterly magnetic. He had always been a collector of moments, a Memokeeper who consumed emotions, gestures, and unguarded thoughts with the same fervor a drowning man gulps air.

But you—oh, you—you were not just another fleeting spark in the vast night of existence.

You were an anomaly, a glitch in the dreamscape, a hauntingly real smear of imperfection across his perfectly constructed illusions. And so, he watched you, studied you, devoured the fragile lines of your every expression. It wasn’t obsession, not at first. It was curiosity, a scientist’s hunger for understanding. But curiosity, as it often does, rotted into something far darker.

It began subtly. At first, you didn’t even realize you were his subject. The assistant frog—so innocuous, its mechanical chirps like a child’s toy—hovered too long in your presence. That thing recorded the barest twitch of your lips, the dilation of your pupils when you dreamt, the cadence of your breath when you were lost in thought.

He played those recordings back again and again, crafting you into the centerpiece of his mind’s latest film, a work of art that no audience but him would ever see. Each flicker of your gaze, each half-whispered syllable, was dissected with a surgeon’s precision and woven into the dream bubble of his fantasies.

You had not agreed to this, of course. You would not have, had you known. But consent had never mattered much to Mr. Reca, not when reality itself could be edited, overwritten, and reshaped to suit his narrative.

He didn’t fall in love with you in the way mortals understood love.

No, it was something far more grotesque. You were not his equal. You were not even human, not to him.

You were a role to be perfected, an actress bound to his script. And he—he was the director, the puppeteer pulling the strings of your existence with a touch so light, so surgical, that you didn’t notice your autonomy dissolving until it was too late.

He didn’t approach you like an ordinary man. Ordinary men didn’t cloak their words in riddles, their intentions in shadows.

“Your dreams are fascinating,” he said once, his tone light but his eyes dark, predatory. “I could make a masterpiece from them. Would you let me?”

His gaze burned into you, not with affection, but with hunger—the kind of hunger that consumes, destroys, leaves nothing but ash in its wake.

When you hesitated, when you stammered out a polite refusal, his smile curved sharp and cruel. “Ah, but do you really have a choice?”

You didn’t, of course.

The dream bubbles began soon after. Vivid, horrifyingly real landscapes where you were no longer yourself but a marionette dancing to his whims.

The first time you woke screaming, trembling from the phantom pain of dream wounds, he was there. He shouldn’t have been—your door had been locked—but there he was, sitting on the edge of your bed with his head tilted and that damned frog-camera clutched in his gloved hands.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, as if you were a specimen under glass. “You feel it, don’t you? The fear, the thrill, the pain. Tell me, how does it taste?”

In bed, he is not a lover. He is a creator, and you are his medium.

His touch is clinical at first, cold and calculated, his gloved fingers trailing down your spine as if mapping the curve of your body for a sculpture he plans to carve later.

But there is heat beneath that coldness, a violent, consuming fire that erupts when he lets himself indulge. He does not make love. He takes. He presses you into the mattress as if trying to merge you with it, his weight oppressive, suffocating. His hands grip your wrists too tightly, leaving bruises like the ink stains of his artistry. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice a low murmur that mixes poetry with threats, promises with lies.

“Do you feel it?” he whispers, his tone too calm for the frenzy of his movements. “The way your body betrays you? The way it obeys me, even when your mind doesn’t want to?”

His teeth graze the shell of your ear, and the sharp pain that follows is not accidental. “I could keep you here forever,” he says, his voice thick with sadistic delight. “Inside the dream, inside me. Would you even know the difference? Would you even care?”

You would care, of course.

You fight him, or at least you try. But he’s relentless, unyielding, a force of nature that smothers your resistance with sheer willpower. He doesn’t let you hide from him, not even in the sanctuary of your own mind.

His powers as a Memokeeper ensure that every thought, every secret, every fleeting desire you’ve ever tried to bury is laid bare before him. He uses them against you, weaving them into the narrative of his control.

“You want this,” he says, his voice a velvet knife. “You want me. Your body knows it, even if your mind refuses to admit it.”

His lips trail down your throat, his teeth leaving marks that will linger for days, physical proof of his dominance. “And when I’m done with you, when there’s nothing left of you but what I’ve created, you’ll thank me. You’ll beg me to keep you.”

The horror of it all is that he doesn’t just break you physically. He breaks your mind, piece by fragile piece, until you can no longer tell where the dream ends and reality begins. His dream bubbles seep into your waking hours, twisting your perception until even the memories of your resistance feel like fabrications.

He tells you that you’re his muse, his masterpiece, his greatest work. And despite the revulsion, the terror, some part of you begins to believe him.

Because how could someone so brilliant, so meticulous, be wrong?

And yet, in the darkest corners of your mind, you know the truth.

You are not his muse.

You are his victim, a living doll trapped in the nightmare of his creation.

But no one will ever hear your screams.

He’s made sure of that.

After all, reality itself is just another film to him, and he’s already written your final scene.

♡ Mydei.

"You belong to me, just as I am bound to this blood-soaked fate. No one will ever take you from me, not in this life, not in the next. I’ll carve my name into your soul, and you’ll learn to love it, even if it takes a thousand deaths."

It begins as a hum in the back of his throat, a low vibration that settles into his chest like the resonance of a beast stirring in its lair. He watches you, not from afar, but from the corner of your vision, where his shadow seems to stretch and curve unnaturally—always larger, always darker than the dim light allows. His gaze is not mere sight; it’s weight, pressure, suffocation. He sees the tremor in your fingers as you pour water into a glass. He catalogues the way your breaths hitch when his footsteps echo closer, closer still.

And when he speaks, his voice is a razor dragged slowly, deliberately, across raw nerves. “You’re trembling,” he says, though there’s no concern in his tone.

It’s an observation, clinical yet laced with something sharper, something akin to hunger.

He doesn’t touch you yet, but the proximity is suffocating—his presence a noose tightening with every passing second. His breath brushes your ear as he leans closer. “Are you afraid of me?”

You flinch but say nothing, and he chuckles. It’s low and guttural, almost amused, but there’s an edge of cruelty there, a promise that he’ll savor every inch of your fear.

He feeds on it, you realize, and the thought sends a chill racing down your spine. “You should be,” he murmurs, the words dripping like venom. “Fear keeps you alive… but not from me. Never from me.”

He lies, of course.

The predator in him is far too obvious, a wolf cloaked in something barely resembling humanity. He doesn’t see you as prey to consume in haste.

No, he sees you as a possession—a rare, precious thing to break slowly, to shatter and rebuild in his image. He thrives on control, on the knowledge that every shiver, every gasp, every cry is something he owns, something he’s dragged out of you inch by agonizing inch.

When he finally touches you, it’s with the precision of a surgeon dissecting his subject. Fingers glide over your skin like scalpels, drawing phantom lines where his teeth will follow, where his hands will linger. There’s no tenderness in the way he grips your wrist, the bruising force of his palm a warning, a declaration.

He doesn’t need to speak for you to understand: you’re his.

The room is suffused with a kind of tension that seems alive, thrumming in the air like an electrical charge waiting to snap. His lips curl into something that might resemble a smile if not for the sheer malice in it.

“You can fight,” he says, voice as smooth and cold as glass, “but we both know how this ends.”

And then he moves, swift as a predator pouncing, pinning you against the unyielding surface of the wall.

The impact drives the air from your lungs, and before you can catch your breath, he’s there—everywhere. The heat of his body seeps into yours, the solidity of him a cage that leaves no room for escape. His hands are firm, unrelenting, roaming with a kind of obsessive thoroughness that feels both maddening and humiliating. He maps every inch of your body as if it’s a territory to be conquered, claimed.

The words he whispers into your ear are sharp, biting things, designed to slice through your defenses. “Do you know how easy it would be?” he breathes, his voice a silken thread woven with danger.

“To tear you apart. To ruin you so thoroughly you wouldn’t even recognize yourself. And you’d thank me for it, wouldn’t you? By the time I’m done, you won’t want to remember what it felt like to be whole without me.”

His grip tightens, and you can feel the latent strength in his hands, the power that could snap bone without effort.

And yet he doesn’t.

Not yet.

He revels in the anticipation, in the way your body reacts—fear mingled with something darker, something you refuse to name. The way your breath catches, the way your pulse races beneath his fingers… it’s a symphony to him, a melody of submission he’s determined to conduct to its crescendo.

When he finally takes you, it’s not an act of love—it’s an act of dominance, of ownership.

His movements are deliberate, almost cruel in their precision, each thrust a reminder of who holds the reins. He doesn’t allow you to close your eyes, doesn’t let you escape into the safety of darkness.

No, he demands your gaze, demands that you see him, that you acknowledge the monster who has reduced you to this trembling, gasping wreck. And when you do—when your eyes meet his, wide and glassy with tears—he smiles. Not with joy, but with triumph, with the satisfaction of a hunter who has cornered his prey.

His words during these moments are a mix of degradation and adoration, a twisted litany that leaves no doubt of his intentions. “You’re mine,” he growls against your skin, the heat of his breath searing like a brand. “Every breath, every scream, every drop of blood in your veins—it all belongs to me.”

And yet, even as he tears you apart, there’s an undeniable allure in his madness, a magnetic pull that keeps you rooted to the spot even as every instinct screams at you to run.

Because beneath the cruelty, beneath the overwhelming force of his obsession, there’s a flicker of something more—a need so desperate it borders on pathetic, a craving for connection that he can’t voice but demands nonetheless.

When it’s over, he doesn’t release you.

His arms remain locked around you, a vice that refuses to loosen. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ragged, his body still trembling with the aftermath.

And in that moment, you realize the truth of it: he doesn’t break you because he hates you. He breaks you because he loves you, because the thought of you existing without him is unbearable.

But love, for him, is not soft or kind. It is a blade, honed to a deadly edge, and he wields it without mercy.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, and it’s not a question.

It’s a command, a promise, a threat.

“You’ll stay because there’s nowhere else for you to go. No one else who could ever understand you the way I do. And if you try to leave…” His voice trails off, but the unspoken consequence hangs heavy in the air, a silent vow etched in blood.

You nod, because what else can you do?

And as he tightens his hold on you, his lips brushing against your temple in a mockery of a kiss, you feel the full weight of your reality settle over you.

There is no escape. There never was.

And in the dark recesses of your mind, a small, terrified part of you wonders if you’ll ever want to leave at all.

♡ Anaxa.

"You think you can escape my mind, but you're already tangled in my thoughts—your every breath, every movement, is an echo of me. You belong to me, and I will never let you forget that."

The air around him was always cold, as if reality itself recoiled in his presence, drawing its warmth into the void of his indifference. Anaxa moved like an unfinished thought, fragmented, deliberate, yet ever disquieting.

You felt his shadow linger before you saw him, a chilling weight that settled on your skin like frost, sinking into the marrow of your bones. His eyes—one bared to the world, the other concealed beneath the eyepatch—were an unforgiving tapestry of contradictions: icy intellect simmering beneath the calm veneer, an endless labyrinth of thoughts that spiraled toward madness.

He whispered your name like a sacrament and a curse. Each syllable, spoken in that low, velvety cadence of his, seemed to unravel you, a knife peeling back every layer of resolve.

"You think knowledge can shield you," he murmured one night, his breath as cold and intimate as the edge of a scalpel. "But even wisdom has limits. I’ve seen them. I’ve transcended them." He would circle you like a predator savoring the hunt, his movements calculated, his proximity suffocating.

Anaxa was not a man who shattered the soul through brute force.

No, his torment was subtle—a slow dismantling, piece by piece, until you became something unrecognizable to even yourself.

You didn’t notice how he had claimed your life until it was too late. The quiet manipulation seeped in like poison—so gradual, so insidious, you mistook it for safety. Every book you touched, every whisper of thought you dared to express, every step you took outside the prison he called your sanctuary…all of it traced back to him. You'd look up from a page of text only to find him leaning in the doorway, a slight smile curling his lips, the sort that spoke of secrets too profound and too damning to voice.

"You have such a beautiful mind," he'd say, his gloved fingers brushing the side of your neck in a touch that was almost reverent.

"It’s wasted on anyone else. They’ll never understand you—not like I do." The words were honeyed, dripping with a sincerity so intoxicating you almost believed it.

Almost.

Until you noticed the way his gaze lingered on your trembling hands, on the ink smudges on your skin, on the way you recoiled yet stayed rooted in place. He liked the way fear made you fragile, and though you hated him for it, you hated yourself more for the flicker of thrill that bloomed in your chest.

Anaxa didn’t need chains to hold you down; his words alone were shackles. His intelligence was a web, intricate and all-encompassing, and you were the fly ensnared at its center.

"I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered once, late into the night when the room was too quiet and his voice was too close. "But I will, if it’s the only way to make you stay."

And you knew he meant it—not as a threat, but as a promise, a truth spoken with the same certainty as an immutable law of the universe.

The moments of intimacy—if one could call them that—were no less haunting.

His touch was clinical, precise, like a scientist studying a fragile specimen. He knew where to press, where to hold, where to carve into your soul with a calculated cruelty that left you yearning and dreading in equal measure.

His lips on your skin felt like frostbite, burning cold yet addictively sharp. His hands, those hands that wielded intellect like a blade, seemed to map every inch of you with the precision of a scholar dissecting sacred scripture.

"You’re beautiful," he would say, the words an oxymoron of tenderness and possession.

"Beautiful because you’re broken. Broken because you’re mine." He traced the curve of your throat with a gloved fingertip, lingering on the places where your pulse betrayed your terror.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could peel back the layers of flesh and bone to reach the essence of you. "Do you know what the Titans whispered to me in my dreams?" he asked once, his voice a mix of wonder and madness.

"They said I’d find divinity in ruin. And here you are."

The nights were the worst.

In the darkness, you felt him even when you didn’t see him.

The weight of his presence pressed against you, suffocating, inescapable. His words would echo in your mind, winding through your thoughts like a parasite. He’d appear at your bedside, his figure shrouded in the dim glow of moonlight.

"You should sleep," he’d murmur, though his tone carried no warmth. "You’ll need your strength. Tomorrow, we’ll unravel the secrets of the cosmos. Together."

And though you tried to resist, you found yourself clinging to the edges of his words, desperate for the clarity he promised, even as it led you deeper into his labyrinth.

When he finally claimed you, it was an act of calculated brutality disguised as love.

Every kiss felt like a conquest, every caress a branding. He whispered to you like a poet reciting his magnum opus, his voice soft yet unyielding, every syllable carrying the weight of his obsession.

"You belong to me," he said, his lips brushing against your ear as his hands pinned you beneath him. "Not just your body. Your mind. Your soul. Everything. No one else is worthy—not even you."

And as his touch became more demanding, more consuming, you realized that he wasn’t just unraveling you. He was recreating you, piece by piece, reshaping you into something that existed solely for him.

And though every fiber of your being screamed in defiance, a small, treacherous part of you wondered if this was love—or if it was something far darker, something that transcended the bounds of human understanding.

"You’ll never leave me," he said, his voice a blend of certainty and desperation as his lips ghosted over your trembling skin.

"Even if you try, even if you run…I’ll always find you. You’re the only constant in my chaos, the only light in my darkness. And I will burn the stars themselves before I let that light fade."

And so, you lay there in the cold embrace of his obsession, trapped between terror and desire, caught in the orbit of a man who would dismantle the heavens just to keep you by his side.

♡ Phainon.

"Every strike I make, every victory I win—it’s all for you. So don't be afraid when you see the blood. It's just a little sacrifice to remind you: you're mine, and I will burn this world to the ground before I let you go."

The moments he craves most are the quiet ones when the two of you are entirely alone, but tonight, silence isn’t kind.

It’s oppressive, weighted by the looming presence of the man before you—the Deliverer, the Nameless Hero, a man who wears the name Phainon like an armor of light.

Yet beneath that golden radiance, a storm of obsession churns, relentless and unyielding.

He stands over you, the faint luminescence of his ichor-stained veins pulsing faintly in the dim, cold air of the temple chamber. You can feel his gaze before you see it—heavy, glinting with something raw and unspeakable.

His voice, when it finally breaks the silence, is soft but unshakable, carrying the weight of a promise that makes your blood run cold.

“You don’t understand, do you? You’ve never understood.” A smile curls at the edge of his lips, serene yet terrifying. “I don’t want to save the world, not anymore. I want to save you. Every step I’ve taken, every blow I’ve struck, has always been for you.”

His claymore rests at his side, its edge gleaming faintly with an unsettling crimson, dried remnants of the battle from earlier still clinging to the blade.

He hasn’t cleaned it.

He hasn’t even sheathed it.

The weapon is as much a part of him as the air he breathes.

You can’t help but wonder if the blood that stains it belongs to someone you knew, someone who once stood too close to you for his liking.

He takes a step closer, the sound of his boots against the stone floor echoing like the toll of a funeral bell.

You back away instinctively, but there’s no escape.

His pace is slow, deliberate. He knows exactly how far he needs to push you before your resolve shatters.

“Run if you want to,” he murmurs, his tone almost gentle. “I won’t stop you. But you’ll come back. You always do.”

There’s no malice in his words, only certainty—a chilling, inescapable truth that wraps around your throat like a noose.

His hands are stained too.

Not visibly, not this time, but you can feel it in the way he reaches for you.

Fingers meant for wielding destruction now hover over your cheek, trembling slightly with restraint.

You flinch, and the flicker of hurt that crosses his face is almost human—almost.

“You’re afraid of me,” he whispers, his breath brushing against your ear as he leans closer.

“And I... I hate that. I hate that you make me this way. But I hate it even more when you’re far from me.”

When his lips press against yours, it isn’t a kiss—it’s a conquest.

His desperation seeps into you like venom, intoxicating and suffocating all at once. He tastes like metal and fury, his ichor burning faintly where his tongue grazes yours. His touch isn’t tender; it’s possessive, frantic, like he’s trying to carve his existence into your very bones.

His hand tangles in your hair, tugging hard enough to make you gasp, and the sound only seems to spur him on. “You’re mine,” he growls against your lips, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Say it.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

And that’s when his patience snaps.

His grip tightens, dragging you against him until there’s no space left between your bodies. The heat of him is overwhelming, a furnace of ichor and madness that threatens to consume you whole. His other hand presses against the small of your back, forcing you to arch into him as he lowers his head to your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin, and when he speaks again, it’s a guttural rasp that makes your stomach twist. “You don’t understand how far I’d go for you. What I’d destroy. Who I’d become.”

He sinks his teeth into the curve of your shoulder, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark—a brand, a reminder of his claim. You cry out, and he exhales sharply, almost like he’s savoring the sound.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “That’s the truth of it, isn’t it? You’ll scream for me, cry for me... but you’ll never leave.”

And he’s right, isn’t he?

Because even now, as fear and anger coil in your chest like a viper, you can’t bring yourself to push him away.

His presence is suffocating, his obsession terrifying—but there’s something about the way he looks at you, like you’re the sun in a world of endless night, that makes it impossible to resist him entirely.

It’s sick.

It’s wrong.

But it’s real.

Phainon knows it too.

He knows you better than you know yourself, and that knowledge is his greatest weapon.

He wields it with precision, unraveling you piece by piece until there’s nothing left but the parts of you that belong to him.

“You’ll stay,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over your collarbone. “You’ll always stay. Because no one else can have you. Not the Titans, not the Trailblazer... not even yourself.”

When he finally pulls away, his eyes lock onto yours, glowing faintly with the golden ichor that courses through his veins. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him in this moment, a tragic god draped in shadows. He tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s just solved.

“You’re mine,” he says again, softer this time. “And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not.”

And you believe him.

♡ A/N. Not me not knowing fully who these characters are. So... not sure if I did this right hahaha. It's too early to judge the unreleased characters but oh well. And, I did put this into my usual style... idk adjskaskd Take this like a brief hypothesis, I suppose. I am thinking on getting back to Genshin and HSR... maybe. Probably not though. Idk. Anyways, I personally thought I cooked with this. Just not sure with personalities askadsdakldsm

If you want to be added or removed from the tag list, just comment on the MASTERLIST of Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires. Thank you.

General TAG LIST of “Forbidden Fruits”: @uniquecutie-puffs , @belovedoftheanemoarchon , @tnsophiaonly , @mokingbrd78k , @cooldeermagazine , @mimitk , @xileonaaaa , @acacia-koi , @purple-obsidian , @waterfal-ling , @jjune-07 , @jsprien213 , @crimson-kisses , @tinandabin , @sashakittycloud , @songbirdgardensworld , @monamuskay

❤︎ Fang Dokja's Books.

♡ For Reader-Inserts. I only write Male Yandere x Female (Fem.) Reader (heterosexual couple). No LGBTQ+:

♡ Book 1. A Heart Devoured (AHD): A Dark Yandere Anthology

♡ Book 2 [you are here]. Forbidden Fruits (FF): Intimate Obsessions, Unhinged Desires.

♡ Book 3. World Ablaze (WA) : For You, I'd Burn the World.

♡ Book 4. Whispers in the Dark (WITD): Subtle Devotion, Lingering Shadows.

♡ Book 5. Ink & Insight (I&I): From Dead Dove to Daydreams.

♡ Library MASTERPOST 1. The Librarian’s Ledger: A Map to The Library of Forbidden Texts.

♡ Notice #1. Not all stories are included in the masterpost due to Tumblr’s link limitations. However, most long-form stories can be found here. If you're searching for a specific yandere or theme, this guide will help you navigate The Library of Forbidden Texts. Proceed with caution

♡ Book 6. The Red Ledger (TRL): Stained in Lust, Written in Blood.

♡ Notice #2. This masterlist is strictly for non-con smut and serves as an exercise in refining erotic horror writing. Comments that reduce my work to mere sexual gratification, thirst, or casual simping will not be tolerated. If your response is primarily thirst-driven, keep it to yourself—repeated violations may result in blocking. Read the RULES before engaging. The tag list is reserved for followers I trust to respect my boundaries; being included is a privilege, not a right. You may request to be added, but I will decide based on trust and adherence to my guidelines. I also reserve the right to remove anyone at any time if their engagement becomes inappropriate.

[landoughnut]

Made With Love

♡ masterlist - request

♡ pairing - max verstappen x fem!reader

♡ summary - while visiting your boyfriend working, why not bring a little surprise sign you made for him?

♡ warnings - blushy and in love max, drivers and fans teasing max, fluffffff

♡ w/c & a/n - 1.08k | IM BACK 🫶🏻 hehe sorry yall this isn't too great but I gotta get back into the groove so pls send in thoughts or requests bc my minds a blank canvas

Race weekends were always chaotic, but the energy in the paddock today was on another level. Fans packed the grandstands, waving flags, banners, and signs - some are more simple, some are memes of the drivers, yet they were all made with the same excitement for the race ahead.

And somewhere in that sea of people, standing right at the front, was you. Normally, you’d be in with Red Bull but you went over to the fans to join them for the time being. Some had given you bracelets and asked for pictures, which you happily agreed to. 

So here you stand, clutching a sign you had spent way too much time making the night before.

It wasn’t your fault, really. You had been up late, watching Max’s past races for “inspiration” (which was really just an excuse to admire him), when an idea popped into mind. With a few markers, a ridiculously pathetic and cheesy pun, glittery heart stickers, and maybe a questionable drawing of you two, you created what could only be described as likely the most embarrassing thing he would ever see before a race.

“DRIVE FAST BUT NOT TOO FAST, I HAVE PLANS FOR YOU LATER ;)”

You could already imagine his reaction - probably an exasperated sigh, followed by that little smirk he always gave you when he pretended to be unimpressed but was actually very much an attempted cover up of how he falls deeper in love with you. 

The drivers started their walk to the grid, and your raced just a little bit when you spotted him looking impossibly handsome. Max looked calm - focused, sharp, already in his zone - but you knew him well enough to see the tiny traces of nerves beneath the surface. 

As they passed by, you lifted the sign above your head and glanced at some of the fans around you who giggled when they read it.

It took him a second, but then he stopped.

He just… stood there, staring at the sign like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or melt into the asphalt. His mouth was parting and closing again, unsure of how to react, but you just gave him your perfect smile and it made his heart flutter. His ears went pink first, then the blush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks.

“Oh, for f-” Max muttered under his breath, rubbing his temple, but the amused smile on his face betrayed him.

And that’s when the teasing began.

Lando cackled loud enough for the entire grid to hear. “Oh, this is GOLD!”

Before Max could escape, Lando slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning like he’d just won the championship. “So, what’re these ‘plans’ about, mate? Anything we should be worried about? Should we clear the podium early?”

“Do we need to tell Christian?” Charles chimed in, barely holding back his laughter. “You know, just in case he needs to schedule some extra… recovery time for you.”

A chorus of laughter followed. Max groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but the pink on his cheeks only deepened. “You’re all the worst,” he grumbles.

Meanwhile, the nearby fans had caught on fast.

“Oh my god, he’s BLUSHING,” one girl gasped, tugging her friend’s arm.

“He’s practically making heart eyes, how adorable,” another comments, phone already in hand and recording the scene.

Max, looking positively doomed, glanced at you - a mix of betrayal, affection, and desperate pleading. But you? You just continued to smile sweetly with a tilted head.

“You like it.”

“I hate it.”

“You’re literally blushing.”

“I’m warm.”

“Mhm,” you roll your eyes and chuckle.

The teasing didn’t stop as he pulled out his phone and snapped a quick picture of your masterpiece, grumbling something about “evidence to haunt me later.” But before he walked away, he pointed at you, eyes narrowed.

“You’re lucky I love you.”

Your heart did a little flip and you grinned. “Oh, I know.”

And just like that, he was gone, back into the pre-race frenzy - but not before stealing one last loving glance at you over his shoulder.

Later on, the celebration was loud and chaotic. Max had finished on the podium - not a win, but a damn good race - and when he finally found you in the paddock, you barely had time to react before he crashed into you, arms wrapping tight around your waist.

“Enjoy the show?” he asked, voice still breathless with adrenaline.

“Loved it. Thought you might’ve forgotten about my sign, though.”

“Oh, trust me,” he groaned, pulling back just enough to look at you. “Hard to forget when the im being tagged in posts of it nonstop.”

Your brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

He sighed dramatically before pulling out his phone. Everywhere, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, was flooded with clips from earlier.

Fan tweets scrolled across the screen:

“THE WAY HE STOPPEDDDD LOOK AT HIM. HE’S A GONER”

“If my future man doesn’t hold up a sign like this for me, I don’t want him”

“This man is so down baddd LOOK AT THE BLUSH”

“MAX VERSTAPPEN ‘I’M WARM’ CHALLENGE (IMPOSSIBLE)”

You bit your lip, trying (and failing) not to laugh. “I mean… they’re not wrong,” you poke his cheek.

Max groaned, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re never making a sign again,” he says, although you both know he doesn’t mean it.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, swaying slightly. “Oh, baby, you know that’s a lie.”

Before he could argue, you kissed him, soft at first, teasing. But then he tilted his head, deepening it, fingers pressing into your waist like he didn’t care that people were watching.

Somewhere in the background, some group of fans started shouting.

“Oh my goshh, he’s in love!.”

“Life is so unfair! Where’s my Max?”

When you finally pulled away, breathless, he was grinning like a lovestruck idiot.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered, thumb brushing over your cheek.

“And you love it.”

His gaze flickered to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Yeah,” he whispered. “That I do.”

Later, when you made it back to his driver’s room, you caught him slipping the sign into his bag, folding it carefully like it was something worth keeping.

“… You’re keeping that?” you asked, amused.

He shot you a look. “Shut up.” You didn’t push it. But you did smile. He bites his lip, placing it into his pocket, knowing that no matter how many trophies he collects, this - you - might just be his favorite thing he’d ever won.

[justwinginglife]

I think maybe I'll never stop writing Rafayel. God I love this man. Anyway, here is a little piece I wrote after my shower today, ft partial but brief mature (not explicit) content.

You always shower with Rafayel.

At first, it's just because he insists on it. At first, you laugh and say, "It's just an excuse to get me naked, isn't it," and at first, it is. At first, he can't keep his eyes off of you, like you're a masterpiece that God made solely for his viewing. At first, he can't keep his hands off of you, like you're a wonderland that God made solely for his exploring. At first, the shower is hardly for any showering at all; rather it was just another location he used to take you into his arms, meld to you with his lips, and show you Heaven like you've never seen before.

But now, now the shower is something even more precious. Now, it's where he gets to hear your laughter bubble up when you scold him for dabbing more soap all over your body after you already told him you had finished washing up, just because he wants to stay like this for a moment more. Now, it's where he gets a private concert because he's learned that you just can't help yourself from singing in the shower, and now, it's the only location that bears witness to your duets, as he joins in your harmony.

Now, you feel lonely when he isn't by your side, wiping shampoo from your eyes, or trailing soap down your back, or pressing kisses to your shoulders.

Today, you feel particularly lonely, as you wait for him to come back from his trip. Usually, you do your best to go with him on his travels, relishing in your time together abroad, but this time, work was in desperate need of your services, and this time, you couldn't join him. So you shower alone today. At first, it's eerily quiet. Even the sound of the running water splashing against the shower tiles seems too quiet for your comfort. So you test out the acoustics in the bathroom once more, singing timidly at first, and then, imagining he's here beside you, singing louder. You even start to get into the rhythm and do a little dance underneath the showerhead, letting the water cascade down your shoulders as you sway your hips.

Then you hear it.

At first it's just faint humming and you think you're imagining things. Then it's clapping to the beat, then it's singing so sweet that you can almost hear his tender smile as he harmonizes with you. You yank open the curtains, not caring that the water has now begun to escape the confines of the shower, and there he is, stripping down as quick as he can so he can join you.

He's finally home.

[multific]

A Still Life in Love

Emperor Geta x Reader

Summary: What better way to capture someone's likeness than a painting?

Geta, one of the twin rulers of the Roman Empire.

He sat in complete silence, his gaze focused on every petition brought before him.

To his senators and generals, he was a ruthless man.

He and his brother roughly enjoyed games, blood and wine.

Whispers of their coldness echoed through the palace halls, and yet none dared question their authority.

But you knew another side of Geta, a side he showed only to you and on occasion to his brother.

When the court adjourned for the day, he rushed back to his chambers, ready for some time alone with you, his wife.

You entered his chambers with a soft knock not long after him.

“Amor,” As his eyes met yours, he smiled. “I’ve been waiting to see you finally.”

You stepped into the room, Geta stood and closed the distance between you, his hand reaching for yours. “How was your day?” you asked.

He sighed, brushing a strand of hair from your face. “Tired as ever. I am tired of the fools who believe they can outsmart me. But you brighten even my darkest hours.”

Moments like these were rare treasures.

The love he had for you was there in every smile, every touch, and every word spoken.

It was this love that inspired him to commission a portrait of you.

It was something that left you speechless. Just how serious he was when it came to you.

The painter was summoned weeks later, an acclaimed artist from Gaul.

His skill was unmatched, but he quickly learned that the challenge wouldn’t be capturing your beauty.

It would be dealing with the Emperor himself.

“You will make her radiant. No brushstroke will do her justice, but you will try. If you do not do as you are told...”

The artist nodded quickly, his hands trembling as he set down his materials.

You hid a smile, watching as Geta stood over him like a hawk.

The moment the painter raised his brush, Geta’s voice cut through the silence. Almost making the artist jump out of his skin.

“Do not forget the light in her eyes. It’s the first thing I noticed about her.”

“Geta,” you said gently, “Let him work, please.”

He exhaled sharply and took a step back.

But instead of leaving, he found a seat near the window, his gaze on you. “I will stay. This is important.”

And so began the sittings, each more revealing than the last.

The painter didn't dare complain about Geta’s interruptions, but you couldn’t bring yourself to be annoyed.

You actually found it quite adorable.

The Emperor of Rome, a man feared by millions, sat still, his focus on you.

One afternoon, as the painter adjusted his palette, you noticed Geta watching you with something in his eyes. It made you feel a bit shy.  

“Why are you looking at me that way?” you asked, half-teasing.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “Because you’re mine. And because I want the world to see you as I do. Perfect, irreplaceable, and breathtaking.”

“Perfect, am I? Even when I argue with you?”

A low chuckle escaped him. “Especially then. Your fire reminds me that I’ve married a woman, not a shadow.”

The painter cleared his throat awkwardly, and you turned back to your pose, pushing down a laugh. Geta remained seated, his attention solely on you the artist continued.

Days turned into weeks, and the portrait was almost completed.

Geta’s pride in the work was noticeable. “Will you look?”

“Not until it’s finished,” you replied. You were actually interested in how he saw you.

And this portrait would be a perfect representation of his love for you.

He frowned slightly, but you kissed his cheek, hoping to ease his disappointment. “Patience, My Love.”

When the day finally came to unveil the portrait, Geta was practically jumping up and down with excitement.

You stood beside him as the velvet cloth was removed, revealing the masterpiece.

The artist had captured not just your likeness but the warmth and intelligence in your eyes.

In the painting, the traits Geta cherished most were the most permanent.

Your breath hitched. “It’s beautiful.”

“No, you’re beautiful. This is but a shadow of the truth.”

The artist, sensing his dismissal, quickly gathered his belongings and ran. Too afraid to become the next feast for Geta's beloved tigers.

As the door closed, Geta turned to you fully. “Do you see now why I insisted on this? I wanted the world to know the woman who owns my heart.”

“Geta, I’m just me.”

“You are everything,” he pulled you into his arms.

His lips brushed your forehead, then your cheek, before capturing your lips in a kiss that spoke louder than any word.

The portrait was placed in the grand hall.

Geta insisted that everyone who was walking the hall must see it.

But in Geta’s eyes, no painting could ever compare to the reality of having you by his side.

For the Emperor who ruled with his brother, you were his only beauty, his greatest treasure.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[satellite-evans]

you bring me home

Pairing: Harry Styles x wife!reader

Summary: wherever Harry goes, his family brings him home.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: fluff, little angst, insecure Harry

A/N:

AAAAAAA happy birthday Harry, my favorite babygirl ilysm <3

I can't believe harry is 31 🥹🥹🥹

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

As a person who loved sleeping in, waking up early was one of the things you disliked the most, but for Harry, you would do anything. The air was tinged with the scent of fresh pancakes and vanilla as you carefully balanced a breakfast tray, ensuring nothing spilled. Your twin children, Lily and Theo, stood beside you, their little bodies quivering with excitement as they whispered and giggled, barely containing their enthusiasm.

The tray was a masterpiece of love and effort: a tall stack of fluffy pancakes, perfectly golden, drizzled with maple syrup and a dollop of whipped cream on top. A steaming cup of his favorite tea sat beside it, sending up comforting swirls of steam, and a small vase held a single daisy, freshly plucked from the garden, its petals still glistening with morning dew.

“Be extra quiet,” you whispered conspiratorially, nudging Theo, who was practically vibrating with anticipation. “We don’t want to wake him before we surprise him.”

Lily nodded solemnly, but her eyes sparkled with mischief as she reached up to steady the crown she had crafted the night before, made from construction paper, glitter, and tiny stickers. She had insisted he wear it the entire day.

With one final glance at your giggling children, you took a deep breath and gently pushed open the bedroom door, stepping inside to wake the man you all adored.

“Shhh, you two,” you whispered, pushing the door open with your hip. The sight before you warmed your heart—Harry, still deep in sleep, his curls unruly against the pillow, soft breaths escaping his slightly parted lips.

“Daddy! Wake up!” Theo cheered, scrambling onto the bed with little restraint, while Lily giggled and climbed up more gently. Harry groaned playfully, stretching his arms as he cracked open his eyes, a slow, sleepy smile forming at the sight of his family.

“Happy birthday, my love,” you murmured, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.

“Happy birthday, Daddy!” the twins chorused excitedly.

Harry sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Well, this is quite the welcome committee.”

“We made you breakfast!” Theo announced proudly, gesturing toward the tray still balanced in your hands. “Mummy helped, but we did most of it.”

Harry chuckled. “That so? Did you two make sure it wasn’t just extra syrup?”

Lily gasped, feigning offense. “No! We made pancakes all fancy. You have to eat it all.”

She carefully placed a handmade birthday crown on his head, adorned with colorful stickers and a glittery ‘31’ in the center. “And you have to wear this all day,” she added with a very serious nod.

Harry laughed, adjusting the crown slightly. “Yes, ma’am.”

As he reached for a bite of his pancake, Theo held up a forkful and grinned. “Nope! We get to feed you first.”

You laughed as Harry playfully groaned. “Ah, so that’s the deal? I just sit here and get spoiled?”

Lily nodded, already scooping up another bite for him. “Yup! It’s the rule.”

Breakfast in bed was filled with laughter and syrupy fingers. The kids eagerly took turns feeding him, their giggles filling the room, while you sat beside him, sipping your tea. You watched him carefully, taking in the quiet joy in his expression.

“You okay, birthday boy?” you asked softly, nudging his thigh with your own.

Harry turned to you, a teasing glint in his eye. “M’being pampered, got my favorite people in the world around me, and I’ve been force-fed pancakes—what’s not to love?”

You raised a brow. “Force-fed?”

Lily gasped, feigning offense. “Daddy, we made those for you!”

Harry chuckled, holding up his hands in surrender. “And they were the best pancakes I’ve ever had, promise.”

Theo giggled. “Even better than Mum’s?”

Harry hesitated dramatically, looking between you and Theo before sighing. “Don’t make me answer that, mate. I still need to sleep in this bed tonight.”

You rolled your eyes, but the sight of his dimples softened you instantly. “Smart man.”

After breakfast, the day unfolded exactly as Harry would have wanted, filled with his favorite activities and the people he loved most.

The first adventure took them to the beach, where the sun glistened off the gentle waves, and the salty breeze tousled their hair. Theo, always a burst of energy, ran ahead, leaving tiny footprints in the damp sand before the waves erased them.

“Daddy, look how fast I can run!” he called over his shoulder before sprinting toward the water, only to yelp and scamper back when the foamy tide licked at his ankles.

Harry chuckled, adjusting the birthday crown still perched on his head. “Not fast enough to outrun the ocean, mate.”

Lily, ever the meticulous collector, was crouched down nearby, carefully selecting seashells. She held up a small, smooth one, its pinkish hue catching the light. “This one’s perfect,” she murmured, before tucking it into the pocket of her dress.

Harry walked beside you, his fingers occasionally brushing against yours. You glanced up at him, noting the way he gazed at the horizon—thoughtful, almost distant. You nudged him gently. “You okay?”

He turned to you with a soft smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

You wanted to ask what was on his mind, but before you could, Theo ran back, dragging Harry toward a tide pool where tiny fish darted beneath the surface. You let the moment slip away, telling yourself there would be time later.

By the time they returned home, the afternoon had warmed considerably. The backyard transformed into an impromptu soccer field, with two overturned garden chairs serving as goalposts.

“Alright, birthday boy,” you teased, tossing Harry a soccer ball. “Let’s see if you still have it.”

Theo, already buzzing with excitement, bounced on his toes. “I’m gonna win this time, Daddy!”

Harry smirked, rolling his shoulders. “We’ll see about that, little man.”

The game was a whirlwind of laughter and determination. Theo had grown quicker, and his footwork had improved, but Harry still had the advantage of skill. He weaved past Theo, kicking the ball toward the goal.

“Noooo!” Theo shouted dramatically, diving to stop it, but the ball rolled past him, bumping against the chair leg.

Harry threw his arms up. “And that’s how it’s done!”

Theo flopped onto his back in the grass. “That’s not fair! You’re too big!”

Lily, sitting cross-legged nearby, shook her head. “You’ll have to train harder, Theo.”

Theo groaned but quickly sat up, determination sparking in his eyes. “Next time, Daddy. Next time, I’ll win.”

After soccer, everyone was covered in grass stains and sweat, so you all retreated indoors, for a bath. The kids requested that Harry washed them, wanting to bond with their dad a little more on his birthday, and who’s he to say no to that? After the bath everyone went straight to the kitchen, where Lily had declared herself head chef.

“Okay,” she announced, tying her apron. “We are making the best chocolate cake ever.”

Theo raised his hand. “Can I lick the spoon?”

Lily sighed. “Only if you actually help.”

Harry chuckled, washing his hands. “What’s my job, Chef Lily?”

She tapped her chin in thought before handing him a whisk. “You mix, but don’t overdo it! We want the cake fluffy.”

With everyone assigned a role, the kitchen soon became a delightful mess. Flour dusted the countertops (and somehow Theo’s nose), chocolate smudged fingers, and laughter filled the air.

When it came time to pour the batter into the pan, Harry carefully smoothed the top, though the uneven distribution almost guaranteed a lopsided result.

“It’s not about how it looks,” Lily said wisely. “It’s about how it tastes.”

After the cake was safely in the oven, Theo tugged at Harry’s sleeve. “Daddy, can we play one more round of soccer while it bakes?”

Harry hesitated, rubbing his neck. “Maybe later, buddy.”

Theo frowned. “But it’s your birthday. You love soccer.”

“I do,” Harry said softly, ruffling Theo’s hair. “I just need a little break.”

The quiet moment didn’t go unnoticed. You exchanged a glance with Lily, who, despite her young age, seemed to sense it too.

Dinner was next—every dish carefully chosen to make Harry’s birthday meal special. The scent of garlic filled the air as you stirred the pasta sauce, the rich aroma blending with the freshly baked bread cooling on the counter.

Harry stood beside you, sipping a glass of wine, watching as you worked. “You know, you spoil me,” he murmured.

You smirked. “That’s the point, birthday boy.”

The meal was a feast. Pasta twirled around forks, laughter bounced between conversations, and the tiramisu at the end was met with eager, chocolate-covered smiles.

Then came the cake—imperfectly shaped, slightly uneven, but undeniably made with love. Candles flickered, their glow reflecting in Harry’s thoughtful eyes.

“Make a wish, Daddy!” Theo urged.

Harry hesitated for just a second before closing his eyes and exhaling, sending the flames dancing away.

Cheers erupted, and as slices were passed around, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. Harry was happy—there was no doubt about that—but his smiles, though present, didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a quiet hesitance to his laughter, a weight behind his usually bright gaze. After the kids went upstairs to play before bed, you thought it was the perfect time to ask him before it started to eat you alive.

“Alright,” you said softly, settling beside him, tucking your legs under you, feeling the warmth of the couch seep into your bones. You glanced at Harry, his posture tense, his gaze unfocused. “What’s going on?”

He sighed, a long, drawn-out breath that seemed to carry the weight of the world. He ran a hand through his curls, the dark strands falling messily around his face, but there was no playful energy behind the movement. It was a motion you’d seen him do a thousand times, but now it felt heavy, like he was trying to push away something too big to ignore.

“Finished the album,” he murmured, his voice almost flat, like it was an announcement he was struggling to fully accept.

Your heart leaped, a surge of pride filling your chest. “Harry, that’s amazing!” The words felt like they should be the end of a conversation, the punctuation at the end of a happy story. But the air between you both still felt thick, unspoken words hanging just beyond reach.

He nodded, but his eyes never met yours. Instead, he looked down at his hands, those same hands that had made magic in the studio, that had written lyrics that touched the deepest parts of people’s hearts. But now, they looked tired. “It means the next part is coming. The interviews, the promo, the tour…” His voice wavered, breaking ever so slightly as if just saying it made it real. “I’ll be away a lot, more than I am away now.”

The excitement that had been bubbling in your chest froze, replaced by a quiet realization. “Oh.”

His shoulders slumped, and he ran a hand over his face in frustration, like he was trying to rub away the feeling that had settled there. “It’s the first time I’ll be gone for so long since the twins were born.It kills me to go to long meeting or writing sessions how can I bear to be without them or you for months? I—I don’t know if I’m ready for that.” He glanced at you, and for the first time, you saw the vulnerability in his eyes, raw and unguarded. “Knowing you won’t be there either makes it even harder.”

Your heart ached for him. You knew this day would come—the day when the album would be finished, the day when he’d have to step into the spotlight again, but the reality of it hit hard. You reached for his hand, the familiar warmth of his skin grounding you, and intertwined your fingers. You squeezed gently, offering him all the comfort you could muster in that moment. “Harry, we’re always with you. No matter where you are. You could be halfway across the world, and we’d still be right here.”

You lifted his hand and placed it over your chest, where your heartbeat thrummed steady and sure beneath the palm of his hand. “The kids will miss you, yeah, but they’ll also see their dad doing what he loves. You’re showing them that dreams are worth chasing, that it’s okay to follow your passion, even when it’s hard. You’re showing them what courage looks like.”

He exhaled shakily, nodding, but the sadness still lingered in his eyes. “But what if they feel like I’m leaving them?” His voice cracked, barely above a whisper, like the fear was too big to hold in.

You smiled gently, the curve of your lips soft, but with an undeniable certainty. “They won’t. Because they know you always come back. And no matter how far you go, you’ll always find your way back to us.” You nudged him playfully, a small glint of mischief in your eyes, trying to lighten the heavy mood. “Besides, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and we all know you love a dramatic reunion.”

He gave a small chuckle, but it was like the weight on his shoulders had lightened just a little. He shook his head, a fond smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“But I’m right.” You kissed the corner of his mouth, a soft press of your lips that spoke volumes. “And we’ll be cheering you on every step of the way. You’re not alone in this.”

Before he could respond, a light patter of tiny feet interrupted the moment, drawing both of your attention. The soft click of the door opening made you look up, and there stood Lily, clutching a piece of paper in her hands, her wide eyes sparkling with excitement. “Daddy, I almost forgot! Your last present.”

Harry’s brows lifted in surprise, his lips parting in an unspoken question as Lily climbed onto his lap, settling herself with a quiet, determined air. She handed him the drawing with both hands, her little face so proud of her creation. It was a colorful portrait of their family, but something about it felt different from the usual drawings she’d given him. “Daddy” was written inside of her chest, as though enclosed within her heart, surrounded by bright, crayon hues, as if she was keeping him close no matter the distance.

Harry’s breath hitched, and his eyes stung with the kind of emotion that hit you right in the chest. His throat bobbed as he stared at the drawing, blinking rapidly as if to ward off the lump that had formed there. He looked down at his daughter, trying to steady himself, but the love in his gaze was so fierce it took your breath away. It was like she knew her father was going trough a tough time and needed a reminder.

“What’s this, darling?” His voice was thick, strained with the emotion he couldn’t seem to hold back.

Lily beamed, the innocence and purity in her smile lighting up the room. “Well, You go away sometimes daddy and work, but it doesn’t matter because you’re always in here.” She tapped her own chest, and your heart swelled as she looked up at him with all the love in the world. “You are always with me, wherever I go. I love you all the time, no matter where you are.”

Harry’s arms wrapped tightly around her, and he buried his face in her curls, pressing his lips to the top of her head, his hands shaking slightly as he held her. He whispered, his voice thick with emotion, “I love you so much, my little love.”

“ I love you more daddy,” she whispered slightly, like she understood how important this moment for him was, even though she would probably forget it in a few years, it was engraved in Harry’s mind. “ I am happy that you are born.”

You felt a sharp breath catch in your own throat, your eyes welling with tears as you watched the tender, raw moment unfold before you. It was as if time had stopped, the only sound in the room the steady rhythm of their breathing, the warmth of their bond. It was a quiet reminder that love, no matter the miles, would always find a way to endure.

He held her just a little longer, his heart grounding itself in the softness of her presence, as if trying to memorize the feel of her before the world pulled him away. The weight on his shoulders, just moments before so heavy, seemed a little lighter now, a little more manageable. The tenderness in his eyes as he pulled back to look at you spoke volumes. There was no perfect answer, no flawless solution, but for this moment, at least, he was at peace.

“Alright monkey, it’s time for bed.”

As the night drew to a close, and you both lay in bed, the soft hum of the house around you, you rested your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. He let out a soft sigh, a sound of both exhaustion and relief. “Maybe you’re right,” he murmured into the quiet, his voice full of tenderness.

You smirked, the warmth of his skin beneath your lips so familiar, so comforting. “I usually am.”

A soft laugh escaped him, but this time it felt real, a sound full of ease. The kind of laughter that held both love and acceptance, the kind that made the weight of the world feel just a little bit lighter.

And as he drifted off to sleep, his breath evening out beneath the soft cover of night, you closed your eyes too, knowing, with all certainty, that no matter where the music took him, no matter how far the road stretched ahead, he would always find his way home.

[hoe4hotchner]

aaron x supermodel reader?? 👀👀

Mystery man | [A.H]

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Supermodel!reader | WC: 1.9k | CW: Fluff, reader is wearing lingerie in a picture at one point

The relentless flashes of cameras were nearly blinding as the black town car came to a halt in front of the venue. You took a moment to steady yourself, exhaling softly before stepping out into the chaos. The city was alive tonight, the buzz of Paris Fashion Week crackling in the evening air like electricity as journalists, media outlets, paparazzi's, and so on had gathered around the velvet ropes to the red carpet.

As you swung one long leg out of the car, the delicate fabric of your gown cascaded in shimmering ripples around you. The dress was a masterpiece—silk that seemed to flow like water, catching the thousand lights with every movement. Diamond earrings glinted against your skin, and your heels—custom-designed, of course—clicked against the cobblestones as you straightened to your full height.

The crowd outside erupted into a frenzy the moment they spotted you, shouting your name in a symphony of accents, the occasional “over here!” cutting through the noise. You didn’t flinch, didn’t falter; you were used to this. It was your stage, and you owned it.

But tonight wasn’t just about you.

You turned, holding out a hand, and watched as he stepped out of the car.

Aaron Hotchner.

Even in the middle of the whirlwind, he exuded a calm authority that made heads turn. The black suit he wore was impeccably tailored, the kind of understated elegance that spoke volumes without trying too hard. You had insisted on having the designer of your attire make something for him too—for the occasion you'd shrugged.

His dark eyes scanned the crowd, not with the excitement of someone dazzled by the spectacle, but with the sharp awareness of a man—an agent—who didn’t miss a thing.

For a moment, you wondered what he was thinking. If he felt out of place or if he was regretting saying yes to your impulsive invitation. But when his gaze shifted to you, the faintest trace of a smile curved his lips, and any doubt disappeared.

You reached for his hand, and when his fingers closed around yours, the crowd’s focus shifted instantly.

“Who is that?”

“Is that her date?”

“Oh my God, he’s hot!”

“Someone get a name!”

The whispers grew louder as the two of you began walking toward the beginning of the carpet. Hotch’s presence next to you was a contrast to your usual presence at these events. Normally you would've given the cameras a little pre-show, before heading inside to get dressed in the collection of the evening.

And where most people—even celebrities—might have preened for the cameras in the slowest way possible, he simply carried himself with confidence, his free hand brushing against the edge of his jacket.

When another wave of flashes erupted, he leaned in closer. “This is... different,” he murmured, his voice so low you could feel it more than hear it.

You glanced up at him, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “Different good or different bad?”

He gave you a look—half exasperated, half amused. “Let’s just say I’m starting to understand why you always come home exhausted after these things.”

Your laugh turned brighter, drawing even more attention from the photographers. “Welcome to my world, Agent Hotchner.”

The questions from the crowd grew more pointed. Someone yelled, “Are you two together?” while another voice called out, “Is this your boyfriend?”

Aaron’s grip on your hand tightened slightly, his thumb brushing over yours as if to steady you both. You could feel his discomfort at the attention, but he didn’t let it show outwardly.

As you approached the gilded double doors of the venue, you slowed, tilting your head toward him. “They’ll figure out who you are by tomorrow,” you said softly with a teasing tone.

He raised a brow. “Is that a warning?”

“More like a promise.” You smiled, squeezing his hand before leading him inside.

Once the heavy doors shut behind you, the noise from outside faded into a muffled hum. Aaron exhaled, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he looked around the space.

“Now that,” he said, meeting your gaze, “was intense.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, stepping closer to fix his tie, which had shifted slightly during the commotion. “And it’s only the beginning.”

The sun had barely begun to stream through the blinds of Garcia’s apartment, casting a soft, golden hue across her kitchen. She hummed quietly to herself, a melody she’d picked up from the latest show she had managed to binge between cases, as she went about her morning ritual.

Her bright pink robe swished around her as she moved. Everything in her kitchen had just as much personality as her; from the gleaming chrome appliances to the rainbow of coffee pods stacked neatly by her machine.

She hit the button for her usual shot of espresso, the familiar whirring sound filling the room as she reached for her favorite mug—a ceramic cat face with ears that doubled as handles and then turned to her fridge to gather all the fixings.

Her TV, mounted in the corner of her living room and perpetually tuned to a morning show, prattled on in the background. It was her morning white noise, the kind of chatter she half-listened to while focusing on more important things, like perfecting her froth-to-espresso ratio.

“...Paris Fashion Week turned heads last night with more than just couture,” the announcer’s voice chimed, accompanied by upbeat music. “A surprise appearance by a supermodel and her mysterious companion has everyone talking this morning.”

Garcia paused mid-pour, her interest piqued. Her gaze flicked to the screen, where a paparazzi photo filled the frame.

She squinted.

The image showed a stunning figure draped in a flowing gown, her hand firmly clasped in a man’s. His face wasn’t entirely visible, but his strong profile and familiar suit cut made Garcia gasp.

“No. Freaking. Way,” she whispered, her coffee momentarily forgotten.

The announcer continued, the screen now displaying the bold headline:

Supermodel Spotted With Mystery Man at Paris Fashion Week!

The next photo zoomed in on the man’s face, his stoic expression unmistakable.

“Oh my God,” Garcia said louder, her hand flying to her mouth. “That’s Hotch!”

The caption beneath the image confirmed it, sending her brain into overdrive: Mystery Man Identified as Aaron Hotchner, FBI Unit Chief.

Her half-made latte was abandoned on the counter as she scrambled for her phone. “This is not happening. This is not happening,” she muttered, her fingers flying over the screen until she found the contact she needed.

The phone barely rang before Derek Morgan’s voice came through, groggy and unamused. “Garcia, it’s not even eight, Hotch is away there's no need to wake up this ear—”

“Did you see it?” she blurted, cutting him off.

“See what?”

“Our boss!” she shrieked, pacing the length of her kitchen. “Hotch! He was at Paris Fashion Week! Holding hands with a supermodel! It’s on every channel!”

There was a pause, followed by Morgan’s skeptical laugh. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Hotch? Our Hotch?”

“Yes, our Hotch! The Aaron Hotchner! He’s on TV right now looking like James Bond at a runway show!”

Another pause, and then Morgan’s full-throated laugh rumbled through the line. “This I gotta see. Send me the link.”

Garcia was already snapping a picture of the TV screen, muttering under her breath. “I can’t believe this. He’s going to walk into work on Monday like nothing happened. Nothing happened!”

Morgan’s voice was rich with amusement. “Think he’ll bring her to the office?”

“Oh, don’t even joke,” Garcia groaned, dramatically flopping onto her couch. “This is going to be the topic of gossip for weeks. Months. Years! I need answers, Derek. Answers!”

Morgan’s chuckle softened. “Good luck getting any. You know how tight-lipped he is.”

Garcia sighed, already plotting her strategy. If anyone could get the inside scoop, it was her.

The streets of Paris were alive with the afternoon bustle as busy Parisians were heading home after a day's work. The sunlight streamed through the wrought-iron balconies and cast warm patterns on the cobblestone streets as the sun started to set. You sat at a small café table nestled in the corner of a quiet terrace, the scent of freshly baked croissants and strong espresso mingling in the air. Across from you, Aaron was the picture of peace, a man who seemed utterly unbothered by the flurry of attention he’d unwittingly garnered in just one night.

On the small table between you sat a glossy gossip magazine, its cover adorned with a candid shot of the two of you from the night before. The headline practically screamed: Supermodel’s Mystery Man: Who Is He? FBI Unit Chief Turns Heads at Paris Fashion Week!

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound light and bubbling as you traced a finger over the grainy image of Hotch, his sharp profile and protective grip on your hand immortalized in print. “They’ve already printed it,” you said, your tone a mix of amusement and disbelief.

Aaron leaned back in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. His phone buzzed incessantly on the table, the notifications relentless, but he didn’t so much as glance at it. Instead, his focus remained entirely on you, his lips curving into a faint smirk.

“They’re calling you a ‘mystery man,’” you teased, flipping the magazine open to the full-page spread inside. The photos captured every angle of the two of you from last night—the hand-holding, the shared smiles, the way he had leaned in to speak to you amidst the chaos of flashing cameras.

“And here’s my personal favorite,” you added, pointing to a particularly flattering shot of him looking utterly smitten as you had walked down the runway in a set of silver lingerie.

Hotch’s dark eyes flicked to the image before returning to yours. “I think I prefer to keep them guessing,” he said, his voice was warm, he knew that wouldn't be the case. He reached for his coffee, the faintest trace of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth.

“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head as you studied him. “Not sure your team agrees.” You nodded toward his phone, which buzzed again with what had to be its twentieth alert in the last ten minutes.

He sighed, a sound more affectionate than exasperated, and finally picked up the device. “Garcia,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly as he read a series of increasingly unbelieving messages. “And Morgan,” he added, his smirk deepening.

You rested your chin in your hand, grinning at him. “I told you they’d find out.”

Hotch set the phone back on the table without responding to the messages, his gaze softening as it met yours. “Let them talk,” he said simply, his voice carrying the conviction you adored. “Right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.”

Your chest warmed at his words, and you leaned forward, reaching across the table to take his hand. “Good,” you murmured, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “Because I wouldn’t want you anywhere else.”

For a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, the noise and chaos of the city fading into the background below.

“Though,” you added, breaking the moment with a mischievous smile and a wink, “I wouldn’t mind seeing you on next year’s cover of GQ. You know, for the sake of balance.”

Hotch chuckled, the sound so utterly endearing, as he shook his head. “Let’s not get too carried away.”

[kaijuno]

"No piece of art has ever emotionally affected me the way this robot arm piece has. It's programmed to try to contain the hydraulic fluid that’s constantly leaking out and required to keep itself running...if too much escapes, it will die so it's desperately trying to pull it back to continue to fight for another day. Saddest part is they gave the robot the ability to do these 'happy dances' to spectators. When the project was first launched it danced around spending most of its time interacting with the crowd since it could quickly pull back the small spillage. Many years later... (as you see it now in the video) it looks tired and hopeless as there isn't enough time to dance anymore.. It now only has enough time to try to keep itself alive as the amount of leaked hydraulic fluid became unmanageable as the spill grew over time. Living its last days in a never-ending cycle between sustaining life and simultaneously bleeding out... (Figuratively and literally as its hydraulic fluid was purposefully made to look like it's actual blood).

"The robot arm finally ran out of hydraulic fluid in 2019, slowly came to a halt and died - And I am now tearing up over a friggin robot arm 😭 It was programmed to live out this fate and no matter what it did or how hard it tried, there was no escaping it. Spectators watched as it slowly bled out until the day that it ceased to move forever. Saying that 'this resonates' doesn't even do it justice imo. Created by Sun Yuan & Peng Yu, they named the piece, 'Can't Help Myself'. What a masterpiece. What a message."

Extended interpretations: the hydraulic fluid in relation to how we kill ourselves both mentally and physically for money just in an attempt to sustain life, how the system is set up for us to fail on purpose to essentially enslave us and to steal the best years of our lives to play the game that the richest people of the world have designed. How this robs us of our happiness, passion and our inner peace. How we are slowly drowning with more responsibilities, with more expected of us, less rewarding pay-offs and less free time to enjoy ourselves with as the years go by. How there's really no escaping the system and that we were destined at birth to follow a pretty specific path that was already laid out before us. How we can give and give and give and how easily we can be forgotten after we've gone.. How we are loved and respected when we are valuable, then one day we aren't any longer and we become a burden...and how our young, free-caring spirit gets stolen from us as we get churned out of the broken system that we are trapped inside of. Can also be seen to represent the human life cycle and the fact that none of us make it out of this world alive. But also can act as a reminder to allow yourself to heal, rest and love with all of your heart. That the endless chase for 'more' isn't necessary in finding your own inner happiness.”

[satori-runa]

—The star of the night

Summary: In the middle of chaos, Reca chooses you, his assistant, to replace the actual actress.

Words: 2k

Tags: Fluff, slight comedy, mr reca being mr reca

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In your lifetime, you'd never been anywhere more glamorous than Reca's movie set. It was a polished spectacle of wealth, fame, and sheer creative ambition concentrated in a single place.

The set was pristine. Everything from the polished equipment to the crew buzzing around the latest cutting-edge technology spoke of high-budget prowess. Reca had wrangled only the crème de la crème of actors, and the script itself was a masterpiece, lauded by critics before a single frame had even been shot. Naturally, it was no surprise when the man beside you, the very architect of this grandiose vision, let out an audible groan, throwing his head into his hands. He pulled them down his face in a gesture so theatrical it almost belonged on the screen itself.

"No, no, no." He groaned, his voice laced with overdramatic despair. “Not like this. This is supposed to be art. Art!” He gestured wildly at the set. “Any three-year-old could create such a display with macaroni!"

While you found yourself captivated by the scene's intricate design—each prop in perfect position, the textures, the layout of furniture—all meticulously assembled to support the vision of an unfolding narrative, Reca saw only flaws. In his eyes, it was a desecration of the perfection he had so painstakingly envisioned.

To him, everything was wrong. The lighting was lifeless, casting shadows that fell harshly across the actors’ faces, robbing them of the soft glamour he’d imagined. The music? A hollow echo that failed to evoke a single stirring of emotion, as far from evocative as a flat note played on a broken piano. And the actress—the poor, unknowing actress who, in any other setting, would be lauded for her skill—was, to Reca, nothing short of an abomination in this moment. His eyes were fixed on her, his lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head.

“Does she even know her lines?” He muttered, mostly to himself, though you heard every word. “It’s as if she’s performing in a high school play, not…not this.” He ran his hands through his hair, pacing back and forth, his presence a cyclone of perfectionism.

For the past hour, Reca had been tearing every detail apart. The set he'd once raved about was now an "ill-matched mess." The weeks you'd spent booking this elusive location, the endless calls, the backup locations you’d scouted, and the rejections you’d faced until this one finally came through. The casting? The exhausting process of reviewing tapes, organizing callbacks, going through Reca's list of notes and opinions on each actress, often just to have him change his mind the next day. And that demo track? You’d pulled every string, barely scraping by deadlines, just to make sure everything was in perfect order for him.

And here you were, watching it all unravel with each of Reca’s sighs and exasperated mutterings. As he kept pacing, criticizing the lighting again and muttering that the entire production was in danger of "crumbling into mediocrity," you couldn’t help but let out a silent prayer. An aeon, a muse, a miracle—someone save me, you thought, raising your hands briefly to the heavens in a quiet display of surrender.

Because if Reca’s mood didn’t lighten, there was absolutely no way this movie was getting made today.

Just as you were silently pleading for an escape from this nightmare, Reca’s pacing came to an abrupt halt. His head snapped in your direction, and his gaze narrowed, a glint of sudden inspiration lighting up his face. You felt a jolt of dread. That look—oh, you knew it too well. It was the same look he had whenever he came up with one of his “brilliant” ideas, which, more often than not, meant you were in for another impossible task.

“You.” He said, pointing at you with a fervor that made you take a step back. “You’ll be perfect.”

You blinked, uncertain if he was joking. “Me?”

“Yes! You!” He clapped his hands together, excitement bubbling up in his eyes. “Don’t you see? You have everything this role needs. Raw energy, authenticity—a complete lack of…training! It’s fresh. It’s real!”

“Reca, I don’t think—”

“Nonsense!” He cut you off, waving your protests away. “You’re exactly what this film is missing! All this time, I was looking in the wrong places. These actresses…they’re too polished. Too practiced. They lack that something—that spark of untamed potential that you have.” He smiled, a bit maniacally, but you could tell he was deadly serious.

“But I’m just your assistant.” You stammered, feeling your face flush. ���I don’t know the first thing about acting. I’d probably ruin the entire film!”

“No way.” He insisted, eyes blazing with enthusiasm as if he’d already envisioned you on the big screen. “Think about it! You’ve been here for the whole process, you know every detail. You’ve seen every scene in my head just as I see it. Who else could be better prepared?”

You opened your mouth to protest again, there was no one that had the same vision as him, but he was already motioning to the costume designer, barking orders to prepare an outfit for you. Any hint of hesitation had disappeared from his face. In his mind, you were already cast and rehearsed, the missing piece that would bring his vision to life.

The next thing you knew, you were being ushered into the dressing room, handed a costume, and given a rapid rundown of your character’s motivations—directly from Reca himself, who seemed thrilled beyond measure. Somewhere between his impassioned monologues and the mounting nervousness that took over you, you found yourself on the set, standing beneath the very lights he’d spent hours cursing.

And as the camera rolled, with Reca’s wide-eyed gaze fixed intently on you, you couldn’t shake the surreal feeling. You’d gone from assistant to lead actress in a single, unpredictable twist, and despite your inexperience, you found yourself saying the lines and stepping into the role…all under the watchful, eager eyes of a director who now thought you were the perfect star.

The set had quieted down, and the crew took a break, leaving only a few people around. Reca, still lingering near you after that intense practice, watched the others drift away before turning back to you with a small, thoughtful smile.

“Let’s run through it one more time, mon cherie.” He said, his voice softer now. “Off camera. Just us.” There was a vulnerability in his tone you hadn’t heard before—a subtle, unspoken invitation.

You nodded, though your heart was pounding again. With the equipment and the audience gone, the space between you felt strangely intimate, as if stepping outside the boundary of the roles you were supposed to be playing.

He took a steadying breath and stood before you, his gaze searching yours. “Close your eyes.” He said, his hand brushing yours. “Forget the lines, the lights. Just…feel it.”

You closed your eyes, letting his words sink in. You could feel the warmth of his presence, so close now that every brush of his hand seemed to linger, every movement deliberate. He guided you gently, his fingertips tracing the edges of your hand until your fingers were laced together, his touch grounding, even protective.

“Imagine…” he whispered, his voice soft and full of emotion, “Imagine there’s no one here but us. No cameras. No crew.”

You opened your eyes, and he was watching you, his gaze vulnerable and sincere in a way you hadn’t seen before. His expression held an emotion that was entirely unscripted—almost a question lingering in his eyes, as if he was daring you to step closer.

His hand moved to your face, fingertips lightly tracing your cheek. The way he looked at you was overwhelming, like he was seeing parts of you no one had ever seen before. It felt like he was letting you in, past the director, past the confident professional, to something real and deeply hidden.

“Just us.” He murmured, almost to himself, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone. His eyes softened, and he leaned closer, his breath warm against your skin. For a second, it felt like he might kiss you—not as part of a scene, not as an actor in a role, but as himself.

You swallowed, your own emotions swelling, breaking past the practiced distance of assistant and director. The way he looked at you, the way his touch lingered just a moment too long, felt impossibly real. It wasn’t just acting. Not anymore.

And in that shared silence, the line between character and reality blurred completely, leaving you wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was something there that neither of you had dared to speak aloud.

Your breath caught as Reca leaned in closer, his hand cradling your face with an intensity that made the world around you disappear. His gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a heartbeat that stretched on, filled with a tension so thick it felt like the air had turned electric. His thumb brushed gently across your cheek, and you felt your heart pounding, anticipation building with each passing second.

You closed your eyes, half-expecting, half-hoping for the kiss that seemed to hover right on the edge of happening. The moment felt impossibly fragile, a secret shared only between the two of you. And just as you felt him draw in that final breath…

He pulled back, a sudden spark lighting up his eyes, and he spun around, letting out a shout that shattered the delicate silence. “Yes! That’s it! THAT expression—exactly what we need!”

You blinked, still reeling, as he practically leapt away from you, his energy blazing. “Everyone!” He called out, his voice filled with exhilaration. “Get ready to film! Now, now, now! We have to capture this—she’s got the emotion perfect, it’s exactly what I’ve been looking for!”

The crew scrambled into action, quickly setting up cameras and adjusting lights as you stood there, frozen and feeling a little…lost. You watched him pace excitedly, giving orders and pointing out positions, his focus now on preparing the scene. Meanwhile, you felt your cheeks flush with the sudden realization that the almost-kiss hadn’t been what you thought at all.

You felt the warmth creeping up your cheeks, your heart still racing from the almost-kiss that had left you somewhere between flustered and bewildered. As the crew finished setting up, you broke into a grin, chuckling softly at the absurdity of it all. Reca had played you perfectly, swept you into the scene so thoroughly that, for a moment, you’d forgotten where the acting stopped and the real feelings began. You couldn’t help but shake your head, laughing at yourself.

Reca, seeing your smile, grinned back, clearly thrilled that he’d managed to get such an authentic reaction. “That’s the spirit!” he cheered, clapping his hands together in delight. “I knew you had it in you!”

“You know, Reca.” You said, trying to keep the teasing note in your voice light as you crossed your arms, “you played me well. Got me all caught up in the moment. Almost too well, actually.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief. “Only did what any good director would do.” He replied, a playful edge in his tone.

You raised an eyebrow, feeling a spark of confidence as you leaned in just a little. “Well, maybe we should rehearse some more roles in private sometime.” You suggested, your smile turning slightly coy. “You know…just to pick up where you left me hanging.”

For the briefest second, he looked taken aback, his eyes widening as if surprised by your boldness. But then, that familiar grin returned, his gaze lingering on you with a newfound intensity that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Perhaps we will.” he said, his voice a touch lower, his gaze still locked on you. “Only if you think you can handle a bit more of my…methods.”

Your smile deepened, and you felt a thrill run through you. Maybe, just maybe, the line between acting and reality was thinner than you’d thought. And if Reca wanted to blur it a little more…well, you couldn’t say you’d mind.

[lemoodle]

Alrighty! As mentioned from @escapedaudios, this one has audio! Woot woot!!

Sorry if there’s background noise 💀

Escaped + Scythe + Marina = Masterpiece

[teddybeartoji]

suggestive; gn!reader

thinking about helping oikawa stretch after practice.

he's all sweaty and musty and he's clinging to you, asking – no, absolutely begging you with his pretty brown eyes, for you to help him. and obviously you can't say no to him, so that's how you find yourself in this position – he's on his back, scruntching his eyebrows as you press his knees up to his chest. his flexible body begs for you to angle your own hips against his in order to properly give him the stretch he needs. his cheeks are tinted pink and his bottom lip is caught in between his teeth and it's really hard to not get any ideas. it's wrong – you know it is! this is your good friend and you're just helping him and there's nothing weird about this position and—

a loud moan rips from his lips and your eyes almost fall out of your head as warmth creeps up your neck. he doesn't even say anything about it, he just grabs onto your wrists to make sure you don't pull away.

"d-don't!" you stammer when a quieter but no less lewd noise escapes him. you feel your hands get clammy as your fingers sink into his calves.

oikawa cracks his one eye open to ask what the problem is. he doesn't see what's wrong in the slightest. his brown hair is splayed on the floor like a masterpiece with some of the strands sticking to his forehead and nobody should be allowed to look this good after a rough practice.

"don't make those sounds..." you whisper as you lean more into him when you feel the resistance in his body falter.

"wha– ahh...t sounds?" his eyes shut again and he sucks in a breath, puffing out his reddened cheeks. his knees fall more to his sides, opening up the space between them and you move closer on instinct.

"tho- those ones, idiot! you're making it weird!"

your hips are now completely flush against his and he lets out another pained whine. taking one of your hands from his calf, you place it on top of his mouth instead and his eyes shoot open in an instant.

he didn't even think about this position like that, genuinely oblivious to the suggestiveness of it. the stretch in the backs of his thighs feels good but you on top of him feels even better. your body feels warm against his and his eyes flick down to where you're connected. at that you try to pull away, afraid that now you've made it weird but he stops you.

"c'mon.. don't go." his hands wrap around your biceps as his eyes burn into your avoidant ones. "you have to help me with the next one too."

blinking down at him, you gulp, unable to refuse him. oikawa twists under you, barely taking his eyes off of you as he straightens out his one leg and folds the other up and to the side.

this position is no less suggestive than the last one – it still requires you to press up right against him to help him out. his fingers grasp at your sleeve to break you from your haze and you shuffle closer again.

bodies glued together, your hands dig into his thigh as you try to not focus on your friends face. nor the proximity. from behind you, you hear a row of snickers – without turning around, you know his teammates are making fun of you for falling into their captains alleged trap.

"see, this isn't so bad..." oikawa's soft flesh is back between his teeth as he forces his body to relax under you. you quietly glare at him, just hoping he won't say or do anything weird anything, hoping that he'll let you just leave and breathe for a moment—

"h-harder."

...

you press your eyes shut as your body threatens to overheat. putting almost all of your bodyweight onto his, you watch his eyes roll back inside his skull and you hold back a flustered groan. why is he like this?

slowly peeking from underneath your eyelashes, his scrunched up face almost kills you and it's hard to keep your thoughts at bay – they just come flooding in and you feel like a terrible friend. he's like this with everyone, so why are you even thinking about it? you are the one who's making it weird and you should stop.

"hey! no more fooling around! we gotta lock up, so move your asses!" iwaizumi breaks your pervy little bubble and you find oikawa staring right back at you. his cheeks are still pink even though the practice ended a good while ago. he gives you one of his big bright smiles as he moves his leg from his body to your other side, leaving you kneeling right between his thighs.

"thanks for that!" his voice betrays nothing about what he really feels in this moment, about what he feels in his lower abdomen. he pushes himself up and before he goes to leave for the changing room, he looks down at you and boops your nose with a laugh.

you stay glued to your spot for a good moment, iwaizumi's loud voice being the thing to tear you from the floor. you stumble to grab the remaining bottles and towels from the floor and make for the exit, letting the man close up behind you.

you mutter a quiet goodbye to him and hurry off, telling him that you have some other stuff to attend to. he doesn't question it – he's fully aware of the effect oikawa can have on a person. and on their body.

+ inspired by this iwaoi art on twt!!!!! i thought it was so funny n cute so i had to write something for it!!!!

[totalswag]

hey queen love your work!! was wondering if you could do an angsty rafe fic based off the birds pt 2 by the weeknd

break me twice ⎯ RAFE CAMERON!

authors note ugh queen of course i will 😫. as a huge the weeknd fan myself, i will most certainly do this. thank you thank you. the whole trilogy is a masterpiece. i reccomend those who've never listened to the birds pt 1 to get the gist of what pt2 is about. season two rafe vibes LITERALLY!! super sorry this is coming out later than expected, uni school has been my main priority these past few weeks.

taglist ✎ ̼ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set to go

masterlist

summary rafe warned you to not make him make you fall in love with a guy like him. now you are pleading and suffering the heartbreak of no return.

warning(s) mentions of sex, emotional,manipulation, cursing, heartbreak, toxic relationship

"Don't make me, make you fall in love."

The memory hits you like a train. His voice echoing through your head. You laughed then, thought he was being arrogant. But he wasn't joking, right? He was warning you. He was telling you exactly who he was, but you were too blind⎯too hopeful⎯to trust him.

Rafe Cameron⎯dangerous, manipulative, chaotic, unpredictable, and intense. He could walk into a room and eyes would be on him. Everything about him screamed run away or stay to get hurt.

You weren't his but you? You were always his?

What you've learned is Rafe Cameron isn't capable of love. Never will he settle down. Rafe is emotional unavailable and won't reciprocate what you gave so freely.

Three days ago, you sat on the edge of his bed with your hands on your lap staring at your feet dangling back and forth. Rafe stood tall in front of you with his arms folded looking at you with a look he always gives you⎯should've listened to me.

Literally after you two fucked in his bed. He called you to come over, you should've said no but you said yes. You couldn't help yourself.

You search his face for something⎯anything⎯but all you find is indifference, a vacant amusement in his piercing blue eyes.

This isn’t love.

Maybe it never was.

“You knew what this was,” he muttered, voice low, detached. Unfolding his arms from his chest, slowly shaking his head in a taunting manner.

"I didn't⎯" Your voice cracked, wounded from the cries you'd suppressed and the sobbing that threatened to escape. "I thought⎯you weren't being serious during that time..."

"Don't." He turned around, and the expression in his steely blue eyes made your stomach sink. "Do not do that. Do not act like I lied to you."

Not letting you speak. Again.

"Don't act like I told you not to fall for me" he restates nonchalantly.

"I didn't mean to." Your murmur was barely audible, but you were certain he heard it. You knew it because something flickered in his expression, almost regretful, before disappearing just as swiftly, buried beneath layers of neglect and self-destruction.

He groaned and ran his hand through his hair, as if this was tedious for him, and your sadness was just another bother. "You'll get over it."

Your fight with Rafe lasted for thirty minutes⎯at the point of begging on your knees for him crying. You both made the decision to just part ways from each other⎯mostly Rafe made that decision. Definitely one of the hardest decisions you could've made. Now you have to pay the consequences.

The following day you were an absolute wreck. The last conversation you two had sent you into a dark hole. All you could think about is his words to you that had you shattered and what you should've done in the very beginning⎯walk away.

You spent days crying in your room. Everything came flooding back as you spent time to yourself.

The irony is suffocating. He warned you not to fall, but you did. And now, you’re left picking up the shattered remains of something that never existed in the first place.

You were never going to be sufficient for him. He told you that. He demonstrated that with every space he put between you both, every time he went without a word or returned just enough to leave you wanting more.

You kept yourself composed and head held high the minute you entered those doors. The sense of Rafe lingering around the party haunts you. Can feel his eyes on you but you couldn't see him.

There you stood in the kitchen with a drink in your hand filled with a bunch of drunk people as music blasted through the large home at Topper Thornton's party he decided to throw once his parents left the island⎯typical Topper.

“Look who finally came out!” Alicia cheered, wrapping her arms around you laughing.

“I had to get out and not be miserable” you announced.

That’s a complete lie.

The party continued. You could feel his eyes on you. Almost as if he wanted you to look in his direction. You tried to shake it off but a part of you stole quick glances throughout the party.

You saw him across the room, his arm slung lazily around some girl’s shoulders, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. It was the same smirk he used to give you.

Your stomach twisted, nausea rising in your throat, and you grabbed the drink so firmly that the cup threatened to break. You should not have come. You should have heeded every caution and believed him when he stated he was incapable of love.

But you had not. And now you're paying the price.

His gaze flickered upward, meeting yours across the busy room. Something passed between you for a brief moment⎯recognition, hesitation, and perhaps even remorse. But he quickly smirked.

He kissed her. The way he kissed you.

A slow, deliberate, terrible kiss intended just for you to see.

He had been with this girl after he left you, and you had no idea. You needed to talk to him, no matter what it took. You finally found him alone in the kitchen, grabbed his hand, and led him down the hall to an empty room. 

“What the hell⎯?” Rafe’s voice was a low growl, but you didn’t stop. You tugged him down the dimly lit hallway, shoving open the first door you found—an empty bedroom, untouched by the chaos outside.

“Mercy me,” you breathed, voice shaking as you let go of him like his skin had burned you. “Mercy me.”

Rafe's jaw clenched, his fists settling on his hips as he peered at you, his eyes dark and mysterious "What is this?" he said, although the query was not limited to the room or the party.

It was about both of you.

Tears beginning to form in the corner of your "I don't know what this is, Rafe."

Your voice crackled. "Let me fall outta love, before you fuck her."

It was a desperate, shattered plea. You were not asking him to love you back. You begged him to give you the opportunity to stop loving him before he moved on to someone else.

Rafe's throat bobbed as he gulped hard, his gaze shifting to the floor, the wall, anyplace but you.

"I told you not to make you fall in love," he shakes his head, completely disregarding your emotions. He sees you break even more.

Rafe stands up, his back to you, and runs a hand down his face. "Don't make this a thing," he adds, his voice remote and nearly halfway out the door, despite the fact that he is still in the room.

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[sparklingblu]

Inferior Activities

Lia x M Reader

"How's the salad?"

"Oh, it's great" you answer as you try not to grimace after swallowing the lettuce that taste no different from paper.

"I made few twists to the dressing, you know. A family secret" The bald man winks as he takes another bite of the potato that would have turned to coal if it have been roasted a minute more.

Studying the plates of green laid out all across the table, you make a firm decision never to become a vegan. At least not if your father in law is gonna be your chef. Lia has warned his cooking skills are terrible but you didn't expect it to be this awful. The only tolerable content of the table seems to be the so-called vegan meat and even that's starting to taste lesser and lesser like meat with each bite. No offense to all those animal loving vegans out there but they really are missing out a lot in their life. You wouldn't have lasted a day if you have to survive without meat.

Your eye flicker up to Lia, seated across, to see if she's on the same page with you on the matter. She lazily plops a broccoli into her mouth, her eyes betraying no signs of disappointment. The corner of her lips twitch in a thin smile as if to mock your suffering. She looks contented even.

In the end, you only have yourself to blame. When Lia suggestsled you visits her dad on the weekends, you agreed with a simple nod. Sure, it's your first time meeting her old man but what could go wrong? Right?

Except that everything does. As soon as you enter the house, the first thing the dude asked you was your opinion on wildlife conservation. At first you thought he was joking then you find out he's actually very serious about the matter. Weather talk would have been a good starter. Seriously, who starts a conversation like that?

Then after seeing the dishes he has prepared, you find out making conversation is the least of your worries. He's your father in law and you have respect for him and all but this dude is horrible at being a vegan. If he calls his mushroom soup which tastes more like mushroom-flavored dishwater 'a masterpiece', you might as well consider becoming a chef. Who knows? Maybe you will even get a couple michelin stars.

You are thinking of a way to escape this organic hell and the constant ear rape about how billions of animals are killed per year for human consumption when Lia finally comes to your aid.

"Dad, we are nearly done. Why don't you go make your signature smoothie? I haven't got the chance to taste it since I left for college" she suggests and the old man's eyes twinkle with maddening joy.

"Oh, of course! How could I forget that? It was your mother's favorite" his tone turns solemn at the mention of his late wife but you are too focused on the idea of finally getting some breathing room to care. "Two smoothies. Coming right up! You will absolutely love it" He winks at you again and leaves the table.

You drop your utensils and exhale in relief. "Finally. I was gonna turn into stone if I hear one more second of his animal talk"

Lia chuckles. "I get used to it after living with him for 18 years. He's actually a really sweeet guy. He just tries to focus on something else after my mom passed, I guess"

If the fact is supposed to make you feel sorry, it doesn't work. But you are not gonna tell her that. "How do you survive with this kind of food all these years?"

"It wasn't always that bad" Belle protests. "And sometimes he even cooks meat. But his skills get rusty with old age"

"Yep, I'm never becoming a vegan"

Lia pouts in annoyance. "Oh, come on. It's not that bad"

"Suits yourself"

"You just hate vegetables in general"

You roll your eyes in feigned annoyance. "Look, who's trying to follow her father's steps"

"Whatever" Lia finally gives up, pushing up her glasses from her nose. "I'm still hungry you know...."

"Maybe we can go to McDonald's or something later"

"No, daddy" Lia's voice turns low and sultry. "You know exactly what I want"

You look around in a panic to see if her dad has overheard your conversation. Thankfully, the guy's busy cutting carrots on the kitchen counter.

"Lia, I told you not to call me that in public. Especially not when your literal dad is right here" you warned, though you can't deny the fact that hearing her call you the name get your blood flowing backwards.

"Oh, come on, daddyyyyy" she pushes on, stressing the last word to make it sound even more fervorous. "I know you secretly love it"

"Look, babe. I love the name but this isn't the right place. Seriously, your dad's right there"

"So what?" Lia puts her elbows on the table, propping her chin in her palms. "Don't you enjoy a little risk?"

"Come on, babe. Not right now. I will make it up to you when you come back"

"But I want it now" Lia whines, the pout reforming on her lips. "Need to taste daddy's big cock. Need it shove down my throat"

"Lia...." you hiss, becoming aware of her tone, increasing by the second.

"Daddy pleaseee" she gives you those bambi eyes she knows you can't resist. "Let me suck your huge cock. I need you to fill up my mouth with your hot cum. I have been a good girl, haven't I? I deserve my reward" Lia runs her tongue along her top lips to punctuate her wish.

With the way her words get your asleep mamba waking up, you already know you are fighting a losing battle but you still need to be the one in charge here. "Alright, fine. But-"

"Oops. I drop my spoon" The metal hits the floor with a loud clang and Lia immediately dives down the table. It's an overused trope. You have seen it in hundreds of porn videos and you are no stranger to it. But you have never thought you would be in a similar situation and this time, the risk is very real. Her dad is not a paid actor who would pretend to be oblivious at the scene which would soon unfold.

"Is everything ok?" Lia's dad shouts from the kitchen counter, now washing.....are those eggplants?

"Yes, mister! We are gold!" You replies, hoping he would stay focused on his veggies.

You look down and find Lia already kneeled between your legs, a flicker of amusement in her eyes behind those glasses. Her lips curve into an impish smile. "Just stay still and let me do all the work, daddy" she whispers, her hands already working on your zipper. With one swift pull, she opens it up, revealing your red underwear underneath. "Oh, daddy's wearing my favorite colour today" Lia muses as she grabs your cock over the thin fabric, her thumb tracing slow circles. "Daddy, you are already so hard"

As much as you want to prolong this pornographic session, her dad is not going to be in the kitchen forever and you don't want to give him a heart attack. "Babe, enough teasing. Make it quick" you warn and her thumb rests on your head, pressing down on that sensitive spot she only knows. You let out a half-formed moan, not daring to be loud.

"You know the magic word, daddy. No need to be so formal" she presses again and you grit your teeth.

"Start sucking my cock, you slut" you calls her by her favorite nickname, which intsantly gets her engines revving.

"Yes, daddy" she release her grip, pulling down your underwear. Your rock hard cock springs out in a flash, hitting her spectacles. "Someone's eager" Lia chuckles, placing her brown locks behind her back, preparing for the main course. Her left hand close around your base, pumping it up and down in an agonizingly slow pace. She looks at your cock like it's something glorious, something she should be worshipping. But that's not so far from the truth. If this slut wants to choke on your cock, you are gonna permit it happily.

"Daddy, you are so big" Lia mutters dreamily, her free hand fondling your balls each at a time. The combination gets your mind cloudy, basking in the pleasure you nearly forget the whole point of this.

"I don't see you sucking my cock?" Lia stops her movements at your words and you nearly reget telling her to stop. But that doesn't last long because Lia instantly starts obliging to your command.

"Patience, daddy" With that, her rosy lips seal around your tip, taking you partly into the warmth of her mouth. Meanwhile, her hands grab your shaft, working in unison with each drag of her lips. The twist of her fingers along with her tongue that swirls around your slit gets you throwing your head back, letting out a graon. Then you quickly recompose not to expose yourself.

Lia doesn't seem to be bothered. Getting caught seems to be the last thing on your mind as she slurps on your head with fevorous vigour. Like it's the most delicous lollipop she has ever tasted. Her tongue gathers up any pre cum that leaks from your slit, taking it straight down to her stomach. She would takes anything your cock has to offer.

Every moment or so, you would check on her dad, making sure the guy's still busy brewing his organic potion which contents are starting to get weirder. But as long as he's busy, you don't care what he's putting into that blender. It's the best for him and you. You doubt the old man would be as merciful to you as he is to wildlife if he finds out his daughter is giving you head under his table.

But the task proves to be harder because Lia's dad would throw you ocassional glances and you have to put on this stupid grin everytime, which is not so easy with how Lia's sucking you off. Now she has taken half your cock into her mouth, her cheeks hollowed with unfathomable suction. Her hair sways with every bob of her head, forming silky waves of hazel. All the while, she keeps her eyes on you behind those circular frames, those pools of black seems to be asking if she's doing a good job.

"God, Lia....just like that" you grip the edge of the table to compensate for not being able to rejoice in the bliss of Lia's wet hole freely. Your head darting up and down as you keep watch on her father as well as enjoy the view between your legs.

Your shaft is now ringed with red as Lia leaves tarces of her lipstick mixed with her saliva while her lips glide smoothly along your cock, making it a red wet mess. Not like you mind. She can keeps messing it up all she wants.

Her tongue action doesn't waver either, licking up any available part but escpecially under your tip to tackle your weak spot each time she takes you in. To add icing on the cake, she has her left hand wrapped around your base to pump the lengths unattended by her mouth, not leaving out any throbbing vein.

You are helpless against her attack, the only action from your side to keeps grabbing the tablecloth into an unshapely tangle. And even that's starting to fail at holding back your moans.

A loud whirring sound fills up the place as Lia's dad starts brewing all those green stuffs in the blender. He gives you a thumbs up and you smile back, shammming excitement. The sound of the blender blades reminding you of the disguisting smoothie you will soon have to drink.

However, Lia takes advantage of the noise by taking your whole length down on her throat, the loud gagging sound lost in the echoes of spinning blades. You take the chance to make any audible sound that would let you express your euphoria. A moan. Then two. Then a couple more. It no longer seems to be ending as Lia devour your cock like a hungry animal, hitting the back of her throat each time she deeothroats.

Drops of saliva litters the ground. The evidences of Lia's godly work. Gags after gags escape her mouth in rhythm with your moans. However, escape won't be suitable here with the way your cock is blocking her airway. But that isn't a problem because she would choose your dick over oxygen.

The blender keeps whirring and Lia keeps choking on your cock. Her glasses now tilted at a strange angle from the force of her movement, the temple hanging on one ear only. Currently, her vision isn't as important as the taste of your dick on her tongue.

Lia finally pulls back, trails of saliva running from your tip to her lips. A waterfall of saliva staining her white shirt. Her tongue rolled out and her temples dripping with sweat.

"Daddy....am I...good?" she pants like a bitch in heat, all her lipsticks all gone.

"Very. But you gotta finish what you start my little slut"

"Yes, daddy. Feed me your thick cum. I want it all"

"Then come and take it"

Lia dives back on your cock, immeditaely swallowing your whole length. You groans out at the burst of pleasure, her throat constricted around your shaft. Lia holds her position, her nose pressed to your pelvis for a few moment before pulling back, just to start fucking her throat on your cock again and again.

The sound of the blender stops and you hear the clink of glasses. Turning your head, you find Lia's dad pouring the green liquid into two glasses. It would only be a few minutes before he comes back.

Lia seems to realize to because her lips form an airtight seal around your head and her hands satrt pumping your shaft furiously. Using all your willpower to hold out from finishing earlier leaves no strength left to withstand Lia's final assault. Your cock starts throbbing and soon you are spilling your cum into her mouth. Some reaching her tongue, the other flowing straight down her throat. Lia's fingers keep twisting back and forth and you empty the last drops of your protein rich fluid into her welcoming hole.

You close your eyes, breathing hard. The relief is instant as much as the build up is agonizingly blissful. Lia releases your cock with a pop and lick up the remnants of cum on the tip. You are too lost in the euphporic finale you totally forget the perilous situation you are in. When you realize, it's too late.

Lia's dad is near the table, two glasses of the green smoothie in his hands. His face is a mixture of shock and distress as he stands rooted to the spot, his eyes fixed on her daughter's face a few centimeters away from your spent cock. His mouth opens but before he can speak, Lia chimes in.

"Thanks for the meal daddy. But I don't think I'm going to need the smoothie. I already have dessert"

◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇ ◇

[lochsturns]

CHAPTER ONE: THE MOVE TO THE 'PINK PALACE APARTMENTS'

hii my darling angels,

welcome to chapter one in this Coraline au,

please note beforehand that this is my first-ever story and I’m so excited for you to read this and fall in love with our socially awkward protagonists.

The reader will be referred to Coraline throughout the chapters.

Trigger warning: descriptions of neglection, descriptions of buttons for eyes and a stitched mouth, soul-eating.

Word count: 1853 words!

I really hope you enjoy this first chapter – thyia

As the old, dirty window was wide open, the silver moon shining bright in the night sky, the cold winter breeze flooded the room. Silence filled the room; it was almost deafening.

A doll with beady black button eyes and a stitched-up mouth, as if it was silencing the doll from making any noise.

A cold, lifeless bitter laugh escaped the thin mouth of the beldam as she claimed her third victim. Another soul. A soul that she ate and trapped, a soul that will never leave her again.

Her long metal hands clenched onto the cotton-filled doll, and her metal fingers, which looked like sharp blades, held onto the doll's body.

The doll had brown hair in small braids tied with dirty, ripped, faded pink bows. The dress on the doll was also covered in dirt and faded pink, with a darker pink ribbon around the waist.

The beldam placed the inanimate object on her table as she opened her case of supplies. The case creaked open, the sound was sickening, yet filled the beldam with so much pleasure as she couldn’t wait to make a doll of her next victim, another soul just waiting for her, waiting to get stuck, forever.

Oh, how the beldam couldn't wait to manipulate her new victim. Her new “child” as her husband would say. Oh, how stupid he was, not a single brain cell in his mind. Just how she liked them.

She turned the doll over onto its front, taking the scissors in her metal, cold monster-like hands, she snipped up the spine of the doll, hearing the fabric tear beneath the sharp steel, sending shivers down her spine in pure bliss and thrill.

She turned the doll back onto its back, her long endoskeleton-like digits tugged onto the dark brown wool, watching the hair coming out on the head of the doll in awe, her lifeless button eyes lit up as she was getting closer and closer to creating a mini new victim, her mouth drooling as she thought about the new soul she will eat.

She licked her dry lips, trying to stop the drooling from getting on the doll, she grabbed some pliers and took the thread out from the buttoned eyes, removing the buttons as she worked on the doll.

The beldam grabbed a sharp tool and dragged it across the mouth, hearing the fabric tear, her body shivered in awe as she listened to the sound.

She then held the doll upside down, the long sharp digits pulled out the stuffing from the doll, watching it as it fell to the ground with a soft thump on the dusty, cobwebbed wooden floor.

She took her hand and forced it into the mouth of the doll, making it inside out. She placed the doll back onto the table, took a funnel cone and inserted it into the doll, filling it up with sand, she restitched up the mouth of the doll, took two smaller black buttons and stitched them onto the doll where the eyes would be.

She used blue wool as the hair of the doll and made an outfit for it.

A yellow raincoat, an orange shirt, blue pants, yellow wellies. After she was done with her masterpiece, she sent the doll out of the window. “Goodbye, my dear. I will see you very...very soon,” she said to the doll, her voice cackly as the dirty window slammed shut.

It took over a day and ten hours to get to Ashland, Oregon and Coraline was not thrilled at all to be leaving the life she knew behind, just to re-start her life all over again, she was huffing and puffing, whining and complaining to her mom Mel jones and her dad Charlie jones, but her complaints fell onto deaf ears.

Her parents completely ignored her complaints and babbled on about their gardening magazine, Coraline sighed as she was ignored again, which was becoming a routine she became familiar with.

‘If only I had another mom and dad out there somewhere,’ Coraline thought to herself, taking her raincoat sleeve and wiping it on the fogged-up window in the 2006 Volkswagen Beetle.

A bright pink sign was up ahead, and it read: ‘Pink Palace Apartments’. Coraline couldn’t help but groan at the fluorescent pink sign, hating every single thing about it.

The beetle parked in the apartment car park and Coraline grabbed her bags and sighed, looking up at the pink apartment complex with disgust.

Her pointy nose scrunched up as she helped her parents carry the boxes into their apartment.

The apartment was dull. Lifeless. Not a speck of colour in sight. She groaned and placed the boxes down as her mom paid the moving company $10 dollars.

She knew she had to leave this place before her boredom got the best of her. She left through the creaky backdoor and into the massive garden, going past what she fought was a normal bush but picked up some poisoned oak.

She brushed off the dead leaves on the stick, holding it by the branches as she held it up, using the stem of the stick to guide her through the garden.

She opened her eyes as the stick led her to her destination, she went through the old, rusty black gate and went up some cobblestoned steps, leaving the garden and walking further and further away from the apartment.

As she went up a hill, she heard some rocks crumbling onto the floor near her and looked up and around to see what would have caused the noise but continued walking cautiously, feeling nervous.

She put on a brave face, not wanting anyone to see how suddenly anxious she got. “Hello?” she called out, her voice wobbling gently before taking in a deep breath and exhaling.

“Is anyone there?” she asked hesitantly while continuing her walk, her shoulder slouched showing how vulnerable she was through her body language.

A loud meow-like shriek came from a nearby rock, and Coraline started to pick up her pace almost afraid, she started to run the hill and then back down another hill, occasionally looking behind her shoulder.

Her pace slowed down as she stepped onto some mud, her bright yellow wellies getting coated in mud, which will annoy her mom when she returns to her new “home”. The breeze around her started to pick up as her breathing went quicker.

There was a rustling noise in the dead grass, which made her breathing hitch to the back of her throat. A loud meow came behind her as a slim black cat with big blue eyes was sitting on a dead tree stump, the cat licked its paw and cleaned behind its ear.

She couldn’t help but let a sigh of relief escape her. “You scared me, you daft cat,” she exclaimed and laughed. “I’m looking for a well…have you seen it” to which she got no reply from the cat. “Not talking, hmm...lil guy”.

A loud honk comes from behind her, to which she jumps back in fear and turns her head to see a bike and some boy. In some weird modified skull mask/helmet?

She watched as the boy rode his bike down the hill at a fast pace towards her, she fell to the ground, getting her raincoat covered in mud. The helmet came up, and there he was.

He was about 5’8ft, brunette hair and blue eyes. She looked at the boy curiously, her brown eyes locking on his.

“Ooo, let me guess, you're probably from Texas or Utah?” the boy asked, his Boston accent evident in his tone, which she found fascinating.

“I’m from Michigan,” she told the boy, correcting him about what state she is from with annoyance in her tone.

“Close enough” he replied with a faint laugh, “Oh you are standing on the well you are looking for by the way.” He added which made the girl jump back carefully.

“I’m surprised they let you guys move in, they don’t rent this place out to families!” The unfamiliar boy told Coraline.

“Huh? Do you know why?” Coraline asked curiously, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it… My gran owns the Pink Palace apartments…I’m Matthew…by the way, but everyone calls me Matt.” Matt finally introduced himself.

“Matthew, hmm. I’m Coraline.” Coraline introduced herself back.

“Caraline?” Matthew said her name wrong, which filled the blue-haired girl with more annoyance.

“Coraline!” she exclaimed, feeling helpless as she was used to people getting her name wrong.

In the distance, a loud, old feminine voice yelled out for Matt to go home. “Seems like your gran is calling you back,” she said to Matt, who then awkwardly nodded in return.

“Oh, by the way. That’s poison oak,” Matt finally told her, to which she immediately dropped the stick and wiped her hands on her raincoat watching as Matt left.

She groaned as quietly as it started to rain, and she ran back home

🏷 thyia’s tag list: @courta13, @submattenthusiast, @kaybug88, @55sturn, @sturns-mermaid, @st4rcs, @endrfairy, @pinkpalaceblogs, @stxrsniolo, @throatgoat4u, @sturnslutz, @t33nspirtit, @owensbabygirl, @wr1tingsonthewall, @loonysbarn, @secretlocket, @isabellatb1234, @from-the-stars-to-the-moon, @sosasturns, @raesturns, @stefansring, @matts-girlfriend, @chrissweetheart, @drewswife, @itsccc, @naevk14, @ch6rm

[te1eky]

thinking about…

CollegeStudent!satoru in your intro to painting class, nothing but amiable smiles and snowy hair. flushed cheeks and toned arms. aquatic eyes and cream skin. pretty as a picture.

he always sits in the row in front of you, occasionally turning back to persuade you into giving him yesterday's lecture notes. which you always obliged. you'd often look down at him during class to find him lazily drafting sketches: eyes and hands were his favorite. rarely did he pay attention to anything your professor was saying.

"whaddya think of this?" he'd grin, shoving his sketchbook in front of your laptop where you were actually doing work. his drawings always looked a bit ragged and sharp, clashing with his own stylish appearance. despite this, they were cohesive in their own respect.

"beautiful," you'd laugh back, and he beamed at your praise. this went on for a while: light conversation and bashful giggles and fleeting glances. all of which evolved into closing distance and ghostly touches; graphite-smudged fingers softly traced against yours, sending jolts of arousal across your skin. presumably, one thing led to another:

“satoru, you’re gonna break something, fuck!” you whined, sprawled out over one of the tables in the campus art studio. you made sure to keep your arms away from any of the precious painting supplies surrounding you. meticulous hands gripped the plush of your thighs, holding them steady around his waist.

“don’t worry sweetheart, i’ll be real careful,” satoru winked as he snapped his hips even faster. asshole.

how or why were you fucking your classmate in the art studio after hours? you had no idea, nor did you care. the fullness of his cock inside of you was enough to forget about most things, the logic of this situation included. the coolness of the laminate table rivaled the scorch of your skin, coating the surface in a thin dew.

a whimper escaped your parted lips as satoru continued pounding your cunt viciously. slick pooled onto the table, much to his amusement. “you’re making such a mess, baby. how unbecoming of you,” he teased. his tone was so sickeningly sweet, sharply contradicting the condescension of his words.

all you could offer was another lewd moan, knuckles turning white as they clutched the edge of the table for dear life. satoru’s cock was ruthless and unforgiving. your pliant hole fluttered around him as his tip nearly kissed your cervix over, and over. your sweater was pulled over your chest, letting your tits bounce with every cruel stroke. the sight was nothing if not a masterpiece.

“please, mmh! s-satoru, fuck!” you attempted fruitlessly to warn him of your impending orgasm. white-hot pleasure rendered you absolutely weak. satoru’s gorgeous face twisted into a malicious grin.

“please what, sweet thing? use your words.” the chime of satoru’s voice was nearly drowned out by the sound of your wet cunt swallowing his cock whole. your vision blurred, eyes watering from the overwhelming pleasure. your sight zeroed in on the outline of this white-headed angel demon before you, as if he was some heavenly body.

“please s’toru- gonna cum- don’t stop pleasepleaseplease”

he chuckled and leaned closer to you, licking long, wet stripes up your neck. his lips grazed the shell of your ear, “cum.”

and so you did. you mewled against his shoulder as your orgasm ripped through you. you cried and moaned and thanked him, thanked him for being so good to you. you thanked him for fucking you like he loved you. like he knew you.

before you knew it, satoru’s orgasm followed closely behind. he was all desperate whimpers and whines and profanities; his porcelain complexion adorned with bright pink splotches. his toned chest heaved slightly as he caught his breath.

soon enough, you were both decent again. you sanitized the table with supplies you found in a nearby closet while satoru sorted your belongings. he handed you your bag and began heading for the door. before he left, he turned to you,

“wanna come over soon? help me study my anatomy?”

pt.2

[motherismotheringggg]

nicholas chavez fic where he’s with plus size reader and he likes to see her jiggle during sex👁️👁️

made to worship 🥀

summary: this and one another anon request — LOVED THIS!!!

type: plus sized female reader x nicholas chavez

tags: established relationship, body worshipping, oral (m! and f! receiving), p in v sex, swallowing

author’s note: it’s the way i wanted to start writing for more specific readers/reader traits and the literal say i had this idea i got this request — INSANITY!!! but im so happy with this and i hope yall like it!!!

word count: 4909

taglist: @emluvsuxo , @blackynsupremacy , @hoffmansgirl , @godzillawillsaveus , @purple-1995 , @ilovecheetahchrome , @nicholaschavezslut69

🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀🥀

The evening sky outside your high-rise apartment glowed with hues of pink and orange, the city skyline twinkling like scattered jewels. Inside, your space was bathed in the warm, ambient glow of your carefully curated mood lighting.

Fairy lights danced along the edges of your large windows, their soft light complementing the flicker of vanilla-scented candles scattered across the room. The atmosphere felt magical, almost like you were preparing for a scene in one of Nicholas’s movies—but tonight, the star was you.

Your "HOTTIES GETTING READY 🍸💗" playlist blasted through your Alexa speaker, Sabrina Carpenter’s upbeat lyrics urging you to sway your hips as you moved. The giddy excitement bubbling in your chest spilled into every movement: the way you twirled in front of the mirror, the occasional shimmy as you reached for another makeup brush, and the soft giggles that escaped your lips whenever you caught your reflection.

Your vanity table, a beloved thrift find, was adorned with an explosion of beauty products. Palettes, brushes, and compacts were arranged like tools in an artist’s studio, each chosen carefully to create the masterpiece that was you tonight.

Seated at the vanity, you leaned in close to the mirror, your curls bouncing lightly with the motion. You added the finishing touches to your makeup: a delicate shimmer highlighting your cheekbones, a precise wing of eyeliner that drew attention to your sparkling eyes, and a deep crimson lipstick that Nicholas had once declared "dangerous." The way the shade made your full lips pop was undeniable, and you smiled, pleased with the effect.

Your curves were hugged by a black dress that flowed over your body like a second skin. Stopping at the mid-thigh, it was a classic little black dress with a timeless silhouette and a sweetheart neckline that drew eyes directly to your décolletage and cleavage.

The fabric accentuated the softness of your figure—the swell of your hips, the dip of your waist, the fullness of your chest. The dress had been an indulgence, a piece you’d bought after seeing how it made you feel: sexy, confident, powerful. As you smoothed your hands down its sleek lines, you couldn’t help but admire yourself in the full-length mirror.

You had always loved your body. It had taken years to cultivate the confidence you now carried with pride, but tonight, you felt it in every fiber of your being. You were beautiful. And Nicholas, your boyfriend of almost a year, never let you forget it.

He’d been away for three months, filming a secret project in Europe. While the distance had been hard, you’d kept in touch with texts, calls, and plenty of late-night FaceTimes. But nothing compared to the real thing—to having him home, finally able to hold you in his arms. Tonight was your first date since his return, and though you’d suggested he rest after landing, Nicholas had been insistent.

You smiled to yourself as you remembered his words: “Sleep can wait. I need to see you.”

You really did think it was a good idea for Nicholas to get some rest after his flight. He had spent weeks on set, pouring himself into his role and managing the grueling hours of filming. But deep down, you knew rest wasn’t an option—not when it came to you. Nicholas could never resist you, and truthfully, you loved it. After all, you hadn’t exactly made it easy for him to keep his distance while he was away.

From the moment he boarded his flight for Europe, you had made it your mission to remind him exactly what was waiting for him back home. It started innocently enough: a few sultry selfies in his favorite lingerie, each one showing off how the lace hugged your curves just right. But it didn’t take long for you to turn up the heat.

Fresh out of the shower, droplets clinging to your skin, you’d let the steam fog the mirror just enough to add a teasing edge. Then came the quick videos: the camera lingering on your soft, full figure as you massaged your breasts or gave a playful slap to your ass, letting him see exactly what he was missing. You knew what Nicholas loved most—the way you filled his hands completely, yet still left more for him to hold. And you loved reminding him of it.

But one night, it all escalated. A little wine-drunk and missing him more than usual, you’d drawn yourself a bubble bath. The warm water and frothy bubbles felt indulgent, and with your phone propped securely on the edge of the tub, you put on a show just for Nicholas. You let the camera capture the way the water caressed your curves, your body glistening under the soft glow of candlelight. You posed and shifted, the bubbles teasingly obscuring parts of you before you’d lift a leg or arch your back, leaving just enough for his imagination to run wild.

His response had been immediate.

nickypoo 💘

You’re killing me, baby. How am I supposed to survive three more weeks of this?

you:

just giving you something to look forward to <3

He hadn’t stopped there, though. After a few more minutes of teasing, he sent another message that made you burst out laughing:

nickypoo 💘

I’m about to tell them there’s an emergency back home. They don’t need to know the emergency is how bad i NEED you.

You’d teased him relentlessly for it during your next FaceTime call, but you couldn’t deny how good it felt to be wanted like that. Knowing Nicholas adored every part of you, from the playful curve of your smile to the plush softness of your body, made the separation a little easier to bear.

And now, after all those weeks apart, he was finally on his way.

The sound of the lock clicking echoed through your apartment, followed by the familiar creak of the door opening. “Baby, I’m just finishing up in the bedroom!” you called out, checking your reflection one last time in the mirror. “I’ll be out in a minute!”

Nicholas didn’t respond right away, but you heard the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor and the shuffle of his footsteps as he made his way inside. There was a pause, followed by the unmistakable sigh of relief he always seemed to release when he was at your apartment.

When you finally stepped out of your bedroom, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was standing near the couch, looking relaxed yet strikingly handsome in a fitted black sweater and dark jeans. His brown eyes lit up the second they landed on you, and for a moment, he just stood there, taking you in like you were the most breathtaking thing he’d ever seen.

“Damn,” he finally managed, his voice low and reverent.

Before you could reply, Nicholas closed the distance between you in three long strides. His arms wrapped around you, pulling you into a hug so tight it felt like he was trying to merge you into himself. His hands roamed instinctively to your waist, fingers pressing into the plushness of your curves like he was grounding himself in the feel of you.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His voice was muffled, but you could hear the raw emotion behind it.

Your arms came up around his back, holding him just as tightly. His body was warm and solid against yours, and the familiar scent of his cologne—a mix of cedarwood and something earthy—wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

After a long moment, Nicholas pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still holding your waist. His gaze was intense, his brown eyes darting over your face like he was trying to memorize every detail. Then, without warning, he leaned in and kissed you.

It wasn’t a light, playful kiss. It was deep, almost desperate, like he’d been starving for you and you were the only thing that could satisfy him. His lips moved against yours with a hunger that sent shivers down your spine, yet there was a tenderness to it—a gentleness that reminded you just how much he cared.

You broke the kiss with a soft laugh, brushing your fingers over your lips. “Okay, as much as I love this,” you teased, “I just spent way too much time on my makeup to let you ruin it before we even leave.”

Nicholas groaned, resting his forehead against yours. “I don’t care about the makeup,” he muttered, his voice gravelly and thick with desire. His hands slid down to your hips, squeezing them in a way that made you feel worshipped. “You’re so damn beautiful, it hurts.”

The way he said it, with absolute conviction, made your cheeks warm. “You’re not playing fair,” you said, trying to maintain your composure, though the fluttering in your chest betrayed you.

His lips curved into a grin, one of his dimples making an appearance as he leaned back to look at you. “I haven’t even started yet.”

As if to prove his point, one of his hands slid up your thigh, the warmth of his palm searing through the fabric of your dress. His touch was deliberate, teasing, and the look in his eyes told you exactly where his mind was heading.

You caught his wrist before he could go any further, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t get all dressed up just for you to ruin it now,” you said, your tone playful but firm.

Nicholas let out an exaggerated groan, throwing his head back with a dramatic sigh. His hair fell into soft waves around his face, and when he finally looked at you again, his grin had only grown wider. “Fine,” he relented, though the glint in his eye told you he wasn’t giving up so easily.

You pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, then trailed your lips along his jawline, stopping just below his ear. “If you can wait until after dinner,” you whispered, your voice low and teasing, “I promise it’ll be worth it.”

His eyebrows shot up, and his lips parted slightly as a sly grin spread across his face. “Oh, you’re trouble,” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement and a touch of awe.

You turned toward the door to grab your shoes and jacket, but before you could take two steps, a loud smack echoed through the room as Nicholas’s hand came down on your ass. The contact was firm, leaving a faint sting that made you yelp in surprise.

“Nicholas!” you exclaimed, spinning around to glare at him, though the heat in your cheeks betrayed your annoyance.

He bit his bottom lip, clearly pleased with himself. “Sorry,” he said, though his grin was anything but apologetic. “I couldn’t help it.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to suppress a smile as you grabbed your shoes. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” you muttered, slipping them on.

Nicholas raised his hands in mock surrender, his grin widening. “Okay, okay—I’ll relax,” he said, though his eyes lingered on you in a way that told you he was far from done admiring you.

As you reached for your jacket, you couldn’t help but glance back at him. The sight of him, so completely enamored and entirely yours, made your heart swell. It had been three long months, but in this moment, it felt like no time had passed at all.

————

When you walked down to the car, the sight waiting for you made your heart skip. Parked by the curb was Nicholas’s beloved cherry-red 1967 Mustang, gleaming under the soft glow of the streetlights. Sitting in the passenger seat was the biggest bouquet of flowers you’d ever seen—an explosion of rich red roses, delicate baby’s breath, and fragrant lilies. You couldn’t hold back your joy, practically leaping into his arms before peppering his face with kisses. Nicholas laughed, a low, happy sound that vibrated against your chest as he wrapped his arms around you.

The drive to the gallery was filled with light conversation and your playlist humming in the background, his hand firmly resting on your thigh, fingers occasionally giving it a little squeeze. At the gallery walk, Nicholas’s attention stayed on you more than the art.

As you strolled through the exhibits, his touch was constant—never intrusive, just reassuring. His hand rested gently on your lower back as you navigated the crowded rooms, steering you effortlessly through clusters of art enthusiasts. When you stopped to read a placard, he’d step behind you, his hands settling on your hips, his chest lightly brushing your back.

Whenever your eyes met, he’d steal a kiss—a quick peck if someone was nearby, but when the moment allowed, he’d dip down to claim something deeper, making you momentarily forget the world around you.

At dinner, he was utterly captivated. Candlelight danced in his warm, brown eyes as he hung on to your every word. You laughed about some silly drama your friends were having, vented about the weird maintenance issues in your building, and recounted the wild dreams you’d had while he was away. Through it all, his gaze never wavered. He was enthralled—not just by your words but by the way your lips moved, the sparkle in your eyes, and the sound of your laughter.

Surprisingly, the drive home was calm, though his hand remained a grounding presence on your leg. Even in the elevator, where you half-expected him to lose control, he was restrained—his eyes on you, dark with promise, but his body relaxed.

But the second you stepped through your apartment door, all bets were off.

————

You barely had a moment to close the door before Nicholas’s lips found yours, urgent and consuming. His hands tugged at your coat as if the barrier was offensive, and when he finally had it off, his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His lips moved with a desperate hunger, yet there was still that softness to them, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to devour you or savor every second.

His fingers trailed up your sides, gripping at your curves in a way that made you shiver. “I told you I could wait,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and gravelly with a smile. Before you could respond, he lifted you effortlessly, his hands firmly grasping the plushness of your thighs, carrying you deeper into the apartment as if he couldn’t wait a second longer to have you all to himself.

Nicholas carried you effortlessly to the bedroom, his lips never straying far from yours. The kisses varied—some deep and consuming, others soft and teasing, but all filled with an undeniable need. When he finally set you down, it was in front of your full-length mirror, the glow from your bedroom’s soft lighting casting a golden hue over the scene.

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror, your chest rising and falling with each breath, lips already swollen from his kisses. Behind you, Nicholas stood tall, his hands resting on your hips as he pressed a kiss to the bare skin of your shoulder.

“You were breathtaking tonight,” he murmured against your skin, his voice deep and low, the sound sending a shiver down your spine. He kissed the curve where your shoulder met your neck, then trailed his lips upward until they found that spot just below your ear that always made you melt. “And you know it,” he added, his tone playful but dripping with sincerity.

His hands slid from your hips to your waist, squeezing gently as he pressed closer to you. You could feel the warmth of his chest against your back, his steady breath brushing against your ear. “Do you know why I put you here?” he asked, his voice a husky whisper.

You opened your eyes, meeting his gaze in the mirror. “Why?” you managed, your voice breathy and light.

“Because I want you to watch,” he said, his lips curling into a sly grin as he began to trail kisses down the curve of your neck again. “I want you to see how beautiful you are, how much I adore every inch of you.” His kisses grew slower, deeper, as he slid his hands down to your hips again.

Nicholas’s kisses grew hungrier as his hands slid the straps of your dress off your shoulders. His lips trailed over the newly exposed skin, his breath warm against your collarbone, making your pulse race. With a soft sigh, the fabric slipped further down, and Nicholas took his time kissing every inch of skin revealed to him until the dress pooled at your feet.

For a moment, he pulled back to take you in, his eyes darkening as they roamed over your curves, lingering on the black lingerie you’d chosen. His hands spanned your waist, his touch firm yet reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmured, his voice thick with admiration. His fingers traced the curve of your hips, his hands splaying over the softness of your stomach, your thighs. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your jaw as he whispered, “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. How much I’ve missed you.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, but before you could respond, he kissed you again—deep and deliberate, like he was pouring every ounce of emotion into the connection. His hands skimmed up your sides, over the swell of your breasts, and back down again, his touch leaving trails of fire on your skin.

“You’re so soft,” he murmured between kisses, his lips moving to your neck. “So warm. Do you know how obsessed I am with you? With this body?” His hands caressed your waist again, his grip tightening like he couldn’t help himself. “You drive me crazy. I swear, I’ll never get enough of you.”

“Nicholas…” you whispered, your voice barely audible, trembling under his touch.

He smiled against your skin, a slow, knowing grin as he gently guided you toward the dresser. “Lean here,” he said softly, helping you rest against the cool wood. Behind you, the mirror reflected everything—the way your chest rose and fell, the flush creeping across your skin, and Nicholas towering over you, his presence magnetic.

He caught your gaze in the mirror as he placed his hands on either side of you, caging you in. “I want you to watch,” he said, his voice low and commanding but filled with adoration. “I want you to see why I worship you.”

Your breath hitched as he tilted your chin up, kissing you deeply once more. His hands slid over your body with a confidence that made your knees weak, each touch deliberate, almost reverent. He kissed down your neck, over your collarbone, and then lower, his lips trailing along the tops of your breasts.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Nicholas dropped to his knees, his hands anchoring on your hips as his lips continued their descent. His fingers grazed your thighs, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. He pressed kisses to your stomach, lingering there, his lips soft but insistent.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmured against your skin, his brown eyes lifting to meet yours. The intensity in his gaze sent a fresh wave of warmth pooling in your belly. His hands slipped to the waistband of your panties, and with an effortless tug, he slid them down your legs.

He helped you step out of them, his hands strong but tender as he lifted one of your legs over his shoulder. The position left you exposed, vulnerable, but the way he held you—like you were the most precious thing in the world—put you completely at ease.

Nicholas pressed a series of kisses to the inside of your thighs, his lips slow and deliberate, as though savoring every second. His fingers gripped your thighs firmly, grounding himself in your softness.

“Look at yourself,” he said, his voice rough but gentle, his breath warm against your skin. “Look at how beautiful you are when I’m making you feel good.”

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting your reflection in the mirror. The sight of yourself—flushed and trembling, your chest rising and falling with anticipation—made your pulse quicken. But it was the way Nicholas looked at you, his gaze filled with a mix of reverence and hunger, that made your heart ache in the best way.

He leaned in, his tongue gliding over your sensitive flesh, and you gasped, your hands gripping the dresser for support. His movements were precise, deliberate, as though he was learning every reaction, every sound you made.

Your head fell back briefly as the pleasure built, but Nicholas’s voice brought you back. “No, baby,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze again in the mirror. “I want you to see this. I want you to see how gorgeous you are when you fall apart for me.”

His lips returned to you, his tongue and mouth working in perfect harmony as his hands anchored you in place. Every stroke, every kiss felt like an act of devotion, as though he was pouring every ounce of his love for you into his touch.

Every swipe of Nicholas’s tongue against your aching core sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body. His touch was maddeningly tender yet intentional, each flick and stroke designed to unravel you completely. Your knees faltered under the onslaught of sensation, but Nicholas was always there—his grip tightening, his strong arms grounding you. You felt the flex of his biceps as he held you steady, his strength wrapping around you like a promise that he wouldn’t let you fall.

Your gaze flicked to the mirror, and the sight made your breath hitch. You were a mess —your chest rising and falling with desperate heaves, your skin flushed with heat. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a vain attempt to stifle the moans and whimpers spilling from you.

“I love it when you moan like that, baby,” Nicholas murmured, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice a low rumble that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His lips were wet with your arousal, his eyes dark and hooded as they bore into yours. “Tell me how bad you need me, baby.”

Your voice trembled as you replied, barely able to form the words between your gasps. “So bad, Nicholas. I need you—I’m gonna cum.”

The admission spurred him on. His hands gripped your thighs tighter, his fingers digging into your soft flesh as he returned his mouth to you with renewed fervor. The rhythm of his tongue became more relentless, his movements perfectly in sync with your rising tension.

Your hands flew to his hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands as the pressure inside you reached its peak. “Nicholas—” you gasped, your voice breaking as the first wave of your orgasm crashed over you. Your body tensed, trembling against him as you cried out, the pleasure consuming you completely.

Nicholas didn’t stop, his grip firm as he held you steady, coaxing every last shudder from your body. When you finally came down, your breaths ragged and your legs weak, he pressed a kiss to your inner thigh before rising to his feet.

Before you could fully catch your breath, Nicholas turned you around with ease, his lips crashing against yours in a kiss so heated it stole what little air you’d regained. His hands worked quickly, unbuckling his belt and shoving his pants and boxers down in one fluid motion.

He guided you to lean forward, your hands bracing against the dresser as he positioned himself behind you. His hands gripped your hips, the rough pads of his fingers pressing into your softness as he aligned himself with your entrance.

The first slow, deliberate thrust stole your breath entirely. Nicholas let out a low, guttural moan as he entered you, his hands steadying your hips as he adjusted to your tightness. “Fuck baby, I missed this pussy,” he rasped, his voice rough and shaky. “You’re so tight baby ... You feel so good.”

His hips began to move, the slow rhythm building gradually, each thrust sending sparks of pleasure through your overstimulated body. Nicholas’s hands roamed over your hips and thighs, grounding himself in the feel of you.

His eyes were locked on the way your body moved with his, the way your plush curves rippled with every thrust. The sight seemed to undo him. He groaned low in his throat, his hand drawing back before landing a sharp slap against your ass.

The sensation made you cry out, the sharp sting blending with the pleasure coursing through you. Nicholas’s grip tightened, and he let out a grunt at your reaction. “You like that, baby?” he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

“Yes,” you managed to moan, your voice shaky but insistent. “Do it again.”

A wicked smile curved his lips as he complied, his hand landing another firm slap against your skin. The sound echoed in the room, followed by your moan, and he couldn’t stop himself from doing it again—and again, the rhythm of his thrusts growing more erratic with each deliciously sharp impact.

“You’re so good for me,” he groaned, his voice rough and breathless.

Nicholas’s thrusts grew faster, each stroke deeper than the last. His grip on your hips tightened, his fingers pressing into your soft skin as he lost himself in the rhythm of your bodies. Each time his hand came down on your ass, the sharp sting sent a new wave of arousal through both of you, his groans mingling with your breathless cries.

His voice, a perfect mix of raspy and grumbly, edged with desperate whines, drove you wild. The sound was so raw, so unfiltered—it made you ache to give him the same overwhelming pleasure he was giving you.

You began to pick up on his rhythm, matching his movements with your own. Arching your back further, you started to throw your hips into him, meeting his thrusts with equal force. The shift in control made Nicholas let out a loud, guttural moan, his hands faltering for a moment as you took the lead.

“I love when you fuck me back like this,” he groaned, his hands slipping from your hips as he let “Baby, you’re so good.”

The praise spurred you on, your movements growing faster, more deliberate. You felt his resolve weakening, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts as you took control. Each roll of your hips sent him deeper into bliss, and the sound of your bodies colliding filled the room—a symphony of moans, skin meeting skin, and the creak of the dresser beneath your weight.

Nicholas was completely yours now, his body trembling as you worked him. “You’re such a good girl,” he gasped between his moans, his voice thick with adoration. “So perfect for me. Just like that—don’t stop.”

But when he couldn’t take it any longer, his hands returned to your hips, gripping you with renewed urgency. He thrust into you harder, faster, his strokes relentless as he chased his release.

“I’m gonna cum baby doll,” he rasped, his voice breaking with the force of his pleasure.

The moment the words left his mouth, you turned your head slightly, your voice breathy but sure. “I want you to finish in my mouth.”

Nicholas groaned, his movements faltering for a split second before he regained his rhythm, thrusting into you a little longer before pulling out with a sharp gasp.

He guided you down to your knees, standing over you as he stroked himself, his hand moving in frantic, desperate motions. His brown eyes locked onto yours, filled with hunger and adoration as you tilted your head back, lips parted, waiting for him.

“God, you’re so beautiful,” he muttered, his voice trembling with need.

Moments later, his release spilled into your mouth, warm and overwhelming. You took him in fully, your tongue swirling around his sensitive tip as he shuddered above you. His head tipped back, his chest heaving as he let out a low, broken moan, his entire body trembling with the force of his climax.

“Fuck,” he groaned, his voice weak as his hands gripped the edge of the dresser for balance.

You didn’t stop there, teasing him with gentle flicks of your tongue, savoring the taste of him as his knees nearly buckled. His back hunched as he let out a weak chuckle, his hand coming to rest on your cheek.

“Baby, please,” he begged, his voice barely above a whisper. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your lips curved into a satisfied smile as you pulled away, placing a soft kiss on his hip before sitting back on your heels. Nicholas reached down, pulling you back up into his arms, his forehead pressing to yours as he caught his breath.

But then, his lips brushed against your ear, and you felt the familiar heat of his words. “Don’t think I’m done with you yet,” he murmured, his voice low and full of promise. “I still need to have you… all of you.”

His hands slid down your sides, leaving a trail of goosebumps before giving your ass a playful slap. “Get on the bed,” he said with a mischievous grin, his brown eyes gleaming. “I want to see that gorgeous face of yours when I make you cum again.”