#five nights at ikea

[scoobit9]

Afton and Aftonsparv

[darthpastry]

welp. *starts another charlizabeth one shot*

[nanamivnemesis]

YOU GUYS I GOT A BLAHAJ

I also saw purplish astronaut rabbit plushie named aftonsparkav or something like that lol

I love ikea so much i might cry 🥹

[lorelune]

so exhausted …

[val-the-flatworm]

Guys I'm scared This is real

you couldn't make this up.

what on earth?

we truly are living in the worst timeline, people.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | building legos

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : building legos with your f1 boyfriend ୨ৎ : word count : 1002

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : ive been contemplating getting one of the lego sets but i do not have the dedication to be doing all of that...

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

dead serious from the second you open the box

“we build it exactly like the instructions or we don’t build it at all”

holds up a single sticker for 5 minutes trying to align it perfectly

mildly offended that the lego car doesn’t come with DRS

does not speak the entire build but high-fives you when it’s done

yuki tsunoda

swears 8 minutes in after dropping a tiny piece under the couch

refuses to use the little sticker tool and ends up misplacing like three

makes engine sounds the whole time for vibes

snacks between steps and gets crumbs on the instruction booklet

still insists on putting the minifigure in the seat at the end and says “me.”

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

overconfident at first. “we’ve got this. easy.”

15 minutes in: “i think we skipped step 14.”

reads every single instruction like it’s an ikea manual

makes a whole system for sorting the bricks by color and size

gets genuinely offended if you freestyle any part of the build

kimi antonelli

quiet, focused, lowkey terrifying levels of concentration

absolutely the type to be like “you missed a piece” without even looking up

corrects a misplaced sticker with tweezers and surgical precision

“this is relaxing” he says, fully sweating

secretly keeps the finished car on his desk and won’t let anyone touch it

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

“do we really need to follow the instructions?”

10 minutes later: deep regret

gets dramatic when the stickers start peeling on the corners

flips the box over like it’s going to give him the answers

names the finished car “baby ferrari” and displays it like it’s his child

lewis hamilton

you do the building, he handles the stickers and vibes

puts on music and makes it a whole chill date night

gets way too into picking which minifig is “you” and which is “me”

encourages you the whole way like you’re building a real f1 car

posts the finished build on his story with “teamwork”

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

“easy. we’re finishing this in one hour.”

chaos ensues. one piece gets vacuumed. another disappears into thin air

you’re handling most of it while he’s dramatically reading sticker names aloud like a race intro

tries to modify the car to give it “sidepods with better airflow”

laughs the entire time but genuinely proud of it when it’s done

oscar piastri

reads ahead in the instructions to “strategize” the next three steps

calmly hands you pieces like a surgeon with a scalpel

only loses his cool when a sticker folds, then he just quietly groans

lowkey competes with himself to get it perfect

says “that was fun” but doesn’t touch it again for three days because he’s emotionally recovering

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

critiques the design as if it's a real f1 car

“this suspension would never survive turn 3 at silverstone, just saying”

gets oddly competitive about finishing it quickly

tells you he’s “just watching” and ends up doing 70% of the build

when you finish: “another one?” like he didn’t just age 3 years in stress

lance stroll

chillest builder ever. doesn’t care if stickers are crooked

puts random pieces on top just because “they look cool”

definitely zones out mid-build and makes a coffee without telling you

holds the finished car up like a trophy and says “you crushed that”

more excited about the little lego pieces than the actual car

ʚ・williams

alex albon

very into the details, especially the color coordination

“no no, give me the sticker — i’ll get it lined up perfectly”

halfway through starts giving the car a backstory like it’s a pixar character

lets you fix mistakes even when he already saw them

displays it on his shelf like it's his new prized possession

carlos sainz

extremely precise, very methodical — treats it like a team strategy

puts the sticker on with a ruler. yes, a ruler.

“this piece is off-center.” disassembles entire front wing

gets emotional when it’s finished. “look how beautiful it is.”

lowkey wants to buy the next set before this one’s even done

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

claims he’s built “like every lego set ever”

gets overconfident and skips a step, causing minor panic

absolutely freaks out over missing pieces (they’re not missing, he sat on them)

makes race car noises while testing the wheels

“let’s do another one” 5 minutes after finishing

esteban ocon

reads the instructions like it’s a sacred text

says “wait wait wait” every time you try to jump ahead

makes dramatic eye contact while applying the tiniest sticker

slightly judging you but in a “you’re cute” kind of way

proudest when the tires go on — “now it’s fast.”

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

chill about it until a sticker goes on crooked, then suddenly stressed

“it’s fine” tries to peel it back off for 10 minutes

ends up more invested than he thought he’d be

takes over the trickiest steps so “you don’t get annoyed”

takes 14 pictures of the finished build for absolutely no reason

isack hadjar

talks a big game but lowkey doesn’t know what he’s doing

“i swear this piece doesn’t exist” — it does. it’s upside down.

makes you do the stickers because “your hands are steadier”

gives the car a ridiculous name like “the hadjar hauler”

wants to race it across the table once it’s done

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

chaotic good.

actually good at building, but gets bored halfway and starts joking around

puts the little fire extinguisher piece in the front seat “just in case”

flirtatiously distracts you so he can sneak a piece on your side

once finished: “let’s build another team next”

franco colapinto

giddy like a kid in a toy store

“this is so cool. this is so cool.”

does the engine part twice just to get it extra neat

lets you place the last piece and takes a pic of you doing it

insists the car stays on his nightstand

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

mutters “bloody hell” every time a piece doesn’t snap right

lowkey loves it but refuses to admit it

gets hyper-focused on the tiny spoiler details

ends up building it alone because you gave up and watched

“done. never again. also, let’s get the bigger one next week”

gabriel bortoleto

full golden retriever excitement

“wait this actually looks so good”

applies every sticker with his tongue sticking out in concentration

says “vroom” after every completed step

takes a selfie with the car like he’s on the podium

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[ofbatsandballads]

have this thing I wrote in a flash of pure, unadulterated love for Jason that I felt while doing my hair routine after my shower. never needed a fictional guy more in all my life and honestly this may be my personal favorite thing I’ve ever written.

Thinking about domesticity with Jason Todd. Building a home with him, a life. How ever so gradually mine and yours becomes ours.

You’re brushing your teeth one morning and decide to try out his toothpaste, the one he always buys from the bodega down the block owned by the little abuelita that loves him to death. It’s fresh and it’s minty and you swear it leaves your teeth whiter than the brand name stuff you buy, so you let your tube get used up and never buy toothpaste again. Jason, without question, simply starts buying it twice as often as usual.

You’re fresh from the shower together after a night off for both of you. You’re warm and you’re happy and you’re both so in love it almost hurts. You watch enraptured as he towel dries his hair, roughly scrunching the water from his inky curls. You don’t like how he lacks gentleness with himself, so you take the towel from him and gesture for him to lean down. Ever obedient to you, Jason complies and smiles softly as you dry his hair for him. You think suddenly that while his curls are always soft to the touch, they could do with being a bit more defined. They tend to get really frizzy and poofy by the end of the day. So you grab your curl cream and gel and just absentmindedly do your own routine on him. He raises his eyebrow in question only to quickly relent when he realizes it means you’re playing with his hair for longer. Your hunch is right; once his hair dries, his curls are so pretty you think you could get lost in the waves of them. Jason’s just happy cause now his hair smells like you.

The only clothes Jason has that are his now is his Red Hood gear. The rest of his closet has quickly become co-owned by you. His brain never fails to short circuit when you walk out in his hoodies, or his sweatpants, or his t-shirts, or his boxers. There’s not one piece of his civilian clothing that hasn’t been on both of your bodies at this point. Sometimes seeing you in his clothes has Jason blushing and his heart pounding with how much he loves you, how grateful he is to have this life with you. Other times seeing you in his clothes has him calculating the fastest way he can get them all off of you. You’re just disappointed that it can’t go both ways. But, alas, the struggles of having a massive boyfriend are that he’ll never be able to fit in your clothes. Whatever; it still does something for you when he finally wears the old Gotham Knights shirt that you’d stolen for months.

It’s also kind of funny sometimes. You two own a set of old, dark gray towels affectionately labeled “The Blood Towels”. The Blood Towels are only brought out after a really rough patrol or post-showering when you’re on your period. They came about after you’d nearly slipped while soaking wet from how quickly you’d tried to dry off to avoid bleeding on his good, fluffy towels. Jason just looked at you like you were a little ditzy, a flat “Do ya know how many times I’ve bled on these towels?” coming from his mouth. “I don’t care! I still don’t wanna ruin them!” you’d insisted. And thus, The Blood Towels were born.

Your bookshelf is never going to stop growing. You’ve actually had to go to IKEA more than once to get a larger one with how often you and Jay visit the old bookstore two blocks away from your apartment. Neither of you can resist a pretty cover, or a new annotated edition, or, heaven forbid, those rare, expensive first edition copies. At this point you’re not really sure which of the five copies of Pride and Prejudice first belonged to who, but really what does it matter when you’re both reading them anyways? And it’s always funny when you have to drag home a bigger bookshelf. You can never hold your laughter when Jason inevitably shouts “What the fuck! This wouldn’t be so goddamn hard if they actually gave you coherent instructions!” It’s also always nice to drag the old bookshelves to the apartment of the single mom downstairs whose kid loves reading. You both know she can barely afford the second hand books she gets him, so the shelves are happily given. You’re actually thinking of asking Jay if he’s willing to part with one of your first edition copies of Frankenstein for Christmas; the kid would freak.

All of this comes to a head with a cat. A big, fat, black cat that crawls up on your fire escape one night. You’d both been a little distracted–okay, a lot distracted by the feeling of being lost in each other's touch. You’d been making out for over an hour, just relishing in the intimacy of being together. It was definitely going to go somewhere until you heard the caterwauling of an animal outside your window. “The fuck is that?” Jason had asked as he pulled away from kissing bruises into your neck. “Sounds like a cat.” You’d begged, actually begged, Jason to let him stay. The next morning you came home with a grocery bag full of cat toys and bowls while Jason hauled a value-sized 40 pound bag of cat food on his shoulder. Atticus sits with you both while you watch TV now. Atticus still sometimes ruins the mood when he sees Jason sink his teeth into you and immediately swats his dad on the cheek. But Atticus is also undeniably your boy. And whatever, maybe you do start thinking about what Jason would look like with an actual baby in his arms when he’s cradling Atty as he shuffles around your home. But there’s time for that yet. You both know that. You know that beyond anything else, you’ll always have this life, this home together. It’s the best gift either of you have ever been given.

[hoshifighting]

rival fashion designer!minghao

— synopsis: where minghao flexes his fashion awards whenever your brand competes against him during fashion week. — WC: 3k — WARNINGS: explicit language, smut, reader uses a transparent clothing (just like rihanna in oscar x swarovski), oral (f. receiving) ENORMOUS DICK!MINGHAO, slight face slap, mentions of choking on a cock, penetrative sex—or trying to.

look, you weren’t trying to start beef with minghao. you don’t even know why the dude hates you so much. okay, maybe you said one thing about his fall line looking like it got snatched off the clearance rack at an IKEA. but that was a year ago. and also? you were drunk and kinda bitter ‘cause your show got bumped for his stupid avant-garde puff-sleeve renaissance clowncore shit.

but now, every fashion week is like a personal vendetta for him to humble you. you’ll be vibin’, sipping your overpriced latte in the designer lounge, and this man will just stroll in, decked out in some vintage runway piece that costs more than your annual budget, flashing that “i won best emerging designer again” smirk like it’s a fucking weapon. and then he’ll throw some casual shit like:

“oh, y/n, is that your collection over there? i thought they were setting up for the kid’s line showcase.”

[...]

so this year, you swore you wouldn’t let him get in your head. you’d play it cool, professional, unbothered. except you walk into your studio late one night, the day before your big runway debut, and this man is just there. sitting on your worktable. wearing a pearl-studded harness and leather pants so tight it should be a crime.

you freeze, halfway through the door, holding the iced coffee you begged your intern to grab five minutes before starbucks closed. “what the fuck are you doing here?”

minghao barely glances up from his phone. “your assistant let me in.”

traitor.

“why?” you slam the coffee on the counter, praying your voice doesn’t shake. the audacity of him just existing in your space is enough to make your blood boil.

he stands, slow as hell, like he’s got all the time in the world. he’s tall—annoyingly tall—so when he steps close, you’re immediately at a disadvantage. but you refuse to back down.

“just wanted to check out the competition,” he says, eyes flicking lazily over the chaos of fabric swatches and half-finished sketches strewn across the room. “cute line. very... simple.”

“fuck you, hao,” you snap, crossing your arms. “it’s called ‘minimalism.’ not that you’d know anything about taste.”

he laughs, soft and low, the kind of sound that creeps under your skin and lingers there. “oh, i have plenty of taste. i just don’t need to keep it basic to get attention.”

and here’s the thing: you hate how much he gets to you. he’s a smug asshole with an overinflated ego, but he’s also stupidly talented, and you can’t ignore the fact that his lines always sell out in under a day. or how his press coverage makes yours look like a local craft fair feature.

but what really gets you is how hot he looks right now, with his ridiculous cheekbones and the glint of that tiny silver chain peeking out from under his collar. it’s disgusting. you hate it.

you’re about to throw a cutting remark his way, something about how he’s overcompensating with all that jewelry, but he beats you to it.

“you know,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, “you’d look good in my designs.”

your brain short-circuits. “excuse me?”

“if you ever want to elevate your style...” he trails off, dragging his gaze down the length of your body like it’s a runway.

“you are so full of shit,” you hiss, but there’s no heat behind it, because your stupid traitorous brain is suddenly imagining what it’d feel like to have his hands on you.

he smirks, all teeth and danger, leaning in so close you can smell his expensive cologne. “maybe. but you’re thinking about it now, aren’t you?”

you don’t answer.

[...]

the next morning, you’re running on zero sleep, fueled by pure spite and caffeine, but your runway show? flawless. models everywhere, hair spray choking the air, seamstresses practically sewing on skin ‘cause the deadlines were that tight. and you were doing a thousand fucking things at once.

fixing a hemline here, shouting at a makeup artist there—“no, not clean girl aesthetic, we’re going full grunge today, wake up!”—all while struggling to get yourself into the swarovskied transparent gown you planned to wear for the night.

no bra, because tits were the least controversial thing in fashion. and the way the crystals draped over your skin looking likew pure art. nipples out and proud, paired with modern curls swirled to perfection and makeup that screamed chaos-but-make-it-glam.

by the time your collection hit the runway, your nerves were shredded. but watching the models strut, each piece shining under the lights... fucking worth it.

and then, the finale: your dress sweeping dramatically across the stage as you closed the parade. you bowed to the crowd, letting the cameras and whispers soak in every inch of you, and as you turned to leave, you felt it.

minghao’s sharp eyes.

you caught his eyes just as they traveled the length of you—from the swirl of your hair, to the unapologetic sharpness of your nipples under the crystals, to the shimmer of your dress, down to the towering heels on your feet.

you just smirked to yourself as you headed backstage, knowing full well your collection didn’t just crawl under his skin this time. it slithered under his flesh, wrapped tight around his ribs, and squeezed.

[...]

minghao’s models stormed the runway like it was their goddamn birthright. and of course, you watched. no designer worth their silk ignored the competition, and minghao wasn’t just competition, he was a walking masterclass in making everyone feel like second place.

he closed his show with his usual flare, stepping out like he already knew the applause was his. fast-forward two designers later, and the nominations for the fashion academy awards started rolling in. you didn’t have to look to know minghao had already claimed half the early awards.

you watched him backstage through narrowed eyes as he balanced four trophies—two tucked in his arms, two in his hands—posing for a picture with that smug-ass smile. you knew that pic was already blowing up on his Instagram. your jaw clenched, nails digging into your palm as the last nominations were announced.

and then, plot twist of the year:

your name came up five times.

designer of the year: you.

new vision in fashion: you.

collection of the year: your brand.

runway innovation: your brand.

showstopper of the year: your brand.

walking out with those five heavy-ass awards in your arms? victory tasted better than champagne. your models and team practically swarmed you, hyping you up ‘cause they knew how much blood, sweat, and tears went into this collection.

but what you really wanted... minghao. definitely minghao. minghao, in your line of sight. because after all the times he flaunted his wins like a smug bastard, you wanted him to feel this.

and lucky for you, fate delivered.

you spotted him in the back hallway, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone. clearly, he hadn’t heard the last nominees. his head snapped up when your heels echoed through the space.

“oh, hey, hao,” you called out, voice sweet as honey but sharp as glass. you stopped just short of him, shifting the five trophies in your arms so they pressed against your chest. the weight of them pushed your tits up just enough to catch his eyes.

“looks like I’ve got... a plus one on you this year.” you smirked, shaking the awards a little for good measure, the motion making the crystals on your dress catch the dim hallway light.

his eyes flicked down—brief, subtle, but not subtle enough—and then back up, his expression neutral, but you could feel the shift in his ego.

“congrats,” he said, the word clipped like it physically hurt him.

“thanks, babe,” you purred, turning on your heel with a sway of your hips. “see you next season. maybe.”

and with that, you left, letting the click of your heels carry the weight of your victory.

[...]

days later, you were lounging in minghao’s big leather chair, legs crossed up on his table, showing the expensive ass high heels you always wore. his assistant had let you in with barely a question, and you weren’t one to waste an opportunity.

when he finally walked in, his eyes narrowed immediately. “what the hell are you doing here?”

“relax,” you drawled, leaning back like his office was a spa. “your assistant said I could wait. guess they like me more than you.”

he folded his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “didn’t think you’d show your face here after the other night. thought you’d be busy polishing all those trophies.”

you grinned, slow and smug. “oh, i polished them. just thought i’d stop by to see how you’re doing. must be hard, you know—losing.”

his jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait. instead, he stepped closer, looming over you. “you done?”

“not even close,” you said, standing up to match his energy. you stopped just shy of his chest, tipping your chin up. “but don’t worry, hao. i’ll let you borrow a trophy sometime if you really need the validation.” you patted his shoulder.

he scoffed, his lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “you know, i like your attitude.”

you raised an eyebrow. “yeah? you must, considering how much you stalk me every season.”

“maybe that’s why we should work together.”

you laughed, loud and sharp, tossing your head back. “oh, that’s rich. you? work with me? what, so you can take credit for my ideas and call it a ‘collaboration’?”

he tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “i’m serious. we’d be unstoppable.”

for a second, you almost believed him. “unstoppable, huh? what makes you think i’d even want to work with you?”

“because you like the challenge... admit it. you love it when i push you.”

“you’re intolerable.”

“and yet,” he murmured, stepping so close you could feel the heat radiating off him, “you haven’t left yet.”

your laugh came out breathy this time, your pulse quickening as his hand grazed the curve of your hip. “you think I’m staying here for you? please. your assistant let me in, remember?”

“sure,” he said. his thumb traced slow circles against your side, almost lazy. “but you’re still here.”

you were about to snap back with something cutting, something to wipe that stupid smirk off his face, but then he tilted your chin up with two fingers, his gaze locked on yours like a predator sizing up prey.

“stop thinking,” he whispered, leaning in just enough for your lips to almost touch. “you might actually enjoy yourself.”

his lips were soft and plump, moving against yours so fucking good that felt unfair. his hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, and you couldn’t help the soft moan that escaped.

your hands found his chest, the fabric of his shirt warm under your fingertips as you pushed him slightly, breaking the kiss with a smirk. “you’re bold, i’ll give you that.”

“you’re still thinking,” he teased, catching your bottom lip between his teeth before pulling back.

your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping just enough to feel the flex of his muscles. you threatened to sit on his table.

his eyes widened slighty, his hands immediately grabbing your ass to lift you up, making you yelp. “don’t!”

“what? scared i’ll break it?” you teased, wrapping your legs around his waist.

he places the needles that were spread lazily on the table, inside of a box. he turned, his grip firm as he carried you a few steps and sat you on a nearby armchair.

“there were needles on that table, genius,” he scolded, his tone sulky but his fingers tracing slow lines along your thighs. “you’d be bleeding before I even got started.”

“aww,” you cooed, dragging your nails down his neck. “you worried about me, hao?”

“no,” he muttered, kneeling, dipping his head to kiss along your jawline, his teeth grazing just enough to make you arch towards him. “just don’t want to ruin my night with a trip to the hospital.”

your laugh turned into a soft moan as his lips found the spot just below your ear. “guess you’re not as heartless as you act.”

he pulled back slightly, his smirk sharper than ever. “you talk too much.”

you pulled him in for another kiss, your tongues colliding this time. when you tried to take control, tilting your head for a deeper angle, he pulled back just enough to make you chase him.

minghao’s hands were firm on your thighs, his thumbs brushing against your skin like he wasn’t about to wreck you in the middle of his office. his eyes dragged down, lingering on the way your skirt was pushed up, the space between your legs bare and unapologetic.

he clicked his tongue, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “no panties, huh?” he said. “came here like this?”

“what can I say?” you shot back, shifting slightly so his hands pressed harder against your skin. “i had a feeling you’d end up on your knees.”

his smirk deepened, his fingers tightening slightly as he leaned in, close enough for you to feel his breath. he pressed your legs further onto the armrests, spreading you wider, his hands splayed like he wanted to leave imprints.

his tongue flicked out, close enough to make you tense—but he didn’t touch you. instead, he pulled back, his eyes locking with yours as a smirk tugged at his lips.

he leaned in again, his tongue brushing so close you could feel the warmth from his breath, but once again, he pulled back just as you tilted your hips forward.

“hao..” you warned.

“what?” he teased, his lips hovering over your folds.

your hands gripped the armrests as you glared down at him. “if you don’t stop playing, i swear—”

he cut you off with a broad, strong lick, dragging his tongue from your entrance, through your folds, and up to your clit in one unbroken suck. your head fell back as a gasp tore from your lips.

“that shut you up,” he muttered, his voice muffled as he dipped lower, his tongue swirling around your entrance before moving back up. “needy much?”

“shut up and do it again,” you shot back, your voice sharper than the way your thighs trembled under his grip.

and he did the same. your clit throbbing at the rough skin of his tongue, making you melt on his armchair, he smiled at the sight, he knew how a good head felt after months dealing with needles and sparkly cloths.

his lips latched onto your folds, sucking them into his mouth before he pulls back just slightly, his tongue flicking against your clit in quick, teasing strokes. you let out a pornographic moan, before your clap a hand on your mouth, remembering the team outside the office. he chuckled darkly, his hands tightening on your thighs to hold you still. his lips wrapping around your clit again. this time, he sucked it fully into his mouth, his tongue flicking against it as his eyes flicked up to yours.

“you’re so good at this, hmm—fuuuck!” you said, your nails drowning in the leather of the armchair. “you must’ve practiced on a lot of other girls, huh?”

his eyes narrowed slightly, and his teeth grazed your clit just enough to make you wwhimper. “jealous?” he asked, his voice smug, though he didn’t stop the relentless motion of his tongue.

“please,” you shot back, though the way your breath hitched betrayed you as he did a zig-zag on your bud with the tip of his otngue. “you’re better when you’re silent.”

he smirked against you, his lips curving as he pulled back just enough to speak. “then shut me up.”

your fingers tangled in minghao’s hair, tugging him closer, harder, until his face was buried against your pussy. his groan vibrated through you, desperate, and his hands clamped down on your thighs to steady himself as you rolled your hips against his mouth.

“that’s it... mhmm, just like that...”

he obeyed, his head bobbing as his tongue slid against you in broad, wet strokes, his lips sealing around your clit every few seconds to suck, deep and rhythmic. the wet, obscene sounds filled the room, and your nails scraped lightly against his scalp as you held him there, guiding him exactly how you wanted.

the heat in your core coiled tighter, and you barely had time to register your orgasm hit.

your back arched, your mouth falling open as moans spilled out shamelessly. your hips rolled against his face as you came, and minghao didn’t stop—not for a second. he worked you through it, sucking and licking as though he felt your climax before you did.

he only pulled back when you began to squirm, your breath coming in sharp gasps as overstimulation took hold. his lips and chin were slick as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes glinting as he looked up at you.

“had fun?” he asked, sarcastically.

you gave a breathless laugh, your chest heaving as you leaned back in the chair. “you talk too much for someone who just spent five minutes swallowing my pussy.”

his smirk widened, and he stood, his hands braced on the armrests as he leaned down, his face inches from yours. “and you talk too much for someone who’s about to beg me to fuck her.”

your gaze flicked to his lips, and then lower—to the bulge straining against his pants. “big words,” you said. “let’s see if you can back them up.”

his hands slid to your thighs, lifting you effortlessly as he walked you back toward the desk—no needles this time. you didn't even had time to register what was happening before your skirt was pushed higher, his fingers brushing over your thighs as he settled you on the edge.

his hand worked his belt, the clink of the buckle making you clench around nothing.

“this isn’t gonna be quick,” he said as he freed himself, the sheer size of him making your breath catch. it was big both in length and girth.

you swallowed hard.

“relax... mhmm”

he teased your entrance with the tip, sliding it slowly against you, and the stretch was immediate, even as he slightly pressed in. your breath hitched, your hands gripping the edge of the desk as he pushed forward, achingly slow, giving you time to adjust.

“ngh—fuck!” you gasped, your voice breaking as he filled you inch by hard inch.

“breathe,” he murmured, his tone gentle despite the tension in his body. mouth glued on yours to make sure he feels your puffs of air.

“trying”

he paused, his hands tightening on your hips as he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “you’re okay,” he whispered. “just breathe for me.”

you hiccuped, your chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as your body struggled to adjust.

“there you go,” he murmured, his lips brushing against your jaw as he waited “good girl. just like that.”

you exhaled slowly, your body relaxing slightly helping him to slid in further, the fullness stealing the air from your lungs.

your hands gripped his arms, your nails digging into his skin as he finally bottomed out, his body pressed flush against yours.

“fuck,” he muttered, his voice tight as he buried his face in your neck. “you’re—so fucking tight.”

you swallowed hard, your head tilting back as you tried to catch your breath. “you’re—so fucking big.”

he pulled back slightly, his eyes meeting yours as a smirk tugged at his lips. “think you can take it?”

your breath hitched, and you nodded, your hands sliding to his back as you wrapped your legs around his waist. “try me.”

minghao hips pulls back just an inch before thrusting forward experimentally. the sound that left your lips was somewhere between a moan and a strangled gasp, your nails biting into his shoulders as your body clenched around him.

he paused, a smug smile tugging at his lips as he tilted his head to the side, his eyes flicking over your face. “yeah, knew that’d happen.”

“don’t—” your breath hitched as he moved just slightly, a tiny shift that made you clutch at him even harder. “don’t fucking smile like that.”

his laugh was quiet, he leaned down, his forehead brushing against yours. “why not? you’re almost cummin already.”

“i’m not—” the words caught in your throat as he slid just a little deeper, your body trying desperately to adjust to his size.

“not what?” he asked, his tone playful as he stilled again, waiting for you to catch your breath.

“not—cumming” you managed, though your voice shook with the effort of speaking.

“hmm.” his thumb grazed your clit, circling it trying to soothe your nerves. “then why are you holding on to me likethat?”

you glared at him, though the effect was probably ruined by the way your mouth fell open with a gasp as his thumb pressed down just slightly harder.

your body tensed as he began to move again, sliding in slowly, each inch dragging against you in a way that made your head fall back. the wet squelch of your body adjusting to his girth filled the room, obscenelly.

“shit,” he muttered, his voice tight as he wrapped his arm around your waist, holding you steady. “you’re so—tight. feels like you’re trying to squeeze me out.”

“maybe i am.”

he laughed softly “you’re all talk,” he murmured, his thumb still circling your clit. “that pussy is begging for me.”

“hao,” you whispered, your hands clutching at his arms as your legs tightened around his waist. “i—fuck, i can’t—”

“you can,” he said softly, his lips moving against your neck. “breathe for me, baby. you’ve got this.”

you exhaled shakily, your chest rising and falling against his as you tried to relax, tried to let the tension in your body melt away. his thumb pressed a little harder against your clit, insistent, coaxing pleasure to override the discomfort.

“that’s it,” he murmured, his voice soft as his arm tightened around your waist. “just like that. let me in.”

your head fell back, your eyes fluttering shut as he finally slid deeper, his hips pressing flush against yours. the sensation stole the breath from your lungs, and your fingers dug into his shoulders, desperate for something to anchor you.

“you okay?”

you nodded weakly, your hands sliding up to grip his hair as you whispered, “move.”

he chuckled as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “not yet.”

your eyes snapped open, frustration bubbling in your chest as you glared at him. “hao—”

“relax,” he murmured, his thumb circling your clit again, making you cry out slyly. “i’m not gonna ruin you all at once. gotta make sure you can take it.”

“i can,”

“we’ll see,” he said, his tone smug as he finally, finally pulled back, his cock dragging against you.

“hao, just—fuck me already.”

his laugh was quiet. “you’re not ready for that yet, look—” he roll his hips, making you hiccup again. “but don’t worry—I’ll get you there.”

“how about you?” you ask, feeling your orgasm building up as he circled the thumb faster, your hips rolling slightly, weak, like the cock inside you was to heavy to make you roll them freely.

“i can get off just by looking at this pretty face...” he slaps your cheek weakly, twice, making you squeeze around him. “listen to what i'm telling you… you're still going to model for my brand.” he chuckles.

“i’d rather choke to death than work with your brand.”

“why don’t you choke on something else, then?”

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

receipts

Summary: Did you ever want to show off something so badly, because there's no way in hell people would believe you, that you took a video of it? Well that's how you felt about Frankie when he ate you out. And after raving about him on a girls night they joke that you should film him, so they can see for themselves. Surprisingly he's super into that idea when you tell him about it after.

Pairing: Francisco Morales x fem. reader

Wordcount: 3k

Rating: E

Warnings: smut (oral sex; f receiving), making a video of said smut, dirty talk, alcohol, general horniness

A/N: Enjoy this filth, cause there's a chance this is gonna be the last one for a while. Will focus on my Javi series from now on and hope the braincells agree with me

follow @toomanystoriessolittletime-fics and turn on notifications to get notified when I post new fics

Full Masterlist // Frankie Morales Masterlist

„Come on, I just need five more minutes,“ Frankie was kissing up a line on your neck as you stood in front of the sink, trying to apply your lipstick. 

Again. 

You were already fifteen minutes late, your new boyfriend Frankie having insisted he only needed five more minutes which, of course, was a lie. But who were you to complain about being eaten out and made cum twice on his tongue. 

Fuck, he was so good at that. 

You had a couple of boyfriends before Frankie, but no one had been as eager as him when it came to all things sex.

Mostly the men you’ve been with before thought foreplay consisted of fingering you for twenty seconds before they wanted you to suck their cock. 

You hadn’t even seen Frankie’s cock before you had been dating for almost two months, let alone touched it. He on the other hand let no opportunity go by to have you moaning his name, his head between your thighs or his fingers deep inside your cunt. 

Or both. 

„Later, baby,“ you took a deep breath and turned around, smiling at the adorable pout he gave you. You booped his nose and he smiled, kissing you very softly so he wouldn’t ruin your lipstick.

Again. 

„Want me to pick you up after?“ He asked, hands slowly moving down your back until his hands rested on your ass. 

„You don’t have to. I can take an uber home. It’s closer from the bar anyway,“ you said and he hummed. 

„What if I wait for you at your place?“ He asked and you smiled. 

„Can’t get enough of me, huh Morales?“ You teased and he shook his head. 

„Never,“ he grinned before he kissed you, leaving you to apply your lipstick for a third time once he was finished with you this time. 

You finally made it to the bar, thirty minutes too late. Frankie had driven you and you had given him your key so he could go to your place. He had picked up his toolbox so you were pretty sure he would be working on the sink that had been leaking for some time. And on the broken door. And maybe that Ikea table you had picked up and never build. He had noticed it the last time he was over at your place and insisted he took care of it. 

It wasn’t like you were spending much time at your place at the moment. 

You and Frankie had been dating for four months now, and you mostly spend your time at his place. Not because he didn’t like to stay at yours but because he had the bigger house. It was a small two story home on the outskirts of town, but he had made it his. You could see him in every corner of the home and you were absolutely in love with it. 

He also had a pool and with the hot summer you had you preferred to let the day tune out in his pool with a cold beer or iced tea. 

God, you were so in love with him it annoyed you sometimes. 

„Oh thank god, I’m not the only one too late,“ you sighed relieved as you sat down next to your friend Emily. She hugged you, kissing your cheek and you were attacked from the other side as your friend Carol sat down. 

„Katy is running behind. The babysitter’s car broke down. But she’ll be here in like ten minutes,“ Emily said. You ordered drink as you waited, catching up on life. Yeah, you spoke to each other frequently, but the older you got the more complicated it got to get everyone at the same place at the same time. 

Once the drinks and Katy were there, you felt all eyes on you and you sipped on your drink like you had all the time in the world. 

„Spill those beans babe. We know where you met Frankie but other than that we know almost nothing!“ Emily said excitedly and you grinned. 

„What do you wanna know?“

„Everything!“ They all said and you laughed. 

„Okay. So Frankie is 36 years old. He’s ex military and he owns a little massage place in the city,“ you began. 

„The massage place you met at?“ Katy asked and you nodded. 

„Yeah. Got a gift card and my back felt like shit so I went one Saturday and the only one around was Frankie. He works all weekend when his daughter is at her mom’s,“ you explained. 

„How old is she?“ Emily asked.

„Turns five in may. She’s adorable. And such a Daddy’s girl,“ you smiled. You remembered how anxious you were to meet her for the first time. It hadn’t been that long ago, only six weeks before. 

She was staying the majority of the time with him, so you knew if she hated you, things with Frankie would be over pretty quickly. Thankfully she liked you right away, both of you bonding over your love for nail polish. It was actually the first thing she said to you. That you had the prettiest nails she’d ever seen. 

„And she stays with him often?“ Kate asked. You nodded. 

„She lives with him full time. And when her mother is in town they arrange sleepovers. She’s pretty chill actually. Works as an stewardess so she’s away very often,“ you explained and they all nodded. 

„So the first time you met him you were naked?“ Carol asked and you rolled your eyes. 

„No, the first time I met him I was dressed. Ten minutes later I was naked and he had his hands on me,“ you chuckled and they all laughed. 

„I didn’t know if he was just quiet but he did not say a word to me for the entire time. Which was sad cause I really wanted him to talk to me. I think I liked him from the first moment on,“ you said quietly.

„Anyway, after he’s finished he tells me that he’ll wait outside, so I get dressed quickly, wanting to get out of there but before I could leave the place Frankie asked me if I would like to go out with him sometime. And well, I said yes,“ you shrugged and they all grinned at you. 

„It’s been about time that you got lucky too, babe. And I hope you are getting lucky a lot,“ Emily raised her eyebrows and you blushed, cheeks warming as you bit your lip. 

„You have no idea. I never thought sex could be that good, honestly,“ you said. 

„I mean he owns a massage place, I bet he’s great with his hands,“ Katy wiggled with her eyebrows playfully.

„Details,“ Kate demanded and you laughed. 

„Nuh uh. I am not drunk enough for that. And I am hungry,“ you pursed your lips. 

„So we gotta get you drunk is what I get from that,“ Emily winked and you rolled your eyes. 

Two hours and numerous drinks later you were chewing on some mozzarella stick as you listened to Katy tell you about the cockring she got her husband and how much they both enjoyed it. 

„He’s lasting so much longer. It’s a win win for everyone involved,“ she said seriously and you all barked a laugh. 

„So babe, are you drunk enough to spill the beans now?“ Emily asked and you hummed. 

„Haven’t told you that his callsign at the military was Catfish,“ you began and they all looked at you confused. 

„But it’s not because of the reasons you might think….“

„No honestly. He’s so good at it, I wish I could make a video and show it to everyone. Which I can’t cause ya know but…. Fuck…. I’ve never ever had a man that loved eating pussy that much,“ you said and they all looked at you with open mouths. 

„He made you cum four times? On his tongue?“ Katy asked a little too loud and some heads turned towards your table. 

You felt your cheeks growing hot and just nodded while they groaned. 

„Hey if you ever decide to take a video, we have all seen each other’s vag soooo….“ Katy smirked and your eyes widened before you uttered a oh my god under your nose, making everyone laugh. 

Yet the thought of it didn’t leave you alone. Frankie picked you up and was the perfect gentlemen as he took you to bed, cuddling himself against your back after the made you drink a whole glass of water and take an aspirin. 

The next morning you woke up with your head on his chest, looking up at him as he slept peacefully. 

He was so pretty. And he was all yours. 

And part of you wanted to show him off in every aspect. Even if you just kept it for yourself. 

„I can hear you thinking,“ he mumbled sleepily before his eyes fluttered open. You couldn’t stop but smile as you looked at him all cute and sleepy. 

„Don’t know what you mean,“ you mumbled and he grinned. 

„Does it have to do with your friends calling me Catfish when I picked you up?“ He said and your eyes widened, having completely forgotten about that. 

Hiding your face against his chest you felt him chuckle, arms coming around you. 

„Hey I know what you do on those girls nights. You get drunk and talk about the dick size of your boyfriends,“ he teased and you laughed. 

„That is…. Not completely untrue,“ you mumbled against his chest before you looked up at him again, finding him tiredly grinning down at you. 

„So what had you thinking so hard just now?“ He asked, one of his hands coming to brush over your cheek. 

„Just something my friend said,“ you said and he raised one eyebrow. 

„I told them about that time you made me cum four times on your tongue,“ you said, a little shy and he smirked, clearly still proud of himself. 

„What about it?“ He asked. 

„Just… that you’re so good at it that, that I wish I could take a video to show around,“ you said in one breath and now both of his eyebrows raised. 

„That something you wanna do? Show everyone just how good your man can make you cum?“ He hummed and you shivered at the tone of his voice. 

„Maybe…“ you said sucking your bottom lip in. 

„Well then come on,“ he grinned and you eyes widened just before he pulled himself up and turned you so you were laying on your back with him on top of you. He kissed you, humming against your lips. 

„What?“ You laughed. 

„If you wanna show me off so badly, who am I to stand in the way of that?“ He grinned, kissing your nose. 

„It’s a compliment really. You thinking I am so good at eating your pussy you want everyone to know,“ he kissed you, „to see,“ he kissed you again and you sighed.

„You would really be okay with me showing you around like that?“ You asked, still surprised. He shrugged. 

„It’s your pussy. You can show it to whoever you want,“ he said before he frowned and you suppressed a laugh. 

„Okay maybe not whoever you want. Not that I want to dictate who you show your pussy to,  it is a pretty pussy after all but…“ he rambled and you giggled, holding one finger against his mouth to stop him. 

„Frankie?“ You stopped him and he looked at you with wide eyes. 

„How about we decide later if and who I show my pussy to?“ You asked and he nodded. 

„Good idea,“ he huffed a laugh before he kissed you again. 

„Get your phone out,“ he mumbled against your lips and you shivered, but you blindly reached for your phone, finding it on the bedside table. 

He kissed down your body before he pushed your shirt up, his eyes lighting up once he saw your tits, leaning down to let the scruffy hair of his beard scratch over them, making you hum. He grinned up at you as he kissed the soft skin, nibbling on your nipple before he sucked one of them into his mouth. 

Meanwhile you shakily opened the camera app on your phone, pressing record. He grinned, nipple still in your mouth as he wiggled his eyebrows playfully. 

„Feels good baby,“ you smiled, the hand that wasn’t holding your phone coming down to brush your fingers through his soft hair. 

„Yeah?“ He mumbled, lips still against your skin as he slowly kissed a line down your stomach. He sat himself up, pushing the covers away, your phone recording his full body as he stretched, arms over his head. 

He was so fucking pretty. 

„Want this?“ He asked, wrapping his hand around his cock, pumping it slowly as he looked at you. 

You nodded, lip between your teeth. 

„Gonna need you to say it baby. The audience can’t see you giving me your fuck me eyes,“ he teased and you chuckled, before throwing a pillow at him. 

You put one of your feet up to his chest and he grabbed it, kissing your ankle.

„Get between my thighs and eat my pussy, Francisco,“ you hummed with a smirk and he huffed, shaking his head with a grin. 

„As you wish,“ he winked before he lowered himself down on the mattress, his big hands pushing your thighs apart, his tongue swiping through your folds as soon as his mouth was close to you. 

His arms wrapped around your thighs, pulling your whole body towards him as he got settled between your legs, his eyes on your pussy, the camera capturing the hungry look in his eyes before he looked up at you.

The look he was giving you was downright sinful, before his lips slipped into only the hint of a smirk as he leaned down and began to eat your pussy. 

He started slowly, his tongue teasing you, his fingers opening you up for him. 

Frankie hummed when his tongue slipped inside of you, his nose right on your clit. 

„Always taste so fucking good, baby,“ the groaned and you gasped as his tongue began to play with your clit. It took all your willpower to keep your phone in your hand to capture it all, even zooming into the way his tongue was working on you. 

He sucked your clit into his mouth, eyes on you while he swiped his tongue over it and you moaned, your hand coming down on top of his head, pulling at his hair as he worked on making you cum. 

And you were so close. 

„Baby….“ You gasped, your hips moving up to get even closer and he hummed against you, your legs shaking in his hold.

He focused all of his attention on your clit and you could feel the first waves of your orgasm.

„Cum for me baby,“ he mumbled against your folds, before he sucked harshly on your clit and you exploded. Moaning his name as you came, somehow still managing to film him, missing the way his eyes were looking directly into your camera as he worked you through your orgasm. 

You would only find out about that later when you watched it. 

„Fuck,“ you gasped, not even fighting him when you felt him take the phone from you, his mouth parting from you. 

„Look at how she’s drooling for me,“ he said and you looked at him as he brought your phone down between your legs, his fingers exposing your folds to the lens. 

„She’s so fucking warm and tight,“ he said, and you looked at him, lips still parted as your breathed heavily. 

„Can just slip two of my fingers inside,“ he said while slowly pushing two of his fingers inside of you, making you moan a low oh fuck as he did so. 

He pulled his fingers out, filming the way his fingers were covered in your cum, a thin line of it connecting his parted fingers. 

„So fucking good,“ he hummed, before he sucked his fingers into his mouth, all captured by your phone. 

„Oh my god Frankie,“ you said with a disbelieving laugh and he just winked at you before he threw the phone onto the bed and got on top of you. 

„Need to fuck you,“ he said as he kissed you and you wrapped your legs around him. 

„Please,“ you mumbled against his lips, gasping when his cock pushed inside of you. 

It was on your birthday some months later that you sat around the fire pit in Frankie’s garden with your friends. You had moved into his house only weeks before and your friends were visiting you there for the first time. 

„You really made a video?“ Emily asked and you sucked you bottom lip in, nodding slowly. 

„Several actually,“ you confessed and they hollered, making you laugh as you caught Frankie’s eyes where he was standing at the grill. 

„He even told me I could show you,“ you confessed and they all looked at you with wide eyes. 

„But… I am not drunk enough to show them to you,“ you said, chuckling when Katy reached for the bottle of Prosecco on the table, filling your glass. 

„We can work on that,“ she said, making you all giggle. 

„Who knows? Maybe we have the next big porn star sitting with us here,“ Emily teased and you smiled to yourself, deciding to not tell them about how Frankie and you had discussed maybe looking into setting up an onlyfans account after you had watched all the videos you made. 

„Yeah,“ you said as you watched Frankie walk towards you. 

„Who knows.“

[luveline]

this is quite vague, sorry, but would you please write more for coworker James? maybe him and r are sneaking around to kiss or they go out or Sirius and Remus find out. Idk whatever you feel like!!

you and James at the end of a secret date | ty for requesting! fem

You kissed James because you had to. You’ve never felt that pull before, but he’d been sitting there on the step next to you, close enough to see the freckles on his nose and count them, and— well, it’s hard to explain. But you kissed him. 

So far, it’s working in your favour. 

“It’s fine,” James says, breathless where he’s kissing your neck. 

“No, I think I broke it,” you say, squirming away from him to see the lamp where it’s fallen. “Shit.”

James had been kissing you on his sofa and your arm had a mind of its own, moving backward, whacking the body of the lamp where it had been living innocently on the side table. Now it’s in five separate pieces on the floor, but James doesn’t care. 

“I’m sorry,” you say. 

“I’m not.”

You laugh, a little lost in the way he’s touching you. James isn’t being too much, despite your legs spread around his hips to let him kiss you and the slip of your stomach that’s exposed itself. He’s kissing you hard, yes, but he isn’t grabbing anything too sensitive. He isn’t initiating, just kissing. 

“No, ‘cos– ‘cos I’ve broken it, I have, I’ll have to buy you another one. It’s from IKEA, right? It’s–”

“It’s from IKEA,” James affirms, lifting his face from your neck to meet your eyes. His lips are pink from kissing, the tip of his nose ruddied. “I can get another one any hour of the day. Can you stop worrying?” 

“No.” 

James laughs and holds your cheek. “No, I guess you can’t. And I was getting ahead of myself, wasn’t I?” He turns his hand, stroking your under eye with a careful fingernail. “It’s getting late. I should drive you home.” 

You’re crestfallen, then. “Is it?” 

He checks his watch. “S’almost eleven.” 

You have work tomorrow. You’ll have to wake at 6AM. But you don’t want to leave, don’t want James to get off of you, don’t want to go back to the office where you’re still pretending to hate him. 

Not very well, mind you, but pretending all the same. 

You’re distracted from your melancholy by the marvel of him above you. His hair seems darker than ever today, black and shiny and nice to touch, a tad mussed from your hands. You smooth down each wanton curl and get a good look at his eyes. His lashes… it leaves you breathless again, how long they are, how beautiful he seems. 

You’re dating, sort of. Not together. You can’t stay the night, you haven’t fucked, and he doesn’t seem to want to yet. It’s still early days.

You aren’t sure if you’d let him fuck you here, but he hasn’t tried. You’d thought the neck kissing was a precursor, felt heat blooming in your chest and somewhere lower as he held your nape. You can imagine it easily from this position, blood rushing to warm your chest, a tizzied kiss of it to match James’ blush. He’d touch you, and you’d let him. He’d push your shirt the rest of the way up and see you clearly. 

“James…” you say softly. 

“What?” 

“Can I ask you something?” 

He strokes your cheek. Your skin stretches gently under his touch, your eye squinting closed. “What sort of something?” he whispers. 

You wanna ask why he won’t fuck you. It would make sense —isn’t that what rivalry is, heated competition with poorly hidden sexual tension? Is that what you and James had?

“I’ve been thinking about something.”

“What sort of something?” he repeats with a laugh. 

“I don’t want to say it out loud.” 

James lets your head rest against the armrest and pillow smushed behind the top of it. He leans down to kiss you, a pulling thing you can’t help following. “Then don’t say it,” he murmurs, his nose dragging up your cheek as your lips part lazily. “Maybe I can guess.” 

“I don’t think you’ll be able to.” 

“You never have any faith in me.” 

You have much more in him as of late. James has yet to let you down. You kissed him and it’s like he refuses to be cruel about it, never letting you worry, eager in his reciprocation. Things are still confusing between you because you’re avoiding a conversation you’re too afraid to start, lest he want something casual. Instead, you’ve let him drag you deeper into his caging. It will hurt twice as much to ask now. 

“It’s stupid,” you say. “Never mind.” 

“It’s not stupid.” 

“No, it was.” You scratch his scalp as you know he adores. “It’s eleven. You can kiss me for at least another half an hour.” 

If he hears the hopefulness in your voice he ignores it. “Are you sure? I don’t wanna keep you up.” 

“Well, only if you want to.” 

“I always want to kiss you, you vexing woman,” he murmurs, shivers lining your arms and spine as his lips part against your cheek. He kisses downwards, sloven, half moon kisses, lightest scratch of his teeth on your neck. “Is it too immature if I leave a mark?” he asks. 

Immature? You have no idea. “I don’t mind what you do, just not above the collar, please.” 

You grow still as he tugs at the neckline of your shirt to expose your chest. It isn’t what you meant, and you’re not about to correct him. 

“Tell me if I…” He looks up at you, smiling nicely. “Just tell me if I take it too far,” he says. “Okay?” 

He plants a kiss over your heart. You hate thinking that he can feel it, hammering, betraying your deep feelings. “Okay,” you breathe.

[verstappenf1lecccc]

All the Miles Between Us

Fernando Alonso x Wife!Reader -

A Life in Five Decades

hi babes this is my favourite work I’ve done I am absolutely sorry for the heartbreak hehe!!!

Youth (Ages 22–30)

Barcelona, 2005

You were scribbling notes in a corner of the paddock, trying to finish your article on tire degradation, when a shadow fell over your notebook.

“Do tires always get that much attention?” a Spanish accent teased.

You looked up, annoyed. “Only when the car’s too fast to blame anything else.”

Fernando grinned, lowering his sunglasses. “Ah. So you’re one of those journalists.”

“I’m not a journalist,” you replied. “Just an intern. So don’t waste your charm on me.”

“Too late,” he said, already leaning against the railing like he had all day. “What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to need something to call you when I win on Sunday.”

You rolled your eyes but smirked. “We’ll see.”

He did win that Sunday. And when he stood on the top step of the podium, champagne in hand, he winked right at your press box.

The next morning, there was a single flower taped to your locker.

It was worth it. – Fernando

⸻

Paris, 2006

It wasn’t fast. You kept it slow. Careful.

You didn’t want to be another name in a long list of weekend flings. And to his credit, Fernando never once treated you like one.

He wrote to you. Real letters. Called when he could, texted when he couldn’t. You still remember one from Istanbul:

Today the car felt like shit but your voice felt like home. I miss you more than I miss sleep. Love you already, I think. Don’t tell me I said that.

⸻

Oviedo, 2007 – The First Fight

The first time you shouted at him was in the kitchen of his family’s house.

“You never stop,” you snapped, slamming a drawer shut. “You don’t eat, you don’t rest, and when you’re not on track you’re still thinking about it!”

“It’s my job!” he fired back. “It’s what I was born to do!”

“And what about us?” Your voice cracked. “Were you born to destroy this, too?”

Silence. Long and awful.

Then, softly, “Do you think I don’t love you?”

“I think you love racing more.”

He walked out that night.

Came back the next morning with a bruised heart and a bouquet of gardenias.

He knelt at your door. “I didn’t sleep. I can’t sleep if we’re not okay.”

You let him in. You always would.

⸻

The Proposal – Oviedo, 2009

It was winter. Snow dusted the rooftops. You’d spent the day trying to assemble Ikea furniture while he read instructions out loud in a horrible British accent.

“I swear I’ll propose before I figure this out,” he grumbled, upside down under a bookshelf.

“God help us both,” you muttered, laughing.

That night, you were in pajamas, wine in hand, fire crackling in the hearth. He looked over at you, completely unguarded.

“You want to marry me?” he asked suddenly, softly.

You blinked. “Is that a serious question?”

He got up, walked over, and slipped his grandmother’s gold chain into your palm. “This is all I have on me. But I swear I’ll give you everything else. Please. Say yes.”

You were already crying when you whispered, “Always, Fernando.”

⸻

The Wedding – Asturias, 2010

The ceremony was on a hill, the wind catching your veil like it had a life of its own. Fernando looked at you like he’d never seen the sun before.

Your vows were whispered but felt louder than any engine.

“I promise to never let you go to sleep angry,” you said.

“And I promise to make you laugh when you least want to,” he added.

You both cried during the first dance. He held your waist like you were made of something ancient and holy.

“You’re too good for me,” he murmured.

“No. I’m just the one who stayed.”

That night, you lay tangled in white sheets, his fingers tracing the lines on your collarbone.

“I’ll spend every day proving I deserve this,” he whispered. “Even the hard ones.”

⸻

The Miscarriage – Rome, 2011

You were nine weeks in. You hadn’t told him yet. You were going to surprise him in person bought a tiny onesie that said papa’s lucky charm and everything.

Then the cramps started. The blood came. And you knew.

You didn’t cry at first. Just stared at the ceiling while the world turned inside out.

When he called from the hotel, you said, “You should come home.”

He knew.

He arrived the next morning, eyes red from the flight, his jacket still smelling like rain.

You collapsed in his arms.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you sobbed. “And now it’s just gone.”

Fernando sank to his knees in front of you, pressing his forehead to your stomach.

“I already loved them,” he whispered. “Even if I never got to meet them.”

That night, he built a fire and held you close, rubbing your back while you shook with silent grief.

“We’ll try again,” he whispered. “When you’re ready. And even if it never happens, we’ll still have us. Always.”

You cried yourself to sleep with your hand over his heart.

⸻

Monaco Crash – 2013

You were watching live, laughing at a silly commentator’s remark when his car veered, slammed the barrier.

Your scream startled everyone in the room.

The headset fell from your ears. Your body moved before your brain could.

You were at the medical center before they could stop you, face pale and hands trembling.

He saw you through the glass, smiled weakly. “You’re more dramatic than the crash, mi vida.”

You shoved the curtain aside, tears in your eyes. “I thought you were dead, Fernando!”

He pulled you close, wincing. “Takes more than a wall to take me away from you.”

“Don’t joke,” you choked out.

“I’m not. I saw your face when they pulled me out… and all I thought was, ‘thank God, I’m still hers.’”

⸻

Final Moments of Youth – Austria, 2015

You were on a hiking trail, breathless from the altitude and the laughter. He had his arm around your shoulders, cheeks flushed.

“I think this is it,” he said, stopping to stare at the valley below.

“What?”

“The moment I stop chasing speed. I’m tired and for the first time, I think I want a slower life.”

You looked up at him, heart softening.

“You sure?”

He nodded. “I’ve been fast long enough. I want to learn how to be still with you.”

You kissed him. He kissed you back like he was anchoring himself to the ground.

⸻

The Middle Years (Ages 30–50)

⸻

Oviedo, 2016 — Slow Living Begins

Your house on the hill became a sanctuary. No roaring engines. No flights every weekend. Just wildflowers and books stacked in uneven towers.

Fernando gardened badly. You teased him relentlessly about the crooked tomato vines and his “tragically overwatered basil.”

“You’re just jealous my plants love me more,” he said with dirt on his cheeks, offering you a squashed-looking tomato like it was a diamond.

“You’re lucky you’re pretty,” you smirked.

He grinned. “So you do think I’m pretty.”

You rolled your eyes. “I married you, didn’t I?”

Evenings became your favorite time. You’d sit on the porch with mugs of tea, listening to the wind and letting your legs touch under the table.

“You know,” he said one night, his voice low, “this is the happiest I’ve ever been. No trophies. No pressure. Just you.”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “Then you finally understand what I’ve been trying to give you all these years.”

⸻

Barcelona, 2017 — The First Baby

The second time you got pregnant, you were terrified.

Fernando kissed your stomach every night like a prayer. “You’re not alone this time,” he whispered.

He went with you to every appointment. Held your hand when you cried during the heartbeat scan.

At twenty-three weeks, you woke him up at 3 a.m. in a panic.

“I had a dream the baby didn’t make it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I felt so empty, Nando, I couldn’t breathe-”

He sat up immediately, pulling you into his lap.

“Feel this?” he said, placing your hand over your belly. “That’s life, cariño. And this…” He pressed your palm to his chest. “That’s love. I swear on both we’re going to be okay.”

Your daughter, Lucía, was born on a foggy autumn morning in October.

He cried so hard when he first held her you thought he might drop her.

“She’s got your nose,” he sobbed.

“And your stubborn brow,” you said, brushing her downy hair. “We’re doomed.”

⸻

Marbella, 2020 — The Second Baby & Pandemic Isolation

Your second child, Mateo, came during the quiet panic of the pandemic.

You gave birth wearing a mask. Fernando wasn’t allowed in the room for the first hour.

When he finally held him, he whispered, “You came into chaos and still brought peace.”

Those months were strange. Locked indoors with two small children, restless hands, and headlines full of dread.

One day you snapped, tears streaking your face after three straight nights without sleep.

“I don’t even know who I am anymore!” you yelled, cradling a crying Mateo while Lucía smeared crayon across the walls.

Fernando took the baby gently, whispered, “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“I’m falling apart.”

“So fall,” he said. “I’ll catch you.”

⸻

Oviedo, 2022 — The Cancer Scare

You found the lump in the shower. Firm. Small. But undeniably there.

You didn’t tell Fernando for a week. He was already overwhelmed his mother’s health was declining, the world still uncertain.

When you finally sat him down, you said it fast “I found something in my breast. I have a scan tomorrow.”

The way the color drained from his face nearly broke you.

He reached for you instantly, thumb trembling as he stroked your cheek. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I didn’t want you to panic until I knew.”

“But you were already panicking,” he said softly. “Weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He pulled you into his chest and held you for so long you lost track of time. The night felt like a never-ending breath you couldn’t release.

At the hospital, his grip never left yours. The waiting room. The ultrasound. The biopsy. Each click of the machine felt like thunder.

When the doctor finally said it was benign a fibroadenoma, not cancer Fernando laughed and cried at the same time. His head bowed in relief, tears soaking into your shirt.

That night, he held your scarred breast in his hands and kissed it.

“This body… it’s given me everything,” he whispered. “You. Our children. Our life. I’ll never take a single piece of it for granted again.”

You wept into the crook of his neck. The way he looked at you never changed. Not through aging. Not through scars. Not through fear.

Only deeper. Only fuller. Only more.

⸻

Asturias, 2023 — Losing Your Father

He died suddenly. A heart attack in his sleep.

Fernando drove you six hours overnight so you could say goodbye at dawn.

At the funeral, you didn’t speak for three days.

He cooked for you, sat beside you without pushing, held your hand even when you wouldn’t meet his eyes.

On the third night, you finally spoke.

“I didn’t even say ‘I love you’ the last time we spoke. I told him I was too busy to call.”

Fernando pulled you close, your grief soaking into his shirt.

“You were busy. Loving me. Raising our kids. Being the person he was so proud of.”

You sobbed into his chest, the pain blooming like wildfire.

He stayed up with you all night, listening to stories about your dad. Never said a word. Just listened.

⸻

Oviedo, 2028 — The Anniversary

Lucía was fourteen. Mateo was eleven. Your house was loud with hormones and burnt toast.

You’d forgotten it was your anniversary until you came home and found the entire garden lit with string lights, your favorite dinner steaming on the table.

Fernando stood in a button-up shirt that didn’t match his pants, holding a wrinkled card.

“I panicked. The kids helped. Lucía picked the flowers. Mateo made dessert so eat at your own risk.”

You laughed until you cried.

Over dinner, you held his hand and whispered, “You’re still my favorite thing in the world.”

He kissed your knuckles. “I’ve had so many lives… but the only one I ever wanted was the one where I’m yours.”

⸻

The End (Ages 50–70)

⸻

Oviedo, 2040 — The Quiet Years

The house grew quieter with each passing year. Lucía left for university first,political science, all fire and fight like her father. Mateo followed soon after, gentler, more like you, always calling just to hear your voice.

You and Fernando got used to cooking for two. Walking the same forest path behind the house each morning. Picking out tomatoes at the market like it was a grand adventure. Reading in bed with your feet tangled together under the blanket.

“This is the good part,” you whispered one morning, watching the sun spill golden over his lined face. “No rush. No races. Just you.”

Fernando chuckled. “I liked winning. But this—” He reached to brush your hair back. “This is better.”

⸻

Barcelona, 2046 — The Diagnosis

It started with fatigue.

You thought it was just age. Then the headaches came. The weight loss. The vision blurs.

They found the tumor in June. Glioblastoma. Terminal.

You were fifty-nine.

You waited until you knew for sure before you told Fernando. You practiced the words in the mirror a hundred times. Still, nothing prepared you for the way he crumpled in the hospital hallway, clutching the edge of a plastic chair like it might save him.

“No,” he said. “No, no, no don’t say it. We still have time. We always have time.”

You held his face and made him look at you. “We have time to love, Nando. But not forever. And that’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he sobbed, voice breaking. “It’s not okay.”

You kissed him. “We were never promised forever. But we earned every second.”

⸻

Oviedo, 2047 — Preparing for Goodbye

The house changed again.

He moved the bed to the sunroom so you could see the trees sway while you rested. He played your favorite records on quiet mornings Piano Concerto No. 2, Springsteen, Fleetwood Mac. You talked about everything and nothing.

You asked him to write to you again. Like he did when you were twenty.

He filled six notebooks.

“I never knew how much I still had to say to you,” he whispered one day, holding your hand like it was made of porcelain. “Even now.”

You cried together, often. But you also laughed about how bad his cooking still was, how Lucía inherited your temper, how Mateo cried at commercials.

You made him promise something, one night when the pain was bad.

“When it’s time… I want one last dance,” you said, voice raw but soft. “Just you and me. Like before.”

“Of course,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your knuckles. “Name the song, mi amor.”

You smiled. “Infinity Jaymes Young.”

His voice caught. “That’s our song.”

“It always was.”

⸻

October, 2048 — The Final Dance

You knew it was time. The doctors said days, maybe a week. You didn’t want machines. You just wanted your family.

Lucía and Mateo flew in. They curled beside you in bed like they were little again. Fernando never left your side. Not once.

On a soft October evening, with the windows open and golden light pouring in, he helped you out of bed. Your body trembled. He held you up.

And then he played the song.

“Baby this love I’ll never let it die…”

You danced.

Slow. Barely moving. His arms around you. Your head on his shoulder. Your breath shallow.

“You gave me the best life,” you whispered against his neck. “I wouldn’t trade a second.”

He cried freely, holding you tighter. “I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready.”

You smiled, even through the tears. “I’ll wait for you. Wherever the next place is, I’ll be there.”

“Promise?”

You kissed his lips. “I promise.”

⸻

A Week Later

You passed away in your sleep, in the home you built together.

Fernando stayed beside you until the sun rose. He kissed your forehead and whispered the last words you ever said to him: “I’ll wait for you.”

⸻

Years Later — After You Were Gone

He kept your books on the shelf.

Still made tea for two, sometimes forgetting.

Still wrote you letters even when there was no one to read them.

Your children came often. Brought your grandkids. Told stories you’d once told them.

Lucía once asked him, “Do you still miss her, after all these years?”

He smiled, eyes soft with memory. “Every day. But I know she’s just ahead of me. Not gone. Just waiting.”

⸻

The Reunion

There’s a dream Fernando has often.

He’s young again. You’re waiting for him beneath a streetlamp in Florence, wearing the dress you wore the night you told him you loved him for the first time.

Music floats in from an open café window. He reaches for your hand.

“Dance with me?” he asks.

You smile.

“Always.”

And you do.

Dancing with him forever

[valkyriexo]

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾Late night thoughts 007☽༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“You okay back there, sunshine?” Felix x Reader

Felix sits behind you on the couch, his legs framing yours as he gathers a small section of your hair in his hands. His fingers fumble as he tries to separate the strands, and you can already feel the hesitation in his movements.

“You okay back there, sunshine?” you tease, peeking over your shoulder.

Felix lets out the most dramatic groan known to mankind, flopping against your back. “Why do you have so much hair? This is unfair. I’m being set up to fail.”

Without missing a beat, you start singing, “My life is so unfair....”

Felix freezes. “No.”

You grin, turning your head slightly. Felix lets out an even louder groan, dramatically dropping his forehead against your back. “I knew you were gonna do that.”

You giggle as he grips your shoulders like he’s in actual pain. “You set yourself up, babe.”

“This is worse than the braid,” he mutters.

You giggle, reaching up to pat his knee. “It’s just a braid, babe. You got this.”

He huffs, but his determination is cute,his lips pressed together, brows furrowed in deep focus as he attempts to cross one strand over the other. He stays silent for a good thirty seconds before suddenly whining, “Wait, I lost a piece...w-where’d it go?!”

You burst into laughter. “Lix, it’s attached to my head.”

“I know that!” he groans, completely unraveling whatever attempt he just made. “I just—I don’t know how it got so tangled!”

You smirk, turning your head slightly. “You giving up already?”

His hands immediately shoot up to gather your hair again. “Absolutely not.”

You laugh. “It’s okay, Lix. Braiding is kinda hard if you’ve never done it before—”

“Excuse me,” he interrupts, voice full of mock offense. “I have built IKEA furniture without instructions—this should not be harder than that.”

With newfound determination, he grabs your hair again, mumbling to himself. “Okay. Three strands. We’ve been over this. Three. Not four, not five.....wait, where did this extra piece come from?!”

You’re already shaking with laughter as he wrestles with the strands once again. “Babe, if it’s too hard—”

“Shh!” He leans in, squinting like that’s somehow going to help. “I am so close.”

“Lix, you just tied it into a knot.”

“…That was on purpose.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

You let him keep going, biting your lip to keep from laughing as he grumbles, mutters, and at one point even threatens your hair like it’ll listen. Eventually, he ties off the end with a triumphant noise and throws his hands in the air.

“DONE!”

You reach back, feeling what can only be described as a mess of loops and twists. “…Felix.”

“NO. DON’T JUDGE YET. LOOK AT IT FIRST.”

You turn around, barely holding in your laughter as you catch sight of his work—if you can even call it that. “Lix… this isn’t a braid.”

Felix flops onto the couch with a groan. “I give up. Your hair wins. I lose.” Then he perks up dramatically. “But at least I went down fighting.”

You giggle, leaning over him. “Don’t worry, sunshine. You do have other talents.”

Felix raises an eyebrow. “Like?”

You tap his lips. “Being kissable.”

He immediately brightens, wiggling his brows. “Oh? Well, if that’s the case—” Before you can react, he grabs your waist and yanks you down onto him, smirking. “I think I should really play to my strengths.”

You shriek, laughing as he smothers you in kisses. And honestly? Letting him lose was so worth it.

ઇଓ M.LIST | Ko-Fi | Taglist | Thank you for your support ♡ | Consider leaving a comment, reblog or like ♡ | © 2024 Valkyriexo 

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[xxgoldie]

OMGG hiii!!! can i get for the alphabet event lighter with J, K, L and V(๑•́ω•̀๑) if it's too many u can pick whichever you like ofc!! and congrats on 100 followers٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

main event page - event masterlist

J: Jealousy - do they get jealous easily? what are they like when they're jealous? Already done this one, see it here x

K: Kisses - what are their kisses like? Lighter's kisses are always intense even if they're innocent, always pressing even closer to you, and he lingers a bit longer than he probably should, like its a battle of wills for him to actually pull away. And you can always feel him smiling against you, a victorious little smirk, all proud of himself as if he just won a competition and getting to kiss you is his prize. He tastes sweeter than you'd expect because of the lollipops he always has on him, and sometimes he'll ask you what flavour you think he had after finally pulling a way from a makeout session (and its borderline impossible to answer, if his everyday kisses are intense his makeouts are mindmelting, but it gives you an excuse to kiss him again 'to double check'). Other than your lips, he likes kissing you on the temple, often pulling you up against his side and pressing one there at the slightest excuse.

L: Language - what are their love languages (could be of the five official love languages, or other stuff) Of the five love languages, he's definitely mainly an acts of service guy. Anything you need, he's yours, whether you're dating yet or not (and his definition of 'what you need' is a lot closer to 'what you want'). Picking up a prescription for you? Of course. Helping you put together IKEA furniture? He'll be there in five. Need to last-minute bake 200 cupcakes for your cousin's school's bake sale? He's picking up some energy drinks on his way over and will help you until they're done, even if it takes all night. The type of guy to go to your house while you're out and spend a day doing that annoying massive chore that you keep putting off as a surprise. And he HATES if someone jokes that you "have him trained well" - he just wants to see you happy, and if its in his power to help with that, why wouldn't he? Does their partner's happiness mean nothing to them? He doesn't even laugh it off, it genuinely makes him angry.

V: Valentine - how serious are they about valentine's day? how would they ask you to be their valentine? Lighter may be a sap and romance enthusiast, but I don't think he places tons of importance on Valentine's Day - if anything, it's just an excuse to spend a nice day together, and he's adept at finding excuses for that year-round. He'll insist on some sort of date night, but he'll mainly match your energy - if you're not bothered about the holiday, he's more than happy to spend an evening watching movies with takeout and lots of blankets, but if you want to do something more special, by god he will give you special. He's not big on fancy restaurant dinners n stuff like that, but he'll find a great stargazing spot in the Outer Ring and set it up with a cute picnic with all your favourite foods, cushions and blankets and fairy lights; he'd get you flowers and drive you out there at sunset so you get to watch the sky change colours on the way, n he definitely recruited the girls to help him find the spot and guard it while he gets you there. When it comes to asking you to be his valentine, he'll make it sweet but not super flashy. He knows he's meant to ask even if you're dating - the girls remind him in a panic because they saw online that a bunch of guys didn't know they were meant to ask their partner to be their valentine, but he's just like "yeah obviously, I've already got plans for it". Will most likely get you a small gift or a little gift basket of things you like with a note asking you to be his valentine. And he'll lowkey be nervous when he gives it to you lmao, like why is he scared that you'll say no, he's literally your boyfriend.

[junedenim]

to say good night

sleep can happen anywhere

warnings: fluff, smut, blowie, piv, and raspberries

word count: 3.6k

You watched him make the bed. He was always slow and careful with this kind of thing. It was rhythmic, second nature to tuck the duvet under the mattress and fluff the pillows just right. It was weird for a man to be so careful after sex. The sheets had been a mess covered in each of you. He still spills out of you now, trapped by your underwear. You went to the bathroom to clean yourself but got trapped in the doorway watching this meticulous routine as he changed the navy blue sheets to baby blue ones. You wonder if he has any different coloured sheets or if they are all blue.

He's fixing the nightstand now. His alarm clock that your hand pushed off when he was going down on you. His spine curves, little rivets showing through the skin of his bare back. You get to drag your hand down it tonight when you lie side by side and go to bed with one another. Not just fucking bed but sleeping bed.

And he's so lovely. You're not sure you've ever seen something, especially a man so lovely as he sits down on the bed to fix the time on the clock. His eyes shine back at the glaring red digits. Your hand curls around the doorframe, trying not to give yourself away to him. He's so cautious when he knows he's being watched, but here, he's loose, uncaring, and serene, so serene.

His hair is a fluff mess. One that swirls and makes cascading waterfalls as it tries to fall forward on his face. He slightly jumps at the beeping noise the clock makes and a giggle escapes you, impossible to hold back at his cute, jolting, meticulous, lovely, serene self. No hand covering your mouth hides the giggle. His eyes snap up with the fear he's been caught out like you've accidentally caught him masturbating in his childhood bedroom, not fully grown fixing his alarm clock.

But then he releases, not everything, but just enough to lightly chuckle. "You snooping on me?"

Part of you wants to shrink behind the bathroom door and hide but his laughter is solaceful. "I'm just going to the bathroom," you say as you slowly shut the door.

He laughs, this time more boisterous. It's easy for him to let go when he's making fun of you. "Uh-huh, yeah, right."

"I swear!" You yell back through the closed door as you drop your panties and wipe him out of you (disgusting but not and that almost disgusts you more about how you can be so affected by a person that you start to cherish their semen) and dispose of it. Your cheeks are flushed red in the mirror and you splash water to temper the fire burning its way out.

Exiting the bathroom, he stands by the dresser having covered that gracious bare back with a T-shirt. It makes you want to yell at him for the crime he's committed. It was horrible that he covered his butt with his boxers but this. "Why'd you put a shirt on?"

Alex once again jumps at a surprising sound. He turns around and smirks. "Why'd you put a shirt on?" He counters.

Fair. But it's his shirt and your underwear, isn't that what most guys find sexy? He's in his pajamas, very cutely, but five minutes ago he was coming inside you so a tad more explicit behaviour tonight shouldn't be out of the question. So, if he needs something from you then you'll trail your hands down the shirt, fiddle with the bottom—teasing, of course—and take the garment off, dropping it at his feet as an offering.

His lust-filled eyes work as encouragement, straying you from an insecurity. His hands move from his side and meet the bottom of his shirt. He's slow, much more than you were. You ripped the Band-Aid off, and he's easing it slowly away from the skin. He nearly gets trapped in its collar and has to twist his head back and forth to withdraw from it. Then, he tosses it at your feet, a slight chuckle of embarrassment rippling through him. "Now get in bed," he tells you.

You look toward the pristine sight, something off of HGTV or an Ikea catalogue. "But I don't want to ruin it," you candidly reply. It even has one of those small useless pillows sitting there for merely display purposes.

He walks toward you. "Get in bed," he says with a smirk. He pats your ass giving a light squeeze to your right ass cheek before heading into the bathroom. You look behind you at the closed bathroom door and inch your way to the bed, carefully taking off the small useless pillow. You pull back the duvet and slide into the sea of blue and then you wait.

You see the light spilling out from the bottom crack of the bathroom door. You hear him turn on the sink, the sound of him brushing his teeth. The water shuts off but he doesn't come out immediately. He takes his time and you wish you could peek in on whatever he's doing. Washing his hands, styling his hair, psyching himself up in the mirror, whatever it may be you want to be witness to it.

The door clicks open and he walks out, making his way to the bed and under the covers. He pulls the blankets over both of you and moves close by means of huddling for warmth. Your nipples rub against the blanket, shielding them from his view, but not his imagination. "Are you cold?" He asks.

You shake your head but tighten your hold on the blanket. You are a little cold but mostly nervous, just a tad. He nods and you can see the hesitance spilling from him. There's something intimate about sex but in comparison to this, it's nothing. The personal laying of your figures side-by-side. Your boobs are exposed and his chest is so close your palm can almost touch it. Instead, you two sit in silence, scared to be the first to speak because it's the first time you've done this with each other. 

Because it's not just spending the night or a hook-up, it's something far greater that you can't name. Something you want to work so badly it could kill you. Because he's looking at you like that: eyes warm and shiny, perfect for falling into. Him. Him. Because he's right up against you without touching you and now you have to relinquish yourself to him in a far more vulnerable way than sex. But the idea of falling asleep in his arms seems so nice that you can't bear any distance, even if it is small. 

"Do you always make the bed like that?" You ask him. You relax down into the pillow, turning onto your side to face him more clearly.

His smile grows warmer and it makes your insides feel less cold. "No. I'm neat but I'm not that neat."

"Why'd you do it that way then? Special occasion?" You smile back knowingly. He's always been one for silent gestures. Only the little things you notice way down the line. The little things you know now and the ones you have yet to discover.

He blushes, turning bashfully away from you. "Maybe. Yeah. Thought I'd make it look more homely."

You giggle, not because it's very funny, but because he's very charming. Enough to make any girl giddy. "It looked more like a display room to me but it was very pretty to watch."

Alex turns onto his side now, smirking in such a delight that it pierces through you. "Yeah. And you like to do that stalking thing?"

You bite your lip from mild embarrassment and in an attempt to hide to smile he's forcing increasingly on your face. "You're very cute to watch. I'm sure you know that."

"Well..." He trails off but his hand moves under the covers, landing on the curve of your side, just under your ribs. He's delicate, not trying to make a big deal out of it, the same with everything he does. But you notice. It's hard not to notice that warm touch.

"I don't even think I made my bed this morning," you tell him. Not that it matters much when you're lying in his.

He chuckles and gradually leans closer and closer. "I like to be organized." That's plenty nice under these nice sheets but his lips are far greater as he comes toward yours. He hovers before latching on. It's a smooth grip, nothing harsh as you lock lips. Everything about it flows.

His hand moves up your figure, his thumb lightly caressing the bottom of your boob. Your hand steadies on his shoulder. He feels firm as your hand grazes down his arm before shifting over to his chest, feeling him beneath your hand.

The kissing becomes harsher, not aggressive, but determined passion from both sides. You were drawn together and it felt impossible to ignore, even as things became more rushed. You rolled over and he followed with his body on top. His hand massaged your side and your bodies smushed together, your boobs stuck in between each other in that small space.

"You just changed the sheets," you mumble in the chaos of attached lips.

His lips strayed, moving down from your lips, kissing your chin, and down the column of your neck on that tender part of your throat. "Fuck that. I don't care," Alex kissed into your skin. He paid tribute to your right collarbone, briefly sticking out his tongue and running a line across it. He kissed your shoulder and moved down further to your breasts. 

He licks his way to the nipple, already sensitive from the cold and rubbing up against him. Suddenly, he makes a loud smooching noise and blows a raspberry on it. It's ticklish, erupting impossible to avoid laughter as you push his head away from the affected spot.

"Stop it," you manage to get out. "So much for being sensual."

Alex kisses one of your ribs like it's him and it may be what created you. "I never promised sensuality."

"I thought you making out with my breasts implied that." He laughs and kisses the untouched boob. His lips hover like he's threatening to do it to the other one. "I'll leave if you do it again. What if someone did that to your dick?"

He thinks about it, tossing his head back and forth. "It'd probably feel good." His eyes look away like he’s imagining the pleasure.

Your hands reached down, snaking in between your two bodies. You grab a hold of the waistband of his boxers, snapping it against his skin. "You want to bet?" You push him onto his back, gazing down at him.

"You don't know men very well if you think the threat of a blowjob is gonna scare them off."

Still, you descend him. Your fingers dance on his hip bone. He delightfully protrudes onto you. He conflicts with himself whether to revel in the feeling with his head on the pillow or watch you as you tease him. His eyes remain on you as your pointer finger grasps onto the elastic of his boxers. Edging him in anticipation. A dance between the dainty and the robust. 

You send him a mocking grin, displaying your teeth, latching onto that waistband, dragging it slowly, revealing the bottom portion of his stomach before stopping. You kissed the newly exposed skin as he sucks in a breath like he hasn't taken one in minutes. You press your face into him. Your nose inhaling him into you, the smell of him plain, only a simple bar of soap has passed this area. Yet, however plain, it calms you. You wish to rest your head here for a little while, maybe fall asleep here because he isn't restless here. This is where things calm.

You resume. Your hands drift further down, dipping into his boxers, giving a slight touch to him. Your hands are cold against the warm skin. It might turn him on even more. Finally, you pull his boxers down fully, letting his erection pop out on display. Your hand grabs a hold of it. He shivers from the cold, anticipation, and the soon-to-be relief.

You hold him carefully in your hand like you're observing him scientifically. You need to cover every surface with your eyes, every vein needs to be noted, and the way he twitches should be put in the records. "Come on," he just barely mutters.

It's the complete opposite from earlier when he was quick with you. When you were messy with each other. When alarm clocks were pushed on the floor and sheets were left with no choice but to wash. You're careful now, if not, torturous. Alas, you lick up the side of him to the tip. Your tongue grazes over the slit, enjoying the way it makes him stiff. 

You seal a kiss on it before your mouth covers the top of him. You suck on him, pleasurable for both him and you. Then, you blow a raspberry on him. You wish to capture the way he wiggles around and groans but you're too busy laughing at him. "How was that?"

Alex brings a hand to his head. He rubs his fingers between his eyebrows to calm that distress in him. "Not very sensual." You share a laugh before taking him off guard with how quickly you return to the task at (or in your) hand. 

You stroke him, moving the salvia from the top down to lubricate the bottom. Your mouth covers him again, but this time takes him fully in a slow controlled manner. The pressure pushes against your throat as your nose rubs that spot on his stomach again. You pull yourself off, wiping the string of spit that connects you. Your hand continues its work as you kiss his hip, then the top of his thigh, then his pelvis, then his penis.

His hand stops you from taking him completely in your mouth again. "Get on me."

"What?" You question.

"Let me fuck you again." He's almost begging, his eyes fluttering shut and his grasp on your upper arm strengthening. "Please."

"What about the bed?" It was so nice moments ago but the blankets have been thrown and the sheets exposed, a trace of your spit already covering them.

He shakes his head on the pillow, trying not to lose the moment. He pinches that glabella. "Let's just fuck on the fucking floor."

You hesitate on the bed but he's quick, already has his knees pressed on the cold wood floors. He reaches a hand up to you, which you take, kicking your feet out and meeting him on the floor. "I'm gonna get a splinter from this."

He laughs, placing his hands on your waist, his thumb stroking up and down. "How do you want to do this?" He doesn't hesitate, dragging your panties off as soon as he can.

"I don't know. It was your idea. Just fuck me, I guess."

"Okay," he mutters like he's still trying to figure it out himself. He looks around, trying to place the space on the floor, and then kisses you, overpowering you. You're on your back, your shoulders grazing the floor's rug. You could start a fire with the way your skin brushes against it. You clutch his neck to grasp on something desperately as he moves himself through your folds, soaked up in you.

Now, it's sensual as he eases slowly into you. It's barely anything but then it's barely nothing. Everything is touched and you were just like this less than an hour ago but it already feels different. The way his eyes land on you is much softer and his touch is caring. There's no rushing, roughness, or scratching. It's tender, graceful, and clutching. He's powering but not overtly. His hips snap but not aggressively.

It's fulfilling. He kisses every nerve ending in you. It's making love in all those stupid, cheesy, romance movie kind of ways but it's him and it's you, something yet to fully be explored and you get to be a first-hand witness to every touch he lands on you. His thumb strokes you so carefully but it lights you up completely. 

You arch up into him and you know he's much closer than you are, so, you reach up and smooth your hand over his cheek before wrapping your arm around his neck. You whisper into his ear for him to let go and give himself over to you. It's late and tiring, it's like falling asleep in each other's arms as he lets go into you.

Everything in him is sensitive. He shudders as everything comes over him. He buries his head into your neck, rubbing his nose against your jugular. Your hand runs through his hair as he groans the last bits of relief into your skin. It's content. Your heart rates settle against one another as if you're beating in time with one another. 

Alex starts to move again, even slower than before, but he's not willing to let this go. He doesn't like it just being about him. He doesn't like all that attention. So, he gives it, gives it all over, fucking you with the remnants of him still inside you. 

His overstimulation settles as he begins to rush forward. The thumb stroking picks up right over your clit and it's cold hands on warm flesh. It's so divine, an enhancement. It's not just a regular touch, it's an imprint as the cold seeps into you and he drives himself into you. He groans and you moan but it's all whispers for just one another. No soul will ever hear each other this way because it's never been like this before and you're not sure it will ever be like this again, even with him. It's a sliver of time for just the two of you.

Each of your breathing grows heavy and your hips lift. It all moves quicker and you can feel the rug burn forming on your skin as you come. It overrides anything. You clutch onto him in any way possible. Your hands in his hair, your legs around his waist, him still sitting inside you. It's a release. Completely. 

When everything relaxes just enough, your grasp loosens and he rolls beside you onto his back. You tilt your head slightly up to look at his profile, even with barely any light in the room it's scenic. It's like looking out at the ocean from the cliff. 

He has steadied himself when he turns his head over to meet your eyes. "Good?" It could mean a number of things. If you're okay, if the sex was okay, if you're alright staying here on the floor forever.

Either way, you are. "Good," you answer in the affirmative. You reach out to him, pushing his hair back so you can get the best view of his eyes. "You?"

Alex nods. His eyes are obviously tired, fluttering with the wind. "We should get back in bed."

"Or stay here for a minute more," you suggest because the moment will be gone, ending forever, the second you stand up from this small cocoon of space.

He doesn't reject the idea. His body is so relaxed against the wood. "When I was younger," he tells you, "I used to sleep on the floor because I was scared of my bed."

It's a privilege to know these small stories about him. To run your fingers through his hair as he tells you a childhood story that has him smiling. "Why?" You ask.

Alex shifts closer, his arm landing over your waist. He tugs you closer to him as if he wants to absorb you, live in one body with you. It almost feels like that in this small space where your breaths duel one another. "I don't know. It was my first big kid bed. I think I thought monsters lived in there."

You squint. "So you slept closer to where they lived under your bed?"

He chuckles and gives a light squeeze to your side. "I was four, I had no logic."

You recall, "I used to just sleep in my parents' room. Might've caused their divorce." Your hand drifts away from his hair and down to his back, at long last rubbing down his spine, feeling those notches in him. If he sleeps on his stomach, you might wake him up tomorrow by kissing your way down those vertebrae.

"Why?" He questions just like you.

"They could never have sex 'cause I was in there all the time." There's laughter shared, an increased amount, maybe because you just had sex and you'll have plenty more sex but for now you'll lie here. You want to squeeze him in between your fingers, pinch a piece off of him, and carry it around with you in your bag, in your pocket, in your skin.

His hand moves to your back, moving along your spine, massaging the muscles around it. "I walked in on them once. I think I'll take your side of things," he said. He pulled a disgusted face before dusting a smile. "I thought they were wrestling."

Your laughter is loud, infectious and it makes him laugh too and you'll get up off the floor at some point but for now, you'd like to stay here in a world with just the two of you.

*

a/n: i like this one. maybe because i was more relaxed when i wrote it. excuse yet another 'perfect sense' title, it just fits so well. thanks, bye.

[babyjinsu]

any male!idol x fem!reader || 1.3k

౨ৎ break-in, streamer reader, the rest is up to your imagination.

the screen flickers on. 

“okay, i think it’s working now—hello? can you guys hear me?” 

the chat floods in almost immediately. 

sailore: new place who dis?

xx903k: echoooo lol ur apartment is empty af

honeypotato: yess finally!!

you laugh, adjusting the webcam a little and shifting in your chair. your new condo still smells like cardboard and fresh paint. the walls are bare, the light’s a little dim, and there’s a faint hum coming from the fridge in the kitchen. 

“it’s empty?—yeah it’s just me and my chair and some ikea boxes,” you say, sipping from your mug. “but i did promise a late-night stream to celebrate with you guys! i’m just so happy.” 

amigod: apartment tour?? before and after?

imisspipier: is it big??

you nod. “i would but it’s so empty, like there’s literally nothing to show you guys.” you say, scooting the chair back a little to show your viewers how your bed doesn’t even have a frame—just the mattress. your clothes are still unpacked in the moving boxes, and there’s an extension cord stretched across the floor. “behold,” you say, gesturing dramatically. “the pinnacle of interior design.”

“i live like a college freshman who dropped out,” you add, laughing. “but no offense.” 

ratking: that extension cord is so final destination. 

PKJam: when did you move?? 

your eyes scan the chat, and perk up at the message. “oh, remember when i said that i think my old apartment was haunted?” you pause, grimacing at the memory. “yeah. i think it actually was. my items were misplaced, like, everywhere. i contacted my landlord but she doesn’t wanna do anything about it so i moved out,” you chuckle, shrugging. “it’s closer to my friends here anyway.” 

the chat continues to move—asking questions about your day and requests that you play a game or a song. you ease back into the chair, camera catching the way you fold your knees and press them against your chest. “you guys are so unserious,” you say, eyes flickering over the comments and trying to catch up. “i would play a game, but it’s already past 1 a.m. and i don’t want to piss my new neighbours off…” 

 lolabuns: you’re lagging girl

“yeah… my wifi router is all the way in the living room. i haven’t gotten one installed yet in my room,” you murmur in reply, bottom lip tugging into a small pout out of guilt. “sorry but let me know if it crashes, yeah?” 

the stream settles into that strange but familiar sort of rhythm again—chat spiraling off into unrelated jokes, viewer count slowly climbing higher. maybe it’s the late-night timing on a weekday.

you hum softly under your breath, leaning in to type something on your keyboard when—

knock.

you freeze momentarily, turning your head slightly towards the door of your bedroom. you pause, fingers hovering above the keys. 

nothing follows. no second knock. no footsteps. no nothing. 

just silence. 

you wait another second, holding your breath like it might help you hear better. “...huh,” you mutter, shaking your head as you look back at the screen. “have you guys listened to the new the marias album?” you ask casually enough, fingers tapping on the keyboard. 

the silence doesn’t last five minutes. 

knock. knock. knock.

this time, it’s slightly firmer and louder than before. still measured—three knocks. not aggressive or desperate, but still…. your hands stop moving over the keyboard, you frown as your eyes flicker up to the screen, waiting to see if the chat caught it too. 

they did.

ns3000: ? again

cellerry: did you lock the door yet???? 

d1cks0ut: okay so did anyone hear the knockings

you glance toward your bedroom door that you left slightly open just enough for the hallway light to bleed through faintly. but you don’t move from your seat.

“uhm,” you mutter. barely above a whisper. you can feel your heart give a strange flutter. 

you tell yourself that it’s probably nothing—but the hairs on your arms rise. 

“this place is already so weird,” you continue, shaking your head and shifting in your seat. “it’s the new condo thing… i’m not superstitious but, who knows…” you murmur, looking back at the camera. you try to laugh and shrug it off as nothing, but the silence that follows feels heavier now.

you wait for the chat to reassure you. 

cheetocheesefingers: dont gaslight yourself lmao

axera: i would never knock twice im respectful 

ksh998: the ghost from ur old apartment followed u here LOL

meliss4: call ur boyfriend for help!!

“boyfriend—?” you chuckle, smiling. “do you guys think i’m capable of bagging one? be honest.” you shake your head, leaning back in your chair. “if i ever have a boyf—”

knock, knock, knock—

loud, sharp, and right in the middle of your sentence.

it snaps the smile clean off your face. you whip your head almost instantly, eyebrows furrowing in confusion and slight frustration. are they a bunch of lousy teenagers playing stupid pranks on new tenants? 

now you’re just annoyed. 

you sit forward, pushing your glasses up slightly on the bridge of your nose as you push back your chair. “okay, what the hell,” you mutter, standing up, the camera catches the lower half of your body. “whoever’s playing ding-dong-ditch in a building at this hour needs to get their crap straight.”

cocohum: NO STAY PUT

bacon01: STAY WTF CALL SOMEONE

iris_99: YN DONT CHECK 

icebaby: this is so scripted

you ignore the flood of panicked messages of your viewers telling you to not check who’s at the front door. the wooden floor creaks softly under your feet as you step out of frame, leaving your webcam aimed at your mattress and stream running. 

from the mic, it catches the sound of your doorknob turning, followed with a low creak. then faintly and muffled, your viewer catches your voice. 

“oh—hello, can i help you?” 

they don’t hear what the other person says. it’s too low, a rumble of syllables lost in distance and static. but whatever is it—it makes your tone shift. you reply something again, a little sharper like you didn’t like what you heard. 

“uh, no—this isn’t….. yeah, i think you got the wrong house—” 

the voice responds again, still too quiet to understand. 

then, comes the edge in your voice. “no, really—this isn’t—you need to leave.” 

a pause. 

“get out.”

miss_muffin: i cant hear shit what did they say?

valentina12: ? who is that whats happening

hovey_v7: where’s yn?

before anyone in the chat can answer and update those who just joined, a short scuffle, the sound of something—someone—moving too fast can be heard through the mic. your voice again, panicked and high-pitched now telling the other person to get out and it sounds like you’re trying to keep the door closed.

“no—get out, oh my god! get off me!” 

something slams and something breaks—the door slams shut loud enough that the mic peaks, briefly distorting the sound. more movement erupts after that, fast and frantic of shuffling footsteps and grunts of resistance. 

then comes your voice again, breathless, scared, and desperate—”don’t touch me!” 

the scuffling continues for a few more seconds, your voice rising once more, now muffled and crying but it cuts off abruptly with a dull, sound of impact of flesh or bone or body hitting the floor. 

something shifts, someone’s panting in the background that doesn’t sound like you. it’s harsher and manlier and too loud. 

chubbyguy: hello? i cant hear anything.

bvrn1: holy fuck

newyorkgoofy: SOMEONE CALL 911 

bellatio: WHERE IS SHE FROM

 icebaby: is this fake? no way wtf

silence. just the low static hum of your mic, the soft mechanical buzz from your computer fan, and the faint hum of your fridge in the kitchen.

your chair remains empty on the screen, spinning ever so slightly. the room feels impossibly still like it’s frozen in time, waiting for you to return.

but their streamer doesn’t come back. 

a few seconds stretch on, the viewers climb in numbers frantically—more and more people flooding the chat, messages growing urgent. messages flood in—pleas, prayers, desperate calls for help, and confusion—but there’s no confirmation. 

a minute later, without warning, the stream goes dark.

Disconnected: Network Error.

💭 just a thought that i put in this short drabble? i want to get it out of my heeeaddd.... (can u tell i just watched stream videos that are 'disturbing' on youtube)? anything that happens during/after the stream is up to ur imagination hehehehe.................. also im thinking of sunghoon for this mmmmmmm

[mangonom]

‎ . ݁⋆ 𐙚 sammy bryant + shy new girl next door 𐙚 ݁˖ . ݁

(chap. 3: or, baking solo and then, unexpectedly, baking not-solo. wc: 6.2k)

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a/n: hi my loves ;> this chapter involves quite a bit of baking and some cute domestic kitchen action! pls enjoy. chapters one and two can be found under #cervine on my page!

baking wasn’t supposed to suck— quite the contrary, really. it was supposed to be one of life’s greatest pleasures. precise ratios and reactions, rigid instructions. predictability, dotted in chocolate chips and flaky sea salt. boxed up neatly and wrapped in a ribbon. 

but, somehow, the scruffy bastard in 310 had made it the most miserable pastime ever, and you hadn't even reached the real meat and potatoes. no, all you'd done was scroll online for recipes, belly-down on your sofa. psychoanalyzing a man you'd met three times proved to be quite the challenge, especially when during those three meetings, the only things you'd focussed on were the girth of his forearms and the wolfish gleam in his eyes. that information wasn’t particularly useful in determining his baked good preferences, and, as you tried to decide on a thank-you offering for the man, the image of his chest muscles hadn't done you much good.

you swore up and down that your friends would do the same (read: roll around bed, hugging a pillow and kicking their feet) if the universe oh-so-coincidentally stuck them five steps from the doorway of a divorced thirty-eight-year-old with pectorals large enough to use as pillows.

another thumbnail for quick, easy, no-chill cookies flashed across your laptop. sugar cookies felt dismissive. maybe for the rest of your neighbors they'd be fine, but after mr. bryant had acted like your night in shining armor (or, rather, moving man in dirt-stained officer garb) twice, and ER technician once, they'd come across too impersonal. he wouldn't be impressed. 

... because, apparently, you were baking to impress the guy. 

you glanced at the fruit stand on your kitchen counter. banana bread was much-loved, and in the six days since your arrival you'd managed to let a little bunch of the fruit go spotty. but banana bread felt a little too domestic. something soft, unassuming, to be savored at a kitchen island with steaming cups of coffee on a saturday morning. for matching pajama pants and temple-pressed kisses, and hair disheveled from a night of sleeping in a shared bed.  not for the cop you’d seen fewer times than fingers you had on one hand and managed to make a fool of in front of each time.

you scrolled further. god, when did pinteresting become a chore?

red velvet cupcakes were a little too desperate, the far end of the pendulum-swing away from banana bread, you decided, as yet another horrendously long blog recipe popped up. delicious, but the equivalent of a pushup-bra-clad selfie sent to a hot date. sure, there was a deep, carnal desire stirring somewhere between your ovaries and stomach whenever you saw mr. bryant, but you needed a treat less blatantly "i'm fertile", and a little more "thanks for five minutes of box-carrying assistance and the bandaid". 

you needed a treat that was polite, but not low-effort. inoffensive, but a clear step up from the chocolate chip cookies the rest of your hallway would receive.

macarons felt right. raspberry, maybe. 

but mr. bryant was about as far from polite and inoffensive as it got. he was dark, and he was hotheaded. mr. bryant was not a macaron. he oozed sinful decadence, a man who wanted something bitter to balance out his sweet. 

so, raspberry macarons and tiramisu brownies it was.

the two days since mr. bryant had saved you from bleeding out on your living room floor (or, at the very least, fumbling around like an idiot and blood-staining your new persian rug) had been a blur. a productive one, thank goodness, because somehow, you'd built and unpacked nearly everything else.

mr. bryant had offered to help with any other ikea needs of yours, but taking him up on that so soon after nearly concussing yourself in front of him fell just beyond your social scope. you hadn't dared to even wander the hallways of your apartment building in those two days. the chance of running into any neighbors, especially a certain someone from 310, with a bruised splotch and partially healed gash on your hairline was embarrassing as could be. a reminder, a public announcement, even, that a fucking idiot had taken residence in the probably-once-peaceful hallway. 

so, in your little weekend of reclusiveness, your apartment had gone from looking like a storage facility of boxes and duffles to almost, nearly put together.

there were still a few boxes of things you hadn't gotten around to organizing neatly tucked in one corner, but your caffeine-fueled unpacking had yielded a flat you could almost call cute. the kitchen, especially, had become the cozy nook of your dreams. white countertops (that the apartment came with), pale pink backsplash (that it definitely did not), little potted plants and fairy lights and matching copper cookware.

and, so, the baking spree finally began. mise en place came as naturally as breathing. two baking sheets: bowls of almond meal and confectioners sugar and egg whites, among other things, on one, and the leftover egg yolks and mascarpone and freshly-brewed espresso and fancy imported cocoa and such on the other. 

the quiet, domestic patter of your slippered feet on tile and the scent of coffee mixed with seventy-percent valrhona filled the late night. you sifted the almond flour and powdered sugar, then folded in the meringue. batter flowed from your spatula in lavalike ribbons, and you hummed in satisfaction. as you piped little pink piles of batter, your mind wandered to a land somewhere between the episode of new girl playing on the television and the way mr. bryant's biceps had strained against his shirt sleeves when you last saw him.

when the brownies came out of the oven, the macarons had had their hour to develop a skin, so they went right in. you set to work making the mascarpone cream and the ladyfinger soak, tidying as you went and with the fantasy of sammy licking tiramisu cream from your mouth’s corner on your mind— because he was, entirely, the type to do that, you thought dreamily.

macarons came from the oven, and brownies cooled a bit before being layered with espresso-soaked cookies, mascarpone cream, and a dusting of cocoa powder. you made a quick buttercream and raspberry curd for the macarons, so caught up in mr. bryant dreamland that you almost let the curd's eggs scramble on the stove. 

and this man was not hot enough to set you back an extra carton of eggs and block of kerrygold. 

god. pasture raised, golden-yolked eggs and fucking kerrygold, for a divorced cop you'd met three times.

you were absolutely pathetic. deranged, even, to imagine mr. bryant could be any mystical level of perfection that warranted more than generic-brand ingredients. you'd pulled out the imported chocolate, the nice espresso powder, the best eggs and butter you could buy without missing next month's rent. 

oh, well. 

the neighborhood was a little scary at night. and mr. bryant was a police officer. and he'd undoubtedly end up a useful (buff, fast-running, gun-wielding) contact to have. there couldn't be any pitfalls to getting on his good side, even if he was proving an absolute nightmare for your checking account. 

an (albeit, expensive) safety net, you told yourself as you pulled out a little notecard and wrote with your tidiest penmanship.

"hi mr. bryant,

thanks for the help with my bags. and for fixing my head. tiramisu brownies + raspberry macarons (those have almonds so i packed them separate). i hope they’re okay. 

— 307"

just in case things got hairy. it was a relieving thought, to know that mr. bryant was across the hall.

so, to repay him for his kindness, you bundled the treats in two little boxes. pink tissue paper down, macarons nestled in the first box and brownies in the second, both tied up with pieces of white ribbon. the desserts peeked up through the windows of their packages as you placed them in the fridge to rest. taunting you, in all of their frilly, saccharine glory.

a promise that, the next morning, they'd be just like your heart: caught in the hands of a big older brute who had no business grasping onto something so soft. and, just like your heart, he'd sink his teeth in anyways.

sleep came and went that night, plagued with distant visions of calloused hands clinging to your own manicured ones, and hazy, backlit evocations of a man you hadn't then dozed in the arms of.

then, saturday morning arrived.

your waking left a want in your chest that teetered, arms held out for balance, on the fence between cloying, naive want and unfettered, "prayed to on your knees" worship.

it bordered on religious, really. gentle hymns, whispers of the devotion that brewed between your ribs. and, though not yet shared with mr. bryant, reverence gleamed on the horizon all the same. small offerings, ribbon-wrapped and tooth-rotting where they sat in your kitchen. silver-lined with sin if you knew where to look. 

anybody who had dreamt such pure, glowing-at-the-edges visions of a man would feel the same. godlike might have been a generous descriptor, sure. but anyone could attest to the longing that came with one of those once-a-decennium reveries— a dream that filled your heart so much that to wake felt like having it severed from the rest of your body.

in typical earth-shattering dream fashion, the few minutes after you woke might as well have been a needle, pricking a hole in your mind. vivid images faded to nothing but clouded memories of warmth and tenderness. somehow, it felt that years of fantasized recollections slipped from your grasp like sand.

and then, you were left, duvet wrapped and little pajama set clad, teeming with want from a night you could barely even remember.

which, as you hauled yourself from bed, you realized absolutely blew. if you were going to wake up vaguely horny, the wet dreams of domesticity you'd had could at least have had the decency to stay for breakfast.

a sleep-clumsy hand came up to rub across your face. you wiped at an eye booger. blinked one, two times, slow and heavy. stared down at your duvet, empty room somehow brimming with phantom embarrassment for how horrendously deep in puppylove you were.

honestly. the dresser you'd assembled two nights prior would've been laughing at you if it had a larynx. you swore the stuffed animals propped on the other side of your too-big and too-empty bed grew a tinge of judgement in their embroidered eyes.

what was this man doing to you?

still wrapped in your blanket, you padded to the kitchen. there was no use in being theatrical with your delivery of the baked goods, you decided as you tugged the refrigerator open. it's not like he'd see it— no, you'd be in and out, spending all of three seconds in that hallway. 

plus, you had more important things to get to. the other cookies you'd be delivering to the rest of the hallway, mainly, and a bit more daydreaming about mr. bryant's apparent need for eye contact whenever the two of you crossed paths.

so, that's how it went. 

you darted into the hallway, gently placing the two boxes on his doormat, leaving without so much as a knock. the walls of your building weren't the thickest, and, embarrassingly, you knew that he was out and about quite often. picking up thai food, going for a jog, stepping out to handle a quick off-the-clock issue at work. whatever it was, his heavy footsteps fell often enough in the halls that you figured he'd see the treats soon enough. no need to put yourself in his line of fire, initiate an interaction that would have the butterflies in your stomach tweaking like they were on methamphetamines. 

and then, the beautiful, simplistic, near-holy act of saturday morning baking began. within minutes, butter was browning on the stove and you were chopping more valrhona. because, they may not have been mr. bryant, but you were going to assert yourself as a good neighbor to the rest of the hall's residents regardless. 

(and, most importantly, browning the butter and using the artisanal french chocolate made an effort to close the humiliatingly large gap between mr. bryant and the rest of your neighbors. gave you some piece of mind, helped you convince yourself that you hadn't gone entirely off the deep end.)

butter browning and chocolate chopped, you were in the midst of measuring out the dry ingredients with your scale when a heavy set of steps walked down the hallway outside, and paused very identifiably at the spot you'd dropped the brownies and macarons. then, a door slam.

oh, fuck.

baking resumed promptly after the mini heart attack, and you tried to ignore how much of a fool you'd probably just made of yourself (because.... dainty pink macarons for a cop?). 

the second door slam across the hall and gentle knocking on your own door that came a minute or two later made that very, very hard.

double fuck.

okay. um, you thought (or, rather, didn't think. obsessing over a man that made you go so stupid couldn't be healthy).

your hands dropped to your apron, dusting off the flour, and that's when you got a good look at yourself. off-white apron, frilled at the edges, small enough to just cover the little pajama set you had on underneath. scrunched white socks. slipper booties.

yeah. whatever. good enough. like you hadn't already been in the midst of a humiliation ritual.

leaving mr. bryant in the hallway would've been rude, you decided after momentary panic. so you pattered over to the door, flipping at the deadbolt and tugging it open.

sammy's week had been an intense oscillation between the highest highs and lowest lows.

go to work, fist-fight someone on a patrol trip to the south side. come home, see his adorable deer of a neighbor failing miserably at moving in and take the wide-open opportunity to give her a neighborly helping hand.

the next day: spend his lunch break scrubbing blood from his favorite jacket. then after his shift, do the heavy lifting and drop some not-so-subtle hints at the poor girl.

the day after that? the awful memories from his shift of fucking up a major investigation lead meant absolutely nothing to him once he got to play doctor for a teary-eyed, bleeding fawn.

he must've saved a elementary school bus from being hijacked and GTA'd off of a bridge in a past life. or something else, equally as cool and of the same magnitude. the universe had never thrown him home run after home run like this. a sign, surely. it had to be.

two days later, saturday morning, he woke like he'd been put under anesthesia the night before. belgian ales and cold leftovers and ESPN were a lethal combination, and he rose after nine hours of awkward-sofa-sleep with zero clue what millennia it was. his usual weekend morning weights session and jog at the gym helped his mood marginally, and after that, the transgressions of his past week weighed down on his shoulders a bit less and he climbed up the three flights of stairs.

....and there were boxes on sammy's doorstep.

he clocked them as he landed on the top stair, hooded eyes narrowing with the same caution he carried constantly as a police officer, then un-narrowing as he saw the ribbons they were tied with.

not a bomb. awesome.

the wolfish, nasty feeling deep in his heart thrummed faster as he got to his front door. he crouched, picked up the packages.

cookies of some type and brownies of another, in two separate boxes. little treats peeking up through the cellophane windows of the boxes you'd tucked them into, nestled in pinked and wrapped in white.

and the note on top oh-so-sweetly told him that you'd been mindful while packaging in case sammy had a nut allergy.

it'd been less than a week and you'd already ruined this man, through and through. he was gone.

it didn't matter if you didn't want to be his, or you didn't quite know what you wanted just yet, he vowed silently. he'd get you there eventually. 

untying the boxes after he'd taken them into his kitchen, door slamming a bit more than he meant it to in his rush, made him feel as gross as you’d done the entire week. the white ribbons, delicate and soft, came undone so easily under his roughed-up fingertips. yet, despite the daintiness of it all, the only thing he could think about (besides the heavy, chocolatey scent of whatever kind of magic was in that box) was tying you up in delicate, soft ribbons, and having you come undone under his fingertips, too.

the brownie had hardly passed his lips, espresso-rich and layered with cream, when he dropped the treat right back into its box and let his head sink into his hands, elbows resting on the kitchen counter. absolutely absurd rate at which blood was rushing to his crotch aside, there was no way you were this perfect. he dragged a hand through his short auburn curls, straightening up. bittersweetness lingered in his mouth, and, before he did a whole lot of thinking, he shoved the boxes into his fridge and strode back into the hallway. two more paces and he was at your doorstep, knuckles coming up to tap on the wood with all of the care he could possibly offer.

after a pause so long he could feel your panic oozing out by his shoes, you tugged the door open.

and sammy, then and there, knew he was going to take a cold shower the moment he got back to his flat. probably tug one out, one forearm braced on the tile wall, face set in a grunt. the water would drown out whatever noises he'd make, anyways.

you were in a soft babydoll pajama set and had a smudge of flour on your cheekbone, with a tiny apron tied tightly at your waist and fluffy booties on your feet. 

he hoped whatever hard-on he was forming wouldn't show through his workout clothes— that day, basketball shorts, tennis shoes, and a gray hoodie. 

the mental image of you standing there, looking awfully flustered at sammy's sudden appearance, went straight back to his jerk-vault. not the idea of you solving the growing issue you'd just caused in his (now, he realized, horrendously too thin) shorts, or bending over his bathroom counter. just you, standing there, looking like the housewife he'd never had the chance to pamper.

and you just stared. 

then, eyebrows furrowed:  

“…my butter is going to burn, i... should, maybe, um... do you... need something?"

yes. he did, thank you very much. he needed to give you head like you'd never had before. which, judging by the way you’d shivered each time he’d touched your arm since meeting him for the first time, wouldn’t be much of a hurdle to cross.

sammy let his head fall a little to the side, hand slowly reaching out to your head— still wildly bruised, scabbed-over cut peeking out from your hairline.

you flinched back a few millimeters at first but didn't move beyond that.

his fawn, he thought to himself, pride surging in his chest. the kind of creature that flinched when reached towards, but didn't run. the kind that made him want to sit still for hours, hand outstretched, coaxing it closer just for the satisfaction of getting it to nuzzle into him.

his hand grazed the healing wound, rough pad of his thumb barely touching your own skin. with his eyes trained towards the top of your head, you got a chance to look down at his legs.

(the man could obviously run. god, you didn't even mind that his hoodie covered up his arms that day. you felt like a victorian-era damsel. when did calf muscles make you this hot and bothered?)

"holdin' up okay? head doesn't hurt too bad, does it?" he hummed, eyes trained intently on the bruise. his bottom lip pouted out just a little bit in maybe-faux sympathy. poor thing.

your brow furrowed harder, little huff blowing past your lips as you glanced downwards.

sammy let it slide this time. he'd made you squirm later, anyways.

"no, it's... it isn't bad, i.... that's why i baked. thanks. for, um... helping. with that," you say, squirming back ever so slightly this time. one of your hands was clinging into the fabric of your apron.

his eyebrows shot up, and he could see your hand tighten in the fabric at your waist as he let his coyote-smile come out to play. little fawn, tensing to run. frozen in the road and trying to gauge if the headlights staring her down were about to be her reckoning.

they weren't, you decided, as sammy continued to fuss over your browbone. a man with a touch so benevolent could surely mean no harm. he let his hand drop to his side once more, gaze lowering back to your own. 

the hoodie-shorts combo was really doing things to your heart rate. he smelled like he'd just worked out, and he was a little gross, and it was a lot gross how much that made you want him.

"those... brownies, whatever was in them, they're good. you bake a lot, chickadee?" he said, leaning his shoulder up against the doorway. one eyebrow was set higher than the other, head tilted back a bit so he stared cockily down the bridge of his nose. his crooked teeth just barley showed, words restrained like he was trying to not scare you too bad.

you nodded, curt and sharp.

"yeah, um... there's...  my butter's gonna burn, can i.... help, with something?" you fumbled, looking over your shoulder towards the kitchen, then back to sammy. then, back to the kitchen and back to sammy again.

his head tilted to the right another few degrees.

"baking? more, right now?"

a quick nod, and another worried glance back at the kitchen.

"you need any help?"

and suddenly, the butter didn't matter much at all. your eyes flicked up to his own, forehead wrinkled in confusion.

"...you don't ba--... well, you don't seem.... particularly, um, like...."

you paused, wrinkles becoming a bit more prominent, only then, with frustration at your own verbal clumsiness. sammy saw the exasperated little sighs and the halfway-to-uncomfortable fidgeting and wanted to devour you whole.

a long pause, a self-irritated deep breath.

"can you bake?"

sammy let himself pretend to ponder for a minute. no, he couldn't bake. not in the slightest.

"i'm not not good at it," he decided on after a moment. "and i'm a cop, i'm... good with instructions. just tell me what to do."

you didn't look particularly convinced.

"i'm good at washin' dishes," he tacked on weakly at the end, tossing excuses to let himself into your flat at the wall like they were spaghetti, waiting for one to stick.

"...yeah, okay, um..." you started, throwing one last glance before looking back at him with a sigh. "dishes would.... that'd be nice. sure"

and suddenly, you'd stepped back, tugging the door the rest of the way for him to follow you in with a soft mutter about shoes going by the door. no injuries, no major furniture accidents, no falling up the stairs. no extenuating circumstances, just you, apron and pajama clad, inviting him in under normal conditions.

sammy toed his shoes off with a little smile, gently commenting on how much better your place looked already. 

"any more furniture try to kill 'ya?" he asked, sticking his shoes next to your own on the door-side rack. he had to swat away the mental images of matching mugs, two-piece kitchenware sets, and a second toothbrush tucked behind your sink like they were a misbehaving dogs being whacked with a rolled newspaper.

you'd already stepped from the entryway further into the kitchen again, muttering a little "no, sir," as you used a spatula to stir the toasting milk solids. a delicious, nutty scent emanated up from the stove, and he followed you over after a moment.

your flat had come together warmer, nicer than he'd expected it to during your ikea fiasco two days prior. the kind of cozy that always smelled of cinnamon and sugar, more organized than he could ever dream of his own place being. countertop pantry-ingredient jars, matching copper pots hung from the wall, accent towels to match the pink backsplash, and warm under-shelf lighting that made the kitchen glow. 

it was dreamy, and it felt like home, and suddenly sammy couldn't help but imagine himself feeling you up as you baked cinnamon rolls there on a sunday morning. 

you tended to the butter on the stove, quietly, not even seeming to care how he'd pushed into your den. after, relievedly, making sure it hadn't burnt, you glanced at sammy over your shoulder.

"you can... um, sorry that i don't... have any kitchen seats. i haven't put my barstools together," you say awkwardly, eyes dating to a couple of boxes tidily stacked in your entryway.

sammy brightened like a bulb, snapping out of the quiet spell you’d drawn him under so easily. he pushed off of the countertop,  

"i'll do it. you got a toolkit?"

you did a double take back at him, eyes widening a little.

"um, it's... broomcloset, right there. top shelf."

if someone had told sammy he’d someday be cooped up in a college girl’s apartment on a rainy saturday morning, screwing together furniture on her entryway floor while she played bakery like he wasn’t even there, he’d tell them they were full of shit. then he'd go beat his meat to the idea of domesticity like that, so saccharine it’d rot his teeth out.

but there he was.

hoodie sleeves shoved up, sitting among a pile of screws, fixing the bar stool's seat to its legs for the second time. he'd kept messing up which screws went where, too focussed on the concentrated pout on your face as you measured ingredients into your stand mixer.

you didn't make any effort to kill the quiet that'd settled over the two of you as you worked on your separate tasks in tandem.

so, sammy decided, he'd bribe you out of your little skittish silence the way you lured a nervous stray into your palm: slow and casual, treading so lightly it didn't even notice the movement.

"who're the cookies for?" he asked, not even looking up at you. eye contact or conversation could happen, but not simultaneously, he'd concluded. "smells good."

"... oh, just... rest of, um, of the hallway. didn't wanna seem rude 'n not say hi, after moving in," you say. "you can.... obviously have some, if you.... 'f my baking's not too bad," you tacked on after a moment, scraping more valrhona — some fèves chopped, some left whole — into the dough.

"so i'm not special?" sammy asked, feigning horror, looking up at you from the floor with an overdramatized look. you did a double-take down at him, eyes widening a little. partially at the way his arms strained holding mostly-assembled furniture together, and partially at the though of offending him.

"no! no, of... yes, you're..." you backtracked hurriedly, voice trailing off as he chuckled, glancing back down at his work with a "just messin' with 'ya." 

god. you'd almost said "of course you're special" out loud. to his face. while he kneeled on your entryway laminate.

a less-comfortable silence swept back over both of you as he finished up, before he stood. he brushed his hands off dramatically, in typical man-over-thirty-five fashion, before gathering the two barstools — one for him, one for you, he thought proudly — and placing them neatly by the peninsula.

your eyes flashed back down to the cookie dough, worried about being caught staring at the veins that bulged on his forearms, what with his hoodie pushed up above his elbows, or the happy trail that flashed for half a moment above his basketball shorts. 

tummy-hair and the scent of chocolate and browned butter clouding your mind, you didn't notice sammy's movement towards you at first. 

a cop like him was supposed to be loud, clunky, out of place, amidst softness like your home. it was disarming how well he fit in with the gentleness, the domesticity. a grounding presence, adding to the warmth of the room and radiating safety. there was something about him not getting to experience that kind of calm, not usually the one offering tenderness since becoming both a cop and whatever always-on-edge brute his ex-wife had molded him into, that made just existing in your space nearly religious to him.

and suddenly, he was at your side, rough hand rising softly to your shoulder, sending an immediate shiver down your spine. his warm palm (a sharp contrast to the usual frigidity of your own, you thought amorously) radiated sparks, or so it felt, into your arm, over the pajama top and apron strap.

he tugged you a little so your body oriented towards his chest, hardly an arms length between the two of you. his eyes weren't, oddly enough, on your own, but instead glared tenderly at a spot on your cheek.

"you've got...." he started, free hand coming up to his face. in a quick dart of pink he'd wet the pad of his thumb. he ducked down a bit, situating himself more at eye-level with your cheek, before extending his hand out to the aforementioned offending spot below your malar.

the warmth of his dampened thumb pressing firmly-but-not-roughly against your face came and went. the somersaults in your stomach came and stayed.

the spot chilled as his hand pulled back, leaving a small patch of wetness on your face that tingled as the air made contact, and another shudder coursed through the rest of your body. 

"...just... a bit of flour. s'gone," he hummed, eyes moving to your own from where they'd been trained on your cheek. his gaze was patient, a kind of quiet fondness that felt undeserved, like he’d already decided you were soft and good and worth taking care of. like you were his.

it should've been gross. everything grossed you out. love, intimacy, socializing, eye contact. but, this time, all you could do was try to not pass out. your cheeks heated an embarrassing amount, and you mumbled a quick thanks before ducking past him towards the cabinet you kept clingfilm in.

when you'd gotten the plastic wrap and turned back around, you were horrified to see him hovering next to the cookie dough, man-hands reaching down towards the bowl.

mr. bryant may have been gorgeous, and broad, and warm, and everything that gave your solo-life apartment the second presence it needed, but he was still a guy. and a cop, at that. there was no telling when he'd cleaned his hands off last, and, as juvenile as your crush on him may have been, cleanliness still mattered when the treats were for the rest of your neighbors.

you were next to him in a few quick steps, making a quiet noise of displeasure as you reached to bat his arm away.

mr. bryant was faster. wolves tended to have than advantage over fawns.

his calloused hand reached out, locking around your wrist and pushing back. it tightened, just enough to keep you from interrupting his taste-test. he didn't bother to look up at you, eyes trained on the cookie dough like he was judging which bit had the most chocolate chunks.

his grip was a show that he had the upper hand when it came to you. not to harm, just to assert his control over something so soft and so fleeting. a steady kind of dominance.

and you stood there, mouth gaping ever so slightly, heart nearly pounding through your apron. walking the tightrope, balancing uncertainly, between shy discomfort and overflowing infatuation. 

"relax, kid, 'm just takin' my payment," he hummed, tugging free a chunk of dough and bringing it into his mouth. he chewed, once, twice, then swallowed, adam's apple shifting. his tongue darted out, licking off a bit of the buttery, sugary goodness that'd clung to his thumb. 

and he groaned.

not loud, not obscene. quiet, like a confession only meant for the two of you to hear. your breath hitched, caught in your chest, nearly suffocating in how quickly this man had gone from a stranger to the first temptation of sin life had brought to you.

"god, fuck, girlie," he purred, licking his thumb once more and finally casting his gaze to the side, at you. it was slow, and he was deliberate in the way he dragged his eyes across your face. drinking you in. he almost looked angry, and you were incredibly attracted to the notion that mr. bryant was the type who looked pissed whenever he ate good food.

and sammy, for one, was glad your slightly-startled eyes lingered on his own, because if you'd looked lower (say, to his crotch), your alarm would've grown tenfold.

it wasn't his fault. you were in an apron and pajamas, for fucks sake. it was his god given duty to picture how'd you'd look bent you over the countertop mid-baking session. hands desperately clawing at smooth marble as he worked that endearing, ever-present anxiety from your body.

he swore to whatever religious figure watching down on the both of you in that moment that he'd be nice, and gentle. and, so, to please, please let you wander fully into grasp, just enough for you to realize how good surrendering to something stronger than yourself felt.

and then he shook his head, barely noticeably, trying to clear the thoughts that were creeping into his mind like a slow-moving fire. 

you'd probably had a scary day, thanks to him. deciding to give you some relief from his persistent gaze, he glanced back down into the bowl of dough— seemingly insignificant, somehow a force strong enough to make his brain absolutely reel with visions of domesticity.

"you gotta bring me a few've these when they're out tomorrow, yeah?" he insisted, letting his eyes wander to the mostly-contained mess of mise en place that remained on the counters. "for buildin' your furniture."

you nodded, mumbling out an awestruck "yessir" at the quiet demand, staring intently at the bowl of cookie dough as you tugged it towards yourself. with a gentle press, you covered in cling film and then hurried it towards the fridge.

sammy watched you move—still skittish, but slowly easing into his presence. his little stray. tempted by his promises of the safety, the comfort, that lingered just past the initial trepidation of letting him into your space. you hadn’t fully settled, not yet, but you were letting him in, inch by inch.

and, as you pattered around him (anywhere but face-to-face, you thought desperately), you didn't catch the way his gaze followed you. he read you like scripture, taking in the quick steps and the lowered eyeline and the fidgeting hands. oh-so-patiently, he let you orbit him like he was the sun, your movements circling him as if he had a gravitational pull on you. like you were tethered to him.

he pushed up off of the counter he'd been leaned against, head cocking as you, more or less, refused to look at him.

he'd work on that next time, but it was cute, for now.

"don't forget my cookies tomorrow," he said, shoving a hand in his back pocket as he sauntered to the door. you glanced over your shoulder cautiously. "i'll've finished the brownies, and the... those little pink ones by then, probably."

his hand hovered over the doorknob as he pulled you into his gaze one last time.

"...but i should go, before i take that dough out'a the fridge. see you 'round, yeah?"

his eyebrows quirked as he waited on an answer, and, knowing he'd put you through quite the day, let your little nod of affirmation satiate his roaring appetite for seeing you squirm.

and then, with a barely-there smile, he was gone 

you didn't move at first. silence filled your ears like they were stuffed with cotton, and it was almost uncomfortable. no more teasing conversation, no more quiet thuds and clangs of furniture being built, no second heartbeat. an unpleasant feeling crept up in your chest as a minute passed, and you realized, like being hit with a freight train, that your apartment had been missing something. 

him.

the space felt weird, nearly half-empty, after he left. your arms wrapped around your middle, loosely, like your body was trying to process the abhorrent lack of mr. bryant in the room, or trap in the remnants of his warmth.

and there, in three-oh-seven, bereft of the man you were coming to venerate as your protector in this new and uncertain life of yours, you ached. with want, with desire, with desperation for the weight of his hand on your shoulder once more.

the first five minutes without him passed with all of the slowness molasses as you washed dishes, and there was no denying how deeply, truly in trouble you were. the kind of trouble that had risen slow and steady like dough until it suddenly burst from its all-too-small vessel. 

you weren't entirely sure what mess you'd wandered into, in all of its broad-shouldered, calloused, jackal-voiced glory. but you knew, god save your soul, that you were going to let it consume you.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ a/n contd.: guys this is bootycheeks i think. when i said slow burn i meant slow as a snail. im sorry to anyone who is frustrated by the fact that the chapter literally built up to a picosecond-long face touch (@ user erwinsvow) and it is with deep regret that i'm informing y'all they aren't boning for quite a while. be prepared to hate me even more!!! if you don't hate me and, by some miracle, want to be on a taglist for this, just lmk (dm, comment, drop it in a reblog, wtv!)

if you're confused about the dynamic going on and if fawngirl is aware of sammy's attraction, or even fully of her own.... yeah. me fucking too. i said i'd write, not that it'd make any sense. im also trying to let this settle somewhere between reader-insert and oc but im not sure where on that scale it's wandering off to, so i'm sorry if you read this and are super annoyed by the "reader"-ish-ness but then super specific characterizations for said reader. again. i said i'd write, not that it'd be any good!!

last apology!! in case its not obvious i apologize for everything!! sorry for all of the annoying baking prose and terminology i really didn't mean to let it eat up that much space. there are literally more brownie and macaron rambles than there are sammy rambles. if you can't tell the one thing i love more in this world than sammy is baking.

if you've made it this far: we're officially married. i love you.

mango signing off! next chapter should hopefully not have the same nine-extra-day delay this one did