#he means a lot to me and i absolutely adore him

[satellite-evans]

Hi! Could I please request a one shot where Harry is sick maybe during tour and his gf has to take care of him? Thank you! I love your writing!

a/n: thank you so much for liking my work, it truly means a lot! it's a little short but I still hope you'll like it <3

sick on tour

The hotel room is quiet except for the noise of the air conditioning and the occasional sniffle from the lump of blankets curled up in the middle of the king-sized bed. The curtains are drawn, shielding the bright city lights outside from intruding on the peaceful, dimly lit space. Harry has always liked his hotel rooms cozy—candles on the nightstand, his favorite hoodie draped over the chair, and the softest pillows he could find. But tonight, none of it seems to bring him comfort.

You stand at the edge of the mattress, arms crossed, watching Harry sulk into his pillow. His curls are a mess, sticking to his slightly damp forehead, his nose a little pink from the fever, and yet—despite looking absolutely miserable—he’s still trying to convince you he’s fine.

“I can do the show,” he rasps, voice hoarse and scratchy. He attempts to prop himself up on his elbows, but the movement sends him into a fit of coughing. You sigh and press a hand to his chest, gently urging him back down.

“Baby, no. You can barely sit up.”

He frowns, brows knitting together like a petulant child. “S’just a little cold.”

“You have a fever, a sore throat, and you sound like you swallowed sandpaper,” you point out, smoothing your fingers over his clammy forehead. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Harry grumbles something incoherent and burrows further into the pillows. You can tell he hates this—hates being taken care of, hates being seen as anything less than strong. But the thing is, to you, he’s always strong. Even now, curled up in a nest of tissues and blankets, he’s still the man you love more than anything.

Tour has been brutal on him lately. Night after night of performing, giving his all to the crowds that adore him, leaving every ounce of himself on that stage. He never complains—not about the exhaustion, not about the jet lag, not about the toll it takes on his body. But you see it in the way his shoulders slump when he thinks no one is looking, the way his voice is a little more raw each morning, the way he clings to you just a little tighter when he finally collapses into bed at the end of the night.

“I can’t cancel, though,” he whispers after a long moment, his voice laced with guilt. “They’ve probably spent so much money—flights, hotels, tickets, clothes and waited months just to see me. I can’t let them down, I just can't.”

You soften, understanding where his frustration is coming from. Harry has always carried the weight of his fans' happiness on his shoulders, always put them first. It’s one of the many reasons you love him—but right now, he needs to put himself first.

You take his hand in yours, rubbing slow, comforting circles over his knuckles. “Harry, sweetheart, I already spoke to Jeff. He and the team handled everything. They put out a statement, rescheduled the show, and made sure the fans know how much you care about them Not that they need a statement anyway. They know how much you love them.”

His brows furrow. “You—”

“I took care of it,” you interrupt gently. “So you don’t have to worry, okay? The fans love you, but they love you healthy and not sticky. You can’t give them the show they deserve if you push yourself too hard now. That is not what they deserve.”

Harry lets out a slow breath, his tense shoulders easing just a fraction. He still looks guilty, but there’s also relief in his tired eyes. “You really talked to Jeff?”

You nod. “Of course. Your health comes first, baby. Now please let me take care of you."

You slip out of the room quietly and return with a damp cloth, gently dabbing it against his forehead. The coolness makes him sigh, his tense shoulders relaxing under your touch. Then, you hold up a spoonful of honey-laced tea to his lips. He scrunches his nose but accepts it, swallowing with a soft grimace.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice slightly clearer now.

You smile and brush your fingers over his cheek. “Of course, my love.”

After making sure he’s warm enough, you reach for the small bowl of soup on the nightstand that you kindly asked form the hotel staff. “Just a little, H. You need something in your stomach other than medicine.”

"The fans would've probably ask for me to sing medicine tonight but they can't because I need it. The irony." He said, trying to lighten the room up with a joke but cough wave that crushed him once again.

"Drink Harry." You said sternly.

He looks at you like he wants to argue, but he knows better. You lift the spoon to his lips, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward and takes a bite. A small, content sigh escapes him, and you can’t help but grin.

“You’re good at this,” he mutters, sleep beginning to weigh heavy on him.

“I'm just good at loving you lovie,” you reply simply, brushing back his curls as he lets his eyes drift shut.

His fingers reach for yours under the blanket, giving them a weak squeeze. “Love you more.”

You sit beside him, pressing a soft kiss to his fever-warmed temple. “Just rest, my love. I’ve got you.”

And with the way he sighs, relaxing into your touch, you know he believes you.

Tomorrow, he’ll probably try to argue again. Try to tell you he feels fine, that he’s ready to get back out there, to put on another show. But for tonight, he’s yours to take care of. And you wouldn’t trade that for anything in the world.

[rik0shii]

lads guys headcanons

(zayne,sylus,xavier,rafayel,caleb)

warnings :fluff

request: yes

thank you for requesting, I'm new to doing those things so pls tell me if it wasn't to your liking or if it wasn't what you imagined so that I can fix it and get better !

Zayne

• Super punctual—if you have a date set for 1 PM, he’s already outside at 12:50, waiting in his car just so he can call you at the exact time.

• Kids adore him. He has that calm, safe aura that makes even the shyest child want to hold his hand.

• ASMR king—his whispery, soft-spoken voice could put anyone to sleep. If he ever recorded voice memos for you, they’d be the most soothing thing ever.

• After a long mission, he welcomes you with quiet reassurances, hugging you from behind and murmuring, “You did great today. I missed you.”

• Loves holding your hand, whether it’s a quick squeeze of reassurance or intertwining fingers while walking.

• Soft, sleepy smiles—the rare moments when he’s tired but still awake enough to look at you and grin lazily.

• Would totally tuck a blanket around you if you fell asleep on the couch.

Xavier

• Definitely the “I know a spot” guy. And when he shows you? It’s breathtaking—some secret rooftop, a hidden garden, a quiet overlook.

• Hand-holding and forehead kisses in those quiet places where it’s just the two of you.

• If you’re on a mission and he’s not with you, he refuses to sleep. He’ll pace, check his phone, stare at the ceiling—anything but rest.

• CLINGS when you return. Arms wrapped around you, face buried in your neck, and a muffled, “Don’t ever leave me like that again.”

• Skilled with his fingers? Definitely means he can play the piano beautifully. Would learn your favorite song just to surprise you.

• Lowkey romantic in an effortless way. Always the guy to drape his jacket over you if you’re cold or tilt your chin up before a kiss.

Sylus

• Loves stargazing. If you ever go on a late-night drive, he’ll pull over just to sit on the hood of the car with you, pointing out constellations.

• Loves rainy days—the sound, the smell, the way it makes everything feel cozy. If it’s storming outside, he’s making hot drinks and pulling you onto the couch for a movie marathon.

• A big fan of sleepy cuddles. He’ll absentmindedly run his fingers through your hair while half-asleep.

• Writes little notes for you and leaves them in random places—inside books, on your mirror, tucked into your jacket pocket.

• Horrible at remembering dates but amazing at remembering tiny details—like the way you take your coffee or the song you hummed once three months ago.

• Unironically loves stuffed animals. If you ever give him one, he’ll pretend it’s no big deal, but you’ll definitely find it on his bed later.

Caleb

• Super protective but in a quiet way—he’ll walk on the side closest to the street, double-check locks before bed, and always notice when you seem off.

• Really good cook—if you’re having a bad day, expect a homemade meal that somehow tastes exactly like comfort.

• Loves fixing things for you. Broken zipper? He’s on it. Squeaky door? Fixed. Car won’t start? He’s already rolling up his sleeves.

• Acts grumpy but is secretly the softest. If you rest your head on his shoulder, he’ll pretend to sigh but won’t move an inch.

• Always warm. If you’re cold, he’ll just pull you into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

• Reads a lot. Might not admit it, but he totally has a favorite book and will casually reference it in conversation.

• Loves slow dancing in the kitchen. No music, just the sound of your breathing and his steady heartbeat.

Rafayel

• Absolute charmer—he can flirt like it’s second nature, but when it comes to real feelings, he gets a little shy.

• Knows how to dress. If you ever need help picking an outfit, he’ll make sure you look stunning.

• Sends voice memos instead of texts. His voice is too smooth not to be used.

• Great dancer—whether it’s a fancy ballroom-style twirl or a goofy little move in the kitchen, he makes everything feel fun.

• Gives the best compliments—not just about looks, but little things like, “I love how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love.”

• Cuddling expert. His hugs are always just the right amount of firm, warm, and lingering.

• Loves learning about you. Your favorite color? Noted. The way you like your tea? Memorized. A weird fact about something you love? He’ll bring it up just to see you smile.

[cybrasigilism]

could u maybe do like mutual virginity loss with player 125? like both of them r so shy and awkward,, i think it would be adorable.,.

So Anxious (Park Min-su/Player 125 X F! Reader SMUT)

warning: smut, no way | not proofread | lowercase intended | sub x sub | virginity loss | riding | this is my interpretation of this character, please be respectful even if my opinions of the character differ from your own

character: park min-su (player 125)

A/N: decided to make this one an out of the games kinda post! i absolutely adore the idea of the reader being just as shy and nervous about the whole ordeal as min-su, thank you for the cute request! hope you enjoy :)

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➤ since you were both serious about having you first be with someone special, you guys definitely tried to talk it out beforehand. but you both ended up becoming too flustered to really continue.

“how are we gonna be able to do it if we can’t even talk about it?”

“i don’t know…i still want to though..”

➤ when you guys eventually decided to get to it, you initiated the kiss but pulled away almost immediately, covering your face sheepishly.

“sorry! am i moving too fast?”

“n-not at all!” (he was definitely blushing himself, conflicted whether or not to hide the tent in his pants considering what you two were trying to do here)

➤ at first, you guys tried making out in the typical position— you being underneath him. but, you could tell min-su wasn’t exactly confident like this, so you guys switched up to where you would be straddling him. this drove him nuts of course

➤ once you guys got into the groove of things, your nerves began to calm. sure you were both shaking, but it had a bit more to do with the sheer anticipation now coursing through your bodies each time your lips met. it wasn’t made any better when min-su eventually snuck his hands up your shirt, caressing your bare back with his cold palms. the noise you made startled him, which you felt bad for

“oh, i’m sorry.. was that too much?”

“no! no, your hands are just c-cold.. that’s all..”

“ah, did you want me to stop or-“

you shake your head “feels nice, don’t stop on my account.”

➤ you’re unsure if you should at first, but you start to grind on him, drawing a unexpected moan from beneath the kiss you were currently sharing. you broke the kiss as you started to subconsciously grind harder, avoiding eye contact out of embarrassment at the expression that must have been painting your face just then. you could tell min-su was repressing his voice just as much as you were your own— you were both positively petrified to make any sound at all, in fact. but, some stifled moans made their way past as he shifted his grasp from your back to your hips.

➤ when you guys actually ended up having sex, it was a swift matter for both parties. i mean, let’s be real here. you were both completely inexperienced virgins, you couldn’t be surprised that you guys both wound up cumming fast. however swift it may have been, you enjoyed it nonetheless. he wasn’t too big, so it didn’t hurt too badly, but it was enough to make you feel better than your fingers ever could.

➤ oh yeah, and you guys could forget about masking those moans of yours any longer. the moment you sank down onto his dick, min-su was a goner. you had never heard him make such a sound in all your life, and you even asked him if he was alright initially. sure, you may not have been so vocal at first contact, but as soon as you started moving that completely turned on its head.

➤ after the fact, you both just kind of laid there next to one another. silent. come on, you had just changed the trajectory of your friendship forever, that was a lot to process. after a moment though, you both found that neither of you could wipe those stupid grins off your faces. you had just changed the entire path of your friendship, forever. and you were both okay with that

AAAA thank you so much for this adorable request! i absolutely loved writing some soft smut, however short it may have been :) thanks for reading again, and i’ll see you on the next one!

as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how to improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a fantastic day/night lovelies 💋💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @agorsnotworld @luvlyfandoms @putrescentpoet

[julietsf1]

Perfect Fit - Kenan Yıldız x Stylist!Reader

summary: Being Kenan’s stylist was supposed to be about clothes. Not lame excuses to spend time, lingering touches, and the slow realization that you might be in over your head (8.5k words)

content: slow burn, grumpy x sunshine, Stylist!Reader, inspired by the movie two weeks notice

an: guess who got dumped just days before valentines :') we move tho! something not f1 today guys (whaaaat??!!) I am watching a lot of football during break and I adore this guy!! next fics will be F1 again dw! wishing you all an amazing day <3

----------------------------------------------

The first time I meet Kenan Yıldız, he is exactly fourteen minutes late and precisely ten times cockier than necessary.

I check my watch as he strolls into the private suite at the Juventus training center, hands in his pockets, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Which, in fairness, he kind of has—football stardom, magazine covers, and a jawline that probably has its own fan club.

Still, none of that excuses his chronic inability to tell time.

I exhale, tapping my nails against the table as he finally, finally stops in front of me. “You’re late.”

Then, he shrugs. “You’re early.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally not how time works.”

He grins, like he’s enjoying himself far too much already. “It’s how my time works.”

He flops onto the couch. Flops. Like an overgrown puppy who has never had to experience the burden of professionalism.

“You hired me for a reason,” I remind him, keeping my tone even. “Which means you show up on time, listen to my advice, and do not, under any circumstances, make my job harder than it already is.”

Kenan, to absolutely no one’s surprise, looks thoroughly unbothered.

“You say that like I don’t have incredible fashion sense.”

I stare at him. “You showed up wearing Nike slides with socks.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“You are a multi-millionaire professional footballer. You can afford comfortable shoes that do not look like you are a high school boy.”

Kenan grins, stretching out on the couch, taking up an absurd amount of space, and watching me like this is the best entertainment he’s had all week. “Hit me with it, boss.”

Boss. The word drips with teasing.

I inhale deeply. Count to three. Do not strangle the athlete.

Instead, I pull out my laptop and spin it towards him, revealing a carefully curated mood board. “We start here. You have the Ballon d’Or ceremony in two weeks, and I am legally obligated to prevent you from showing up in anything offensive to the general public.”

Kenan leans forward, eyes flicking between the images—navy suits, sleek black tuxedos, a deep burgundy number that would look absurdly good on him if he had an ounce of taste.

Then he leans back, eyebrows raised.

“No way.”

I narrow my eyes. “No way what?”

“No way I’m wearing this.” He points at the burgundy suit, horrified. “Do I look like a retired jazz musician?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s Dolce & Gabbana, Kenan.”

“It’s ridiculous.”

“You wear Juventus kits half the week.”

“That’s different.”

“It’s literally not.”

Kenan grins. “You’re very passionate about this.”

“Yes,” I deadpan. “That’s how jobs work.”

Kenan laughs, full and unbothered. “Alright, alright, keep your cool, boss. Let’s try some things on.”

…

It turns out styling Kenan Yıldız is a full-contact sport. And by that, I mean he is actively working against me.

“Oh, no, absolutely not.” I gesture at him to take the blazer off. “That’s too tight on the shoulders.”

Kenan spreads his arms dramatically. “I feel fine.”

“That’s because you have the self-awareness of a brick.”

He gasps. “Wow.”

“Take it off.”

“You just want to see me shirtless.”

I blink. “Kenan, I have dressed men for a living. If I were that easily impressed, I’d be unemployed.”

He grins, amused, but thankfully, doesn’t push it. Instead, he shrugs out of the blazer.

I am a professional. And, professionally speaking, I do not notice how broad his shoulders actually are. Definitely not. 

Nope.

Instead, I grab the next suit. “Here. Try this one.”

Dark navy, sleek lapels, crisp white shirt. It’s tailored enough to emphasize sharp angles, long lines.

It works.

I tell myself that my job is to make sure my clients look good.

That’s why I’m staring. Obviously.

Kenan catches my expression in the mirror and raises an eyebrow. “That’s a very serious face. What’s the verdict?”

I keep my voice even. “This one’s better.”

“Better?” He turns slightly, inspecting himself. “Or do I look outrageously handsome, and you just don’t want to admit it?”

I give him a look. “I’ll let the press decide.”

Kenan laughs. “Fair enough. You like navy on me though, don’t you? Be honest you were staring quite a bit.”

I blink, caught of guard.

“I was just checking for tailoring issues.” I mumble, feeling a bit embarrassed. 

He just snickers and turns around again, adjusting his jacket in the mirror.  “So, are you this fun with all your clients?”

I glance up. “No. Usually they listen to me.”

He smirks. “And yet you seem to be having such a great time.”

I scoff, shoving fabric swatches into my bag. “Delusional.”

He tilts his head. “No, I’m just observant.”

I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. “Try not to get this suit dirty before the event, yeah?”

“I’ll do my best,” he says solemnly, then grins. “No promises, though.”

…

I am at my desk, minding my own business, deeply focused on fabric selections for the newest Juventus-Loro Piana collaboration. Something elegant. Something refined. Something that perfectly walks the line between classic and modern.

What I am not focused on is preparing for the door to slam open so violently it rattles the frame, as if the person behind it has never once encountered the concept of knocking.

Kenan strides in like he owns the place, Juventus training kit clinging to him, a towel slung casually over his shoulder, water still dripping from his hair in rivulets. He looks like he just stepped out of an expensive body wash commercial, the kind that would sell you on the idea that showering is some profound, life-altering experience.

Except Kenan isn’t selling anything.

He is, however, still wet.

Like, actively damp.

I stare at him for a second too long before recoiling in exaggerated horror. “Did you swim here?”

Kenan stops in his tracks, blinking at me like I’m the one who doesn’t make sense.

“Shower,” he says simply, as though that explains everything.

“Yes, I can see that,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at the small puddle forming beneath his slides.

Kenan just grins, completely unbothered. “Then why’d you ask?”

I exhale sharply, dragging my hand down my face. “Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“What do you want?”

Instead of answering, he plops into the chair across from me, stretching out like this is his personal lounge. His long legs sprawl out casually, his damp towel draped haphazardly over one arm, and he’s grinning like he’s having the best day of his life.

“Need your opinion,” he says, completely unprompted.

I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “On what?”

Kenan gestures at himself with both hands, like he’s presenting a revolutionary new look. “My outfit.”

I blink.

Slowly.

Kenan, unfazed, leans back in the chair and shrugs. “Thinking of heading out later. Need to know if I should change.”

I stare at him.

I glance at his slides. At the clingy, sweat-soaked training kit. At the water dripping from his hair and pooling on my floor.

Then I stare at him again.

“Kenan,” I say finally, my tone flat.

“Yeah?”

“You are in a training kit.”

“So?”

“So unless your plans involve breaking into a 24-hour gym, yes, you should change.”

Kenan nods slowly, like I’ve just delivered some groundbreaking revelation. “Interesting. Interesting.”

I lean forward, folding my hands on the desk, fixing him with a hard stare. “Kenan?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Kenan grins, his expression one of pure mischief.

And, predictably, he doesn’t move.

Instead, he leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “You know, you really should work on your people skills. Very unprofessional of you to kick out your favorite client.”

“You’re not my favorite client,” I deadpan.

He gasps, clutching his chest like I’ve mortally wounded him. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

I let out a long, pointed sigh, pushing my chair back and standing up. “Fine. You want help? Here’s my professional advice: go home, shower—again, because apparently one wasn’t enough—and wear literally anything that doesn’t have a Juventus logo on it.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, as if he’s actually considering it. “What about the slides? Keep them or lose them?”

“Kenan.”

“Yeah?”

“Get. Out.”

He doesn’t.

Of course, he doesn’t.

Instead, he leans back even further, crossing one leg over the other, completely ignoring the fact that he’s dripping water all over my floor.

“You’re fun when you’re mad, you know that?”

I glare at him.

Kenan just laughs, completely unfazed.

And, annoyingly, he still doesn’t leave.

…

It’s late afternoon, and I am in the middle of an important call with a brand executive—the kind of person whose voice alone makes you sit up straighter, whose Italian accent makes everything sound elegant, even words like inventory management—when the door to my office swings open without warning.

I don’t need to look up. I already know.

I take a slow, measured breath. “Kenan, if you interrupt me right now, I swear to god—”

I do, in fact, look up.

And there he is.

Standing in my doorway like he belongs there.

Kenan is dressed in what I can only describe as his most unserious outfit yet—an oversized hoodie, the hood pulled up like he’s in witness protection, sweatpants that are definitely not his size, and a smoothie in hand.

I watch as he makes his way to my couch, sits down, stretches out like he owns the place, and waits.

I press my lips together. I will not engage.

The executive is explaining the finer details of their new suiting collection, using phrases like textural fluidity and contemporary tailoring, and I desperately want to focus.

Kenan, unfortunately, does not care about my professional aspirations.

First, he sighs. Loudly.

I ignore him.

Then, he tilts his head at me, blinking slowly, as if I’m some sort of unusual species he’s studying.

I continue nodding along to my call, even as he leans forward slightly, resting his chin on his fist, elbow perched on the armrest like he’s the star of some old painting.

But when he starts slurping his smoothy—slowly, loudly, dramatically—I finally give in.

I mute my call, turn slightly in my chair, and narrow my eyes at him.

Kenan, completely unbothered, lifts his eyebrows.

I keep my voice even. “Kenan. Why are you here?”

He clears his throat, sitting up slightly. “I have a question.”

I exhale. “A question.”

“Yeah.”

I brace myself. “And what, exactly, could not wait until after I finished a conversation with one of the most prestigious fashion houses in the world?”

Kenan gestures loosely at himself. “Hoodie. Thoughts?”

I blink. “Your thoughts… on your own hoodie?”

Kenan nods. “Yeah. Should I add a jacket?”

I stare at him.

Then, after a long pause, I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my desk.

“You interrupted a meeting with Loro Piana.”

Kenan nods. “Correct.”

“To ask me if you should add a jacket.”

Another nod.

I inhale. Exhale.

I fold my hands together and say, very calmly, “Kenan, get out.”

He grins, standing up. “So… no jacket?”

“Switch to jeans, there is a suede bomber on the rack in the corner over there, leave me alone now please.”

Kenan chuckles, strolling out of my office, swiftly grabbing the jacket.

…

I should have known something was up the moment Kenan knocked.

Because Kenan never knocks.

The second I look up from my laptop, the door swings open, and there he is, grinning like a man who has just thought of something ridiculous and is about to make it my problem.

“You busy?”

I don���t even bother looking up from my screen. “Extremely.”

“Perfect,” he says, stepping fully into my office. “Be ready in an hour.”

I pause. That gets my attention.

“For what?” I ask warily.

Kenan leans against my desk, arms crossed in a way that suggests he thinks he looks effortlessly cool when, in reality, he looks like he’s about to present a terrible business proposal.

“Boat day.”

I blink. “Boat day?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

Kenan tilts his head, like my answer has personally offended him.

“No?”

“That’s correct.”

He exhales dramatically, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Alright, fine. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but I actually need you there.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why?”

Kenan straightens up slightly, looking me dead in the eye. “Fashion crisis.”

I fold my arms. “You’re lying.”

He gestures at himself. “Am I?”

“Yes.”

Kenan sighs. “I just—look, things could go terribly wrong today. What if I make a bad fashion choice? What if my trunks clash with the boat? What if someone wears the same ones as me?”

I raise a skeptical eyebrow. “That’s your concern? Not drowning?”

Kenan waves a hand. “I’m an athlete, I’ll survive.” Then, after a beat, he gives me a winning smile. “Come on, boss. I need you.”

I roll my eyes, already sensing that I am going to lose this battle.

…

It takes me approximately four minutes from the moment I step onto the yacht to realize that Kenan has played me.

This is not, as he vaguely implied, a casual little boat trip.

This is a full-scale Juventus squad takeover.

The kind where music blares so loud you feel it in your chest, where food and drinks are scattered across tables in laughably excessive amounts, and where half the team has already started throwing themselves off the side of the boat like unsupervised toddlers.

I stop at the edge of the deck, blinking at the chaos in front of me, unsure of where to even begin processing this. Then, slowly, I turn to Kenan.

Then back to the scene.

Then back to Kenan.

He grins like he’s just done something spectacularly clever.

“See? Fun.”

I adjust my sunglasses and stare at him. “Why am I here?”

Kenan tilts his head, like he’s genuinely considering the question. “Moral support.”

“Moral support for what, exactly?”

He gestures vaguely to the entire scene, his hand making a lazy arc in the air. “For me.”

I exhale sharply, crossing my arms. “You’re not in distress.”

“I could be,” he counters, deadpan.

“You’re not.”

Kenan doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches behind his back and pulls out two pairs of swim trunks like he’s unveiling some great treasure. One red. One yellow.

I blink. “What is that?”

“My dilemma.”

I stare at him.

Kenan holds up both options, one in each hand, like he’s presenting me with the most critical decision of his life. “Red or yellow?”

“You dragged me onto a boat so I could pick your swimsuit color?”

Kenan nods solemnly.

I sigh, pressing my fingers to my temples. “Red.”

“Why?”

“Because it’ll make you look more tan.”

He squints slightly, like he’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with him. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Kenan, I’m sure. It’s literally basic color theory. Unless you’d prefer to look pale?”

Kenan hums thoughtfully, flipping the yellow ones over his shoulder like they no longer exist and holding up the red. “You heard her. Red it is.”

I exhale, already exhausted, and mutter under my breath, “This day is going to be a lot.”

I make my first mistake when Kenan pulls his shirt over his head, preparing to jump into the water.

I look.

Not on purpose, obviously. It just… happens.

My gaze moves before I can stop it, taking in the casual ease of his movements, the way the sunlight glints off his skin, the way his back muscles shift with every motion. It’s objectively unfair. And now I am suffering.

I force myself to look at literally anything else—the horizon, the food table, the possibility of throwing myself into the ocean just to escape this sudden, deeply annoying awareness of him.

Kenan, naturally, remains completely oblivious to my internal crisis.

“You coming in?” he calls over his shoulder as he steps toward the edge of the yacht.

“I just got here,” I reply, arms crossed.

“So?”

“So, I’m taking my time.”

Kenan narrows his eyes slightly, like he’s just detected a challenge. I don’t like that look.

“I can teach you how to dive,” he offers, his voice infuriatingly casual.

“I know how to dive,” I shoot back.

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Kenan hums, clearly unconvinced. “Let’s see it, then.”

“I don’t perform on command,” I say, my tone firm.

“You’re scared.”

“Oh my god, I am not—”

“Prove it.”

I don’t think. I just move.

Bending my knees, I inhale sharply and push off, cutting cleanly into the water.

I surface just as Kenan jumps in after me, slicing through the water effortlessly.

That’s when I make my second mistake.

I look at him.

Really look.

Sunlight glints off the water as it drips from his hair, slicked back from his face. His jawline is sharp, his grin smug and easy, and there’s something about the way he moves—like he’s completely at home here, like he’s built for this—that makes me forget how to form coherent thoughts.

And then, worse—he looks back.

Bright eyes meet mine, amused and knowing, like he’s caught me staring. Which, to be clear, I was absolutely not doing. At all. Ever.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly, desperate for neutral territory. “You’re showing off,” I accuse, my voice sharper than I intended.

Kenan’s mouth tugs into a half-smirk. “And?”

“And it’s annoying.”

He grins wider, water dripping from his chin. “You sound jealous.”

“I sound rational,” I retort, shoving water in his direction.

Kenan laughs, tilting his head back, and then—without warning—he reaches forward.

His thumb brushes a stray drop of water from my cheek, a quick, thoughtless movement that shouldn’t mean anything.

And yet—it does.

The air shifts, subtle but impossible to ignore.

His fingers hover for just a second too long, his eyes catching mine and holding. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something curious, like he’s just noticed something for the first time.

And for a moment, I can’t breathe.

Then—just as quickly—he pulls back.

The moment disappears.

And we both pretend it didn’t happen.

…

It starts, as all bad ideas do, with Kenan appearing uninvited.

I am seated at my desk, entirely minding my own business, when a shadow falls over my workspace.

Before I can look up, Kenan drops into the chair across from me with the weight of a man who has just made a major decision and is about to make it my problem.

“Help me shop,” he declares, like we were in the middle of a conversation I have no memory of participating in.

I blink. Slowly.

Kenan does not blink back.

I cross my arms. “You? Shopping?”

He spreads his arms. “What, you think I just live off free team merch?”

“Yes,” I say, without hesitation.

Kenan grins. “Okay, fair. But I still need new stuff.”

I narrow my eyes. “New stuff?”

“For events,” he clarifies, shifting comfortably in his seat like he’s already convinced me. “You’re always telling me I should take my styling more seriously, so—” he gestures at himself—“here I am. Taking it seriously.”

I study him carefully, sensing an ulterior motive.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, resting my elbows on the desk. “You want me to drop everything and go shopping with you?”

“Yes.”

“Right now?”

Kenan nods.

I exhale, setting my tablet down slowly, deliberately. “Do you know how many emails I have left to answer today?”

“No,” he says. Then, before I can continue, he leans forward, pressing both hands together in a mock-pleading gesture. “Come on, boss. Think of it as a mission. A challenge. Your most difficult client yet.”

I raise an eyebrow. “That is not the selling point you think it is.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, like he’s about to switch tactics.

And then, with devastating precision, he delivers the final blow:

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

My resolve shatters instantly.

I exhale. “Fine.”

Kenan lights up immediately. “That’s what I like to hear.”

…

Shopping with Kenan is like shopping with a toddler who has recently discovered his own free will.

At first, it’s fine. Normal. Civilized. He listens to my advice, nods along as I explain the importance of quality tailoring, even picks up a few decent items.

And then.

It starts.

“What about this?” he asks, holding up a horrific orange camoflage tracksuit.

I stare at it. Then at him.

“No.”

Kenan shrugs, completely unbothered. “I like it.”

I exhale slowly. “You are not wearing that in public.”

He grins. “You’re just mad because you know I’d pull it off.”

“You would not.”

“Would too.”

I rub my temples. “Put it back.”

Kenan sighs, begrudgingly returning it to the rack. But exactly two minutes later, he reverts to chaos.

First, a leopard-print jacket.

I shake my head.

Then, a graphic T-shirt that says ‘Big Dog Energy.’

I physically take it out of his hands and put it back myself.

“This is important,” I say, placing two actual, stylish options in his arms. “We need pieces that are versatile, that fit your personal aesthetic while maintaining an effortless, tailored look.”

Kenan blinks. “That’s some José Mourinho level strategizing. All of that for a pair of pants and a shirt?”

“Yes, because I actually know what I’m doing,” I say, nudging him toward the fitting room. “Now go try these on before I start dressing you like an old Italian lady.”

Kenan grins. “That’s a threat?”

“You’re seconds away from pleated skirts.”

He laughs, but goes inside anyway.

…

I believe the mission is complete.

But then—as we leave the last store, arms full of shopping bags, Kenan suddenly groans and rolls his shoulders like he’s just carried the weight of the world on his back.

“Ugh,” he says. “I need a break.”

I sigh. “Kenan, we’ve been shopping for three hours.”

“Exactly,” he says, slinging an arm around my shoulders like this has been an equal burden for both of us. “Which is why we deserve a reward.”

I eye him suspiciously. “What kind of reward?”

Kenan does not answer.

Instead, he steers me toward a side street, moving with the confidence of a man who has already decided my fate.

“Kenan,” I say, realizing too late where we’re headed.

No.

Not a spa.

A very fancy spa.

I stop walking immediately.

Kenan, noticing too late, is forced to halt as well.

I stare at him. “No.”

Kenan grins. “Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Kenan—”

He tilts his head. “You work too much. You stress too much. You never take a break.”

“I just spent the entire afternoon shopping with you,” I argue.

Kenan ignores this. “This is what you need.”

I narrow my eyes. “And your solution is to physically drag me into a spa?”

Kenan does not hesitate. “Yes.”

I exhale. “Why do I feel like you’ve planned this?”

Kenan grins wider. “Because I have.”

And then—before I can protest further—he opens the door and gently shoves me inside.

…

I don't know what kind of witchcraft these spa people are practicing, but I have fully given in to it.

There is something profoundly humiliating about the fact that Kenan Yıldız, of all people, was right.

Because I am relaxed.

Painfully, dangerously relaxed.

I sink deeper into the plush, warm surface of the massage table, the scent of lavender and eucalyptus thick in the air, the slow, expert pressure of hands kneading away every last drop of tension from my body.

It is impossibly good.

The kind of indulgence I would normally refuse, the kind of experience I would dismiss as unnecessary.

Except it is so necessary.

It’s so good that I don’t even care that Kenan is lying just inches away, stretched out on his own table, probably smug as hell about the fact that he successfully dragged me here.

I can hear him shift slightly, adjusting his arms at his sides. The sound is quiet, unremarkable.

And then—

The groan.

Deep. Low. Involuntary.

I don’t move, don’t react, but I feel it like a full-body event.

Like an alarm going off in my brain, interrupting my hard-won serenity, making my pulse hitch slightly before I force it back down.

No.

Absolutely not.

I refuse to acknowledge it, to let my mind go anywhere near the path it’s suddenly threatening to take.

I focus instead on the weight of the warm towel on my back, my grocery list, the weather forecast, the to-do list I abandoned the moment Kenan dragged me here.

But then—another groan.

Softer this time, barely more than a sigh, a quiet, unfiltered reaction to the way the masseuse’s hands dig into his shoulders.

My fingers twitch against the plush surface beneath me.

I press my cheek harder into the cushion, jaw tightening, every last bit of professionalism I possess clinging on for dear life.

This is not happening.

I am not hyperaware of him.

I am not wondering what it would sound like if—

No.

I take a slow, measured breath, force my mind onto something else, anything else.

But then—as if on cue, as if this is a test of my sanity—Kenan exhales, his voice slow and drawn out, heavy with satisfaction.

“Oh, yeah,” he murmurs lazily. “This was a great idea.”

I crack one eye open, glancing sideways at him. “You’re not supposed to talk.”

Kenan doesn’t even turn his head, just smirks faintly. “Why not?”

“Because it ruins the experience,” I mutter, shifting slightly, trying to reclaim the blissful silence I had finally achieved.

Kenan hums in agreement, but then, after a beat—

“You’re enjoying it, though.”

I don’t answer.

He turns his head slightly, grinning. “You are.”

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan tilts his head, studying me with too much amusement. “Liar.”

I close my eyes, exhaling slowly.

I am not doing this with him.

Not here.

Not while I am too blissed out to argue properly.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs under his breath, but mercifully, he drops it.

And for the next few minutes, there is nothing but silence.

I let myself relax again, let my mind drift, surrendering to the warmth of the table, the slow, steady pressure of the massage, the weightlessness of being taken care of for once.

It is perfect.

Which is why, of course, Kenan has to ruin it.

I am still lingering in my post-massage haze when we are ushered into the next part of our spa treatment.

There is a moment of disorientation as I wrap myself in a ridiculously plush robe, knotting it at the waist, letting the softness of the fabric lull me even deeper into a state of near-delirious comfort.

Kenan, meanwhile, has fully leaned into his new life as a luxury spa enthusiast.

He is walking like a man who has just come into a great inheritance, arms swinging loosely at his sides, his robe slightly untied, his expression one of supreme satisfaction.

He glances at me as we walk down the softly lit hallway.

“You’re glowing,” he says smugly.

“I hate you,” I reply, but it’s missing any real venom.

Kenan smirks. “You love me.”

I scoff, tightening my robe for emphasis.

He bumps his shoulder into mine as we turn the corner. “Admit it,” he presses. “You liked it.”

I lift my chin. “I tolerated it.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head as if considering. “So if I suggested we make this a weekly thing—”

“I would have you arrested.”

Kenan laughs, clearly pleased with himself.

We round the corner, stepping into the next treatment room, where trays of neatly arranged skincare products are waiting for us.

The spa attendant walks us through the benefits of the clay mask, explaining its detoxifying properties, the natural minerals, the way it will leave our skin glowing.

I nod along, listening attentively, taking this seriously.

Kenan, on the other hand, is poking at the clay like it’s some kind of foreign substance.

He leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “So, are we supposed to eat this, or…?”

I snap my head toward him. “I swear to god.”

Kenan grins, pleased that he has successfully annoyed me.

And then—before I can react—he swipes a streak of clay onto my cheek.

I gasp, scandalized.

“You did not just—”

Kenan leans back, looking entirely too proud of himself.

“Look at that,” he muses. “You’re already looking better.”

I narrow my eyes.

“Kenan.”

“Yes?”

“You have five seconds to run.”

He laughs, but it’s cut short the moment I dip my fingers into the clay and smear a thick, deliberate streak down the bridge of his nose.

He blinks.

I smirk. “Oops.”

And then—it’s war.

Kenan lunges, trying to grab my wrist, but I twist away, swiping another streak across his jaw.

He retaliates immediately, dragging a line of clay across my forehead, laughing as I gasp in horror.

“You’re gonna regret that,” I warn, dipping both hands into the mask.

Kenan dodges backward, but not fast enough.

I manage to smear clay across his entire cheek before he grabs my wrist, successfully pinning my arm down as he smears another layer across my temple.

We are laughing too loudly, bumping into the skincare table, earning scandalized looks from the spa attendants, who are clearly regretting ever letting us in.

By the time we finally call a truce, Kenan has clay all over his jawline, a streak across his eyebrow, and possibly some in his hair.

I am in no better shape.

We catch our breath, grinning like idiots.

Kenan leans back, tilting his head as he studies my face.

“You know,” he says, smirking faintly, “I think this is your best look yet.”

I scoff, wiping some of the mask off my cheek. “You mean, this is your best look yet.”

Kenan shrugs. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

I laugh, rolling my eyes, and for a moment—just a moment—it’s too easy.

Too comfortable.

Like we aren’t just stylist and client. Like maybe, just maybe, we’re something else.

But then—the spa attendant clears her throat loudly.

Kenan and I snap back to reality.

Right. This was meant to be innocent.

…

I should be curled up under a blanket, wrapped in the soft glow of my laptop screen, watching Hugh Grant fumble his way into Julia Roberts’ heart while I eat my weight in popcorn.

Instead, I am sitting at a table at one of the most prestigious football award shows in the world, fixing Kenan Yıldız’s tie for the third time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, tugging at the silk knot as he sits there grinning, far too amused by my growing frustration. “How do you keep messing this up?”

Kenan shrugs, as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. “Maybe it’s cursed.”

“Or maybe,” I counter, tugging harder than necessary, “you have the attention span of a goldfish.”

“That’s a possibility, too.”

I inhale, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. Not the fact that his tie is somehow always crooked, not the fact that he smells unfairly nice—woodsy and fresh, like expensive cologne and soap. Not the fact that his tux fits like it was made for him, which, technically, it was.

I tighten the knot, fingers brushing against the cool silk of his collar. Then I step back, ignoring the way his eyes follow me.

“There,” I say, smoothing down the lapels of his jacket. “That should hold.”

Kenan reaches up, tugging at the knot experimentally.

And then—he tilts his head. “It’s a little tight.”

I stare at him. Consider violence.

“Oh my god, Kenan.”

He tries not to laugh. “I think I might be suffocating.”

I exhale through my nose, stepping forward again and loosening it just a fraction. “You are a professional athlete. I think you’ll survive a slightly snug tie.”

“You’re very aggressive about this,” he muses.

“I’m aggressive about my work.”

“Hm.” He smirks. “You sure it’s not just me?”

I pull the tie one last time—just a little too tight for good measure.

Kenan coughs. “Okay. Point taken.”

I take my seat beside him, crossing my arms. “You never actually explained why you brought me here.”

Kenan leans back, stretching lazily. “Because what if I had a wardrobe malfunction? Imagine the headlines. ‘Rising Juventus Star Exposes Entire Ballon D’Or Ceremony Thanks to Fashion Mishap.’”

I give him a look. “Right, because that’s such a likely scenario.”

“You never know,” he says, completely serious. “Zippers are tricky.”

I stare at him. “Kenan, you’re wearing a bow tie and a tuxedo.”

“Still, anything could happen.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “You actually called me here because you thought you’d have a fashion emergency?”

Kenan tilts his head, amused, but not exactly denying it.

I exhale, shaking my head. “I canceled movie night for this.”

Kenan straightens slightly. “Movie night?”

“Yes, Kenan. That thing normal people do when they are not being dragged to last-minute award shows for ‘fashion emergencies.’”

His eyes spark with something I can’t quite place—amusement, maybe curiosity. “What movie?”

I wave him off. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does, though.” He nudges my foot under the table, and I kick him back. “Tell me.”

I glance at him, half annoyed, half entertained. “Fine. Notting Hill.”

Kenan’s expression shifts, like I’ve just presented him with something fascinating.

“Hugh Grant?” he asks, suppressing a grin.

I sigh. “Yes, Hugh Grant.”

Kenan hums, clearly holding back laughter. “Are you a rom-com girl?”

I cross my arms. “I am a human being with emotions, Kenan. Of course, I watch rom-coms.”

“Didn’t peg you for the ‘charming British man falls in love with beautiful woman’ type.”

“I think you’re forgetting Julia Roberts is the one falling in love with him.”

Kenan nods, pretending to consider this. “So you like the whole reluctant, ‘I shouldn’t like you but I do’ thing?”

I narrow my eyes. “Why are we discussing this?”

He smirks. “Just gathering intel, boss.”

I blink at him. “For what?”

But before he can answer, a reporter materializes at the side of the table, microphone in hand, already launching into questions about Kenan’s season.

Kenan shifts gears effortlessly, offering charming but nonchalant answers, throwing in just enough personality to keep the conversation light. He’s confident, comfortable, every bit the rising star.

And then—the reporter turns to me.

“And you are his date?”

Before I can answer, Kenan speaks first.

“Best company I could ask for,” he says smoothly, flashing an easy smile.

The reporter nods, clearly filing that information away. Then, she tilts her head.

“Well, you two make a lovely couple.”

Silence.

For exactly three seconds.

I glance at Kenan, fully expecting him to jump in—to laugh, to correct her, to make a joke.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he just… smirks. A knowing, slow, absolutely infuriating smirk. 

I blink at him. Excuse me?

The reporter, seemingly satisfied, quickly thanks Kenan before shifting her attention back to the main stage, preparing for the next segment.

Kenan glances at me, clearly entertained.

“What?” he asks innocently.

“You didn’t correct her,” I say, narrowing my eyes.

He shrugs, reaching for his drink. “Didn’t seem important.”

I stare. “Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?”

Kenan takes a sip, smiling against the rim of his glass.

And I know, with absolute certainty, that I will be thinking about this later.

…

The event wraps up hours later, and the energy that had been buzzing through the ballroom—the flashing cameras, the hum of conversation, the champagne-fueled laughter—fizzles out the second the car door shuts behind us.

It’s just me and Kenan now, wrapped in the quiet hum of the city, the streets blurred by the tinted windows.

He exhales, rolling his shoulders slightly as he settles into the seat beside me. His bow tie is undone, the silk hanging loosely around his neck, and his jacket is draped lazily over one shoulder. The perfectly put-together image from earlier is gone, replaced by something more undone.

I glance at him. “So? First big award show. Thoughts?”

Kenan stretches his legs out slightly, his head tilting against the seat as he flicks his gaze toward the window. “Not bad. Bit long, though.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Yeah, sorry. No halftime break in real life.”

He turns his head toward me, grinning faintly, his voice lower now, softer. “Yeah, what’s up with that?”

I shake my head, looking away, watching the neon lights streak past outside. The movement of the car feels almost hypnotic, like we’re floating through the city instead of driving through it.

Another beat of silence.

Not an uncomfortable one. Just something quieter.

Kenan shifts beside me, stretching out his legs slightly, adjusting his posture in that effortless, lazy way he always does. And then—his hand settles on my knee.

Not a quick touch. Not accidental.

Just there.

Steady. Warm. Like he isn’t even thinking about it.

Like it’s completely normal.

My breath hitches—just slightly, barely noticeable—but I feel it.

I should move. He should move. One of us should acknowledge it. But neither of us do.

The space between us feels different now. Closer, somehow. Heavier.

The car hums softly beneath us, the muted sound of the tires against pavement filling the space where words should go.

And then, without thinking, I glance at him again.

And find him already looking.

It’s not like before.

Not teasing. Not playful. Something I don’t have the words for.

His gaze lingers, just for a second too long. Not in the usual way—not like when he smirks at me before making some sarcastic remark, not like when he’s enjoying winding me up.

This is different.

I feel it in the way my pulse kicks up, in the way my breath catches just slightly. It’s not dramatic. Not obvious.

But it’s there.

And I don’t know what to do with it.

So, I look away.

…

You’re coming to dinner with me.”

I glance up from where I’m sprawled dramatically across the couch in the fitting room, my limbs heavy with exhaustion after a long day of fighting Kenan’s terrible fashion instincts.

“No, I’m not.”

Kenan doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes, you are.”

I let my head fall back, groaning. “Kenan, I’ve been stuffing you into suits for six hours. I have blisters. My soul has left my body. I am going home.”

Kenan, completely unbothered, grabs my bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“No, you’re coming to dinner,” he corrects, grinning at me like this is already a settled matter. “Because we’ve been locked in here all day, and you need to eat before you start resenting me.”

I lift my head just enough to narrow my eyes at him. “I already resent you.”

Kenan just laughs. “See? I was right.”

I sigh, dragging my hands down my face. “Kenan, I look like I’ve been wrestling with a dozen overpriced jackets all day.”

“So?”

“So, I’m going home.”

“You’re coming to dinner.”

I give him a long, tired stare.

“Kenan—”

“It’s literally just food,” he interrupts, voice easy, persuasive, the way it always is when he knows he’s going to win. “Don’t overthink it.”

I exhale, already feeling myself caving.

It’s just food. It’s just dinner. That’s what I keep telling myself, over and over again, trying to push away the small, creeping realization that it doesn’t really feel like just dinner. I know what just dinner feels like, and this is not it.

We talk the entire time, without effort, without having to think about it, the conversation flowing so naturally that I don’t realize how much time is passing. He makes a comment about something, I fire back, he laughs, I roll my eyes, and somehow, we’re still going, as if we could sit here for hours and not run out of things to say.

And the way he looks at me—really looks at me—makes it even harder to pretend this is nothing. There’s no teasing smirk, no sarcastic remark waiting to be delivered. He just listens, like he actually cares about what I have to say, like he’s interested in the conversation itself, not just waiting for his turn to speak. Every time I laugh, I see it—the way his mouth tugs slightly at the corner, the way his expression softens in this way that makes something in my stomach tighten a little too much.

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

I pretend not to notice.

I am so careful not to acknowledge it.

So careful.

Until—

Kenan shifts, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbow against the table, his movements easy and unhurried. He’s still talking, still completely comfortable, still looking at me in a way that makes my skin feel warmer than it should. His hand moves as if it’s just part of the conversation, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and suddenly, before I can even process it—his fingers brush against my skin.

He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.

I still.

It’s nothing. It should be nothing. A casual, thoughtless movement, something people do all the time without thinking. But I feel it anyway. The way his fingertips graze just barely against my skin, the way my breath catches before I can stop it, the way my pulse stumbles slightly out of rhythm.

I don’t move.

And when I finally bring myself to look at him, he’s already watching me.

There’s no teasing smile this time, no expectation that I’ll roll my eyes or tell him to stop being annoying. His gaze lingers, not in the way it usually does when he’s winding me up, but in a way that makes me acutely aware of how close we are, how low the lighting is, how long we’ve been sitting here.

And then, just as casually as anything else, like he’s just stating a fact, he says—

“You look nice tonight.”

I blink.

Kenan doesn’t laugh it off or turn it into a joke. He doesn’t make a stupid comment to lighten the mood.

He just says it.

And suddenly, I feel the shift. The weight of the moment. The way this night has felt different from the start, how I’ve been trying so hard to ignore it, to brush past it, to keep everything as normal as possible.

I clear my throat, shifting slightly in my seat, leaning back just enough to regain whatever little distance is left between us. “That’s suspiciously polite of you.”

Kenan grins, but there’s something different underneath it this time. Softer. Quieter.

“I can be polite,” he says.

I raise an eyebrow. “Since when?”

Kenan laughs, shaking his head, as if this conversation hasn’t just tipped over into something else entirely. “Shut up.”

…

I tell myself I’m imagining it.

That nothing has changed.

That Kenan has always been like this—touchy, flirty, full of too much energy and no sense of personal space.

But lately, it’s harder to believe that.

Because now, when he leans in, he doesn’t just lean in—he gets close.

Close enough that I feel the warmth of him, the barest brush of his breath against my skin when he murmurs something in my ear, his voice lower than necessary.

Close enough that I catch myself not moving away.

Like right now.

I’m adjusting the sleeve of his suit, focused, professional, completely in control, when I feel him shift.

A slow, deliberate movement.

And then—his hand finds my waist.

Not a full touch. Just fingertips grazing over the rim of my blouse, barely there, like he’s testing the waters.

My breath catches, but I don’t react.

I won’t react.

Instead, I clear my throat and step back just slightly, putting enough space between us to make it look intentional.

“Keep your arm straight,” I say, like my voice isn’t thinner than it should be, like I don’t notice the way his fingers hesitate before falling away.

Kenan hums, amused.

“You’re being very serious right now,” he murmurs.

I glance up at him. “Because I am serious. This suit costs more than your car.”

Kenan tilts his head slightly, smirking. “That’s a bold assumption.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Kenan, I know what you drive.”

He grins, unbothered. “Fair enough.”

I turn my attention back to the sleeve, carefully adjusting the buttons at the cuff. But then—he shifts again.

His hand finds my wrist this time.

His thumb, brushing just slightly against my skin. Warm. Steady. Completely unnecessary.

And then—his voice. Low. Playful. Right against my ear.

“I like when you fuss over me like this,” he murmurs.

My stomach tightens.

I exhale sharply, yanking my hand away, because this is ridiculous.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, turning away before I can see his reaction.

Kenan laughs—quiet, smug, entirely too entertained.

It’s not just this moment.

It’s all the moments.

A collection of small, seemingly insignificant things that, when pieced together, paint a picture I refuse to acknowledge.

The way he stands closer than necessary. The way he touches me more now—fingers grazing my wrist when I pass him something, the press of his palm against my back when he moves past me, the way his knee stays against mine when we sit side by side.

It’s slowly driving me crazy.

…

I should have gone home.

We both should have.

It’s late, the Juventus complex is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead light, casting a warm glow over the table where fabric swatches are still scattered from earlier. We finished hours ago, but neither of us has moved to leave. I tell myself it’s because I’m still organizing things, tidying up, making sure everything is in order, but that’s a lie. I just don’t want to be the first one to go.

Kenan is behind me, leaning against the edge of the table, watching me work like he’s waiting for something. He hasn’t said anything in a while, which is how I know he’s about to start trouble. Kenan is always at his most dangerous when he’s quiet.

Then, right on cue, his voice comes, easy and amused.

“You realize the fabric will still be there in the morning, right?”

I don’t turn around. “You realize you’re still here too, right?”

“That’s different,” he says, like that’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I finally glance at him over my shoulder. “Oh? How exactly?”

He grins. “You’re working. I’m just here for moral support.”

I roll my eyes and turn back to the table, stacking the fabric samples in an even pile. “How noble of you.”

“Right? You should really be thanking me.”

“For what, standing there and doing absolutely nothing?”

“For the company.” His tone is light, teasing, but there’s something else there too, something I don’t want to examine too closely.

I let out an exaggerated sigh. “Kenan, you do realize I spend half my life in fittings with you, right? I get more than enough of your company.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

I pause.

It’s too small a sentence to mean anything.

Except it does.

I shake my head and focus on my work, pretending like he hasn’t just called me out in the most subtle way possible. “Well, someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself in public.”

He hums, stepping closer, just enough that I feel it. “And here I thought it was because you liked dressing me.”

I scoff, ignoring the sudden warmth creeping up my neck. “I dress a lot of people.”

“Yeah, but I’m your favorite.”

The worst part is—he’s not even asking.

He says it like it’s a fact, like it’s already been decided, like he’s just been waiting for me to admit it.

I huff out a laugh, reaching for another swatch, doing everything I can to keep my voice steady. “I promise you, I don’t have favorites.”

Kenan tuts under his breath, stepping even closer, leaning just slightly toward me. “That’s funny, because I’m pretty sure I overheard you telling someone last week that navy brings out my eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve been paying extra attention to me.”

I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “It’s literally my job to pay attention to you.”

“So you admit it.”

I freeze for half a second too long, and that’s all he needs.

Kenan laughs under his breath, like he’s caught me in something.

“That’s not what I meant,” I say quickly, but it’s useless.

He’s already too entertained.

Then, before I can even attempt to redirect the conversation, he moves.

A casual shift, nothing obvious, nothing dramatic, but suddenly his hand is resting lightly on my waist.

It’s not a tight grip, not a bold gesture—just a small, steadying touch, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not.

But I don’t move.

His fingers flex slightly, a slow press of warmth through the fabric of my blouse, and I hate the way my pulse jumps in response.

I force a dry laugh, ignoring the way the air suddenly feels heavier between us. “Don’t.”

Kenan hums thoughtfully. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I don’t think it’s weird,” he muses, his thumb brushing absently over the fabric. “I think you’re just trying really hard not to like it.”

The absolute audacity.

I let out a sharp breath, pulling back just enough to glare up at him. “I’m not trying anything.”

His mouth tugs into a smirk, slow and knowing. “No?”

Before I can come up with a response, before I can convince myself that I actually have one, he tilts his head slightly, studying me, watching me squirm, knowing exactly what he’s doing.

His eyes flick down to my lips—barely noticeable, but I catch it.

I catch it, and my brain goes completely blank.

And I know.

I know exactly what’s about to happen, I know that I should stop this before it goes any further, before he gets any more of an ego boost than he already has, before I give him one more reason to look at me like he knows something I don’t.

But I don’t stop it.

And maybe—that’s all he was waiting for.

Because then, he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not hesitant, just easy. Like he knew exactly how this was going to play out before I even figured it out myself. Like he’s been waiting for me to catch up.

And, somehow, before I can even stop to think about it, I’m kissing him back.

His hands move to my jaw, fingers sliding into my hair, firm but not demanding, like he’s daring me to stop him.

But I don’t.

Because I don’t want to.

Because of course this was going to happen.

Because Kenan has been pushing me toward this moment for weeks, maybe longer, and I let him, and now I don’t want to stop.

I don’t even notice that my hands have fisted into his shirt, pulling him in, until I feel him grin against my lips.

He pulls back just slightly, just enough that we’re still close, still breathing the same air, still feeling the warmth of it.

His eyes flick between mine, slow and deliberate, and when he finally speaks, his voice is quieter than before, smug but softer.

“Finally.”

I should argue.

But instead, I just kiss him again.

[dulcescorderitas]

Hi! I was wondering if you would ever possibly write a part two to Juno (either with the very fun times trying to make a kid or with them having a kid) I just adore the way you write Clark and would love your take on either situation (especially Clark as a girl or boy dad!) thank you regardless and keep being incredible!

you’ve got your hands braced on either side of the headboard, breath coming fast, teeth worrying your bottom lip as you try—really try—to look sexy. but then clark’s face does this thing, this deep-in-thought furrow, and you lose it.

“why are you laughing?” he groans, already half-wrecked but now thoroughly distracted.

“because,” you gasp between snickers, “your sex face looks like you’re trying to calculate the square root of our mortgage.”

he throws his head back, barking out a laugh. “wow, okay. mood’s ruined. hope you’re happy.”

“deliriously.” you wiggle your fingers dramatically before sliding them down his stomach, teasing, trailing lower. “but let’s try again, professor deep-in-thought.”

he’s about to fire back, but then you move just right, and instead of a retort, a downright obscene moan tumbles out of him. your smugness is instant.

“ohhh, now we’re getting somewhere.”

“shut up,” he grumbles, face burning.

“make me.”

so he does. with his mouth, hot and insistent, trailing down your stomach as he spreads your thighs wide. with his hands, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he buries himself inside you, hips snapping forward in deep, punishing thrusts that knock the breath from your lungs. with his body, pressed flush against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling as he fucks you like he needs this more than air.

he groans into your neck, the sound guttural, desperate. "God, baby—so mhm—"

you claw at his back, dragging him deeper, chasing the pleasure that coils hot in your belly. "clark—faster—"

he listens. he always does. his rhythm turns frantic, each thrust leaving you gasping, your legs locking around his waist as he drives into you, relentless and perfect. he kisses you like he’s trying to swallow your moans, swallowing his own when you squeeze around him just right.

when he finally shudders, spilling deep inside you, you’re right there with him, nails digging into his shoulders as your whole body shakes.

later, sprawled in bed, catching your breath, you roll onto your stomach, eyes still hazy. "so, you think this is the one? the magic baby-making round?"

clark hums, running a hand over her back. “if not, we’ll just have to keep trying. and trying. and—”

“okay, we get it, you’re suffering.”

“deeply,” he murmurs, nuzzling into your neck, his arms tight around your waist. “but, you know, if suffering means holding you and making love to you like this every night, I think I can live with it.”

and to answer your question:

clark is 100% a girl dad. he’s got princess bandaids in his wallet, a collection of tiny hair ties in his pockets, and can paint little nails with surprising skill. he’s memorized every disney princess song and will belt out "let it go" with zero shame if it means making his baby girl smile. he’s the kind of dad who lets her pick out his tie in the morning, even if it’s bright pink and covered in sparkles.

he absolutely lets his daughter do his hair and has gone to work with glitter in it more than once. the first time, his colleagues gave him weird looks, but now they just expect it. he’s a walking canvas for tiny, chubby hands, and he’ll sit still for hours while she "styles" him with clips, bows, and whatever else she finds in her little hair kit. once, she even convinced him to wear pigtails to the grocery store.

he cries the first time she calls him “daddy,” but pretends it’s just allergies. in reality, he gets teary-eyed at a lot of milestones—her first steps, her first day of school, the first time she tells him she loves him. he’s hopelessly wrapped around her little finger, and juno teases him mercilessly for it, but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

taglist: @legalmente-loca @soangelbaby

[cherrylight]

i am showing you him and talking about him (also because if i dont id die probably) YES i do have drawings of him but its hard to find them now and i hate using tumblr on my phone (it crashes a lot) so ill show you a simple little picrew

im going to be rambling about him btw <3

HI LOOK AT THIS GUY

i mean like hes me in all forms that is Me but look at him

ok maybe my hairs not that long BUT ITS REAL look at him :D

ok so about him ill try to not be super duper in depth but knowing me id talk your head off but ANYWAY! this is kaden aka me (since my name is kaden hi)

i had to redo this a thousand times because i never learn to stfu so

his full name is kaden property. the funny thing about that is my favourite band of all time released an album after epic comic day (you get it) so i think its basically fate saying hey you are going to be in love with this guy. so. i am. hes me. ANYWAY! moving right along to make this short and sweet or as sweet as humanly possible

he loves paranormal, he absolutely adores it. he loves ghosts and all that, he finds poltergeists like the coolest thing ever made and would probably die for them (lol). he is also a mad scientist :) i like mad scientists i think theyre silly.. and their aesthetic is SO EPIC so obviously i made the silly guy wear a lab coat (important to note: hes obsessed with his lab coat)

he has more things about him but because i never learn to stfu this entire post will be twice as long as before so oops i guess

oh yeah: his eyes are grey :) i used my own eye colour before but it made me insanely uncomfortable to a point it felt like i was staring into a mirror but the rest of him is pretty much spot on (sort of)

[unriding]

a … a gift from the talented @kruinka 🥹 thank you so much!! ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ)

[dreamsy990]

YAY I GOT THIS DONE ON HIS BIRTHDAY. HAPPY BIRTHDAY HAJIMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE YOU RUINED MY LIFE AND ALSO MAYBE SAVED MY LIFE. WHO THE FUCK KNOWS I DO LIKE YOU A LOT THOUGH

[moeblob]

Windy at my house + power flickering = no comm work = quick laptop doodle

[longagoitwastuesday]

Kusakabe, dear, you're too beautiful to be saying that kind of stuff

[jackass-jones]

Yeah the mouthwash game is pretty good

[fingertipsmp3]

This book I’m reading is so good I’m genuinely mad that I put off reading it

[ectoplasmer]

i can feel the ryou brainworms just feasting right now

[webbluvrsugar]

hi! i absolutely adore your writing omgg

if it’s not too much trouble i was thinking maybe ethan landry x fem reader and continuing with that dynamic of the dom gf + sub bf in public but vice versa in bed? LOTS of size kink (if you’re comfortable writing it ofc) and maybe some degradation from ethan? ugh that would just be sooo 😩😩😩

tysm in advance, no rush in writing, and don’t forget to eat and drink water!!

— 🦚

a/n: guyyys it’s official!! I have my first emoji anon <333 and of course bae, tyyy sm!!!

proofread

﹒ ☆ 𓂂 ˚ ☆. ꙳ * ࣭ ࣭ casual dominance with Ethan in and out of bed

Outside of bed, it’s like you both have your roles assigned to each other, you take complete dominance, you ask him to do simple thing you could do like — carry your books, your purse and even cleaning your shared dorm for weeks and weeks without stopping, it was something he found particularly annoying, specially when you basically did nothing compared to him.

“Babe, do you think you can wash those dishes for me?” You’d ask the taller man in front of you, standing right next to the sink.

“Can’t you do them? You’re already close and I’m kinda busy right now.” He mutters, focuses on whatever project he’s working in his computer, slightly nibbling on his thumb.

“Come on… you always do them for me.” You say in indignation, crossing your arms and huffing before you sit down on the couch.

“Yeah but I’ve been doing them for weeks, and again, I’m busy.”

It almost serves as a warning, and by now, you’d stop, you’d do your own dishes yourself, but you really can’t find it in you to stop when you just want him to do one simple chore. — Why can’t he do them anyways? He’s not that busy, is he?

“Ethan are you serious? It’s like two dishes and you spend all your time in that computer, you can spare some time to do it for me, it’s not that difficult.”

See, that’s what does it for him, because he finally stops what he’s doing to look back at you, raising a brow as if daring you to keep acting that way, and when you do say something else, it doesn’t take more than two seconds for him to toss you over his shoulder and take you to bed.

He’s on top of you — all over you the way he likes it, fucking some sense into you with some quick and hard thrusts, one hand wrapped around your throat while the other gently holds your waist.

“This is just what you needed, huh?” He scoffs. “Some dick so you can finally learn to stop bothering me and do your own shit.”

You don’t respond, instead, you press your eyes shut while one hand paws at the one at your throat, moaning as you try to make him let go.

“Uh-uh, you’re gonna learn your lesson, you’re gonna learn that when I say no, it means — I’m fucking busy.” He groans.

He squeezes your neck a little tighter, bring his other hand down and slightly fiddles with your clit, loose and messy movements that somehow do get you closer.

“And after this —“ he breathes, leans down to whisper on your neck. “You’re gonna wash your fucking dishes.”

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Doting

Tags: jjk men as dads, tooth-rotting fluff, comfort drabbles

Synopsis: How the JJK men treat you while pregnant (spoiler warning- they dote on you.)

An: This is my formal apology for writing Nanami angst on the “Baby’s first words” post 😔 it will never happen again (can we stop with the death threats now?)

SATORU • SUGURU • TOJI • SUKUNA • NANAMI

SATORU

Oh, your loving husband is all over you while you’re pregnant. He genuinely has such a cute fascination with all the changes your body is going through. He seriously thinks you’re so strong for carrying his heir.

He loves rubbing your bump. In fact, he will always be touching it in some form or fashion while you two are together. When he’s away on missions, he has you send him pictures and updates on your pregnancy as if anything major has changed in a couple of days.

You best believe he is ready to indulge you on your every craving, no matter how strange. It’s three a.m and you’re crying because you need that specific brand of chicken wings and a can of whip cream? He’s heading to the store immediately to fetch whatever you tell him to.

He genuinely worries about being a good dad. Many nights he lays his head on your bump and talks to you about how teaching didn’t come naturally to him. He wasn’t born knowing how to meet people where they’re at. He use to expect people to be able to meet him on his level. He worries that he may inadvertently put a lot of pressure on his kid, and that’s the last thing he wants due to how he was raised. He just wants his kid to be a kid.

He’s the best, most loving and compassionate dad to your baby, more than you could ever hope for. Even if teaching didn’t come to him naturally, being a father did.

SUGURU

He’s such a “sit down and let me do it for you” while you’re pregnant. He cooks, cleans, works, and tends to you completely throughout your pregnancy.

Suguru gets hyper fixated on your health during pregnancy. He only feeds you the yummiest and healthiest foods while you’re pregnant. He encourages for you to sit on the yoga ball and do (very) light exercises. He just wants the best for you and his baby.

Whenever I said he tends to you, I genuinely mean he tends to you. He’ll gently brush your hair at night time, rub your back when your belly is becoming heavy to carry around, serve your breakfast, lunch, and dinner in bed, carries around emesis bags and breath mints for if you get morning sickness while you two are out.

This man is the king of enforcing your boundaries to people when they don’t listen. That really annoying family member that insists on being there for the birth even though you’ve already explained to them that you want this to be an experience for just you and Geto? Yeah, he’s made it very clear to them that they will not be at the birth if they want to be in your kid’s life.

He is absolutely not afraid to hurt feelings if it means his wife and future child are safe and cared for. He really don’t give a fuck who anyone else is. You and his child are first priority.

TOJI

Toji is definitely the type to express his love and devotion for you in other ways than the most conventional methods.

He is so incredibly gentle while you’re pregnant. He doesn’t rile you up as much or play fight with you anymore. He constantly reminds himself that you’re carrying another life inside you and that you have enough on your plate.

This man… whew does he love seeing you pregnant. Toji’s the type of man to feel so feral when he looks at you heavily pregnant with his kid.

He adores your body. He’ll rub lotion all over you and oils to help your skin accommodate to the stretch of carrying a kid. He massages your body and absolutely worships it while he’s rubbing the lotion and oil on you.

Your breasts are sore? He’ll gently massage them until they feel better. Your back hurts? He’d be the type to lift your bump up and take the weight off you for as long as you ask him to so you can feel relaxed for a few minutes.

And look this is probably TMI but like, if you got a clogged milk duct due to breastfeeding, Toji would unfortunately be the type of man to fix that issue with his mouth. i’m sorry but he would.

Final thing is, you better believe that he doesn’t allow anyone to get too close to you. He is so unbelievably protective over you while you’re pregnant. If he could, he’d lock you up at home to prevent anyone from getting close to you.

SUKUNA

On the outside, he acts very nonchalant and unbothered by your pregnancy. On the inside, he is constantly plagued by the thought that your body may not be able to carry his heir. The thought of losing you or his child haunts him.

He will secretly observe and take notes on your body and how it is changing. If he catches you expressing any sort of short windedness, he will immediately send you off to bed rest. Though, you’re usually able to convince him to take you off of it by the next day.

The only servant he trusts to tend to you is Uraume. No one else in his court is allowed to be anywhere near you unless he gives specific instructions. Still, he hates leaving you in the care of Uraume. He trusts them, but he wants to be the one to take care of you.

He loves holding your body close to him at night. All four arms are wrapped around you and holding you closely. Since he doesn’t need much sleep, he will stay awake rubbing on your tummy all night long. One time, he felt the baby moving in your stomach while you were asleep. He was so intrigued that he woke you up and told you to “make them do it again”.

Now, he will randomly approach you at any given time while you’re heavily pregnant and hold his hand out so he can feel his baby moving around inside of you. It soothes his worry.

During birth, Sukuna was a complete mess. The amount of blood lost during birth fucking terrified him. He was panicking and yelling at anyone to do something to save you, even while everyone was assuring him that you’re okay and this was natural.

After 9 long excruciating months of extreme worry and constant fear, he finally feels peace when he’s cradling a newborn in his arm and a sleeping wife in the other arm. All of his hard work to protect you paid off he thinks.

NANAMI

Oh, to be pregnant by the king of domestic love himself.

Nanami is the type of man to immediately start working on a nursery for you as soon as you reveal to him that you’re pregnant. He immediately changes the guest bedroom into a nursery that you design for your little baby.

He reads up on all the parenting books and articles. He’s constantly compiling things to either do or to not do during pregnancy and even while raising a kid.

Like Geto, he tends to your every need. He is a total house husband all while working 40 hours a week. When he’s at work, he is constantly calling and texting you to make sure that you’re okay and taking care of yourself, but let’s be fr he literally did everything for you before he even left for work (meal prepped for you, set out your clothes for you, put out all your self care items in case you want to bathe).

When you express concerns of your body getting bigger to him, he does everything in his power to show you that he loves and respects your body for creating life. He literally cherishes and worships your body for hours if you let him.

Like Toji, Nanami is protective over you. He constantly has an arm around you if you two are in public, and he watches everyone who dares to get close to you like a hawk. If he gets a bad vibe about anyone, he’s immediately stepping in front of you and taking over the conversation.

Nanami is the best partner to have during birth. His reading of articles during your pregnancy really paid off. He is supportive without being overbearing. He listens to your needs and tends to you without question. Constant praise and encouragement while you’re giving birth. The moment he gets to snuggle with you and the baby is the moment he realizes that he cultivated the life of his dreams. He has the family he always wanted.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

MW2 Reaction To You Being Their Controversially Young Girlfriend

Warnings: Implied Smut, Legal Age Gap, Age Gap Relationships, Daddy Kink, Older Man/Younger Woman, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Possessive MW2, Degradation, Mention of Corruption, Mentions of Innocence, Mentions of Naivety, Praise Kink (M Giving), Implied Choking Kink, Angry Sex, Groping, Brat Taming, Man Handling/Woman Handling, Dumbification Kink, Gentle MW2, Rough MW2, Self-Consciousness, Mentions of Blood/Injury, Insecurity, Profanity, Pet Names, Fem Pronouns Used For Reader.

Ghost

Pretends he doesn’t care about the age gap, but he secretly does.

You’d never know it, but he worries that he’s roping you into a relationship – a long-term one at that – when you should be out, meeting guys, gaining life experience.

He also fears that, in some way, he’s corrupting you, that his selfish desire to keep you close to him will lead to you being targeted or you eventually resenting him.

It doesn’t matter how many times you tell him otherwise, he’s still going to worry about you.

There are a few ways you can put his mind at ease, though. Namely of the bedroom variety.

More on this later 👀.

He spoils you silly, absolutely rotten. Anything that catches that pretty little eye of yours and he’s already got it gift wrapped. He feels it’s the least he can do after you’ve shown  him that life isn’t just an endless cycle of suffering – an infinitum of anguish – that he does deserve happiness and a chance at love.

Very gentle during sex. Unless you ask him not to be.

Expect a lot of praise in bed.

Many a night have you found yourself pinned under Simon, his mouth to your ear as he pants, moaning, telling you how you’re “Such a good girl, taking me so well,” while he fills you with long, languid strokes.

Other times, he’s not so gentle.

Oftentimes, usually as a result of purposefully making Ghost jealous, have you been pinned against a hard surface – one of convenience rather than comfort – with Simon at your back, the tent in his pants catching you.

His voice is deep, husking and carnal as he reminds you who you belong to.

“Like having your pretty little cunt ravaged by an older man, don’t you, Love.”

He’s very protective of you.

He sometimes construes your young age as innocence, naivete. Hence, he never lets you out of his sight when you’re out together.

Scary dog privileges.

Absolutely feral, down bad for you: you only have to do or say the most minimal of things to make him melt, to become a slave to his adoration for you.

That being said, he’s paranoid that one day you’ll see him as he views himself and leave him for someone better – someone you deserve. Someone younger.

He’s damaged goods, you still have your whole life to live. And yet you stay with him, promise him that he’s the only man you’ll ever love.

As stated earlier, Simon can be persuaded of your dedication to him via special, particular means.

However, if you play into his insecurities, even to get a rise out of him, he’ll pounce on you, grab your wrists and pin you to a wall, gripping your jaw and forcing you to look at him.

And, beneath dark lashes and darker eyes, he makes a promise to you.

“Oh, you think a younger lover can pleasure you like I can?” he says, his head tilting. “Don’t you worry, Darling. I’ll fuck that idea outta that pretty little head of yours until the only thing rattling around in there is me.”

König

Somewhat insecure in your relationship. Especially when he gets disapproving glances and glares from passers-by when they note the very obvious age difference between the two of you.

But, his love for you can overcome any measure of anguish, social or otherwise.

He’s the gentlest giant you could ever hope to meet, both in and out of bed.

When he feels like it.

He treats you like you’re innocent and pure, shielding your eyes from graphic scenes on TV and gruesome stories in the newspaper.

Sometimes he has to remind himself that you’re a fully-grown woman, even if you are younger than him.

You send him absolutely feral whenever you wear his clothes btw.

Seeing as any one of his shirts could be your nightdress, he calls you his “Minnie Maus”, and treats you as such.

Pls sit on his lap, he’ll only be able to die happy once you do.

He fears judgement from others whenever you enact PDA, so to make up for his lack of willing to be physical with you in public, there isn’t a moment where you’re without him at home.

Extended periods of time in your presence tend to send him a bit…funny.

A little bit silly.

And by silly, I mean there’s a single thread of humanity keeping him from tearing your clothes off at any given second.

Especially if he’s seen a younger guy looking at you earlier in the day.

One of the few times he’ll get physical with you in public is whenever he catches someone looking at you with a glaze over their eyes he knows all too well.

He approaches you from behind, slipping a pythonic arm about your waist and pulling you into him.

Only now does your admirer look away, leave the premises entirely, once they catch sight of König’s gargantuan proportions and the rabid look in his eye.

Once you get home, he’s on you before you can even shut the door.

It’s times like these that König doesn’t feel insecure about the age gap between you.

Because he knows, no matter how little you’re willing to admit it, that nobody will ever be able to make you scream and cry and tremble like he can.

“Did you like that boy’s attention earlier, Maus?” he says, his eyes cattish and voice serpentine. He bears down on you, his hand about your throat as the other travels under your skirt.

“Is my love not enough? Are my affections wasted on you?”

His eyes glint in the dim light of the bedroom. His teeth look sharper – primal – in the low glow of the bedside lamp.

“No matter. I’ll make you remember how much you need me,” he presses into you. The bulge between his legs feels far too big for you to take.

“Inch by bloody inch.”

Valeria

You’re her little Angel, her Goddess, the light of her life and her reason for living.

That does not exempt you from her teasing, however.

Sexual or otherwise.

She’s particularly fond of randomly grabbing your backside when she’s walking past, or smacking it so hard that you yelp and she’s grinning from ear to ear.

Even if you use your puppy-dog eyes on her, disobedience is not accepted under her roof.

In fact, trying to wriggle out of any punishment she has planned is enough to make her grab you and pin you to a wall, her grip unrelenting as she sucks and bites your neck, leaving harsh red marks and a sense of helplessness as she does what she pleases with you.

“Don’t go fucking around behind my back again, Chiquita,” she tells you, her nose touching yours and her eyes black. She brings her knee between your legs, pressing into you.

“Or next time I won’t just stop at your throat.”

She loves dressing you up in the finest clothing money (and a ghastly reputation) can buy.

She thrives on having you hanging off her arm like a dog on a leash; she gets to show you off to her subordinates and business partners who know they’ll never even have the thought of having a chance with you entertained.

Valeria’s mood can fluctuate in bed.

Sometimes, she treats you like a common whore she found on the street, fucking every ounce of rage, hate and venom into you until some part of you’s left bleeding as Valeria’s panting on top of you, her lips to your cheeks as she kisses your tears away with a whiplash-inducing gentleness she seemed incapable of minutes ago.

Most of the time, she’s loving and kind, putting your needs above her own.

Sure, she still teases you, makes you work for her love and dedication, but you know she’d do anything for you.

You can tell in her tone as she tells you of how she would “Scorch the earth if only to find a fragment of you in the wreckage.”

You disappearing or being taken from her is her biggest fear, and at night she holds you tightly against her chest, your buffer against the world she would sooner see in flames than relinquish you to.

Price

He’s so father-coded fr.

He calls you his little girl, his Princess, Love, Darling, Dollie — anything that highlights your fragile nature.

Shows you off to his friends just so he can show them what they’re missing. He adores the feeling of you curling further into him under the eyes of his task force, the look in their eyes relating something savage, primal, as they look at your bare thighs – the pinnacle of which shadowed by John’s shirt – and watch something they can never have, never touch.

John hides his insecurity well, but he does secretly worry about the age gap.

Especially when he watches younger men looking at you in ways he does.

The difference being that, while they offered you the world and would give you nothing, you are John’s world.

When you can tell John’s feeling worried, comforting him is a surprisingly easy task.

A kiss to the temple and the promise that he’s the only man for you is usually enough to put his mind at ease and make his face break out into a smile.

On the rare occasion it isn’t, however, alternative methods are at your disposal.

E.g. screaming John’s name into the night as your nails drag down the expanse of his back, bodies scorching as he brings you to tears with his touch and his unrelenting pace.

He will absolutely hold his rank/age over you when he’s like this, no longer a point of contention or shame for him as he tells you he’s the “Only one who can make you whimper like a fuckin’ dog,”

“Such a good girl for me, my good little cocksleeve,” he rasps in your ear as he bounces you on top of him, his hands about your waist, preventing you from fleeing or falling off.

“God, you’re so beautiful — so— fuck— gorgeous.” He’s panting, gasping, growling.

“And all mine.”

Horangi

You’re the only thing that matters to him.

At this point, he only remains as a military contractor to ensure that he can keep you in the style to which you are accustomed.

Calls you 자기야 (Jagiya – Honey, Darling).

His favourite thing to do is sit you between his legs and wrap around you like armour.

In case you couldn’t tell, he’s highly protective of you.

You can make him do absolutely anything — he’s at your beck and call.

You can get him to buy you anything if you give him what he likes to call ‘kitten eyes’ eyes.

Even if you’re being a brat, he remains calm and treats you like his little angel, his sweetpea.

Unless you push him too far.

At which point, he won’t hesitate to tame you if you try your luck.

He’ll have you bent over his lap, holding you down with his forearm as he turns your thighs and backside red-raw with the slap of his belt.

“Don’t start crying now, 자기 — you brought this on yourself.”

He never fails in the aftercare department, though.

Always filling your head with words of affirmation as he bathes you, carrying you to bed and tending to your skin with soothing creams and soft touches.

Hong-jin goes super feral crazy when you call him 오빠.

A common honorific used towards any man older than the person using it.

Even if you don’t understand the implications of it, Hong-jin does. And yes, it does tend to make him a bit silly.

Silly enough to know that he’s not going to last long and needs to get home ASAP to deal with…something.

Which he also makes your problem, pressing messy, desperate kisses to your lips as he tries to get his shirt off, your hands on his chest, feeling his heartbeat skyrocketing.

“I need you, (Y/N),” he says, breathless, almost growling. Yet, his eyes are wide, pleading. A doe-eyed prince with the aura of a wolf king. “And I’ll have every inch of you.”

Alejandro

Pre-established passionate lover.

One who is fiercely protective over you.

If anyone — and I mean anyone — catcalls you, makes passes at you, or even looks at you in the wrong way, Alejandro makes sure to enact righteous fury upon them.

He’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you’re 110% satisfied, regardless of context.

You want a new wardrobe ? It’s done. A new car ? All yours. You need Alejandro now and it can’t wait ? Why, how can he say no when you whine like that, when you tug at his sleeve and tuck your head against his shoulder.

He calls you “mi Princesa” and makes sure everybody knows you’re his and he’s yours.

A thorough lover is how you might describe him.

Especially after he’s so willing to bend you against the nearest surface to get you off, no matter the time of day.

You can bring him to his knees with just a look. Turn him from the most respected soldier in his department into a feral wolf.

Which, if you play your cards right, can end very well for both of you.

Alejandro likes to play a game whenever you’re riding him.

He grabs you by your hips and anchors you on top of him.

“Let’s see how long you can hold on for, mi Corazón,” he says, flashing you a sultry smile before he’s bucking into you at the pace of a mechanical rodeo horse at full speed.

“Holding on” can mean anything from not being pounded off Ale’s hips to staving off your orgasm for as long as you can.

Failure to do either is when you see Alejandro at his most wicked. When he’s all teeth, a shark’s grin, his eyes dark and his voice low as he tells you that he needs to “Train your endurance. How else are you going to take me again, hm?”

Needless to say, you’ll be lucky to be able to get out of bed the next day.

Rodolfo

His heart beats only for you. And as a result, he treats you like royalty.

As he should.

You want it ? You got it. 

In abundance.

You have the best of everything and Rudy loves nothing more than seeing your face light up when you receive one of his many gifts.

That, and having you sat on his lap, raking your fingers through his hair as he tells you about his day.

He omits the more gruesome details, fearing he’ll taint you with the blood on his hands if he doesn’t.

Speaking of lap-sitting, it’s your one-way ticket to an eventful afternoon with Rudy.

Cockwarming is his go-to, your legs wrapped about his waist as he fills out reams of paperwork, pressing kisses to your shoulder and telling you “What a good girl you’re being, mi amor,”

Be prepared for a tidal wave of praise for doing the bare minimum.

It doesn’t matter if Rudy’s topping or bottoming, he’s going to let you know how you’re making him feel, how nobody will ever ensnare him like you do.

“I love you,” he rasps, eyes half-lidded and skin glistening with sweat as you take him.

“I love you, I love you so much–” He growls, back arching into you as you catch a sensitive area. His chest is heaving and his eyes are dark.

“I’ll never let anyone else have you.”

Graves

This guy was made to have a controversially young girlfriend.

Calls you “Babydoll”, “Babygirl”, “Little Lady”, etc.

He unironically refers to himself as “Daddy”.

E.g. “You were eyein’n up that necklace for a while, Darlin’…” His hand slips to the crotch of his jeans, rocking his bulge into his palm.

“Maybe if you ask Daddy real nicely, he’ll get it for you.”

He’s actually very caring. He’d buy you the world if it meant seeing you smile.

He never expects anything from you in return.

He just can’t pass up the opportunity to have you in his arms, to touch you.

Graves can tend to go overboard with the gifts, though.

Calls you “young thing” when he’s feeling humourous.

On the flip-side, he can (and will) use your age gap against you. Like Price, but more Southern.

He’ll be very condescending when he’s mad, tending to use terms that undermine how intelligent and capable you really are.

“If you’d just listened to me and gotten it through your tiny head that I’m doing what’s best for you, we wouldn’t be in this situation!”

On the flip-flip-side, he uses your age gap as a jumping-off point into…dubious activities.

#1 dumbification kink enjoyer.

He’s a switch with top lean, what can I say.

“Can’t do anything without me, can you, Sweetheart.” It’s not a question. His eyes are too serious, too stern, for it to be. He’s  pounding into you, hands either side of your head, caging you beneath him.

Between his panting, he presses a wet, uncoordinated kiss to your lips.

“I’ll make sure you can’t even think without me by the time I’m done with you.”

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