#hum so gaye the

[myauditionfordrphil]

ICT 2.0 is following the path of their seniors and making sure that us fans don't get 2 back to back happy days

[ennaih]

Every Film I Watch In 2023:

274. Kho Gaye Hum Kahan (2023)

[ramayantika]

Haan bhai bhagwan ko kaise bulana hai kya karna hai tumhara raasta hi sahi hai ka theka le rakha hai na sachi bhad mein jao tum sab

Bhagwan ko aise nahi karo voh mat karo prem vs bhakti ka yudh cherrne valon bhakti ka sabse bada raasta prem se hi hota hai aur zyada natak nahi karo ki pehle ke yug mein kuch nahi tha sanskrit ki romantic poetry muh oe fekungi na ek se ek chizein padhke aankhe khul jayengi bhago yaar

I

[almayver]

They put all the horribly confusing and beautiful and freeing uncertainty of youth that you only feel at 2 am on a Saturday in Kho Gaye Hum Kahan (the song (the movie too)) if you even care

[delicatetaysversion]

mom was like wow this is crazy you're planning so much for an online friend ladki hi hai na?? is so funny

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Roads Untraveled 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, pregnancy, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Single and pregnant, you discover a super soldier in the dumpster but he might not be hero you think he is. 

[This is a rewrite of a series of the same name which I removed a couple years ago]

Characters: Silverfox!Steve Rogers

Note: I finally did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

‘When he went away  The blues walked in and met me  Oh, yeah if he stays away  Old rocking chair’s gonna get me  All I do is pray...’ 

You sway to the melody as you wipe dry the last plate. You set it in the rack as Etta James’ soulful crooning wafts around the kitchen. Just the simple task of washing the dishes has you out of breath. You can no longer hum along as you’re suddenly light headed with sweat speckled across your brow. Even the breeze drifting in through the open window can’t cool the constant heat brewing within you. 

You brace your lower back as you reach for the dish towel and pop open the cupboard. The music drones to silence as the next some in queue loads. Your rounded stomach presses to the counter as you take a mug and dry it inside and out. Strange, you don’t remember the song starting like that; the strange warbling noise much unlike Marvin Gaye’s rich tones. 

You set the mug on the shelf and back up. Another noise peaks your attention, too tinny to be a snare. You rub your stomach mindlessly as you sling the cloth over your shoulder. You waddle across the tile to the folding table beneath the window. You tap pause on your phone and the bluetooth speaker goes silent. 

Your fingers pick the damp fabric away from your bump. These days you can’t avoid getting soaked. Even as you can’t forget about the burden of your condition, you’re still oblivious to how it gets in the way until it does. You sigh as you listen for another clue. 

A pained deep grunt floats up from below. Distant but decisive, another rustle beneath the unexpected noise. You lean over the table, a hand on the ledge as you push the pane higher. You bend, stomach pressed to the speaker, and peer down. You expect another dumpster diver searching for empties to trade in; rather you meet a most unexpected sight. 

There is a man in the dumpster, alright, but he isn’t moving. From there, you can’t see very clearly. You squint at the figure strewn among the trash but the zigzag of the fire escape obscures your eye line. 

You shouldn’t go and see. Not only is it a lot of effort, but it’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be wandering into alleys to check on strangers in dumpsters. You don’t know any good reason someone might be swimming in garbage. Nor do you think they would want to be bothered.  

Still, the prickling in your neck urges you to do something. There’s just something so peculiar about the angle of the arm you can see clearer than the rest of the body. At least they’re moving, even if they sound agonized. 

You take your phone and untether it from the bluetooth speaker. You unlock it and keep your thumb ready to dial out. You move as quickly as you can, not very, and waddles along the back of the couch into the entry way. You take your keys from the hook near your door and step into your cushy slides. 

You turn back the latch and leave the door unlocked behind you. The slides shift on your swollen feet as you rush down to the elevator. God, your back hurts. You try not to lean too far back as it only adds to the pain. You need a belly belt but they’re so darn expensive. 

You’re out of breath as you step on and turn to watch the numbers count down. You’re still panting as you reach the lobby and push through the front doors, leaning into the heavy grated iron until it creaks loudly. You clamour down the steps to even ground and your hips pang. 

You put your hand under your stomach, trying to lift it and ease the pressure in your hips. You blow out between your lips as you have to slow down. You shuffle across the grass and into the paved lobby. The stink of the trash brings you back to those early days of morning sickness. And afternoon sickness. And night sickness. 

You try not to inhale too deeply as you step between the brick buildings. You bring your phone up, ready to hit those three digits in a heartbeat. You should’ve done so already. Even if you do, it’ll take hours for anyone to come out here. 

You stop and listen a few steps from the dumpster. You don’t hear anything now. You look up at the sky, dimming towards evening in a mixture of pink and blue, the moon peeking palely through the hue. You grip your phone tight, keys jangling with your movement as you continue forward. 

“Hello?” You call out, “is someone in there?” You linger near the corner of the dumpster, the trash reeking in your nostrils, “do you need help?” 

No answer. You stare up, wondering how you might see inside. If you weren’t built like a keg, you might be able to see from the lower level of the fire escape but you can’t even make it one rung. You blink and call out again. 

“Hello? Are you okay?” 

You wait for a response. Silence again. Maybe they found their way out on their own. You huff. So much for all that. All you’ve done is added to the pain in your arches. You turn on your heel and a groan gurgles and plastic crinkles noisily. 

You stop again, wavering, and peer back over your shoulder. A hand appears over the tops of the dumpsters edge and grips it. You face the large metal bin as the knuckles strain within the stained brown leather, fingertips poking out nakedly, blood and dirty tinged across the flesh. A long grunt follows as the figure drags himself to look over the top. 

“Sir, are you--” you begin, voice catching at the sight of the cowl and the man’s square jaw. The white star on his chest stuns you. It’s him. Everyone knows that uniform, that face, even under his helmet. New York’s own Captain America. 

You gape as the super soldier strains and swings himself out of the dumpster with one arm. His other is hanging limply as his feet hit the pavement. His knees crack and buckle. He drops down onto them and hisses. 

“Captain America?” You utter dumbly. 

He puts his fist to the ground and leans on his arm. He hangs his head and heaves. He drags a leg forward, planting his foot, and makes himself stand. He pushes his shoulders back and winces, reaching to cradle his dangling arm. 

“Steve,” he rasps, “goddamn.” 

You don’t expect the obscenity. Not from him. He leans against the dumpster and turns his chin up. He gnashes his teeth as he grips his arm and jerks, moving the heavy bin with his effort. The pop of his shoulder is sickening as he growls tightly. He stomps his foot and as he shakes out the arm he just put back into place. 

He reaches up and peels off his cowl as he puts his head straight. He looks at you as he wipes the streak of blood from lip to chin. His blond locks are streaked silver and his face is lined. He looks much older than the magazine covers and the TV screens. The magic of editing, right? 

He swipes the sweaty hair from his forehead and huffs. 

“Steve,” you rest your phone on your stomach, “are you okay?” 

He pushes himself away from the dumpster and puffs, “I’m fine. Just... a hiccup.” 

You stare at him. He looks tired and worn. You believe him when he says he’s okay. He's a super soldier and the world has seen his many feats. Yet he looks completely hollow. 

“Are you sure? I could call someone or...” you step forward and point to the slash that borders chest and shoulder, “you should clean that out, shouldn’t you?” 

He looks down and grimaces, “had worse. I got comms. HQ doesn’t care about a few scratches.” 

He goes to step forward and stumbles slightly. He snarls and kicks his foot into the gravel. He wiggles his knee and bends to rub the joint. 

“I...” your mouth opens and closes. This isn’t the man you’ve seen in the media. He's not smiling and golden and shining. Still, he’s the Captain. “I live above,” you gesture upward, “I could help... or maybe you can just... sit for a little bit. Get yourself straight?” 

He looks at you. As if for the first time. His forehead smooths as the tension eases from his jaw. His gaze slowly crawls down to his stomach and you see the dimple in his cheek. 

“Your husband okay with that? I’m a bit of a mess,” his tone is lighter as he fixes his grip on his cowl. 

“Oh no, I don’t have--” you chew your lip and look at the brick wall, “it’s just me. But I have first aid kit and learned to stitch in summer camp. I think I can still remember how.” 

He glances around and nods, “got a back door?” 

“Yeah, it’s... past you,” you nod in his direction. 

He pivots stiffly and cranes to see around the dumpster. You near him and your keys jingle again. You follow him to the metal door with the glass window and you shove the key in and twist. You pull it open a few inches. It’s heavier than the front door. He grabs it and wrenches it all the way back. 

“Thanks,” you murmur. “There’s an elevator.” 

“Hm, fewer people see me, the better,” he sniffs as the door clanks behind him. 

“It might take me a while,” you warn, “I’m slow.” 

“What floor. I’ll meet you,” he offers. 

“Sure, it’s three.” 

“Number?” 

“310.” 

“I’ll find it,” he states and marches towards the stair sign. 

You go to catch the elevator, stewing in disbelief on your ascent. You step off and continue on to your apartment. He’s already there. He stands with his hand on the frame, looking over his shoulder as you waddle down the hall towards him. 

“It’s unlocked,” you say. 

He opens it and waits for you. You thank him as you enter and he follows. He locks it and lingers behind you. You put your hand to the wall as you slip off your slides. He gently lays his cowl on the corner table and bends to unlace his boots. You hang the keys on the hook and place your phone on the small table. 

He leaves his dirtied boots on the mat and limps forward. You stand in the open doorway of the living room and peek back at him. He looks around reluctantly. 

“Please, sit down,” you insist and wave through the doorway before you pass through. 

“I...” he begins and you hear his uneven gait down the hallway. “I don’t want to dirty your couch.” 

“I have a steam cleaner,” you assure. “Sit, I’ll get the kit.” 

He stares, his eyes once more scanning the space. Does he think this is a trip? That you’re some covert agent who all too conveniently found him? That’s absurd. Look at you. 

You shrug off that ridiculous idea and cross to the kitchen. You open several drawers before you remember it’s in the bathroom. Of course. Your brain likes to play games these days. You grab the metal tin from under the sink and return to Steve.  

He pulls off his gloves and balls them on the side table next to the couch. You come around the other side of the couch and sit, leaving lots of space between you. You squeeze the kits as you’re once more out of breath. 

“You okay?” He turns the question on you. 

“I’m not the one bleeding. Just pregnant,” you smile. 

You balance the kit on your stomach as you lean back. You sanitize a needle and weave it with surgical thread. You put that aside and fish out an alcoholic swap. You shift the kit aside and push on the back of the couch as you try to sit forward. You shake and he helps you, a humbling assistance. 

“First,” you turn to him, “we’ll see how deep it is,” you tear open the swap, “can I...” 

“One sec,” he dips his fingers into the fabric and tears the sleeve, renting the fabric like tissue. His arm is thick and well-toned despite the years. A centurion like him can’t complain for the shape he’s in, even battered. “I can do it myself.” 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be easy.” 

You reach as he angles towards you. You gingerly dab around the gash and he tenses. He takes a sharp breath, “you don’t have to be so gentle. I can handle pain.” 

“Right,” you work more diligently. 

He’s quiet as you tend to him, picking out gravel and some metal slivers. You worry that you might miss some. You lean in closer and he steels himself at your proximity. 

“So,” he clears his throat, “just you and...” the kid?” 

“We all make mistakes,” you chuckle. You can only laugh about it, as scared as you are. 

“Mmm,” he flinches as you sweep down the length of the cut. It’s not that deep, mostly superficial. 

“Let me put some steri-strips on, shouldn’t need the stitches, ” you say as you sift through the kit with one hand, “if you’re hungry, I have leftovers. You like chicken?” 

You don’t know why you’re offering. Maybe it’s because you owe him. Like everyone in the city. It’s your chance to give back to the hero who gave so much. Or maybe it’s because you’re so damn lonely talking to your own stomach. 

“I should go,” he insists as you place a strip across the cut. 

“Up to you,” you say, “I don’t mind either way, but I’m not going to chase Captain America out of ym apartment.” 

He doesn’t say anything. You finish dressing his wound and gather up the wrappers and all. You crumple it in one hand and rock yourself to stand. You’re overly aware of him watching you. You touch your stomach and rub it, soothing your nerves. You find him watching the movement of your hand. 

“You must be pretty far along,” he says. 

“Six months. Chicken tortellini, if you want. I was gonna reheat some. I haven’t eaten since work.��� 

“Work?” He frowns and stands, moving better than before. “Should you be?” 

“I’m at a desk. It’s nothing. HR got me some ergonomic stuff. Nothing compared to what you do.” 

You put away the kit and toss the garbage. You wash your hands before you search out the container of pasta in the fridges. You sense him behind you, just in the wide archway that peers into the kitchen. You reach into the cupboard you left open and take the single plate that isn’t in the rack. 

“So, you want some?” You ask. 

He’s silent with contemplation, the shift of his weight creaks in the floor, “I appreciate it, yes, please.” 

“I might have something you can change into,” you say. You wonder why you’re doing all this. Maybe it’s that maternal instinct kicking in. “The father, before he took off, left a few things.” You peek over your shoulder, “he was a bit smaller than you.” 

He shrugs then winces at the careless gesture. “Do you mind if I wash up before I eat? I smell like garbage. I don’t wanna overstep--” 

“Go ahead, it’ll take a while to warm this up,” you say. 

Another long lull. He taps his fingers on the wall and inhales deep enough for you to hear, “promise, I’ll get out of your hair after dinner.” 

“Please, take your time,” you say as you put the tortellini in a glass pan to rebake. He backs away and you sense his hesitation, “oh, down the hall, to the left of the bedroom at the end.” 

“Thanks,” he intones, “oh, uh, just realised, you know who I am...” 

Your brows pop up and you stop before you can put the pan in the stove. You look back at him and give your name. He nods. 

“Pretty,” he comments, “also, it’s just Steve, not Captain.” 

[whatsnewalycat]

Secret Admirer

Javier Peña x f!Reader - Explicit (18+ only)

Summary: It's Valentine's Day. Which means it's time to take a chance on your workplace crush, Agent Javier Peña.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: Season 1 (ish), US Embassy, yearning, secret admirer, confrontation, drinking and smoking (real brief), smut, protected PIV sex, dash of angst and fluff

A/N: Yeeehaw, this was written for a valentines day exchange SOOOO Happy Valentine's Day to @typingcorgi 💌 This one is for you, I hope you like it!!!

The papers cradled in your arm dig into the sticky crease of your elbow. Your fingertips part the thick stack of faxes and run along the crisp edge of an envelope hidden inside. A bass drum starts thudding in your chest and heat creeps up your neck. 

One last peek over your shoulder at the empty, sterile mailroom gives you permission to do it. You slip the red envelope out from its hiding place and shove it into the cubby labeled JAVIER PEÑA. 

The shuffle of approaching footsteps sends your heart into an outright sprint. 

You scurry over to the fax machine and pinch the paperclip from the first fax, then slide the papers into the tray. As you punch the outgoing fax number into the machine, the footfalls grow closer, and soon start thudding against the shiny white linoleum of the mailroom. 

The low rumble of conversation between two men grows more distinct. You recognize their voices, but keep your eyes glued to the papers being sucked through the gears of the fax machine. 

“We’re gonna get a bottle of wine, candlelit dinner, put on some Marvin Gaye to set the mood,” Steve Murphy says, “Should probably get some flowers for her or somethin’, huh?” 

Javier Peña hums in response. 

They make their way over to the mailboxes. You stand there and try to blend into your surroundings as you wait for a fax receipt. The sound of them sorting the contents of their mail makes your stomach churn. 

“What’s that?” Steve asks as they start to walk away. 

“Let’s see,” Javier murmurs, then his footsteps come to a halt as he opens the envelope and he hums with curiosity. 

Steve stops, too, then chuckles, “Is that a fucking valentine?”

“Looks like it,” Javier mumbles, then directs his voice at you and says your name. 

You stop breathing and clench your eyes shut, then open them and turn around, trying your best to keep your face neutral, “What?” 

He holds up the unsealed red envelope and its folded up white contents between two fingers, “Did you see who left this?” 

You meet his dark brown eyes for a few devastating moments before dropping your gaze to the stack of faxes in your white-knuckle grip. All the moisture from your mouth evaporates. You clear your throat and shake your head, “No, sorry. I just got here.” 

“A secret admirer?��� Murphy’s lips curl into an amused grin and he raises an eyebrow at Javier. 

You take another quick glance at the duo and realize Javier is narrowing his eyes at you, jaw working back and forth in subtle movements. Your skin burns and twists under his examination. 

He breaks his laser focus and looks to Steve with a shrug, “Guess so.” 

The fax machine roars to life behind you and starts printing. You spin on your heel towards the noise, and the men start off the way they came. Your hands are shaking when you go to grab the confirmation. 

—

The clack clack clack of your typewriter ricochets through the empty halls of the United States Embassy. Although you can’t see it from your desk, you know the sun outside is sinking below the horizon and giving way to the inky black of nighttime. 

Without Ambassador Noonan there to pull you into meetings for transcription, or assign you urgent outgoing faxes, or ask you to run any other number of errands she deems important, you’re able to perform the more “menial” of your clerical work. You sift through the stacks of papers at the corner of your desk, each one containing hurried handwriting scrawled by Noonan or one of her many Agents, trying to decipher their contents and transfer them into a more legible print. 

Footsteps sound from down the hall, but you’re too busy squinting at a puzzling clusterfuck of scribbles to pay it any mind. It’s not until your desk creaks under the weight of Javier leaning back against it that you notice he’s there.

With a jump, you clutch your blouse over your pounding heart and gasp, “Jesus fu—Hi, Agent Peña.” 

He comes to rest just inches away from your chair, arms crossed over his chest as he frowns down at you. Dangling between two of his knuckles is the red envelope you left in his mailbox earlier. Adrenaline pumps thick and hot through your veins. 

Your hands feel numb as you meet his gaze and manage to ask, “Can I help you with something?”

His jaw cocks to the side and he raises an eyebrow at you, then tosses the red envelope onto your desk, “What’s this?” 

“I—I—” you shake your head and widen your eyes, glancing between him and the letter. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he interjects. 

You swallow hard and hold your eyes steady on his as they bore into you. It’s a standoff. You don’t even dare to breathe. The silence is deafening. 

Javier breaks it as he clears his throat and picks the creamy white paper up off your desk, then unfolds it. Your stomach drops to the floor. 

He reads it aloud in a gravelly purr: 

“Oh, how I long to devour you. To unhinge my jaw And swallow you whole.  Do you feel it too?  Do you ache with hunger when I’m near? When I meet your starving eyes, I know.”

Your eyes stay trained on his as he peers over the paper at you like he expects you to say something. But you don’t. Your skin buzzes electric when he rolls his tongue against his pouty lips, along the edge of his dark mustache, then drags his gaze down the length of you. 

Javier sets the paper back onto your desk, taking a look around before he leans in and murmurs, “I do. I know.”

Then he digs into the pocket of his tan suit pocket and takes out a folded slip of paper. He pulls it away just as you go to reach for it. When your fingers curl back and you blink up at him in question, he searches your face, “This stays between us, ok?” 

“Of course,” you nod. 

His throat rumbles, eyes flick down to your lips for a moment, then he extends the paper to you again. This time when you go to take it, he lets it slide out from between his fingers into yours. 

“Come by when you’re done here,” he says, more of a demand than a request. 

“I will,” you try to suppress the grin stretching across your lips. 

Javier taps two fingers against your desk, then pushes off it and saunters back down the hallway, giving you a quick backwards glance before turning the corner. 

You look around to make sure no one is watching, then unfold the note, revealing an address written in his angular, messy script. Below this, it reads: 

Starved. 

—

Your knuckles rap two quick knocks against the door before Javier swings it open. His darkened gaze slides down your body like molasses as he steps back and lets you enter the apartment. The scent of his cologne wafts into your nose as you pass him. It’s light and crisp, clean smelling, contrasting his whiskey breath. 

You slide out of your heels and set your purse onto the ground, then study the dwelling with curiosity, dropping down two steps into the living room on your way to a leather couch. The walls are painted a cream color, pastel green and pink spliced here and there. It doesn’t seem to represent Javier at all. You figure the apartment was furnished by the Embassy, like yours. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a dense fog. It’s tediously quiet. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, striding over to a stand-alone dry bar, which hosts a variety of amber colored liquors. 

“Sure,” you answer as you sit down on the couch, smoothing out the black dress you changed into before walking over here. 

Javier doesn’t ask what you want to drink. He just pours two glasses of whiskey and hands one to you while he lowers himself onto the other end of the loveseat. 

Which, it’s a loveseat, so he’s still intimidatingly close. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, then swallow a mouthful of the alcohol, wincing at the burn as it travels down your throat. 

It’s not until now you realize you’ve never been alone with him. You’ve only experienced his intensity from afar. The way his eyes linger on you, seeming to study you when he thinks you won’t notice. 

But you’ve noticed. 

And you like it. 

You’ve been careful to only leave hints of your wanting. Flicking your gaze to his when you feel it on your skin. Holding it there until your heart starts pounding and one of you looks away. Letting your body brush against him in passing. No words spoken, only heated eye contact and near-touching. Following an acute awareness of the way you’re drawn to him, how fervently your blood courses through your veins when he’s near, how his presence seems to tug at the edges of you. 

“Did you write that yourself?” he inquires now. You take another sip and look up at him, meeting his eyes. 

It’s unbearable. Yet, you don’t want it to stop. Like magnets are buried beneath your skin and his, opposite poles, aching to meet in equilibrium. 

“I did,” you admit quietly, then tilt your head at him with curiosity, “Did you like it?” 

He hums and nods, glancing down at your mouth, “I’ve been watching you. I see the way you look at me.” 

“I know,” you respond in a whisper. The confession sends your heart racing… but you feel emboldened. You tip the glass to your lips and let the remaining whiskey slide down your throat, then lean forward to set the empty cup on his coffee table and scoot closer to him as you settle back into the couch. 

Javier sits up to place his drink on the table, and when he returns, he’s only inches away. He brings his breath to your ear and murmurs, “You like it, don’t you? The attention?” 

“Yes,” you answer. His hand rests on your knee, a branding iron that heats your core and steals the air from your lungs. 

“Teasing me with those short skirts,” he travels up your thigh, letting his rough palm drag along your skin. The touch sends a shock wave of pleasure across your body. 

You whimper and your eyes flutter shut. 

His voice lowers to a rasp, “Staring at me with those fuck-me-eyes. You think I wouldn’t know it was you?”

He stops at the crease of your thigh and grips the tender flesh, pulling a wanton moan from your throat as your head falls back against the couch. 

“Look at me,” he demands, so your eyes blink open and you meet his heated, meticulous gaze, “Do you want this?”

“I want this,” you nod, bringing a hand to his cheek, working your thumb against the grain of his stubble. He studies your face, dropping his eyes to your mouth, kneading your thigh, drawing closer. 

You succumb to his beckoning lips, capturing them in a kiss. Fire sparks in your chest and spreads through your veins like wildfire, spreading to him as your tongues meet, rolling soft and wet, whiskey harsh on your shared breath. 

Then he’s on you all at once. 

Pushing your back flush to the couch cushions, rocking his hand against the seam of your panties, sliding the thin straps of your dress off your shoulders, liquefying your insides into molten need. He rids you of the red lace thong, tossing it on the floor while your trembling fingers unfasten the buttons of his shirt. You splay your fingers across his chest and slip the shirt off his shoulders. It joins your abandoned lingerie, followed by your dress, then his pants. 

Javier pauses to study your naked body, lust-blown eyes trailing along every inch of your exposed skin, hands dragging up your legs. You examine him, too. His smooth, bronzed skin. His broad shoulders. His lean frame. His swollen, needy cock. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” you breathe, reaching out to him, rolling your hips against nothing, aching with lust. 

Your compliment pulls a rumble from his throat, then he returns to your body, to your lips. His warmth sends shockwaves down your spine. You arch your back into the sensation, drinking up every ounce of heat your thirsty skin can lap up. 

When he touches the slick pool between the legs, spreading your arousal up and down your slit, you both moan into the other’s mouth, and he pants, “So fucking wet.”

You slide your hands around his shoulders, whimpering, nodding, reveling in the exquisite heat stoked at your center, urging him to continue with a breathy moan, “Don’t stop—fuck, that’s so good—”

He groans and captures your lips in his, kissing you hard, messy, working you faster, and the flames licking your insides continue to grow hotter, breaking you out into a sweat, making you gasp and moan against his mouth, eyes fluttering shut and it’s just this aching, heated bliss building at the base of your spine, and your pleas for him not to stop, and his skin on yours, his mouth planting wet kisses down your jaw, your neck, his moans of secondhand pleasure vibrating down your middle, fueling this brilliant concentrated ball of fire burning a hole inside you until you reach the edge of something and push past it.

Ecstasy washes over your body and steals the air from your lungs. You release a shattered breath and start to free fall, but his touch doesn’t relent, and your body shakes with pleasure that’s too intense to bear, legs clamping shut around his arm as you start to whimper at the stimulation. 

Javier pulls back when your legs go jelly, his chest heaving, eyes wild and black and glued to yours. His pink tongue rolls against his lips, then they pout out into an O when he drags his fingers through your release. Your hips jerk at the jolt of his touch, heavy eyelids fluttering as you moan, and he smirks, “Wanna move this to the bedroom?” 

You bite down on the pillowy flesh of your bottom lip as your gaze drops to his engorged length, and you manage to respond, “Uh-huh.”

He stands and starts towards his bedroom. You follow him on wobbly legs, head swimming, ears buzzing. 

Just like the common areas of his apartment, his room is decorated tastefully and obviously courtesy of the Embassy. It’s surprisingly neat, though, the dark walnut chest of drawers cleared of clutter and personal effects, hardwood floor unencumbered by piles of dirty laundry, dark walnut four-post bed dressed with white linens. Based on the constant state of disarray his desk is in, you expected it to be messier, and wonder if he cleaned up for you. 

Javier strides over to a side table and pulls a condom out of its drawer. While he wraps himself up, you settle at the edge of his bed, legs dangling off the side as your eyes trail down his shoulders, his arms, the defined muscles of his back, swallowing hard when he turns to face you. 

He takes the two short steps to settle his hips between your knees and hums, bringing a hand to your chin, tilting your head up towards him as he presses his forehead to yours and purrs, “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart? Hmm? For me to fuck you?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, linking your hands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, feeling his breath puff hot against your mouth, grip on your chin tightening.

His lips find yours and he kisses you slowly, deliberately, with a tender sort of reverence that tightens around your skin and makes you whimper. The noise spurs something inside him. He cups your cheeks and picks up speed, climbing onto the bed, pushing you onto your back. 

It completely consumes you, the way his mouth works against yours, the way you writhe against each other, touch roaming, both of you tugging and rubbing and digging your fingers in and moaning at the fire blazing between your sweaty bodies. 

When the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, you wrap your legs around his back and arch against him, panting, “Fuck yes, give it to me.”

He stares down at you, holding your gaze as he plunges forward, working you open, and both your faces contort with pleasure. 

“Fuuuck,” he groans as he starts to rut into you at a steady pace. Every single nerve ending he rubs against buzzes with ecstasy. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair and you pull him closer, pressing your lips to his, immersing yourself in a series of messy, frantic kisses, swallowing each other's moans, working your bodies in tandem to fuel the hungry flames. You start to roll your hips against his thrusts, each one accumulating hot and gooey and tingling, tugging at the edges of you as you whimper, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—” 

“That’s it, baby,�� Javier pants, his voice jumping in time with his hips as he drives into you, “So fucking good—feel so fucking good—” 

He kisses you then, and his eager lips, his soft tongue, the scent of whiskey on his breath, the burn of his mustache scratching your skin, the blissful ache of him stretching you again and again, it fully engulfs your body, like you’re melting together, the heat between you too great, the fire too intense to remain whole because this glowing molten core is growing wider and hotter with each moan, each touch, each thrust, and you beg Javier not to stop, fuck, don’t fucking stop, and he steals the words from your mouth with his own, fucking you hard and fast just like you knew he would, pushing you closer and closer to bliss, and then you reach it.

For one second, you’re suspended right at the edge, mind blank, body humming. Then it hits you, and it hits you fucking hard, euphoria breaking you into pieces and tearing a sob from your throat. Javier’s hips stutter as your muscles tense and your pussy convulses around him. He gasps against your mouth, then shudders as he finds his release. Both of your bodies slow their pace, cooling to a crawl, then a stop. 

The sound of your labored breaths fills the bedroom, heaving chests working against each other as sanity starts to return and your bodies struggle to recover. He rolls off of you and stretches out across his bed, inhaling deep and wide, exhaling a content hum. 

Then, without a word, he gets up and leaves the room. 

Your guts twist into a knot. It should give you whiplash, how fast you go from total satisfaction to nervous wreck. 

Since moving to Colombia for this job, sex has been a rare occurrence for you. And by that, you mean… it doesn’t happen. Even before the move, a series of long-term relationships have been your only claim to sexual experience. So this situation is uncharted territory. 

But you’re pretty sure this is your cue to get the fuck out. 

While staring at the ceiling, you kick yourself for giving him the note, for putting yourself in this position. Shame simmers hot under your skin when you try to imagine what it’ll be like the next time you see Javier at work. When you’ll both know what happened here tonight, but pretend it was nothing. 

Why do you have to feel this burning desire for someone like him? For someone so intimidating and closed off? And, more perplexing still, does he feel it for you? 

Your chest and throat tighten when it dawns on you that he probably doesn’t feel the same as you. Maybe he saw an opportunity to get laid and took it. Maybe… it was nothing to him. 

You sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed, peering out the bedroom door a moment before hopping down and padding across the hardwood floor into the living room. 

He’s doing something in the kitchen, so you fold your arms in front of your body and make your way over to the couch, snatching your clothes off the ground before you sit and start to get dressed. 

As you pull your dress down over your head, he returns to the living room. He’s wearing jeans now, but remains shirtless, and a lit cigarette dangles from his lips. 

You glance up at him and mutter, “Sorry, I can get out of your hair. Thank you for, um… indulging me.”

He plops down next to you and crushes the burning ember of his cigarette into a glass ashtray on the coffee table, then leans back and extends his arm along the couch behind you, frowning, “You’re leaving?”

“I—I guess, right?” you turn and search his face, meeting his eyes that are all puppy dog soft. They tug at your heartstrings, but you continue to stammer onward, “That’s—I don’t know, that’s what I’m supposed to do, right?” 

“If that’s what you want,” he shrugs, dropping his gaze to your lips. 

While you stare at him and try to understand what the fuck that means, he leans close, brushing his hand against your cheek, “Or, you could stay… we can ‘indulge’ ourselves again.”

“Is that what you want?” you ask in an attempt to parse out his intentions. 

“Is that what you want?” he counters in a low voice, furrowing his brow. 

You bite down on your bottom lip and nod, then blink and shrug, “I mean, if that’s what you—”

His lips cut you off before you can embarrass yourself more.

—

You woke up with the sun. Javier was still holding you close, his shallow, dream-drenched breath spreading across the nape of your neck in soft puffs. You wriggled out of bed and collected your things, then walked the city block to your apartment and got ready for work. 

The day passes by like any other, with the exception of your strained muscles making every movement more difficult. You don’t cross paths with Javier, but when you return to your desk after lunch, there’s a red envelope sticking out of your typewriter. 

You take a cursory glance around, then pluck it out and open it. A smile spreads across your face when you read the note inside. 

Roses are red  Violets are blue  Come over tonight  I want to see you XO, Your Secret Admirer

[gaypanicmode7766259]

Older

Melissa schemmenti x teacher!reader

It's just a bunch of gayness-

Melissa was walking down the hall of abbott looking over some papers when she heard a familiar song as she walked by your classroom.

~~

You were putting some art supplies as you quietly sang the words 'think I need someone older..' You would hum at some parts while you said others.. but it all just gave away the song playing in those headphones of yours.

When you were done, you spun around only to see your classroom door now closed and a familiar older woman leaning against your desk with a smug look on her face.

You jumped softly when you saw her not expecting her to be there, "jeez Melissa.. what are you doing?" You asked innocently as you took off your headphones, stopping the music.

"Need someone older, do you?" The older woman asked smugly when she stood up and started to circle you.. "I wonder.. is the older person someone you already know?"

By this moment, you were frozen face flushed red so bad you couldn't make up an excuse. "I-i.. y-you.. u-um.." "Me?" The woman grinned, stopping in front of you. "No! T-that's n-not what i-" "So you don't like me?" The older woman acted offended "n-no! I like you!- i-i- wait- i-i mean-" you stuttered face so red it looked Melissa favorite color.

"Relax Tesoro.. I was just messing with you.. but that's good to know." She smiled softer but still slightly smug as she walked closer. "M-melissa.." You whispered, embarrassed as you rolled your eyes a bit "eyes up." She said, taking your chin between her thumb and index finger.

She leaned in so close to your lips... "Oh. My. God." Jacob gasped as his arms dropped and his jaw on the floor, both of your heads snapped at him.

It only took him a second before he bolted toward Janine's classroom with a slightly angry Melissa bolting after him to maybe stop him from spreading this all over the school.

Leaving you a flustered and confused mess. You stood still for a couple of minutes before looking at your headphones. "I don't think I've ever loved music more than this day... I'm so lucky -" a giddy smile spreading across your face..

So, very lucky..

[urfavnegronerd]

agape- nicholas britell

summary: miles is takin down ur braids 

published: july 27, 2023

warnings: Grammarly hates me, the patriarchy, a dash of toxic masculinity, miles being a product of that grrah grah boom type masculinity, aave (no im not translating shit for you yall got access to urban dictionary and its not really a warning), i edited it myself so lmk if there are any mistakes

sueñito- little dream, bonito- handsome/ pretty boy, no me importa- i don't care/ it's not important to me

w/c: 1.5 k

reader's black coded cus im black so deal w it <3

i think this something every black boy be needin deep down

“Stop movin, ma” 

“It’s knotty,” 

“You had these in for how long?” 

Silence. 

“There's your answer right there, mama,”  

“Sorry,” 

“Nun to be sorry for, just hold still,” 

Currently sitting on the bathroom floor criss-cross apple sauce, Miles was sitting on the toilet, your head between his knees, while he was taking down the frizzy lemonade braids that barely hugged your scalp anymore. 

“Miles?” 

He hums in response, rat tail comb in one hand, a tub of coconut oil in the other, threading the tail of the comb through the extensions down your back  

“You’re the prettiest boy in all of Brooklyn,” 

“Shut up” 

“Prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” 

“Nuh-uh,” 

“Fuck you mean ‘nuh uh’? The little freckles all over your cheeks? Cutest things I’ve ever seen, especially how they’re all slightly different shades, like lil polka dots all over your face, gives me a map a’ where to kiss. The little tiny dimple on the left side of your face? Adorable, 10/10, no notes. Also very kissable." He's still now, staring at the back of your head, using bundles strewn over his shoulder, mouth agape. “Them thick and long ass eyelashes? I could stare at ‘em all day, they look like teeny tiny butterfly wings when you rest your eyes.” 

“Shut up,” he whispers, still unmoving, the little dab of coconut oil on his fingers slowly dribbling down his wrist 

“Your mind pretty as hell, too, I like listening to what you have to hear when you let me,” you mumble, pressing tiny kisses into his cargo pant–clad kneecap. 

“Stop doin that shit, ma” 

“What?” 

“Talkin all crazy like that,” 

“I’m not talkin crazy, miles I’m being honest,” 

“You makin me out to be some weak ass lil boy,” 

“Miles.” you turn around abruptly, staring at him dead in the eye. “I’m jus being honest wit you. What's going on?” 

“It’s nothin, ma, turn around”  

“Sueñito. Lemme know what's up,” 

“It’s nothin,” 

You huff, turning around to face the bottom of the sink again. Silence bellows throughout the bathroom, Miles rubbing oil on your braids to detangle them to later drag the comb in once again and throw the discarded hair extension over his shoulder. The only sound between the two of you is the Marvin Gaye spinning on the record player, rooms away, dull basslines thrumming through the apartment. 

“Ion like this,” 

“What?” 

“Whatever jus happened, we talk about what's bothering us,” 

“Ain't nothin botherin me, ma,” 

“Then why you start buggin' the second I get to complimenting you?” 

“Cus ian wit all that girly shit,” 

“Fuck you mean girly shit, I’m jus tryna love up on you Miles,” your nostrils flare as you stare ahead of you.  

“Baby, I’m all for that but–” 

“Miles, did someone tell you boys can't get that?” 

A silence. 

“Baby.” 

“What?” 

“Jus cus you a boy dont mean you don't deserve love,” 

“Aint nobody say allat–” 

“Shut up Ian done,” you say, swiftly turning around and snagging the oil and comb from his hand “jus cus you a boy doesn't mean you don't deserve to feel shit miles. Ion know what it was like wit your last girl, but Ian her. Okay? You allowed to be a person wimme, you know that right?” 

“Ma–” 

“Shut up I still ain't done yet. Miles I’m real, I’m right here. real like you, I promise you I’m not goin nowhere right now,” 

“You done?” 

“Yeah,”  

“C’mere,” he motions to his lap, taking the comb and oil out of your hands and setting them on the tiled floor, laying out the discarded bundles.  

“ ‘s oil all up on my hands” 

“No me importa ma, come up on here,”  

Obeying and wiping the excess coconut oil off your hand, you do. Straddling his lap, and looking into his eyes, examining the twinge of sadness in his eyes. 

“Talk to me, mama,” 

“I want you to know that you deserve love and that you’re allowed to feel some typa way. I want you to talk to me, Miles. I care about you so much and I wanna make sure you’re good. I love hearing you talk, but Ion like havin to beg you to talk to me. I love jus bein in your presence, but I hate feelin like that Miles. I don’t know who told you whatever's going through your head right now but they dead wrong. I wanna know how you be feelin, I wanna know.” 

“Why you even talk like this to me?” 

“Cus I’m your girl, n I like to kiss up on you and love all up on you,” 

At this, he averts his eyes, trying to escape your gaze, his breath audibly speeding up. 

“Mm mm, don't do that Miles. Please breathe,” 

You plead, subconsciously pressing your middle three fingers under his jaw trying to measure his heart rate. Almost as a reflex to hide from you, he shrugs your hand away from under his jaw and pulls his hoodie over his mouth.

“Nah nah, don't hide from me neither,”  

“Ain’t nobody hidin from you,” 

“Jus cus you a boy don’t mean you don't deserve them random ass cuddles, or someone to tie up your durag or wash your hair. It don’t mean you shouldn't get flowers or hugs or them lil hickies behind your ear. Don't mean you not allowed to be sad or mad or wanna cry. Now Ion know who told you or made you feel that way but they dead wrong Miles. You allowed to feel with me,” 

“Ian some lil boy runnin around though, that shit ain't for me,” 

“If you wasn't supposed to feel and acknowledge your feelings, why would you be able to feel them? They there for a reason,” 

Still straddled on his lap, he looks up at you with the tiny leverage you have on him. His eyes are big and doe-like, almost as if he’s scared to make this next step, say this next sentence.” 

“Ion know why,” he mumbles, voice soft and scared. suddenly he’s kissin up on you, gripping anything he can get his hands on, like he’s making up for lost time, lost feelings. It's urgent and a little rough, though his lips are soft and velvety, a twinge of menthol chapstick on them.  

“Yo yo yo, slow down. Ian goin nowhere” you whisper into his mouth, nails gently raking across his neck “ ‘m right here Miles, see?” you ask, guiding his hands to feel on the left side of your chest, right above your heart. “ ‘s my heart under there, I'm right here okay? I’m real, Miles I swear,” 

“You’re real?” he whispers, breath shaky and uneven fisting the thin fabric of your camisole under the evergreen zip-up, in an attempt to feel more of your heart. 

“You allowed to feel your feelings the same way you feel my heart,” 

He still looks astonished, scared, and frozen. suddenly it wasn’t him you were talking to anymore. it was the scared little Brooklyn boy who had all these feelings stored away inside him, unsure of what to do or who to show them to.  

“ ‘m sitting right here miles. I’m your girl, okay? This is real, and you are real,” 

“I’m real?” tears begin to swim in his eyes. 

“You’re real miles. and those feelings in that big heart of yours? Those are real too. And if you let me, I wanna hear all of 'em.”  

His body stills once more against you, a small tear gliding down his cheek. 

“I love you,” 

And then he’s sobbing. 

“Sshh, hey it's okay” you whisper, holding him close to your chest. “I love you so much I can’t hardly breathe when I'm around you. It’s okay and you're okay, Miles. I’m real and this is real and you. You are real.” you mumble into his braids, holding him with the protectiveness of a mother with a small child. 

He just sat there, his head buried in your chest as he cried quietly, letting everything out. You just sat and let him cry and vent through his tears. All the things he had bottled up, discouraged to show to anyone. Sooner or later the tears slow to a stop, his face puffy and hot. 

Gently tugging the ends of his braids, he looks up at you. 

“You feel better sueñito?” you ask, dragging the cuff of your sweater to dry his face and pressing butterfly kisses to his cheeks in its wake. He did nothing but nod lazily, seemingly lighter, and nuzzling his face into your chest. 

“Lemme finish wiping up your face n then you can be all up on me, bonito, okay? 

He just nodded, dropping his head back to rest against the bathroom wall, the half-taken-out braids on your scalp no longer th task at hand. Reaching behind him you grab a baby wipe and swipe the tears and snot off his face, leaving his skin with a glossy finish. Holding his chin up, you look dead in his eyes. 

“You so beautiful Miles.” 

And this time, he nods. 

🩷 reblogs are always appreciated for reach <3

[roachymochi]

Absolutely love the bath scene after Falin get resurrected for the first time because Yay lesbians but also it bring a lot of character development ? After reading through the entire manga we know elf society is pretty conservative, and Marcille grew up really isolated from the rest of the world, not having a friend before her fourties. Her only experience with romance is reading romance novels. With how immature she is at the start of the manga she probably doesn't even know that two girl can kiss. So of course she would be with Falin like "Yayyy a love sleeping with you and taking our bath together and examining every inch of your body (to make sure you're not hurt haha) and interlocking our finger, we are such besties haha" Meanwhile Falin is absolutely down bad bad she's never been good at conveying her emotion so she absolutely doesn't know how to handle the gayness of the situation. She vaguely brush the subject ("I'm not sure we'll be able to sleep in the same bed, I hum... grew a lot since the last time", or the whole I'll give you my mana situation) but Falin's too awkward and Marcille too oblivious for anything to happen.

Anyway my headcanon is that some lesbian who is not useless (I'd say Namari since she know them both, but she seems like a useless lesbian too) saw how they were and the three of them had some enlightening discussion. post-canon Farcille is like a married couple

[skxllz]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬✦✦▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

male! reader introduces ian and mickey to the gayness goodness of iced coffee.

a jug of the cold beverage pulled from the fridge and sat on the counter, along with whipping cream, flavored creamer, sugar and chipped ice. you make quick work at blending each beverage — and then top it all off with a spin-top of whipped cream at the surface.

plunking a straw into the cups, before picking each glass up with little difficulty and shuffling to the living room of your apartment where the two males are spotted wrestling on the couch.

ian has mickey in a head lock, a smug look upon his handsome face, “ y’gonna apologize or what? ”

“ no! ” mickey huffed, trying to push the ginger's arms away — but to no avail. “ fuck off, gallagher! get off’a me! ”

you stand there for a minute and admire the little innocent, happy moment the two share. it isn't often mickey or ian catch a break, with the way the two's lives have always been — mickey either winding up in the can again, have something goin’ on with his family or even some shitty occurrence going on in ian's life like every other day. the two deserved to smile and laugh with one another... and you, who dropped into their lives just a year ago, wanted to make sure it happened.

so far, these past couple’a weeks, you've been doing a pretty good job at it.

“ hey, idiots- ” your presence gracing the living room caused both males to look up; ian being distracted, so mickey finally frees himself from his hold. the brunette shoots him a glare, but ian pays no mind to it - instead, wonders what exactly is in your arms.

“ what's that? ” ian nods at the drinks you're holding, watching as you cross the room to set them on the coffee table.

you hummed, “ iced coffee, ” before plopping down a good distance away from the two.

mickey's brow furrowed a good bit as he took note of that, but you didn't say anything. “ the fuck is iced coffee? ” he questions, looking between you and ian with his famous ‘ what the actual fuck ’ expression.

ian rolls his eyes. “ it's obviously coffee with ice in it. ”

“ and whipping cream, ” you add, smiling proudly. ian chuckles at that, seeming to find your beam of proudness cute. “ plus- the coffee itself is store bought in a jug. I didn't make it. ”

mickey's busy eyeing the drink, looking as if he was expecting it to jump out at him. then, he switches his eyes onto ian; giving him a small nudge. “ you try that shit first. I'm not dyin’.

“ why the hell would you die? ”

“ what if he's tryin’ ta’ fuckin’ poison us, huh? ”

ian gave mickey a deadpanned stare, absolutely done with his shit. although you didn't know whether he was joking or not, you still tried not to laugh — milkovich sure could be an ass sometimes.

ian sighs, turning to wrap his fingers around the cup. “ he's not going to poison us, mick. ” but, even though ian said that with confidence, he still sniffed the iced coffee once he brought it upwards.

as if he could smell anything, though.

.. but then again, he was an emt before. for all you knew —if you were going to poison them— there could be some type of technique behind it to sniff out drugs. like a damn blood hound or something.

oh well, not like there was drugs in there anyway.

slowly, after bringing the rim of the glass to his lips, ian took a sip. his brows pinched together and he hummed, smacking his lips together as he swallowed; pulling the cup back from his mouth. “ it's... ”

“ it's what? ” mickey looked ready to slap ian for being so vague with his dramatic pause. “ fucking what? spit it the fuck out. ”

“ good, ” the ginger grinned, taking another drink. that left mickey to look at him bug-eyed — before his gaze was turned to you.

then the drink.

... and he was snatching the cup up, taking his own sip out of curiosity.

“ the hell? ” mickey mumbled into the surface of the liquid, causing bubbles to arise; his brows were knitted again. whipped cream was sticking to his upper lip, making both you and ian grin.

“ you like it? ” you question, eager to hear his answer. you could never know with mickey — he often had the same reaction with everything.

something negative? swearing. something positive? swearing. only difference was, is that he sometimes changed his tone.

but right now, he just sounded uncertain.

to you, at least. ian could decipher that mickey enjoyed it, because he was laughing quietly under his breath and smiling. “ oh, he likes it. he's just surprised ‘s all. ”

“ hell yeah I'm surprised! ” mickey announced rather aggressively, his eyebrows now risen. “ this shit tastes like queer rainbows and- and fucking fairy sprinkles! and I actually like it! the fuck is that about?! ”

you had to press your fist to your mouth to keep from laughing. “ I'm, uh- I'm glad you like it. ”

it wasn't long before mickey chugged his entire iced coffee down. he ended up slamming his glass onto the table —a whipped cream ring around his mouth and on his chin— with widened eyes, and pupils blown out with amazement. “ get me s’more of this shit. ”

“ yes sir- ”

“ don't call me sir, that shit turns me on. ”

“ ... yes, uh- yes sir. ”

“ ian, grab his ass. I'm done playin’ games. ”

[phuljari]

social media au! part 2

summary : khushi is a model and influencer; arnav just seems to stumble upon her profile one day— not so much by accident. (or what if khushi fell in love at first sight?)

warnings : just some hindi/hinglish, cussing in both languages. deliberate typos. online stalker!shyam. flirting with the boss

a/n : i am...trying something new (by using the word prompts) #IPK 13th Anniversary Fiesta @arshifiesta

hellohibyebye

liked by aakash_r, amanmathur, gulabo_devyani, anjaliiiii.r, mahendrarudrapratapsinghraizada, hari_prakash and 137 others

hellohibyebye haaye! ekdum vaijanthimaala laagat hai hum😍🥰

⚫kaala tika najar na lage e ke khatir⚫

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aakash_r Maa group pe daalne ko bola tha, Instagram pe nahi 🤦

gulabo_devyani Manorama! Ye Hear. hum aapko diye naahi the... Toh kaisan aap pehen liye?

anjaliiiii.r Mamiji 👌😍

mahendrarudrapratapsinghraizada Thoda vakht nikal ke humare saath bhi ek-do photu khichwaye leti!

⤷hellohibyebye aap photo me bilkul handsome.... nahi laagat hai 😒

hari_prakash B//J...K>';edxnnnnddd

iMessage "Raizada Group"

Aakash Maa aapne instagram pe post kar diya 🤦

Manorama toh ka hui gawa? hainn

Mahendra Bohot sundar laagat hai tumhari amma 😊

Akash liked a message

Manorama liked a message

Devyani Humra. Haar. Dena mat bhulna. Onmanorama.

Anjali Arre Aakash, karne do yaar, umar hai inki 😌

HP Ji Naniji, hum abhi wapas rakhwa dete hain

HP hhhhhhhh?/?????

Aakash HP yaar tune firse phone bandh kiye bina pocket me rakh diya... buttdial nahi, yaha toh butt-typo hote hain😶

Anjali 😂😂🤣🤣🤣

Arnav seen

Anjali Chotte yahan bolna mana nahi hai!

Arnav: Di, I'm in a meeting right now. Ttyl

Anjali: Arre, chotte 🤦‍♀️

Manorama added NK to Raizada Group

NK: Hello bhaiyyon aur bhabhiyon

Anjali: Bhabhiyon nahi NK bhai, beheno!

NK: Haan wahi Di! You understand me so well!!

Aakash: 😂😂

Arnav left Raizada Group

NK: Oh no Nannav! Tum kyu chale gaye

Aakash: You know that he can't see the messages now right?

NK: Oh, Whoops! Wait

NK added Arnav to Raizada Group

NK: Nannav mere bhai!! How are you??

Arnav: Isn't it like 3 AM in Sydney?

NK: Nannav, naughty naughty, tumne time check kiya mere liye! So cutee! I'm at your home doofus 😂

Arnav: gtg

Arnav left Raizada Group

iMessage

Anjali: Ye har baat pe chotte group kyu leave kar dete ho?

Arnav: Di! WTF ye NK kya kar raha hai Shantivan me?

Anjali:😶‍🌫️

iMessage

Aman: Sir, we have officially signed Ms. Khushi Kumari Gupta!

Arnav: Good

Arnav: Kumari?

Aman: That's her middle name boss

Arnav: Oh, okay

iMessage

Aakash: Bhai, you signed THE KHUSHI GUPTA??

Arnav: Yes

Arnav: And she's not that popular c'mon

Aakash: Bhai do you even use instagram? 😭

Arnav: Of Course!

Arnav: Btw I have more followers than her 😒 So much for "influencer"

Aakash: That's her personal profile Bhai! You have to see @/thekhushigupta

seen

thekhushigupta

liked by divalavanya, payaliyaa, guptagarima, aakash_r, shyamjha, versace, arnavsinghraizada, saritaraman and 396,981 others

thekhushigupta @/versace thank you for sponsoring my cannes debut

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saritaraman You dancing on hawa hawaii at cannes was the only thing left for me to see😭

⤷thekhushigupta all thanks to you babe <3

payaliyaa My babie sisterrrr 😍

⤷thekhushigupta jijiiiiii 😊

guptagarima Ae Khushi isko chalu kaise karte hai

versace It was our honour! 😍

aakash_r Amazing performance👌

shyamjha khushiji aapka koi boyfriend hai kya? 😭

divalavanya Bestie 💖

⤷thekhushigupta right back at ya! 💖

user1 i love the dressss

user2 just one chance khushi pls pls

user3 it was so cheap idk why ppl idolize u

⤷user1 get tf outta here

shyamjha hosh rubaa😍

nandiii khushi jiiiiii 💘

⤷thekhushigupta nanhe jiiiiii

nandiii

tagged: @/emirates @/anjaliiiii.r @/aakash_r

liked by aakash_r, anjaliiiii.r, gulabo_devyani, mahendrarudrapratapsinghraizada, hari_prakash, hellohibyebye, thekhushigupta and 806 others

nandiii So excited to meet you guys!😭

view comments

anjaliiiii.r Pooja ki thaal tayyar hai NK Bhai

⤷gulabo_devyani Aapan. Ka. hi intezaar hai Bitwa.

mahendrarudrapratapsinghraizada Return flight book karke nikle ho ki naahi?

⤷nandiii Now why would I do that Mausa Ji? 😊

thekhushigupta nanhe ji! iss baar aap mile bina nahi jaa sakte 😌

⤷nandiii Aapse hi toh milne aa rahe hai Khushi ji! It was fun to hangout with you while shooting in Portugal last year! 😊

hellohibyebye humre khaatir oo gucci peck kiye ki naahi?

⤷nandiii Maasi ji aapke liye toh chanel, gucci, versace sab haazir!

hari_prakash Ccooffee lenge?

Notifications (arnavsinghraizada)

thekhushigupta followed you

titaliya_k followed you

payaliyaa followed you

Notifications (thekhushigupta)

arnavsinghraizada followed you back

shyamjha unread 1475 messages

shyamjha commented on your post: hosh rubaa 😍

shyamjha commented on your post: khushiji aapka koi boyfriend hai kya? 😭

usershyam hume aap bohot pasand hai khushiji

iMessage

Khushi: he followed me back omgomgomg

Lavanya: ???

Khushi: ajgar

Khushi: arnav*

Lavanya: 😂😂

Lavanya: You didn't stop talking about him last night oh god

Khushi: i know ur friends were so pissed😭

Lavanya: Nooo, why would you thibk that

Lavanya: And look at you crushing so hard on ASR!

Khushi: you've met?

Lavanya: Briefly

Khushi: 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺

Khushi: I'm gonna slide into his dms wish me luck

Lavanya: Khushi wtf

Lavanya: Khushi come back you son of a bitch

Lavanya: Istg Khushi pls don't make a fool of yourself in front of your new boss😭

Lavanya: Khushiii??????

seen

(1) message from thekhushigupta

thekhushigupta: hey

arnavsinghraizada: Hi?

thekhushigupta: we met the other day

arnavsinghraizada: Yeah, you bumped into me, how can I forget?

thekhushigupta: omg i'm really sorry for that😩

thekhushigupta: can i take you out for an apologetic dinner?

thekhushigupta: tonight?

arnavsinghraizada: Are you...

thekhushigupta: asking you out? yes

arnavsinghraizada liked a message

TBC

<previous> | <next>

[kishmishorkissish]

So let's start yeahh,

Hum trophy jeet gaye 😭😭😭😭😭. Itni khush thi . Bhai then this drama . Like why God ji why.

So the drama started when they chose jitesh over Ishan. I don't have a problem because Ishan has a long way to go . The only problem is the amount of negetivity or negative comments passing on him, saying he got attitude problems, indiscipline hai aur kya kya.

This is the main reason am writing this post. Like shut the fuck up . Some have not even checked why it happened but are there to paas comments. Their lies the problem.

And then that chomu guy. Why the fuck he is that much hyped I don't know the reason , just because he post some unseen moments. The people who have talked to him knows bout him that guy is literally eww. Said joining the pr that's how you join the pr are you fr bro . Blud literally posted that shit on his story. Like a 15year old is more intelligent than you.

Okay my this opinion can get me cancelled but I"ll say it: that guy is worse than that firefly 😭😭.

And about not having pr, babygirl if he is getting hate even a good pr can't do anything. For example hardik: he was getting booed everywhere even after having a good pr, (sports channel,) management by his side .

[corrodedcoughin]

so everyone thinks Eddie is a metal head through and through, that no other music shall touch his eardrums for pain of death.

The thing is, these people are completely wrong. Eddie just loves loving music. He loves making mixtapes based on mood, on scenarios in his head, on experiences he’s had, on experiences he’s never had! So needless to say Eddie munson has a diverse music collection.

A part of this music collection that is rapidly expanding is Motown and Soul. Because you see, the thing is, when Eddie thinks about Steve Harrington all he can hear is Motown. From the supremes, Marvin Gaye, the four tops, Etta James, Sam Cooke, these iconic soul singers encapsulate how Steve makes him feel. The heart singing joy of making Steve smile, the chronic ache of wanting but not having, they cover it all.

Eddies accepted his fate, doesn’t let himself think about how Steve will always be an ‘if only’ to him. He puts his soul music on and dreams. So when he’s out at a make shift karaoke night with the rest of the older friend group, all of them, except designated driver Steve, drunk off of cheap beer when Mary wells - ‘my guy’ comes on. Well. Eddie maybe loses his brain to mouth filter even more than usual, slides up to Steve, both arms wrapping around him from the back, gives a deep sigh and says ‘mmmm this is my stevie song’ and shoves his face into the other man’s neck.

Eddie knows he does this, has horrific memory of it in fact, because the next morning it replays on repeat in his head every time he tries to close his eyes. He groans and hopes he can die by asphyxiation from a cheap, thin pillow. Unfortunately the universe is not so kind. No, instead he hears the sound of an engine, an engine he knows all too well as belonging to the boy he’d do anything to avoid right now. There a knock at the door and Eddie plans on ignoring it, plans to hide in the safety of his pit of shame. What he doesn’t count on is Steve coming around the side of the trailer, and climbing into his open bedroom window. ‘No point hiding Eddie, I dropped you off last night, your car is in the drive and there is no way you’d be going out after the drinks you were knocking back last night’

Once again, Eddie groans. Steve doesn’t stay long, ‘just wanted to know you were alive man. Good to see you didn’t choke on your own barf’. There a muffled noise from under the blanket ‘okay…well…after last night I just wanted to drop this off, let me know when you’ve listened to it, okay?’ And with a pat on where he thinks Eddie’s head might be, Steve is back out the window.

Eddie emerges from his pit after some consideration, lured out by Steve’s cryptic comment. He spots a casette on his desk with a post it not that says ‘my Eddie song’. Eddie is immediately sweating. What is going on and does he really want to know what this is going to be? What if it’s purple people eater? What if it’s just a blank tape?!? He sits with it in his hands for far too long before he slams it into the player trying not to let himself think. He’s terrified and wishes he didn’t exist. This is the worst day of his life.

Slowly a song all too familiar starts to play through the speakers ‘I just can’t help myself’ by the four tops hums through Eddie’s room and suddenly, This is the Best Day of his Life

[arshifiesta]

Welcome to Arshi Fiesta!

Phati-sari's aur Sanka Devis, hum tumka forgetyay naahi gaye hain! Hum toh ee lobhbirds ko surprisewa deve ke khatir tumka bulawat hai! Samjheev? Ab ee ka baat padho, e khoon bhari taang kaa introductionwa likh ke gayi hai dekho to jara👀

Theme Introduction: Colours of Love!

If you didn't know already, "Satrangi Re" is a song from the movie Dil Se which is based on the concept of seven stages of love depicted in Arabic Literature. Each stage is denoted by a color so let's look at Arshi's story through these colours!

1. Black for Attraction (hub)

The song starts with a hauntingly energetic tune (spooky!) and we weave through a maze of passages till we finally meet our protagonists. Quite like how Arshi started out as strangers who didn't look like a compatible match initially until all the pieces of puzzles fell into its place.

The beautiful lyrics captures the essence of their dhak-dhaks, their initial attraction that exists from their very first meet. They've hated each other, loved each other but have never ever stopped being attracted to one another. As if a magical magnetic force has kept bringing them together over and over again (guess who? Devi Maiyya of course!) 🖤

2. Violet for Infatuation (uns)

Uff, Infatuation inke jaisa toh aur kisi couple me nahi hai, right? The subtle yet lingering touches, intense gaze, impulsive kiss games and everything about their chemistry is absolutely electrifying! No one does infatuation like them 💜

3. Blue for Love (ishq)

Love love love. Love took so long to blossom between them, like a long drawn out fire. Was it blazing or were there only a few embers alight? One could barely tell. Love started from care first. But they could only care once they hurt each other, right? Oh and hurt they did, they hurt each other really bad. But, isn't it only the people you care about who could hurt you? 💙

4. Green for Trust (akidat)

Trust is tricky. Trust takes longer than love. Because you can only trust someone blindly when you love them. From the chain of broken pearls to the soft and patient unwinding of fairy lights... somewhere between that Arshi started trusting each other. And it strengthened when Arnav stepped up to dance with Khushi, strengthened again when despite all evidence against Khushi and Shyam, Arnav decided to confess his love to her... as if it was the last thing he had left to do. And later when he came to know about Garima's past, he trusted Khushi again. Because things aren't always as black and white as they look. Sometimes they're green 😉💚

5. Yellow for Worship (ibaadat)

What is love or partnership without worship? From strangers to enemies to lovers, at each stage Arnav has worshipped Khushi. Taken care of her in ways that she needed, in ways that people around her couldn't. Tangled feelings and arms entwined in one another's. A shower of gifts, a series of intoxicated confessions. Arnav may be an atheist but if he has worshipped someone apart from his family, that's Khushi. Khushi is as good as any religion to him.

6. Red for Madness (junoon)

The first thing when you think of Red is probably danger or hell-fire. And that's right too because the fierce fire they have isn't like any other. It burns and scathes. It leaves scars. It is a mad love. They hurt and insult each other, they shout at each other. Their egos are too big for one another. And when they're done hurting, they love each other just as fiercely too. ❤️

As Aakash ji has nicely put it, "Khushi ji thodi pagal hai na?". Arey Aakash ji, aapke bhai bhi thodi kam pagal hai? (Don't tell him I said that 🫢)

7. White for Death (maut)

Death is not always about dying. Well sometimes it is... like the time when Khushi nearly dies at the cliff and Arnav fin-fucking-ally kisses her but only for CPR 😒. Or when they both pretend to die on stage as star crossed lovers Heer & Ranjha.

But death is also about other things like the death of hierarchy between them when Khushi was no longer Arnav's employee. The end of anger between them during holi after days of fooling each other with farq nahi padta post contract marriage. The end of difficulties in their path (almost) when they were about to get married again, for reals. The death of distance between them, not just physically but emotionally too, when they spend the night at the hut after running away from the goons. Like they literally met at a grave (dargah) for their second encounter, no? 😌🤍

Accha toh tum padh li ho kaa? Haan, toh e par se tumka kachu toh banave ka pade, aage tumko khoon bhari taang hi samjhayegi okayyy?

Ab jao, thoda paani piyo aur humka bhi pila diyo haiin... Bahutay garmi hai aaj🔥 Hello hi bye bye!

Never mind sasuma, you guys! We're here to celebrate toh let's wish the couple first! A very very Happy 13th Anniversary to these two AND every single one of you who has loved them, adored and cherished them at some point!

Tagging the people who liked the introductory post in comments below because it wasn't clear if y'all wanted to be tagged or not oof! :((

Index to prompts here

In case you missed the first post!

P.S. Search #moodboard or #word prompt on this blog to easily find all the prompts :)

[hi-avathisside]

okay a little storytime, puraani baat hai but aaj bhi woh insaan bohot yaad aata hai, toh uske liye storytime hehe

So i used to go in a van to school, like other children obv, toh wahan par we had this little group of friends (my best memories about school okay imma cry if i talk about school more so moving on) Toh wahan par ek ladka tha, and we all were good friends, group main the and all, chhote the so no phone numbers or whatsapp groups, only friends irl. And he was in the singing club. He used to sing very good. toh hum log antakshari khelte the usually and he used to sing, so one time, randomly, uss time par hum chup chap behte the, matlab sab apne main gossip kar rhe the koi ek saath collectively koyi game nahi khel rha tha, this is like 2017s ki baaat hai, god i feel so old, so main aur woh aamne-saamne baithe the, khidki ki side, baaki sab bachhe apni baatein kar rhe the, aur ek dum se I looked at him, and he looked at me, and the world went silent. dead silent. that moment, that eye-contact I won't ever forget.

Fir ek aur baar aisa hi kuch hua, hum aise hi antaakshari khel rhe the, fir na sabka ghar aagaya tha, uska stop last tha, aur mera 2nd last, toh sa chale gaye, it was me, aand him, and a few little children, uske saath hi utarte the, same colony. So he then looks at me, and I'm look at him, and I smile a little and he smiles back. Fir fir fir OKAY OKAY

he asks me "Tera favourite gaana konsa hai?" Main uss time par zyada gaane nahi sunti thi, only on radio and agar van main bajj rahe hote the toh woh sun leta tha. Uss time par popular gaanon main se ek joh mujhe bohot pasand tha it was "Tum hi ho" so I said, Tum hi ho, aur fir uss bande ne mere liye woh gaana gaaya. YES USNE LITERALLY GAANA GAAYA. I WAS BLUSHING SO HARD AND THEN HE SMILED AND I SMILED AND I SAID A LITTLE "thank you" and he smiled again and for most of the time i was looking at him, he was looking at me.

ek aur baar, hua kya I was in the bus, he was also there, but mujhe aane main thoda late hogaya tha so I had to stand in the bus, that guy, stood up and gave me his seat. I- I was speechless. And again him and I had that eye contact again and uhhhhhh I melted. he was so cute, probably he still is. ab toh bohot saal hogaye baat kiye hue lekin khuda ki marzi hai sab :)

(plus i was a really quiet kid, a really really quiet one, and I did not talk to anyone, not even him, group main sabse chup main hi rehti thi, bit still the eye contacts were enough. and he was the outgoung social type, sabse baat karni, saare dost the uske, he used to smile and laugh all the time, probably, uske liye dost banana aasaan hota hoga )

ek aur baar kya hua, since woh paas main hi rehta tha, He and I met accidently, main mummy ke saath thi we were going, and he was in a car, red light thi, and he got out of the window, like peeked(lol) and he was like( my name!) aggressive waving, and I smiled and waved back, at first jab usne mujhe nahi dekha tha, mujhe pata hi nahi tha he was there lol, fir then he called my name, so I noticed him, he was looking very sweet that day.

fir uske baad usne na school chhod diya, aur phir yaar usse baat hi nahi hui kabhi. I don't know how aur why I suddenly remembered him, but I did and so we are here.

that's all. plus a lot of eye contacts an romantic tension.

Let's name him Ak <3

Aaj pata nahi kaise yeh story aur woh insaan yaad aa gaya, so wanted to share :) Thank you for reading it till the end.

"दिल ने चाहा तो फिर मिलेंगे,

खुदा ने चाहा तो फिर मिलाए जाएँगे। "