#i think he was only there for a second of the scene

[starl1ght444]

jason todd x reader

── .✦ PT.2 fluff

PT. 1 link HERE

[you and jason have a kid together, making bruce a grandpa]

[ 8.5k word count ]

* ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

february sneaks in with cold mornings and quiet afternoons. your apartment smells like cinnamon from the candle jason insisted on lighting last night, and the windows are fogged from the heat of the shower you just stepped out of.

you’re still in your robe, fingers curled around a mug of tea you haven’t sipped yet. your other hand rests over your stomach—not dramatically, not in a movie-scene way. just… gently. like your body already knows something your brain’s still trying to process.

you hadn’t been trying.

not really.

not yet.

but lately your body’s felt just a little off—tired in a different way. hungrier at odd hours. your favorite coffee suddenly smelled like motor oil. and this morning, after staring at the little box on the bathroom counter long enough to forget how to breathe… the second line appeared.

positive. — and now everything is still.

you hear the front door open, the familiar shuffle of boots, the soft creak of your floors as jason walks in from his morning run.

“babe?” he calls. “i brought you that muffin you like—blueberry. they only had one left, so i fought a grandma for it.”

you laugh quietly, setting the mug down and stepping into the hallway just as he kicks his shoes off.

he looks up at you and instantly pauses. something in your face must give it away—something soft and shining and a little breathless.

he tilts his head, concerned. “hey… everything okay?”

you nod slowly, taking a step closer. “i… yeah. i think everything’s about to be.”

he sets the bag down. “what dose that mean?”

you reach into your robe pocket and pull out the test, holding it in your palm like it’s made of glass. — jason stares… and stares.

and then blinks. “is that—?” his voice catches. “are you—?”

you nod.

his whole expression crumbles. the kind of shift that only happens when something hits too hard and too beautifully to be fully understood in the moment. his mouth opens, like he wants to say something clever or brave or perfect—

but what comes out is small. raw. “you’re pregnant?”

you smile, a little teary now. “we’re gonna have a baby.”

jason stumbles forward and wraps his arms around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. one hand cradles the back of your head, the other trembling slightly as it presses to your lower stomach.

“holy shit,” he breathes into your hair. “we’re having a baby.”

he pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wide and wet, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks like he’s scared you’ll fade.

“are you okay? like—really okay? you feel alright?” he asks quickly, too quickly. “is anything hurting? should we call someone?”

“i’m fine,” you promise, laughing a little through your tears. “i’m okay, jase. really.”

he nods, but you can see the way his thoughts are spiraling—half joy, half panic, all love.

“you’re gonna grow a whole baby,” he whispers, voice full of awe. “you’re… incredible.”

you cup his face with both hands. “we are.”

he leans into your touch like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. “you’re sure you’re not scared?”

“i am,” you admit. “but it’s the good kind. the kind that means this is real.”

he presses his forehead to yours, breathing deeply. “i’m gonna take care of you. both of you. whatever you need—i’ll do it.”

“i know.”

“i’m not gonna be perfect,” he says quietly. “but i swear, i’m gonna love this baby more than anything in the world. and i’m gonna love you even more for giving them to me.”

your heart swells so full it aches. “we’re really doing this,” he whispers.

you nod, blinking away tears. “yeah. we are.”

and then he kisses you, soft and slow, like he’s memorizing the beginning of a brand-new chapter. his hands cradle your sides like he’s holding something sacred.

because he is. — because now, there’s three heartbeats in this little apartment. and jason’s daydream? it just started coming true.

“we need to make a doctor’s appointment,” jason said his head over filling with questions, incredibly nervous to mess up.

“i’ll make one for next week.” smiling down at his hands, holding you steady in place.

and you did, you made an appointment later on for next week. they got you in fairly quickly. the waiting room is too bright.

soft jazz plays from a corner speaker like it’s trying too hard to be soothing. the walls are covered in pastel posters and diagrams of smiling cartoon babies that don’t make any sense unless you’re already half asleep.

you’re sitting in a stiff plastic chair with jason next to you, his hand laced through yours. he’s been silent for the last five minutes—too focused, too still. but it’s not nerves. it’s something else. a quiet intensity, like the kind he gets before patrol, when every thought is narrowed to one single moment.

except this time, that moment is here— and it’s you.

you nudge his leg with your knee. “you good?”

he turns to look at you and softens instantly. “better than good. just trying to stay calm.”

you smile. “you’re squeezing my hand like you’re about to disarm a bomb.”

he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “sorry. can’t help it. you’re… you’re in there growing an actual person. i still haven’t wrapped my head around that.”

before you can reply, a nurse pokes her head through the door and calls your name. “ (y/n)—“ jason stands with you, helping you out of the chair like you’re made of glass, his hand on your lower back the entire walk down the hall.

the exam room is colder than expected, and the paper on the bed crinkles under you as you lie back.

the nurse is kind. she asks a series of routine questions—when was your last period, are you taking prenatal vitamins, any morning sickness? jason answers half of them for you, the kind of eager that would normally make you laugh if it weren’t so endearing.

when the gel is squeezed onto your belly, his hand finds yours again. he strokes your hair back behind your ear without even thinking about it. he keeps watching your face instead of the monitor like he’s searching for any sign that you’re okay.

and then— a soft fluttering sound fills the room. your heartbeat stills.

the nurse turns the screen toward you both and points. “there’s baby,” she says gently. “and that—” she increases the volume slightly, “is the heartbeat.”

jason stiffens like someone just knocked the air from his lungs.

his grip on your hand tightens. and then he’s crying. quietly, but undeniably.

his free hand covers his mouth, shoulders shaking with the kind of silent, overwhelmed happiness that only comes once in a lifetime. his eyes stay fixed on the tiny flickering image on the monitor—unbelieving, awestruck.

“that’s our kid,” he whispers, like it’s a secret, a prayer, a dream coming to life in front of him.

you can barely see through your own tears, but all you can do is nod and squeeze his hand back.

he turns to you, eyes red, face glowing in a way you’ve never seen before. “you’re amazing,” he says. “you’re so amazing. you’re doing this. you’re making life. i’m just—i don’t know how i got this lucky, im so so proud of you sweetheart.”

you laugh through a sob, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, then one to your damp cheeks.

“you okay?” he asks, brushing your hair back again.

“i am now,” you whisper.

jason just stares at you a little longer, like he’s committing this moment to memory. because he is.

because this feeling? this overwhelming, impossible joy?

he never wants it to end. and in his arms, with you beside him and the sound of your baby’s heartbeat echoing in the air— he knows he’s never been happier.

“so who’s gonna be the one to tell your fami— nose goes!” you shout quickly bringing your finger to your nose laughing with tears still in the corner of your eyes carelessly dangling.

“nos—damnit!” jason sighed “i hate that game.”

the sun is still high when you and jason pull up to wayne manor.

the engine cuts off with a low purr, but neither of you move right away. your hands stay folded in your lap, heart thudding in your chest. jason glances at you from the driver’s seat—eyes soft, mouth twitching with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“you ready?” he asks, voice quiet.

you turn to him and nod. “are you?

he huffs a laugh, fingers reaching across the console to gently take yours. “nope. absolutely not.”

but he squeezes your hand anyway, and the look on his face says everything. he’s ready in the way that counts. terrified, maybe—but glowing with it.

the front door opens before either of you knock. dick waves from the threshold, wearing a smile and an apron dusted with flour. “you guys are late. dinner’s almost ready.”

“we were, uh, taking our time,” jason says, helping you out of the car like you’re suddenly fragile china, even though you’re not even showing yet.

dick raises an eyebrow. “is that code for something?”

“we’ll explain inside,” you say, smiling softly as you head up the steps.

inside the manor — the smell of garlic bread and roasted vegetables wafts through the massive foyer. you can hear tim and damian bickering in the distance, steph’s laugh cutting through the noise. alfred passes through the hallway with a wine glass in one hand and a towel draped over his shoulder, nodding to you both with a kind smile.

“you’re just in time,” he says. “i’ve made enough for ten. though, knowing master grayson, that may only cover seconds.”

“appreciate you, alfred,” jason says, patting his shoulder.

you walk through the manor side by side, surrounded by the easy chaos of family. and the longer it takes to get to the dining room, the more the nerves grow. it isn’t fear, exactly. just… weight. the kind that comes with sharing something real. permanent. world-changing.

jason’s thumb brushes yours. “we’ll do it after dinner. once everyone’s in one place.”

you nod again, your stomach fluttering for reasons that have nothing to do with morning sickness.

at the dinner table — by the time the entire family is seated—bruce at the head, alfred near the kitchen doors, and the rest of the siblings scattered down both sides—it’s noisy, messy, and full of laughter.

dick tells a story about stephanie beating him in a sparring match, and she doesn’t even try to deny it. damian rolls his eyes but can’t hide the smirk creeping across his face. tim’s already halfway through his second helping, duke close behind. cass and barbara are on either side of him, teasing them between bites.

you’re tucked beside jason, his arm brushing yours every so often. and the moment feels golden.

but jason hasn’t stopped glancing your way, and you haven’t stopped feeling the secret burn beneath your ribs.

“we should tell them,” you whisper to him between bites of garlic bread. “before dessert.”

“yeah,” he whispers back, eyes flicking toward bruce. “before someone starts guessing.” — as if on cue, bruce glances your way, then jason’s, with that subtle, unreadable batman stare.

“you two are unusually quiet,” he says mildly.

“just thinking,” jason replies smoothly. “about how to say something important.”

the table quiets just a little—not fully, but enough for the tension to thicken.

you press your hand lightly against jason’s knee beneath the table.

he clears his throat. “so. uh. we’ve got news.” — cass is the first to go still, eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity.

tim glances up from his plate. “what kind of news?”

you look around at the people who have become family in more ways than one—people who have fought beside each other, bled together, laughed together.

and now, you were about to hand them something fragile. something that meant everything.

“we’re having a baby,” you say softly, voice shaking just enough.

silence. full, pin-drop silence. then—

“NO WAY,” dick shouts, practically launching out of his chair.

“holy crap,” steph yells right after, hands flying to her mouth. “are you serious?”

barb’s eyes go wide. “you’re pregnant?”

jason grins like he can’t hold it back anymore. “yeah. we are.”

chaos breaks loose. tim drops his fork onto his plate and just stares at you both, jaw slack. damian blinks once, then twice, trying to process it. barbara claps her hands together in pure excitement. and dick? dick practically vaults over the table to hug jason, nearly knocking over a pitcher of water in the process.

“DUDE,” he says, squeezing him tight. “you’re gonna be a dad?!”

jason laughs, hugging him back. “apparently.”

“i’m gonna be an uncle!” he yells, turning to you with wide eyes. “you’re gonna be a mom?!”

you laugh, covering your face with your hands as he pulls you into the hug next. “yes! i am!”

steph runs around the table to tackle you both next. “your glowing!” — cass gently nudges steph aside to wrap her arms around you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder.

tim finally finds his voice. “wow. just—wow. congratulations. seriously.”

and damian—stoic, sharp damian—leans back in his chair and stares at you both for a long, unreadable moment. then, with a quiet nod: “i suppose this means the next generation of vigilantes is on the way.”

everyone groans. “not even born yet and you’re already recruiting them?” tim mutters.

“shut up, drake,” damian replies, though there’s no real heat in it.

at the head of the table, bruce hasn’t spoken yet. but when you look at him, his eyes are wet.

not enough to spill. just enough to shine.

“you’re really going to be parents,” he says, voice low.

“yeah,” jason says again, a little quieter now. “we are.”

bruce nods slowly. “i’m happy for you. for both of you.”

then—so softly it nearly gets lost in the noise— “i hope i’ll be a good grandfather.”

the table falls quiet again. jason’s breath catches.

and in a rare moment, one almost no one would believe unless they saw it with their own eyes—

jason rounds the table, hugs bruce, and holds on for a full five seconds.

just five. but it’s enough. it says everything.

after dinner but before the dessert is cut, you and jason slip away from the dining room. not for long—after the laughter and the hugs and the congratulations, the manor slowly starts to breathe again. jason squeezes your hand and leans close to your ear, his voice quiet beneath the hum of voices around the dining room.

“come with me?” he murmurs. “want to talk to alfred, just us.”

you nod, heart full. he doesn’t flinch when you enter. doesn’t turn around with surprise. he just speaks in that warm, knowing voice: “i wondered when the two of you would find me.”

you smile gently and walk up beside him, standing close enough for the soft scent of bergamot to curl around you. jason steps behind you and rests his hand on the small of your back.

“we didn’t want to tell you in front of everyone else,” you say softly. “you deserved something quieter.”

alfred finishes pouring the hot water, then finally turns to face you both. his eyes are kind, his hands still, waiting. “we’re having a baby,” jason says. simple. honest.

and that’s all it takes. — alfred’s face shifts in that slow, subtle way only he can manage. not dramatic. not surprised. just… reverent. like the words have landed somewhere deep in his chest and are still echoing there.

“i thought as much,” he murmurs, voice velvet and pride. “but to hear it confirmed… what a gift.” he reaches for your hand first, holding it between both of his, fingers gentle and steady.

“you will be a remarkable mother,” he says. “i can already see it in the way you carry yourself. with warmth. with care.”

your throat tightens. then he looks to jason, and the silence between them stretches—not heavy, just full. thick with unspoken history and all the moments that led to this one. “and you,” alfred says quietly. “i have never been more proud of you than i am right now.”

jason blinks. his jaw tightens, like he’s trying to hold something back. “you mean that?”

���with every fiber of my being.” alfred moves forward and rests a hand against jason’s cheek—something he hasn’t done since jason was much younger. “you will be a kind, strong, devoted father. the sort of man you once feared you could never be.”

jason’s eyes shine, and he nods once. “i’m scared,” he admits.

“good,” alfred replies with a small smile. “that means you care deeply.”

he pulls them both into a hug. tight, long, grounding. — you think maybe it’s the best moment of the night.

but you haven’t seen what’s coming in the living room yet.

the couch cushions are sunken with the weight of so many bodies. duke has claimed the arm of the chair like it’s a throne. steph and tim are tangled up in a blanket on the floor. barbara perches near the fire, her eyes full of light. cass sits quietly on a cushion with a faint smile on her face, watching the room with quiet happiness.

you’re curled up next to jason on the couch, your knees tucked under you, his arm loose around your shoulders.

and that’s when you hear the soft thud of paws. — titus enters the room slowly, sniffing once, then twice, before making a direct line to you. his tail wags just slightly.

“hey, baby,” you say softly, reaching down to scratch behind his ears.

he steps closer, then gently rests his heavy head right on your stomach. jason freezes beside you, watching like he’s afraid to breathe. you smile, petting titus gently, your fingers threading through his fur. “he knows.”

titus lets out a deep sigh, then pushes himself a little higher—climbing halfway onto the couch before resting one massive paw across your thigh and his head against both you and jason.

“hey—” damian’s voice cuts in, sharp. “titus. get down.” titus ignores him entirely, clearly thrilled with himself.

“he’s being protective,” barbara says with a laugh. “he loves them.”

“he loves me,” damian says, visibly scowling. “he was trained to respond to my commands—”

“he’s got priorities now,” duke says with a grin. “he’s got a baby to watch over.”

“he’ll still love you, d,” steph teases. “you’re still the firstborn in his heart.”

damian doesn’t dignify that with a response, but the tips of his ears are pink. you laugh gently as titus shifts again, now practically in your lap, his chest pressed to your belly and nose nudging under jason’s arm. “he’s not going anywhere,” you murmur, hand still stroking his fur.

“good,” jason says softly, kissing your temple. “i want the baby to know him.” there’s a pause as the fire crackles softly.

then— “wait,” tim says, suddenly sitting up straighter. “does anyone remember the bet?”

steph gasps. “the baby bet from the barbecue!”

duke whistles low. “oh, yeah. we all threw in guesses for when they’d announce.”

barbara points a finger in the air. “i said christmas.”

“i said summer,” duke adds.

“thanksgiving,” tim mutters.

steph holds up her hand like she’s in court. “i said mother’s day!”

all heads turn toward bruce, who sits quietly in the corner armchair with a glass of something dark in his hand. he doesn’t smirk. doesn’t gloat. just lifts his brow like he already knows what’s coming. “new year’s,” dick says, groaning. “he said new year’s is when you’d announce, so technically he’s the closest”

“so… bruce wins?” steph says, groaning.

bruce sips his drink. doesn’t say a word. “ugh,” tim groans, flopping backward onto the rug. “of course the batman wins the baby bet.”

“he wins everything,” duke says, pointing at him.

“wait you guys made a bet on when we’d get pregnant?” you say, sitting up for a second grinning at the family while jason fake gasped, not entirely surprised by the family’s decision, more surprised someone didn’t offer him to help them out on the bet to get you pregnant sooner.

“well.. duh. did you see the way jason had that baby craving at the barbecue? we all knew someday soon it was gonna happen.” tim poked a joke and some half humming in agreement, others laughing.

“baby craving and barbecue don’t sound right together, i just can’t believe bruce won though! ” you laughed laying back down on jason,

jason grins, eyes flicking toward you. “he’s probably been planning his grandpa debut since the barbecue.”

“i can neither confirm nor deny,” bruce says, finally letting the corners of his mouth tilt up.

then barbara leans forward, eyes shining. “so… when are you due?” you glance at jason, who’s already smiling. “october thirty-first,” you say softly.

there’s a beat of silence. then— “halloween?!” dick laughs. “you’re having a baby bat on halloween?!”

“that’s the most gotham thing i’ve ever heard,” tim says.

“no capes for the baby,” steph says. “not until they’re at least walking.”

“i’m designing the first onesie,” barb adds. “it’ll have a tiny utility belt on it.”

damian glares at the room. “you’re all ridiculous.”

you sigh against jason, heart full, his hand resting over your stomach again—right where titus still snoozes contentedly. laughter and warmth fill the air like golden smoke. and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter.

just this. your family. your baby bat. and all the love waiting to meet them. the days pass like a soft breeze—gentle, slow, golden.

you blink and it’s august.

you stretch and it’s september.

you exhale and suddenly october is whispering around the corners of your apartment.

the light is different now. golden and low. afternoons spill through the windows like honey, and the air tastes like cinnamon and cool breeze. leaves have started to fall outside, painting the sidewalks in deep reds and soft golds.

your belly has grown, round and lovely, full of life. your skin glows with it. your body moves differently, gently, carefully, but your laughter still comes easily when jason is near. he doesn’t let you carry anything anymore. not a grocery bag, not a folded blanket, not even a mug of tea.

“you’re carrying a baby,” he says, brushing your hair back one night as he tucks a pillow behind your back on the couch. “let me carry everything else.”

he’s serious about it. borderline obsessive, even. but you let him fuss. mostly because it makes him happy. and maybe a little because you like seeing the way his eyes go all soft and focused when he’s looking at you. — especially now.

jason wakes up early—earlier than he needs to on a weekend—but he moves quietly, careful not to wake you. the second he hears you stir, he’s back at your side, pressing a kiss to your temple. “breakfast?” he asks, rubbing your shoulder gently.

you nod, still sleepy, and that’s when he leaves to meet alfred at the manor.

you found out from bruce that jason started asking for cooking lessons. just a few things here and there. mostly your favorite comfort foods. especially the ones that still don’t trigger nausea. “gotta keep her happy,” jason told alfred, scratching the back of his neck. “baby too.”

they make a list. soups. light pasta dishes. herby potatoes. the exact way you like your toast. how to time it so you don’t smell it cooking too much, just in case the scent turns your stomach.

he writes it all down. bruce catches him once, leaning over the stove with a furrowed brow, stirring something with absolute focus. “you’re taking this very seriously,” bruce had said.

jason just shrugged, a towel slung over his shoulder. “it’s for her. and the baby.” and then quietly, under his breath: “i don’t want to mess this up.”

your family comes into town for the weekend, the baby shower just a few days away. your little niece—is bigger now, walking stronger, speaking more words. and the second she sees jason again, her face lights up like a sunbeam. “jayjay!” she squeals, arms flung wide as she waddles toward him.

jason is toast. he crouches instantly, catching her mid-run and lifting her high into the air, spinning her gently with a laugh.

“there she is,” he grins, kissing her cheek. “my favorite partner in crime.”

she babbles something incomprehensible, then grabs his face in her little hands and squishes his cheeks. he lets her. he just laughs, holding her like she’s the best gift in the world.

you watch them from the doorway with your hand on your belly, your heart aching in the best way. you and jason don’t want anything over the top. so it’s simple. a mix of both families. your parents help set up in the backyard of the manor. your aunt brings homemade pies and little favors. cass helps hang streamers. steph handles the playlist. dick handles the jokes.

your niece follows jason around like a little duckling. she insists he sit next to her during cake. insists he play with her in the leaves scattered across the yard. she even tries to share her juice box with him, which he pretends to sip from with a grin. “you’re gonna be such a good dad,” you hear barbara whisper to him when she catches them sitting on the lawn together, the toddler’s tiny hand in his.

he doesn’t say anything at first. but his smile grows—quiet, proud, a little overwhelmed. “i really hope so,” he murmurs. “i really want to be.”

the manor gets quieter, cozier. sunday dinners become a routine again—alfred always insists you sit with your feet up, and bruce somehow always ends up next to you, asking quiet questions about how you’re feeling.

cass sits close, brushing a protective hand over your shoulder now and then. damian keeps sliding books about parenting across the table to jason like he’s passing secret files. and every week, someone brings something for the baby—booties, blankets, soft clothes in soft colors. — you swear even titus has started lying a little closer to you than normal.

you and jason spend your nights curled up on the couch, watching old movies, his hand always on your belly. sometimes feeling for movement. sometimes just needing to touch you, to remind himself that this is real.

that this dream is alive and growing. “how’s our little bat today?” he whispers, kissing your bump one evening.

you smile, carding your fingers through his hair. “kicking me all day. strong little thing.”

he smiles. then kisses again. then rests his cheek there, eyes fluttering shut. “can’t wait to meet them,” he murmurs.

“me too,” you whisper back. — you’re almost there.

that’s what everyone keeps saying.

“you’re so close.”

“any day now.”

“you’ve got that glow.”

you smile when they say it. or at least, you try to.

but god—if they only knew.

if they knew how your feet throb just from standing. how you haven’t slept more than two hours straight in weeks. how tying your shoes is officially impossible without assistance.

you’re not glowing—you’re sweating. you’re swollen. you’re exhausted.

and worst of all…

you’re hungry. all the time.

but everything makes you nauseous again.

your favorite meals? suddenly your stomach’s worst enemy.

things you craved just last month? now send you running for the bathroom.

you cry about it once at two in the morning, sitting on the kitchen floor in one of jason’s hoodies, staring at a piece of toast like it’s betrayed you.

he finds you there, bare feet cold on the tile, eyes wet and tired. he doesn’t ask what happened. he just sits next to you, pulls your legs over his lap, and wraps his arms around your middle.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, wiping your face. “i know i’m being dramatic.”

“you’re growing a human,” he murmurs, kissing your shoulder. “you can be as dramatic as you want.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking until his hand starts rubbing slow circles into your back. your forehead leans against his neck and you just… breathe.

jason.

he’s the only thing making this bearable, the only thing not making you nauseous or upset. only makes him you cry because of how understanding he’s become.

years ago a different version of jason would be incredibly impatient, and tried all the time. but growing with you for so long and filling in all the gaps of his personality has made him a better person for you, and your baby. gratitude on both sides of the story. 

your body hated everything but him

he helps you out of bed in the mornings, kneeling at your side before you even ask. your ankles ache. your back hurts. there’s pressure—so much pressure—deep in your hips, and some days your belly feels too heavy to even carry. “you’re doing so good,” he says, easing your weight into his arms.

“i feel like a elephant,” you mumble.

“a very cute elephant,” he grins. you swat at him halfheartedly.

he helps you into the shower. sits on the closed toilet lid while you rinse off, just in case you feel dizzy. he wraps you in the biggest towel you own, kisses the crown of your head, tells you how strong you are. tells you how beautiful you are. tells you he’s proud of you.

you cry again one night when you try to roll over in bed and can’t.

you’re stuck.

actually stuck.

you groan in frustration, tears prickling at your lashes from how uncomfortable you are. your legs feel like lead, your belly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds, and your pillows are all wrong. “babe?” jason mumbles, half-asleep.

“i can’t move,” you whisper, feeling defeated.

his eyes snap open. “okay—hang on, i got you.”

he’s gentle. careful. strong in the ways you need him to be. his arms slide under your back and legs, easing you with such softness that it makes your chest ache. once you’re shifted, he cups your face.

“better?”

“a little,” you breathe.

he grabs an extra pillow, fits it behind you just right, and kisses your temple. “you need anything else?”

you shake your head. and your voice cracks when you say, “just stay close.” his hand finds yours beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining. — “always.”

you hit thirty-nine weeks on a thursday

the doctor says everything looks good. baby’s strong. heartbeat steady. but you? you’re ready. so ready.

“how are you feeling?” your OB asks kindly.

“like my ribs are being karate-chopped from the inside,” you deadpan. she laughs, and jason does too—but his hand never leaves your back. his thumb strokes your spine. his other hand is braced on your thigh like he’s anchoring you to the earth.

you feel so worn thin. so… done. but when you look at him—messy hair, tired eyes, t-shirt wrinkled from worry—you feel a little less overwhelmed. after the appointment, you don’t feel like going home. you sit in the car in the clinic parking lot, both of you quiet.

then jason reaches across the console and gently places your hand on your belly. “you know what i think?”

“hmm?”

“i think they’re gonna be kind. like you.” his voice is soft. so, so soft. “i think they’re gonna have your eyes.” — he kisses your palm. “and i think i’m the luckiest bastard in the world.”

you turn your head, lean into his shoulder, and for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you don’t feel so tired. just full.

full of love. full of something so big and gentle it makes you forget about the pain for a little while.

the final week creeps by

jason starts working from home more, just in case. he puts together the bassinet with dick. tim installs the car seat. duke helps you organize baby clothes. cass leaves post-it notes with hearts and smiley faces in every drawer. damian makes sure titus is trained to stay gentle and close.

and bruce? bruce quietly offers to be on-call for anything.

“day or night,” he tells you both. “whatever you need. just say the word, there’s enough room for you to stay at the mansion too.. don’t be afraid to ask.” silently hoping you’d take him on the offer.

alfred checks in with food daily. he starts prepping snacks you can stomach again—things he knows won’t trigger nausea. small containers left in your fridge. teas that soothe your heartburn.

“you’re almost there,” he says kindly, helping you into a chair one night at dinner. “and you’ve done wonderfully.” you glance at jason—already sitting beside you, already moving to rub your aching back—and you smile softly.

“we’ve done it,” you whisper.

it’s quiet. too quiet, almost. but not in a bad way.

the whole world feels like it’s holding its breath. like time has slowed just for the two of you. outside the windows, the sky is painted in gentle blues and sleepy grays. the wind rustles the early fall leaves, and there’s a softness in the air that only comes in the stillness of the night.

jason’s hand is warm in yours as you walk down the hallway helping you after dinner, just the two of you. no family tonight, no phones buzzing, no background noise. it’s just him. you. the soft rhythm of your hearts.

you stop in front of the nursery. — the door is open just a crack. golden light spills out from the small lamp inside. the room smells like fresh cotton and baby soap. faint hints of wood polish and lavender from the drawer sachets alfred insisted on tucking into the dresser.

you take a slow breath. and then you step inside together.

the nursery feels like a dream it’s not overly fancy. not too perfect. but it’s yours.

there’s a soft, plush rug under your toes. calming colors on the wall. a bookshelf already half full with bedtime stories and soft-spined fairytales. a rocking chair in the corner that dick and barbara had fixed up themselves. and right there in the center of the room—the crib. the crib jason built with bruce, over a weekend in early september, hands calloused but careful, sanding the edges to perfection.

you both stand in the doorway for a long moment. not saying anything. just looking. “we did good,” you finally whisper.

jason lets out a breathy laugh. “we did great.”

you turn to look at him—his face lit gently by the warm lamp light, his expression soft and full of something so open and vulnerable it makes your heart squeeze. “come here,” you say gently.

he follows without hesitation, wrapping an arm around your waist, his hand settling right where your belly curves. your baby kicks once—just a soft flutter—but it makes both of you smile.

“they like your voice,” you whisper, resting your head on his shoulder.

“they like you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “they’ve got good taste.” — you stand there a while, just holding each other

then jason leans down, hands on your belly, voice barely above a whisper. “hey, little bat,” he says. “we’re ready for you. whenever you’re ready to come meet us.”

you feel your throat tighten. your chest swell. there’s so much love in this room it feels impossible to hold all at once. and when jason stands again, you reach for him. cup his face between your hands. trace your thumbs over his cheekbones. and he just—melts under your touch.

your voice is quiet but steady. “jason peter todd, i love you.”

his eyes soften instantly. “i love you too.”

you shake your head a little, laughing through the tears starting to prick your lashes. “no—i mean i really love you. like… i didn’t even know a love like this existed until you. you’ve been everything i’ve ever needed without me even knowing i needed it.”

you take a shaky breath, thumb brushing under his eye. “you take care of me like it’s second nature. you protect me without ever making me feel small. you make me laugh even when i feel like crying. and you’ve made this—this whole thing—feel like the most beautiful adventure, even when it’s been hard.”

his jaw tightens. eyes glassy. “you’ve made me feel safe in my body when it’s been the most uncomfortable it’s ever been,” you continue, voice thick with emotion. “and not just that—you’ve made me feel beautiful. powerful. like i can do this. because you believe in me so deeply that sometimes i forget to be afraid.”

you pause. smile, small and teary. “you’ve always been my home, jason. and now… we’re about to build one. with our baby. and i couldn’t be more grateful that it’s with you.”

you don’t expect the tear that spills down his cheek—but when it does, you’re there. kissing it. holding him like he’s held you through every ache, every sleepless night, every emotional spiral. he pulls you into his arms, careful of your belly, careful of your everything, and just breathes you in.

“you’re my safe place, my homeland,” he whispers into your hair. “you’ve bewitched me, and im so honored to make you feel these ways” he leans in to deeply kiss you “i will love you permanently….endlessly…until we’re both dead in the dirt, and even then, i will find you in the next life…i will find my way home to you.”

the two of you stay there until the moon’s high

rocking slowly in the chair. your hand in his. the soft light of the nursery casting shadows that dance gently on the walls. the room is quiet. safe. sacred. you don’t know it yet, but you’ll go into labor in the morning.

but tonight? — tonight is soft. and warm. and full of everything that matters.

you and jason.

in the nursery.

wrapped in each other’s arms. waiting for your next adventure to begin.

you wake up to sunlight— it slips through the curtains in long, soft beams—painting gold across the floor, the blankets, jason’s cheek. you lie still for a moment, soaking it in.

the apartment is quiet. still. warm. and jason is right beside you, deep in sleep.

he’s on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, the other hand still curled loosely in yours. his chest rises and falls with a steady rhythm, and there’s a softness to his face you rarely get to see outside moments like this. no tension. no shadows. just peace.

it’s rare—so rare—that he sleeps this deeply. without jerking awake from a nightmare. without the haunted edge to his breath. without flinching from invisible memories. and it makes you feel warm inside. honored. protective.

he deserves mornings like this. he deserves every good thing. so you try not to wake him.

you shift slowly, carefully easing his hand from yours. your belly is heavy—so heavy—and the ache in your back reminds you you’re nearly at the finish line. the baby is still. calm. and for a moment, so are you.

you swing your legs over the edge of the bed with a quiet breath. your slippers are just a few steps away. you’ll just get up, stretch, maybe make some tea. let him sleep a little longer.

you press your hands to the mattress, count to three in your head, and push yourself up— and then you freeze. the first thing you feel is the pop—a subtle, strange sensation deep in your lower abdomen.

and then comes the warmth. sudden. unmistakable. soaking down your legs and onto the floor in seconds. your breath catches. you stare down, stunned. “noway…”

you whisper it under your breath like saying it softer might make it untrue. but it’s true. you know it is. your water just broke.

you freeze for a second—then panic sets in “oh my god—oh god—” you reach behind you blindly, grabbing the edge of the bed for support.

jason stirs at the sudden shift in movement. you try to stay quiet—try to breathe, to stay calm—but your hand’s already shaking when you reach out and whisper his name. “jay…?”

he hums, half-asleep. “mm?”

“jay—baby—i think it’s time…”

his eyes snap open. and the moment he sees your face—wide-eyed, tearful, panicked—he’s up in a heartbeat. “what—what’s wrong? what happened?”

you swallow thickly, gesturing to the growing wet spot on the rug. “my water broke.” — he stares. blinks. processes. then moves.

the switch in him is immediate. he helps you back onto the bed with practiced, gentle hands, brushing damp hair from your face. his voice stays calm—steady—but you can see the storm in his eyes. “okay. okay. we’re good. i’ve got you,” he says, already reaching for his phone. “i’m calling the doctor. don’t move. breathe.”

you nod. trying to. your heart is racing. your hands are clammy. it’s too early. it’s real. it’s happening.

you blink away the nerves, squeezing your eyes shut as a wave of sensation rolls through your belly. not quite pain. not yet. but pressure. the kind that makes you feel like everything is beginning to shift.

jason’s voice is low as he talks to the OB’s office, repeating things back with mechanical calm. “yes. yeah—contractions haven’t started yet. water broke just now. no blood, no pain yet. we’ll head in right away.”

he hangs up and turns to you, dropping to one knee at your side.bhis hands are on your thighs, grounding you. “we’re okay. you’re okay.”

you stare at him. wide-eyed. overwhelmed. “you were sleeping so soundly,” you whisper, guilt creeping in despite everything, a tear wanting to form.

“baby—i don’t give a shit about sleep right now.” he smiles through the nerves, voice thick with love. “you’re about to have our baby. of course you wake me up.”

your laugh is watery. tired. real. brushing his sleepy hair with your nails through his scalp. “you’re not scared?”

he looks at you for a long moment. and his eyes are gentle when he says— “i’m terrified. but i’ve never wanted anything more.”

everything becomes a blur after that. you change into the softest clothes you can manage. he lays towels on the car seat. grabs the hospital bag. calls alfred. calls bruce. tries to keep from pacing holes into the carpet when your first contraction hits in the hallway.

it’s mild. more pressure than pain. but it stops you in your tracks—and jason is right there, supporting you with both arms. “breathe,” he murmurs. “i’ve got you. just breathe.”

he keeps whispering to you the whole car ride. rubbing circles into your hand. kissing the back of it at red lights. promising you that everything is going to be okay. and somehow—you believe him.

by the time the hospital comes into view, the sky is a perfect watercolor soft pinks. sleepy oranges. the kind of morning light that makes everything look a little sacred.

you close your eyes against the sun filtering in through the windshield, resting your hand over your belly. jason glances over and sees it. he doesn’t say anything—just reaches for your hand and links your fingers together. he lifts them to his mouth, kissing your knuckles. then your wrist. then the ring on your finger. you meet his eyes. and he smiles, teary-eyed and full of everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“we’re gonna meet them soon,” he whispers. you nod.

“we’re gonna be parents.”

the hospital room is quiet. soft beeping. the sound of nurses moving gently behind the curtain. the monitor beside you blinking in slow, steady rhythm.

your hand rests over your stomach, and jason hasn’t let go of your other one since they settled you in. he sits in the chair pulled close to the bed, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on you like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

but there’s a knock at the door. gentle. polite.

and when it opens, bruce steps in first, tall and still in his long dark coat, followed by alfred—warm-eyed and careful, holding a small thermos in his hands. “sorry,” bruce says softly, his voice lower than usual. “we didn’t want to intrude.”

you sit up a little, smiling tiredly. “you’re not, please, come in.”

jason straightens beside you, glancing over. there’s that flicker in his expression—still not used to this side of things. to being cared for by the people who used to only see him bleeding or bruised.

but they’re here now. and that means everything.

bruce steps closer, settling near the edge of the window. his eyes flicker from the monitor to your stomach, then to jason.

you expect him to look stoic. but instead, he looks… proud.

“i know your parents are on their way,” he says after a moment, voice quiet, “but if anything happens before then—i want you to know you’re not alone.”

you blink slowly, heart tight. “thank you,” you whisper. “they’re trying their best. flight leaves in a few hours but… they’re pretty upset they can’t be here for this part.”

“we’ll take care of you,” alfred says softly, stepping forward and setting the thermos down on the little side table. “your mother asked me to tell you she packed extra socks in your go-bag. and your father wanted me to remind you not to forget your phone charger.”

you smile at that, feeling your throat tighten. “they really did try to plan for everything,” you laugh, teary-eyed. “they’re so nervous.”

“as they should be,” alfred says gently. “it’s no small thing, after all. your world is about to change.”

you nod slowly, swallowing hard. bruce steps forward now, one hand resting on the rail of your hospital bed. “i’ll be right down the hall,” he says. “if you need anything. if jason needs anything. just press the button and i’ll be here.”

you glance at jason—and he’s just staring at bruce like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time. “thanks, bruce,” he murmurs.

bruce nods. then does something unexpected.

he reaches out and clasps jason’s shoulder. a firm grip. full of meaning. “you’re going to be a great father.” — jason swallows. hard.

his jaw flexes like he’s trying not to fall apart from just those words alone. bruce lets go. steps back. gives you both a final, warm look before slipping quietly out of the room to give you space.

alfred stays behind for a moment he sits carefully at the end of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, eyes soft.

“may i?” he asks. you nod. and he gently takes your free hand between his. his palms are warm and familiar, worn from years of care. “when jason was little,” he says slowly, “and he first came to live with us… he used to ask me to read him bedtime stories. not every night. not at first. but once he felt safe enough. once he knew i wouldn’t leave.”

jason shifts beside you, blinking hard. “his favorites were the ones with found families,” alfred continues. “ones where broken boys were loved anyway. where someone stayed. where someone always came back.” you feel your eyes sting.

“and now,” alfred smiles, eyes shining, “he gets to give that story to someone else.” you reach out with your other hand and squeeze jason’s knee. — he squeezes back, too overwhelmed to speak. “you’ll do beautifully,” alfred says, looking between you both. “i know it.” you nod, voice thick with tears.

“thank you for everything, alfred.” he leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. the same one he’s given a hundred times to the boys who grew up under his care. “always,” he whispers.

then he stands and quietly excuses himself—leaving you and jason alone once more. — you sit in the silence for a while

your head tilted against the pillow. jason leaning closer, resting his forehead against the back of your hand.

“they love us,” you whisper.

“yeah,” he says, voice hoarse. “they really do, they love you so much… you brought us together again.. ”

and for a while, that’s all you need. your family is on their way.

the family you chose is right here.

and the one you’re building?

is just about ready to meet you.

*. ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

:3 yayay!!! im not gonna leave you on a cliffhanger, i hate them so much so im currently writing pt.3 rn!! lmk what you’d like to see more of in it!!

also what do u think the gender will be :o

THANK U SM FOR READING MWAAHH right on the forehead <3 also i see the comments, u guys are so sweet ☹️ lemme just smother you with hugs, or give you a solid high five that echos yk! haha

have a good day / night wherever you are!! 🫂

[beautyinthewayofthings05]

Dick would definitely go after Joker first. Jason has no idea and assumed he’d go after him. Tim however definitely knows and started finding ways to just mildly inconvenience Dick. Not enough that people suspect outside play but enough that it is definitely upsetting Dick.

Dick convinced that he’s somehow managed to do something to piss off some kind of luck god( or goddess he doesn’t assume) hides away in his apartment and Jason, assuming that since a couple days have passed he is now free to do his job as little brother, stops by without saying anything. Jason arrives at Dicks apartment to see it in total disarray trash everywhere and the kitchen, god the kitchen. Take-out trash litters every inch of the counter space and some even spills onto the floor. Jason is now slightly concerned not only about the mess but also Dicks eating habits. He makes some sort of comment about Dick being in his mid twenties and still eating like a child left to fend for their self and Dick still half asleep and already on edge mistakenly thinks that Jason is just one of his hallucinations arriving just to tell him how pathetic he is and instead of breaking down or getting angry he just gets up completely calm and leaves. Jason slightly more concerned now just opts to clean up his apartment and then meal prep for him.

While Jason is doing this Dick just up and brakes into Arkham to brutally murder the Joker. The scene is so bad that by morning when police arrive it makes even the most seasoned officers lose their lunch (even Gordon needs to step out for a couple minutes ). Afterwords Dick just leaves. He goes back to his apartment and sleeps for nearly 24 hours straight.

The batfam at this point is in total disarray and after reviewing the tapes are left speechless because that can’t be Dick in the footage no way. The golden boy breaking Bat’s number one rule. It just can’t be true most are considering the possibility of the footage being doctored somehow. But no it’s true and the only ones who believe it are Tim, Bruce, and Alfred. Tim the little evil genius who planned all this is like “well if he did it once then I guess he could do it again”. Jason already panicked is now screaming asking Tim what the FUCK he means by that. And Tim the chaos demon himself( who really just wanted Jason to come around more so that Dick would stop moping) and figured the best way to do that was to have someone avenge him) is like “oh wait you didn’t know. Yeah this is the second time Dick has killed the Joker” and watches with well hidden glee as Jason freaks out, jumps on his bike, and rushes off towards Dick’s place. When he gets there Dick is still sound asleep covered in Jokers blood and other bits of flesh. When Jason wakes him up to ask what the hell happened Dick has no clue what he is even talking about tells him as such before falling back asleep.

(Saw this and thought about dick killing the joker sorry it’s bad)

*Dick crashes out while on patrol and beats someone within an inch of their life*

Bruce: Dick might be a little bit fragile after last night, so let’s try to be sensitive.

Jason: Oh, believe me- I am going to be nothing but nice to Dick from now on. If he snaps and goes on a rampage, who do you think he’s coming for first?

Bruce: He’s not going on a rampage.

Tim: I bet he’d let me live. He likes me.

Damian: I’m just gonna say it. I never trusted him.

[screamlet]

if you’d like - bucktommy for ♔ : Finding the other wearing their clothes 😊

thank you for the prompt! about 600 words of some established relationship bucktommy. fluff, even. in this economy! from the nonsexual acts of intimacy prompt list

---

"You are such a little brother, just walking in and taking whatever you want."

Buck stumbles into Tommy's station locker, clutching a t-shirt to his chest. "Oh. Uh. You're here."

"And you're early. Suspiciously early."

"I can get places early."

"I know you can, that's why I said suspiciously early."

Buck watches him for a beat. "And I'm early."

Tommy comes closer; Buck can't help but cower a little more into the locker, wondering if he can actually fit into it. "So you're wearing one of my station shirts and you're stealing my spare one."

"Technically, I was swapping them," Buck replies carefully. "Taking one—"

"Two."

"—Of yours and leaving one of mine."

Tommy tilts his head, smiling like a shark. "I don't fit in your shirts, honey."

Honey. Just destroy him already.

"I know, I sized up and I've been wearing this one at work so it's—" Buck frowns, fully out of gas. "Just wear my shirt already, god."

Tommy rolls his eyes fondly as he unzips his flight suit. Buck's loving the view until—

"That's my shirt!"

"Just wear my shirt already, god," Tommy teases him.

"Is that what my voice sounds like?"

"No, of course not."

"Tommy."

"Tahmeee," Tommy mimics. "It's cute, very Pennsylvania. Like you're saying my name through a cheesesteak in your sinuses."

"You are the meanest boyfriend I've ever had."

"I'm the only boyfriend you've ever had." Tommy strips off his shirt—Buck's shirt, his shirt that he sort of noticed was missing but not really—he had a lot of clothes!

"So what am I allowed to wear?" Tommy asks him, shirtless and terrible in the Harbor locker room.

"I mean, none," Buck says. "But if you had to…"

"If I had to…"

"I guess the one you were wearing is fine."

"So tight, though," Tommy says, taking back the shirt he just took off. He flexes his arms like he's stretching out the material, briefly looking at Buck through his lowered lashes. "It takes some work getting this open enough to fit me, it's just so tight."

Out of nowhere, a voice cries out, "People are changing! And they'll be out of here so soon, they just didn't want to make a scene or be weird about it, and to be honest they thought you'd be quicker about leaving!"

Buck looks around as he laughs. "Hey, is that Perry? Perry the probie? I've heard a lot about you! I'll come over and say hi!"

The voice calls back, "that's okay maybe next time," as the locker room door swings open and shut.

Buck turns back and pouts at Tommy. "Do you think I'm gonna get banned from visiting again? Last time it was like three weeks!"

"Nah, you kept your pants on this time." Tommy still has that look in his eyes, like he wished Buck's pants were coming off again and they could get him banned for another three weeks, maybe even four. It was a serious predicament for them, getting more frustrating every second Tommy didn't have on a shirt.

"Just—" He shoves a t-shirt at Tommy and stuffs the rest into his bag. "Just wear that and—and we'll be home and then we can—figure stuff out and no one—"

Tommy kisses Buck's cheek sweetly, rests his hand there for a beat. "They're gonna laugh, but don't make eye contact until we get to the parking lot and it'll be fine."

When Tommy kisses him again, Buck can almost believe that. Almost.

[asapeveryday]

ALL NIGHT -P.B

one night. one apartment. two people. enhanced stamina.

warnings: fingering, oral sex, strap-on sex, vibrator use, face riding, degradation, dirty talk, slight food play, overstimulation, slight/unintentional somno, drug use

tldr: you guys take drugs and then fuck like rabbits. like, seriously it’s kinda cray

PLEASE READ: i honestly know nothing about honey packs or ANY libido enhancer. from my research honey packs only work on men(?) but for the sake of this fic they work on women too.

i have no idea what it feels like to be on an aphrodisiac/performance enhancing drug or how it affects anything so please go into this knowing i am utterly freeballing in hopes of pleasing the anon who requested this as best as i can.

11pm

rain pitter-patters the floor to ceiling glass window of your apartment as a movie plays in your living room. The tv screen paints your light-lacking home with faint colour. Aside from the rain, soft moans ring out all through the air.

Her arm is slung over your shoulder, her body warm and pressed against you. She shivers as your finger tips dance between the hem of her hoodie and the skin of her toned stomach, you try not squeak when she tugs at your hair in return.

Nights like these are the best, snuggled under blankets and dim lights in front of the tv, Netflix on full volume, Paige by your side.

“You picked the horniest movie possible.” Paige snorts, her words buzz in your ear since your head is on her chest.

“I knew there were sex scenes…just not this many.” You sigh, biting a lip as the main character moans loudly again as the main love interest smacks her ass. “What is this, the third one?”

“Second. But this one is long,” Paige tuts, clicking her tongue as the fucking on screen gets more aggressive, “goddamn, how does he have the stamina for that?”

“I know!” You laugh. “And look, it’s getting light outside.” You point to the tv, where one of the windows in the movie shows the changing time. “When they started it was dark.”

“Went all night, huh.” Paige whistles. “Lucky guy.”

“Lucky?” You sit up, turning to face her. She immediately raises both her hands in surrender, eyes wide.

“Not because of her,” she groans, talking about the main character, “but they’re going for hours like it’s no problem.”

“You’d think as an athlete you’d have the stamina.” You laugh, though it’s cut short when her brow raises in that challenging way that always pisses you off. Her mouth opens, then closes.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head, but her face says otherwise.

“What is it!” You hiss. “Tell me.”

“It’s not me who doesn’t have the stamina.” She says, expression a mixture of superiority and guilt. “You can take like, two rounds max before passing the hell out.”

“Oh, what the fuck.” You frown. “Since when have you wanted to go for longer? What, do I go to bed and you’re just laying awake at night horny?”

“Psh, no.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m fine with two. Two is good, it’s enough.” She reassures you, hand on your waist. “But if you’d ever ask to keep going…”

“You’d have it in you.” You finish, understanding it’s no fault of your own. “I’d like to try, but honestly after cumming twice I’m tired.”

“I know, baby.” Paige shrugs. “S’not a big deal, I was just thinking. I can go for a while, but I dunno about all night anyways.”

“Yeah.” You settle, though sometimes tugs at your mind as you focus back on the movie. You watch as the girl is flipped from position to position, location to location, sexy music over the scene.

Paige shifts in her seat. You tense as it gets kinkier by the minute. And then the scene is over, and they’re laying in bed as morning sun fills the room.

And you suddenly have an idea.

“Where are you going?” Paige asks, eyes following you closely as you move her hand from your body and slip off the couch.

“Wait here.” You mumble, sending her a coy smile as you walk out of the living room. You know she’s watching your ass as you walk away like she always does. She loves the pyjama shorts you’re wearing, says they do you justice.

After rummaging through the back of the closet in your bedroom, you finally reach a large shoebox. You’d bought a really sexy pair of heels for Paige’s first wnba after-party a while back, and kept the box to commemorate that…as well as a few other things related to you and Paige.

When she sees you walk back into the living room, shoebox in hand, she immediately straightens. Paige recognizes it, of course. She’s practically been a Pavlovian experiment, you can see it as she licks her lips with eager flourish as you stand in front of the couch, tossing the lid of the box off to the side.

“What’re we doing?” She says, smile evident in her tone. She even takes the blanket off of her, and you almost laugh and how ready she’s willing to be.

“Chill.” You hum. You take out the the few dildos you have, leather components for the strap, and a huge bottle of lube that’s half empty, before tipping the box upside down and watching as the contents spill all over the coffee table in front of the couch.

Dental dams, ripped fishnets, mints that make you salivate like crazy, fuzzy handcuffs, the batteries you use for your toys, and a lot of little plastic packets.

Paige just takes everything in for a moment, brows slightly taught in uncertainty. Her eyes catch on the plastic packets, and she picks one up for inspection just as you’d hoped.

“The fuck is this?” She murmurs, squinting to read the small text on the plastic. “Oh, shit.” She adds, meeting your gaze.

You simply smile. “Well?”

“Where’d you even get these?”

“A few weeks back when me n’ the girls went clubbing. The place was handing them out, and I decided to keep them for later.” You admit.

“Oh, so you’ve been plotting, huh.” She quirks a brow, clearly amused.

“Not really!” You whine. “I was just curious, I guess. I heard they give you crazy stamina….and like, uhm…”

Her stare is heavy on you, head cocked, grinning sly as a fox. “And what?”

“They make you like, super horny.” You finish, unable to hold her gaze. “And stuff.”

“Right.” She nods, attempting to hide her smile beneath her hand. She rubs her mouth in thought as she reads the packet again. “This is so sketchy.” She murmurs. “But if it works, we could probably go all night.”

“Probably.” You nod.

Her eyes meet yours again. “Would you…wanna?”

You take a packet for yourself, attempting to mull over the small text written over the plastic. It sounds like gibberish, but it’s late and she’s already looking at you with sheer excitement, so your answer is obvious.

“Yeah.” You nod. “Let’s try.”

-★彡

What started as making out on the couch turned into you leading her to your room by the hand, not even bothering to close the door before she’s on you again.

There’s no urgency, no burst of energy like what you expected. It’s fairly normal, slow and sweet as she dips her head opposite yours to kiss you.

Her hands swim under the crewneck you wear, settling firmly on the crook of your waist with warm, rubbing thumbs grazing over your skin. Meanwhile you make quick work of her mouth, your tongue darting in to meet hers, tasting her.

You stumble around the room stuck to her like glue before your legs hit the foot of your bed and you topple over back-first, giggling as she follows.

Her legs cage yours in, hands arms settle on either side of you, and her mouth trails sweet kisses all over your face, jaw and neck. It’s loving and gentle, even when one hand leaves your side and carefully tugs your pyjamas pants down. You lift your hips to help her as she takes them off, before spreading your legs a little wider for her on the bed.

“Thank you, baby.” She mumbles against your skin, sucking pretty bruises onto your neck as her fingers pull your panties to the side, and tentatively slide between your folds.

“You’re so wet already.” Paige chirps, and you feel her teeth bared in a smile with a shiver. “How do I know it’s not the packets?” She adds.

“It’s not.” You hum, sliding your hands under her hoodie to feel at her abdomen. “Just you.”

She’s satisfied with that answer, because her fingers go from teasing your entrance to actually being inside you. One finger at first, before she realizes you’re loose enough for another.

You let your breath hitch as she pumps in and out of you, a gentle rhythm of pleasure humming through your body with every thrust of her hand. She whispers sweet nothings, pretty baby’s and so good’s until you’re squirming against her.

You kiss her again, half to shut her up and half to keep any whimpers from spilling out—because those will only feed her ego. Her pace quickens, her kisses turn sloppy, and your stomach tightens as your high begins and ends. She doesn’t let up, not until you’re panting too much to kiss back, and with a jolt you cum all over her fingers.

You feel her start to pull back from you before you grab her hand, holding it inside of you. “Don’t stop.” You plead, not thinking in the slightest.

Paige falters. “You sure? You just-“

“I know.” You whine, spreading your legs. You did cum, but you just weren’t done, the buzz wasn’t enough, you wanted it to keep going. “Just, please.”

“Okay.” She kisses your face. “You’re spoiled, you know that?” Paige grins, though her fingers start pumping again and you can’t help but genuinely flinch at the sensation, it’s unlike before.

Your stomach is tight again, your core is tingling. The stimulation is too much, too soon, but you need it. Even when you struggle to hold your legs open, when you beg her to do it for you. She obliges, wedging her knee between your thighs so she can keep going, lips bitten as she watches her fingers disappear and reappear by the second.

When you cum again it’s drawn out, fingers clenching the sheets of your bed as you finish.

“Whoa.” Paige hums. “That was- that was good.”

“Mhm.” You mumble, pulling her back in for another kiss by the fabric of her hoodie. You came for the second time, but instead of feeling ready to pass out, you’re surprisingly energized.

She pulls away, still close to your face. You watch her eyes as they dart from your clenched fists around her clothes to your lips.

And you feel yourself twitch down there again.

In a burst of energy you roll over, taking her with you. The positions are reversed now, you on top and her caged in against the ruffled sheets of your bed. You make quick work of straddling her torso, and when your already swollen clit brushes against her shorts you let out a little sigh.

This sensitivity is definitely new.

Paige is watching your every move, licking her lips as you throw the remainder of your clothes off and onto the ground.

And then you slide off of her.

“Take everything off.” You hum, crawling towards the nightstand by your bed.

“Or what?” Paige teases.

You don’t respond, simply opening the drawer of your nightstand and taking out your favourite vibrator wand.

The minute she catches sight of it her amused smile drops. You haven’t used this one on her—you haven’t used any on her at all.

“You don’t wanna?” You ask, shrugging.

She frowns, clearly unhappy at your false disinterest, but she holds your eyes as she slips her shorts off of her legs, her underwear with it.

“And the hoodie.” You add, gleefully at that. “And lay down.”

Paige grunts, but pulls her hoodie over her head regardless. She’s not wearing a bra, to your delight.

“Good.” You purr. You crawl over to her, swinging your leg over her head so that your pussy is hovering over her face. Her hands grab at your ass, already knowing what to do.

You shiver when she forces you down, her tongue licking an agonizingly slow strip across your folds. Before she can get too frantic, you lean forward enough to place the vibrator between her parted legs, turning it on once it’s settled correctly.

The whimper she udders at the start of the machine vibrates through your body.

She struggles to find routine at first, jolting as you toy around with the settings of the vibrator, but before you know it she’s holding your pussy down like she depends on it, lapping and panting against your ultra-sensitive skin.

The stimulation is one thing, but the sound of her breathy moans from beneath you rile you up on an entirely new level. You’re absolutely buzzing with sensation, grinding frantically against her parted mouth trying to chase that high.

“You’re so good, baby.” You mew, rocking your hips on her face. “So good Paige.” You add, upping the intensity on the vibrator as a reward for her. She lets out a strangled moan at that, hands gripping the skin of your ass hard enough to leave fingernail indents. You try to rise a little, unsure if it’s too much for her, but she forces you right back down, her tongue swirling around your clit and nuzzling into you with feverish energy.

Her legs are squeezing tight now, soaking wet at the core thanks to the wand wedged between them. You feel it too, practically shaking atop her. Before you know it, a huge feeling of release washes over you in big, sobering waves. You can’t help but cry out as you cum, the feeling of her mouth lapping it up engulfing you wholly. In turn she starts grinding against the vibrator, and then she cums too.

You turn the vibrator off and lazily crawl off of her, collapsing by her side and into her open arms. You’re both hard-breathing, flushed messes, eyes half-lidded and pupils blown wide.

“Holy shit.” Is all Paige can utter, her face glistening with what’s left of you. You can’t help but laugh, and she starts to laugh too, kissing your nose, forehead and lips with a smile.

Then the both of you are grinning and kissing, tumbling all over the bed like frantic teenagers. You thought you were exhausted till her teeth playfully pulled at your lip, and that burning spark in your gut came right back.

“Jesus,” you hum, sighing as her lips suck dark marks into your collarbone. “I could keep going.”

“So let’s keep going.” Paige murmurs.

“Mmh, seriously?” You sigh.

Her hands find your breasts, the calloused pads of her fingers brushing over your nipples. “We could go all night?” Paige smiles, eyes dangerously bright, full of energy again. “If you want.”

You hold her gaze as her mouth latches onto your chest, kissing all over the skin of your breasts in worship.

All night doesn’t sound too bad.

-★彡

1am

The next hour or so is filled with mindless making out, limbs tangled and shoulders bumping you suck every possible crevice of her face. It’s a break, in a sense, but a distracting one none the less. You’re both so incredibly sensitive, even the brush of her knee between your thighs sends waves of feeling through your body.

Paige’s lips struggle to part from you even when you both leave your room, stumbling around your apartment in an intimately naked scene, like she’s so obsessed that everything else has faded away. Even when she parts to grab another packet and the strap from the coffee table, her pinky finger stays lovingly entwined in yours.

You fasten it on her, adjusting every aspect with rigorous intent and bubbling excitement. Then you’re both stumbling through the place again, lips entwined with more ferocity.

It’s all in Paige’s control now, not that you mind. She’s leading with her tongue, her hands are groping whatever skin she can reach till you feel your back hit the surface of your kitchen counter. She lifts you up like you’re a doll, sitting you on the marble and pushing you to lie back against the cold material.

“What’re you doing?” You laugh, back arched to avoid the chill of your skin against the counter.

“Watch.” She orders.

She’s standing between your dangling legs as she rips the packet open with her teeth, drizzling the drugged-honey from your navel all the way to the valley between your breasts before tossing the plastic away.

You watch in excitement as her hands settle on either side of you, as she leans in and licks a clean stripe across your body, following the line of honey she drew till it’s all gone. The hairs on your arms stand up straight, goosebumps covering the expanse of your skin as her tongue cleans up the mess. Then she kisses you, and you taste it on her before she pulls away.

“Paige,” you whine, parting your legs, “please, please just fuck me.”

“I hear you, ma.” She rasps, fondling the silicone attached to her till the tip is grazing your slit. “You’re so fucking wet, I can tell you want it.”

“I want it so bad.” You nod vigorously. “C’mon.”

She pushes in, not nearly enough, then pulls back again. Then her hands are on your waist, pulling you forward and lifting your pelvis up just enough so that she can push into you at a better angle. You suck in a breath when she bottoms out, then bite out a whimper after the first thrust.

Then she sets her pace.

“Fuck,” you moan, “fuck, oh, Paige.” You cry out, hands trying to grip for anything you can on the flat surface of the counter. Slapping noises fill the room as her hips snap back and forth, lip bitten and eyes stark on the way you look splayed out on the kitchen counter like a meal. Your tits bounce with every shift of your body as she rocks against you.

“Just last week you could barely handle round two.” She grunts out. “Now look at you, moaning all over my dick. How many times are you gonna cum for me tonight, huh?”

The feeling of her filling you up makes you even more turned on. You can hear the noises of your slick against the silicon, the proof of your pleasure. It just feels so mindlessly good.

You reach for something, anything, but all you end up doing is knocking shit over. The sound of steel hitting the ground reverbs throughout the kitchen as an empty bowl and some cutlery fly off of the counter. You wince at the volume, but Paige leans in to grip your face.

“You’re a slut, you know that?” She bites, fully bottomed out, fingers around your face.

“Don’t stop.” You whine, shifting your hips. “Please, p.”

“You’re making a big fucking mess, moaning so damn loud and pushing things off the table.” Paige hisses, shoving your face slightly as she starts thrusting again. “Like a slut.”

“Maybe I am.” You choke out, feeling your core tense with every word. “I just need you so bad, need you to fill me up.”

“You don’t deserve it.” Paige grunts, grasping your skin so tight as her hips stutter agains you. “But I give you whatever you want, right? You just wanna get fucked.”

“Please, baby.” You moan, once again gripping nothing in attempt to smooth the pleasure. “Paige, please.”

She pulls your legs fully off of the counter now, roughly flipping you around and bending you over the cold expanse of the counter.

You’re breathless as one of her hands holds your back down while the other slaps your ass. Then she enters you again, slowly building up to the same rigorous pace as before.

The noises are louder now as your ass claps against her strap. You’re pushed forward against the counter with every thrust, your face smushed against the marble, lips choking out broken cries of satisfaction as she fucks you.

“Take it.” She mumbles, “You take my cock so good, baby.”

You cum with a full-body shiver, feeling the way it spills at she pulls out of you, the emptiness apparent.

It’s only a moments rest before you’re kissing her again, your back now meeting the wall before she picks you up. Her hands settle on your ass as you wrap her legs around her, and before you know it she’s fucking you all over again.

-★彡

3am

“Baby,” She moans, “Oh fuck, slow down.”

You can’t, or more accurately you won’t. You’re on a high, tits pressed against her back as her own are flush against the glass of your floor to ceiling windows. Rain hammers on one side of the glass as you fuck her against the other, skin sticky with sweat and arousal.

You can feel her legs shaking, you can see how her palms press against the window, or occasionally clench when you roll your hips just right. You rarely had the energy to use the strap on her, but thanks to your drug-induced heat, having the instrument was a blessing.

“Or what?” You breath against her neck, licking the spot where you left a hickey a few moments earlier, relishing how her shoulders raise in sensitivity. “Gonna cum like a little bitch?” You grin. The high of talking dirty felt good, you understood why she was so prone to it now.

“Yes.” Paige whines, voice raspy. “Fuck, yes.”

“You were calling me a slut earlier.” You bite, whispering into the shell of her ear. “But look at you now. What would happen to you if someone in the building across saw? Imagine the headlines.“

You grip her hips hard, forcing her into you, using her for your gain. She can’t even fathom your words, too drunk off of the sensations to formulate an answer.

“See? You don’t care.” You hum. “That’s why you’re not gonna cum yet.”

“What?” She finally snaps out of her daze, head whipping to meet your gaze as you slip out of her.

“No…” she bites her lip. “Wait, don’t stop.”

“Don’t be a baby.” You scoff, loosening the strap and stepping out of it. “Get on the floor. Legs spread.”

She’s a little confused, peeling herself off of the glass and stumbling around a bit, before you literally guide her to the hardwood and pry her legs apart with your hands.

The gasp Paige lets out when you lay down, lips against her pussy, is like music to your ears.

She’s already soaked from your strap, you can taste it as you press your tongue flat against her, sloppily kissing the mess between her legs as she throws her head back, hands gripping the hair on your head.

“Oh, god.” She whines.

“Shut up.” You snap, gripping the soft skin of her thighs. Her fingers tug at strands of your hair as you nuzzle into her heat, tongue swirling around her clit.

She’s grinding against your face, thighs shaking from the earlier denied orgasm and now your face between her legs. It’s almost too much when two of your fingers slip inside, tentatively pumping before they curl inside her.

“Shit.” She whines again, voice breathy. “Let me cum.”

You stop at that demand, smiling against her skin, fingers unmoving, and she groans in dissatisfaction.

“Beg for it.” You hum. “If you want it so bad.”

“Fuck, no.” She snaps, lips pouty as she looks at you. “Just—just keep going.”

You just raise a brow, slipping your fingers out of her.

“Beg.” You repeat, and you watch her mull the idea over. She’s never begged in her life, you can tell. Sex is easy currency for someone so sought after. “C’mon, begging never hurt anyone.” You add, licking a circle around her clit, to which she instantly screws her eyes shut in response to.

“Just beg for me, Paige.” You grin, kissing between her thighs. “Beg.” You tease her slit with your fingertips.

You can see her breaking, you can see it in the way her chest heaves, how her lip wobbles.

“Please.” She finally mumbles. “Please, baby. Please fuck me, please let me cum.” She moans pathetically.

Who are you to deny someone who asks so nicely?

-★彡

5am

You’re not sure what happened between ruining Paige on the floor of your living room to now, but you wake up groggy on your bed, sheets half off the mattress, legs tangled with hers.

You’re sticky between your legs, covered in sweat and god knows what else in general, hair totally a mess, lips swollen, ass sore—presumably from her hands getting a little too aggressive. She’s beside you, back pressed to your chest, her body rising and falling in shallow breaths of light sleep.

It’s still dark out. You cant’ve be asleep for long.

It takes great effort to untangle yourself from her and slip out of the bedroom. A hot shower is much needed, and the moment that steaming water hits your skin it’s like you’ve been regifted all of your energy.

You let your fingers dance all over the skin Paige had marked hours earlier, hickeys and bite marks tattering the expanse of your thighs, breasts, chest and neck. You think back to the start of the night—and everything that happened afterwards, and to your surprise, still have it in you to be turned on.

“What the hell is in those packets.” You mumble to yourself, letting your fingertips trail from your tits to your stomach, then lower, to the pulse between your legs.

Carefully, you let your fingers pull the hood of your clit back, rubbing the sensitive bud in slow circles. It feels good—not as good as Paige—but good enough. You can’t tell if you’re wet from the shower water or your own arousal, but it doesn’t matter. You speed up your hands anyways.

Soon enough your soft mewls fill the bathroom. You assume the sound of the shower covers them up a bit, now aggressively rubbing your clit in a pathetic chase for what must be your 5th orgasm that night.

And then you hear the click of the bathroom door, and you stop.

There’s a few quaint steps, they pause in front of the shower, and then continue. When the fogged-over shower door opens, you’re met with a freshly awoken Paige.

“Move.” She grumbles, stepping in with you. You oblige.

She’s covered in marks too, you can see it now that she’s showing off in front of you, wetting her hair and closing her eyes as her hands run over her tits, her stomach, the beginning of her thighs. Her neck is littered with pink and red hickeys, and her muscular back has long marks from your nails.

Her body is perfect. Breasts that fit in your hands like you were made for them, abs firm enough to ride on, legs strong and sturdy. Her back ripples as she runs her fingers through her hair. Her hands are personally your favourite, with her long fingers and veins.

You can’t help but slide behind her, running your hands all over her, gripping her ass and giving it a little playful smack.

“You’re so needy.” She scoffs, turning around and grabbing your hands, stopping you from touching her. “Calm down.”

“I can’t.” You frown. “You interrupted me. Now you have to deal with it.”

“Fucking whore.” She shakes her head, leaning in to kiss you. It’s aggressive, teeth clashing and lips bitten. Her hands grip your face, turning you to move against her the way she wants. “You jus cleaned off, now you wanna be dirty again.”

“You wanted all night.” You smile against her lips, letting your hands trail down to her pussy. “So I’m just giving what you asked for.”

“Don’t act like this is all for me.” She snorts, one hand leaving your face to graze your folds. “You’re selfish.”

“You’ve cum more than I have.” You challenge, fingers toying with her.

“That’s such a fucking lie!” Paige groans, slipping a finger in you with ease.

“Maybe we’re even.” You shrug, biting your lip as she starts to pump in and out of you. Similarly, her lips part as you do the same.

“So—“ she murmurs, breathless already, “we keeping it even?”

“Yeah.” You nod vigorously, looking down to watch as your fingers disappear inside her—and as hers disappear inside you.

“Shit.” She sighs, watching the sight herself. “S’good.”

“Mhm.” You huff, throwing your head back. You can feel your stomach tensing already, skin hot and buzzing from her hands and the hot water. She adds another finger, you do the same. In no time you’re both heavy breathing messes, hands cramped and mouths entwined. She cums a little before you, but you keep going till you follow soon after.

She opens the shower door in a hurry, practically stumbling out with you alongside her.

The bathroom is full of fog, so you manage to turn the fan on before she tugs you out by the hand, right back into the bedroom.

Then you’re kissing again, slower, mumbling unintelligible words between breaths, parting to catch each other staring. Her eyes can barely stay open, and at one point you’re not sure if you’re kissing back. The ache in your gut, the one that’s been saying more, more, is dulling. You’re reduced to an exhausted hum, brain as foggy as your bathroom.

“M’ so fucking tired.” Paige whispers between little kisses on your face, hands holding you loosely against her.

You catch a glimpse of your bedroom window, and you’re surprised to see the beginning of morning, red hues mixing with the dark leftovers of the night.

She notices too, you meet her eyes as they part from the sky. She kisses you again, closed mouth, hands wandering.

“Good morning.” You mumble, lazily laughing.

“Good fucking morning.” She huffs back, holding you close. “That was something.”

You nod. “What is even in those packets?”

“Don’t wanna know.” Paige mumbles. You’re not sure if she says anything else, because your eyes shut right after.

That sleep in her arms is the best you’ve ever had in your life.

[georgeclarkeys]

rude boy - wroetoshaw

summary: drunk harry is horrifically rude to everyone except for you - 900 words

everyone always talks about harry being a nasty drunk so i thought this was appropriate lol

hope y'all don't hate it!

~

Harry Lewis was a nice guy. He might be a bit awkward sometimes, and he tended to throw sarcastic comments around, but in his heart he was a good person. There did happen to be a slight exception to your boyfriend's kind heart, and it always seemed to be brought out under the influence of alcohol. Drunk Harry could be very mean, and you had seen it in action. 

Several years ago, the two of you had joined your friends on a ski trip. You were a few days late because Harry had some Sidemen business to attend to, but you made it nevertheless. Harry, deciding he had reason to celebrate, got incredibly wasted that night. You could only watch on in horror as he looked Chris’s poor girlfriend in the eyes and told her that no one would notice if she died. Obviously you jumped in, apologized profusely, and asked Will to help you remove Harry from the scene of the crime and get him up to bed. 

Every time Harry found himself under the influence of alcohol, it was always the same exact order of events. He would get drunk, he would say something shockingly rude, and then you would apologize for him until he could sober up and do it himself.  

Harry was less of a partier these days, and it had been a while since you had to apologize for him, but everyone still laughed about the memories of your horrible drunk boyfriend. 

Today, the two of you were at a Sidemen event. It was a little bit more lowkey, and definitely more exclusive than a big party, but the drinks were flowing and the music was bumping. Everyone else was stood around mingling, while you found yourself on the couch in the corner of the room. You were tucked into Harry’s side with a drink in your hand, feeling a little buzzed. Harry had one arm slung lazily over your shoulder, and the way that his eyes were slightly lidded told you that he was also feeling the liquor. Faith made her way over and joined you on the couch, excitedly suggesting that you join her and Sabina for lunch next week. Ethan trailed slowly behind her, wrapped up in a conversation with Freezy. By the time they made it over to the three of you, it took Ethan exactly three seconds to notice that Harry was tipsy. 

His eyes widened and he laughed, grabbing Faith’s arm, “Oh my God, babe, if Harry is as drunk as I think he is, I need you to get away from him right now.”

It was hard to understand Ethan through his booming laugh and the alcohol clouding your mind, but Harry’s response told you exactly what Ethan was talking about.

“I’m not drunk, you fat bastard,” he argued back, letting his hand drop from your shoulder to your waist as he pulled you closer to him. 

Faith looked as confused as ever, head swiveling between Ethan and Harry as they laughed with each other, “What are you on about?”

You jumped in to explain to your friend as the boys continued to trade insults, “In the past, Harry has had a tendency to be horribly rude while drinking. I can’t believe you haven't heard any stories.”

Faith’s response was cut short by your boyfriend shouting at her husband, “No one loves you, mate!”

Your eyes snapped up towards his and you slapped your hand over his mouth before he said anything else, “Harry!”

You turn your gaze to Ethan, who is red in the face from laughing so hard, “You know he doesn’t mean that.”

Faith is also laughing at this point, “Well that seemed a bit uncalled for,” she breathed out.

You turned back to Harry, who was laughing sheepishly, and sighed, “See what I mean?”

Ethan piped up, “Hold on a minute, (Y/N) you’ve been around drunk Harry so much, how has he not said anything to make you break up with him?”

“Harry is never mean to me while drinking. He might actually be nicer to me than normal,” you replied, causing Ethan to scrunch up his face. 

Harry gripped your hip tighter and pulled you into his lap, “Unfortunately for the rest of you, (Y/N) is perfect. I couldn't say something mean about her if I tried.” You turned your eyes toward his, and he met your gaze with a soft smile before pressing a kiss to your forehead. In classic Harry fashion, it took him about 30 seconds to ruin the moment. “Actually I thought of something. She takes all the fucking covers when we sleep. Ruins my evening sometimes.”

This sends Ethan into another fit of raucous laughter. You rolled your eyes at Harry, “You’re so annoying.”

~

Later that evening, the two of you were back at home getting ready for bed. Your boyfriend was already in your shared bed, leaned back against the headboard and waiting for you to join him. You finished up the last step of your nighttime routine before sliding into bed next to him. He wrapped his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.

“Not giving you any opportunity to steal the covers tonight, you’re staying right here,” he mumbled into your ear.

“Go to sleep, you absolute dork,” you muttered back, before drifting off in the comfort of his arms.

☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ - the next morning

yourusername posted a story!

[lgvalenzuela]

Now that this is making the rounds again I'm gonna spill something on the Veilguard companions because it's the only game in the series where I've been here since the begining and I've played this game so much I might as well be an expert

-Davrin is incredibly smart, he might say he wasn't a smart kid. But writing a book on your expertise because you have beef with a dead author? Straight up nerd behaviour, I haven't seen someone so mad about books since Dorian threw my library books out the balcony

I love his narrative, I love that he didn't become a Warden because he had to but because he wanted to (which like...I'm pretty sure is a first as far as Warden companions?) He wanted a propuse. But becoming a Warden was so ingrained in his brain when you meet him that he's so convinced he's gonna die young he's preparing for his death actively, he's preparing Assan to be able to take care of himself (also if anyone thinks his whole narrative is about Assan I'm gonna start throwing hands)

His narrative can be taken multiple places due to player choice. But personally I'm really into this self sacrificing hero that just... Finds a reason to live.

-Harding's narrative is literally about toxic positivity, Lucanis literally spells it out on the scene where they have coffee together. She's refusing herself very righteus feelings of anger for what's been done to her people, and to her specifically. She's grieving through the whole game and for multiple reasons and she's on the verge of breaking down the whole time. Both her endings need her to accept this part of herself, the part that's mourning and the part that's angry.

Also the dressing down she gives Solas at the end? Mwa! Poetry. Queen shit.

-I don't know how to explain Bellara without going into personal life? But like a grieving neurodivergent asexual woman, kinda feels like they were just writing me at some points.

Her narrative with Cyrian was the first (and not last) time I cried. I love how her and Davrin represent the past and the future of their people. How you sometimes have to look into the past to see a clearer future, how the sins of the past don't define you but it DOES feel too easy to just say: Oh but it wasn't me, and this is not Who my people are now.

Also in general I love their dynamic, I love when I can actually see relationships grow and chance in game. And I can see Davrin and Bellara forming a strong bond and Davrin being that anchor that Bellara needs. Not like Cyrian! But he cares for her! And she needs someone to care for her, to remind her that its okay, and that not everything is her fault.

-Neve is not an ice queen, she just uses ice magic. But take her with you anywhere and she's full of jokes. Damn she even approves of most of Rook's purple dialogues. She loves It when you're a silly goose.

Her entire character revolves around caring. She's there because she cares, because nobody seemed to care so she had to step up, she's willing to sacrifice so much just because she knows people need her. She's righfuly mad if Minrathous is ravaged by the dragon but it's...honestly not that hard to get on her good side again? She seems a little more mad than Lucanis, Lucanis seems more sad. But she honestly doesn't seem to personally blame Rook. None of them do. Because they're smart enough to know it was an imposible choice from the start. And she can see Rook put in the work (well I mean if you as the player care enough)

-Taash is not fucking immature or stupid. Taash has trouble communicating, I think we would all benefict from knowing the difference oh my God. Did we not learn this lesson with Sera? (Stupid question I know)

Honestly it's a thing I've always loved about this franchise and these characters. They all communicate differently, they do depending on their upbringing and just...some people have trouble communicating! It's fine! Just give them a second! Maybe let them write some things down!

-Emmrich🧡 (that's all, send post. I'm gonna have something else to say when I've already post this I can see it)

-My biggest surprise is Lucanis for sure. Fun fact? Wasn't on my radar when the first or second trailer or whatever else material dropped. But my Rook was born as a joke, he wasn't suppoused to even be Rook on the first place, he was meant as a secondary character and shipping him with Lucanis was also a joke.

I love him dude. I have such a thing for characters that have a kind heart, the more surprising that they have it the more I love it. I'm so glad he wasn't a Zevran type (and I LOVE Zevran, but for that we already have him!) He was just a weird little ace that had no fucking idea what was happening most of the time.

This is only when It comes to romantic love because he's really observant. He so quickly realizes what's wrong with every companion, he only really has THAT type of relationship with Davrin because he's matching his energy and honestly I think both of them think it's kind of funny at some point. He's good with people but in such a weird way where he doesnt know he is? He's just... Happy. I think he's truly happy for the first time because he has people that can rely on him and he can fully take care of. And in turn you can show him that he's worth those things too.

Things I never would have guessed from fandom osmosis before actually playing the Dragon Age games:

-Alistair is actually pretty smart, and has a lot of knoweledge to share about the topics he's interested about.

He's also not that shy, and flirts with a warden pretty smoothly, if a bit innocently for his lack of experience and general humorous persona.

And his primary motivator is revenge which is an interesting way to take a character like him.

-Zevran is the only character who actively searches for consent even in simple flirting like calling someone beautiful. If you tell him to stop he never makes a mention again.

He's also one of the most loyal and sentimental companions you can have. He cares a lot, want to admit it or not.

-Merrill is one of the most educated and smart characters on the series, she takes calculated risks based on her own studies and research, and the only reasons she fails is because nobody trusts her and refuses to treat her like an adult.

Part of it is also the game refusing to frame her as anything but a naive child when she's anything but.

-Isabela has the most emotional intelligence out of all the characters in DA2, she knows exactly what they're feeling and what they need to hear at all times. It's clear that she's wise and worldly, and just needs time to build confidence between her and the others because she's been hurt a lot and her respect is gained.

-Fenris has an amazing sense of humor and you can find him consistently laughing at both Hawke's and companions he likes silly jokes. He's just really deadpan when delivering his own jokes.

He's also considerably patient and doesn't lose his temper unless confronted with people who have actively abused him.

-Anders spent SEVEN YEARS protesting peacfully, and it took the risk of genocide on his people to reach the desperation of act 3.

-Dorian is incredibly reserved. He tries to avoid talking about his life with a veil of humor and sarcasm, but he's specially guarded around his sexuality and love life. He only comes out to the Inquisitor in a moment of fury to piss of his father and he may have not done so if not pressed.

If in a romance with Bull the only reason the others find out is because Bull exposes it in front of everyone (I wish they would have find out a better way to let the player find out than Bull ignoring Dorian's wishes of privacy)

If romanced by the Inquisitor he's in his first real relationship and it shows, he's lost most of the time but tries to hide it by acting cocky. It's really funny.

He's also a huge nerd, I wasn't expecting that but I was pleasantly surprised.

-The Iron Bull it's not just smart, he's so caring, he shows you around so you can meet the people, the ones nobody cares about, he introduces you to them.

-Sera also goes to the pile of characters who are really smart and nobody gives them credit for it. She says it herself, she's just really bad with words, but as long as you try to understand her she makes a lot of sense.

The game just gives you no other option than to treat her horribly, which I sense a pattern of framing the neurodivergent coded characters in a certain light with Merrill and Anders.

-Vivienne is the only one (with Dorian) that asks the Inquisitor if they're okay after Haven, and gives beautiful words of afirmation.

She's really affable if you bother to befriend her.

[whatsupsonnyboy]

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head. They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option. 

-

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound—sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

-

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need. 

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need. 

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus… you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear. 

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

- 

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

-

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

-

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

-

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face. 

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold.  It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm. 

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”. 

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

[i2rizz]

Undercover Hearts

Synopsis:On an undercover mission in a demon-infested nightclub, you and Dante have to fake being a clingy couple - except Dante's way too good at pretending, and you're one whispered flirt away from forgetting the mission entirely.

He's so hot a devil may cry🙏🙏

The bass from the nightclub shook the ground under your boots—deep, pulsing, and wild, like the heartbeat of something alive and nasty hiding under the city.

You leaned against the brick wall outside, trying to ignore the way the neon lights cast a sweaty, wicked glow over everything. Your eyes scanned the entrance where a heavyset bouncer stood, arms crossed, blocking the door like a wall of muscle and bad attitude.

"You sure this is the right place?" Dante asked, stepping up beside you. He tugged on the leather jacket he’d thrown on for the night—worn, cracked at the seams, but somehow making him look even more lethal than usual.

You nodded. "Demon’s been spotted feeding inside. Disguised as a human. Likes to hang out in the VIP lounge"

"And no weapons allowed" he said, grimacing like it physically hurt him. "I feel naked"

You gave him a smirk. "You’ll live, tough guy"

The bouncer’s voice barked through the line of partygoers.

"Couples only tonight. No solo entries"

You and Dante exchanged a look.

He grinned. Slow. Dangerous.

"Guess we’re gettin’ cozy, baby," he drawled, looping his arm around your waist without hesitation. His hand slid down, bold, landing low on your hip. "Hope you don’t mind a little public display"

You rolled your eyes, but your skin was already heating up under his touch.

This was a mission. Focus.

"Play it up," you whispered, pressing close. "But keep it believable"

Dante’s smile turned wicked.

"Oh, sweetheart. I’m very believable"

You shoved him lightly with your elbow, but you were laughing under your breath as you approached the door. The bouncer gave you both a once-over—his eyes lingering on the way Dante’s hand clutched your waist, the way your body fit against his side like a missing piece.

"Alright, lovebirds," he grunted. "Go on in"

Inside, the club was chaos.

Lights strobed overhead. Bodies moved like shadows in the thick smoke. The air reeked of booze, sweat, and something darker—something wrong. You could feel it crawling over your skin, under your nails. The demon was here. Watching.

You tried to move forward, scanning the crowd, but Dante didn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he pulled you closer, practically flush against him.

"Gotta sell it, right?" he murmured into your ear, voice low and warm. His breath tickled your neck. "You’re supposed to look like you can’t stand being apart from me"

"You’re enjoying this way too much" you muttered, feeling your heartbeat pick up.

He chuckled, deep and sinful. "Can you blame me?"

You shoved him again half-heartedly, but his arm tightened. His hand slid around to the small of your back, fingers splaying wide, thumb tracing lazy circles along your spine.

Your brain stuttered.

Focus. Mission. Demon. Not Dante’s hands.

Then—he leaned in closer. Mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

"Baby," he said, voice dripping fake sweetness. "If you keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you want me to make a scene"

You swore your knees almost buckled.

"You're shameless" you hissed, but even you heard how breathless you sounded.

Dante just laughed, soft and rough. He pulled you into a darker corner, hidden from the main floor, the pulsing lights turning his smirk into something feral.

"Think the demon bought it?" you asked, trying to regain control of your voice.

"Oh, babe" Dante pinned you gently against the wall with his hips, his hands framing your face now, thumbs stroking your cheeks like you were made of something precious. His forehead dropped to yours. "I’m starting to forget we’re even fakin’ it"

For a moment, the world shrank.

No music. No demon. Just the two of you breathing the same heavy air, inches apart.

You closed your eyes for half a second, feeling the thud of his heartbeat against yours.

Then—you spotted it. Over Dante’s shoulder. A flicker of something unnatural, slipping into the VIP area.

"Target’s moving" you whispered, forcing yourself to slide out from under him, though every nerve in your body screamed to stay.

Dante grinned like he already knew the effect he had on you. "Guess we’ll have to finish our little dance later"

You shot him a dry look. "You little hoe"

"You still love me"

He offered you his hand with a mock-bow, all theatrics and trouble. You smacked it away playfully and marched toward the VIP entrance, your mind snapping back into the mission—but your heart still racing from more than just the hunt.

Behind you, Dante chuckled and followed, cocky and head-over-heels in the most obvious way possible.

And maybe... just maybe, you were just as bad.

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Escape... to Rio- H.HJ

So, I promised myself that I wouldn't write for skz in my country cause I'm already delulu af but after seeing my boys in Brazil... I kinda had to. And I know Brazil isn't just Rio but it's a city I really want to meet one day. Also, I was going to post this fic in 2 weeks on my bday but it's done and I felt bad for not posting anything these days so, here it is.

A special shout out to my beautiful friend @jehhskz. Thanks for giving me ideas for the dancing scene. At least in the fanfic we can dream hahah

Note: I made a summary with references to Brazil and words in Portuguese. It's linked in each of them. Hope it helps 😊

Word count: 6.3k (2.1k is smut 🤭)

Warnings: smut

Alexa, play So Good by Hyunjin (this song is 🔥)

Rio at night had a different kind of magic. The air carried the scent of grilled meat and the sea breeze, music spilled from every open doorway, and the streets pulsed with laughter and warmth. Hyunjin had been here for only a few days, but he was already spellbound.

He hadn't planned on stumbling into this bar tonight. It was one of those small, modest places tucked into the corner of a lively street, the kind that promised cheap drinks, good music, and a night worth of remembering. He barely noticed the neon glow of the sign when he stepped inside cause his focus had immediately been drawn elsewhere:

You.

You were on the tiny stage, a mic in hand, singing in a language he didn’t fully understand, but it didn’t matter. Your voice wrapped around the room like honey, drawing everyone in. Including him— especially him.

He didn’t mean to take so many pictures, but his fingers moved on instinct, capturing every shift of light on your face, every flicker of emotion in your eyes. He didn’t even realize how many shots he had taken until you finished your set and the applauses died down. And then, suddenly, you were walking toward him.

You approached with a confident stride, amusement glinting in your eyes. At first, you spoke in Portuguese, words he quite recognized but couldn’t string together fast enough.

"O-oi…?", he fumbled, the greeting coming out uncertain.

You tilted your head, "Hum?".

Still lost, he opened his mouth, but you cut in smoothly, switching to English with a teasing smile dancing on your lips, "Will you ever talk to me, or are you just going to keep taking pictures like a creep?".

His face burned instantly, "I… I'm sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable". He stumbled over his words, rubbing the back of his neck as he laughed in embarrassment, "Your performance was beautiful. I just… wanted to remember it".

You slid into the empty seat across from him, "Let me see”.

Hyunjin hesitated for half a second before handing over his camera. He watched as you looked through the photos, your expression shifting between intrigue and amusement.

"You’re really good at this”, you admitted, looking up, "But I still think you like me too much".

He choked on his own breath, "W-what?!".

You laughed, eyes twinkling under the bar soft lights, "Just saying. You’ve got, like, thirty pictures of me in here".

He had no argument for that. Instead, he grabbed his drink and took a hurried sip, only to wince as the alcohol hit his tongue, "Oh my god, that’s strong!"

"It’s cachaça. Strong, but good".

You waved down a waiter, ordering a round of caipirinhas. Hyunjin had heard about them but never tried one. When the drinks arrived, he took a sip and immediately blinked in surprise, "Wow. That hits harder than I thought".

You grinned, "Told you…"

He looked at you,eyes wide— apparently, you had no idea who he was. “Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin”

“Nice to meet you, Hyunjin. I’m Yn”.

“Yn”, your name rolled off his tongue like it was something holy.

“Where are you from, Hyunjin?”

“South Korea”

“Wow! You’re far from home… Anyway, welcome to Brazil”.

The conversation flowed easily from there, laughter between sips of caipirinha and small bites of snacks. Hyunjin had never felt this at ease with someone he just met, but something about you— your energy, your presence— drew him in like a tide, unstoppable and sure.

At some point in the night, you leaned in slightly, eyes holding his as you smirked., "You know what, Hyunjin? I’m starting to like you"

And just like that, he was completely lost in you.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

Days passed, and you and Hyunjin became inseparable,  like the sun and the sea. Everywhere you went, he was by your side, wide eyed and eager, taking in every new experience with a mix of curiosity and wonder.

One afternoon, you took him to the Leme Beach— a stretch of golden sand where the waves kissed the shore in a healing rhythm. Hyunjin was used to being busy, constantly moving, constantly expected to be somewhere doing something.

But there, under the Brazilian sun, you taught him how to do nothing. How to stretch out on a beach towel and let the ocean breeze carry his worries away.

How to sip on fresh coconut water directly from the coconut and let the salt of the ocean cling to his skin. How to enjoy a cold and sweet açai bowl, to let the deep purple stain his lips as he unworriedly hummed in delight.

"This is my new favorite thing", he declared, spooning another bite into his mouth, "I swear, I could live off this".

You laughed, "Just wait till I take you to eat real homemade Brazilian food".

Later that day, you brought him to a cozy restaurant owned by a family, a place that smelled like the aroma of spices and homemade meals. The plates came full, steaming with feijoada, rice, farofa, and manioc fries. Hyunjin was in heaven. That is, until he took too big of a spoonful of farofa and nearly choked.

"Oh my god…", he coughed, reaching for his drink as you tried, and failed, to hold back laughter. "Why is this thing so dry?!"

"You have to mix it with the beans, rookie".

Despite the near death experience, he finished every bite, sighing in satisfaction while rubbing his full belly, "I think I love Brazilian food".

That night, you took him somewhere different— one of those small corner bars, where the music was loud, the beer was cold, and the air was filled with the scent of fried snacks and laughter. Hyunjin didn’t know the song playing, but he knew it made him want to move. So when you grabbed his hand and pulled him to dance, he didn’t resist.

"I don’t know how to dance like this", he admitted, glancing around at the swaying bodies.

"It's called funk. I’ll teach you. Just follow me”.

He stumbled at first, his movements stiff and unsure. But then he caught on— especially the hip movements. You raised an eyebrow as he got a little too much into it.

His confidence only grew as he experimented, testing the rhythm with sharper, more fluid motions, rolling his hips in sync with the beat. His eyes lit up, and he turned to you with a mischievous grin, getting closer.

"Like this?", he asked, his voice low, his movements now, fluid and confident.

The sway of his body had an effortless sensuality to it, something that made your breath hitch for half a second.

You huffed a laugh, pushing his shoulder playfully.

"Alright, showoff. I see you", you teased, laughing as he grinned, rolling his hips with ease now, "How do you learn this so fast?"

"I’m... a dancer", he said with a cheeky smile.

But then, the music shifted, melting into a softer rhythm— a slow forró that made the entire bar quiet just a little, conversations dipped into whispers, and the sway of bodies turned tender. You didn’t need to say anything. Hyunjin was already pulling you closer.

"You lead", you murmured with a teasing smile, already placing your thigh between his legs, your chest brushing against his as he instinctively adjusted to the closeness.

He hesitated only for a second before your arms slid around his shoulders as his hands settled on your waist, fingers spreading gently like he was memorizing every curve of you. His touch wasn’t bold, just warm and delicate but with enough pressure.

His forehead almost touched yours, heavy breath brushing your skin. You could smell the faint trace of cologne on his neck, something woody and freshy, mixed with sweat from the long day.

Hyunjin’s gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips and back, his hand gripping more confidently on your waist as you swayed your hips together as one.

"You’re good at this”, you whispered, voice low near his ear.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm on your skin, “I’m just following the music. And you”.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulder as the space between you disappeared entirely. The kind of closeness that wasn’t about bodies, but energy. Something magnetic.

Hyunjin’s thumb brushed soft circles on your skin as he held you. You didn’t know if it was the music, the drinks from earlier, or just him but your whole body felt warmer.

"You smell like summer" he whispered, voice barely brushing your ear.

You glanced up at him, smiling softly, "And you smell like temptation", you murmured back, eyes glinting with amusement.

He laughed, soft and breathless, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. In that moment, everything else faded— the crowd, the music, the bar itself. It was just you, him, and the slow rhythm pulling you closer, like the universe had turned everything else off just so you could feel this.

Just so he could fall a little more with you.

When the song ended, neither of you moved right away. His hands stayed where they were, yours still resting on his shoulders, as if letting go would break whatever spell between you. But the world slowly returned— the clinking of glasses, a burst of laughter nearby, the next song picking up with a faster rhythm. You both blinked, a little dazed, before stepping apart.

Hyunjin scratched the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, “I think I just fell in love with Brazilian music”, he said, voice light but eyes serious.

You smiled, “Only the music?”.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, laughing nervously, “Guilty as charged”.

You nudged him playfully and reached for his hand again, tugging him back toward your small table by the sidewalk. The streets were alive with people, warm yellow lights hanging above like stars that never left, and your drinks waited, sweating slightly in the tropical night air.

“Do you always make strangers fall for you this easily?”, he asked, half joking as he sipped his beer.

You tilted your head at him,  “Are you always this obvious?”.

He nearly choked, coughing into his drink as you laughed, wiping a drip from his chin with your thumb. It was casual, intimate, like it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world to touch him like that.

And somehow, it was.

He stared at you for a second longer, brows drawing together like he was trying to figure something out.

Finally, he said it, “You really don’t know who I am… do you?”.

You blinked, “Hyunjin, right? Tourist. From Korea. Likes açaí, bad at farofa, weirdly good at hip thrusts”.

He grinned, “That’s one way to put it”.

You leaned closer, voice soft and teasing. “Is there something else I should know?”

Hyunjin just smiled, “No, not yet”.

And with that, the night went on filled with shared food, stolen glances, and a sense that something was shifting. That something real was blooming between the differences of language and culture.

And Hyunjin, in his quiet heart, already knew: this trip was never just about Brazil. It was about finding you.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

A few days later:

The day dawned sunny, perfect for the beach. But at the moment the two of you put your feet on the sand, the sky shifted before you even realized it.

The warm sunlight gave way to sudden dark clouds, then a soft drizzle that turned heavy within seconds. People around you ran for cover, but you and Hyunjin just stood there, drenched.

He laughed, tilting his head back as the rain soaked his buzzed hair and clothes, his white shirt clinging to his chest. You covered your face, squealing at the cold, and he took your hand, spinning you in a playful circle right there on the sidewalk.

“Hyunjin!”, you laughed, slipping slightly on the wet stone.

He caught you with both hands, pulling you into his chest. You looked up at him, rain dripping from your lashes, and he smiled. His eyes were full of that quiet warmth he saved just for you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, and he kissed you.

It was messy and wet but it was perfect. The mix of the cold rain in contrast to his warm tongue against yours made something stir inside your chest.

When you broke apart, he leaned his forehead to yours, grinning like a fool. “A vida presta", he whispered in accented Portuguese, soft and sure.

You laughed, heart full of warmth, “Yeah, a vida presta when I’m with you”.

As the time passed by and you both dried and changed clothes, Hyunjin found himself sitting comfortably on the couch, legs stretched out long, absentmindedly playing with the rim of his glass. The warm glow of the late afternoon sun was filtered through the wooden blinds, creating golden lines across the terracotta tiles of your living room.

“I swear, I almost got scammed at the market the other day”, he said, shaking his head, “The lady tried to charge me double for a coconut. She thought I wouldn’t notice”

You laughed, stretching out on the couch beside him, “You do kind of scream tourist, you know”.

Hyunjin feigned offense, pressing a hand to his chest, “Excuse me?! I blend in perfectly”.

You raised an eyebrow, “You were wearing an ‘I Love Rio’ shirt yesterday”

“Okay… fair”, he grinned, dimples appearing, and leaned forward slightly, “But it worked, didn’t it? I got my coconut and a free snack out of pity”.

You shook your head, watching the way the golden light highlighted the curve of his jaw and the soft edges of his mouth. He looked at home there, stretched out lazily, long fingers tracing patterns on the couch fabric. It was unfair how effortlessly attractive he was. How could he be ridiculously stupid one second and devastatingly handsome the next?

“You’re so funny”, you murmured, tilting your head as a teasing smile played on your lips, “Or maybe just cute”.

Then, with a softer voice, you added, “I could keep myself busy with you for thirty hours”.

Hyunjin blinked, his grip tightening slightly around his glass. His expression shifted from playful to something more unreadable, more dark, “Yeah? I can satisfy you for thirty hours”.

His voice was lower now, rougher, like he was already imagining exactly what thirty hours with you would include.

You only smiled, tilting your chin up in a silent challenge. Hyunjin exhaled a quiet laugh, then set his drink down and moved closer, one hand resting on the back of the couch beside you. The air between you two grew thick, heavy with something unspoken yet undeniably present.

“That’s a dangerous thing”, he murmured, studying your face and lips, “To say things like that so casually”.

“And you’re easily flustered”, you teased, brushing a finger lightly over the inside of his wrist.  

The heat of the afternoon wrapped around you, making the air feel heavier, making the warmth of your bodies feel even hotter. A trail of sweat rolled down the side of Hyunjin’s neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank top, and you had the sudden, dizzying thought of following its path with your tongue. Hyunjin must have felt it too, because his fingers twitched against the couch’’s fabric before he finally touched you— just barely, fingertips skimming over your exposed knee, slow and teasing.

“Thirty hours?”, he murmured, voice dripping desire against your skin. “That’s a long time”

“You think you wouldn’t last?”, your voice was softer now, teasing but breathless, because the way he was looking at you— like he wanted to consume you whole— was making it hard to breathe.

He smirked, “Oh, I definitely would last”. His hand slid higher, an unhurried movement, the heat of his palm brushing against your skin, “I’d take my time with you”.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above you but you felt sweat gather at the back of your neck as Hyunjin leaned in, so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“If I kissed you right now”, he said, voice impossibly low, “You think you’d still be talking?”.

You swallowed, heart pounding hard, “Try me”. 

Hyunjin didn’t need to be told twice. His lips brushed against yours, slow and lingering. The way his fingers tightened on your thigh, the way he deepened the kiss, slow but devastating made everything hotter.

And when he pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes, he was already smirking. “That’s one hour down”.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, fingers curling in his clothes to pull him back in, “Then you better make the next twenty nine worth it”.

Hyunjin hummed against your lips, tilting your back into the couch with a lazy smile, “Oh, I will, baby”.

And by the way he was looking at you, you knew he was keeping his word.

Hyunjin’s lips moved slowly against yours, but still teasingly, as if savoring the taste, the feel of you. His fingers curled around the curve of your thigh,gripping tightly, spreading fire to your whole low body. You could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts, the contrast of his cool rings against your flushed skin made you shiver.

“You feel warm”, he murmured against your lips, and you could feel the smirk on his voice.

“Is it the weather?,  his fingers traced slow, lazy patterns against your inner thigh, “Or me?”.

You exhaled, nails digging into his shoulder, “You talk too much”.

Hyunjin chuckled, a soft, teasing sound that vibrated against your mouth,  “Then do something about it”.

And you did.

Straddling his lap, your body arched on top of his. His skin was hot beneath your fingertips, damp from the lingering warmth of the hot day. The scent of salt clung to him, a reminder of the beach, of the sun, of how long you had wanted to do this.

Hyunjin groaned softly as you moved against him, his hands gripping your waist, guiding your hips down onto his in a slow, maddening rhythm. The thin layers of fabric between the both of you did nothing to lessen the friction. If anything, it only made the anticipation worse.

“You’re so…”, his words trailed off into a low, breathy sigh as you rolled your hips against his, slow and torturous, “You’re… fuck…”

You smirked, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his neck, feeling the way he swallowed hard beneath your lips, “What was that?”, you whispered.

Hyunjin’s breath faltered,  “N-nothing”. His grip on you tightened, fingertips pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to make you dizzy, “Just… keep going”.

The only sound aside from your breathless sighs was the quiet creak of the couch beneath you.

Outside, the sun had begun to set, but still, the heat of the day still clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, but neither of you minded. Not when his hands were on you like this, guiding, gripping, making slow, torturous movements.

Not when his voice dropped to a whisper, rough and needy against your skin, “You said thirty hours”.

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, making you shudder. “But I don’t think you can handle that”.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers threading through his damp hair, “You’re the one who should be worried”

Hyunjin let out a low, breathless laugh before flipping your positions in one smooth motion, pinning you beneath him on the couch. His knee pressed between your legs, his weight warm and heavy, making you gasp as he leaned down.

“Oh, baby”, he murmured, smiling, “I’m just getting started”

And then, just like that, the heat became overwhelming in the best way possible.

The couch creaked beneath you two as Hyunjin kissed you again— slower this time, deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless. One of his hands slid under your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, dragging higher, until he found the swell of your breast.

“God”, he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaking, “You feel so good… I’ve been thinking about this since the night I met you”.

You arched into his touch with a quiet gasp, your hand slipping beneath the back of his shirt to feel the heat of his bare skin, damp with sweat and impossibly soft.

“You’re talking too much again”, you murmured, but your voice was ragged, your words breaking into a moan as his thumb rolled over your nipple, slow and deliberate under the fabric of your bra.  

“I can’t help it”, he breathed, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, “You drive me crazy, Yn… I don’t think you know what you do to me”.

His other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, palm pressing low onto your stomach, making you let out a soft whimper at the promise of it. 

“Can I?”, he asked, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. He was breathless— completely wrecked— and yet still waiting for your word.

“Yes”, you whispered, hips tilting up to meet him, “Yes, Hyunjin… please”.

Seeing you beg for him made something twitch inside of his boxers.  

So he didn’t hesitate. His fingers dipped beneath your underwear, sliding through the heat of you, and his breath caught hard in his throat. 

“Shit…”, he cursed, eyes locked with yours. “You’re soaked”

“It’s the heat”, you teased, “And I’m not talking about the weather”.

Hyunjin laughed but the sound was cut short as he pressed a finger inside you, slow and deep. Your mouth fell open, hands fisting in the back of his shirt as you arched off the couch. The rhythm he set was unhurried, purposeful. Each stroke of his fingers driving you more and more wild. His mouth was never far from your skin, kissing, licking, tasting you completely. Sweat slicked your bodies, making it easier to slide, to grind, to move together like you’d done this one hundred times.  

His name left your lips in broken pieces, again and again.

“I want you”, you gasped, pulling at his shirt, desperate. “Now, Hyunjin… please”.

He kissed you harder then, wild and open mouthed, pulling away only long enough to strip the shirt from his body, then from yours. Finally allowing your skins to meet, bare and burning, heat radiating off both of you.

Hyunjin reached for his waistband, then paused, eyes searching one last time, “If you want me to stop, say it now cause once I’m in… I don’t think I can go back”

“Don’t you dare stopping”.

He smiled crooked and hungry, then pushed his hips against yours, the press of him finally settling between your thighs. You both groaned at the raw contact, bodies already shaking with pleasure. When he entered you, it was slow and deep and intense.

“Fuck”, he rasped, burying his face in your neck, “You feel like heaven”.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his back, legs tightening around his waist “Move”, you begged, voice breaking,  “Please, move”.  

He did.  

Each thrust was slow at first, measured, as if he wanted to savor the feel of you, the sound of your breath, the way you gasped his name every time he hit just right. But it didn’t stay slow for long. The heat, the sweat, the way you kept pulling him closer, it all built into something rougher, messier, desperate.  

The couch shifted beneath you. Your bodies moved rhythmically, heat slicking your skin, breath catching in the thick air, mouths parting only to find each other again.

"Thirty hours” he growled, slamming into you harder. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the humid air, “I could do this for thirty hours straight”

“Then don’t stop”, you begged again, wrapping yourself around him completely, “Don’t stop. Ever”. 

And stopping wasn't on his plans.

 You could barely breathe at this point. Every thrust sent you higher, every drag of his hips made the knot in your stomach tighter. Endlessly tighter.

“I’m close”, you gasped as your body burned with pleasure.

“I know”, his forehead was pressed to your, and his body was trembling.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling, stroking, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you”.

And when you did, your body tensed, your back arched, and your mouth fell open in a silent cry as pleasure crashed over you, hot and maddening. The heat swallowed you whole, thighs shaking around him as you shattered beneath him, around him.

Hyunjin wasn’t far behind. The way you clenched around him, the way your body pulsed with pleasure, it sent him spiraling.

“Damn, Yn…”, his voice broke as he buried himself deep, his body shuddering as he lost himself in you completely.

His breath stuttered against your neck, his grip on your hips tightening before finally, finally, he collapsed against your body, shaking, completely done.

Hyunjin let out a breathless, exhausted laugh, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, keeping you close. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles against your sweaty skin.

“Think that was at least two hours”, he murmured, “Only twenty eight to go”.

You let out a tired laugh, tucking yourself against his chest, letting the heat of him lull you into something soft and drowsy.

“We’ll see if you last that long”, you teased, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Hyunjin only smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, voice full of mischief, “That sounds like a challenge”.

And with that, you had a feeling the night was far from over.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

The morning sun painted orange stripes across Hyunjin’s bare back. He was sprawled out on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, the sheets barely covering him. His lips were slightly parted, and his breathing was peaceful, heavy with sleep. Last night was… kind of intense. After round after round, it was no surprise he was that exhausted.

You sat on the floor nearby, knees pulled to your chest, sipping from your hot mug of coffee. It was still early, and the house was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside and the soft clink of your spoon against ceramic. You couldn't stop looking at him.

Maybe it was the way the light kissed the curve of his shoulder, or the fact that his presence somehow filled the whole room even while unconscious. He looked so far from the Hyunjin who popped his hips in front of the crowd last night,and yet, still entirely himself.

You reached for his camera and carefully turned it on. The shutter clicked softly as you framed him in the morning light, capturing the vulnerable stillness he never let the world see. Then, he moved. You held your breath as he blinked slowly awake, lashes fluttering, eyes squinting against the sun.

“...Are you taking pictures of me?”, he mumbled, voice thick with sleep yet still adorably.

You smiled into your mug, “Someone’s gotta return the favor, don’t you think?”.

He rubbed at his eye, pouting slightly,  “That’s not fair. I probably look like a mess”.

You tilted your head, lifting the camera again, “You look too beautiful not to be photographed”

That earned a sleepy chuckle from him, followed by a mischievous grin that made your chest feel too full.

“I think… you might be the most dangerous person I’ve ever met. You keep making me fall for you over and over”, he murmured, stretching with a soft groan before letting his arm fall over his face dramatically.

You leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his lips, “Get up, pretty boy. I’m taking you out”

“Where to?”, he asked, still not moving.

“You’ll see. And put on a shirt this time unless you want more photos like these”.

He peeked at you through his fingers, playful. “Maybe I do”.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. You were already falling— fast and sweet and deep. And from the way he looked at you, you believed in his words when he said he was too.

You took him somewhere quieter this time, away from the crowds and noise. A place you loved as a kid, tucked behind winding roads and thick greenery. The kind of spot only locals knew about— a hidden waterfall.

You watched his eyes light up as you guided him through the forest path, hand in hand, laughter echoing between trees. When the water came into view, cascading down smooth rocks into a natural pool, he stopped in his tracks.

“This is… wow!”, he stepped closer, “It doesn’t even look real”.

You kicked off your shoes and dived in first, the cool water wrapping around your ankles.

“Come on, city boy. It’s even better when you come in”.

He followed, splashing in beside you, both of you soaked and breathless in seconds. He tossed his head back and let the water hit his skin, smiling wide like a child.

Later, you sat together on a sun warmed rock later, legs dangling in the water. He had his camera again— a  polaroid this time— pointing it at you.

“Don’t move”, he whispered. The click of the shutter was followed by a brief silence before you broke it.

“What are you thinking?”, you asked.

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on your face like he was memorizing it, “That I wish time would stop right here”.

You smiled gently and leaned your head on his shoulder, “Me too, Hyun. Me too”.

Hours later, you were browsing the little vendor cart set up near the edge of the beach with strings of colorful handmade bracelets swaying in the breeze. Your fingers stopped on a pair of tiny cowrie shells.

Hyunjin leaned in beside you, eyes twinkling, “Matching ones?”, he asked, already reaching for the other.

You grinned, “Only if you’re the one to tie mine”

“Of course, baby”.

You held out your wrist, and he took it carefully in both hands, the shells clicking softly as he looped the string around. He was so gentle, like he was afraid of hurting you, and so focused, brows furrowed in adorable concentration.

“Perfect. I tied it like it was meant to stay forever”, he whispered when he tied the final knot.

Then, as if to seal it, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

You blinked at him, heat blooming in your cheeks, “You’re really leaning into the romance, huh?”

“I can’t help it” he said, slipping his own bracelet on, “You bring it out of me”.

Just then, a small group of teenagers wandered by, fresh from the ocean and still dripping water onto the pavement. One of them gasped, whispering something to her friend and then, with a little push from her friend, she stepped forward shyly.

“Licença… are you Hyunjin from Stray Kids??”. 

Your brows furrowed as two girls stood up, eyes wide, walking toward you both.

“Can we get a picture with you?”, one asked, holding out her phone.

Hyunjin let out a soft, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hum, sure... yeah.”

You stood there, confused, watching him pose and smile politely for the photos. They thanked him and walked off, still whispering and giggling.

You turned to him, eyebrows lifted in disbelief, “Okay… what was that?”.

Hyunjin looked down for a moment, then back at you with a sheepish expression. The breeze ruffled his loose clothes, and he scratched the back of his neck like he was trying to buy time.

“I was going to tell you”, he started, voice softer now, “Eventually”.

You raised a brow, “Tell me what? Are you in a famous dance group in Korea or something?”

He took a deep breath, “I’m an idol. A singer. In Korea. I’m in a group called Stray Kids”.

You blinked, “Like… famous famous?”.

He winced, chuckling nervously. “Yeah. Kind of”.

You stared at him, speechless, as he kept going, his words fast and honest, tumbling out like he’d rehearsed them in his head a dozen times.

“I came to Brazil for a break. I was burned out, tired of being ‘Hyunjin the idol’ all the time. I just needed to breathe, you know? I didn’t plan on meeting anyone, and I definitely didn’t expect you. But when I saw you... Damn, you were everything. You are everything I’ve been looking for. And you were just so you. Funny and confident and real. I didn’t want to ruin that by bringing in everything that comes with my name”.

You stayed quiet for a beat, watching him. Observing the nervous look in his eyes, the way he fidgeted with his fingers, waiting for you to react.

Finally, you stepped a little closer and said, with a faint smile, “Okay. Thank you for telling me”.

He blinked, startled, “You’re not mad?”.

You shook your head. “No. I get it. I mean, I don’t know what that kind of life is like, but I understand needing to breathe. And I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell the truth”

A moment passed, and then you poked him gently in the chest, “But don’t start acting famous now”.

That made him laugh, relief rushing through his features, “I could never”.

You rolled your eyes playfully, "You’re still the guy who thought cachaça was water and nearly cried drinking it”.

He laughed, loud and spontaneous as always, “God, I’m so lucky to have you”.

You smiled shyly before reaching for his hand, “Let’s go, I still have a lot to show you”.

And without any hesitation, he followed.

Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped lower over Leme Beach, the sound of laughter and a bouncing ball caught Hyunjin’s attention. A group of locals had formed a loose circle on the sand, keeping a small soccer ball in the air using only their feet, thighs, and heads.

You noticed him staring, so you poked his arm, “That’s altinha. Wanna try?”.

He looked intrigued, “A- Al… altinha?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of like juggling, no hands allowed. Think you can handle playing against the locals?”.

He scoffed, “They are kids”.

You crossed your arms over your chest, “They are good. I wouldn't be surprised if they beat your ass, Mr. Adult”.

That was the challenge he needed. Grinning, Hyunjin jogged over barefoot, and with a few gestures and smiles, was welcomed  into the circle.

At first, he fumbled a bit. His timing kinda off, the ball escaping his reach, but soon his body adjusted, and his natural coordination kicked in.

You watched from the sidelines as he kicked the ball up with ease, laughing with the locals like he belonged there. His clothes were tousled by the wind, skin glowing golden in the sun, and he looked so at peace— playful and so genuinely himself.

You even cheered after a particularly impressive save with his chest.

Hyunjin turned to you, flushed and breathless, radiating happiness like a kid, “I’m officially good at this game. Definitely gonna play it with my friends in Korea”.

You laughed, cupping your hands around your mouth, trying to ignore the fact that one day, he was going to leave you.

“You better not get recruited for a team and forget about me”.

He winked before leaning in to peek your lips, “Never, baby”.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

Weeks later:

 The airport felt colder than it should. Maybe it was the artificial lighting, or just the air, or the fact that your heart was being tugged in directions you didn’t know how to handle.

Hyunjin stood in front of you, passport in hand, hoodie drawn up to hide his face from the world but not from you. Not today— or ever.

“This is for you”, you said softly, pulling something from your bag.

It was a polaroid, the one he'd taken of you at the waterfall with the sun in your eyes and body dripping wet.

Hyunjin took it carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands.

His eyes lingered on it before they lifted to yours, “I can’t believe it’s been a month”

“I still can’t believe you hip thrusted during samba. That’s not a thing, Hyunjin”, you teased, trying to lighten the moment, even though your throat felt tight.

He chuckled, but the sound was low and sad, “I don’t want to go"

“I know”, you whispered, “I don’t want you to go either”.

You kissed him then— soft and slow. A kiss full of all the things you couldn’t say out loud without breaking.

When you pulled back, he touched your cheek, gaze locked with yours, “I’m going to call. And text. Every day. I mean it”, he said.

You nodded, trying to keep it cool, “You better. Or I’ll come to Korea and haunt you”.

He laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes, charged with raw emotions.

“And I’ll still be in love with you. Even if we are miles apart, okay?”, he added, voice just above a whisper.

You looked down, smiling sadly, “Yeah, I know” you said, “Me too”.

Then, just before the final boarding call echoed through the terminal, he reached out his pinky finger toward you, “Promete?”, he asked softly.

You stared at it for a moment, your lips trembling before curling into a smile.

Slowly, you raised your own pinky and wrapped it around his, “Prometo”.

You stayed like that for a breath longer, fingers interlaced in a promise that felt stronger than anything either of you could say. And when he finally walked toward the gate, his figure getting smaller with every step, you didn’t cry.

Because somehow, you knew he wasn’t really gone.

A part of him belonged to Brazil now.

And that part… was you.

I really want to write a part 2 or some epilogue idk, so wait on me 🫶🏻

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa , @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

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[melwnst]

i’m feeling evil. Dean x reader where she says I love you but dean being the freaking rock wall he is doesn’t know how to react.

LIKE THE SCENE IN GILMORE GIRLS WERE DEAN(JARED) SAYS ILY TO RORY

but more angsty🤭

────── ⋆⋅☆ UNANSWERED, D.W

summary. Saying I love you to Dean for the first time wasn’t supposed to feel like a dagger through the heart.

⭑.ᐟ Maybe you’re evil, but so am I🤭 I love the angsty short ones, this was written so fast so thank you for the request my love! Hopefully you enjoy this one<3 please interact and send requests if u have any. Here’s part 2 :)

word count. 440

supernatural masterlist/full masterlist

──────────୨ৎ──────────

It’s like running into a brick wall in full speed.

He doesn’t look at you. Instead he looks down at his feet, his heart is racing, but he can’t talk. If he does, he might just throw up.

He can’t talk, because he doesn’t know what to say. He wants to know- he wants to say something, but he can’t.

Maybe he’s scared, or maybe he’s just a coward.

Maybe he’s both.

It doesn’t matter to you. Your hands shook seconds ago, now they’re still. They’re still like the world around you. Nothing moves, because he doesn’t.

You saw the way his face fell when you told him. Now they feel like three empty, insignificant words.

‘Did you hear me?’ You sit in front of him, and you almost laugh, because it’s almost comical.

Dean can only manage a nod, a barely visible one.

But you see it, because you feel it. You know he heard you, you just don’t understand why he hasn’t given you an answer yet.

The air feels thick. Too thick- you feel like you’re running out of air. You feel the walls in your chest tightening, you feel the pressure around your heart, but Dean feels the exact same way.

It’s panic.

You’re panicking over having said that you love him and not getting an answer, and he’s panicking over the fact that he can’t even form one, he can’t think, and he can’t freaking breathe.

‘Okay then.’ Is the only thing you manage to say before you feel your throat go dry, and the tears come up.

Dean’s eyes are still on his feet. You get up, you walk to the door but he still doesn’t look up.

He only does when he hears the door open, and your voice.

‘Come find me when you decide to stop being a coward.’

His heart stops for a second. It breaks at the sight of you. The tears are falling, faster, and in a matter of seconds, the door closes after you. The door closes after he saw how much he’d broken your soul by saying nothing. After looking in your eyes for second and seeing how damaged you became in just a few minutes.

He doesn’t know how long it’ll take to form the words he wants to say to you.

He doesn’t know if he’s ready.

He wants to feel it- to feel you again.

And he prays to a god he hates- that he’ll find the courage. That you won’t run far away from him. That he’ll be able to find you and apologize, and maybe be able to let you in and lay his heart on the table.

To let you love him.

[konigsm]

simon 'ghost' riley x f! reader

You said you'd never date a soldier-meant to deflect, not to lie. But Ghost heard it. And Ghost doesn't let things slide. Not when you're fucking him behind closed doors.

first scene based on that one tiktok from @/rxvengxrl been on my mind since foreverrrrr. rewrote this 3 times, I should be studying for finals 😣🙏. Enjoy this 1.7k mess.

It had started small—just another rare moment of downtime in the common room. Price nursed his tea in the corner, Ghost and Gaz were half-watching the footie, Gaz more focused on his phone. You and Soap were sprawled on the couch, swinging from one easy conversation to another.

He told you about his sisters, growing up in Glasgow, some nonsense about uniform regulations—and then later sometime he asked, “What d’you think about dating military men?”

You laughed. Easy. Dismissive. “Oh, no. I’d never.”

Not because it was true. But because it was safer that way. Safer than saying yes. Safer than inviting Soap’s curiosity. Ghost had been clear—keep it quiet, don’t give anyone a reason to start looking too closely.

But then you heard the shift. A faint rustle from the other side of the room.

You glanced—just for a moment—and caught his eyes. Ghost. Watching.

Only briefly. Then he turned away, smooth as ever, like it didn’t mean anything.

But your stomach dropped.

Were you… not supposed to say that?

°.•°`..°•`~.

Later that night, after dinner, there’s a knock at your door.

You already know who it is.Your stomach tightens—heavy, uncertain—and your fingers are still damp from the shower when you open it.

There he is. No gear, no mask. Just the black standard-issue tee stretched across broad shoulders, dark pants hanging loose at the hips. Short hair a little tousled. Face unreadable.

“Can I come in?” he asks, voice low.

You step aside without a word, letting him in.

He walks in like he always does—calm, quiet. You close the door behind him.

“Eat well?” he asks, tone almost casual.

It throws you off. Makes you hesitate. Because he never asks things like that. Not like that.

But he’s here. He’s calm. He looks fine. Maybe what you thought earlier was just you spiraling. Maybe the look in the common room wasn’t anything at all.

You nod. Try to maqtch his ease. “Yeah. I did.”

He just hums, like that’s all he needed to know. Settles into your bed.

You’re still standing by the door, hair a little damp against your skin. Ghost is on your bed, legs spread slightly, hands braced behind him, shoulders relaxed like he owns the space.

Then, without looking at you—like it’s just habit—he says, “Lock the door.”

Your hand moves before your brain catches up. The click of the lock sounds louder than it should.

A pause.

Then “Come here.”

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then step forward.

“Faster, love.”

It’s not sharp—more amused. But it punches right through your chest anyway. You move a little quicker, though the few feet between you feel like a stretch of no-man’s land.

You stand in front of him, heart thudding. He looks up at you with that unreadable expression, one brow arched just slightly.

Then, a low and deliberate “Sit down.”

You move to sit beside him on the bed, unsure, already lowering yourself when—

“Tsk.” A sharp littlpe sound of disapproval. He shifts, tilting his head just a bit. “On the ground, darling.”

Your breath catches. Just a beat. Then—p

You obey.

Knees brushing the floor. Looking up at him now.

And he looks down at you. Doesn’t say anything at first.

Just lifts a hand, rough fingers brushing along your cheek. The calluses catch on your skin, slow and deliberate. His touch is gentle in a way that makes it worse—like you don’t deserve the softness.

His thumb grazes one of the faint, healed scars near your jaw—leftovers from past missions. He sees them as something earned. Little victories.

You’re still looking up at him when his thumb shifts, presses against your bottom lip—just enough to part it. You stay still, breathing uneven.

Then he slips it in.

Slow. Purposwful. Thumb brushing against your tongue, tracing your gumline.

“Open,”

Your mouth parts a little more, and he presses down, pad of his thumb resting heavy on your tongue. A breath. A hum from him, low and knowing.

“Baby’s getting brave, yeah?”

You blink. Make a muffled little noise—questioning. Confused.

“Hm?” he says, thumb still in your mouth. “The common room, love. What was all that about?”

Your eyes go wide.

So it was about the common room.

Fuck.

His thumb rubs slow against your tongue, teasing more than anything. You don’t mean to react—but you do. Reflexive. Natural.

You suck, just a little.

His eyes darken. Not with surprise—he knew you’d do that. A flicker of a smirk. Barely there. “You’d never date a soldier, huh? That what you said, love?”

Your heart stutters. You shake your head, just slightly—like maybe that’ll undo it somehow.

But he doesn’t pull away.

He just watches you.

Waiting.

“You were gonna say more,” he says, voice soft but edged with steel. “They’re so what?”

His thumb slips out, slow and wet, dragging across your lip, wiping against your cheek, as he pulls back.

He tilts his head. Still calm. Still watching.

“Fucked up?” he murmurs. “Disposable? Not your type, eh?”

Then he moves. Subtle but sure. One booted foot lifts—presses between your thighs. Not hard. Just there. Crowding into your space.

“Say it again.”

“Simon—” you start, breath catching.

“No.”

“Say it again. Tell me you wouldn’t. Look me in the eyes this time.”

You try.

Your mouth opens, but the words don’t come. They’ve dissolved—ash on your tongue. Because you can’t say it.

His hand comes up, fingers curling around your throat—not squeezing, not hurting. Just enough pressure to ground you. To make sure you feel it.

His thumb settles over your pulse, dragging a slow circle. You know he can feel how fast your heart is beating

“Thought so,” he mutters.

Then he moves.

Bends low—not fast, not rushed—and his grip on your throat tightens just a touch, enough to pull you upward as he meets you halfway.

The kiss is firm. Heavy. A little messy. The angle’s off and it hurts—just slightly—pulling at your neck, your spine.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just enough to look at you.

He grabs your arm, pulls you up off your knees with ease, and turns you—pressing your back against the bed. The mattress dips beneath you, your breath catching as he leans over, eyes dark, mouth still slick from your kiss.

“C’mon then,” he murmurs, fingers sliding under your shirt, slow and deliberate, “show me how you really feel about soldiers.”

You moan—quiet and breathy—without meaning to. And his eyes flash at that.

Shirt’s up and over before you can even think. He tosses it somewhere behind him.

His follows, and the moment it hits the floor, his dog tags swing down—glinting in the low light, dangling above your face.

You don’t even hesitate.

You lean up and bite it. Teeth against the cool metal, tugging gently.

He huffs a laugh—half smirk, half growl. “Ah, yeah?” he mutters, voice rough with want.

And then his hands are at your waistband, tugging down your pants like it’s his right. Like you’re his. Which, maybe, is half true.

His fingers find your cunt easily, slick and wanting, and he hums like he already knew what he’d find.

“Don’t date soldiers, huh?” he murmurs, fingers slipping between your folds, slow and deliberate. “But you let me do this to you?”

You gasp—sharp, desperate—as he slides two fingers in without warning. The stretch burns in the best way, and your hips buck before you can stop yourself.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. “Mouth says no. Body’s fuckin’ beggin’, love.”

Your reply’s a choked moan, head falling back against the bed, hands fisting in the sheets

But then he’s over you, lined up and steady, and when he finally pushes in—thick and deep—your back arches with a sob.

“Let me hear it again,” he growls, hips pressing flush to yours. “Go on. Say it.”

You try—but it’s all noise, no words, your mouth open and panting, brain slipping somewhere hazy and hot.

“Say it when I’m inside you.”

He shifts just slightly, angling his hips—and it hits dead-on.

“Fuck—!” you scream, the sound torn raw from your throat as he pounds into that spot over and over, unrelenting.

It’s too much. It’s everything.

Your body’s trembling, your vision blurring, and all you can do is hold on as he fucks you.

He's got one hand braced on the bed beside your head, holding himself steady as he drives into you, each thrust making the frame creak under the weight of him. His other hand moves up-gentle, almost reverent-pushing sweaty strands of hair out of your face so he can see you.

Really see you.

"That's it, love," he murmurs, voice thick with heat. "Scream for me."

Another thrust. Harder. Deeper.

"Let everyone fuckin' hear ya."

You sob, high-pitched and wrecked.

"Let them know whose cock you're takin'.

You'd like that, wouldn't ya?”

You nod-whimper-and he gives you another sharp thrust for it, making your whole body jerk.

Your climax crashes over you like a wave, sharp and devastating, your cry echoing off the walls. You clench around him, tight and shaking, and he groans—loud, deep in his chest—before burying himself to the hilt.

His hips stutter. One. Two. And then he’s gone with a growl, spilling inside you, pressing so deep it’s like he’s trying to leave part of himself behind.

For a long second, it’s just panting. Heat. Sweat. The smell of sex thick in the air.

Then he collapses forward with a grunt, his full weight settling on you like a goddamn boulder.

You squirm under him, breathless, still trembling. “Agh—fuck,” you groan, voice hoarse. “You’re heavy, y’know that?”

He huffs a laugh against your shoulder, not moving an inch. “You’re warm.”

“Simon.”

“Shh,” he murmurs, kissing your skin lazily, like he didn’t just ruin you completely. “Just a minute."

And even though you're still trying to catch your breath, you let him.

Because it’s Simon.

A minute he asks, you'll give him 5. (yes a 5, not a forever because you'll suffocate and die after 5 minutes)

Could u guys tell I get my bad humour from my Wattpad days (i can't seem to evolve)

[bklily]

I keep getting spiraled on the motives of Gabriel writing that letter and his final moments. He obviously wrote it after the whole alliance ring shtick began, after he was hit by the cataclysm. My immediate thought is that he wrote it right before he shipped Adrien off to London, since it was inside a photo album inside a box for furniture to be moved, which implies it was when they were moving away his things.

I can only imagine that he wrote that as a "If everything goes to shit this is my back up plan' which is fair tbh. Maybe his plan wouldn't work 100% and the cataclysm would get to him before he could revive Emilie. Since he accounts for Nathalie also still being in the picture I imagine he didn't think she'd die so... Fast? Suddenly? Maybe he thought she would still be weak and frail and sick but alive to guide Adrien after he found the letter.

So far this is all well and good but now when it comes to his final scene with Maribug and him asking for her to not Adrien know the villain that he was, I'm of two minds about it. The first one is that, somewhere deep deep down in his rotten pathetic weak little heart, he really meant it and hoped Adrien wouldn't find the letter and he'd get to die and be with Emilie in the afterlife. Which is. A fair interpretation but you'd need to pay me a lot of money to believe Gabriel Agreste has any actual remorse for what he did lmao.

My second interpretation is that he wanted to have his cake and eat it too. It's not that he 100% wanted to control the narrative of how Adrien found out his misdeeds (though I think that's a valid interpretation), but in my head he just thought like-

"hey, I have an emergency plan in place with that letter right? Might as well go out faking a sacrifice and guilt trip this 14 year old girl, gaslight my son's memories and later down the line if he finds that letter, my chances of him actually bringing me back are way higher! Win win!"

In other words it wasn't a selfless sacrifice (obviously) but more so a, "I'll do this good deed so I might get something better in return later down the line" deal. Which I think fits his overall character narrative imo.

[respectthepetty]

Wild Ass Theory - Pit Babe 2

I fucked up and didn't block the tag, so I know some stuff based on everyone's reactions to the trailer, but all I really got out of the reactions is Alan is still fine as hell, and if anything happens to him, I will riot.

I also know Barbie and Charles are going to get married, but I could figure that out from the light up ring box since it was shining so damn bright!

So now that I have watched the trailer, muted, and without subs, I'm here to report on what wild ass theory I came up with based solely on colors and vibes . . . starting with the blue.

Charles is a Blue Boy and Barbara is a Black Brooder, so the beginning of the trailer perfectly captures their love.

Because of Blue Boy Charles, Barbara was much lighter by the end of the first season, and that carries over into this season.

BUT in the scene where Charles leaves Barbie, he is fully black.

So my Wild Ass Theory is I don't think Barbie cheats on Charles. I think his darkness comes from making a deal with the devil.

A whole year ago, way back when a second season was announced with a teaser, I thought Tony was going to use Charles since Charles power was absorbing other powers, and in Jeffrey's visions, he saw Charles bleeding.

So knowing Barbie, he would do anything for his man, including going back to the dark (red) side.

The inside of Barbie's car is red, so I think he is even throwing races to protect Charles.

We know the devil is doing experiments on people, so he can figure out how to give them powers, but I think Charles will be the missing piece of his puzzle.

And this is clearly Blue Boy Charles hooked up for experiments in Peter's lab.

His Blue Boy power has to be the special link Tony is missing, right?!

Therefore, I don't think Barbie is sexually interested in the dark void named Willy, but is trying to get information out of Willy about Tony's plan for Charles.

BECAUSE I THINK WILLY ACTUALLY LIKES CHARLES!!!!!

Pink = 💕love💕 which is why Southwest Airlines and Vegas' Hedgehog are kissing underneath it, so I think instead of Willy being a horrible guy, he is basically going to be Waymond and Peter from last season, and just be an idiot in love who is willing to do dumb shit to get close to Charles like race him at night in little go-carts!

So I think Jeffrey is being sabotaged since he can see the future because the only person who would've told Barbie that Charles would be in trouble is Jeffrey.

Therefore, Tony snatches Alan and turns him into a demon (see the horns!!!!) to keep Jeffrey busy, so he won't fuck up his Charles plan.

But here is the thing — there is a lot of white in this trailer as if angels are coming through.

So Kentana has Kimberly and Alan has Jeffrey to save him.

In the previous trailer, I questioned if Southwest Airlines was going to do something funky to gain powers.

But for a boy that was pissing me off in the first season because he could not get his color together, he showed up in the announcement teaser in white, and now in this trailer he is in white, so I think Sonic will be the one to save North if shit goes south (Kimberly was also in white in the announcement trailer).

And even though I think Barbie is trying to save Charles from being used as an experimental lab rat for Tony, I think Charles will be the one to save Barbie, again, from the darkness.

But, more importantly, I think Waymond Christopher will save them all.

Peter, just like Kentana and Barbie, was always a Black Brooder because of his alignment with Tony, but Christopher is lighter than Waymond ever was.

So I think Christopher will be the one to lighten up Peter, and save the day because if they figure out that Charles is the key to everything while fucking, then everyone wins!

So I think there will be a lot of people sacrificing themselves for the others this season solely because there is soooo much white, and the last time someone wore white it was Waymond in the season one finale and he died protecting them!

So we have all these angels trying to rescue their men all because Black Brooder Barbie needs his Blue Boy Charles back safely.

And out of the clutches of darkness.

Let's see how much I'm clownin' when this premieres next month!

[doctoralangrants]

Wanted to create a post with some of my favorite excerpts and quotes from this stellar Lou Ferrigno Jr interview. In other words, like 85% of it! If you haven't already read the interview, I urge you to click that link and give the interview some much-deserved traffic! Has some excellent questions, answers, and insight.

Anyway. A mere plot device what? Not a part of the family, huh? The cast and crew hate Ferrigno Jr, hmm? Tommy's on his way out, say wha'?

I think it's extremely telling that the moment where Tommy watches Buck through the monitor in 8x15 was not scripted and was added last minute. Very interesting, indeed. And, you know, it's even more interesting that they added a moment that specifically highlights not only the Buck and Tommy pairing, but also Tommy as an individual. Almost like those with power, or, at least, Tim Minear, really see the value and importance in what Lou and Tommy have to offer. Imagine that.

--

"It’s hard sometimes because when I was looking at the monitor and watching Buck, right after the cut…and I had to cry. I had to fully cry because I was in such a committed state of watching the love of my life in that circumstance."

--

"And I think it’s a calcification of his soul and he never needs to open up. Until this person, he’s in a situation with, there is a spark, and there is something special. So he’s learning how to deal with this, and it’s not something you learn in school, and it’s not something you learn after your first second relationship. It’s something you learn with mileage."

--

"Well, I think Tommy’s trying to do a good deflecting at the top, but I think he’s coming to grips with the fact that he doesn’t need to put this shit on. I think historically, Tommy would just blow it off and just be like, 'Whatever.' I don’t think he’s ever necessarily met someone that he’s been as enthralled by as he is with Buck. I think he finds him adorable, and I think he doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but he’s feeling something that’s really leveling him in the sense where he’s figuring things out as long as it’s taken."

--

"... I can’t imagine that Tommy’s not thinking like, 'What if that happened to Buck? What if it was Buck?' Tommy couldn’t have known what was happening to Bobby when he was dying. So when I was watching him or when Tommy was watching him, in my mind there’s a thought of… Not fear. At that moment, I think he was just so crushed. And it hurts when you see someone going through something that you love …

But it’s also, like, scared that this could be the guy that breaks him. There’s always that consideration. Because I don’t know how sure-footed Tommy really is as much as he appears to be. And then I don’t know the repercussions of what that would mean if that was his soulmate or his love of his life, and then something happened to him ..."

--

"Sometimes you don’t know what to do, and sometimes you don’t… But it’s being okay with not knowing what to do and just being there for the person that you love. I think that was playing a part of it. I think he was just overwhelmed with the fact that he’s watching because he watches screens. He’s technical. He’s an air pilot. He’s a fighter pilot. This guy is a high-functioning, highly calibrated human being. So, throwing in emotions, it does not work well with his processing. But I think in that moment, he was ready to go in after him.

These are the feelings that he’s never really been confronted with, I think, in terms of this human being is all I care about. And it was tough. It was tough because everyone handled it. And when they delivered the news, it was just like… And I’m even luckier that I was able to get in for that one second. I love that they let Tommy have his moment to feel all this. Yeah, I think Tommy’s just, in his mind, in love."

--

"Because I didn’t get any word on that scene. Right on the day, they’re like, “We’re going to add this scene.” And then I was like, “Oh my God. Oh my God.” But it was nonverbal, but then it was like Tommy is watching Buck."

--

"That’s a step. That’s a step in growth. And with Bobby, he was inspired by him. He wanted to hang out with him. And he wanted to become a pilot, but he was right there when the 118 needed him, Tommy."

--

"Tommy doesn’t want to go back to a place where he was. I think Tommy likes the man he is now. And I think that through the spirit, he’ll remember Bobby, and he’s become this new man. And I think that with Buck, I mean, that’s another phase to his growth as a human being in terms of committing or even just being vulnerable with someone and having something that’s true."

--

"So moving forward, I think Tommy’s really good at compartmentalization. But I also do think that he will, for the first time in his life, feel it’s safe to emote and open up to his fellow 118ers, to others in his life about how important Bobby was. So it’s bittersweet."

--

"I mean, I don’t know necessarily how the dynamics work if a captain dies. Are we getting Gerrard back? I don’t think Tommy’s going back to who he was, like I mentioned before, but at the same time, I’m going to have to deal with Gerrard. It’s a huge, profound loss."

[lvsjuno]

( DRA. DOLITTLE ) ▬ Jason Todd!

request: can i ask for a Jason Todd x fem!reader? Where the reader is an absolute sweetheart and adores animals but can kick ass when required. (it would be nice if the reader was a civilian)

Jason todd x fem!reader

note: I'm pretty out of practice, so sorry if it's not what you expected, I need to get back into the swing of things. :)

open request ☆ masterlist

Since you were little, you'd had a special connection with animals. While other children had fun playing with their toys, she spent hours in the garden watching birds, petting the neighbor's cats, or chasing butterflies with a calmness and patience that only someone with her peaceful soul could possess.

As a child, you'd often be yelled at by your family for your respect and love for all animals. I mean, what's so wrong with bringing a toad or a skunk into the house? They're perfectly harmless animals, in your opinion, but not for your family.

You remember with a smile the horrified expressions on your parents' faces when they found creatures of all kinds in the dining room, the bathroom, or even in your bed. You explained with the same seriousness that if they didn't let them in, the animals would have nowhere to go. But your parents, with typical adult concern, didn't share your perspective. Then came your threats: "If you don't let them in, I'll sleep in the garden with them." (Spoiler: you ended up sleeping in the garden... but not with the animals.)

However, that connection with animals never faded. As you grew older, you continued to seek out various opportunities to pursue this vocation. You soon found yourself working in veterinary clinics or shelters, surrounded by puppies, cats, and rescued animals in need of love, attention, and care. Your job became your passion, and every day, as you helped those in need, you felt more at home than ever.

And since passions are very important in people's lives, once again yours, in some way, helped you find the love of your life.

Jason Todd.

The first time you saw him was in the middle of the night, during your shift at the vet. The night was quiet, not too busy, when a tall figure appeared at the door. This time, he came in with a very worried Damian. The boy had been having some trouble with his cat, Alfred. The poor little animal had an ear infection, and Jason had no choice but to accompany him.

Jason, with a serious expression and a slight glimmer of concern in his eyes, approached the counter, glancing at Damian before speaking.

"This is Alfred. He needs help. Do you think you can help him?"

Your heart skipped a beat at his voice, deep and direct, but with a touch of gentleness when it came to the cat. It was hard not to notice how much he cared about that little creature's well-being. You smiled, approaching Damian to pick up Alfred with the same gentleness you treated all animals.

"Of course, leave it to me. Let's make sure he's okay," you told him calmly, as you began examining the cat.

Jason watched you silently as you cared for him, and for a moment, he seemed completely absorbed in the scene, as if you had something hypnotic about you.

That evening, after a few explanations and some care for Alfred, Jason said goodbye with a simple "thank you" and a glance that lasted a few seconds too long, but what seemed like a casual encounter soon turned into a series of unexpected visits.

But there were later second, third, and fourth visits, all under the guise of needing medication for the pets. He even kidnapped Titus from Damian once to take him for his vaccinations.

The excuses became less and less credible ─as if they had been in the first place ─ until he finally dared to ask you out.

Over time, Jason became a part of your life, as constant and natural as breathing. He was always there: waiting for you at the end of your shifts, accompanying you to rescue animals, or simply showing up with lame excuses to see you.

That night was no different. The sun had already set, tinting the last traces of the sky orange, and you were closing up the vet. Jason had promised to pick you up before going out on patrol, like he always did, making sure you got home safely.

You were cleaning the counter when you heard a noise in the back.

You frowned. It wasn't Jason; he always knocked twice and said your name quietly so as not to startle you. This was different: abrupt footsteps, shadows moving quickly. There was someone else there, just you and them.

You sighed, setting the cleaning cloth aside. You remembered Jason's words: "Come on, babe, you have to know how to defend yourself. I won't always be there for you. If you have to fight, don't hesitate. Strike first."

Smiling softly, almost amusedly, you picked up the safety stick they used to control large animals. It was heavy, but with the training Jason had given you, you handled it fairly easily.

You approached the source of the noise.

In the warehouse, two men were rummaging through supplies, tossing boxes to the floor. They were looking for anything of value, but they found nothing there but medicines and old papers.

"Can I help you with something?" you asked, your voice so soft it almost sounded out of place in the tension of the moment.

Both men turned around. The shorter one smiled cheekily at you. "Relax, honey. We're just looking at. Keep quiet and we won't hurt you."

"Just a look?" You tilted your head, as if you truly believed his words.

The larger man confidently reached out to grab you. But before his hand could even touch you, you acted: you nimbly spun around, dodging him, and slammed your cane down hard on his knees. The man fell like a sack of potatoes, groaning.

The second tried to grab you, but you remembered another of Jason's lessons: "When they're distracted, strike quickly." You landed a precise elbow in his stomach, hard enough to knock the wind out of him, then swept his legs aside in one clean motion.

By the time Jason arrived—walking casually as if he had all the time in the world—the scene greeted him like a comic slap in the face: two men tied up with dog leashes, and you, sitting at the counter, wiping your hands with a wipe as if nothing had happened.

Jason blinked a couple of times. Then he let out a deep, proud laugh, but also a laugh of nervousness, not knowing what had happened.

"Are you..." he looked at the guys writhing on the ground, "practicing without me, princess?"

You smiled at him sweetly.

"Isn't that what you taught me?" you asked, raising an innocent eyebrow.

He crossed the distance in a couple of steps, gently took you by the waist and kissed your forehead with a tenderness that contrasted with his rough appearance.

"You're fucking perfect," he murmured against your skin.

And in that moment, as he called the police with one hand and held you close with the other, Jason thought that teaching you self-defense had been one of the best decisions of his life, and choosing you had been another one of them.

[wonderlandwalker]

Hell hath no fury like a Buckley pt. II | Steve Harrington x reader

pt. I / stranger things masterlist / inbox / pt. III?

summary: Steve’s patience is legendary (in his own mind). Too bad reality keeps rudely disagreeing. Spoiler: He’s about to lose it.

word count: 5.8k

tags / content warnings: fluff, some hints to smut, robin who keeps interupting, later actual smut, me being a mythology nerd again

a/n: used scene cuts instead of transitions because I couldn't be bothered apparently, prolly a lot of repetitive synonyms I should fix but again apparently can't be bothered to. basically it's a bit of a mess but it's a bit of a mess I made with love. I might have had a bit of a mental meltdown, it's kingsday, I'm trying my best

Later was a fucking myth.

Not the cool kind—with dragons and sword fights and glory. No, this was the cruel kind.

The kind where Sisyphus wakes up every goddamn morning thinking, ‘Maybe today the boulder stays at the top,’ only to watch it roll back down again. 

The kind of hope that survives solely because no one’s brave enough to strangle it.

Everything started the night of the fucking party itself.

Because for one fleeting, blissful hour, he’d almost—almost—convinced himself he could forget. The way your mouth had felt against his in that dim bathroom light—hot and hungry, teeth scraping his lower lip like you were marking him, claiming him. The way your lips had brushed his skin afterwards, tender in a way that wrecked him more than the bruising grip of your hands ever could. But then—

His fingers brushed yours as he passed you a drink. A graze. A spark. And suddenly, the world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the electric current that shot up his arm and straight to his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Because it wasn’t just a touch. It was a revelation. A reminder that he’d been lying to himself. That no amount of pretending could erase the way your body had arched into his, the way your breath had stuttered against his mouth when he’d pinned you against the sink.

And you knew it.

He could see it in the way your eyes flickered to his, in the way your lips parted just slightly. You knew, and you were letting him drown in it, in the way his fingers trembled around his glass, in the way his chest rose and fell like he’d been running.

“Ahem.”

Robin cleared her throat like she’d caught him mid-sacrilege, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched so high it nearly disappeared into her hairline, Steve jerked back like he’d been burnt, his drink sloshing precariously in his grip. “You two are disgusting,” Robin announced, her voice flat, and his jaw clenched. “We’re not doing anything.” The words came out rough, frayed at the edges—less of a defence and more of a confession: We’re not. But Christ, I want to.

Robin threw her hands up like she was appealing to an invisible jury. “Exactly!” Her voice pitched higher. “And yet it’s still too much! I mean, look at you!”  She jabbed a finger at Steve, who stood frozen, caught between guilt and longing, like some tragic, lovesick monument to poor self-control. “Harrington looks like he’s two seconds away from either proposing or spontaneously—”

Your teeth caught your lower lip, Steve’s gaze snagged on the motion, it's knowing, vicious—and just like that, Robin’s tirade dissolved into meaningless static. Because that look? That wasn’t just a smile. That was a promise.

So he let it go.

Let Robin rant; let her seethe.

Let her mutter something about “emotional damage” as she stormed off, because none of it mattered. Not when you were looking at him like that.

He could wait a little while.

Right?

He offered to drive you home as the party came to an end—obviously—because he was raised with manners. Because letting you walk alone at night would simply be irresponsible. Because the thought of you in his passenger seat—his fingers itching to bridge that impossible six-inch gap between the gearshift and your thighs—was the only thing that made the last hour of Robin's pointed coughing fits bearable.

He'd played the role perfectly: attentive but not eager, close but not crowding. The model of whatever-the-hell you were supposed to be now. Steve gripped the wheel like it might steady him, knuckles matching the pale dashboard. He'd been good. Patient. Certain Robin's campaign of terror would lose steam by sunrise when she realised her best friend's happiness mattered more than her flair for dramatic interruptions.

Right?

Because when he'd pulled up to your house that night, he had practically launched himself from the driver's seat to open your door like some over-eager Prince Charming, and Robin had just... blinked. No dramatic gasp. No sarcastic commentary about his pathetic display of chivalry. Just a slow, considering roll of her eyes like someone who'd seen this train wreck coming from miles away, before turning on her heel and disappearing inside.

So yeah, Steve had gone to bed that night with a dopey smile still plastered across his face, half-convinced Robin's silence meant reluctant acceptance, maybe even approval.

He should have known better.

Another day had slipped through his fingers in a sun-drunk haze of laughter and lukewarm beers, Eddie’s voice a distant hum in his ear about— Christ, he didn’t even know. Not after you’d peeled off your clothes in one effortless motion, tossing them onto the dock before diving into the water. Not after the sunlight had shattered against the lake’s surface just to worship you, turning every droplet on your skin into liquid gold.

Steve was pretty sure Eddie had been talking about dragons. Or dungeons. Or possibly the existential dread of minimum wage monotony —hell, it could’ve been a manifesto on the meaning of life for all he knew.

It didn’t matter. 

Nothing did.

Not when you were hauling yourself back onto the wooden pier, water falling off your body as you wrung out your hair with both hands, shaking it loose like some kind of mystic siren emerging from the depths, and he suddenly understood why ancient sailors crashed their ships against rocks.

He wondered if you knew.

If you noticed the way his gaze tracked your every movement like a man staring into the sun—knowing it would ruin him, but unable to look away.

If you enjoyed it, the way you’d caught him staring earlier as you stretched out on your towel, the straps of your swimsuit digging into the soft give of your shoulders as you arched your back—fuck—like a cat luxuriating in a sunbeam. He’d nearly choked on his own tongue, his beer bottle slipping through his fingers before Dustin snatched it with an exasperated, "Dude, what is your problem?"

But most of all, he wondered if you regretted that night at the party. If it had been nothing more than a drunken lapse in judgement, a moment of weakness you’d rather forget, and you were just too kind to say it.

Or maybe—

Maybe you felt it too. That electric, unspoken thing that crackled between you every time your knees brushed under the picnic table, every time you leaned in to murmur something just for him, your breath hot against his ear, your lips almost grazing his skin. Maybe you lay awake at night, replaying the same moments he does—his hands on your waist, your teeth at his lip, the way you’d gasped when he—

Yeah.

He was so fucking fucked.

It takes him another goddamn day to get you to himself again. The sun had begun its slow bleed into the horizon, staining the sky in hues of bruised purple, the summer air hanging thick between you, heavy with the scent of honeysuckle and the distant, drowsy drone of cicadas. Then—then—as you turned your head to find him already watching. His gaze dropping to your lips like he’d built them a temple in his mind, worshipping them with every stolen glance, his eyes holding that particular brand of devotion usually reserved for holy relics and half-court shots, as if even the act of blinking felt like treachery against the sacred privilege of watching you.

Then, you leaned in.

Slow.

Testing.

Close enough to watch his pupils blow wide. Close enough to feel his breath stutter against your mouth, warm and uneven. Close enough to—

"Don't mind me." Robin wedged herself between you like it was her assigned seat, the wooden steps groaning in protest beneath her. "Just enjoying this lovely summer afternoon," she chirped, her grin all malicious delight. "And by 'lovely', I, of course, mean physically painful to witness."

Steve's head dropped forward with a groan so guttural it might have been comical—if not for the way his fingers were currently attempting to fracture his own kneecaps, the veins in his forearms standing out like he was physically restraining himself from either screaming into the void or tossing his best friend into Lover's Lake. "Robin," he gritted out, voice fraying at the edges, "I swear to—"

"What?" She pivoted sharply, hand flapping between you like a malfunctioning windscreen wiper. "You'll what? Finally put us all out of our misery and end this"—she mimed an explosion with her hands—"three-day-long foreplay session? Because let me tell you, at this rate I'd genuinely rather—"

"Okay!" Steve barked, loud enough to startle a nearby crow into flight. His ears burnt scarlet, hand snapping back from your waist, and Robin smirked, hauling herself up with the triumphant air of someone who'd just single-handedly prevented a nuclear meltdown. "You're welcome," she stage-whispers to you, dusting off her jeans with exaggerated care before sauntering away, leaving only the faint scent of her shampoo and emotional devastation in her wake.

Steve stared blankly at the space she'd vacated, his jaw working like he was mentally composing his own obituary. You bite your lip to stifle a laugh as he tips his head back toward the darkening sky—either praying for patience or for the earth to swallow him whole—before his gaze slides back to you.

And this time, you're already watching him. Head tilted in that dangerous, familiar way—the same angle Robin struck right before dropping a truth bomb that levelled entire friend groups. The same tilt you'd worn seconds before your lips crashed into his. "Got something for you."

Your voice cuts through the air, yanking Steve out of his spiral of self-loathing and directly into a new, more dangerous one: You got him something?

Fuck. He hadn’t gotten you shit. Not flowers, not candy, not even a half-assed postcard from the Gas ‘n’ Sip—just a mountain of unresolved sexual tension and a concerning number of daydreams involving you, the backseat of his car, and significantly less clothing.

But then you rummage through your bag, pulling out a cassette tape. The label is blank. No track list. No heart doodles. Just the ghost of your fingerprints on the plastic case.

Is it a mixtape?

The thought sends a jolt through him. Mixtapes aren’t casual. Mixtapes are declarations. Mixtapes are the kind of thing you spend hours agonising over, second-guessing every song choice because what if they don’t get it? What if they don’t hear the things you can’t say out loud—

“Are you gonna take it or what?” You wave the tape in front of his face, and Steve snatches it a little too eagerly, his fingers brushing yours just long enough to make your smirk widen. “What’s on it?” he asks, voice rough.

You flash him that look again—the one that said he wasn't a participant in this game but a bystander. “Just a promise I made you.”

The drive home is torture. Every red light stretches into a personal hell, every stop sign a cosmic joke.

Why the fuck didn’t he leave his Walkman in the car like usual? But nooo—this time, he’d actually cleaned the damn thing thinking you’d notice.

He parks crooked in the driveway, tires screeching against the curb, barely kills the engine before he’s out of the car. The house is empty, thank fuck, no parents to witness their son taking the stairs two at a time like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

The Walkman is buried under a landslide of junk in his desk drawer—old mixtapes labelled in Robin’s messy scrawl, loose batteries that may or may not be dead, and a condom wrapper he swears he didn’t leave there. His fingers close around the familiar plastic, the weight of it suddenly heavier than he remembers. And for one paralysing second—thumb hovering over play—Steve feels terrified. What if it’s nothing? What if it’s everything?

The cassette clicks into place.

He presses play.

Silence. A vacuum of sound so complete Steve can hear his own pulse roaring in his ears. The kind of silence that comes before lightning strikes, before car crashes, before the world splits open and nothing is ever the same again.

Then—

A hiss of tape.

Static crackling.

The faintest hitch of breath—your breath.

Your voice.

Not the one you use when you tease him by the pool, lazy and sun-warmed. Not the one that laughs at his shitty jokes with an eye roll he can feel. Not even the whisper you reserve for when he's close enough to count your eyelashes.

A gasp fractures the silence – raw, unfiltered, and obscene. A moan follows, punched-out, and Steve's stomach plummets straight through the floorboards.

Holy fucking shit.

Your breath stutters in time with the unmistakable sound of skin on skin—his traitorous brain helpfully supplies the images in brutal HD: the way your thighs would fall open, the flush crawling up your chest, your fingers working in frantic circles.

A choked-off whimper.

The creak of bedsprings.

The slick, filthy noise of you fucking yourself—

"Steve—"

His name spills from your lips like a sacrament, like a damnation, syllables trembling at the edges like you’re coming apart just from the thought of him, and—

Christ.

He rips the headphones off like they've electrocuted him, but it's too late. The damage is done.

Your voice echoes in the hollow of his skull, in the marrow of his bones, in the aching throb of his cock straining against denim. He grips the edge of his desk until the wood creaks under his palms, trying and failing to unhear the way your voice shattered around his name—

Fuck.

Fuck.

The numbers on his alarm clock bleed together in the dark,

2:37 AM;

3:12;

4:49;

Each minute stretching into eternity as he lies there, wired and restless.

Sleep might as well be some distant continent he'll never visit again. Not when every time his eyelids grow heavy, his body betrays him with perfect recall, the memory plays mercilessly behind his closed eyes: your lips parting on a silent gasp as he leaned in, the way your breath hitched when his fingers found bare skin. How, for one crystalline moment suspended between heartbeats, he'd never been more certain of anything.

And then there's the goddamn tape.

It sits on his nightstand like some sacred relic and cursed object all at once, the plastic casing still warm from how often he's turned it over in his hands. He'd lasted exactly twenty-three seconds—just long enough to hear your breathy sighs and the rustle of sheets—before slamming the stop button.

He can imagine all he wants—the way your muscles might twitch under his touch, how your back would arch when he finally— 

Fuck.

He needs to see it. Needs to see the exact shade of pink that blooms across your chest when you're flustered. Needs to catalogue every micro-expression that crosses your face when he—

The ceiling fan creaks above him, its lazy rotations doing nothing to cool the restless energy under his skin. Steve Harrington — brought to his knees by a cassette and what-ifs. 

He debates his next move like a general strategising for war:

Option One: Throw caution to the wind. March up to your front door, push you against it, kiss you again—properly, this time—no hesitation, no interruptions. Just his hand on the back of your neck, your chest flush against his, and finally —finally— discovering if you taste as good as you sound on that godforsaken tape. Consequences and Robin’s inevitable shriek of horror to be damned.

But what if you push him away? What if he's misread everything?

Option Two: Play it cool. Wait for you to make another move, to give him some undeniable sign that this isn't just some one-sided fantasy cooked up by his sleep-deprived brain.

But what if you're waiting for the same from him? What if you both end up stuck in this purgatory of almosts and not-quites?

Option Three: Seek counsel from the devil herself. Ask Robin for advice and resign himself to a lifetime of mockery and possibly a commemorative plaque titled "World's Most Desperate Man".

He snorts, dragging a hand down his face. That's not happening.

At 5:27 AM, he makes a decision.

The bouquet of zinnias and baby's breath sits on his car hood like an indictment; he should've gone with something edgier. A single rose, maybe. Or just shown up shirtless with a six-pack like a normal person.

But the clock's ticking.

He grabs the flowers and forces his legs to carry him up your walkway. 

The doorbell's chime might as well be a gong announcing his impending doom. What if you're not home? What if Robin answers instead? What if you take one look at him and his sad floral peace offering and just— 

The door swings open. Time stops. There you are, leaning against the frame like you've been counting the minutes since he left last night, like you knew exactly when he'd crack. That sundress—the pale yellow one with tiny white embroidered flowers that clings to your hips like it was personally commissioned by God to test Steve Harrington's self-control—should be classified as a lethal weapon in at least five states.

"Well," you drawl, eyes dancing over his dishevelled state. "This is a surprise."

Steve's brain whites, all higher functions crashing. "I was, uh—" His throat clicks like a jammed record. Some distant, rational part of his mind that sounds suspiciously like Robin yells: Focus, Harrington! So he thrusts the bouquet forward like it's a live grenade. "Wondering if you'd want to go out with me."

You blink at the flowers, then back at him, that damn smirk playing at your lips. "If I want to go out with you?" Oh God, abort mission— 

"On a date," he blurts, voice cracking. Smooth. "Like. Dinner. Or a movie. Or—fuck, I don't know, mini-golf?" Mini-golf? 

The window above you explodes open with enough force to rattle the frames. "OH MY GOD," Robin's voice shrieks like a banshee, her head popping into view. "Dingus, if you stammer any longer, I'm invoking my best friend veto. This— "She karate chops the air between you two so violently Steve instinctively flinches “—is a hostile work environment for me." Steve's left eye develops a concerning twitch. "We're not at work, Robin."

"It feels like work!" she wails, draping herself dramatically over the windowsill. "The emotional labour of watching you two eye-fuck?  Unpaid overtime!" She fake-sobs into her hands. "I need hazard pay! And possibly witness protection!"

You laugh — that bright, unfiltered sound that does dangerous things to Steve's circulatory system—and suddenly the flowers, Robin's theatrics, and even his own bone-deep embarrassment all fade into background noise. There's just you, smiling at him like he's something special, like maybe this is exactly what you’ve been waiting for. You tilt your head as your eyes spark with mischief. "Do I get that mini-golf date or not, Harrington?"

He spends the entire next day tearing through his closet like a man possessed, as if some divine intervention might suddenly produce a garment bag labelled: Outfit That Screams Casual First Date But Also Low-Key Says I’d Follow You Into Hell If You Asked.

He rejects: the navy polo—too "meeting your parents"; the leather jacket—too "trying too hard"; the stupid fucking Hawaiian shirt Eddie got him as a joke—actually, no. That one was never an option.

By the time he settles on light jeans and a soft grey Henley—rolled-up sleeves, one button undone, hair perfectly imperfect—he’s worked himself into such a state that it’s a miracle he didn't drive his Beemer straight into Lover’s Lake on the way to pick you up. You slide into the passenger seat, all golden warmth and that fucking perfume that's been haunting his dreams with the tenacity of a poltergeist, and suddenly he forgets how lungs are supposed to function.

You smile at him — that slow curve of lips that says you're fully aware of the devastation you're causing— and Steve's brain promptly abandons ship. His mouth, the traitorous bastard, keeps working without supervision: "Turns out the closest mini-golf place is, like, a fifty-minute drive," he blurts. "We can still go—we can definitely still go—but, uh, if you wanted to do something else, we could—maybe—I don't know—"

"Steve—" His head swivels so fast he's lucky his spine doesn't snap. The seatbelt locks with an audible click, which feels vaguely humiliating. "Let's go to your place."

Error 404: Steve Harrington.exe has stopped responding.

His heart flatlines.

His palms go damp.

The entire universe narrows to microscopic focus: the way your teeth worry your bottom lip, the faintest blush creeping up your neck like a slow sunrise. Some distant part of his mind registers that he should probably breathe at some point. "Unless your parents are home," you add quickly, eyes flickering down. Suddenly uncertain. Suddenly vulnerable in a way that cracks Steve's chest wide open. "Or you don't want to." And just like that, his system reboots. "No! I mean—yes! I mean—" He exhales, shaky, running a hand through hair that's already hopelessly dishevelled. "That sounds nice. Maybe we could pick up some Thai food on the way?" Your nose scrunches in immediate, visceral disgust, and it's the most adorable thing Steve's ever witnessed. "Absolutely not. It's Chinese food or I'm leaving."

And just like that—under his hopelessly adoring gaze—you're you again, all sharp edges and soft laughter. The nerves evaporate from his system like morning fog burnt away by the sun.

It's easy.

It's simple.

It's everything and nothing all at once.

And now the dining room is bathed in warm light, the kind that makes everything feel softer, more intimate.

You’re drinking the overpriced wine he "borrowed" from his parents’ cellar, presenting it to you with the second-hand expertise of a man who’s absorbed exactly one wine tasting seminar by sheer osmosis.  Steve holds it with the reverence of a man who doesn’t quite know what he’s doing but is determined to look like he does; he swirls it, smells it, and—after a theatrical pause—lifts it to his lips.

"Notes of…uh—" He squints, as if the answer might materialise in the wine. "Grapes. Definitely grapes."

The laugh that escapes you is bright, and you press your hand to your mouth like you’re trying to smother it. His chest tightens, his ribs suddenly too small for the way his heart swells. He cannot help but watch as the dim light flickers in your eyes. "I was thinking," he starts, voice low, fingers tracing the stem of his glass and you tilt your head, lips curving. "Hmm?"

"Since you got to choose dinner…"

Your grin widens. "Yes?"

He leans in, just slightly, close enough that he can see the way your breath catches. "...I get to choose dessert."

Your eyebrows lift up.

His stomach drops.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

"Shit—I didn’t—" he groans, dropping his face into his hands. "I meant the ice cream maker," A crimson flush travels up his neck. "We have this stupid fucking ice cream maker, and I wanted to—Christ, I’m terrible at this." But then your fingers find his jaw, tilting his face up. Your touch is grounding, and when he finally meets your gaze, you’re looking at him with something unbearably fond. "I know what you meant," you murmur, thumb brushing over his pulse point. "But for the record?" You lean in, close enough that he can feel your breath against his lips. "I like both options."

For one agonising moment, he waits. Waits for Robin to kick the door in, for the phone to ring, for the universe to rip you away like it always does. But nothing comes. So he closes the distance.

The taste of you—cherry gum and Riesling—is dizzying. Addicting. Perfect. And every doubt evaporates. Certainty slots into place, a puzzle piece he’s been searching for all this time. His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your neck as he kisses you, savouring the way your breath hitches when he tugs just enough to tilt your head back—until you’re arching into him with a gasp that goes straight to his dick.

He’s not hesitant anymore.

He's determined.

His free hand skates up your thigh where the fabric gives way to fever-warm skin. Every inch higher is a revelation written in scripture only he can read: the soft crease of your hip that makes you arch when he brushes it, the violent shudder that wracks your body when his thumb finds the lace edge of your underwear and strokes past it once. "Tell me to stop," he murmurs against the swell of your breast, lips dragging damp heat across flushed skin. His voice is rough enough to scar, the words vibrating through you like a struck chord.

The contradiction of it—his hands saying "mine" while his mouth offers a way out—makes your pulse stutter wildly under his touch. But you don't tell him to stop. You moan his name instead, and something primal in him finally fucking snaps.

His hand fists in the fabric at your hips, hiking your dress up. He drops to his knees like a man starved for communion, the hardwood biting through his jeans as he drags you to the very edge of the chair. The first swipe of his tongue is a revelation—hot and wicked and perfect—and your thighs clamp around his head instinctively, heels digging into the small of his back as you gasp. He groans, the sound filthy and low, vibrating against you as your fingers knot in his hair hard enough to hurt. He likes it—the sharp sting, the way you hold him exactly where you want him, the helpless little noises you make when he sucks just there—

He stands so fast the chair screeches against the floor, nearly toppling. You whimper at the sudden loss, lips parting to protest, but he's already hauling you up by the thighs. With one sweeping arm, he clears the table—glasses shattering, plates clattering. The polished wood is cold against your back when he lays you down, but his mouth is already back on you like he's been granted a single taste of salvation and intends to make it last forever.

His hands are everywhere—roaming, memorising. He licks into you like he's trying to learn you by taste alone, each desperate sound you make another stitch unravelling in his self-control. When your hips jerk up against his mouth, he pins you down with a forearm across your stomach. "Steve—" you choke out, back arching off the table.

He lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, lips glistening, pupils blown black with want. "Yeah, sweetheart?" His hand digs into the soft swell of your ass, kneading hard enough to pull a gasp from your lips, and Christ, the way your muscles jump under his touch is going to haunt him for the rest of his goddamn life. His fingers slip lower, teasing, and when he finally pushes one inside, your eyes flutter open—wide and dark and only for him—before drifting shut again as he crooks it just right. But God��

It’s not enough.

He's fucking ravenous—a man possessed, a sinner on his knees, drunk on the punched-out whimper you make when his teeth graze your clit. Every sound you give him, every shudder, every desperate roll of your hips against his tongue just feeds the hunger, making it gnaw sharper at his ribs until he’s certain he’ll die if he doesn’t ruin you in every way imaginable. So he lifts you up again, and your legs lock around his waist, fingers tangling in his hair, your lips tracing his skin with filthy promises and sweeter vows.

He carries you to his bed like a man on a holy fucking crusade—shoulder clipping the doorframe hard enough to bruise, hip smashing into the hallway table with a crash that sends some forgotten heirloom —a vase? a statue? something his mother will interrogate him about later— tumbling to the floor. His shin connects with that goddamn antique trunk, pain flaring bright and sudden, but it barely registers.

He doesn’t care.

Couldn’t possibly care.

Not when you’re rolling against him like that, not when your teeth are at his pulse like you want to drink him whole, not when every ragged, punched-out breath you take is his name, his doing, his to devour. The world could be burning down, and he wouldn’t notice—not when you’re here, not when you’re his, not when—

Finally, you’re beneath him on the mattress, and Christ, he’s exactly where he wants to be. He’s made it to fucking Bethlehem. He worships you like a dying man at his last confession, like every taste could absolve him of every sin he’s ever committed. His hands bracket your hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh, holding you down as you squirm, as your fingers twist in his hair again hard enough to make his dick throb. The groan it pulls from him vibrates through you, and fuck, the way you writhe at the sensation—

"That’s it," he murmurs, lifting just enough to watch your face contort—eyelids fluttering, lips parted. "Being so fucking good for me." His tongue drags a slow, filthy stripe over your clit. "Please—" It’s barely more than a whimper, your entire body trembling with the effort of holding back. And fuck—

Who is he to deny you?

He doesn’t think he’s capable of the fact. Not when you look like this—wrecked and wanting, your skin slick with sweat, your chest rising and falling. His teeth find the soft skin of your inner thigh, biting just hard enough to make you jerk up into him. "Cum for me," he growls against your skin, the command rough with want, with need, with something dangerously close to consecration. And when you do—when your hips stutter and his name tears from your throat—he thinks, distantly, that he gets it now.

That he understands Sisyphus

Some things—the salt-sweet taste of you on his tongue; the way you clench around his fingers like you're trying to keep him there forever; the broken way you gasp his name like it's the only word you remember— are fucking worth eternal damnation.

He lingers, drinking it in. He could spend perpetuity like this, unravelling you piece by piece, learning the cadence of your gasps, the rhythm of your pulse beneath his tongue, the spasms of your chest as your breath steadies. He really fucking could.

But at the same time—

He still wants more of you.

His hips stutter forward that next inch before he means to, his composure cracking like thin ice under the sheer, overwhelming rightness of it.

Holy.

Fucking—

—Fuck.

It's just the head of his cock inside you, but you clamp around him like a vice, like you're terrified he'll disappear. As if he could ever walk away from this—from you. A groan tears from his throat, his forehead dropping to yours as he struggles to breathe. His hands—usually so sure, so steady—shake where they grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin there.

"Jesus," he grits out, voice wrecked. "You—fuck—you feel—"  But language fails him, because how the hell is he supposed to describe this? The way you take him, like you were made for it. And when you clench around him again, when your legs lock around his waist to pull him deeper— he has to bite his own tongue hard enough to taste copper to keep from unravelling completely. Because if he doesn’t get a fucking grip, this’ll be over before it’s even really begun, and that would be a goddamn tragedy.

He wants to defile you properly—wants to catalogue every broken sound you can make, every way your body trembles beneath his. So he slows down, even though it fucking kills him, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with measured thrusts. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining as he pins them down, using the leverage to angle himself deeper, harder, until you’re moaning like it’s prayer, like it’s absolution, like he’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this earth. "Look at me," he murmurs, voice rough as gravel, and when your eyes meet his—dark and hazy and pleading, pupils blown so wide he can barely make out the colour—he knows he would do anything to keep this—to keep you. 

He would find a way to lasso the fucking moon if you asked.

Would dive off a cliff after you without a second thought.

Would push that fucking boulder up the hill forever.