#i’ve been curating a life i’m in love with | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dior-luxury · 26 days ago

Note

i dont know if your requests are open but if they are can you pretty please make a part 2 of the how they'd propose to you with other characters like Sebek and Ruggie and anyone else you would like? (⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)

How'd They Propose To You

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - gn!reader .

- [𝐜𝐡.] cater . ruggie . floyd . kailm . vil . rook . idia . lilia . sebek

- [𝐩:𝐬] nothing . just the boys being romantic

Note: This series like my 'Kiss And Make-out' series was heavily request so... Part two, here we go!! Also everyone, get your tissues out cause this is going to be an emotional one.. 😭

Cater Diamond

Cater always made everything look effortless. From his impeccably filtered Magicam photos to his playful, lighthearted persona, he was the guy who breezed through life like a summer wind — colorful, vibrant, and hard to pin down. But the moment he realized he wanted to spend his life with you, the thought terrified him. Not because he didn’t want it — but because he did.

You’d been together for a while, enough to see past his curated charm and into the subtle sadness he kept hidden behind his eyes. You saw the moments when his smile faltered just a second too soon, when he stared at old class photos for a beat too long, when he tried too hard to make everyone like him. And despite it all, or maybe because of it, you stayed. You loved him, not the persona.

He wanted to return that love with everything he had.

So he planned it down to the second. Not flashy, not performative, but genuine. A proposal just for you two — no hashtags, no likes, no audience.

You were led on a surprise “casual date” through campus, each place tied to a memory: the greenhouse where you first studied together, the corner of the courtyard where you surprised him with lunch one day, the little music room where you once caught him playing guitar alone. At each spot, he left a small printed Polaroid of the memory, with scribbled notes like “Can you believe you caught me blushing here?” or “Still the best sandwich I’ve ever had, btw.”

Finally, you arrived at the abandoned tower that overlooked the rose gardens. It was dusk — golden hour. A string of soft lights framed the edge of the balcony, and a blanket lay spread out with two drinks, his favorite strawberry soda, and your favorite too.

Cater stood there, not in any extravagant outfit, but in his everyday clothes, a little flushed, a little nervous. His Magicam was nowhere in sight.

“I know I’m not always easy to read,” he began, eyes softer than you’d ever seen them. “I’m a master of filters. And honestly? I’ve spent most of my life trying to be someone that other people like. But with you… I don’t have to be anyone else. You make me feel like being just ‘Cater’ is enough.”

He knelt, pulling out a small velvet box that he almost dropped because his hands were shaking.

“So… if you’ll have me, for all the mess, the moods, and the million selfies — will you marry me? And keep reminding me that being myself is okay?”

His voice cracked, and you could tell it wasn’t a line rehearsed for flair. It was Cater Diamond, bare and honest.

You said yes, of course.

And that night, he took one photo — just one — of the two of you silhouetted against the golden light, laughing through your tears.

No filters. No edits.

Just love.

Ruggie Bucchi

Ruggie Bucchi never thought he’d be the type to propose. Where he came from, marriage was practical, not romantic. You partnered up, you made it work, and you did your best to survive. Love? That was a luxury. He grew up knowing how to scrape by, how to hustle, how to keep smiling when your stomach was empty.

But then he met you — and everything shifted.

You saw past his tricks and street-smart charm, past the sly grin and the mischievous glint in his eyes. You saw someone capable. Someone worth loving, not just useful. And that meant more to him than he ever let on.

He saved for months. Scrimped every madol he could without you noticing. Side jobs, extra errands, even turning down a few schemes with Leona when they felt too risky. He wanted this to be his, something he earned with his own effort. Not flashy — but real.

One day, he invited you to his hometown. He played it off as casual — “Hey, wanna see where the magic began?” — but you could tell he was more nervous than usual. His tail twitched a little more. His jokes came faster. He wouldn’t meet your eyes for too long.

You arrived in the Slums of the Sunset Savanna, where he grew up. It was loud, dusty, and full of kids shouting and running barefoot in the alleys. But Ruggie looked… peaceful. At home. He gave you a tour like it was the royal palace — proudly showing you the bakery where he got day-old bread, the crumbling wall he used to climb for fruit, the school where he taught himself to read better.

That evening, he brought you to a quiet hill just outside the neighborhood. It overlooked the city, bathed in orange from the setting sun.

There was a picnic spread, nothing fancy — some homemade snacks, cold drinks, and a little bread pudding he tried (and failed) to make look neat. The bread was a little burnt. He kept muttering that it wasn't perfect.

And then, out of nowhere, he said:

“Y’know… I used to think I’d just grow up, keep scrappin’ my way through life, maybe end up old and alone with a bunch of stolen pies under my belt.”

He laughed awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.

“But then you came along and messed it all up — in the best way.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a tiny, slightly lopsided ring box. Inside was a simple band with a small, pale gem. Not expensive. Not glittery.

But made with his whole heart.

“I don’t got a palace. I don’t got riches or magic castles or nothin’. But I got you, and I wanna spend every day makin’ you smile. So… what do you say? Wanna keep causing trouble together… forever?”

His ears were flat against his head, and his tail was still as stone.

When you said yes, he lit up like the stars were inside him.

And he never stopped smiling after that.

Floyd Leech

Loving Floyd was like dancing with a storm: unpredictable, wild, sometimes overwhelming — but breathtakingly beautiful. He could be sweet one second, biting the next, and then melting into your arms like seafoam. And through it all, there was something real behind his mercurial moods — a strange, raw devotion that ran deeper than the ocean.

So when Floyd started acting… weirdly consistent, you knew something was up.

No wild mood swings. No threats to squeeze someone into a pretzel. Just this quiet intensity in the way he looked at you, like he was memorizing your every blink.

He’d drag you along for “dates” that were more like mini adventures: exploring underwater caves off the Coral Sea coast, racing each other through twisted kelp forests, picnicking on giant sea turtles (you hoped it was legal). He’d laugh, splash you, nibble your ears when you weren’t looking — but then fall completely silent when you watched the sunset over the waves.

That silence carried something unspoken. Something serious.

Then one day, he brought you to the edge of the Mostro Lounge after hours. No lights. No music. Just the dark water shimmering under moonlight. Jade had subtly cleared the area, probably under Floyd’s “friendly encouragement.”

Floyd stood by the pool, barefoot, wearing loose, sea-salt-dried clothes. He looked wild and untamed, like he’d just swum from the abyss.

“Ne~ shrimpy,” he started, voice low and lilting. “You really stuck around this long, huh?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He stared at the water, watching it ripple like something might rise from it.

“Most people get scared. They say I’m too much—too loud, too weird, too hard to keep up with. Even Jade gets tired of me sometimes, y'know?”

He turned, and for once, his eyes weren’t playful. They were clear — crystalline, serious.

“But you… You let me be me. Even when I’m a pain in the tailfin.”

He stepped forward and pressed a tiny shell into your hand. At first glance, it looked ordinary — until it opened with a soft click, revealing a shimmering, black pearl nestled in its center like a star trapped in the deep.

His hand slipped into yours, fingers squeezing tight.

“So, what d’ya say? Wanna be my forever shrimpy? I can’t promise I won’t get bored sometimes or drag you into weird stuff… but I can promise I’ll never leave. ‘Cause when I say you’re mine, I mean it.”

He grinned then — sharp teeth and all — but there was a rare softness to it.

When you said yes, he scooped you up, twirled you into the air, and shouted your name into the sea breeze like it belonged to him now.

Because, well… it did.

Kalim Al-Asim

His love was the kind of love that sparkled — joyful, loud, radiant. He loved with everything. And when he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you, there was no hesitation. No fear. Just overflowing excitement and the desire to make it perfect.

So naturally… the entire city had to know.

You started noticing little hints. He’d smile at you longer than usual. Ask strange questions like “What’s your favorite kind of flower, just hypothetically?” or “Do you like fireworks or doves better? No reason!”

But the day of the proposal? He kept it hidden perfectly.

You were invited to a “casual dinner” at the Al-Asim family estate — nothing fancy, he swore! When you arrived, the garden was transformed into something out of a dream: floating lanterns bobbed gently in the air, casting a golden glow; fragrant jasmine vines curled around the trellises; rose petals lined the walkways in careful spirals.

And in the center of it all stood Kalim, wearing a white and gold sherwani embroidered with intricate sun motifs — custom-made, obviously.

He took your hand and pulled you close, his smile so big it looked like it hurt.

“Surprise!! Okay okay, I know I said this wasn’t a big deal, but I might’ve lied a little,” he admitted, practically vibrating with excitement. “I wanted this to be special. Because you are.”

He led you through the garden, pointing out little scenes — memories you’d shared together recreated in glowing, magical dioramas. The first time he gave you a ride on his flying carpet. The time you accidentally got stuck in the rain together and danced anyway. Even the first time he tripped and landed face-first in a pile of fruit during a festival. Each one floated in a soft golden shimmer like preserved dreams.

Finally, at the very end of the path, the lights dimmed. Music began — a quiet, melodic tune played by a live ensemble hidden behind silk screens.

Kalim dropped to one knee, pulling out a ring so stunning it looked like it belonged in a treasure vault: warm rose gold shaped like the sun, with a diamond center surrounded by sunstone and opal, glowing faintly with enchantment.

His voice trembled slightly, but his eyes never left yours.

“I know I’m… a lot. Loud, excitable, maybe too much sometimes. But my heart? It’s yours. Every day. Every moment. I want to fill your life with so much joy you forget what sadness feels like. Will you… will you marry me?”

You could barely answer before fireworks burst overhead in a dazzling cascade of color — forming your name, a heart, and then the words “Will You Marry Me?” again for good measure.

He laughed, teary-eyed, pulling you into a spinning hug the moment you said yes, nearly tripping over a pile of lanterns.

And he swore — over spiced sweets and glowing stars — that loving you would always be the most joyful celebration of his life.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil Schoenheit had always been perfection incarnate.

He chose his words carefully, curated his life down to the last detail, and ruled over every room he entered with grace and quiet authority. But love? Love was unpredictable. Messy. Vulnerable.

And yet… with you, he chose it anyway.

For months, he kept the idea of proposing buried beneath a polished exterior. Not because he doubted your love — no, never that — but because he feared imperfection. What if the moment wasn’t enough? What if his words failed him? What if he wasn’t enough?

But one morning, as you were wrapped in a robe, sipping tea while lazily flipping through one of his scripts, looking utterly unbothered by the world — his world — he knew. No stage could rival this.

Still… he had to make it perfect.

The proposal wasn’t sudden. It unfolded like a symphony — days of subtle preparation, each moment building toward the crescendo. First, a handwritten invitation slipped under your door, sealed with gold wax in his personal crest. It read:

“You are cordially invited to an evening of celebration — for a love that deserves the finest stage. Wear what makes you feel radiant. The rest… is mine to handle.”

You arrived at a private rooftop garden in the heart of Maquillaville— Vil’s favorite filming location. Every inch of it had been transformed: strings of enchanted lights that pulsed like heartbeats, violet roses laced with flecks of gold, a crystal runway leading to a single, candlelit platform under the stars.

Vil stood at the end of it, not in a costume, not in a role — just himself. Beautiful, yes, but bare. No stage makeup. No lenses. Just Vil, with his natural elegance and a look in his eyes like he was seeing you and only you.

As you approached, music swelled from invisible instruments — soft piano and violins, as if the stars themselves were holding their breath.

Vil took your hands, his thumb stroking your wrist gently.

“I have played many roles,” he said quietly. “A prince. A villain. A monarch. But none… none compare to the part I’ve played in your life — myself. No masks. No script. You have loved me.”

He lowered himself to one knee, not out of tradition, but reverence. The ring was an opalescent band shaped like a flower in full bloom — not ostentatious, but hauntingly beautiful. Regal. Just like him.

“And I want to spend the rest of my days proving that I am more than a face on a screen. That I am yours — wholly, imperfectly, and honestly. Will you marry me, my dearest?”

Your yes was the kind of answer that echoed through your soul. And when you kissed — fireworks didn’t go off.

But you could’ve sworn the stars shifted.

Rook Hunt

To love Rook Hunt was to walk the edge of obsession — not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made you feel seen. Utterly seen. No piece of you, no habit or flaw, escaped his gaze. And he loved every detail with fervor and poetry.

So, when Rook decided to propose, it wasn’t a question of if or even how. It was a question of when the moment would feel like destiny.

And he waited for it with the patience of a hunter watching from the trees — breathless, quiet, focused.

It came during an autumn evening. The forest outside campus was bathed in gold and amber light, the air crisp and still. He asked you to take a walk, his tone casual, but there was a certain gleam in his eyes. The kind that made your heart stir.

He led you into the woods, deeper than usual, through a path dappled with falling leaves and faint trails of candlelight — candles placed just out of reach, like fireflies guiding you toward something sacred.

Eventually, you came upon a small, open glade. In its center stood a circle of white lilies and dried pampas grass, arranged with almost ceremonial care. Strings of paper birds fluttered from the trees — cranes, owls, hawks — each meticulously folded and each with a word written inside: Admiration. Fascination. Devotion. Enchantment.

You turned to Rook, who now stood behind you with that soft, unreadable smile.

“Mon trésor,” he breathed, voice velvet-smooth. “You are my greatest muse. The most magnificent mystery I’ve ever encountered. I have followed your footsteps, your laughter, your sorrow — and I find myself always… captivated.”

He circled around you like a dancer, his hand brushing your cheek, then resting over your heart.

“To hunt is not merely to chase — it is to understand. To behold. And I understand now that no beauty compares to yours. No thrill equals the way my heart stirs when you smile.”

Then, with the flourish of a magician revealing his final act, he drew from his coat a black-velvet box — aged and worn, like an heirloom passed through generations. He knelt, the golden leaves falling around him like confetti from the sky.

Inside, the ring was unlike anything you’d seen: a twisting band of silver and moss-green enamel, crowned with a delicate white diamond shaped like a feather — symbolizing the pursuit, the admiration, and finally, the surrender.

“Would you, my radiant one, do me the indescribable honor… of being mine, forever? Not as prey. Not as an object. But as the one I choose to walk beside, for all my days?”

When you said yes, Rook exhaled — deeply, reverently — and kissed your hand as if pledging allegiance to a monarch.

Idia Shroud

Proposal? Marriage? Social interaction? That was high-tier anxiety content for him. Even the thought of confessing to you, back when it all started, had nearly sent him into a shutdown spiral.

But now, here you were — his person. The one who understood his silences, who gamed beside him through 72-hour dungeon crawls, who sat beside him in eerie, comforting stillness while the blue glow of his hair flickered in thought. Loving you felt like logging into a private server only the two of you could access — quiet, secure, and safe.

And Idia, for all his dramatics and gloom-posting, loved you with an intensity that didn’t need fanfare. Just… data. And intention.

So, when he decided to propose, he made it a quest.

Literally.

You received a handmade invitation on your phone one morning: "Player 2, your presence is requested for a legendary raid. Final boss: Emotional Vulnerability. Rewards: Eternal Love + Rare Ring Drop. Do you accept?"

He built the whole thing himself: a pixel-art RPG styled just like your favorite fantasy games. The title? “Shroud.exe: A Love Story.”

As you played through it, you encountered your story together — from your first awkward hangouts in the Ignihyde dorm, to the moment you held his hand during a panic attack, to every late-night cuddle session where his hair dimmed peacefully beside you. Every NPC was a digital recreation of your favorite characters (Ortho, obviously, had an adorable role as the overly enthusiastic love-coach sidekick).

Each level was built with custom dialogue, full of Idia’s signature wit and fourth-wall breaking commentary:

“This is the part where MC doesn’t leave me despite my trash social skills. Truly S-tier behavior.”

“Warning: Final boss approaching. His defense stats are ridiculous but he’s got a glass heart. Weak to unconditional love.”

Finally, at the end of the game, the final cutscene began. And instead of sprites on screen, the video feed switched to live camera.

There he was.

Idia. Sitting in his room. Nervously fiddling with something in his hands — a small velvet box. His flame-hair flickered erratically, and he was in a carefully chosen outfit you’d never seen him wear before. Formal, but still unmistakably him.

He looked directly at the camera — right at you.

“I, uh… I figured I should do this in a way that makes sense for me. For us. Not in some overhyped, real-world, normie way with candles and violins and… people.” He cringed just saying that last part.

“But I wanted it to be real. So… here I am.”

He opened the box with trembling fingers. Inside was a ring shaped like a circuit loop, inlaid with glowing lapis and delicate code etchings — the ones you both designed together for fun once. The pattern pulsed faintly with light.

“I’m not good at words IRL, but I can say this: You’re my favorite co-op partner. You made all my side quests feel like main storyline material. So, will you… like, marry me? And maybe keep patching me for the rest of our lives?”

You didn’t even need the dialogue box to appear.

You just whispered "Yes" to the screen — and moments later, Ortho popped into the game world cheering with pixel fireworks in the background.

You looked up — and there Idia was, standing awkwardly in your doorway, holding the ring in real-time. Blushing furiously. Looking like he’d risked everything.

And when you kissed him — he glitched. Heart racing. Code crashing.

And he didn’t want to reboot. Ever.

Lilia Vanrouge

He had watched centuries pass like seasons. He’d lived through empires and starlight, laughter and war. He’d known many things — joy, grief, loyalty, loss — but love? True, soul-deep love? That was rare. Precious.

You, however, had changed that.

He never planned to fall for you. It simply happened. Like a song that begins as a hum and ends in a chorus that takes your breath away. With every shared moment — your laugh, your clever comebacks, your kindness — you pulled him out of memory and rooted him firmly in the now.

And so, one day, when the time felt quiet and right — he began to prepare.

The proposal wasn’t flashy. It was intimate. Lilia’s style had always been part mischief, part myth, part poetry. And so, he invited you to a place he hadn’t shown anyone in centuries.

A clearing deep within Briar Valley’s forest — hidden beneath vines and weeping trees, where the moonlight filtered through like silver lace. Fireflies lit the air in lazy constellations. In the center stood an old, stone ruin covered in moss — a place once sacred to the fae.

Lilia held your hand and stepped into the clearing with you, a small smile on his lips.

“Do you know what this place was?” he asked, voice soft like dusk. “It was a fae courting ground. We used to come here when we were ready to say, ‘This is it. This is the one I’ll write songs about.’”

You blinked at him — heart stuttering.

He stepped back from you, then lifted his hand. Magic shimmered like crushed moonlight around his fingers. With one slow motion, the ruins bloomed to life — glowing vines wrapping around pillars, flowers that hadn't blossomed in centuries opening in a swirl of glowing petals. The whole grove sighed, as if exhaling from a deep sleep.

“I’ve done many things,” Lilia said, stepping closer again, eyes shining. “I’ve lived through battles and lullabies. But I’ve never done this. Never wanted to. Not until you.”

He reached into the folds of his cloak and pulled out a delicate silver ring carved in the shape of intertwined bat wings and thorns, centered with a faintly glowing green stone that looked like a captured firefly.

Kneeling — he looked up at you, unguarded and eternal.

“You have made my immortality feel like a blessing again. Would you walk with me through what years I have left, and let me love you through each one? Will you marry me?”

The forest held its breath with you.

When you said yes, his smile was the softest thing you’d ever seen. He pulled you close — kissed you slowly — and whispered, “Then we’ll write a love story even time won’t forget.”

Sebek Zigvolt

For a long time, Sebek Zigvolt didn’t understand love. Not in the way he understood duty, or training, or the fierce loyalty he bore for Lord Malleus. Love was… unpredictable. Emotional. Disruptive.

But when he began to feel it — first in small ways, like watching you speak with others and getting irrationally flustered, or the way your touch lingered in his mind for days — he was angry at it. Frustrated.

And yet, you stayed. Through his yelling, his dramatics, his constant declarations of greatness on behalf of Malleus. You never teased him. You understood him.

One evening, after an exhausting mission outside Briar Valley, you found him standing guard alone under a stormy sky — soaked, grim, but stubborn as ever. You put your cloak around his shoulders and stood beside him in the rain.

He never forgot that moment.

It was when he realized: You are who I want to stand beside forever.

Sebek’s proposal took months of planning. Everything had to be worthy — of you, of his feelings, and of the future he wanted to protect. He asked Lilia for advice (and immediately regretted it after hearing “fake dragon attack for dramatic flair” — no thank you), trained twice as hard every morning, and spent evenings carving something in secret.

When the day came, he invited you to the castle gardens of Diasomnia at sunrise. The sky was still dark and quiet, a soft mist curling between hedges and dragon statues.

Sebek stood waiting at the center, in formal attire — the ceremonial armor of the Draconia Guard, silver and forest green, etched with runes that glowed faintly with magic. He turned when you arrived, eyes wide and serious, breath fogging in the cold air.

“I… I wanted to say this in the place where my heart was forged — under these towers, in these shadows, where I learned what it meant to serve.”

He stepped forward, taking your hands in his own — warm despite the chill.

“But then I met you. And I learned something greater than duty. I learned love. Fierce. Relentless. Protective. The kind I would fight for. Die for. Live for.”

From his belt, he drew a small box. Inside it was a ring made from polished emerald steel — hand-forged, slightly rough around the edges, but unmistakably beautiful. It bore his family crest inside and tiny runes around the band for strength, loyalty, and passion.

“I will not promise perfection. I am loud. I am difficult. But I swear to be yours with every heartbeat I have. To protect, to cherish, and to learn. Always.”

He dropped to one knee — knight-like, formal, trembling — and looked up at you as though you were the most sacred being in the world.

“Would you do me the extraordinary honor… of becoming my partner? My future? My heart?”

Your “yes” rang through the mist like sunlight.

When he stood, his composure nearly broke — eyes damp, mouth trembling — and when he kissed you, it was with the passion of someone who had finally learned what it meant to love freely.

And though he never said it aloud again in front of others — in private, every night after, he whispered: “Thank you for choosing me.”

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p0orbaby · 5 months ago

Text

A Tide of Tender Mercies

summary: oh, no, i think i’m in love with you

warning: SMUT 18+, oral, fingering (alexia receiving), some angst, reader being stubborn af

a/n: thank you to @muffinpink02 for helping navigate the sexy part ! also i’ve deffo repeated some bits but i cannot for the life of me be bothered to sort it out

word count: 7k

part 1

The chalet is…well, perfect. It’s the kind of perfect that only comes from meticulous planning, obsessive list-making, and a kind of restrained indulgence that most people would never understand. Set high above a tiny Swiss village known for its fondue and twenty-something millionaires, it sits against a backdrop of mountains sharp enough to slice the clouds. The exterior is severe, almost aggressively minimalistic: crisp white stucco, blackened wood shutters, and glass doors that could double as showroom installations. The effect is daunting, beautiful, and—if you’re being honest—a bit over-the-top. You chose it, naturally, because it’s the type of place where “just a fling” can occur without a single hint of domesticity.

Inside, everything is pristine, hand-selected, curated to within an inch of its life. You were adamant that the linens be Egyptian cotton, but not the gaudy kind; they’re 800-thread count, light enough to seem insubstantial but woven to feel solid, unyielding. They’re arranged in clinical folds on the bed, starched and pressed in a way that suggests they’re almost afraid to be touched. You’ll mess them up later, but for now, they’re an artwork of restraint.

And then there are the wines, selected with the sort of care that would make a sommelier weep. It’s silly, of course—Alexia doesn’t normally drink during the season, so she will hardly glance at the labels, but you’ve assembled an array that hints at depth nonetheless. An entire wall of Swiss Chasselas, a few rare vintages from Bordeaux, and an stupidly expensive pinot noir that tastes like dirt but cost enough to suggest you know what you’re doing. The idea is that if she gives in to something sophisticated, she’ll find it here. If she doesn’t, you’ll find her something else. Something that says you’ve thought of everything. Which, of course, you have.

The whole thing has a sort of perverse charm, really, how every detail has been obsessively pre-arranged to ensure that she knows you’re not in this for anything serious. And yet, here you are, flying her across Europe to the kind of setting people book for anniversaries and life-altering proposals.

There’s a sort of humour in it, if you’re willing to look. You even laugh to yourself, laying out the spa towels in the bathroom—too thick, too plush, a little too “I love you”—knowing full well she won’t notice them. She’ll think of them as “towels,” and if she does notice, it’ll be because she needs a new one. But that’s fine. It’s all part of the performance, all part of the thing you’ve constructed around this chalet, around her arrival, around the notion that this is—what? Casual? Fun? Whatever word fits it neatly enough to deny what you’re feeling.

And then there are the candles. Oh, God, the candles. You tried to keep them simple, restrained, the kind of scents that evoke a distant memory rather than a specific moment. Sandalwood, bergamot, a flicker of pine; nothing too floral, nothing that says “romance,” but hints of something just familiar enough to feel safe. You even toyed with the idea of an unscented option, just in case the pine felt too… suggestive. It’s ridiculous, but you’ve learned to lean into it, to control it, to package it neatly. If it’s planned, then it’s deliberate, and if it’s deliberate, then it’s just for fun.

“Why all this?” you imagine her saying, eyebrows raised, maybe laughing as she notices the excessive stock of Swiss chocolates in the cabinet. You have them lined up in neat rows, the artisan kind—no corner-shop Toblerone here—and each one is individually wrapped in foil that gleams in the dim kitchen light. You picture her rolling her eyes at the small mountain of truffle boxes, asking if you’ve stocked up for a wedding. And you, of course, would shrug it off, offering some deadpan line about Swiss tourism. Or a joke about Swiss efficiency. Or something suitably bland that keeps the tone right where you want it—on the edge of humour, a step away from real. You’ve prepared for every reaction, really. Which is pointless, because she hasn’t even arrived yet.

It’s the first time she’s been here. The place is new, purchased after a very well-timed therapy session that conveniently rebranded “self-indulgence” as “self-care.” The therapist’s exact words were “If you want to be your best self, find the spaces that let you breathe.” And you took that literally, flying up here for private viewings until this place caught your eye. Well, maybe not your eye. But it was one of those rare places that looked exactly like the pictures, maybe better, and it had the kind of aesthetic that screams “I need nothing from you” while begging for a sense of purpose. You bought it almost instantly.

And now, after weeks of fine-tuning, she’ll be here soon. You catch yourself arranging the books on the side table, pausing over which titles to leave out—a mix of philosophy and modern fiction that says “I read but don’t take it too seriously.” You laugh to yourself at the pretension of it, yet you leave the carefully selected titles exactly as they are.

It’s silly, really, because the goal here is detachment, the freedom to keep things light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that as you straighten the pillows on the sofa for the second time, catching your own eye in the polished mirror that hangs in the foyer.

“You’re being weird,” you say out loud, imagining her walking in, that quick smile flashing, eyebrows raised in a way that says, “Is this all for me?” You picture her laughing, maybe rolling those pretty green eyes of hers. But you have an answer for that too, prepared in advance, a casual shrug.

“Just a little atmosphere,” you’ll say, as if it’s nothing.

You check your watch. Thirty-two minutes until Alexia arrives. Thirty-two minutes to double-check that every single minutely considered, utterly detached detail says, I couldn’t care less—or, more precisely, I care in exactly the right amount of less. Because she needs to know that this is nothing. That this trip to an over-the-top chalet overlooking a town mostly inhabited by 19-year-olds in cashmere is simply an exercise in relaxation, togetherness, a concept you’re fairly sure you’re allergic to.

She doesn’t know it yet, but you bought the place partly to show her. Partly to remind her, subtly, that she could disappear tomorrow and you’d still have this. Because that’s the problem with Alexia, isn’t it? She’s not really yours. She’s something you can enjoy, display even, but never own. The complete opposite of the real estate you’ve added to your collection. You stand there, glass in hand, the Lagavulin you’ve graciously poured yourself warming your fingers through the crystal, staring out at the Alps with the vague thought that an obscene number of people have had their ashes scattered here, somewhere along this ridgeline. It’s an unsettling idea you rather enjoy.

She texts, something about a delay on the tarmac, and you stare at the message for a beat too long, analysing the exact wording like you’re looking for hidden subtext. As if there could be subtext in the word “delayed.”

A casual fling, you remind yourself, should never be complicated by subtext.

To pass the time, you scan the kitchen once again. The coffee is fresh-ground, of course, from a bag that cost as much as an entire year’s supply from anywhere normal. It’s pre-portioned in tiny glass canisters your assistant found online that look like vintage apothecary jars. The labels are printed in Helvetica Neue because you once read that it’s a ‘subtly superior’ font. Ridiculous. But also, it’s perfect. There’s also a miniature mountain of imported Spanish oranges on the counter, carefully arranged in a hammered copper bowl you don’t remember buying. You could make mimosas, you think, if you didn’t know she’ll insist on starting with a protein shake instead.

You put a bottle of Alpine mineral water in the fridge just for her, chilled to the exact 4.4°C she prefers. Yes, it’s an oddly specific temperature preference. No, she didn’t tell you directly. You overheard her mention it once, offhand, to someone else. Which is exactly why you’re bound to a polite indifference if she asks why it’s there. It’s simply what the fridge was set to. Nothing personal.

Just the thought of her walking in has you adjusting your posture as if she’s already watching. Alexia doesn’t miss a single detail. Once, she commented on the way you have a tendency to pull your sleeves over your hands. You haven’t done it since. Now, you check that every piece of clothing you’ve chosen is deliberately, carelessly oversized—but only to the point that still reads as flattering.

Then, at last, you hear the crunch of tyres on gravel. You scurry to watch from the window as she steps out of the car you sent, and she’s immediately caught in that glacial alpine light, her features so stark and defined that it’s almost cinematic. There’s a sharp thrill—one you won’t admit to yourself—in seeing her here, framed against this scene like she’s the final piece in some high-budget film. The coat she’s wearing is slightly too large, lending her a relaxed, indifferent air, as if she’d picked up the first thing she saw on her way out the door. Effortless, in that way that would feel studied on anyone else.

You stand back from the window just before she glances up, retreating into the comfort of shadows. Timing is everything. You’ve thought this through, down to each calculated second. It’s critical, after all, that she finds you not watching, but instead lingering at a perfect remove, preferably with a slight air of distraction. You’re aiming for a kind of aloofness, as if her arrival is the least interesting event of the day.

She’s about to ring the bell when you move, deliberately slow, to the door, letting it swing open just as she raises her hand. There’s a brief, barely perceptible pause as her eyes meet yours, a spark of something unspoken passing between you both before she raises an eyebrow, a look that hovers between amusement and challenge.

“Missed me?” she asks, dryly, though there’s a glint in her eye that suggests she’s perfectly aware of what she’s doing. She’s close now, close enough that you can catch the faintest whiff of her perfume, something dark and woody and just the right side of familiar.

You tilt your head, giving her a slow once-over, and shrug. “Not especially,” you say, voice low, careful to keep the tone perfectly flat. But you let your gaze linger just a second too long on her collarbone, barely visible where her coat has slipped slightly, enough to make her catch it, her mouth curling up at the edge. It’s a deliberate game, one you’ve both played a hundred times, each move rehearsed, practised to the point of art.

She’s barely through the door when you feel it—that unmistakable tension, thickening the air between you. It’s almost tangible, a static hum just beneath the surface of polite conversation, something that pulls at you like gravity. The moment feels precarious, balanced on the edge of something you’re not quite willing to name, because if you wait too long, the feeling will settle into something more familiar. Something too close to comfort, which is the last thing you want.

She doesn’t seem to notice it, of course, her mind likely on dinner plans or the slow crawl of the evening. You, however, are already teetering at the edge of patience, every nerve just slightly too aware of her. She walks in, drops her bag by the door with a casual grace that feels almost too natural, like she’s done this a hundred times, like she could do this forever if you asked her to. And you wonder if you’d even want that—something so predictably domestic, the quiet comfort of a routine. No. You want her in ways that defy that kind of simplicity, in a way that doesn’t ask permission.

You watch her from the corner of your eye as she takes in the room. Her eyes linger on the minimal, curated details you agonised over: the leather-bound books you never plan to read, the art on the walls meant to suggest a taste for something more sophisticated than it is. She’s oblivious, seemingly caught up in the novelty of the place, and that’s exactly what you intended. She can’t know how meticulously you set the scene, how every pillow and chair is positioned with an almost obsessive precision. All she has to do is be here. You’ll take care of the rest.

There’s a slow, unhurried quality to her movements, an ease that’s infuriating because it’s so at odds with the pulse of urgency rising in you. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her hand along the mantel with a soft, idle curiosity. Her fingers trace over the edge of a photograph you don’t remember putting there, something abstract and distant, chosen for the way it says absolutely nothing about you. It’s maddening, really, the way she lingers in the space, claiming it without meaning to, as if her very presence could overwrite the hours you spent constructing it.

“You’ve really outdone yourself,” she says, her voice light, unaware of the way it cuts through the silence with a sharpness that’s almost physical. There’s a half-smile on her face, something unreadable that you can’t quite shake off.

You shrug, adopting an air of disinterest you’ve perfected over the years. “Thought you’d appreciate the change of scenery”

She raises an eyebrow, still oblivious, her focus now on the bust of Venus of Arles by the window. For a second, you want to laugh at the madness of it, how she’s here, right in front of you, while you’re clawing at the edges of your own restraint.

But she’s still gazing around, her fingers brushing the edge of a table as if she has all the time in the world. As if she doesn’t know what you’re holding back. You take a slow breath, exhale, feel the tension coil tighter inside, and think that if you let this linger for even another second, you’ll start to resent the calmness of it, the quiet rhythm that feels too much like waiting. Like settling into something you’re not prepared to face.

“Wine?” You ask in a futile attempt to keep things just this side of civilised. The offer hangs in the air, a thin layer of normalcy that feels like it could snap at any moment, but she only nods, glancing over with a slight smile, one corner of her mouth lifting in that way that’s halfway between polite interest and something more.

“Sure,” she says, her voice smooth, without a hint of awareness. “You pick”

You turn to the wine rack with an exaggerated casualness, scanning bottles you chose with this exact moment in mind. You could explain the notes of every vintage, how each one was picked not because it pairs with any particular food—because let’s face it, dinner’s not exactly on your mind—but because it suggests a kind of sophistication, a subtlety. You choose a bottle of red, something full-bodied and just slightly bitter, almost as if in silent commentary on the situation. You pour, slowly, setting the glass down in front of her with a kind of precision that’s both reverent and clinical. She reaches for it, her fingers grazing the stem, the gesture infuriatingly graceful.

The first sip seems to surprise her. “Good choice,” she murmurs, eyes meeting yours over the rim of the glass.

The silence stretches on just a moment too long, the air thick with something that isn’t quite tension, more like a coiled spring just waiting for one of you to press down. You feel it building as she shifts, glancing around the room, and suddenly, you realise she’s working up to something. There’s a certain deliberateness in the way she moves, a careful consideration in her stare, and you know—know—she didn’t come all this way just to admire the decor.

“Look,” she starts, her voice softer than usual, carrying a weight that tells you she’s not talking about the view. “I’ve been thinking—”

But you can’t—won’t—let her finish. Not when you know exactly what she’s about to say. You cut her off, leaning forward, your tone light, easy, deliberately dismissive. “Please don’t tell me you came all the way here just to talk, Alexia”

She freezes, mid-sentence, and there’s a flash of something in her eyes, a blend of surprise and—annoyance, maybe? But she masks it quickly, her lips pressing into a tight line. “I thought you’d appreciate me being… honest,” she says slowly, as though testing the waters, watching you carefully.

“Honest? That’s what we’re calling it?” You let a smirk tug at the corner of your mouth, a practiced expression, something designed to be just detached enough to hold everything at arm’s length. “Come on, we’re better than that, aren’t we?”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your deflection, but there’s still a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Better than what? Talking?”

Talking. The word hangs in the air, innocent, innocuous, yet loaded in a way that feels heavier than it has any right to. You shift, taking another sip of wine, letting the liquid burn down, hoping it’ll smother the way her eyes feel like they're peeling away all your practiced layers. It’s one thing to enjoy someone’s company, but the feeling creeping in now is something else, something you’re not used to. It feels inconvenient. Like an itch you can’t reach.

You try to fire back, something witty, something cool, but the words catch in your throat, your mind scraping empty. It’s frustrating, the way she’s caught you off guard, how she’s unraveled your carefully crafted reserve without even trying. You reach for your glass again, swirling the wine, stalling for time, anything to avoid that knowing look in her eyes.

But then it dawns on you, like a spark catching flame—there’s still one thing left to do to regain control. Something you can do that would put you back in charge, bring this uncomfortable vulnerability back into something physical, where you excel. You set your glass down, slowly, purposefully, letting the silence stretch taut between you both.

She watches you with that smirk, that trace of challenge, as if daring you to break this moment of stillness.

“Come here,” you say, low and steady, injecting just enough command to leave no room for debate.

“No”

She says it so simply, so carelessly, that for a moment you’re almost convinced you misheard her. It’s infuriating, really, that one little word has the power to throw you so entirely. Your pulse stumbles, and you feel the ground slipping from under you, just enough to catch you off guard.

“Alexia.” You give her a look that’s intended to be definitive, final, but it lands with all the power of a weak threat. Her smirk widens into a full, infuriating smile, the one that says she’s entirely aware of the effect she’s having on you.

“Just hear me out,” she says, with a kind of softness that’s more unnerving than you’d like. “You’re doing that thing. The thing where you turn everything into—” She pauses, gesturing vaguely with her hand, searching for the right word, “—into some kind of performance”

It’s an odd, unnerving feeling, this loss of footing. Normally, you’d have a witty reply ready, something cutting or clever, but instead, you feel like she’s stripped you bare, left you standing there with nothing but honesty, and you hate it.

“So now you’re the expert?” you reply, finally finding your voice, though it sounds sharper than you meant. “Since when do you—”

“Since I started actually falling for you,” she says, cutting you off, her voice low but clear. It’s not even particularly dramatic, the way she says it, and somehow that’s worse. Like she’s not trying to turn it into anything, not expecting any kind of reaction—just stating it as a fact.

You feel a flush rise to your face, and you mask it with another sip of wine, a hasty attempt to cover up the sudden jolt in your chest. She waits, just watches you with that maddening calm, as if giving you all the time in the world to come up with some kind of response.

The air between you feels thick, heavy with something unsaid and unfamiliar. You feel the urge to laugh, to make light of it, anything to disperse this feeling building between you, something dangerously close to vulnerability.

“You don’t have to make this into… whatever this is,” you say, gesturing between you. “Let’s not get sentimental”

“I’m not,” she says, crossing her arms, looking impossibly patient. “I told you I’m just trying to be honest. I thought that was allowed”

“Honest,” you repeat, as though the word itself is foreign. And maybe it is. Honesty has never been the thing you reach for. Honesty is for people who can afford to look foolish, who don’t mind slipping, stumbling a little. Honesty is… unnecessary. And maybe that’s exactly why it’s got you so rattled now.

You set your glass down, more forcefully than intended, and close the distance between you with a deliberate slowness, a silence that says everything you aren’t willing to say out loud. She watches you, unmoving, waiting, that infuriating patience of hers still intact.

“Fine,” you murmur, leaning in close, your voice barely above a whisper. “If youre falling for me, fucking show me”

Her lips quirk in the barest hint of a smile, a flicker of amusement mixed with something warmer, something that makes you feel like you’re the one being dissected here. It’s maddening, really, how effortlessly she manages to get under your skin, slip past all those careful layers. And yet you’re already reaching for her, pulling her closer, desperate to change the pace, to turn this moment into something you can control.

There’s a split second where neither of you move, holding the charged silence like it might be the only thread of control left. And then it snaps. You reach for her, not gently, fingers curling around her wrist with enough force that she has no choice but to be pulled in. Her smirk flickers, only slightly, and there’s something about the momentary surprise in her eyes that makes your grip tighten further, anchoring yourself as much as her. It’s a flash of vulnerability that vanishes as quickly as it appears, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of bravado, one you’re keen to shatter.

You pull her toward you, and the air shifts, that faint hint of uncertainty cracking into something far messier. Your hand finds its way to the back of her neck, fingers threading into her hair with a kind of reckless precision, not even aware of how tightly you’re holding on. You don’t waste time; you’re not even sure there’s time to waste. And as soon as you lean in, catching her mouth with a kiss that’s anything but tentative, you feel her resistance melt, her lips parting under yours with a roughness that’s almost defiant.

She meets you with equal force, as if each clash of mouths, each bruising press of skin, is a way to gain back her own control, and you revel in it, the give-and-take that feels as calculated as it is chaotic. Your hand slips to her jaw, holding her there, your thumb brushing over the corner of her mouth with a kind of ferocity that toes the line between possessive and desperate. You know it’s not going to be gentle; there’s a part of you that doesn’t want it to be.

You’re moving backwards, feeling the edge of the marble island press into your spine, but it doesn’t matter. She’s everywhere, her hands gripping the fabric of your shirt, blunt nails scraping against your skin as if she’s staking a claim, as if she’s finally caught on to the pace you’ve been trying to set and decided to match it.

“Is this what you wanted?” Her words slip out like a slow, deliberate knife cutting through the air between you. The tone, sharp, unfamiliar, though has been the soundtrack to your late-night thoughts. It’s almost as if she knows, like she’s caught you in the act of something that’s always been just below the surface. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, eyes darting between your face and the space between you two, as if trying to read the faintest tremor in your expression. It’s always a game with her, always a step too far.

Yes.

“No,” you manage, your voice betraying you—cracked, thin, like a lie too rehearsed. The words come out wrong, but they come out anyway, forced through a tightening chest.

The moment stretches, each second fracturing, bending and folding into itself. It’s like trying to hold a conversation with a shadow—everything slips just out of reach, and the harder you try to grasp it, the more it seems to twist away, leaving nothing but the sensation of your own breath hitching in your throat. You fucking hate this. You hate the way her fingers curl in the fabric of your shirt, as if trying to remind you of your place, of the expectations that have always followed you both like a silent, mocking echo.

No, you don’t hate her.

Fuck. You love her.

The thought is an ugly, dissonant thing, a weight that doesn’t settle easily, like a slow-moving tide pulling you under. The water’s cold. You can’t feel the bottom. You don’t know which way is up, and the only thing you do know is that, somewhere along the line, you’ve let yourself drown.

Your pulse is almost deafening in your ears, hammering in time with your desperate need for air. There’s something about the way she stands before you—still and deliberate, eyes trained on yours—that makes the room feel smaller, closer. You think you can hear her thoughts. Feel them. It’s maddening, how much she seems to know you, how she’s always known the way you bend. How much she’s learned to manipulate that bend, until you almost forget what it’s like to be anything but this: a response.

You swallow. The taste of her is lingering on your lips, sweet and bitter all at once, like a bad memory. How many times has this happened? You don’t know anymore. The last time feels as far away as the first time—when she leaned in, the weight of her body an invisible promise. But tonight, there’s something different. It’s in the way she watches you, cold, calculating, her fingers still gripping the edges of your shirt, the only real connection between you two in the moment.

She inhales slowly, the rhythm deliberate, like she’s listening to a song you can’t hear. The silence is suffocating.

“You’re lying,” she says, low and accusing, with just enough venom to make you flinch. There’s a tiny smile that tugs at the corner of her mouth, something fleeting, something knowing. You want to reach out, to take her in your hands and pull her close, but the distance between you both feels like a universe. The space feels like a reflection of everything that’s wrong with you: the empty conversations, the meaningless gestures, the ache that’s always there, just beneath the skin. It’s maddening, this tension.

And yet…

You want her. Fuck, you need her. You don’t know if it’s because you love her or because she knows how to make you feel more alive than anything else. She’s become your addiction, your fire, the only thing you can’t quit.

Another shift in the air. Another breath from her, shallow and calculated. It’s not a question anymore, not a challenge—it’s an affirmation. She knows, and you know, too.

You close your eyes for a moment, just long enough to lose yourself in the fleeting memory of something that almost felt like peace. The sound of her voice, the taste of her, the way she touched you. It’s all a blur, a disjointed collection of moments tied together by one inescapable truth: you’ll never be able to walk away.

Not this time.

When your eyes open again, she’s still standing there, eyes not leaving yours, studying you. Everything feels slowed down, almost too slow. Like time is bending around her, twisting the seconds into something thick, sticky. Her gaze doesn’t soften, but it holds you in place, an anchor, a force. The room is silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the background, the dull tap of your own pulse in your ears.

You don’t speak. Not yet. You don’t need to.

Her fingers slide along your chest, trailing down in that same slow, infuriating pace, until they settle on the edge of your shirt again, the same place they started. She doesn’t look away, her lips curving upward in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

It’s like she’s trying to decide whether you want to hurt her or fuck her. And the problem is, you’re not sure you can tell the difference anymore.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms like that might keep you steady, like that might stop you from doing the one thing you swore you wouldn’t.

Loving something. Someone. Loving Alexia.

“What are you so afraid of?” she murmurs, her voice low, almost gentle, and it’s the softness of it that makes you unravel completely.

You don’t think—you can’t. One second you’re standing there trying to convince yourself you still have your palms wrapped around this situation, and the next they’re on her, pulling her in with a force that’s almost cruel. Your mouth finds hers, hard and unrelenting, and she gasps into the kiss, her fingers clutching at your shirt, wrinkling the silk, as if you might disappear if she doesn’t hold on.

She tastes like spearmint gum and coffee. You imagine her shivering as she steps off the plane, teeth chattering in the wind, and too polite to mention it. But your driver notices, you pay him to notice, so before her luggage is out of the cargo, a café con leche is being pressed into her gloved hands.

It’s not a kiss. Not really. It’s a collision, hard and unrelenting, her mouth crashing into yours with a force that feels like defiance, like she’s daring you to stop pretending. To stop holding yourself together so tightly you’re liable to snap.

Your hands are already on her, pulling her close, so close it feels claustrophobic, but you can’t stop. You can’t make yourself pull away because then you’d have to look at her, really look at her, and confront the unbearable softness in her eyes. You’d have to hear her voice again, saying the one thing you’ve been trying to ignore since she first murmured it like a needle under your skin:

“What are you so afraid of?”

What you’re afraid of is this. Her. The way she’s stripped you bare with no effort at all, no grand gestures or declarations. She’s unravelling you with the weight of her presence, with the simple fact of her being, and you hate it almost as much as you crave it.

Your teeth scrape against her lower lip, harder than you mean to, and she gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. Her nails dig into your shoulders, gripping onto you while you take your rightful place at the helm of this godforsaken dance.

And she’s letting you. Letting you press her against the edge of the table, her legs bumping into the thick, varnished oak. The table was handmade by some artisan you don’t remember the name of, its surface polished to a high gloss that reflects the warm light overhead. You’d spent weeks agonising over the purchase, debating wood grains and finishes with a level of scrutiny that felt absurd even at the time. It’s the kind of thing people like you do when they’re too scared to focus on what matters.

But now it’s just a table. A thing in the way, a thing that’s caught between you and her.

Her jeans catch on the wood as you push her back, and the sound is sharp, cutting through the fog in your head. You hesitate for half a second, your hands hovering at her hips, fingers brushing the cool metal of her belt buckle.

“You’re thinking too much,” she says, her voice low and breathless. It’s not a reproach—it’s almost amused, like she knows exactly what’s going on in your head, and it’s ridiculous to her that you’re trying to wrestle this into something it’s not.

“I’m not thinking at all,” you say, and it’s true. Or it’s a lie. You don’t know anymore, and you don’t care.

The belt comes undone with a soft clink, the leather sliding through the loops of her jeans in one smooth motion. You let it fall to the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile lost beneath the ragged breaths you’re both taking. Your hands are shaking slightly as you undo the button on her jeans, the metal cold against your fingertips.

She doesn’t help you. Doesn’t lift her hips, doesn’t make it easier. She just watches you, her gaze steady and unwavering, like she’s daring you to keep going.

And you do.

You yank the denim down her thighs, your movements jerky, almost frantic, and it’s not until the fabric crumples on the floor that you realise your hands are still trembling. She notices too, her lips twitching into that infuriating half-smile, the one that makes your stomach twist into knots.

“What are you doing?” she asks, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, something that cuts right through you.

“I don’t know,” you admit, and the honesty of it feels like a blow to the chest.

“Don’t stop,” she whispers, and the words make something inside you snap.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of her underwear, dragging them down her thighs in one swift, unceremonious motion. The damp lace clings for a moment before it slides free, pooling at her knees before hitting the floor. You don’t stop to think. There’s no room for hesitation here, no space for the doubt that’s been clawing at you since this started.

Her scent hits you first, heady and intoxicating, and for a moment you freeze, overwhelmed by the sheer weight of it. But then she moves—just slightly, her hips tilting forward in an unspoken plea—and it’s all the permission you need.

You press your mouth to her, your tongue sliding through her folds with a slow, deliberate pressure that pulls a broken sound from her throat. Her taste is sharp, almost sweet, and it floods your senses in a way that makes you dizzy. Her thighs close around your head instinctively, caging you in, and you let out a low, involuntary groan against her skin.

“Fuck—” Her voice is high and breathy, her fingers digging into your scalp now, hard enough to sting. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

You don’t. You press deeper, your tongue finding the sensitive bundle of nerves at her centre and circling it with a precision you didn’t know you had. She jerks against you, her body arching off the table, and you use the opportunity to slide your hands up her thighs, holding her steady.

The table creaks beneath her, the sound of the wood groaning under her weight mixing with the wet, obscene noises of your mouth against her. It’s filthy and raw, every sense overwhelmed, and you’re not sure if you’re doing this to prove a point or because you can’t bear to stop. Maybe it’s both.

Her head tilts back, exposing the long, elegant line of her throat, and you want to mark it, to leave evidence of this all over her skin, but you can’t pull away. Not when she’s gasping your name, her voice breaking like she can’t quite believe what’s happening.

You slide a finger into her, slow at first, just enough to make her hips stutter against your mouth. She’s tight, impossibly so, and you feel her clench around you as you add a second finger, curling them just right. Her moan is loud, sharp, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

“God, you—” She doesn’t finish the sentence, doesn’t seem capable of forming words anymore, and it sends a twisted sense of satisfaction through you. You focus on her clit again, your tongue moving in quick, precise circles as your fingers work her open, the slick heat of her making it almost too easy.

Her legs tremble around you, and you can feel her getting closer, her breathing turning shallow and erratic. You don’t let up, don’t give her a second to recover, pressing her higher and higher until she breaks with a cry that sounds like your name.

Her whole body shudders, her thighs clamping tight around your head as she rides out her orgasm, and you keep going, drawing it out as long as you can until she’s pushing weakly at your shoulders.

“Enough,” she gasps, her voice wrecked, and you finally pull back, your lips and chin wet with her.

You look up at her, and she’s a mess—her hair sticking to her damp forehead, her chest heaving with every ragged breath. Her eyes meet yours, dark and unreadable, and for a moment neither of you says anything.

Then, slowly, she reaches for you, her hands shaking as she grabs at your jumper and pulls you up to meet her. Her kiss is rough and desperate, her teeth catching on your lower lip, and you realise she’s not done.

Her hands don’t go for your own clothes like you’d expected. Instead, they move to your thighs, her grip firm and commanding, and before you can comprehend what’s happening, she’s lifting you. The sudden change knocks the air out of your lungs, and you gasp, your legs instinctively wrapping around her waist, locking you against her. The motion is seamless, like she’s done this before—or like she’s always known she could.

You try to tell yourself you hate how easy it feels, but you don’t. You can’t.

Your hands find her shoulders, her jaw, her hair—anything to ground yourself, but nothing works. You’re still dizzy, still untethered, even as her lips crash against yours. There’s nothing gentle about it, nothing controlled. Her teeth scrape your bottom lip, her tongue pushes into your mouth like she’s trying to devour you, and you let her because for once you don’t want to think about what comes next.

She’s walking, you realise belatedly, the steady rhythm of her steps making your body rock against hers. It’s disorienting, the way she carries you so easily, like your weight is nothing, like you’re the fragile thing here.

You kiss her harder to prove you’re not, nipping at her lip until she growls low in her throat, a sound that vibrates through you and pulls a small, involuntary moan from your lips. Her hands tighten on you, her fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, and it sends a sharp thrill up your spine.

The hallway blurs around you, the world narrowing until it’s just her—her mouth on yours, her hands gripping you like she’ll never let go, her body impossibly solid against yours.

When she finally kicks the door open and lays you down on the bed, it feels like surrender. Not hers. Yours.

You don’t realise how tightly you’ve been clinging to her until she pulls back, your fingers still knotted in the collar of her shirt. The fabric wrinkles between your hands, and for a moment you just stare at each other, the room charged with something you don’t have the words to name.

Her eyes are dark, searching, but there’s no smugness, no trace of victory there. Instead, there’s something softer, something that makes your chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with lust.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs, her voice low and steady, and it undoes you more than anything else she’s done tonight.

It’s too much. The weight of her words, the way she says them like a promise, like she means it. Your chest tightens, and you shake your head, your fingers releasing her collar to press against her shoulders, keeping her at a distance.

But she doesn’t let you push her away completely. Her hands slide up your sides, gentle now, her touch a sharp contrast to the bruising grip she had on you moments ago. She’s watching you, waiting, like she knows exactly what’s going through your head.

You hate her for it. You hate her because she’s right.

“I can’t…” Your voice cracks, barely audible, and you don’t even know what you’re trying to say.

She leans in, her forehead resting against yours, her breath warm against your cheek. “You don’t have to,” she says simply, and the honesty in her tone is unbearable.

You want to argue, to fight, to push her away, but your body doesn’t move. You just lay there, your chest heaving, your hands trembling against her. You feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something vast and unknowable, and for the first time in a long time, you’re not sure if you’ll survive the fall.

Because this isn’t about sex anymore.

It’s about her, and the way she looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. It’s about the way your body feels like it’s breaking apart under the weight of it, like you’re finally being seen for what you are—what you’ve always been.

A liar. A coward. Someone too afraid to let go, too afraid to feel, too afraid to love.

Her lips brush yours again, soft this time, barely there, and you let out a shaky breath. It’s not enough to drown in. Not yet. But it’s close.

“Let me in,” she whispers, and it’s not a command. It’s an offering.

You close your eyes, and for the first time, you don’t resist.

#alexia putellas #alexia putellas x reader #fcb femeni #fcb femeni x reader #espwnt #espwnt x reader #woso #woso x reader #woso imagine #woso community

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onepieceisreeeeaaalll · 7 months ago

Text

HOW THEY EAT

Hey! I wanted to add another piece of kinktober content even if I’m not doing the daily challenge. I’ve recently had more free time so I’ve been writing again. I plan on putting up more SFW content and drabbles soon, but I’m admittedly having way too much fun writing smut lol.

CHARACTERS: Law, Zoro, and Sanji

CW: NSFW!! Afab reader x Character; manhandling with Zoro; mention of overstimulation; (sort of) dom Law and dom Zoro

Only did a little bit of proof-reading so I might edit as I go. Enjoy!

Edited for redundancies.

———————————————

LAW - Deliberate

Law is a man who takes his time. His whole life has been so fast-paced, urgent and exhausting in its own right. So, when it comes to pleasuring his woman, Law is insistent in the fact that he wants to take his time. After all, the best things in life are savored, right?

Mussed black hair is all you can see just barely peeking over your breasts, his head snug between your legs. His lips trail and nip over your inner thighs, sucking and leaving small red and purple marks in their wake. With every small, wanton sigh and gasp that leaves you, Law knows he’s doing a good job. Praise is his love language, after all, though he'd never admit that.

His breath ghosts delicately over the lips of your pussy, puffs of air that come between kitten licks against your skin. He savors the descent, relishing in every little noise and twitch of your body. It’s not until you’re practically whining for more contact that he finally kisses at your needy, aching clit. The movement is testing, always careful to see just how much you want him. If he decides you don’t want him enough, he’ll return his attention back to your thighs. Those occasions when you aren’t ready, he’ll bite at your stomach and thighs until you’re a panting, tortured mess. The majority of the time, though, he’s fairly practiced at getting you there with ease. So, after kissing at your clit, he’ll lick a delicate strip along your slit with the tip of his tongue.

It’s when he hears you breathe a curse under your breath, or moan his name softly, that he’ll formally dig into the bountiful feast before him. Strong hands hold your thighs apart with a firm, needy grip.

One thing about Law is that he really knows how to use his tongue. Sharp, cutting remarks somehow translate to the way it curls and laps over you in the bedroom. He is incredibly skilled and always intentional with it. With a flat tongue, he’ll begin where he thinks best to get you aroused, that beautiful bundle of nerves that sits atop your anatomy. He loves this point of contact, using his tongue to slowly circle your clit with the tip of his tongue before flattening it to stimulate it up and down, side to side. It’s slow, deliberate, and meant to very carefully curate specific responses from you. Eventually, if you’re twitching and begging for more, he’ll keep licking and sucking at his own pace to try and draw as much pleasure from you as possible.

If this wasn’t enough, when he’s trying to build you up, he’ll use that tongue of his to speak the filthiest, most possessive things possible against your flesh.

”Mmm…fuck, (y/n). Tastes so good for me…all mine.” He’ll mumble after retracting his tongue, the breath over your cunt driving you crazy.

If you whine or complain about the break in contact, he’ll just smirk, his eyes tearing away from his meal to look up at you. Law's eyes are always dark with pupils blown out from lust. The look alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine.

”Look at you, so impatient. So goddamn needy.” Law smirks, “And so loud. What did I say about keeping quiet? You’re gonna have to try harder than that. Or should I just stop, since you can’t follow a simple rule?”

When you shake your head quickly in response, trying to prove that you’ll be good - you’ll be patient, quiet. He lets out a small hum against your cunt. He’ll click his tongue almost teasingly, as if trying to use the sound alone to drive you crazy. He loves when you become a desperate, pleading mess. There’s nothing more beautiful to him.

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d like that.” He'll pause, moving his tongue to trace slowly back and forth over your clitoris. “Be a good girl and keep that mouth shut.”

It’s when his tongue moves lower, lapping to tease at your entrance before sliding tantalizingly slow up to your clit that he really has his fun. Once again, Law takes his time between these two locations - it’s about the journey, not the destination. Not that you agree, of course, but he wants to show you how much better things are his way.

He'll continue like this, moving back and forth between teasing your entrance and your clit. It's almost like a game to him to see how slow he can go before you're absolutely a keening, sweaty, panting mess. Law will chuckle to himself, sending vibrations through your flesh. Once again, this is intentional, just as everything is. This man knows what he's doing and he lives for the thrill of seeing what he’s done to you. It’s his own way of marking you - reminding you that no one else has this power over you. Just Law.

When he's finally had his fun, that's when he'll finally satiate both of your growing need to see you orgasm. Using his tongue, he'll quicken the pace of his movements, entering your aching pussy and rubbing his nose into your clit. He eats with a new sense of determination with the sole intention of getting you off. If he decides you're being too loud, he won't bother to vocally reprimand you again, instead opting to reach up and shove his fingers into your mouth. If you suck on them, he'll reward you with a groan and a strip of his tongue to your clit.

Law won’t stop until he's pulled at least two orgasms from you. It's only when his dick is throbbing painfully against his pants that he'll finally relent, kissing up your body and positioning himself to fuck you stupid.

———————————————

ZORO - Hungry

Zoro is the kind of man who eats his meal like he's been starving for weeks. It doesn't matter how long it's been since he's last eaten you out. To him, it's seemingly never enough. The swordsman is insatiable and you damn well know that when he wants something, he gets it. If you don’t give it to him, he’ll take it. Not that you’re complaining.

“Get on the bed. Now.”

It's not a request. It's a demand.

If he's had a hard day, he's been known to launch you onto the bed himself with a searing, rough kiss. Nothing about this man is gentle, not even the way he is with you. Zoro likes to manhandle, though he’ll always be careful enough to not hurt you. He just has a lot of pent up energy and is more than willing to show you just how much he wants you, pushing beyond his stoicism to make his desires known. He’ll never use words to tell you that he likes to eat you out, but he doesn’t have to. Zoro is a man of action and it shows.

Sometimes he won't even wait until you're fully undressed. Zoro will drag you to the edge of the bed and hook his strong arms under your thighs to pull you close. He'll begin licking you over your panties with a flat tongue, the smell of your arousal elicits grunts and groans from him. When the fabric is so wet from the combination of your slick and his saliva, he'll finally pull them aside or rip them off to remove any barriers. If there are a few words that can best describe Zoro when it comes to oral, it's impatient, greedy, and voracious.

His tongue immediately delves into your folds and licks at your entrance. He'll move his tongue up to your clit in aggressive, hungry laps before sucking on your labia. No flesh goes untouched by him. Zoro isn't one to half-ass anything he really cares about and your pleasure is no exception. When he begins to eat you, he'll go full-throttle. He's a disciplined man - he has to be in order to meet his goal of becoming the world’s greatest swordsman. When it comes to you, though, there's no sign of restraint. Zoro doesn't just eat, he consumes.

Zoro is messy. Saliva will mix with your juices on his cheeks, his nose, and drip down his chin. He doesn't care about staying clean, he can deal with it later. For now, all he can focus on is the ambrosial sight before him and the pretty sounds coming from your lips. God, he loves the way you sound. The noises alone are enough to make him double his efforts as a reward for how good you’re reacting to him. In fact, if he doesn't think you're being loud enough, he might reach a hand up to slide over your stomach to your chest, fondling a breast and pulling at your nipple. He's also been known to pull you further off the bed, using his strength to hold you up just so he can have access to slap your ass. Every yelp or whine from you results in a groan from him that vibrates over your folds.

He will return every noise you make ten-fold. He’s typically pretty quiet outside of the bedroom, but when it comes to sex, he doesn’t hold back. He wants everyone to hear how good he’s making you feel and how good you’re making him feel. It’s his way of showing off, the possessive and gloating mean-streak showing. Zoro will groan loudly against you, grunting and slurping in order to make sure you know just how much he’s loving every second of eating you out.

Zoro loves to tongue-fuck you more than anything. He’s gotten into the habit of bringing a thumb around to focus on your clitoris while he reaches as deep as he can. To him, it’s one of the most arousing, sensual things he’s ever experienced. Feeling your soft, velvet walls constricting against the muscle of his tongue is downright erotic to him in every sense of the word. Sometimes, he'll pull out just to dirty talk to you, though most of the time, he's too focused on the task at hand. The times he talks dirty, though, his voice is gruff and low. He gets drunk on pussy the same way he does saké.

“So tight for me already. Guess I'm not fucking you enough.” He'll mumble, placing kisses against you before diving right back in. He doesn't even care if you respond, all he wants is to continue his meal.

All the while, his calloused thumb is working over your clit with a renewed sense of urgency. He's not gentle, but he’s careful enough to make sure the feeling isn’t too overwhelming or painful. His digit will move back and forth, sometimes up and down depending on his mood, pressing at a moderately fast rate. When he feels like you aren't reacting the way he wants, he'll press against the delicate bundle slightly harder but at a slower, agonizing pace. He's also a fan of tracing his tongue back up to make sure it's wet enough for his thumb to glide over you with ease.

He won't even bother counting the orgasms he pulls from you - he'll eat until he's full. When he's finally satisfied, when you're an absolute babbling wreck above him, he'll finally pull away to take his cock out in preparation for a very, very long night. Zoro always leaves a clean plate.

———————————————

SANJI - Dedicated

The curly-browed cook has always appreciated a good culinary experience. When it comes to your pussy, though, it's almost ritualistic the way he consumes. Like any good cook, he doesn't just eat, he tastes. There's a sort of reverence that comes from Sanji's handling of you, as if he's a lowly servant worshipping some kind of ancient goddess. If you asked him about it, he'd tell you exactly that - he's appreciating the body of someone who he doesn't deserve. If you tell him that he does deserve you, he won't have it. To him, you're so beautiful and above him that its not even quantifiable.

Sanji wants you to be comfortable, laid out on the bed and already undressed. He'll start at your ankles, slowly kissing up your legs to appreciate every inch of your lower body. He'll take his time, whispering compliments against your skin as he runs his hands along your calves and thighs. Sometimes he'll take the time to massage you, but this depends on how patient he is. After a particularly long day, he'll settle for cutting to the usual routine, though he'll never skip the legs. Sanji is a legs man, through and through.

“Mon coeur, so perfect…you're so soft.” He'll murmur, his lips ghosting soft trails over your knee. “I can't wait to make you come, angel.”

Sanji will fluctuate between using his tongue and his lips on his slow ascension towards your pussy. He can already feel you shaking for him, and if you complain, he'll laugh softly against your skin and apologize. After all, he's not cruel. He knows exactly what you're wanting and he's not one to let his woman suffer and beg.

He'll gently run his hands over your thighs before kissing over the lips of your cunt. Sanji treats your pussy lips the same way he treats the lips of your face - the kisses are gentle, heated, and intense. His gaze will never leave yours. He wants to look at you while he goes down on you if for nothing more than to see those beautiful eyes looking down at him.

When he finishes his gentle ministrations, he'll take his time licking long strips over your slit with a flat tongue, lingering on your clit where he'll dig in side to side with the tip of his tongue. He loves the way you moan, the soft sighs that leave you, and he'll smile easily against your flesh.

Sanji likes to taste every part of you he can. He'll lick and gently suck at your clit, your labia, and of course your entrance. He'll circle around the entrance, bringing his tongue back up gently to your clit. He likes to taste everywhere he can, to savor the rich aroma that comes from your pussy. He'll fluctuate between licking and kissing at you, continuing to whisper praises.

“You're so amazing, so gorgeous…so delicious.” He'll say before diving his tongue into your entrance, moaning into your skin. His hands will run up and down your thighs, holding them apart gently so that they don't close over his head. He's a fan of your thighs closing around his head, but he likes to wait until he's made you orgasm before he lets it happen. It's like a reward for his efforts.

One of his favorite ways to drag an orgasm out of you is to pull his tongue from your entrance, licking and sucking at your clit gently while fingering you. Sanji is very good with his hands. He’s a chef, after all. He’ll ease one finger into you at a time, focusing on the way you tighten around them. When he feels you pulse or flutter in that very specific way that tells him you’re close, he’ll curl his fingers and tease at your g-spot. When you do come, he’ll bring his tongue back down to your entrance and pull his fingers out, lapping at the pooling liquid. Sanji swears nothing tastes better than your pussy when you come.

Sanji doesn't eat with the intention of getting his own pleasure afterwards, though he'll palm himself as he works to ease the tension in his pants. He especially likes it if he can feel your leg or foot brush against his erection. He swears that he can come just from the sight and feeling of you finishing on his tongue. It's an addiction that he's developed, and he's not sure if he can ever fuck you properly without eating you out first. Your pleasure matters to him and it's shown in the way he effortlessly moves his tongue across your folds.

Sanji will bring you to orgasm as long as you'll let him. He doesn't want to hurt or overstimulate you, but he'll go seemingly for hours if you'll let him. When you've finally had enough, tugging on his hair as your signal, he'll kiss up your thighs and stomach until he reaches up to your face. He'll let you suck your juices from his tongue and lips, a small smile lighting up his face.

“What do you think, beautiful? Tastes good, right?”

Sanji always cares about your opinion of his work, whether it be cooking or the way he pleasures you.

#one piece #black leg sanji #roronoa zoro #trafalgar law #trafalgar law x reader #sanji x reader #zoro x reader #black leg sanji x reader #vinsmoke sanji x reader #zoro roronoa x reader #zoro roronoa smut #trafalgar d law x reader #trafalgardwaterlaw #one piece smut #one piece lemon #kinktober

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caitified · 7 months ago

Text

wag life

caitlin clark x reader

warnings:none

caitlin clark wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when she moved to indiana. the city was new, the team was different, and for the first time in a while, she found herself in an unfamiliar place where everything felt… temporary. it wasn’t like iowa, where she’d been rooted for so long. but she was ready for the challenge—both on and off the court.

what she didn’t expect, though, was you.

the first time she saw you was at a community event shortly after she moved. you stood out to her immediately, not just because you were stunning, but because of the way you moved through the room with an effortless kind of confidence. you were younger, about three years her junior, but you held your own, charming everyone around you. caitlin was intrigued before she even realized it, her eyes following you across the room.

you were talking to a small group of people, your laughter carrying across the room, and caitlin couldn’t help but smile to herself. she wasn’t usually shy, especially when it came to meeting new people, but something about you made her hesitate. you had a presence that drew people in, and she wasn’t quite sure how to approach you without seeming out of place.

just as she was about to turn away and head to another part of the event, you caught her looking. you smiled, your eyes lighting up as recognition crossed your face.

“you’re caitlin clark,” you said, walking over to her, your voice confident and friendly.

caitlin smiled, a little taken aback by how easy you made it to start a conversation. “guilty,” she replied, her tone playful. “you know me?”

you laughed softly. “of course. who doesn’t know caitlin clark?” there was a teasing edge to your voice, but caitlin could tell you were sincere. “i’m a big fan. and i’ve been following your move here.”

caitlin raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “oh yeah? so, what do you think of indiana?”

you smiled, shrugging a little. “it’s home. you’ll get used to it. we’ve got good people here.” there was something warm and reassuring about the way you said it, and caitlin found herself wanting to know more.

over the course of the night, the two of you fell into easy conversation. caitlin learned that you were a bit of a social media sensation—a famous influencer who had built a following through your fashion sense and your passion for sports. you talked about how much you loved attending games, how you always made sure to support your favorite athletes. you were younger, but there was a maturity about you that caitlin admired.

“i have a feeling i’ll be seeing you at a lot of games,” caitlin teased, taking a sip of her drink as the two of you stood near the bar.

you grinned, not missing a beat. “you can count on it. i’ll be front and center, cheering you on in the best outfits you’ve ever seen.”

caitlin chuckled, already feeling a pull toward you. there was something easy about being around you, and it wasn’t just because you were a fan. it was the way you seemed to understand her, even in the short time you’d spent together.

by the end of the night, caitlin found herself wanting more. so, as the event was winding down, she took a chance.

“hey,” she said softly, her tone more serious now. “would you maybe want to grab dinner sometime? i’d love to keep this conversation going… without the crowd.”

you smiled, your eyes bright as you nodded. “i’d love that.”

from that dinner, things moved quickly. you and caitlin fell into an easy rhythm, your lives beginning to intertwine in ways that neither of you had expected. you made it clear early on how much you supported her—showing up to her games, wearing her jerseys, and posting about her on social media. but it was more than that. you didn’t just show up because of her fame. you showed up because you believed in her.

every time caitlin looked up in the stands, there you were—smiling, cheering her on, decked out in carefully curated outfits that matched the team colors or had some subtle nod to her. the fans loved you for it. they loved how devoted you were to caitlin, how you seemed to bring a new energy to her games. and caitlin loved it too.

you became known as the ultimate wag—always supporting caitlin in the most fashionable way possible, your relationship slowly becoming public as people began to notice just how often you were by her side. it wasn’t long before fans started calling you caitlin’s biggest supporter, and they adored the way you were unapologetically proud of her.

but it wasn’t just about the public displays of support. it was the quiet moments that meant the most to caitlin. the way you’d be there for her after a tough game, offering her comfort without saying too much. the way you understood the pressure she was under, always knowing when to push her and when to give her space.

one night, after a particularly grueling game, caitlin found herself in your apartment, exhausted but happy to be with you. you were curled up on the couch together, your head resting on her shoulder as you scrolled through your phone, probably looking at the photos you’d posted from the game.

“i don’t know how you do it,” caitlin said, her voice soft as she watched you.

“do what?” you asked, looking up at her.

“keep up with all this,” caitlin replied, gesturing to your phone and the whirlwind of attention that always seemed to follow you. “you’re constantly in the spotlight, and yet… you still make time for me.”

you smiled, reaching up to brush a strand of hair away from her face. “because you’re worth it,” you said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “and besides, i like supporting you. you make it easy.”

caitlin felt her heart swell at your words. you weren’t just her girlfriend—you were her biggest fan, her partner in everything. she pulled you closer, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

“i don’t think i could do this without you,” she admitted quietly.

you looked up at her, your expression soft but full of affection. “good thing you’ll never have to.”

please keep the requests coming. i love your ideas! thanks for all of the support

#caitlin clark x reader #caitlin clark #wnba imagine #wnba x reader #iowa wbb #indiana fever

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glowettee · 1 month ago

Note

i need tips to stop oversharing

everyone’s always like “if you be mysterious, people want to be friends with you” but i CAN’TT

UGH I HATE IT SMM ITS LIKE PPL SMILE AT ME AND I START YAPPING TO THEM ABOUT EVERYTHING

i’m so weirdddd ughhh

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 ♡ 𝒂 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍’𝒔 𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒅𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒑 𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧

hi angel 🩰 mindy here....

first of all, you're not weird. you’re human, and also really, really self-aware, which is honestly a sign of emotional intelligence. oversharing isn’t a character flaw, it’s just a form of vulnerability that’s maybe lacking a little bit of direction right now. and you know what? that can definitely be rewired.

but you’re right. there’s something so deliciously powerful about being unreadable. not cold. not distant. just quietly self-contained. you know, that one girl in your class who always looks like she knows more than she’s saying. being mysterious doesn’t mean suppressing your personality, it means curating what parts of you, you reveal, and when. think: allure, not silence.

so, if you’re ready to stop trauma-dumping after someone tells you they like your lip gloss... let’s get into your ✧ anti-oversharing glow-up ✧. - love youuuu

✧‧˚ 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆 ✧‧˚

❥ step one: create your “public” script sometimes we overshare because we don’t have a “go-to” version of ourselves for light conversation. so when someone gives us an opening, our brain kind of panics and goes “quick! say literally anything!” and out comes your ENTIRE 7th grade story arc.

to fix this, create a mental ‘highlight reel’ version of yourself for casual convos. i call this your “glow-up script.” these are a few cute, polished, semi-surface-level anecdotes and answers you intentionally rehearse for common situations:

✧ how’s school going? → “it’s been intense but i kind of love it. i’ve been really into productivity stuff lately.” ✧ what do you like to do? → “mostly reading & making pinterest boards like it’s my job.” ✧ how was your weekend? → “super recharging. i’ve been trying to stay offline more lately.”

this gives you a comfy, consistent personality to draw from without reaching into the emotional deep end. bonus: people will find you intriguing because you’re selective.

❥ step two: let silence stretch a little a lot of us overshare because we feel pressure to fill silence. like, someone says something and you feel like you have to respond instantly and enthusiastically or it’s rude. but silence isn’t awkward unless you panic about it.

instead, practice the ✧ micro pause ✧. when someone asks you a question or makes a comment, pause for two full seconds before you answer. let your eyes flick away for a beat. this one trick shifts the vibe completely. it gives you space to choose your words and makes you appear way more composed and thoughtful. think of it as conversational ballet: graceful, intentional, a little mysterious.

❥ step three: replace “omg same!” with “that’s so interesting” oversharing often starts when we relate too hard too fast. someone mentions their cat and suddenly you’re spilling about the time yours almost got run over and how that spiraled into your fear of loss and attachment theory.

instead of instantly jumping into your version of the topic, try observing it in them.

✧ “that’s so interesting, what’s your cat like?” ✧ “wait that’s such a unique story, tell me more.”

this helps you break the reflex to center the convo on yourself. you stay warm and curious without handing over your diary.

✧‧˚ 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒖𝒃𝒕𝒍𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒔𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒖𝒑𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 ✧‧˚

❥ develop a ✧ private life aesthetic ✧ if you want to stop oversharing, you need to fall in love with the idea of being private. romanticize it. write diary entries no one will ever read. take photos you don’t post. go to cafes without tagging the location. being private isn’t being lonely, it’s creating a secret world so rich and beautiful that you don’t need external validation.

❥ use a “mental filter” before you speak before you say something personal, ask yourself:

✧ is this earned information, or am i offering it to feel accepted? ✧ would i regret this if it got repeated? ✧ is this helping the conversation or derailing it? ✧ am i sharing this for connection or out of nervousness?

if it’s not intentional, save it for later, or your journal.

❥ try“gentle deflection” you don’t have to answer every question. if someone gets too nosy or the convo feels like it’s tilting into overshare territory, try a soft pivot.

✧ “hmm that’s a long story, maybe another day. but tell me about you!” ✧ “haha i’ve blocked that era out. what about you though?”

play it like a game. you stay in control of the narrative while still being cute & open.

✧‧˚ 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒚’𝒔 𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒊𝒑𝒔 ✧‧˚

❀ when i catch myself about to overshare, i mentally switch into ✧ editor mode ✧ like i’m revising a diary entry. i ask: “does this version of me feel like the version i want to become?” if not, i scale it back.

❀ i also keep a “burn book” journal (not for meanness, just raw thoughts) where i can word vomit everything and no one sees it. it satisfies the urge to get it out without the regret.

❀ lastly, i pretend i’m the main character of a book that’s still being written. no author spills the whole plot in chapter one. they drop breadcrumbs. a line. a glance. a sentence that makes people curious. you are the enigma. the slow-burn story. don’t give them the whole novel.

you’re not too much. you’re just overflowing with personality, and now you’re learning how to bottle it in perfume instead of spilling it like water. and i promise... the more you stay grounded, the more you’ll see how people lean in, want to know more, wonder about you. it’s not fake. it’s just strategic softness.

your power has always been in your words. now you’re learning how to use them, not waste them.

you’re becoming the mystery. the “i wonder what she’s thinking” girl. the “she smiled but didn’t say much” kind of energy. lol.

and trust me, it'll work like wonders.

always here for you, — 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒚 ♡ glowettee hotline operator ☎︎✨

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roseyodditea · 4 months ago

Note

Hello, I really love your Harumasas work! I hope you always stay healthy and happy! May I request Harumasa x reader which Harumasa first time caught up reader doing cutting/selfharm? He's really good at comforting people who's suicidal, I think he's good at comforting his BF/GF who's suicidal too ...

I tried to write this more from Harumasa's perspective and left the reader's mental health issues vague in order to attempt to comfort the most amount of people. I remember how comforting fics like this were when I was in the throws of my mental health problems. I hope I did it justice

At Least for the Night - Harumasa x gn!Reader

Summary -> 1.5k words. Harumasa comforts you once he deduces a secret you were trying to hide. Warnings -> Self harm, injuries, blood, medical supplies, please protect your peace and skip this fic if you need to

Harumasa crouched in front of your bathroom sink, digging around for the bandages you said were in there. A wound from a Hollow opened up while you two were having a dinner date at your apartment and he wanted to clean it up before he risked infection. He reached for the first aid kit and opened it, his instincts from being surrounded by medical supplies kicking into high gear. He grabbed the ointment and the wrap bandages and something in his mind screamed in alarm, but he was a bit preoccupied to notice what it was.

He was used to the cold feeling of the cream on the wound on his arm, and he was quick to wrap it before neatly repacking the first aid kit. It wasn’t until he closed the lid that his brain finally caught up to what he subconsciously noticed. He opened the kit back up, his eyes scanning over every supply. They all matched the brand of the kit, all being used at an expected rate for someone like you… but the bandages. He flipped through the adhesive bandages again, noticing a lot of the ones left were the smaller, unusable ones of about six different brands. The bigger ones were all used up, and the roll of cloth bandages was a different brand from every single adhesive one he found.

Harumasa sat on your bathroom floor, his mind going into overdrive as he tried to think of a logical reason for this. The first aid kit was less than a year old going off of the packaging of the lesser used supplies, but you seemed to go through so many bandages. He stared intently as he washed his hands, scanning your bathroom sink for any hints. He looked for anything that would hint why you’d need so many bandages. Blood thinners maybe? Childrens bathroom supplies in case you had a niece or a nephew that were a bit clumsy? He tried not to let himself get caught up on it. He dried his hands before he closed the kit and slipped it back under the sink, standing up and walking back to the kitchen where you were cleaning up after dinner.

He felt bad being as scrutinizing as he was, but his eyes scanned you, that cold and calculating look of a scout covering up the normally soft look you say from your boyfriend. You glanced back, a bit uneasy with how he was staring at you. “Uhh.. You found them alright?” You ask, desperately trying to break the tension.

“Yeah. I found your bandages. A lot of bandages, actually.” He said, his interrogation tactics he had learned from Section Six starting to shine uncomfortably in the safe environment of the apartment you had worked so hard to curate.

“Is that a problem?” “Do you have something to tell me?” He stepped close, making you feel trapped against the sink.

“Haru, what’s going on?” You tried to change the subject defensively, shifting and trying to ignore the way your pants scraped against the semi fresh scabs hidden underneath.

Harumasa softened a bit, letting out a breath. “I’m just worried. I’ve been surrounded by doctors all my life and I’d like to know if my absolutely lovely partner was having some health complications.” He eased up and took your hand before kissing it, slyly watching the way your sleeve fell naturally. Seeing nothing, he knew he’d have to change his tactic.

“No health complications. Just clumsy I guess.” You respond, turning back to the sink. Harumasa wrapped his arms around your waist and rested his head on your shoulder, watching you wash dishes. He didn’t say anything else, just… watching. “Are you alright?” Even if he didn’t have hard evidence, Harumasa had been recognizing the signs for a while now. He prayed he was wrong and just paranoid, but the bandages were the last nail in the coffin of his suspicions. He held you tighter and hid his face in your neck. “I love you. I’d be devastated without you.” You froze, wondering if he actually knew or if it was a wild guess. “What are you-” “Don’t. Please don’t lie to me.” He pleaded, genuinely emotional. “You don’t have to defend yourself, you don’t have to explain a thing, you don’t even have to promise you won’t do it again. Look, (y/n), I get it, I do. But I want you to be better, and I know that can’t happen overnight. So let’s take it one step at a time. Are you alright with that?”

Tears gathered in your eyes no matter how much you tried to will them away. Having this… angel leaning on your shoulder, holding out a hand to help you felt so terrifying. “I… I don’t know the steps. I don’t know what to do.” “That’s not what I asked. I asked if you’re alright taking it one step at a time.” He comforted, squeezing you close. “Do you want to change? That’s the first step.”

“I want to get better.” Your voice cracks out weakly, your hands starting to shake around the plate you were rinsing off. Harumasa took it out of your hands and kissed your cheek gently.

“Good. Good… Do you currently have any injuries?” You nod hesitantly, not fighting back as he turns off the sink and leads you to sit on the couch. He rubbed different shapes on your shoulder. Square, circle, triangle, back to square. He repeated the pattern a couple times before switching the order, giving you something grounding to focus on. He took your hand and placed it on his chest and took deep breaths, helping you focus on your own breathing.

“Can you tell me where they are?” He asked, his golden eyes filled with tenderness, not an ounce of judgement. Even as you gestured to your thighs, he didn’t look at you with pity. “Can I see them? Touch them?” He asked and let out a breath as you nodded. You shimmied out of your pants so he could see the hastily thrown on bandages. He lifted one of the cloth wrappings around your thigh to peek and nodded. “You stay right here. I’m going to go grab the first aid kit and show you how to take care of them properly, okay?” Once again you nodded, more tears spilling.

He came back and sank to his knees in front of the couch, gingerly unwrapping and removing every bandage so he could see the old, new, and scarred cuts across your thighs. He assessed the damage before depositing some of the topical antibiotic onto his fingers, gently rubbing it over every scab and open wound.

“Aren’t you supposed to be lecturing me? Telling me never to do this again? And how I’m hurting the people around me?” You tried to steel yourself, pushing down those tears and building your mental walls back up.

“I suppose I could, but I don’t think that would be very beneficial.” He said gently. “I’m more worried about harm reduction right now. If you’re set on hurting yourself, taking away everything you have to do it with will just lead to you getting creative and dangerous. I’d rather make sure you know how to care for injuries so you don’t risk infection. We can work on breaking these habits later. One baby step at a time.”

Silence hung too comfortably for the circumstance. You expected more yelling and disappointment when he learned this about you. You expected him to leave and never turn back. You expected anything but this wonderfully gentle man taking care of you with a tenderness you never thought anyone would show you. More tears spilled down your cheeks, but this wasn’t the hot, suffocating tears you tried to choke back earlier, but instead warm tears full of a feeling you had only dreamed of.

“Can you stay tonight?” The question didn’t even finish leaving your mouth before Harumasa nodded. He tugs the bandages into place, making sure they were more secure than the last set you had hastily thrown on. He sat on the couch and opened his arms, happily accepting you and all your baggage into his loving embrace.

“Of course. I’ll stay the night and I’ll hold you or just sit next to you or whatever you need.” He reassured, kissing the top of your head and squeezing you into him.

“I think… I just need you for now. At least for the night.” You mumbled against his chest, happy to relax against him.

“Well, unfortunately for you, you’ve got me for a lot longer than just one measly night.” He smiled as he heard a soft chuckle leave your lips.

Hotlines for different countries -> https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines

A/N -> Remember there's always avenues to get help or support no matter what stage of life you're at. Stay strong, and remember even a single spec of improvement is still improvement! <3

#oneshot #harumasa x reader #zzz harumasa #asaba harumasa

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paucubarsisimp · 2 months ago

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Thank you so much for a Jude fic! Pls could you do another with Jude of reader comparing herself to models on instagram and thinking of getting surgery or something to appear more attractive and more of a typical wag. Jude finds out and he’s broken that you feel this, he reassures you telling you loves you just the way you are and that you don’t need to change.

insecure

pairing: jude bellingham x reader

summary: in which you don’t feel like you’re enough for jude

warnings: angst, insecurities

a/n: please leave some fluff requests, i’ve been writing too much angst lately 😭

tagged: @barcapix, @universefcb

the quiet of the room felt almost suffocating, the kind of stillness that made every passing second stretch into eternity. you sat on the edge of the bed, the cool glow of your phone casting shadows over your face. you scrolled aimlessly, your mind not really absorbing what you were seeing, but your eyes couldn’t help but land on one perfect image after another.

a picture of a wag in a sleek black dress, her face framed by soft curls and glowing skin, her figure tall and impossibly slim. she looked like she belonged to a different world—one that was untouchable.

then another. a model with a smile so flawless it almost felt too perfect to be real. and the comments… the adoration, the hearts, the likes pouring in.

you caught yourself biting your lip, a wave of insecurity crashing over you. why did it feel like you were never enough? you knew these women were carefully curated versions of themselves, but it didn’t matter. the comparison still stung. you couldn’t stop thinking that no matter what you did, you’d never look like them. never feel like you measured up.

your fingers hovered over the screen, scrolling through the photos. your reflection in the glass of your phone was a stark contrast to the flawless images you were absorbing.

maybe if i lost a little here… or… i could get a little work done. just a little surgery. a tweak here and there.

the thought was dangerous, but it had been creeping into your mind more frequently lately. if you could just change a few things, you might finally feel like you belonged in that world. maybe then, you wouldn’t feel so… invisible.

the door creaked, and you didn’t even hear him come in. jude stood in the doorway, his presence filling the room without saying a word. his eyes immediately landed on you, but more importantly, on the phone in your hands. he watched for a moment before his voice, soft but filled with concern, broke through the silence.

“hey, you okay?”

you didn’t look at him right away. you couldn’t. not when the weight of the world was crashing down on you. you bit your lip, trying to keep the sting of your own insecurities from spilling out. “yeah. just… tired,” you murmured, hoping he’d believe the lie. you quickly glanced down at your phone again, pretending to scroll through something, anything to avoid meeting his gaze.

he didn’t buy it. jude never did. he stepped into the room, his presence gentle but insistent, and sat next to you, his eyes never leaving your face.

“i know that look,” he said quietly. “what’s going on, babe? talk to me.”

you swallowed, feeling the lump in your throat grow, the vulnerability inside you growing heavier. there was no hiding it anymore, not from him. not from someone who knew you better than you knew yourself.

“it’s stupid,” you whispered, voice shaky, not trusting yourself to speak louder. “i just… i don’t look like them, jude. the models, the wags, the way everyone looks… they look perfect. they have everything. and i don’t. i just feel like… like i’m not good enough. not for you, not for this life. not for anything.”

jude’s brow furrowed in confusion, a wave of pain crossing his face. he’d never seen you like this before—so raw, so exposed. so unlike the confident, strong person he knew you to be. but it was clear now—your mind was trapped in a spiral you couldn’t break free from.

“what are you talking about?” he asked, his voice thick with emotion, as he reached for your hands, trying to ground you, to pull you back from the edge. but you pulled away slightly, unable to meet his eyes. the shame felt too heavy to bear.

“maybe i could do something about it,” you said, so quietly that you almost didn’t recognize the words coming from your own mouth. “maybe i could… get surgery. just a little here and there. to fix… fix what’s wrong with me.”

jude recoiled as if you’d slapped him, his face draining of color for a moment. you couldn’t read the expression on his face, but it was almost like the breath had been knocked out of him. his grip on your hand tightened, and he pulled you closer, looking straight into your eyes, searching for the truth beneath your words.

“don’t you dare,” he said, his voice a mixture of hurt and disbelief. “don’t you ever think for one second that you need to change. you’re perfect, just the way you are. you’re my perfect.”

you shook your head, your heart racing as you felt the tears welling up in your eyes. “but i’m not, jude,” you whispered. “i’m not like them. they have everything. the body, the face, the life. they look like they belong in this world, and i feel like… like i’m just standing on the outside looking in.”

the tears finally slipped down your cheeks, and you could feel the weight of everything crashing down on you. you couldn’t explain why it felt so impossible to just feel okay with yourself—why you felt like you’d never measure up. but the pain of not feeling good enough, of not feeling beautiful enough, hurt more than you could ever put into words.

“you don’t need any of that,” jude said, his voice barely above a whisper, but there was a fierceness in it that took you by surprise. “you are everything i’ve ever wanted. you’re perfect just as you are. i think you’re perfect. i love you, just the way you are. you don’t need to look like anyone else. you don’t need to be anyone else. you are enough, do you hear me?”

the intensity in his words made you falter, and for a second, you believed him. but the doubt in your chest refused to loosen its grip.

“but what if i don’t feel like i am? what if i don’t feel like… i’m enough?” you whispered, the question hanging in the air like a heavy fog.

jude’s eyes softened, and he wiped away your tears, his thumb gently tracing the path of each drop as if it could erase your pain. “then let me remind you every single day. you are enough. don’t you see? i’m the one who gets to call you mine. and that means everything to me. i don’t want you to change. i want you just the way you are.”

you didn’t know how to respond. the weight of your insecurities felt so much heavier when he said it, like you didn’t deserve his love, his belief in you. like you weren’t worthy of it. but jude wasn’t giving up on you. not now, not ever.

“you don’t need to change anything,” he said softly, pulling you into his arms. “you’re already everything i could ever need. please, just let me love you the way you are. because i don’t need anything else.”

your body shook with the release of all the emotions you had bottled up. the weight of his words, the truth that pierced through the fog of your self-doubt, was like a healing balm. you melted into him, feeling the heat of his love seep through your skin, into the broken pieces of yourself you’d been trying to fix.

“i love you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“i love you too,” he replied, his voice thick with emotion. “just as you are.”

and for the first time in a long time, you believed him.

#football #footballer x reader #football imagine #jude bellingham angst #jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham #bellingham #jb5 #jude bellingham imagine

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livings-easy · 15 days ago

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I feel like no one ever writes about ardra nakshatra which is unfortunate. Learning about vedic astrology helped me understand my western chart more deeply. My cancer stellium resonated but some things just didn’t add up; learning that I have ardra nakshatra recontextualized those things entirely.

So here’s some observations as an ardra sun, moon, and saturn. I also have mars in shatabhista, so I’m a pretty rahuvian individual:

—Never been scared of thunderstorms. Ever. Ardras ruler, Rudra, rules thunderstorms

—I struggled a lot with envy growing up and still do. I often wish I was someone other than myself. In particular, I envy other people’s physical appearance and material wealth.

—One thing I rarely envy is other peoples intelligence lol

—extreme sensitivity to the point of delicacy; rejection feels like dying

—nervousness and anxiety; health anxiety and death anxiety especially. I’ve gone entire years without feeling at ease

—depressive tendencies; suicidal feelings tied to a deep sense of self loathing

—hormonal issues; I have pmdd and my period causes intense mental turmoil every month.

—I am prone to outbursts

—I often feel ignored/overlooked

—I struggle with materialism and consumerism. And it comes in waves. I would buy things for the rush and deeply regret it. Sometimes I get into a mood where I want no belongings at all; I feel weighed down by them

—AT THE SAME TIME I deeply love my things. I curate things very specifically for my liking and I use whatever I have into the ground

—I love making money

—lack of interest in romance or sex. I was watching Vic DiCara’s video on ardra and he mentioned that it is not a sensual or seductive sign, it is more cerebral. I have no experience what so ever in those realms.

—I find it so difficult to care about things I don’t care about; i can’t even feign it. My friends tell me it’s obvious when idgaf about something

—in that same vein, I am known for being under reactive, showing little emotion, acting apathetic in my everyday life

—people tell me they consider me funny but it’s not intentional on my part; to quote some former roommates: “you’re funny because you try not to be” “you have a way about you, it’s funny to just watch you exist”

—I DO intentionally try to be witty and it usually lands. Usually.

—Interest in natural science; I LOVED taking evolution in college it was my absolute favorite bio class.

—I love and am fascinated by animals and not just the stereotypically cute ones, although I do love those too. I unironically watch baby animal videos to calm down after a hard day. I don’t understand how some people can just ignore animals; if an animal is in the room I want to interact with it

—AT THE SAME TIME I understand that there is a disconnect between animals and humans; animals are great because they are truly wild. I’m not necessarily against hunting or meat eating because I understand everything has its place

—personally, I was a vegetarian for many years

—I have always liked jungle aesthetics

—basic, norm core fashion but still a notable element.

—Claire nakti said in her Gemini fashion video that Ardra likes men’s button up shirts…guess what I wear all the time

—i love to exercise and move my body: I NEED to do it

#ardra nakshatra #ardra moon #vedic astrology #claire nakti #astrology

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 9 months ago

Text

Code of Conduct 5

Warnings: this fic will include elements, some dark, such as cheating, noncon/dubcon, and other untagged triggers. Please take this into account before proceeding. It is up to curate your online consumption safely.

Summary: your boss has a difficult time keeping his personal life from bleeding into his work.

Characters: Steve Rogers, this reader is known as Rosie.

Author’s Note: Please feel free to leave some feedback, reblog, and jump into my asks. I’m always happy to discuss with you and riff on idea. As always, you are cherished and adored! Stay safe, be kind, and treat yourself💜

💼Part of the Bad Bosses AU💼

Mr. Rogers leaves without saying a word. His face is pale as his hand opens and closes in a fist at his side and he strides past your desk. You watch after him, thinking for a moment that you should follow. No, he has to sort this out on his own. You’ve already done too much.

You go through his calendar and cancel his only other meeting. You don’t think that’s going to happen.

It’s strange sitting there alone. Mr. Rogers comes and goes often but not know when he’ll be back puts you on edge. An hour passes then another. You spend your lunch outside in the sunshine then come back in to the stale office air.

Your phone rings and you answer. You’re surprised when Rogers’ voice comes from the speaker. You expected it to be Dizzie for some reason. She’s been awfully quiet today.

“She changed the locks,” he croaks.

There’s static on the line and thrum that’s so loud it nearly drowns him out.

“Sir?” You sit up straight.

“Peggy. She locked me out. I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I’ve just been sitting here in my car...” his voice is a dull murmur.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Rogers. Is that—can she do that? Can you call your lawyer? The police?”

“Police told me to call the lawyer. Lawyer says it’s gonna take a while so... yeah.”

“I’m so so sorry,” you touch your cheek. “I can’t even imagine... that’s horrible.”

“Yeah, I mean, who would leave you, Rosie? No, that’d be crazy.” He sniffles, “guess I deserve this. I worked so much, all so I could give her the life she wanted but it turns out I worked just enough to drive her away.”

“Sir,” you utter.

“Guess I could go to a hotel. I mean, might as well spend the money before I have alimony to pay,” he laughs crisply. “Bucky’s not picking up. I thought maybe I could stay there but... just because my life is falling apart doesn’t mean he needs to pick up the pieces.”

He sounds so broken it makes your heart rend. Something about his cadence also worries you. He doesn’t sound healthy.

“Sir, where are you?”

You realise then what that noise is. Water.

“By the bridge. The water looks cold.”

You swallow and stand up. “I’ll come to you, alright?”

“Rosie? Why...”

“Just, it’s okay, sir, I’ll be there. Is that Collingswood Bridge? I love the flowers there.”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he answers.

“Alright, I’m on my way okay, so let’s stay on the phone.”

“Rosie, why do you sound so upset?”

“I’m not upset. I just think you need a friend so I’m coming. Did you want me to message Mr. Barnes as well.”

“I told you, he’s too busy for me,” he mopes.

“But just in case--”

“Oh, woah!” He exclaims.

“Sir, what--”

“Nothing, nothing, I just... this bridge is so high up.”

You tamp down your worry and take a breath, “sir, I canceled your meetings. Oh, did I tell you, they’re opening a new donut place downstairs too! I know your favourite is the one with the sprinkles.”

“You remember,” he says softly.

“Of course, sir,” you assure him.

You keep chattering about nothing in particular as you swipe up your bag and race out of the office. You try not let him hear you panting as you rush down to catch a cab. You mute the phone to tell the driver to head to the bridge then get back on the line.

The conversation rolls on as you don’t let Rogers stop talking. You get out with a hasty thanks and tip to the driver. You rush down the bridge without looking ahead and only after you’re halfway down do you see your boss sitting on the railing. Holy moly.

You slow and walk up to him slowly, letting out quiet mhm’s and uh huhs and you grab onto his forearm. He flinches and you tug on him. You won’t be able to stop him from going over if he slips but you didn’t want to just call out to him and give him a warning.

“Rose!” He looks at you and lowers his phone. “How’d you get here?”

“Mr. Rogers, please, will you get off the railing?” You ask softly.

He stares at you then looks out at the water. He laughs and turns to hang his legs over the inside of the bridge. “Sure, Rosie. Were you worried?”

“I just wanna make sure you’re okay, sir,” you cling to him until he’s on his feet. He glances down at you grip and you finally let go.

“I’m good. I’m great, now that you’re here. Did you find me a room yet?” He asks.

You wince. You’ve been on the phone this whole time. When does he think you did that?

“Are you okay?” You ask.

“Of course, of course,” his eyes are red from tears, his cheeks pallid and streaked.

“Um, I’m sorry, everything’s booked up,” you say, “how about you come to my place? You can stay on my couch. Just for tonight.”

“Really?” His brow wrinkles, “you’d do that for me?”

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. You don’t think leaving him alone right now would be smart. Nor could you forgive yourself if anything happened. “It’s fine. My place is just a bit small.”

“Mm, I don’t mind,” he smiles and pushes his shoulders up in a shiver as a breeze blows across the water. “It’s cold out here.”

“It is, sir,” you agree. “Where did you park?”

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #series #au #bad bosses #code of conduct #drabble #mcu #marvel #avengers #captain america

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ash5monster01 · 7 months ago

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hiiii !! I just wanted to say your writing is just brilliant, and I love your DPS works 😊 I was wondering if you could maybe do a Neil x fem!reader, with smut ? Only if u want to ofc and thank u!!! i hope u never stop posting xx

The Hot Doc

Pairing: older!Neil Perry x FemReader

Warnings: 18+, smut, p in v, no use of protection, mentions of suicide, language, dirty talk, random hookup, setting is a hospital, reader is a doctor

Summary: Being a traveling Doctor meant meeting many new surgeons but on your latest visit, one happens to catch your eye.

word count: 2.4k

Masterlist

You’re quite sure you’re losing your mind. You had done this a hundred times, travel from hospital to hospital describing a new technique you had created. A safer way to perform an extremely invasive surgery. Every presentation was the same with the same looking Doctors listening quietly. That is until today when a certain doe eyed Doctor wears a mischievous look instead of curiosity. It makes you stumble over your words more than once, a smug smile on his face like he knows he’s the reason.

“If you have any questions or are interested in learning more I’ll be around the hospital all day” you inform the crowd and in true hospital staff passion, no one applauds or flashes a smile as they stand and return to work. All except for one you’re trying hard to ignore as you pack up your research.

“Quite the presentation you have there” the sultry voice startles you, eyes bewildered as you look to see he still wears the same smug smile he had on before.

“Thank you” you grant him, head nodding even if what he had said wasn’t entirely a compliment.

“I’m Dr. Perry, head of cardio here” he gestures around the room but you know he means the hospital. Of course he was a heart surgeon.

“If that’s so, why did you sit through my 50 minute presentation about brain surgery?” you question, arms crossing as you watch him stand from his seat and start for the front of the room.

“I had read an article about you a few months ago. The female that changed the way we operate. Your researching was incredible and the picture not so bad too” he grins at you, a teasing smile as he brings up the very article you had cut and framed in your office back home. To think it had flattered him before you had even stepped foot here.

“That’s very kind of you Dr. Perry. I’m glad you found an interest as well, even if it’s not your speciality” you tell him and he nods once, eyes still washing over you like he’s trying to memorize every detail now that you’re here in person.

“No need to thank me, no reason to when I’ve taken more interest in you than the contents of the article itself” his honesty is admirable and you’re unable to fight the heavy blush that creeps across your cheeks. It’s then you realize the look he had been giving you the entire time was one of lust.

“I’m flattered Dr. Perry, truly” you tell him, suddenly unable to look into his eyes and he smiles as he leans against the table that holds your research. A large hand reaching out and lifting your chin to face him.

“Please, call me Neil” he requests and you gulp at the sound of his name. Something so simple for a handsome man like this. The look in his eyes showing he had lived quite the life up until this very moment. It’s the very look that has heat pooling in your stomach and knees pressing together.

“Okay Neil” you nod, smiling softly at him and Neil has to look away a moment, trying to calm his heart. He had never taken interest in a woman like you before. When he realized he had to accept this life curated for him the last thing he thought he would do is fall for someone who clearly enjoyed it. Who had made this life path for themselves. Falling for a girl who was also a Doctor felt like he was officially leaving behind the life he once wanted for himself.

“I’m not trying to be too forward but can I take you to dinner?” he suddenly asks and you chuckle, finding it took barely anything from him at all the develop a need for him as well. Since when were you easily so wrecked for a man.

“I’d love too, I really really would, but my flight leaves at seven. You only have me for at least another five hours” something flashes behind his eyes at your words, the suggestion your comment had portrayed despite not meaning too.

“Then I’m gonna be a little more forward. I’d really like to kiss you, preferably before my five hours are up” he says and you smile, adoring how a handsome and smart doctor like himself had become infatuated with you just from your talent and a half terrible picture of you. A picture that made you cringe out of all they could’ve used and he had instead fallen for you hundreds of miles away.

“How long do I have you Doctor?” you ask, knowing more than likely he had a few surgeries scheduled on the board. As much as it would turn you on to see him perform one you also figured what the hell did you have to lose. In five hours you’d be in another state, this hospital just another on the list. It really had been a long time and as long as he was free you were hoping to take advantage of it.

“Two hours until my next surgery, I’m technically supposed to be getting some rest in an on call room” he answers, eyeing the time on his watch and wishing he could freeze it so he could spend all of it with you.

“Care if I join you?” the suggestion makes his eyebrows jump in surprise, not expecting his blatant flirting and forwardness to actually get him what he had wanted. He’d never doubt Charlie and his tactics ever again.

“How much rest would I be getting?” he asks and it’s your turn to be too forward, a devious smile crossing your face as you grasp the side of his white coat.

“None” you tell him and he’s standing straight up in a second, collecting your things and hand falling into your own as he leads you out of the auditorium. He’d be a fool to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. So you follow along, heart thrumming from how confidently he leads you to somewhere more private.

Once in the on call room Neil scans the hallway, making sure no one saw before shutting to door and clicking the lock. It’s small, only two bunk beds and a window with a black out curtain, but for spontaneity it would work. When Neil sets down your stuff you can’t help but feel your nerves spark as his eyes drink you in. Finally alone and in private and you’d have to follow through on exactly what you had just suggested. Which meant standing your ground as he stepped closer and closer.

“You sure you want to do this?-” but your lips meeting his own and arms wrapping around his neck answers the question. Large hands land on your back, holding you close as he relishes in the feeling of your lips on his. You smell delightful and when your tongue darts past his lips, deems you taste even better. It’s better than he had imagined it when he first read your article, and even more than when he imagined it again when he heard you’d be coming here.

“Just so you know, this is out of character for me” you inform him as his lips begin to trail down your neck, your hands making quick work of shoving the white coat off his form and starting for the buttons on his shirt.

“Me too” he tells you, voice muffled in your neck but you can still hear the honesty vibrate into your skin. So you keep at the buttons while his own hands finds the zipper on the back of your dress. He pulls it down slowly, kissing more and more of your shoulder as the fabric is loosened around you. When you finish with the last button you allow the dress to drop, leaving you in the mismatched bra and panties you had put on this morning. If you had known you’d meet a hot doctor you might’ve thought ahead about that.

“Jesus even better than I imagined” he says, shrugging his own shirt off his shoulder and tie in the process. His broad and bare chest is on display, he isn’t covered in muscles but toned in a way that matters and that’s when your eyes catch the scare along his left pec. Slowly you reach out, fingers brushing over it softly.

“What’s this?” you curiously ask, eyebrows furrowed and real worry written across your face. Neil’s hand grasps your wrist, pressing your palm flat over where his heart beats.

“The only time I failed a heart” and realization dawns on you, a small gasp falling from your lips. Slowly he drags your hand up his chest, to his shoulder, then to the side of his head. “Had it been here I never would’ve become a heart surgeon”

“Oh God Neil, I’m so sorry” you tell him but he just smiles, long moved on from the mistakes of his past. If he had been successful in taking his own life all those years ago he never would’ve met you. Ironically enough had he gone for the head it would’ve been your surgery that could’ve saved him.

“It’s okay, I had just grazed my heart. A surgeon saved me and when my Dad was still adamant I go to school I knew exactly what to do” his smile isn’t genuine and you know a boy who dreamed of something else is still trapped in there. Yet he also doesn’t need to revisit the same conversation he probably had a hundred times before. Instead he needed a distraction and that’s why you kiss him.

Neil kisses back feverishly, loving that he hadn’t scared you off with his honestly. Instead you hold his head in your hands and kiss him in a way to say it’s okay life didn’t turn out for him. That he was still here with you and that had to be just as good. So he will take this moment and lock it in his heart forever. Smiling against your lips when your hands unbuckle his belt just as his own find the clasp of your bra. It’s a flurry of discarded clothing until your bare form is pressed against his own and he’s laying you on the twin bed.

“You’re so beautiful” he tells you, lips traveling down your chest and to your breasts. You whine when his lips latch around your nipple, his free hand groping your other breast and sliding down until it meets the heat between your legs. You feel him hum against you when he discovers how wet you already are.

“Mhm Neil” you whimper, you orgasm already building as his mouth switches between your breasts, fingers toying with your bundle of nerves. When his lips meet your own again he shoves a finger inside of you. You moan into his mouth and suddenly he’s harder than before, more turned on than he’s ever been in his life.

“What do you want baby?” he asks as he shoves another finger in, stretching you out and deliciously gliding against your walls. You flutter around him and he smiles again as he pumps his fingers in and out, desperate to be inside of you.

You don’t answer him and instead grip the base of his cock. It’s his turn to whine, not expecting the touch as you squeeze him lightly. He tries hard not to grind into your hand as you glide further and further up till you meet his tip. Angry and red and leaking with pre-cum. You needed him inside of you. Which is why you widen your legs, guiding him to where he brushes against your folds. He winces, trying his best to not finish before he even gets to feel what it’s like inside of you.

“Fuck me Neil” you tell him and he doesn’t waste a second, hands slipping out of your pussy, replacing it with the tip of his cock that instantly glistens from how wet you are. He drags himself through your folds, once, twice, and then the third pushes into you slowly.

You grip his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin as he sinks further and further inside. It seems it’ll never end then suddenly he’s flush against you, the tip of his cock nudging that perfect spot. You moan out as he waits for you to adjust. Pretty soon you’re nodding, indicating he needs to move. He pulls out halfway before plunging in again. The sensation has you seeing stars and once Neil finds his rhythm you’re done for. You cling against him as he rams into you over and over again. It seems as if your eyes have rolled to the back of your head. His lips are everywhere and the sensation is better than any you had experienced before.

It’s when his hand finds your clit, rubbing quickly, do you feel your orgasm wash over you with no warning. You clamp down on him tightly and his hips stutter, realizing what he’s just done. He fucks you through it, trying hard to last until you squeeze him just right again and he’s finishing as well. You smile wide as he continues to fuck you until he can’t anymore. Falling against you gently and not quite ready to pull out yet.

“Well that was new” you say after a moment, a soft smile covering your lips and Neil smiles back, kissing you gently.

“I hope I wasn’t too forward?” he asks and you snort out a laugh, unwillingly clenching around him again that makes him tense up. He just kisses you again anyway.

“I’d say you did everything right” you tell him and he smiles, noticing this is the happiest he had been in a very very long time.

“I hope I made it memorable for you?” he grins again, that same smug look back on his face and you push some of his brunette hair away so you can see him better. Close enough to finally see the happy and lively boy that lives within him.

“What did you want to be instead of a Doctor?” you ask and he smiles, hand falling on top of your own. The one that cradles his face like you don’t ever want to let him go.

“An actor, I was good too” he tells you and you smile, kissing him gently and keeping your forehead pressed against his own.

“I know I leave tonight but maybe I can call you from my next destination, get to know you better?” you suggest and he smiles so wide he’s certain his own heart is too. Thrumming against your skin and feeling close to someone for the first time in a long time.

“I’d like that a lot”

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thesoftalchemist · 2 months ago

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✨🌹 A Lil Life Update of Andrea Rose🌹✨

Hi Girlies! I KNOW Its been a minute, that’s because I’ve been in FULL self discovery and transformation mode, think soft girl glow up ✨ main character energy, complete reinvention arc💖 Life has been feeling like a dreamy, slow motion movie montage of me stepping into my most radiant, delicate, authentic self, and honestly? I’m obsessed with it, So let’s get into it! 💕✨

First of all, I need to give the most heartfelt, starry eyed, love drenched shoutout to @holistic-girlhood one of the most magical, wise, stunningly perfect babes around, she laid this path for me 🌹✨ and I wouldn’t be thriving like this without her, and that’s just a fact 💯🥰

So, what’s new with Andrea? Oh, just EVERYTHING! 🤭💅

🌿 I’m Easing Into My Herbal Hormone Era - I’ve been incorporating natural herbal support into my routine, and let me tell you… I feel like a delicate woodland fae every time I sip my morning tea 🍵 My body? Soft and Relaxed. My mind? Serene. My soul? Glowing. I am becoming the softest, dreamiest version of myself, one day at the time 🪽

📖 Journaling & Affirmations Like a Romantic Heroine – I used to think affirmations were silly, but now? I stand in the mirror, whisper (I am radiant, I am divine, I am everything) and I believe it ✨💕 Journaling with my morning matcha/tea has become my sacred ritual, writing out my manifestations, romanticizing my progress, documenting my soft girl evolution, The power I feel when I put pen to paper? Unreal 👸✍️✨

🧖‍♀️ Self-Care Like a Royal Princess – Moisturizing after every shower? Mandatory. 🫧 Skincare routine? Upgraded. Weekly spa days with face masks, aromatherapy, and candles so luxurious I feel like I live in a French château? 💆‍♀️ Non negotiable. 🤭 I refuse to exist in any state other than completely nourished, pampered, and adored. 👑✨

🩶 Curating My Boi Mode Wardrobe & Feeling HOT – I have been in my comfy, cool, effortlessly stylish boi era, and every single new piece I add to my wardrobe makes me feel even more like myself 💫 No more wearing things just because I have them 🙅‍♀️ everything I put on now has to make me feel confident, relaxed, and undeniably hot 🖤 The vibes? A little androgynous, a little cozy, a LOT iconic. Slowly but surely, I am crafting the boi wardrobe of my dreams and feeling more like me than ever before 🖤🔥

🧘‍♀️ Moving Like a Soft Girl Ballerina - I started doing flowy, gentle yoga and stretching, and it has completely changed my life 🩰✨ I feel more connected to my body than I ever have, Every stretch, every breath, it’s like I’m unlocking new levels of softness and grace. I swear I float through my days now. Who even is she?? ☁️💕

🥗 Nourishing My Body Like a Celestial Goddess – No more eating just to eat 🙅‍♀️ I am feeding myself with love 💖 Foods that make me feel light, energized, and ethereal ✨ I want to start using body AI visualisation to set goals and to inspire myself (need to still figure it out tho hehe) My dream self? Im emerging. Slowly, softly, beautifully 🌙

✨Vibe? A Full On Soft Girl Metamorphosis✨

I feel like I’m stepping into a whole new era of me 💅 Some days it’s messy, some days I feel like a literal angel, but every day I remind myself, I am the main character. I am THAT girl. I am romanticizing every single step of this journey. And it’s all coming together in the most beautiful, cinematic way 🎀💭

To anyone else on this path: romanticize every single little thing 🌸 Your tea. Your skincare routine. Your morning journal session. ✍️ You are becoming, even when you don’t see it yet. Keep glowing, keep softening, keep loving yourself through it all ☺️💕

Sooo much love to you all!! 💕💕

Andrea 🌹xxx

#the soft alchemist #encouragement #girlblogging #girlhood #feminine energy #girlblogger #inspiration #motivation #self care #self improvement

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bunnwich · 1 year ago

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It's Supposed to Be Fun

(a letter to my friends in the twst fandom)

I've been wanting to make this post for a while and these thoughts may seem scattered but I’m gonna try to express them.

Lately, I have seen many friends and moots that either are leaving the fandom or feel guilty over not having posted in a while or losing interest in twst. On the other side, I also have friends being harassed.

This a reminder to remember why you joined this community to begin with. I know that keeping up with the fast-moving pace of fandom and comparing ourselves to others, can skew our perspective on these things.

It’s supposed to be fun.

Why do we post art or write? Sure, partly for recognition, there's no denying that. But, why do we create, I mean really? For enjoyment. Not for others, not to be “popular” FOR JOY.

So, whether you’re dealing with people critiquing you or feeling guilty about not creating. My question is this: Why waste so much of your time on something that makes you miserable?

Did it stop being fun? Why? Haters? Loss of interest?

To my friends who feel guilty for not creating and not sure if they lost interest in twst:

Don’t feel guilty. At one time, the creation of your twst content was natural. It's what you did for fun with friends or for yourself. Revisit that mindset and think - if creating twst content now will bring that same joy it did before.

If the answer is no, then maybe it’s time to pivot. It’s okay for interests to fade. It doesn’t mean that time, memories, or the friends you made are lost. Connect with your friends, we will understand! We still love you! It's not a race there's no time limit, just pick up were you want to. Draw fanart of old events or OCs.

To my friends who have been harassed:

I say this with sincerity…. People who harass others over fictional characters are fucking losers.

Like… There’s no other eloquent way to encapsulate it. I’m starting to not care for the reason anymore - If you harass or be shady to others over a ship or fictional character. CONGRATS! YOU ARE A LOSER.

We all join fandoms as a hobby, for fun. We’re all just kids in the sandbox playing pretend again… and if you are the type of person to go up just to “kick the doll out of someone’s hand" or make commentary on how “their way of playing is wrong." You’re a loser. I have a life outside of twst, we all do. Someone saying my ship is wrong or cringe is just so laughable to me. We have to make fun of these people more for being so goddamn lame.

Imagine being so unhappy that when you see someone having fun you HAVE to comment on it. By all means, if it gets you through the day...talk shit to close friends or even post about it on your own blog. (THAT WAS ALWAYS ALLOWED.) Don't bother creators directly. Don't be a loser. I sure see tolerance leave people’s bodies when they see a fandom opinion they don't like. (And this is coming from someone who has lots of opinions on these things! But that's why I always put the disclaimers that, hey this is just MY opinion.)

Discussion is one thing, unhelpful comments are another. We shouldn’t give these people the time of day. Curate your online space. Yes, when you post things online you are subjecting yourself to scrutiny. But, we as creators need to stop letting these people have power over us. Period. We do this for free!! FOR FUN. The best thing you can do is create shamelessly.

Delete weird replies, block whoever you need to do to rid yourself of these people who have nothing better to do. Keep your peace. It’s supposed to be for fun. You don’t owe anyone a response.

The twst fandom is like a little family to me and I guess I feel protective over the people in it? I have made many friends and memories because I joined it. And even dispite a handful of the negative experiences (AKA: A couple of “losers" that I’ve had to deal with.) I’ll always look fondly back on this time.

The key for me has always been to just…create for myself. I originally made bunnwich for me and one friend to make fun little arts about our Yuu’s and now I get to have lots of friends to share it with! I’ve transitioned from an OC blog to probably more of an Oc x Canon blog…but I don’t care tbh. I just…draw what I feel like. I know there are people who probably dislike me for that or feel strange about my content and that’s fine. I’m still gonna keep drawing it, loser.

And I just want you guys to do the same, twst or not.

I can’t forget that all my followers and friends are a bonus, if I had never joined tumblr I’d still be drawing the silly shit I draw in peace. And while yes, I do want to grow as an artist and sell more merch and keep growing... I can’t forget my initial excitement for this silly little game. I like to talk about it. I like to write about it. It inspires me.

It’s supposed to be fun. Please remember that. I know it can be discouraging to have others being shitty to you. Or going through a creative drought. But, try not to let this stop you from creating what you love.

#Anyways just had to get this out #feel free to ignore #I love you guys alot and idk if this is helpful but I hate to see you guys upset #ren speaks🌱#twst

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liorabb · 2 months ago

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“Unfinished Business”

warnings:toxic relationship,obsession,possessiveness,loss of virginity,gaslighting,emotional manipulation and etc

Rafe Cameron was the golden boy of Figure Eight—the rich, charming heir to his family’s fortune. He had it all: a beautiful wife, a sprawling estate, and a reputation to uphold. But beneath the carefully curated perfection, he was a man with desires, weaknesses. And for two years, that weakness had been you.

You were the secret, the hidden temptation he couldn’t resist. It started with stolen glances, turned into lingering touches, and then into something far more destructive. You lost your virginity to him, gave him everything you had, but in the end, you were nothing more than a shadow in his life—a second choice.

And you were finally done.

The sheets were tangled around your legs as you lay in Rafe’s bed, staring at the ceiling while he slept beside you. His arm was draped possessively over your waist, as if he owned you, as if he had any right to keep you there when you were nothing more than a dirty little secret.

The past two years had been a slow, torturous unraveling of yourself. At first, you convinced yourself that it was worth it. That being his—even in the shadows—was better than not having him at all. But with every night he went home to her, with every time he kissed you breathless only to whisper, “You know I can’t leave her,” your heart cracked a little more.

Not anymore.

You carefully moved his arm, slipping out of the bed without a sound. The cool air hit your bare skin as you reached for your clothes, heart hammering in your chest. You had to get out before he woke up. Before he could stop you.

But as you reached for the doorknob

As your fingers barely grazed the doorknob, a deep voice sliced through the silence.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Your heart leapt into your throat as you turned to see Rafe sitting up in bed, his tousled hair falling over his forehead, eyes dark with sleep—and something far more dangerous.

“I’m leaving,” you said, voice steadier than you felt.

Rafe let out a low chuckle, running a hand through his hair. “Funny.” He leaned back against the headboard, stretching like he had all the time in the world. “Come back to bed.”

You swallowed hard. This was always how it went. He would say something, and you would fold. You would forget the way your stomach twisted when he left you alone, forget the way he would pretend you didn’t exist in public. But not this time.

“No.”

His expression darkened. “Excuse me?”

Your hands curled into fists at your sides. “I said no, Rafe. I’m done. Two years. That’s how long I’ve wasted on you. I gave you everything, and you gave me nothing.” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pushed through it. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He was completely still. Watching. Assessing.

Then, in an instant, he was off the bed. You barely had time to react before he was in front of you, caging you against the door. His hand pressed flat against the wood beside your head, his body heat swallowing you whole.

“You’re not serious,” he said, voice low and lethal.

Your breathing was shallow, but you lifted your chin. “I am.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. His fingers curled into fists. “Bullshit,” he spat. “You love me.”

A pang shot through you. Maybe once, you had. But love meant nothing when you were constantly reminded that you weren’t enough for him.

“I loved you,” you corrected. “But I won’t be your second choice anymore.”

Something snapped in his expression.

For the first time in all these years, Rafe looked desperate. Panicked.

“You’re not leaving me,” he growled. “You think you can just walk away? After everything?”

Your back pressed harder against the door. “What else do you expect me to do, Rafe? Wait around until you’re bored of your wife?” The bitterness was thick in your throat. “I was stupid enough to think you would pick me. But you never will.”

He exhaled sharply, his head tilting down so his forehead nearly touched yours. “You don’t get it,” he murmured. “You were never my second choice.”

Your heart clenched. Liar.

You forced yourself to shove against his chest. He didn’t budge at first, but after a moment, he let you go.

“This is over, Rafe,” you whispered. “Don’t call me. Don’t look for me.”

Then, before you could hesitate, you turned the doorknob and walked out.

Rafe stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt like the ground had just been ripped from under him.

You had never left before.

Never stood up to him like that.

His hands ran through his hair as a ragged breath left his lips. He told himself it was fine. That you would come back. That you needed him just as much as he needed you.

But something felt different.

The finality in your voice. The way you didn’t hesitate when you walked away.

His stomach twisted violently.

He grabbed his phone and dialed your number. Straight to voicemail.

Again. Nothing.

A sharp, “Fuck!” tore from his throat as he hurled his phone across the room. It shattered against the wall, but the anger didn’t subside.

You were his.

His to touch. His to ruin.

And he’d be damned if he let you forget that.

The next week was hell.

Rafe tried everything. He showed up at your apartment. Your job. Your favorite café.

Nothing.

You had disappeared from his world completely.

His wife started noticing his moods. The sleepless nights. The way he barely spoke. But he didn’t care.

You had no right to leave him. Not after everything.

Not after he had given himself to you in ways he never had with anyone else.

His obsession grew darker, more uncontrollable.

Then one night, he saw you.

You were at a bar, laughing, looking free in a way that made his blood boil. But it wasn’t just that.

You weren’t alone.

Some guy—some fucking nobody—had his hands on you. Leaning in too close. Whispering in your ear.

Rafe saw red.

Before he even realized what he was doing, he was across the room.

Your eyes widened just as he grabbed your wrist, yanking you away from the guy.

“Rafe—!”

But he wasn’t listening.

“You think you can just move on?” His grip tightened. “Like I never fucking mattered?”

“Let me go!” You struggled against him, but he only pulled you closer, face inches from yours.

“You’re mine.” His voice was deadly quiet.

“Rafe, stop!”

The guy you had been with stood up, eyes narrowing. “Dude, let her go.”

Rafe’s lips curled into a dangerous smile. “Or what?”

The guy barely had a second to react before Rafe’s fist collided with his jaw.

Chaos erupted.

You screamed his name, but he didn’t stop. He kept going until blood coated his knuckles, until you were shoving against him, tears in your eyes.

“Enough!” Your voice cracked. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Rafe’s breath was heavy, chest rising and falling. He barely even looked at the guy on the ground. His eyes were locked onto you.

“You don’t get to do this,” you whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t get to ruin me and then act like you care.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “I do care.”

You shook your head, stepping back. “No, you don’t. You just don’t want to lose your toy.”

Something flickered in his gaze—something raw, something unhinged.

“You’re not leaving me,” he said again, softer this time.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears. “I already did.”

And then, before he could stop you, you turned and ran.

Rafe sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel so tightly he thought it might snap.

He had gone too far.

But he couldn’t let you go.

He wouldn’t.

If he couldn’t have you… no one could.

A slow, eerie smile curled on his lips as an idea formed in his mind.

You wanted to walk away? Fine.

But this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

#rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe cameron #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe imagine #rafe fic

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multi-fandomfuckboy · 10 months ago

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Stranger Than Fiction

Part 28: Games

Billy Hargrove x Reader (Slowburn)

Part 1,... (Masterlist)...Part 28, Part 29 (Coming Soon)...

AN: lol I'm back on my bullshit. Word Count: 3,874 Warnings: allusions to abuse

It’s a short ride. Neither of you speak, allowing the music to fill the space between you. It’s comfortable. You listen to each song as the cassette plays through the specific mix curated by its maker. Max had shown you a few of these ‘mixtapes' Billy had made the day you waited with her. You don’t fully understand how he’s able to get each song to seamlessly blend into the next despite the variation in artists and rhythms.

Then a song comes on that grabs your attention. It’s the same loud tune, a guitar continuously strumming along with the beat of drums and bass. The thing that stands out to you are the lyrics.

“People think I’m insane, because I’m frowning all the time… I need someone to show me the things in life that I can’t find I can’t see the things that make true happiness, I must be blind.”

“Who sings this?” You ask, glancing sidelong at Billy.

“Black Sabbath.” He tells you, keeping his eyes ahead. “It’s one of their older songs but it still holds up.” He explains pulling to a stop in front of his house. When he moves to cut the engine your hand reflexively grabs his wrist, stopping him.

“Wait. I want to hear the rest.” You tell him, using your other hand to turn up the volume. Billy doesn’t fight you, watching you in silence as you listen to the rest of the song.

“Make a joke and I will sigh And you will laugh and I will cry Happiness I cannot feel And love to me is so unreal… I tell you to enjoy life I wish I could, but it’s too late”

Your heart gives an uncomfortable squeeze for a beat as the song ends. There is a tense moment before the next song begins where you notice Billy's pulse under your fingertips. You don’t know why you're squeezing Billy’s wrist so tightly. You slowly uncurl your fingers, sitting back in your seat. The lyrics bounce around in your mind as you sit there. Billy finally cuts the engine, ending the music as well.

“You okay?” Billy finally asks, lifting a brow. You nod.

“Yea, it’s just weird. How something can sound so loud and angry but under it all it’s actually really sad.” You explain. “Like a cry for help.” Billy’s lips quirk up slightly.

“Maybe that’s what they were going for?” He says. “Music is just another way to tell a story. I’m surprised you’re not more into it.” He tells you, moving to exit the car. “If you thought that was good I’ll have to show you some Bon Jovi.” He goes on as you follow him out of the car and up the steps towards the house. “I’m assuming you have no idea who that is.” Billy says with a smirk.

“Yea yea, save it. Max already thinks I’ve been living under a rock for the past 17 years.” You reply with an eye roll. Billy huffs a laugh.

“That little shit wouldn’t know dick about music if it weren’t for me.” He says, pulling out his keys. His words are harsh but there is no heat to them.

“Well this is a first.” You quip as he unlocks and opens the front door, stepping to the side to let you enter first. “A whole different experience than coming in though the window.” You joke, stepping into the house.

“We can always go around back if you’d feel more comfortable.” He jokes back, following you in. You take a moment to really look around as Billy closes and bolts the door behind you. You’ve never been in this part of the house, only glimpsing at it through windows. It’s not a large space and it’s clear that 4 people occupy the small domicile. Bits and pieces of everyones lives are scattered around.

“I think I’m good.” You reply. You notice that there is a clear clash in interior design through the house. The free weights contrast with the decorative rug under them. Beer cans stacked next to decorative shell decor on the mantle. Someone had tried to make this house a home, but there was something off. It felt like two personalities were struggling to mesh into a comfortable middle, it was unstable, chaotic.

Billy moves around you to lead you deeper into the house but before you can move any further Max’s voice calls from her room.

“Billy, I need to go to the arcade! Where did you-oh.” She stops short seeing you in the living room. For some reason it feels like you’ve been caught doing something you shouldn’t, a pit of anxiety taking root in your stomach.

“Hey Max.” You greet, giving her a half wave. She just watches you skeptically. Her narrowed eyes dart between you and Billy.

“What’s your malfunction?” Billy snaps after the silence lasts a moment longer than is comfortable.

“Are you two dating?” Max asks bluntly.

“What?!” Both you and Billy ask in unison. You share a confused glance before turning back to Max. Your face heats exponentially.

“Mind your own business you little shit.” Billy bites at the same time you try to explain.

“He’s tutoring me in history.” A smirk, eerily similar to Billy’s, spreads across Max’s face.

“Is that what they call it these days?” She asks, crossing her arms and leaning against the wall, a taunting lift in her brow.

“If you want a ride, I would shut the hell up.” Billy says sternly, narrowing his eyes at the redhead.

“Jeez, learn how to take a joke.” Max huffs with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She ducks back into her room, leaving you and Billy in the living room. Billy just shakes his head, clenching his jaw as he heads for his room.

“I swear if her attitude gets any worse Neil is going to lose his shit.” He mumbles, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Be ready in 20 minutes!” He yells after her. The only confirmation that she heard him comes in the form of a dramatic groan.

“That’s how all kids are at that age. I was so argumentative my mom and I didn’t have a pleasant interaction for weeks at a time, and don’t get me started on Hopper. I’m pretty sure I took years off his life with my attitude.” You chuckle fondly at the memory of your painful growing years.

“Sometimes being a kid isn’t a good enough excuse.” Billy replies calmly. Your stomach twists uncomfortably remembering how Neil had looked at his own son that night not so long ago.

“Neil and Susan are in Indianapolis Christmas shopping, so I’m playing chauffeur for the day.” Billy explains, entering his room and heading straight for the bed, flopping down on it.

“I don’t mind helping watch her.” You offer without much thought. You hover in the doorway, suddenly nervous about being in his room alone with him. It’s not like you had never been in his room alone before, you spent many nights sitting across from him on the bed pouring over history lessons, keeping your voices low to not wake anyone else in the house. But something about being here in the daylight, not sneaking around, it makes your stomach swirl. You glance around, his room looks the same as it always does. Bed half made, cigarette butts stamped out in the ashtray next to the cassettes on the nightstand. You do notice that there is now a small dent in the wall next to the mirror, but you can’t be sure that it wasn’t always there.

“Neil would kick my ass if he knew I pawned my responsibility off on you.” Billy explains, propping himself up on his elbow to see you. You absentmindedly skim your fingers over the outside of the doorframe.

“It’s not ‘pawning’ them off on me. We would do it together.” You reason with him. Your fingers catch on something cold and metal on the outside of the doorframe. Leaning back to glance at what you’re touching you see the latch of a lock. Glancing at the outer side of the door you see the other half of the latch. Something cold prickles down your spine.

This isn’t just a teenager wanting privacy, the way this latch is set up, it would function to lock the door from the outside. Why would anyone need that? Your mind struggles to make sense of it.

“He wouldn’t see it that way.” He tells you flatly.

“Then don’t tell him.” You say simply, stepping fully into the room. “I’ll help you out today and I’ll be gone by the time they get home. “ you explain, sitting gently on the edge of the bed next to his legs. “Just like when we painted the porch.” You remind him. You watch something dance behind his eyes at the memory from this summer that feels like a hundred years ago. “Consider it part of my tutoring payment. I know the food isn’t a fair trade.” You insist. When he finally nods, giving in, you have to smile.

“Fine. But only because the idea of dealing with a prepubescent she-devil by myself makes me want to stick needles in my brain… and leaving her alone is not an option.” He tells you, sitting up next to you. His thigh presses against yours, and the proximity sends sparks over your nerves.

Remembering the promise you made yourself before leaving home you try to scoot away to put some distance between your bodies. Billy notices the movement immediately.

“Oh sorry, am I making you nervous?” He asks, leaning in even closer, one of his arms going behind your back. He’s not touching you, but he’s close enough that you can feel him if you lean back even slightly. You struggle to hold his gaze.

“No.” You say simply, not trusting your voice to say more without shaking.

“You sure?” He asks, lifting a brow. You feel him lean in even closer, you swear you can feel the heat coming off of him. You force yourself to hold his gaze and remain still, fighting the urge to pull away. Like a game of personal space chicken.

“I’m fine.” You practically whisper, your voice sounding too loud with how close he is. When he chuckles you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. His eyes shift between yours. You can see the flecks of green in his sky blue iris. Your breath mingles with his and you smell his last cigarette mixed with spearmint gum. You swallow thickly, gritting your teeth together in defiance.

“You can tell me if you’re not.” Billy insists, his voice just as soft. He’s flirting but you can hear the seriousness laced in his tone. He’s making sure you know he’ll stop, if you ask. Something about that knowledge eases the panic in you. Shifting slightly you tilt your chin up, watching him the way he always looks at you.

“I’m okay.” You say more confidently. You see his adams apple bob as he swallows, his eyes seeming to darken. His gaze flickers to your parted lips so quickly you think you imagined it. Your mouth suddenly goes dry, your stomach flipping at the memory of what his lips felt like against you-

“Right, that’s what ‘not dating’ looks like.” Max’s voice calls loudly from the doorway. You feel like a bucket of ice water has just been poured over your head as you pull away from Billy. Embarrassment floods through you as Billy leaps from the bed lunging towards the door.

“Fuck off!” He yells, slamming the door closed.

“I still need a ride!” Max yells from outside the door, pounding on it for emphasis. Billy’s shoulders are tense as he stands with his back to you, his arms braced against the door. You see him take a deep breath, then another, bowing his head as he lowers his arms, slightly adjusting the waistband of his jeans.

“You sure you want in on this shit show?” He asks, turning to lean back against the door. Max pounds on the door again, shaking its frame. You manage a dry laugh, trying to shove all the mortifying shame you feel into the back of your mind.

“Oh this is nothing. Try telling Mike Wheeler a campaign needs to end early. Kid turns into a gremlin.” You tell him, pushing yourself off the bed. Billy lifts a brow.

“I’m more surprised that you know what a gremlin is.” He admits teasingly. You roll your eyes.

“I do have a life outside of this room you know.” You tell him. You won’t admit that the only reason you know the plot of gremlins is because Steve insisted on catching you up on all the big hits you had missed while you were in the hospital, not that you had actually seen it in theaters.

Billy watches you approach with a healthy dose of skepticism.

“Come on Hargrove, put on a brave face. I hear they can smell fear.” You joke, clapping a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m going to be late!” Max yells, pounding harder.

“Be my guest Loca, I always knew you had a death wish.” Billy says with a smirk. Your heart pounds at the memory of your first meeting. It feels like a million years ago, like you were an entirely different person, and looking at Billy’s confident smirk, the teasing glint in his eyes, you wonder if he’s a different person now too.

Without another word, Billy whips open the door to reveal a very agitated Max.

“Finally!” She exclaims, turning on her heel striding towards the front door, her bag already slung over her shoulder. Billy shoots you a look over his shoulder before following after her.

“Hey, Max?” You call, slipping in front of Billy to catch up to her. She only glances at you, still heading for the door. “Do you mind if I tag along to the arcade?” You ask. Your words cause her to halt, turning to face you with the full force of her scrutinizing glare. You feel Billy come to a stop behind you, her eyes dart to him before returning to you.

“Did he ask you to babysit me?” She asks indignantly.

“No!” You say, throwing your hands up. “I just thought you could teach me some stuff. I’m not very good and I hear you kick the boys' butts on a regular basis.” You explain, hoping it comes off as genuine. She studies you for another beat, seeming to weigh the pros and cons of allowing you to come with her. Finally, she shrugs.

“Fine. But don’t try to talk to me while I’m playing. It throws me off.” She instructs, turning for the door. When her back is turned you quickly give Billy an enthusiastic thumbs up, earning another eye roll.

The three of you climb into the car, Billy turning the volume up to his usual bone shaking level as he whips out of his spot, speeding down the road. It’s a short ride into town, especially with how Billy drives. When he comes to a stop outside the arcade you climb out, pulling the seat forward to allow Max out.

“I’ll meet you in there.” you tell her. Needing no explanation, Max jogs to the doors slipping into the dimly lit building. You can see the boys' bikes already lined up outside. “You coming?” you ask Billy, leaning back into the car.

“Hell no. I can babysit just fine from here. You couldn’t pay me to go into that dork pit.” He scoffs. You roll your eyes at his stubbornness.

“Oh come on, tough guy. Where is your sense of adventure and whimsy.” you ask, only receiving an unimpressed look in return.

“Whimsy?” He asks, his lip curling at the word.

“I’ll buy you a coke.” you offer, hoping that bribery will soften his resolve. Billy’s lips press into a firm line, you can see his jaw tick as he grinds his teeth.

“Fine.” he says after a moment. “But I have to run an errand real quick.” He tells you. Thinking this is some kind of trick to get out of coming in, you narrow your eyes.

“You promise to come in when you get back?” you ask, extending your pinky to him. He lifts a brow, a dry laugh escaping him.

“What are you 12?” He asks. When you don’t show any signs of joking he heaves a sigh, linking his pinky with yours. “Fine, yes. I promise I’ll come back and watch you be terrible at dig dug, dork.” He promises with a teasing smirk.

“Good.” you smile, letting his pinky go and stepping back. “And I’m not that bad.” you clarify, closing the door and allowing him to pull away from the curb.

It turns out that you ARE that bad.

Max allows you to take the first turn, even offering you pointers, but by the end of your third turn she takes over explaining that she can’t stand watching you throw away quarters like that. You’re a sorry excuse for a gamer, your brain having trouble communicating quickly enough with your hands on the controls. It’s alright though, you have more fun watching Max and the boys take turns trying to beat each other's scores.

The longer you observe the group of adolescents the more you note the change in dynamic among them. Max and Lucus are openly interested in each other but don’t seem to know how to navigate this new realm of relationship. Mike appears distracted, constantly glancing at his watch. You assume he’s anxious to see El. You know that Hopper has started allowing the two to hang out at the cabin and though you’ve pushed for El to have more social time, Hopper's old habits die hard. His paranoia is persistent. You can’t say that you don’t understand where he’s coming from.

Dustin and Will seem more irritated than anything with the new shift in priorities within the group.

After roughly 30 minutes of watching Max wipe the floor with the boys scores, you venture to the opposite side of the arcade. You want to give the group space but also stay close enough to keep an eye on them. You scan the games, searching for one that you can play without too much instruction. Ms. Pac-Man seems to be simple enough, and it’s located in a spot that allows you to watch your group bounce from game to game.

Inserting your first quarter you begin the game. You’re able to keep up at first, but when the ghosts start to speed up you can't seem to evade them quick enough. After your 4th quarter your pride is stinging.

“Fuck…” you curse to yourself as once again you are cornered by the little red ghost. Before you can insert another quarter, you feel someone approaching from your left, coming too close to just be passing by, tensing your hand itches to lash out but you stop yourself when you realize who it is.

“Hey.” Keiths’ monotone voice greets you. You know him from school, and to your knowledge the two of you had never actually spoken to each other.

“Hi Keith.” you reply politely. You aren’t sure why he’s approaching you. You know that he works here so possibly you were doing something wrong. “What’s up?” you ask. Kieth seems to swallow past something in his struggle to speak.

“I see you around sometimes.” he tells you, unable to meet your eyes. You don’t know what to say to that.

“Yea, I babysit so I come in to keep an eye on my kids sometimes.” you tell him.

“That’s cool.” he mumbles “You know I could help you with some of the games if you want. Are you alone today?” He asks. You know he doesn't mean for it to sound as creepy as it does but you can’t help your slight cringe.

“No, I’m actually with-” you move to gesture towards Max but are cut off when Billy appears next to you, casually draping an arm over your shoulders.

“Me.” He finishes for you, keeping his eyes on Keith who looks like a deer caught in headlights.

“O-oh, cool.” Keith manages to mumble, taking a step back. “Nevermind then” he manages to get out, obviously resisting the urge to turn and run. Understandable with the way Billy is glaring daggers at him.

“I’ll see you around.” you offer Keith a kind smile. He only nods sheepishly before retreating further into the arcade. Sighing, you swat at Billy’s side, causing him to drop his arm from your shoulder with a chuckle.

“What was that for?” he asks, doing his best to look genuinely confused. You see right through it to the self satisfaction he's really feeling.

“Did you have to mad dog him? He was just saying ‘Hi’.” you tell him. Billy scoffs, moving to lean against the game.

“Yea, right.” He says, sarcasm dripping from every word. “You didn’t see how he’s been eyeing you, trying to work up the courage to come ‘say hi’.” he tells you, throwing air quotes around your words.

“And how long were you watching that?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest. Billy shakes his head, his curls falling across his forehead.

“You’re missing the point.” He tells you, deflecting the question.

“What point is that?” You ask, shaking your head as you dig a quarter out of your pocket and lean over to place it into the game. When you straighten up Billy has taken a step into your space. You could take a step back to give yourself some room, but you don't. You stand your ground, tilting your head up to meet his stare head on.

“The point is that you’re playing a game you don’t know the rules of and guys like that-” he jerks his chin in the direction Keith had run off. “Will take advantage of that.” he tells you, his voice low. You know he’s too close. That you should take a step back. That the way he’s looking down at you is too personal. That either one of you could close the distance between you with a breath.

“I’m not really good at games.” you admit, feeling the heat rushing to your face. Still you can’t seem to look away. Billy’s sharp gaze seems to soften slightly at your admission.

“I know…” He says softly, his eyes shifting between yours. “I just watched you die 4 times and not even make it past the first level of Pac-man.” He says, his teasing smirk overtaking all the gentleness that had once been in his eyes. Finally, you pull back shocked.

“You stalker!” you accuse, Billy just chuckles turning to face the game. “And I was multitasking.” you try to defend your abysmal performance, gesturing to the group now huddled around galaga.

“Sure, sure. Let me show you how it’s done.” he says confidently, starting the queued up game.

“Hey! That was my quarter!” You protest. Billy only chuckles again.

“I’ll get the next one, crazy.” he tells you, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.

AN: sorry this took so long... again!

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