#it was my way of getting back into writing

[valeisaslut]

Reader asking Ellie to record them fucking, and Ellie ends up getting really into it (love your writing btw!! 💋💋)

say hi to the camera ─⭑.

⭒ word count: 3.6k 𖥔 ݁ ˖

⭒ content warnings: film student top!ellie x sub!reader, oral sex (r!receiving), fingering (r!receiving), strap-on (r!receiving), pussy slapping, hair pulling, filming kink, AFAB!reader, cursing, pet names, rough sex, degradation + praise, MEN AND MINORS DNI, likes and reblogs are deeply appreciated 𖥔 ݁ ˖

࿐not part of the collide au (rip my absolute queens... this actually hurt my SOUL but hey sometimes we gotta go out of our comfort zone and get feral for... the craft)

you said it as a joke.

but it landed like a command.

it happens halfway through straddling her on the couch, your body already buzzing from the way she’s kissing you—slow and deep, like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. her palms are hot under your shirt, fingertips dragging slow up your ribs.

you lean back just enough to catch your breath, grin sharp as ever.

"you should record this next time."

her lips pause at your throat. she stays there, a little shocked, mouth barely grazing your skin, and then—voice low, amused:

"you want me to record you while i fuck you?"

you shrug, all fake casual, even though your pulse jumps.

"i mean… why not? could be hot."

ellie pulls back just enough to look at you. blinks once. and then she grins—all trouble. her hands drag down your sides, deliberate now, like she’s already directing the first shot.

"you want a sex tape, baby?"

your smile widens. "just for me. like, when you're gone late working on a project and i’m in bed missing you."

she groans. like, actual full-body groan. throws her head back against the couch, rubs a hand over her face like you’ve just ruined her life.

"jesus fucking christ. you’re evil."

you tilt your head. "you love it."

her gaze snaps back to you—darker now, her pupils blown wide, her lip caught between her teeth.

"i will story-board the fuck out of it. lighting. blocking. sound. i'll give you a score."

"you’re such a nerd."

“and you’re the one asking a film major to make a porno, so who’s the real nerd here?”

you laugh, leaning in to kiss her, grinding down on her lap.

“bet you’d narrate the whole thing like, ‘scene one—fucking my girlfriend. interior. night. single cam. practical lighting.’”

she chokes on a laugh, then groans, fingers digging into your hips. “shut the fuck up.”

“no, seriously—‘fade in: slut on couch. extreme close-up. one long take. raw as hell.’”

“i’m gonna ruin you,” she growls, and this time it’s not a joke—rough, all threat and promise.

you just smirk, mouth barely brushing hers.

“yeah, but make it auteur.”

she doesn’t bring it up again for a week. you think she’s forgotten, or maybe it was just talk—a shared fantasy that slipped between the couch cushions and the memory of her mouth on your neck.

but then it’s saturday night. you’re fresh from the shower, hair damp and clinging to your neck, skin still warm, still smelling like her soap. you’re wearing her old gray t-shirt—soft, stretched, worn in the best way—and nothing underneath.

ellie’s already in the bedroom. the lights are low, shadows moving slow across the walls. deftones plays from the speaker—just enough to feel in your ribs, not loud enough to distract.

when you step into the room, you freeze. she’s sprawled out on the bed in a black tank top and boxers, one knee bent, and a camera aimed straight at you.

not her phone. not some propped-up, shaky little attempt at homemade porn. a real camera—matte black, compact, handheld, with a flip-out screen angled toward her face and that unmistakable red recording light already glowing steady.

the kind of camera that says she’s thought about this. planned it. maybe even fantasized about how she’d frame you, light you, direct you. and now you’re here. standing in the doorway, already caught in the first shot.

“wait,” you say, blinking. “are you for real?”

she doesn’t even flinch. just looks up from behind it and grins, wide and wolfish.

“oh, i’m for real,” she says, voice warm and smug.

you snort, tugging the hem of your shirt down instinctively, "with a real fucking camera?"

"yeah, wanna see it in 4K" she responds, tilting it, lens still trained on you. "why? don’t get all shy on me now, babe. you're the one who said record it."

“yeah,” you arch a brow. “i just didn’t think i was dating a one-woman a24 production crew.”

“you’re not,” she says, adjusting the zoom. “you’re dating a visionary.”

you try not to laugh but fail.“you look like a lesbian scorsese.”

“and you look like the hottest thing i’ve ever filmed,” she says, voice thick, thumb adjusting the focus. “so maybe be nice to your director.”

you stay where you are for a second. let her film you standing still. let her zoom in the curve of your thighs, the way the shirt clings to your chest, the outline of your nipples through the fabric. the tension builds between frames, between your breaths.

“you’re actually committing to this?” you ask, voice softer now, a little breathless, as if the heat in the room just kicked up a notch.

“baby,” she says, adjusting the focus without even looking away, “i’ve been storyboarding this in my head since before we even spoke.”

her voice is calm, almost sweet—like it’s not the filthiest thing she’s ever admitted.

“freak,” you mutter, but you’re smiling, laughing again���breathier this time. your body already giving in. you step closer, hips loose, eyes locked on hers.

ellie lifts the camera a little higher, tracks the shift of your body as if she’s afraid to miss a second.

“show me,” she whispers, tone low but teasing. “come on, give me a show.”

and you give her one. you lift the hem of the shirt slowly. not for her—for the lens. you know exactly how this is going to look in playback. the glow of your skin in this light. the way your body starts to reveal itself, line by line.

you pull it over your head and let it drop to the floor, nipples stiffening in the cold air. your stomach tenses under her gaze, and you don’t try to hide the shine between your thighs.

she makes a noise—somewhere between a sigh and a curse—and the camera dips for half a second, like her hand twitched. you see her throat bob as she swallows.

you know that look. she’s not sure whether to keep filming or drop the thing entirely and fall to her knees.

and god, it turns you on even more.

"still rolling?" you ask, voice sugar-laced, cocky.

ellie nods once, "yeah. fucking hell, yeah."

you step closer, slower this time. not acting. not pretending. this isn’t performance—it’s instinct. it’s power. the way she’s looking at you, mouth parted, eyes glazed behind the viewfinder. you know she’s turned on before she’s even touched you.

“you better not cut the part where i called you a pervy little director,” you tease, all teeth.

ellie lowers the camera just enough to meet your eyes, flushed and slightly out of breath. hand still holding the lens like a lifeline.

“cut it?” she says. “i’m putting it in the trailer.”

you grin. shift your weight, your thighs brushing.

“turn around,” she says next, and it’s not a suggestion.

it’s gravel and gravity, all command. her voice has slipped into that other place—firm, sure, focused. all director mode.

you smirk but do what she says. slowly, hips swaying. your hands drag down your own waist as you pivot, and when your back is to her, you arch slightly—just enough. let her see the full curve of your ass, the slick glinting between your thighs.

behind you, there’s a sharp exhale.

"jesus christ," she mutters. then the soft mechanical buzz of her adjusting the zoom.

you don’t need to see her to know she’s locked in. her eyes drinking in every inch, the red light on the camera the only thing keeping her from touching you already.

you glance back lazily. “so, you gonna keep filming, or are you gonna fuck me?”

and that’s it.

the camera dips. her body snaps to attention like it’s muscle memory.

you’re pulled back towards the bed in one smooth movement—no hesitation. the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you drop, your body folding back on your elbows, legs parting without a hint of shame.

ellie stands over you, camera raised.

“holy shit,” she mutters.

she brings the camera lower, letting it drink you in, between your legs, over the slick. the way your chest rises and falls, nipples peaked, skin glowing.

“look at you,” she says. “you’re already dripping, just from being filmed.”

you shift, thighs tightening, and she catches the movement.

"such a fucking dirty girl," she mutters, one hand ghosting over your stomach.

she places the camera down on the nightstand, still rolling, still angled at your spread legs and heaving chest. her focus is so fucking precise it sends a wave of arousal through you all on its own.

and then ellie kneels between your legs like it’s her altar.

angel starts playing low in the background, slow and dark.

has she even prepped the soundtrack? you wonder for a second, half-laugh, half-moan.

(of course she did.)

she starts with your knee. presses her mouth there, slow and warm, a kiss that lingers just a second too long before she trails it upward. her hands follow—one curling firm around your thigh like she owns it, the other gliding up the center of your stomach, dragging heat in its wake.

she slips her palm higher, sliding between your ribs, under the soft weight of your breast.

her thumb brushes over your nipple and you gasp, chest lifting into her hand like you’ve forgotten how to do anything else but respond.

"you feel that?" she murmurs, voice low, like it’s just for you even though the camera’s still blinking red. "your heart’s beating so fucking fast."

you open your mouth to say something smart, something flirty, but then she’s kissing up your thigh again and the thought dies on your tongue.

she reaches your stomach, then your sternum, then your collarbone—and instead of diving down immediately, she pauses. tilts her head. looks at you.

and kisses you.

hot and deep, all tongue and teeth. one of those messy, all-consuming kisses that steals the breath right out of your lungs.

you moan into it—she swallows the sound greedily. her fingers are already moving again. one circling your nipple, the other caressing your side.

she pulls back just enough to speak, her lips grazing your cheek, then your jaw.

"you're perfect" she says, kissing beneath your ear, down your throat, impossibly reverent.

your hips roll up involuntarily, and she smiles against your collarbone.

"getting impatient, baby?"

"ellie—fuck—"

she chuckles. not unsympathetic—just pleased. her mouth finds your nipple next, tongue dragging over it slow, flicking, then sucking it into the heat of her mouth. her other hand moves to your other breast, squeezes gently, then rougher, thumb teasing over the tip until you whine.

"god, these tits," she mumbles against your chest, "camera’s not even doing them justice."

your back arches when her palm lands flat on your stomach, sliding lower, past your hip, fingers teasing the edge of your thigh.

"ellie," you gasp again, helpless this time.

she lets your nipple go with a soft, wet pop. looks up at you from your chest, mouth slick, green eyes lit up with that impossible mix of her—tender and ravenous, as if she wants to worship you and devour you in the same breath.

she shifts downward, dragging her tongue along the slope of your breast, down your stomach, until she’s eye level with your pussy. you’re throbbing, already wrecked, thighs trembling just from the anticipation of her mouth.

she glances at the nightstand, double-checking the angle like it matters. then brings her fingers to your folds, spreading you open with both thumbs, totally entranced by the sight.

“say hi to the camera, baby,” she teases, looking up at you.

and then, without warning, her tongue drags a slow, devastating stripe from your entrance to your clit.

you moan—loud, raw, helpless, trying to lift your hips but her free hand is already there, pressing you down into the mattress.

"f-fuck!" you whimper, voice cracking.

"that's right," she murmurs, licking again. "let it hear every fuckin’ sound."

she starts working you in earnest now—tongue circling your clit in tight, practiced spirals, her mouth warm and greedy. she moans against you, like the taste of you is enough to drive her insane. you can feel every vibration down to your toes.

your hands are tangled in her hair, thighs wide open, whole body arching into her mouth. she slips one hand between your legs and slides a finger inside—curling just enough to make your spine seize.

"holy shit," you gasp. "oh my god—Ellie—"

"more," she whispers against your clit, sliding in a second finger "let it see how messy you get for it."

and then she reaches back—without stopping—grabs the camera from the nightstand with her free hand, flips the screen toward you, and holds it low between your bodies. the image blinks into view—a live, unfiltered shot: your pussy stretched around her fingers, your mouth agape and brows furrowed, your thighs shaking with every thrust.

“you seeing this, baby?” she mutters, eyes flicking between you and the viewfinder. “fuck, look at you.”

and god—you do. you watch yourself fall apart in real time, every wet sound, every twitch of your stomach from overstimulation, every pump of her fingers, every gasp on full display. like it’s art, like it’s proof.

and it’s probably the filthiest, most turned on you have ever felt in your life.

its holy and obscene at the same time—your body laid bare, her fingers deep inside you, your face twisted with pleasure, and all of it immortalized in perfect footage.

you can’t look away. neither can she.

"ellie—please—I’m gonna—"

"do it," she growls, "come f’me, come for the camera."

you come with a cry that splits the room, loud, shaking. your thighs squeeze around her hand and your back lifts off the mattress, body wrung out like a rag.

she doesn’t stop, just slows her pace, works you through it. you’re trembling when she finally pulls away, kisses your thigh, and sits back with the camera resting on her bent knee. she lifts it, points it at your face.

you’re flushed, sweaty. lying in a wrecked halo of your own making.

“so damn perfect like this” she mutters, voice a rasp. "you want more?"

you nod, chest heaving.

"words."

"yes," you whisper. then louder, like she needs to hear it. like the camera does, too. "yes. fuck, yes. please fuck me."

and she grins like the devil.

she tosses the camera onto the nightstand—still recording, angled just right, lens slightly askew—but it only makes it hotter, messy, real. something she’ll watch for hours with her hand down her boxers.

she doesn’t say anything as she crosses the room, opens the drawer, and pulls out the harness. it’s not slow or performative. it’s practiced, casual. she straps it over her black boxers with one hand, the other slicking lube over the thick purple silicone cock. it gleams in the low light, catching the flash of the camera’s red recording dot.

you’re already moving, your body shifting on instinct—onto your hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, ass high in the air like it’s muscle memory.

ellie looks at you and lets out a sound from deep in her throat. almost a laugh, mostly a groan.“stay just like that.”

she climbs behind you, smooth and silent. spreads your cheeks with both hands and groans when she sees how soaked you are.

"fuck, baby. you made a whole fuckin' mess back here."

"ellie—"

she leans down, kissing the small of your back, then bites your ass, playful and sharp. one hand grips your hip, the other slides between your legs—and she slaps your pussy once, just enough to make you jolt and whine. it’s wet, loud, dirty.

she groans at the sound. "jesus. dripping."

then she drags the head of the strap between your folds, slow and heavy.

"you ready for it?"

you nod frantically, pressing your face into the mattress.

“say it.”

“please fuck me. please, i want it. i need it so bad—”

she wanted to draw it out—make you beg, make you squirm—but she’s just as wrecked as you are, barely holding it together. when she finally thrusts in, it’s with one deep, steady stroke that knocks the air straight out of your lungs.

you gasp, choking. “jesus christ!—”

“god, look at that,” she breathes, pulling back, watching the way you stretch and suck her back in with the next thrust. “you’re fuckin’ swallowing it.”

her hands find your hips. she sets a brutal rhythm, dragging you back onto her cock with every thrust, the wet slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls. the sound of your moans, the slap of her thighs against your ass, the headboard slamming the wall—it’s filthy.

she leans forward, chest pressed to your back, and wraps one hand around your breast, squeezing, pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whine. her other hand tangles in your hair and yanks your head back.

“you like getting fucked like this?” she hisses in your ear. “like a toy on display?”

“yes—fuck, yes—”

“touch yourself.”

you obey instantly. one hand between your legs, circling your clit in frantic, desperate little motions while she fucks you from behind like she’s trying to split you in two.

you notice that closer is softly but steadily playing, and the camera’s still rolling, capturing everything. the curve of your ass, the tremble in your thighs, the way your body jerks every time she bottoms out.

ellie groans like she feels it too—because she does. she’s grinding against the base of the strap, hungry and relentless, chasing the friction like she’s starved for it. the harness is soaked, her boxers nearly translucent with how wet she is, and every time she thrusts into you, the base rubs right against her clit.

“you gonna come like this?” she pants. “gonna soak my dick like a good little slut?”

“yes—yes—fuck, ellie, i’m gonna—”

“say it.”

“i’m your slut,” you cry out. “i'm your fucking slut—”

and right then, without missing a beat, she grabs the camera off the nightstand, angles it behind you. the lens catches the mess of your ass bouncing against her hips, the wet slap of skin on skin, the slick sound of your cunt stretching around her the purple silicone.

and then she slaps your ass, hard. loud enough to echo through the room.

"fuck!" you yelp, back arching, legs shaking violently.

and you come like a landslide. body seizing, muscles locking, then breaking all at once as you scream into the mattress. it rolls through you in waves, loud and long, your thighs trembling, fingers still working yourself as you ride it out.

you feel it when she starts to lose it—her rhythm falters, hips stutter, breath hitching into short, high little gasps. her fingers dig into your waist and she presses forward, deeper, harder, her chest flush to your back like she’s trying to crawl inside you.

“fuck—fuck, baby—i’m—”

her voice cracks, and then she whines—high and helpless, the kind of sound you didn’t know she could make. desperate and slutty and fucking perfect. her whole body goes taut, then shudders, her thighs shaking as she ruts through it. she comes with her face buried in your shoulder, teeth clenched, breath shivering.

the base of the strap is slick and messy between you now, but she grinding against the harness like it’s not enough, never enough. she groans into your skin, broken and dazed, and you can feel her heart pounding against your back.

and when she pulls out, it’s slow and careful, hands suddenly tender where they'd just been rough. she leans forward and kisses your spine—once, then again—her breath hot and uneven against your skin.

“you okay?” she murmurs, palm sliding up your back in soft, grounding strokes.

you nod, barely able to form the word. “better than okay.”

she laughs, quiet and breathless, into your shoulder. a little dazed, wrecked herself.

she rolls you onto your back, her hand never leaving your skin, and collapses beside you. the room is humid with sex, thick with sweat, heat and the echo of everything that just happened. the air itself feels heavy, slow.

in her hand, the camera is still rolling. its red light blinks steadily, casting a faint glow over the two of you.

ellie flips the screen towards herself, then turns the lens on you—zooming in dramatically on your wrecked face.

“say hi, baby” she teases, still catching her breath.

you blink up at the lens, dazed. hair a disaster. lips kiss-bruised. eyes glassy like you’ve just returned from the dead.

“hi,” you mumble, grinning like a fool, “i just got fucked into the stratosphere.”

ellie then pans the camera to her own face—sweaty, flushed, hair sticking to her forehead—and raises both brows like she’s in a documentary.

“filmmaker. method actor. strap goat. i do it all.”

you burst out laughing, weakly swatting at her.

she grins, crooked and proud, turning the camera back to you. “and you just won best actress in a leading role, doll.”

“so, what’s the title?” you ask, giggling into the pillow.

ellie snorts—eyes gleaming like she just won an oscar and knocked someone out in the same damn night. she adjusts the angle, tilts the camera so you’re both in the frame: flushed, sweaty, radiant, completely ruined.

then, with the most serious voice she can manage, she deadpans to the lens—

“the slut and the lesbian scorsese.”

you wheeze. “shut the fuck up.”

“already submitted to sundance, actually.”

“you’re insufferable.”

“director’s cut drops next week.”

you try to slap her but miss—too sore, too high on her, too in love. she just laughs, smug and glowing, and zooms in one last time on your face.

“five stars,” she murmurs, “would absolutely fuck again.”

⭒ perm taglist (tysm for supporting, hope you enjoy <3): @talyaisvalslutsoldier @miajooz @andiemiaswife @mayfldss @sewithinsouls @coastalwilliams @hotpinkskitties @ssijht @pleasejoel @pariiissssssss @liddy333 @beeisscaredofbees @d1catwhisperer @the-sick-habit @elliescoquettegirl @elliewilliams-wife @yueluv3rrrr @your-eternal-muse @ellies-real-wife @katherinesmirnova @ellies-moth-to-a-flame @thxtmarvelchick @natscloset @lesbiansreverywhere @2against3 @wwefan2002 @ilahrawr @harmonib @piastorys @azteriarizz @starincarnated @natssgf @ukissmyfaceinacrowdedroom @iadorefineshyt @claudiajacobs @urmomssideh0e @kingofeyeliner @womenlover0 @ferxanda @imunpunishable @elliewilliamsloverrrrrrrr @bambi-luvs @maru0uu @mikellie @gold-dustwomxn @nramv

࿐♡ ˚.*ೃ omg… first fic NOT set in the collide au in literal MONTHS and it feels SO weird but soooo good to write something different omfg 😭 rockstar!ellie and popstar!reader yall still haunt me everyday. my favorite lesbians for the rest of the eternity. i’ve missed this kind of chaos. huge love and tysm to my gorg mootie who sent this amazing request before i even started collide—you live in my brain rent free forever bby!

i might play around with a few more fics + requests before launching the next big series i’ve been outlining (👀), so stay tuned babes. ily all dearly ♡

Please leave a comment if you’re interested in being on my perm taglist!

credits for divider: @cafekitsune <3 – images from pinterest - edited by me

[rafesangelita]

♡ when dilf!rafe and bunny!reader first met

warnings: suggestive language

a/n: inspired by this gif — it’s soooo dilf!rafe and bunny coded, i just had to include it in so y’all could get my visual.. and also feel free to read more about dilf!rafe x housebunny!reader here ! leave req’s or discussion posts about them in my ask box, these two are one of my fav au’s to write for!!

sipping on an ice water, you hummed sweetly as the breeze from your little handheld fan blew gently through your hair, the chilly air providing you with some form of relief against the blazing outer banks sun. you had been out here on the golf course for about three hours now, the fanny pack hugging your hips already filled with crispy blue hundreds from the wealthy patrons of the country club. having met your money goal for the day, you decided a break was deemed necessary, considering you still had a few hours left until you were able to clock out.

it wasn’t until you spotted a group of men swinging their golf clubs far off in the distance, that you decided to make your way over there, plastering on your pretty smile that never failed to make the men empty their wallets to you. one of the men had turned around at the sound of the soft hum of the golf cart engine, the other two following suit as you stepped off, the zipper of your baby pink lululemon jacket zipped down just far enough to expose your cleavage and the dainty little tiffany and co. heart pendant on your necklace. “hi, there!” you chirped, “my goodness, everyone here looks like they can use a drink..”

at your flirtatious tone, the guys exchanged suggestive looks with each other before a certain one with cerulean eyes caught your attention. he gave you a once over, his jaw clenching as you bent over to grab the flavored liqueurs you had in stock. he was so tall, his broad shoulders alone made your imagination run wild as you pictured your nails digging into his flesh, his sharp facial features causing an influx of butterflies to flutter in your tummy. “you’re a lifesaver, bunny.” topper, the man you recognized from yesterday, was quick to give you his drink order, both of you making small talk as rafe watched you intently.

he waited until kelce and topper disappeared back to their original spots before finally towering over you, a surprised gasp leaving your lips when you turned around and found yourself face to face with the man you shamelessly imagined yourself getting fucked by. “i’ve never seen you around here before.” his voice was low as he spoke, almost as if he knew what you were thinking and he was teasing you for it. “this is my second day on the course..” you trailed off, your cheeks heating as the space between you two lessened. rafe loved seeing how nervous you grew under his stare, a smug grin gracing his lips as you lifted your head to meet his gaze.

“how’s it going?” he adjusted the cap on his head, the gold ring on his index finger glinting underneath the sunlight. despite making really good money at the country club, you knew this job wasn’t something you could see yourself doing long term. “it’s alright.. it wasn’t my first choice but it’s funding my shopping sprees so far, sooo.. good enough!” at the mention of shopping sprees, rafe cleared his throat. “what was your first choice?” he asked, taking a sip from the alcohol in his cup as you started twirling the ends of your hair. “well, i was nannying on the mainland, so i was hoping to do the same thing when i decided to move here, but i just haven’t had much luck..”

it was like a lightbulb went off in rafe’s head, his eyes flickering down to your glossy lips. “no, shit? you know your way around a house?” you nodded, your lashes fluttering up at him as he decided right then and there that you were going to go home with him. “my son is actually out of the house right now for school, but i would love to have someone there to maintain things for me.. maybe even meal prep or just have dinner ready for me when i get home from work?” you smiled sweetly, looking past him to see topper and kelce already packing up their equipment. “i would love to do that for you.” that statement was like music to rafe’s ears.

“yeah? can you start right now?” you gasped when rafe took your wrist, spinning you around so his frontside was completely flushed against your ass. making sure the guys were gone, and there was no one else around to see you two in this compromising position, rafe rested his chin in the curve of your neck before whispering in your ear. “you’re the prettiest fuckin’ thing i’ve ever seen.” his hand snaked around your waist, a shiver running down your spine as he slipped his fingers underneath your skirt and cupped you just in time for you to reach back and palm him through his pants.

“let’s get out of here, i’ll give you a house tour once i’m done breaking you in.”

[comicaurora]

Hi! I remember you saying at some point (I think, on the podcast?) that just realizing you have ADHD helped you to deal with it because you found some practices and techniques to help it, even without medication - or something along these lines, do I remember correctly?

Can you tell, which techniques? I seem to be somewhat resistant to medication (tried all options we get in the country I'm in, and improvement is very minimal), so I'm interested what else can be done there just to make it manageable

Caveat that every ADHD person is different so what works for me might not work for you, but this is what I've found helpful:

Break up Executive Dysfunction and fight Time Blindness by SETTING TIMERS. I have a fitbit, and on days I can feel my brain being restless and uncooperative, I set a ten minute timer on it. When it runs out, I set another one, and so on. It buzzes on my wrist, so it's hard to ignore, but it's not gamebreakingly distracting so it doesn't ruin my mood if I'm on a work roll. A brief, tangible reminder that time is passing can help me snap out of a break period or, if I'm working, give me a feel for my rate of progress. I can also use that reminder to take stock of if I need to eat food, get up and stretch, or lie on the floor for a bit to reset.

Take SMALL, LATERAL BITES OF PROGRESS. If you're having a hard time working on something, feel out what else you might be able to make headway on. Maybe you've got some writing notes you could jot down to build on later. Maybe there's a tiny item on the day's to-do list you could cross off quickly. Maybe there's a text or an email you've been meaning to fire off, or you've got a mild itch to doodle something in a sketchbook. Any progress is better than no progress, and even if you're just on your phone on the couch, you can get a lot of good work done just jotting down thoughts in the notes app. The lateral element is also very important; if you're fixating too hard on the ONE thing you're SUPPOSED to do, you can trap yourself in a spiral of how it's what you're SUPPOSED to be working on but it feels IMPOSSIBLE. Literally let yourself do anything else. Don't trap yourself with "it's either doing your responsibility or it's NOTHING." Your work is not a plate of broccoli you're not allowed to leave the table without eating. Give yourself permission to un-imprison yourself.

Related, If there are external factors on the responsibility - like an outside deadline or a team of people you're working with waiting on your stuff - don't be afraid to let them know where you're at, or if you're uncertain you can make the deadline as stated, even if you think your "brain is not working" reason isn't good enough to justify the delay. Most people are extremely chill about it, and some of them will even offer to help or make it easier for you in some way. "Struggling with deadline" is not an ADHD-only experience. It is one of the most relatable human experiences, and basically everyone will be inclined to help you out.

ANY PROGRESS IS BETTER THAN NO PROGRESS. LARGE projects can feel extremely overwhelming because you know you can throw everything you've got at them for a day or even a week and it still won't be finished, and if you've got that shadow looming over you, you might sink into a malaise of "I can't finish it and that means I can't even bring myself to start it." The best way to fight that is to make ANY progress in ANY direction. Every large project can be broken down into bite-sized chunks. Anything feels overwhelming if you see it as an unassailable monolith. Work you do now is work you don't have to do later.

CHECKLISTS. It's hard to hold a large list of things that need your attention all in your head at once. It is unbelievable how helpful it is to just write them down somewhere obvious, and when you're done with something, CHECK IT OFF. Don't erase it, leave it visible that you FINISHED it.

Tell your anxiety to CALL YOU BACK. This one's weird, but when I'm stuck stressing over something, I've found it legitimately works to pull up my schedule and pencil in "worry about <thing>" for a specific date and time. My brain registers that SOMETHING has been resolved and nothing has been outright dismissed or ignored, so it settles down. When the time rolls around, the source of the anxiety is still there, but the feeling of anxiety itself has been drained out of it.

On a related note, this might not be an ADHD thing, but I've found it's very useful to Avoid Anxiety And Guilt Spirals by HOLDING COMPULSIONS AT ARMS' LENGTH. I picked this up from some readings on OCD, which is in the category of "I don't seem to HAVE this to a diagnosable degree, but some of the structures were at one point familiar to me." It's good to be aware that, if your brain keeps circling back to any given thought that distresses you, that is structurally an obsession, and if in reflexive response you have a desire to do a specific thing to mitigate that feeling, that is structurally a compulsion. This includes things like "I bet my friends think I'm annoying - I should message them something fun and casual to see if they still like me." Or "I'm worried about the state of the world - I should check the news so no new horribleness blindsides me." The compulsion might contain a sensible thing to do; checking in on your friends is good, keeping up with world events is smart. But done AS a compulsion, it reinforces the anxiety cycle. Even when it results in something neutral or positive, it only confirms that this innocuous thing is your only lifeline over a yawning abyss of terror and stress, because if this time it was fine, it must be because THIS time your vigilance Saved You. So you'd better do it next time, too, because there WILL be a next time, and you might not be so lucky twice, right? The way to stop this cycle is to weaken it over time by, when the obsession pops up (a random reminder of a stressor, an old fear) and the compulsion is prompted, do not do it, no matter how reasonable it seems. Hold the compulsion at arms' length, becoming aware of what the obsession wants you to do and why. Similarly, sit with the awareness of the obsession. You are having an unpleasant thought, but having a thought does not make it inherently meaningful in any way. It doesn't mean you're actually in any danger, any more than you were before you had the thought. It's discomfiting because it removes the salve of the compulsion from the sting of the obsession, but in the medium to long term, it withers the cycle at the root and makes the entire process loosen its grip. Then you can do things like talk to your friends and check the news without it being underlaid with the sting of panic and desperation; they are, after all, neutral activities with typically beneficial consequences, not lifelines over the abyss. It might startle you when, months later, an intrusive thought pops up that used to send you spiralling into misery for hours or days, but now it feels irrelevant - even absurd - and easy to disregard. It really does work, and it's surprising how many things you can untangle this way.

Avoid boredom time prison by HARNESSING HYPERFIXATIONS. My most controversial take, but I think if your brain is desperately hungry to do This One Cool Thing Today, it's a good idea to let it. Even if that means you spend the whole day drawing fanart or bingewatching a show or baking croissants instead of Getting Work Done, the benefits you reap from just letting your brain tap into the rare Infinite Dopamine Opportunity usually outweigh any and all work slowdowns that result from taking the impromptu day off. When your brain works in the ADHD way, your enthusiasm is a vital fuel to keep it running. You need to have energy and joy in your life, energy and joy to spare and spend on things that may not be inherently energizing. If you have the option to spend a day doing something ridiculously fun, fill up that tank and reap the productivity benefits for the next week straight.

[sceletaflores]

HEY THERE SUGAR BABY!

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ೃ⁀➷ PAIR: Harry Castillo x fem!reader

ೃ⁀➷ WC: 10k

ೃ⁀➷ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, smoking, drinking, boss/employee relationship, reader is a personal/executive assistant, very much a work husband/work wife dynamic, inescapable sugar daddy tendencies, no actual sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship despite how the title and previous tag makes it sound lmao, harry castillo is a cool boss, romcom tropes cause i’m feeling romantic, slow dancing, first kiss, heavy petting in a limo, oral sex (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, p in v, porn with way too much fucking plot, no use of y/n.

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S NOTE: i usually don’t like to write for a new character before i’ve watched the movie but you dangle the idea of a hot billionaire work romance in my face and expect me not to bite at it? i’m just not that strong. also i have zero idea what his actual job in the movie is, i think it’s a basic ass finance bro wall street type job and that bores the hell out of me so he’s an architect because i said so. he's my barbie i can make him do what i want! this whole thing was mainly an excuse to write about my satc, carrie and big vibe slash fantasy but way less toxic. hope y’all love it, mwah!

ೃ⁀➷ NAT’S HEADPHONES: MATERIAL GIRL - Phlotilla

dividers by angel @saradika-graphics!

an architect and his assistant walk into a gala…

You’ve been working with Harry Castillo for four years, two months, and thirteen days.

You know this because his calendar starts and ends with you.

Your name’s not embossed on the front of the seventy story building sitting pretty on 57th street, not splashed across the cover of Architectural Digest, not signed neatly at the bottom of those pristine renderings that get passed around in glass boardrooms and land multi-million dollar deals.

But you know the build order of every project in the past five fiscal years. You know which of the project managers can’t be trusted with deadlines, which board members need their egos stroked, and every single name attached to each of the contracts spanning across five continents.

You were three years out of school and six months into a soul sucking accounting job that felt more like glorified coffee-fetching with a minor in emotional labor when Harry called. 

Well—technically, his HR director called, but Harry noticed you, or noticed your resume stacked with respectable internships and juicy recommendation letters. Or maybe it was the fact that during your third round interview, you corrected one of his junior partners on a misquoted quarterly budget breakdown.

Either way, two weeks later you were standing in a glass top floor office owned by one of the most powerful men in the city. 

And yes, you knew who he was before he hired you, of course you did.

Harry had been New York’s golden boy since the early aughts, when his first building went up in Tribeca and every magazine with a spine declared him the second coming of Frank Llyod Wright.

He was a genius, innovative. One of the youngest Pritzker Prize winners in history who got the kind of press coverage that made people think “architect” was synonymous with “celebrity”.

Now, at 47, Harry Castillo is an institution in the world of design.

Castillo Atelier is the best firm in the city, maybe even in the world, depending on which Real Estate Digest cover story you read. His name alone makes most clients practically foam at the mouth and drop seven figures without seeing a single blueprint.

You’ve been his executive assistant longer than it took you to get your shiny Business Administrations degree from Colombia, and if anyone knew Harry better than his mother or his therapist, it was you.

You have every number of his black American Express card memorized, front and back. You have every password to every account imaginable tucked away neatly in a file labeled “BLACKMAIL MATERIAL” on your desktop. 

You schedule his life down to the minute, from site visits in Abu Dhabi to dental cleanings in Midtown. You know his shoe size, the name of his best tailor's teenage daughter, which marble supplier he trusts in Verona. You know the entry code to his West Village brownstone and you’re on a first name basis with the doorman at his Fifth Avenue penthouse. 

You know he drinks his coffee black but only before noon and he switches to espresso, that he smokes Marlboro Golds even though he swears up and down he’s quit, and that when he’s stressed, he starts sketching towers with spiral staircases that’ll never pass code.

It’s morphed into a strange kind of intimacy. Not romantic, but not exactly a normal boss-employee relationship either. 

He's the kind of boss who makes you want to roll your eyes at the word, because it's not that simple—not that sterile.

It's late nights spent in his dimly lit office where he sheds his suit jacket and hands you a perfectly poured wine glass without asking when you're the only two left in the building. It's sitting shoulder to shoulder on a leather couch, going over zoning permits while his arm rests behind you, not on you, but close enough to count.

Harry’s careful with you, in a way that’s not always obvious. He buys you the books you idly mention wanting to read in passing and custom David Yurman earrings fitted with your birthstone. If he was ten years younger and you were ten years dumber, you might’ve mistaken it for something else. 

As it is, you just tell yourself he likes spoiling things that work well. Like his thousand dollar espresso machine. Like his Aston Martin. Like you.

You should feel like an accessory.

Instead, you feel like a centerpiece—like you’re the sun that his life revolves around. 

You can’t tell which is worse.

Today, like most days, starts with you getting to the office an hour before him.

You take the elevator up to the seventy third floor, unlock his office, and flick on the lights. The space is gorgeous, minimalist in a way that doesn’t ever feel cold. Floor to ceiling windows, sleek dark wood floors, and exposed beams. 

There’s an open notebook on his desk from the night before, a few handwritten notes scrawled in sharp, narrow pen strokes that he gave up on halfway through and started sketching in the margins.

You roll your eyes, smothering a fond smile as you walk out of the room and to your own desk. It’s less than six feet from his door, close enough that you can always hear clipped phone calls or the soft sounds of Prince playing from his sound system.

You drop your bag, start up your desktop, and begin triaging the day. Your inbox is in a constant state of full to the brim no matter how good you are at your job—bursting with emails from developers, calendar shifts, a client breakfast cancellation. 

The whole office smells like bergamot and bergdorf. Someone sent over a Diptyque candle and Harry hasn’t stopped lighting it. Luckily for you, it’s strong enough to keep the scent of lemony luxury permeating long after it’s been blown out. 

It’s still not enough to magically cancel out the stress of pushy demands disguised as business and city bureaucracy, but you can still pretend it is.

You’re bouncing between five open tabs and sending increasingly frantic texts to the head of operations about a late shipment of imported glass by the time you finally hear a soft ding from the elevator followed by crisp footsteps coming your way.

Harry rounds the corner holding a pastry bag, Ray-Bans on, hair still wet from the shower and curling around his ears. “Good morning, sunshine.”

You don’t look up from your screen. “You’re late again.”

“No,” Harry tuts, leaning his hip against your desk and dropping the bag in front of you. “You’re just early.”

“I work here.”

“Funny, so do I.”

“Do you?” You finally look up, brow arched. “I forget.”

He’s wearing that suit. The one that makes your job harder in the most inappropriate HR violating ways. Deep blue pinstripe with the burgundy Gucci tie you handpicked last year. It’s fitted like it had been tailored by the hands of God.

He tilts his head, peering at you over the edge of his glasses. “Is that any way to treat the man who bought you breakfast?”

Your eyes cut to the white paper bag, Mah-Ze-Dahr. You don’t need to look inside it to know what it is, a twenty dollar pistachio crunch croissant. Your favorite.

You don’t have time to respond before Harry drops his glasses on your desk, settling into the chair across from you. “Remind me never to take a meeting in Soho before noon again.”

You set the bag aside and continue typing with a soft shake of your head. “You said that last week, and the week before that.”

“And yet I keep doing it.” He rolls his head on his shoulders with a soft sigh. “That’s insanity, isn’t it? Doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result.”

“That’s Einstein,” you say, pointedly ignoring the way he’s looking at you. “Maybe you just like the punishment.”

Harry huffs, amused. “I pay you too much to psychoanalyze me.”

You open a new tab, click on a high priority labeled email and turn your screen in his direction. “Yet you don’t pay me enough to deal with your ex-wife’s lawyer hassling me before seven.”

That certainly gets his attention, his spine straightening as he leans forward, squinting at your screen. “She didn’t.”

You nod, resting your chin on your palm as his eyes flit over the lengthy body. “She did.”

You watched the divorce unfold like everyone else. It was loud, expensive, and painfully public. She was a former model turned gallery owner with a sharp tongue and better connections than half the industry. When she aired Harry out in New York Magazine the tabloids had a fucking field day.

The headlines were vicious. Castillo’s Castle Crumbles. From Manhattan’s Favorite Power Couple to Demolition Duo. Architect of His Own Downfall?

“Christ.” Harry sighs, leaning back and running a hand through his hair. “She promised she’d keep you out of this.”

“She lied.” You turn your screen back around, grabbing a pen to quickly scrawl the lawyer’s number across the front of a Post-It. “She wants her name off the Lakewood project or she’ll go to the press about the Montauk property.”

He drags a hand down his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking hell.”

You slide the Post-It note across the desk. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” 

He doesn’t thank you, not out loud, but the way his eyes linger on the note before he tucks it into his jacket pocket says enough.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says, and it’s almost a throwaway comment—but his voice dips a little, gets low in that way that always makes you want to chew glass or scream into a designer throw pillow.

You shrug. “You say that a lot, but I don’t see any new raises.”

His grin is lazy, charming. “You know I’d bankrupt this company to keep you.”

You roll your eyes so hard it should count as cardio. “Please don’t. I like having dental.”

Harry laughs—really laughs—and it’s unfair how good it sounds, how it worms under your skin and stays there.

You turn away, forcing the warm feeling in your stomach to the back of your mind, and pivot. “You have a conference call with Dubai at eleven, lunch with the Fairstein developers at Cipriani, and there’s some plans in the Berlin file that still need to be signed.”

Harry nods once, shifting into business mode at the drop of a hat. “Well, I’ve got my marching orders.”

He checks his watch, stands, and straightens his jacket with a lazy kind of grace. You hate the way your eyes catch on the curve of his wrist, the way the cufflink glints in the morning light. Custom Cartier, a gift from some foreign diplomat client last Christmas. You remember because you signed for the delivery. Wrapped it, even.

Just before he steps into his office, he pauses. “I mean it.” His voice softens, and for a flicker of a moment, he looks at you like he’s trying to tell you something without saying it out loud. “This place doesn’t work without you.”

You glance up, heart skipping in your chest, ready with some practiced quip, but he’s already gone—door shut, his silhouette framed behind the frosted glass like a shadow you can’t shake.

This is how it always is—business talk sugarcoated in flirtation, or flirtation buried under years of knowing exactly how the other one works. If he weren’t who he is, and if you weren’t so damn good at ignoring how often he looks at your mouth when you talk, it might’ve gone somewhere dangerous already.

Instead, it lives in the margins. Like the ones he doodles spiral towers into. Like the ones in the secret planner buried in the very bottom drawer of you desk where you write down things like:

Remind Harry to eat something before 3.

Book flights for Hong Kong.

Don’t fall in love with your boss.

That last one’s underlined. Twice.

The rest of the morning floats by, you busy yourself with three different screens and sporadic bites of croissant and sips of coffee until one of the newer interns shows up with the mail.

You thank her and flip through the small mountain of envelopes until one catches your eye. A sleek black one with loopy silver lettering on the front. To Castillo Atelier, with a familiar logo stamped on the corner. You rip the gold seal, and slip the card out.

The AIA New York Chapter cordially invites Harry Castillo & Guest to the prestigious 2025 Architecture Gala | The Metropolitan Museum of Art | Black Tie.

You blink, and read it three more times before a deep sigh rips itself from somewhere deep in your chest. You skim the rest, going over fine print and steadily sighing louder the more you take it in.

You really should have known, it’s around that time. Award season, charity galas, old rich people stuff. Only this year, Harry Castillo and Guest are in separate states, in separate houses, and very much not on speaking terms.

Nor will they be on them in time for Friday night, or any other night in the foreseeable future.

You stand, letter in hand. Your heels click against the floor until you’re standing just outside Harry’s office, mulling over how bad it would reflect on your part if the invitation mysteriously found its way to the bottom of your trash. You knock anyway.

“Come in,” came the reply—his voice low, rough like it always is after the lunch rush, like velvet dragged over concrete. 

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click.

Harry is at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, Dior frames perched halfway down his nose as he looms over the stack of blueprints you left on his desk a few hours ago.

You don’t let yourself look at the tan column of his neck as you lean against the door. “You got a minute.”

He looks up, relaxing in his chair. “For you? Always.”

You hold up the invitation like it’s a warrant, shaking it gently. “You’ve been summoned.”

Harry’s eyes bounce from your own to the thick card stock, you watch the recognition register in his eyes. He sighs, “The gala.”

You nod, crossing your feet in front of you. “You’re being honored.”

He shakes his head with a laugh. “I was hoping they’d forget about me.”

Who possibly could?

You arch your brow. “It’s a lifetime achievement award.”

“I’m not even fifty.”

“Apparently, they’ve run out of old white men to honor.”

Harry chuckles, but it’s a tired sound. He rubs slow circles over his temples, tousling the salt and pepper hair scattered there. “Tell them we’re busy, send a fruit basket.”

You can’t explain the feeling that floods your chest, a mix of something like compassion and pity. It makes your heart ache, just a little bit. Enough to make you really feel it, enough to make you bury it before you can really dwell on why it hurts so much.

Harry puts on a spectacular front, but you know him too well. You know that the divorce has weighed on him, that’s it made him question himself. You know it was a massive shot to his self esteem, as both a person and as a company. 

You also know deep down it’s not the company that you care about.

“No.” You shake your head, making your way over to his desk.

He looks up at you, brow raised. “No?”

“No,” you emphasize, setting the invitation down on his desk. “You may think this is pointless, and that you’re too young—”

“Watch it.”

“—But you deserve this,” you finish, tapping a manicured nail on the card. “You deserve a whole room full of people fawning over you for no reason other than the fact that you’re you.”

Harry's eyes find yours again, slower this time. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just looks at you—really looks at you. And for a second, it’s too much. Too focused, too quiet, too…tender. It’s the kind of look that makes your skin prickle, your stomach twist. 

But you don’t flinch under the weight of his stare. You never do.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the desk. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He nods, lacing his fingers together. “I’ll go.”

It feels anticlimactic somehow. You expected more of a fight—more pushback or maybe even a snide comment about black tie events like this becoming less about the accolades and the charity and more about new wave firms bustling around like show ponies scuffling over who signed the best contract with the most zeros tacked neatly on the end.

Instead, he just says okay. Like it’s simple. Like you aren’t the reason he’s saying yes.

You narrow your eyes at him, suspicious. “Just like that?”

“You make a compelling case." Harry shrugs, reaching for the invitation. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth as you lean on his desk. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So I’ve been told.” Harry nods, but he’s smiling wide enough to outdo your own.

He looks down at the invitation, scanning over the text languidly. He hums as he reads, dragging his thumb across the raised font. 

You let yourself watch him, cataloging all the details you’ve already memorized a thousand times. Your eyes trace the shape of his brows, the deep set lines that fan out from the corners of his eyes, the strong arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips.

When he’s done, he taps it against his palm once and looks back at you. “And who, pray tell, is coming as my guest?”

You tilt your head. “I can get you someone,” you offer, even if the words make your stomach churn as you say them. “You want blonde or brunette? Bashful debutante or discreet NDA?”

Harry doesn't answer right away.

He leans back in his chair, looking at you like you're a puzzle he’s not quite finished solving. Like you’re a building he’s still sketching, still drafting, still trying to figure out if the foundation can handle the weight of what he wants to build on top of it.

“I don’t want someone,” he says finally.

The words land softer than you expect, but they still hit like a hammer to the chest.

“You should bring someone,” you deflect, professional, clean. “It’ll look good. The press will be there.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still watching you. “Which is why I don’t want just anyone.”

You don’t respond. You can’t. Not with the way his voice sounds—quiet, certain, threaded with a dangerous kind of warmth that makes your pulse kick.

Harry reaches up to slip his glasses off his face. “I don’t want someone,” he says again, voice even. “I want you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like your pulse doesn’t trip itself up three times over.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then scoff, forcing a laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Come with me.” 

It’s too sincere, too heart stoppingly warm. 

Your stomach drops. Then flips. Then rises again in the same way an express elevator does at fifty floors a second. “Harry—”

He cuts you off. “Don’t make that face.” He points at you with his glasses, shaking his head. “You’ll look incredible in black tie. And I trust you more than any PR wrangled plus–one they’d set me up with.”

You shake your head, brows pinched. “This isn’t just some client dinner at Nobu I’m playing third wheel at, Harry. This is extremely important. It’s the goddamn Met for architects.”

Harry just smiles, squinting at you. “When have I ever let you feel like a third wheel?”

“I’m being serious.”

“So am I.”

You just stare at him, lost for words. The city buzzes beneath you, the familiar noise of traffic and life blending together.

Harry doesn’t look away, he keeps your gaze, quietly drumming his fingers along his desk. It’s infuriating, the way the setting sun bathes him in a soft golden light, illuminating the smile on his face. A smile that makes it clear he knows he’s already won.

It makes you hesitate, the weight of it. Because it would be a date. Maybe not on paper or by any certain labels—but in every meaningful, messy, deliciously complicated way it matters, it would be. 

Harry Castillo and guest, you filling the role perfectly. 

You hold his gaze for a few moments longer, dragging it out just enough to make it seem like you’re putting up a real fight.

Finally, you cross your arms over your chest with a low sigh. “Okay.”

He cocks his head, smug grin on his lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” you repeat, raising a shoulder more casually than you feel. “I’ll go.”

“Really?” His tone is suspicious, but his smile doesn't budge. “There’s no catch?”

“You made a compelling case." You push off his desk, smoothing your hands down the front of your pencil skirt. “Besides, you know I love it when you compliment me.”

Harry laughs, a rich, warm sound. “I should’ve known.”

“I’ll need a dress,” you say, slowly making your way to the door. “I think the rest of the evening off should give me plenty of time to find one, don’t you agree, boss?”

Harry shakes his head, easy as anything. “I’ll take care of it.”

You pause, hand on the doorknob. “Tell me you’re not trying to play sugar daddy, the interns are already gossiping.”

He arches a brow. “If the shoe fits.”

“Harry.”

“Okay, okay.” He raises his hands in surrender, another laugh spilling from his chest to make the room just a few degrees warmer. “I’ll handle it. Trust me.”

You roll your eyes, pulling the door open before you do something stupid like smile back. “Do I really have a choice?”

Just as you go to leave, he calls your name—softly. It stops you mid-step.

You glance over your shoulder.

He doesn’t say anything else right away. Just looks at you like you’re something he’s still trying to figure out how to know, even after all this time.

“Thank you,” he says finally. Quiet. Sincere.

Your throat tightens. Not because of the words—even if you give him shit for it, he’s said them before—but because of the way he says them now. Like he means it for more than just the RSVP. Like he means it for staying. For putting up with the late nights, and the stress, and the divorce fallout, and the birthday gifts he forgets until the day of.

You nod, once. “You’re welcome.”

And then you slip out the door before the silence swells too much and gives you away.

You’re not in love with him. Not yet, but something about the way he looked at you—like you were both a solution and a problem—makes your chest ache in a way you don’t quite know how to ignore anymore.

You’ll go to the gala. You’ll wear something ridiculously expensive, if Harry has any say on the matter. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll let yourself enjoy it.

Just a little.

The package arrived that same night.

A man in a suit knocked on your door and had you sign for a box bigger than your work desk. He had to help you drag it into your hallway and denied the tip you tried to give him, assuring you it was already taken care of.

There were no labels on the box, no receipt or return address or anything other than an obnoxiously large gold bow wrapped neatly around all four sides.

Well, that and a note taped to the front. 

Your name was written in a familiar, looping handwriting that you’d recognize by touch alone. You peeled it off with careful fingers, and with more ceremony than necessary, flipped it open.

“Make them think I built you myself - H.”  

You stared at it for an embarrassingly long amount of time, not bothering to stifle the smile on your lips as you ran your thumb over the ink. You were alone anyway.

The box groaned a little when you finally opened it, layers of black tissue paper rustled softly as you peeled them back.

And there it was.

Midnight blue. Backless. Heavy silk. The kind of thing that knew how to behave under dim lights and the weight of eyes.

You could already feel it—how it would cling to your waist, slip along your thighs when you walked, turn your skin into something luminous. You didn’t even need a mirror.

Of course he picked this one. Of course he knew your size.

You reached for it, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might evaporate, still slightly dazed. There was an overwhelming aura about it—like this wasn’t just a dress, but a thesis.

A statement. An intention, signed and sealed in French seams.

And somehow it still smelled faintly of him. Not in a creepy way. In a way that made you wonder if he’d touched it before it left the boutique. If he’d looked at it and pictured you, just for a moment too long. If he’d smiled when he imagined what you’d say.

You unfolded it like you were handling a newborn, held it against your body and turned toward the hallway mirror, half laughing at yourself, heat rising to your cheeks.

You turned this way and that, staring at your reflection in the dim light, pretending—just for a second—that he was behind you, watching.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. One sharp vibration, tearing you out of your little fantasy world and back to the present.

You crossed the room still holding the dress to your chest, and bit your lip when you saw his name at the very top of your screen.

Hairy

Try not to cause a scene unless you want to make headlines. I’d like to keep your promotion rumor free, for now.

You laughed softly, thumb hovering above the keyboard for just a moment before you started typing.

You know this is deranged behavior, right?

You hit send before you could overthink it, watched the read receipt pop up a second later before the three little bubbles came to life.

They vanished, then reappeared.

Hairy

I’m aware.

But I have impeccable taste. That absolves me of quite a lot.

See you at 8.

You swore softly under your breath and set the phone down like it was overheating. 

You looked back at the dress. At the mirror.

God help you—you were going to wear the hell out of it.

Friday comes both too fast and too slow.

You glide through the whole rest of the week pretending this is normal—just another event, just another night of shaking hands and schmoozing.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything, but the butterflies in your stomach don’t listen quite as well.

You hardly see Harry at work, most of his time spent across town busy with clients like he always is near the end of the week. You can’t tell if it would have helped or hindered your nerves to see him before you both showed up to one of the most prestigious events held in his field, together. 

Maybe it’s better this way.

Now, you’ve spent the better part of the evening after work pacing the floor of your apartment in a silk robe, nerves reaching a fever pitch. 

Your phone is blowing up from its spot next to you on your vanity with calendar alerts and panicked texts from Harry about the misplacement of a single Prada tie he just has to wear even though he has hundreds of others to choose from lining an entire wall of his walk-in. You know that, you’re the one who hung them.

You do your hair and makeup on what feels like auto–pilot, the playlist you put on to distract you playing softly in the background until your phone lights up again, buzzing with a text that cuts through the static like a wire to your nerves.

Hairy

Found the tie, crisis averted. 

Just need you now. Be there in 15.

You take a deep breath, exhaling through your nose and sending a quick thumbs up before you're standing on shaky legs.

The dress has been hung safely on the back of your bedroom door since you unboxed it. You take a second to just stare at it, before reaching for it with reverence, like touching it too fast might break the spell of the whole evening. 

It slips from the hanger like water through your fingers, the fabric heavier than you remembered, or maybe that’s just the weight of new expectations.

You slide it on slowly, smoothing it over your hips, tugging the zipper up with a practiced hand. It fits perfectly, almost like it was made to your exact measurements.

Your reflection stares back at you in the mirror. You barely recognize her. Poised, elegant, flushed with anticipation. You look like someone who belongs next to a man like Harry Castillo.

The thought alone makes your pulse thrum a little faster.

You swipe on lipstick last—something deep and sultry, a few shades bolder than you usually wear, because tonight is different.

You’re not just the assistant tonight. You’re his date. Sort of. Kind of. Not really.

But he asked you to come, he wanted you there, with him.

The buzzer sounding from your door slices through your thoughts.

With one last deep breath, you grab your phone, your keys, and the clutch you’re borrowing from a fashion editor you sometimes get drunk with at Bemelmans, and you walk out the door.

The click of your heels echo as you make your way down the hall to the elevator.

Harry is the first thing you see as the doors to your building slide open.

He’s leaning against the limo waiting for you, the door open next to him as a cigarette dangles between his fingers. He looks like he stepped straight out of a GQ spread. His Kiton suit fits him like a glove, the charcoal velvet hugging broad shoulders and tapering at the waist like it was stitched directly onto him. 

You make your way down the stairs until you’re standing on the pavement. Harry looks up at the sound of footsteps.

The cigarette stops halfway to his mouth.

For a moment, he just stares.

You can feel his eyes on your body like a caress, ghosting from your heels all the way up to the Cartier necklace he bought you after you saved a merger in Thailand, resting gently on your collarbones. 

The silence stretches, taut like a violin string.

You clear your throat, fighting the urge to squirm on the spot. “Is it too much?”

Harry blinks, like the sound of your voice broke him out of a trance. “No,” he breathes, shaking his head distractedly. “It’s perfect.”

Your heart lurches in your chest, fluttering wildly like a Monarch trapped beneath a mason jar. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Castillo,” you murmur, trying for playful, but your voice comes out too soft, too breathy.

He smiles at that—slow, crooked, absolutely devastating. The kind of smile that makes your knees a little weaker than heels this high should allow.

“Well,” he says, flicking his cigarette into a nearby trash can. “We’re already late, we might as well make an entrance.”

Harry offers you his hand, and without thinking, you take it.

“We might as well.”

The Met is bathed in glowing opulence—decked in gold and white, chandeliers like constellations above you. There’s jazz swelling from a live quartet near the Temple of Dendur and the room comes alive with it.

You glide through marble halls on his arm, greeting developers and designers and too rich donors who want nothing more than to be photographed with nights' most respected attendant.

Harry is a natural here—effortless. He laughs, he charms, he plays the part of the adored genius.

You also play your role perfectly.

You smile. You exchange polite hugs and shake hands. You whisper names into his ear just before he needs them. 

The two of you work the room like a well oiled machine. Not a screw out of place.

“You do realize they all think I’m sleeping with you,” you murmur as you pass a table full of ancient structural engineers throwing pointed looks at the two of you.

“Let them,” he says, not missing a beat.

“Isn’t that bad for business?”

Harry looks at you sideways. “Who’s going to call us on it?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look away either.

There’s champagne, and a brief moment where a reporter mistakes you for his fiancée. Harry doesn’t correct her. You do, of course, all while violently fighting the heat crawling up your neck. You don’t miss the way his mouth quirks when you do.

Dinner is some overly fussed beet amuse-bouche followed by lamb you barely taste. You’re seated next to Harry at the center of a table surrounded by board members and art world fixtures who all speak in the same Upper East Side cadence that makes everything sound like a question and an insult.

But Harry listens to you. He lets you finish your thoughts. He asks you what you think of the new public art installation in Battery Park and snorts when you call it “egregiously derivative” even when the rest of the table frowns.

“You’re such a snob,” he murmurs, voice low against the shell of your ear.

You smile behind your glass. “And yet here I am, slumming it with my boss.”

He grins bright enough to rival the candle light. “Lucky me.”

At some point, about halfway through a debate about the authenticity of modernism in design, you notice the way his knee brushes against yours under the table and stays there. You don’t move. He doesn’t either.

It’s become a theme. The touch. The contact.

Harry kept his hand on the small of your back most of the night, it was practically glued to the spot before dinner began. This is no different, except for the fact that this touch is hidden. It's shielded from the prying eyes of members and photographers and reporters. 

It’s just for you.

The awards are handed out shortly after. 

Harry’s name echoes across the room to rounds and rounds of applause. The speech is short, tasteful, elegant, moving. He stands under a golden spotlight and says something about legacy, about cities and their hearts and how architecture is just the blueprint of human longing.

You watch him from your seat at the table, heart caught in your throat. He looks radiant on stage, confident and alive in a way you haven't seen in months.

You clap until your palms sting.

When the speech is over, he doesn't have a foot off the stage before many of the other attendees swarm him. You let out a slow breath as you watch him receive hugs and kisses and claps on the back.

You only slip out onto the terrace when everyone at your table has left to join in, clutch in hand.

The cool night breeze is a welcome escape, soothing as it blows across the bare expanse of your skin and seeps into the rich fabric of your dress.

It’s not that you weren’t enjoying yourself, that you weren’t enjoying watching Harry. You just found it, almost hard to breathe all of a sudden. The range of different emotions swirling through your stomach certainly didn’t help, but that was a problem you could repress and compartmentalize for sometime in the near future.

You’re maybe five minutes into your emergency cigarette when he finds you, your heels kicked off as you sit on a marble bench.

“You never smoke.” he says, setting his award down next to you and plucking the cigarette from between your fingers, taking his own slow drag. His lips seal directly over where your own were just a second ago, circling the ruddy lipstick stain wrapped around the filter.

You look out to the city, exhaling a steady stream grey. “I also don’t usually wear a custom made, six thousand dollar dress or fake laugh at old men who won’t stop calling me ‘darling’ while they openly stare at my tits.”

Harry hums at that, amused, the smoke curling lazily from his lips as he tips his head back to look at the sky. “You handled it like a pro, you were brilliant tonight.”

He holds out the cigarette, reddened embers float down from the tip, losing color as they fall until they’re nothing but a black speck on the pristine sea of white beneath your feet.

You take it, your fingers brushing against his. “I’m very good at pretending.”

His eyes shift to you, the kind of look in them that settles somewhere deep and heavy in your chest. “I know.”

There’s a beat of quiet between you, filled only by the wind brushing through the terrace hedges and the distant echo of jazz from inside. The city glimmers out past the railing, a mirage of light and motion.

You clear your throat, raising the cigarette to your lips. “You didn’t have to come find me.”

“I know,” he says again, softly this time. “But I wanted to.”

You turn to face him fully. “Because you couldn’t remember Natalie Rebuck’s name, or because you were worried I’d throw myself off the balcony?”

He doesn’t smile. He looks at you too seriously for either of those to be one off jokes. “Because you’re the only person I wanted to see.”

That stills everything in you. Just—stills it.

There’s nothing ironic about the way he says it. It’s not teasing, not playful. Just a quiet truth. And somehow, that’s more disarming than anything else he could’ve said.

“You saw me fifteen minutes ago,” you manage, your voice not quite as sharp as you want it to be.

“Yeah.” He shrugs and says it again, slower this time. “And I missed you.”

It’s that same tone. Soft, reserved. Gentle enough that it makes you feel like the only person in the world and sick to your stomach all at once. The cigarette hangs limply by your side, dwindling to nothing between your fingers. You wonder, idly and far too late, if you can even smoke in a dress like this.

The silence stretches on like taffy. You’re just about to respond when the music starts up again inside. It’s something old and very romantic. Maybe Sinatra, or Ella. You can’t quite place it.

Harry seems to, perking up instantly. He glances through the open door, where many couples inside are pairing off and filling the dance floor one by one. He looks back at you, eyes glinting dangerously under the terrace lights. “Dance with me.”

You can’t help the laugh that bursts from your chest, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“I just won a very important and highly coveted award given out only once every single year.” He takes a step closer, offering you his hand. “You’re telling me I don’t get one dance?”

You shake your head, inching back the tiniest bit. “I don’t dance with my boss.”

He winks, warmth sparking to life in his eyes just beside the glow of the lights. “Good thing I’m off the clock.”

You stare down at his outstretched hand for a second too long, lips parted in soft protest, breath caught somewhere behind your ribs. There’s something so deeply unfair about the way he’s always been able to make you feel like the only woman in a city of millions. Even now. Especially now.

You give him your hand.

You still hesitate even as you stand and slip your heels back on. You glance at the terrace doors and wearily eye what feels like a sea of people. “Out here?”

“No,” he says, turning your hand over in his and brushing his thumb along your pulse point like it’s nothing. “Inside. Just one song.”

You give him your hand.

You hesitate again. Not because you don’t want to, but because you do. Too much. And that terrifies you.

But then his hand tightens just slightly around your wrist, grounding you. His palm is warm, and you realize—of course he knows. He always knows. Knows how to read a room, read a blueprint, read you. Better than he probably should.

He tugs gently, and you let him lead you back inside.

The terrace doors hush closed behind you and the city disappears, replaced again by the ambient, golden warmth of the Met’s grand hall. You weave through the swaying bodies with ease, like they part from the sheer energy you must be oozing as you find a spot in the center of the room.

Harry draws you in close.

Too close for coworkers. Too close for anything you could explain away come Monday. But not close enough for the ache it sparks low in your belly. One hand finds the dip of your waist, the other laces your fingers in his. His touch is elegant. Familiar. A little too knowing.

You slide your arm around his neck and let him sway you into the rhythm. You’re too aware of every point of contact. The velvety fabric of his tuxedo beneath your hand. The graze of your thigh against his leg. The way he smells—Tom Ford, Tobacco Vanille. But there’s something else, something hidden under it that’s just Harry.

The rhythm is slow. Intimate. His hand is an inescapable plane of heat on your back, just beneath the dip of the dress, the pad of his thumb draws tiny, absent circles against your spine.

He hums the melody under his breath as you move together, you can feel the deep rumble of it against your chest.

“You’re trembling,” he says suddenly, quietly—whispered against the shell of your ear.

“No I’m not,” you lie, pulling back to meet his gaze. “It’s probably the nicotine.”

Harry laughs, the corners of his eye crinkle endearingly as he does. “Is it?”

You nod. “It is.”

The music hums all around you, but you hardly hear it. It fades away into the soft air of complete nothingness, same as all the people around you wane and dwindle until you’re almost certain you and Harry are the only two left standing.

You can’t break away from the weight of his gaze, drawn to it like heavy metal to a magnet. His gaze sweeps across every inch of your face, like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“You look so beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, so softly it nearly melts into the melody. “You always do, but tonight…” His voice tapers off as if he can’t quite land on the word. He doesn’t need to.

“Harry…”

He shakes his head. “I mean it, you are absolutely gorgeous.” He spins the both of you slowly, his eyes never straying from you. “And that’s the least interesting thing about you.”

It feels like a physical blow, but it lands in the softest way possible. His words wash over your skin feels a million times more luxurious than the miles of silk encompassing you.

You wonder if this is how it starts—not with fireworks, but with slow dancing in a museum full of strangers with your boss whispering something like worship in the space between you.

It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“Well,” you reply, voice shaking and almost far away. “You did hire me because my resume reads like a Vogue spread. You said it yourself, the firm doesn’t work without me.”

It should ruin the moment, bringing up work—where your relationship actually stands in the real world, outside of this fantasy of a night—but Harry doesn’t let it.

He just shakes his head, brows pinched together like he’s deep in thought. His hand tightens around yours, he’s so close now that you can feel the steady beat of his heart. 

Can he feel yours?

“When I look at you, and I think of all that you are…” Harry trails off again, the chocolate brown of his eyes shining under the twinkling lights as he holds your gaze. “That doesn’t even cross my mind.”

Your breath stutters, and you know—you know—that if you speak, it’ll all come tumbling out. Everything you’ve been trying not to say, not to want. The feelings you’ve tried to laugh away or roll your eyes at or bury under hundreds of deadlines and calendar alerts buzzing from two separate phones and all the plethora of ways you’ve told yourself this can’t happen.

“I…”

And then he kisses you.

And then you can’t speak at all.

It’s slow at first, but not hesitant, not unsure—deliberate. Harry kisses you like he’s been carving space for it, like it’s been trapped in him for too long. His lips are soft, but sure, coaxing rather than claiming. 

His hand slides from your waist all the way up to cradle your jaw, leaving behind a trail of heat along the plane of your spine. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, you can feel the faint callous left behind by countless pens and pencils.

Your hands bury themselves in the soft curls of his hair as you melt into his body. It’s so simple, the shift. You’ve spent so long running, so long lost in the dark waters of denial that you almost can’t believe how easy it is—how perfectly you fit together.

It’s like the last piece of a puzzle finally falling into place, slotting into all the others that came before it.

Harry exhales shakily, lips barely parting from your own. “Christ,” he whispers, forehead touching yours. “You’re—”

You kiss him again before he can finish.

His lips part under yours with a sigh that borders on desperate, and the heat crackles between you now, undeniable. Dizzying. When your mouth opens to him in turn, he groans low in his throat, like the first taste of you has broken something open inside him.

Slow becomes hungry. Your hand slides to his jaw, thumb brushing the rough edge of stubble. He tastes like champagne and citrus and the heady edge of smoke

The kiss turns molten under your fingertips.

You feel it in your knees, in your chest, in your core—the sharp, sudden ache of need blooming within you that has nothing to do with polite society.

When you finally pull apart, it’s only because air insists you do.

Harry rests his forehead against yours once again, his eyes still closed when yours slip open. His cheeks are flushed, his lips slick and smeared with the barest hint of your lipstick. You can feel his breath puff over your skin in short, quick pants that you match.

He opens his eyes, and your knees nearly buckle at the look in them. His pupils are blown, wide and black as ink under the lights. Your pulse is a drum in your throat, beating just as loud and fast in your ears.

He swallows hard. “We should leave.”

Your voice is barely a whisper, but it’s just as firm. “Yes.”

The ride back to the office is a blur.

You’re not even sure how Harry got you out of the Met so quickly, how you made it past the new swarm of admirers once again trying to shake his hand or take a photo or congratulate him.

The limo was already waiting by the time you made it out the doors. You barely remember the valet, just the cool feeling of the seats beneath your thighs and the sharp click of the partition going up behind Harry’s head.

His eyes pin you to your seat, hot and heavy and impossibly dark as the hum of the engine carries you through the city, velvet wrapped and haloed in streetlight.

He hasn’t even touched you yet, not really, but your skin feels like it’s blistering beneath your dress—your pulse high, your thighs pressed tight together in anticipation that makes your stomach twist and flutter.

“Come here,” Harry says, voice low, rasped from restraint and heavy need.

Two words. That’s all he says.

Your legs move before your brain catches up, straddling him in the backseat like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His hands come to your waist as you settle into his lap, and fuck—he’s hard already, thick and burning a plane of heat against your high.

“You have no idea,” he breathes against your neck, mouthing at the skin just under your ear, “what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you whisper, even as your eyes slip shut, hips rolling forward instinctively against him

Harry groans—deep and pained and real. “You walk into a room and I can’t think. Not clearly. Not rationally. It’s all static, it’s all you. Your eyes, your mouth, your fucking mind—” He nips your jaw, tongue chasing the sting. “You kill me.”

You moan, your hands digging into the strong muscle of his back. It draws a ragged growl from Harry’s throat, his fingers twitching on your hips.

“Are you wet for me?”

You’re nodding your head before you even realize it. “Yes.”

He curses under his breath, burying his nose in the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder. “I haven’t even touched you properly, and you’re already making a mess.” His voice is rough velvet, soaked in lust. “What do you think that says about you, sweetheart?”

“That I want you,” you breathe, already half-gone. “So fucking badly, Harry.”

Harry lets out a slow breath through his nose, his touch slides down your thighs, bunching your dress. “What I want…” He trails off, slipping his hand under your skirt. You gasp as his fingers skim the waist of your panties. “is to spread you open, taste how needy you are. I want to make you come with my mouth before I even think about fucking you.”

His fingers brush over the soaked center of your panties and he groans, low and dark. “Fuck.” He presses the pads of his fingers into you through the fabric—just enough pressure to tease, to leave you gasping. “This all for me?”

You whine, high and light in the back of your throat as you nod frantically. That’s not enough for Harry.

His eyes narrow, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Use your words, baby. Who made you this wet?”

“You,” you whisper. “You did.”

“That’s right.” He slides the lace aside to run two fingers through your folds slowly. Your hips jolt, and he grins against your throat.

Your head drops against his shoulder, hips bucking against his fingers. He holds you in place with an iron grip, not letting you grind down for friction just yet. You feel the twitch of his cock beneath you, straining against the fabric of his tuxedo pants.

“Harry—” you gasp, breath breaking as he circles your clit with the barest pressure. Just enough to tease.

“Mm, I know,” he murmurs, kissing your throat. “I know what you need, but not yet. I want you squirming by the time we get to the office. Can you be good for me and wait, hm?”

Your stomach clenches in anticipation, your cunt throbbing between your legs. You’re not sure how much more desperate you can get, grinding on your boss in the back of a limo while his hand is up your skirt seems like the highest form of desperation. 

Still…

You nod—barely—because your throat is tight with need, but Harry clicks his tongue.

“I said use your words.” It’s not mean, the demand. The tone of his voice. It’s strong, rich with the same power and authority you’ve seen countless times over the past few years.

“Yes,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’ll be good. I’ll wait.”

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth over your jaw like he’s proud of you, like he’s already rewarding obedience.

He keeps his hand there the whole drive—just resting. No pressure. No movement. Just the heat of his skin against your soaked center, the weight of his hand where you need it most, while the city blurs past the tinted glass. It’s maddening.

Every bump in the road jolts you slightly. Every turn shifts your hips, makes his fingertips graze your clit. It’s not enough. It’s torture. You bite your lip raw trying not to move, not to grind down and take what you want.

It would be so easy, you’re pathetically close to the edge as is. 

But you told Harry yes, breathed it against his shoulder in soft surrender. 

You promised to be good, and you’re dying to see what it gets you.

Getting up to Harry’s office is a mess of stumbling feet and frantic hands that refused to stop touching any longer than they have to.

Harry kisses you against the door, your back pressed to the frosted glass. His mouth is hot and hungry and unrelenting, like he’s trying to make up for the months of waiting with every glide of his tongue.

You’re the one who breaks away just long enough to fumble for the keycard clipped inside his jacket, but Harry’s already sliding it free with one hand while the other stays around your waist. 

The lock beeps open and you stumble through the door, breath ragged, dress askew. Harry kicks it shut behind you, his lips never leaving yours as he walks you backwards until the tops of your thighs hit his desk.

You barely have time to gasp before you're lifted—effortless—onto the surface of his desk, papers fluttering to the floor beneath you as he spreads your legs apart with both hands.

“Lean back,” he says hoarsely, helping you as your hands fumble for balance. The cold glass of the desk kisses your palms. “Let me see you.”

Your dress is hiked up around your waist, pooling all around you like ink, your thighs parted. Harry looks at you like he’s starved. His eyes drag up your body like a man measuring the cost of ruin and deciding to pay it gladly.

He makes quick work of his jacket, only needing to shuck it off his shoulders after you made quick work of the buttons back in the elevator. He collapses back into his chair with a shaky breath, sliding in between your legs. 

His hands find the waistband of your ruined panties, eyes glued to your core as he peels them down your legs. “Fuck,” he mumbles, running his index finger through the wet mess that greets him. He kisses the inside of your thigh once, then higher, and higher. “So beautiful.”

His mouth is on you in a second—hot, wet, consuming.

He licks a long stripe from your entrance to your clit, groaning like he’s tasting something decadent. 

“Shit.” Your moan is loud, hips jolting off the desk. “Harry—”

“Christ,” he groans against you. “You taste—Jesus. I could stay here all night.”

He takes your legs in his hands, throws them over his shoulders and he devours you—there’s no other word for it. Messy, greedy, reverent. His tongue works in tight, filthy circles, alternating pressure, pulling gasp after gasp from your throat.

He sucks your clit, slow and deep, lips sealing over it and pulling it into his mouth. His tongue flicks once, twice, and your hips jolt off the desk.

“Fuck, yes—right there—don’t stop—”

His hands spread your thighs wider, thumbs digging into soft flesh as he groans into you, like you’re the thing getting him off.

Your head falls back with a cry, hands burying themselves in his hair. “God—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he mutters against you, voice vibrating into your core. “Use my mouth. Take what you need.”

You don’t even realize you’re doing it—rocking forward, grinding down on his face like it’s instinct. His nose bumps your clit perfectly, the stubble on his jaw sending aftershocks through your skin. He hums with satisfaction, like he knew you’d lose control, like he wanted it.

You’re already squirming, already close all over again. Your head lolls back as you cry out, desperate and high and wanton.

“Look at me,” he demands, voice muffled. “Right here. I need your eyes on me, honey.”

You do.

You look down and see him between your thighs, hair mussed, lips slick, eyes nearly black. He’s never looked more beautiful. Or more ruined.

Your fingers tighten in his curls, yanking—he groans like he likes it, grinding his mouth harder against you, tongue flicking over your clit until you cry out, arching into his face.

“Harry—Harry, I’m gonna—”

“Come,” he commands. “Let go for me.”

And you do.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave—sharp and blinding. You cry out, thighs trembling, nails digging into the wood of the desk as Harry keeps licking you through it, gentle now, savoring every second.

Only then does he pull back, licking his lips like he’s just finished dessert. He rises to his feet slowly, towering above you.

“Beautiful,” he pants, voice rough and heartbreakingly earnest. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

You can barely breathe, your chest rising and falling with every sharp inhale. But you still reach for him, pulling him down by the collar of his shirt. “Please.”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. He undoes his belt with one hand, the other bracing beside your head as he kisses you again—filthy, deep, you taste yourself on his tongue. “I need to be inside you,” he says, voice wrecked. “Now.”

You shift, moving to turn onto your stomach.

“No,” he says sharply, hands tightening on your hips. “No, I want to see you.”

Your lips part on a soft breath, something dangerous squirming to life under your skin. “Okay…”

The sound of his zipper rings in your ears, and you glance down just in time to see his cock freed from the soaked cotton of his boxers. It’s thick and flushed, rosy tip already slick with precome. Your breath catches when he strokes it once, twice, eyes pinned to your cunt like he’s imagining exactly how you’ll take it.

“You ready?” he asks, soft again, lining himself up with your shaking entrance. “I need you to say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “I want you, Harry.”

He pushes in slowly—so slowly—and your back arches, a shocked moan catching in your throat at the sheer stretch of him. He’s thick, unrelenting, and your body clamps down around him greedily.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You gasp, nails digging into his arms as he fills you. “Oh god—Harry—”

“That’s it,” he groans, teeth gritted as he bottoms out. “That’s my girl. Taking me so fucking well.”

He doesn’t wait long after that. The first thrust is slow, the second is harder. By the third he’s fucking into you like he can’t get deep enough, the desk creaking beneath you, the sound of skin on skin filling the dim office air.

You clutch at him, gasping as he hits every spot that makes you see stars.

Harry fucks you with purpose, with hunger, but he never loses that softness—his thumb on your cheek, his lips pressing kisses to your jaw, your shoulder, the hollow of your neck, the swell of your breast. He cradles your head in his hands so you don’t knock it into the glass.

It’s all too much. Too much and not enough. 

It feels like home, like this is where you should have been instead of running every chance you got, like a coward. Your hands dig into his shoulder, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Yes.” He kisses you again, bruising and messy like he’s trying to taste the way it sounds right off your tongue. “Say my name.”

“Harry—fuck—Harry!”

“That’s it,” he growls, fucking into you faster now, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the office. “You’re mine now, aren't you? You're finally going to let me have you?”

“Yes—yes—oh my god—”

“Say it.”

“I'm yours, Harry—yours—fuck, I’m—”

He pulls you tight against him, fucking you so deep it’s like he’s imprinting himself inside you. “Come for me, sweetheart. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You come with a sob, clenching around him, unraveling completely beneath his weight and his words and the unbearable sweetness in his eyes as he watches you fall apart.

“I’m gonna come,” he grits out, thrusts growing erratic. “Where do you want it, sweetheart? Tell me.”

“Inside,” you whisper. “Want to feel it. Please, Harry…”

That’s all he needs.

He spills inside you with a groan—deep and raw—thrusting once, twice more before spilling into you, his mouth dropping to your shoulder with a quiet, reverent moan of your name.

New York’s skyline shines through the window, bathing you both in a shimmering light. 

The only sounds filling the office are the light, gentle breaths as you both come down. The dull hum of the city underscores it, muted and fuzzy around the edges.

Harry’s hands don’t stray from your hips, his thumbs absentmindedly draw small circles over your bare skin. The night plays through your mind in flashbacks, each snapshot of all the moments where things shifted like a slideshow behind your eyes.

The stairs of your building, the touch of his hand on your back, the looks from across the room, the terrace. 

“Fuck,” you say suddenly, raising your head off the desk in alarm. “Harry, your award. You left it on the terrace.”

It’s quiet, until his shoulders start to shake and the unmistakable sound of laughter fills the space between you.

“It’s not funny!” You slap his shoulder, but you’re still smiling. “That was the whole fucking point of tonight.”

Harry lifts his head, meeting your gaze. “Was it?”

You look back, puzzled. “Wasn’t it.”

Harry chuckles again, shaking his head fondly. He leans in and presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and indulgent. “I’ve already got the only thing I wanted tonight.”

Your heart does a small, dangerous thing in your chest. “Well, this is definitely going in my yearly review.”

Harry hums. “I look forward to reading it.”

You don’t muffle your laugh, you don’t turn your face to hide your smile. You only raise your hand, carding your fingers through the sweaty curls laying on his forehead. 

Harry turns his head, pressing one last kiss to your palm.

You’ll email the AIA tomorrow, for now, they can wait.

MINI NAT’S NOTE: if you would have told me a year ago that i would be writing for a pedro pascal character in a movie that chr*s ev*ns is ALSO in, i would have laughed in your face, HARD. oh how the sands of time can change us.

anyway this actually wasn't the harry fic i originally wanted to post. i was working on something completely different when this idea manifested in my brain and i immediately jumped ship…but in my defense this is the fastest i've written something since the semester ended so ofc she's being uploaded. thank you so much for reading, love you!

[navybrat817]

Every Touch

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky touches you every chance he gets.

Word Count: 820

Warnings: Established relationship, sweetness, fluff, implied smut, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Tower Shenanigans inspired by a sweet nonnie! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Once your relationship is out in the open he doesn't stop touching you because there's nothing to hide. Plus he loves touching you.

If you two are ever apart, he seeks you out first thing. If his hands are full, he puts whatever he’s holding down so he can put his hands on you in some way.

It’s normal for him to sneak up behind you in the kitchen, or any room in the tower really, and press a kiss on your shoulder. It’s always the same spot and it always tingles after.

He likes to sit close in the common room so your legs are touching. He sometimes tucks your head under his chin and breathes you in, and other times he rests his head against you and you run your fingers through his hair.

Bucky once got jealous when you ran your fingers through Bob’s hair, but that’s a story for another day with a very happy ending for you.

He also likes to sit beside you when he reads so he can hold your hand, and he places the book on his lap so he can turn the page and not let you go. If he runs small circles on your hand, he’s reading something soothing, and if he’s squeezing your hand, he’s reading something exciting or potentially upsetting.

Interlocking fingers puts a small smile on your face because that means he’s reading something romantic and he once said, “This is one of the greatest love stories ever told, but ours is better.”

You didn't laugh or tease him because he meant it. “I love you, too, Bucky,” you said, your heart full.

Everyone knows you're by his side for movie nights and he’ll happily hide your face in his neck if you watch something scary, even when you tell him you aren't afraid. He just wants to protect you, even if the monsters aren't real.

If he sits beside you when you eat, he has a hand on your thigh. That can be dangerous depending on the kind of mood he’s in.

If he has to sit across from you, prepare for him to play footsie or reach across the table to take your hand. He sometimes does both.

You hold hands or he has an arm around your shoulders in public. If he puts his arm around your waist, someone is either staring at you or is ballsy enough to hit on you in front of him.

You usually give him a kiss on the corner of his mouth when that happens, both to calm the raging storm inside him and to wordlessly tell anyone looking that you two belong to each other.

Every once in a while Bucky will play music so you can dance together. He’s a gentleman at first and has a hand on your waist while the other has your hand in his, but it typically ends with an innocent kiss that becomes heated and his hands wandering over your body.

After you woke up in his bed the first time, you traced a heart over his when you thought he was still asleep. A heartbeat later he traced a heart on your back.

Your limbs are constantly tangled up when you're in bed together and you both continue to trace patterns and shapes on each other's skin. You even write words or phrases that he tries to guess, which he’s pretty good at.

If he catches you frowning, he’ll reach out and touch your cheek with one finger until you smile. He’ll then put his entire hand against your cheek to keep you in place and memorize how beautiful you look.

Bucky is in a better place mentally than he has been in a long time, but he still has his bad days like everyone else. When those days pop up, you ask if it’s okay to touch him.

He never answers with words. He’ll take your hand, wrap you up in a hug, whatever he needs, and he appreciates that you asked when others would've just taken or assumed.

If you're hurt, it’s game over. He's carrying you everywhere and holding you in his lap, even if it's the tiniest injury known to mankind and you're more than capable of moving around on your own.

You tease that he's dramatic, but you not-so-secretly love it. It also isn't a secret that some missions are terrifying and you both need the comfort and each other's touch after.

“I can't lose you,” he once whispered so low that it was almost lost in the air. You snuggled close so he could feel your beating heart and know you were right there with him.

In your dreams, and you hope in reality, you’d never lose each other. You’d fight together, grow old together, and live a long and happy life together.

And you’d cherish every memory with Bucky, along with every touch.

This man. 🥰 I wonder just how jealous he got because of Bob. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[vettelsvee]

NEW YEAR'S DAY | Oscar Piastri

⋆ PAIRING: Oscar Piastri x Girlfriend!Reader ⋆ SUMMARY: A clumsy and unexpected proposal on New Year's Day is what you wouldn't have thought about after dating Oscar for almost five years ↳ Part of REPUTATION in MY TORTURED DRIVERS DEPARTMENT ⋆ WARNINGS: Curse words ⋆ WORD COUNT: 1722 ⋆ VEE'S NOTES: I loved writing this one! Hope you like it as much as me ☺️ Feel free to tell me in the comments <3 ↳ LET'S TALK/REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

Oscar was nervous, really nervous… maybe even more than the day he won his first Formula 1 race and had no idea how to act.

“Which one do you prefer: blue pants or the black ones?”

“Oscar, sweetheart… it’s just New Year’s at our place. With your family. And with Lando. It’s all very casual, so stop overthinking what pants wearing!”

You answered from the kitchen island, struggling to cut a pineapple with a knife that was very likely the one Oscar had promised to sharpen. A promise, clearly, left unfulfilled.

Oscar looked at himself in the mirror and rolled his eyes at your answer.

The thing was you were supposed to be helping him. Instead, you were doing quite the opposite.

“I just want to look good, you know? It’s the first time we’re hosting New Year’s here, and, well… you never know what might happen. It’s a special night.”

“Come on, Osc, why are you so nervous?” you asked, narrowing your eyes at him. He avoided your gaze and sneezed instead.

“Okay… you’re definitely hiding something.”

“You think I’m hiding something because I sneezed?”

You nodded. You knew he always did that when he was dodging a topic, and then there was the way he kept fidgeting with his hands, tapping anxiously on his thighs.

“I’m not hiding anything, I swear,” Oscar said again. He tried to sound convincing, but the tremble in his voice gave him away. “I just want tonight to be… memorable.”

All you could do was smile. As much as you didn’t like being left in the dark, the way he kept secrets was, somehow, ridiculously charming. Especially coming from someone like Oscar, who rarely let his emotions show, no matter how hard you’d tried to help him open up.

As the hours passed and midnight drew closer, your home filled with people. First came Oscar’s mom and stepdad. Then his father arrived with his three sisters, who wasted no time grabbing cold beers while casting suspicious glances at your boyfriend. Lando, who was supposed to be one of the first to arrive, ended up being among the last. He said nothing until he reached the makeshift DJ booth he’d insisted you set up behind Oscar’s back. Even your cousin, who hadn’t been too keen on attending such a “different” kind of party, showed up unexpectedly, arm-in-arm with a guy you’d never seen before and who looked nothing like her usual type.

“Who let Oscar cook?” Lando asked, holding up a canapé with salmon that was, honestly, a little overdone. “This piece of toast looks incinerated.”

“Take it or leave it!” Oscar shouted from the kitchen, wrestling with an egg-shaped timer that refused to stop beeping. He slammed it repeatedly against the counter until it finally cracked open. “Holy shit!”

You shook your head, laughing quietly at the surreal scene, especially when Hattie walked over to Oscar and made him swear to buy you a new timer, plus something else she whispered in his ear that you couldn’t quite catch.

You tried, once again, not to read into the secrecy, but it got harder when his entire family huddled in a corner of the living room, politely but firmly refusing to let you join them.

Your cousin must’ve sensed your confusion, because when she came over, you finally felt like you could breathe again.

“Have you noticed how weird Oscar’s acting? Imagine if he proposes to you!”

“What? No, come on,” you replied quickly, doing your best not to get your hopes up. “In front of his whole family? On New Year’s Eve? That’s so not his style.” You shook your head. “If he ever did something like that, it’d be at home, after dinner or something low-key. He’s not the kind of guy who’d go public with that.”

“Exactly. That’s why I’m saying it. Why else would he be this nervous, today of all days? It’s not your first New Year’s together… It’s too obvious.”

You brushed the idea aside, but no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t quite shake it off. Especially when, at 11:30 p.m., Oscar disappeared without a word and now, his sisters and Nicole were clearly stalling you.

Oscar tried to sneak into your bedroom unnoticed, but he knew he hadn’t succeeded. Did he care? Not one bit. Clutching the velvet ring box he’d hidden in his travel bag, he had bigger things on his mind.

“Okay, breathe… You’ve rehearsed this over ten times alone, and five with Lando…”

He crouched down, then stood in front of the full-length mirror to practice kneeling. But on the third attempt of “how to propose to my girlfriend without completely embarrassing myself,” he tripped on the rug and fell flat on his face.

“Shit…”

“Oscar, babe? Are you okay?”

Your voice made him scramble to his feet and instinctively toss the ring box to the back of the closet, terrified you’d catch him.

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s great! Just, uh… rehearsing how to celebrate the New Year with you!”

“Osc, sweetheart, this isn’t our first New Year’s together,” you said as you jiggled the door handle, trying to open it. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting a little… off today.”

And that was putting it mildly.

“I’m just nervous because, you know… this is the first of many New Year’s where I’m a Formula 1 world champion!”

You shook your head. At that point, it was obvious—Oscar was up to something. Whatever it was, good or bad, it was going to surprise you.

You said goodbye and reminded him not to take too long—only ten minutes left until midnight. He promised he’d be quick, just needed to stop by the bathroom.

Once he heard your sandals fade down the hallway, he let out a long sigh of relief and turned to face the mirror one last time.

“All right… ‘I want to spend the rest of my life with you, through the good and the bad. So… will you marry me?’”

[...]

"Five minutes to midnight!" Lando shouted from the terrace, half a glass of champagne in hand as he finally abandoned the DJ booth.

"God, it was about time he got out of there," Nicole whispered to you. "Do you have any idea how nervous that music was making me?"

While you kept chatting with your mother-in-law, Oscar stepped out onto the balcony looking much paler than usual. It was obvious something was up: he scratched the back of his neck, stared at the sky, shoved his hands into his pockets, then looked straight at you and gave you a nervous smile.

"Hey, Osc... are you okay?" you asked, walking up to him with a shyness you hadn’t seen in him since you first started dating back in high school.

"Yeah, yeah, I’m fine." He glanced at his mom, who was standing behind you. She gave him a discreet thumbs-up. "I just… really want to see the fireworks."

"Oscar. You hate fireworks."

"Exactly the reason why I’m nervous."

He swallowed hard.

You let the little lie slide; there wasn’t time to call him out anyway, because everyone around you had started the countdown. So you just smiled, wrapped your arms around him, and kissed his cheek.

Oscar, gently pulling away, reached into his pocket to grab the box… only to find it wasn’t there.

"No, no, no… shit… where the hell are you?" he muttered under his breath, pretending his panic was about the upcoming fireworks.

He checked the other pocket… nothing. Looked down… nothing. Then, as he fumbled with the back pockets, he finally felt the box. Unfortunately, in pulling it out, it slipped from his hand and hit the ground with a soft thud.

"Five, four, three, two, one…!"

And Oscar tripped right over your feet.

"Happy New Year!"

You dropped to your knees in a slight panic to help him up, praying he hadn’t hurt himself, because the sound of the fall had been anything but soft.

What you weren’t expecting was to find him kneeling in front of you, holding an open box with the ring. The one you’d been eyeing for six months.

You stared at him, confused… and then completely speechless.

"Wait… are you really serious? This isn’t a joke, right?"

He looked up at you. Hair a mess, shirt wrinkled and soaked in champagne from the bottle Lando had just popped. Tiny pieces of confetti stuck to the beads of sweat on his face.

"Yes and no," he said, a sheepish grin spreading across his lips. "I mean, sure, I think I’ve dislocated a hip and lost most of my dignity, but… I guess it was worth it."

Then, with just a few quiet seconds and a single question, your eyes welled up.

"Will you marry me?"

Silence wrapped around the room. No one screamed. No one pushed you to answer. You even noticed Lando thoughtfully turning the music down, switching it to Lover by Taylor Swift, the song you’d once told Oscar you wanted playing when you got proposed to.

"Of course, you idiot," you said, tears rolling down your cheeks as you helped him up and pulled him into the tightest hug, burying your face in his chest. "But promise me you won’t be this nervous on our wedding day."

[...]

"Do you think it was too… casual?"

The party was over, and now the two of you were curled up in bed, sharing a McDonald’s burger because, as it turned out, Lando was right—putting Oscar in charge of New Year’s dinner had been a mistake you wouldn’t repeat.

"Well… you tripped over a rug while rehearsing, then fell again and ended up with confetti all over your face. So I wouldn’t call it casual. I’d say… unique."

"Yeah… It definitely didn’t go as planned."

"But it was perfect anyway," you cut in.

Oscar sat up, holding his Big Mac box like it was a sacred artifact, and looked at you.

"Really?"

"Of course! If there’s anything that defines us, it’s not just how much we love each other… it’s also how ridiculously clumsy we are."

"Right… And listen, speaking of clumsy…" he said with a guilty grin. "I think it’s very much fair you tell Lando that you were the one who burned all the food and ruined New Year’s dinner."

© VETTELSVEE (2025). Please, do not steal, copy, translate and share my works in other platforms. Thanks for reading!

[webslinger-holland]

okay I love bucky and all the boys honestly so can you write one where they get a goodnight kiss for the first time? love your writing btw!

Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob receive a goodnight kiss

Warning: the implication of wanting to stay the night ;)

It had been a long night; the gala ended up lasting way longer than anticipated. The Thunderbolts were being honored by Valentina, which was just another way for her to get good public press shots. Since it was hosted by her, that meant the guests of honor had to stay the whole time.

By the time the night was over, all of them were beyond exhausted and ready for a quiet night in the hotel room she'd booked for each of them. It was nice when he offered to walk you back to your room, even after spending many hours chatting and drinking together.

Bucky:

Walking side by side through the quiet hotel hallway, you carried your heels in hand. He kept his hands deep in his pockets; his eyes trained on the patterned carpet below and counting the steps until reaching your hotel room.

Coming to a slow stop, you paused for a second in front of your door. You turned to face him, rocking on the heels of your feet and clutching the room key tightly.

"You know..." Bucky tried to make it sound as casual as possible. He scratched the back of his neck and avoided eye contact at first. "We don't have to say goodnight to each other tonight."

A smile crept onto your lips at the proposal. "Enjoy my company that much, huh?"

"More than you know," Bucky spoke so softly, it nearly melted your heart right there.

Your eyes searched his as if trying to read him like a book. Instead of answering, you reached up and hooked two fingers into the front of his shirt collar — that small space between his open jacket and the buttons underneath.

You tugged gently, drawing him closer. His breath hitched when he realized.

And then your lips found his. One kiss that felt heavier than all the things he’d wanted to say. His hands found your waist automatically, like they belonged there and planned on staying there. Your fingers didn’t let go until it ended.

When you did pull back slowly, you looked up at him with an unreadable expression. Your fingers brushing down the front of his jacket. He leaned forward to chase your lips, but your hand stopped him.

“I’m going to bed,” you told him before he was able to take it a step further.

“I could—” Bucky began.

“Alone.” You smiled because Bucky looked only slightly disappointed.

"Right," Bucky nodded. He took a step back to give you space, shoving his hands back down into his pockets.

“But thank you for walking me.” You patted his chest twice and then headed into your hotel room for the night, knowing that you were leaving him wanting more.

John:

Coming up to your room, the laughter slowly began to die out. It was the kind of shared laugher that felt similar to a post-adrenaline high where everything felt lighter than it should. Shoulders brushed together teasingly.

John stopped short. He ran a hand through his hair and —for some reason— looked more nervous than his usual cocky and confident self. He kept gesturing with his hands, trying to sound casual.

“I mean… I could come in,” John suggested, fast and casual, like it wasn’t a big deal to him. He even shrugged. “Not for anything, just like—talk. I don’t often fall asleep right away and you—uh…”

He only stopped talking when he saw the amused look on your face. He narrowed his eyes at you as if trying to figure out what was going on in that head of yours.

"What?" John smiled. You shrugged.

“You’re cute when you do that,” you confessed.

“Do what?” John swallowed, shifting from one foot to another like a nervous schoolboy.

You took a step forward and slipped your fingers into his tie — right near the knot. His words died in his throat and he swallowed hard again.

“Talk like you’re not sure if I want you here.”

You gave the tie a slow tug — just enough to make him lean down to meet you. He didn’t resist. His lips parted like he might say something — but you kissed him before he could.

His hands came up like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. But he did. Just you waist. Just enough for him.

It was unhurried and surprisingly soft for how much heat had built up between you. Your fingers stayed curled in his tie even as you drew away from him.

He stared down at you like you just handed him the world in the palm of your hand. You watched the way his eyes darted back down to your lips like he wanted another taste and he even dared ask.

“So, uh… does that mean—” John wondered.

“Goodnight, John.” You stepped away.

“Right. Right. Yeah. That.” John ran his palm over his mouth and down his beard. The door closed in his face and left him more flustered than he'd care to admit.

Bob:

The walk back to the hotel had been quiet for the most part. The air heavy with things neither had said out loud. He particularly had been quiet since the gala ended — not brooding, just stuck in thought. His shoulder brushed yours more than once. And you once caught him staring at you.

The two of you came to a slow stop in front of your hotel door. You fished your hotel card out of your clutch purse, holding it up for him to see. He sent you a tight lined smile.

"Well, this is me." You motioned to the door right behind you and Bob nodded without making eye contact with you. "I really enjoyed tonight," you tried to catch his eye.

"Yeah?" Bob glanced up, somewhat surprised. He smiled in recollection. "Me too."

You turned to scan your card against the reader, but Bob —with a sudden burst of courage— stopped you in your tracks.

“You don’t have to go in yet,” Bob said gently, drawing your attention back to him.

"No?" You quirked an eyebrow curiously.

“Y—You could come back to mine,” Bob almost couldn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. The moment he saw the look of surprise on your face, he quickly backtracked with: “Only if you want. I’m not—”

You smiled reassuringly and he looked so hopeful. Not expectant. Not pushy. Just hopeful.

He kept talking. And saw the way you moved closer to him.

"We could watch a movie, eat some snacks, or just talk if you want to." Bob's voice was growing quieter the closer you got to him. His eyes searching your face for some kind of sign of interest.

"Just talk?" You teased a little.

"Yeah," Bob squeaked, though he didn't mean to. He coughed and cleared his throat a little, shrugging it off like it was nothing. "Or any of the other things."

"Very tempting," You nodded.

"Yeah?" Bob looked up.

You were close enough to him now. You reached out to lay your hand flat against his chest, slowly dragging it up, and snaking it behind his neck. You pulled him down until your lips met his in a slow and deliberate kiss. He melted into it like he’d been holding his breath all night.

Your other hand moved to grab the lapel of his jacket— not to pull him any closer, but just to stay grounded. His hands hovered at the spot right above your waist, too fearful to place his hands there.

The kiss was warm, sweet, and slow. And he savored every second of it.

When you pulled away, you dragged both hands down the front of his chest to smooth his jacket flat again like you hadn’t just stolen all the air from his lungs. He watched your movements with hopeful eyes.

"I'm gonna have to pass tonight," you told him.

"Okay," Bob nodded. Not mad at all. Very understanding.

"But only because I like you too much to rush this," you confessed while you ran your hands down the front of his chest before withdrawing them carefully.

"Oh," Bob said mostly to himself, not catching on right away. And then: "Oh."

"Goodnight Bob." You smiled cheekily and slipped away before he had a chance to say anything else. The door closed with a soft click.

“Right,” Bob whispered. “Yeah. Goodnight.”

SEND IN MORE HEADCANONS! I LOVE WRITING THESE

[dduane]

Hello Ms. Duane I hope you're doing okay today.

This is a very personal ask and if it's too much and you need to ignore it I totally understand!

I was just wondering how you are managing to stay so strong and positive after what happened.

My partner and I are in our 40s and neither of us are the healthiest people and I am so very afraid of losing him one day. Sometimes, in private, I cry just thinking about it. I can't see a future in which I could go on if he died first.

But you manage to continue even after your terrible loss. You travel and write and continue to experience joys in life. Do you have any thoughts or advice on how to be ready for this future? How to survive the grief?

I hope I am not overstepping my boundaries. I have no one I could talk to about his, and your current strength amazes me.

First of all: thanks for the kind words. They're very, very appreciated.

Secondly: Everything that follows is intensely situational, and everybody else's mileage will inevitably vary. (So what else is new?)

(Adding a cut here, as I'm still ambivalent about how to handle these issues "on main". Warning: contains discussion of pre- and post-bereavement issues, the loss of longtime spouses, mental-health travel, and turning into trees.)

...Anyway. How am I managing?

Frankly, damned if I know.

In my case, I'm really not sure it's attributable to strength, as such. (Though, yeah, one learns some of that over time, if one's not afraid to expose oneself to life. Which, admittedly, is a way bigger ask these days, it seems to me, than it used to be.)

Some of it is mere habit, intertwined with unavoidable responsibility. There are things that my daily life requires me to do that can't be evaded, or not for long: and habit keeps me pushing through those. (And some of them are so fecking mundane. Keeping the online store running, doing the damn dishes, dealing with web issues [right now I'm having a deeply frustrating discussion with Peter's website about under-the-hood memory issues: a discussion that I wish I could just end with a polearm of some kind]...) This is the "This Gets Me So Damn Pissy" side of being a grownup. ...With the inevitable side question: when the hell did I grow up? Is this it? Because this bit of it is really annoying me right now.

Some of it is sheer bloody-minded stubbornness (with a side of You can't give up on dealing with this. He wouldn't like that. And also, You have to keep on surviving this to the point where you get past the worst of the pain: because you know that point will come if it's just given enough time... and he would not want the last thing he did to have caused you so much pain that you gave up).

...Is any of this making sense? God only knows. Please excuse all unnecessary parentheses.

And also: Some of this is the simple realization that it would not be either desirable or healthy to give up, or set aside, even temporarily, the whole spectrum of individuated, nothing-to-do-with-him things that have made me, and continue to make me, me... some of which were plainly (to my then and continuing delight) what got that guy to marry me in the first place.

Peter had only disapproval for the concept of suttee. But not merely because of that, I refuse to burn myself away on his pyre (or to allow my own carelessness about my physical and/or mental states to let that happen). It would serve no useful purpose, would inevitably cause pain to a lot of other people... and in any case, he would just really not approve.

Admittedly, I'm feeling kinda scorched around the edges right now. But give it time enough, and scorching can heal.

(sighing) Let me back away briefly from that whole set of issues, to look a little at the background. Whenever this subject has come up for discussion between us over the years, P. and I have been of more or less instantaneous agreement that we'd both deeply prefer, when the day and hour rolled around, to be turned simultaneously into trees. 😏 Neither of us was ever wild about the other one surviving alone and having to deal with the partner's loss. Yet—barring the chance of dying together in some natural disaster, or in a train or plane crash or something (which is frankly kind of hard on all the other people on the plane or train)—we knew damn well that eventually, whatever our preferences, that was what was most likely going to happen.

So we talked about it. We made some (as it now turns out, fairly rudimentary) plans. Some of them are turning out to be useful. Some of them are less so (in that some of them depended on assumptions about which of us would be likelier to go first). But the important thing was that we jointly acknowledged that one-of-us-goes-first was the likeliest outcome.

And nothing is served by trying to pretend that it's not likely to happen, or by failing to acknowledge and discuss it with your partner. This is hard to say, and will doubtless be hard to hear. But I promise you that all of this would have been endlessly worse for me (or for him, if I'd gone first) if we hadn't even been willing to get as far as the acknowledgement: which is vital.

One who commits to a real-world, long-term partnership must sooner or later be willing to commit to the difficult truth that it will someday end. Denial doesn't help at all. The physical universe has all kinds of seriously annoying ways to deal with that. (And if this sounds kinda stern, please understand that it's mostly myself I'm being stern with here.) ...But if you're already experiencing distress over the eventual possibility of something at this level of inevitability happening (she said, briefly putting her psych-nurse hat on*), I think you might be wise to consider how to broach the subject with your partner sooner rather than later. If you need professional assistance with this, do what you can to seek it out.

But make some kind of plan for the time when two become one (in the probably least-delightful sense of the phrase). It doesn't have to happen all at once. You don't have to spend hours over the business, or days. Peter and I handled this issue (most recently, and not with an eye to any illness...) over a matter of months, in brief conversations that sometimes lasted only minutes at a time, or even seconds. (Hilariously, it was P. finally getting his senior citizen's unlimited-public-transport pass that triggered us most recently getting into this issue in any depth.) But having done so—even in rudimentary form—each of us could rest a little easier that the other knew where to quickly reach for the already-emplaced "lifesaver," and wouldn't have to be thrashing around in the deep water all alone with no immediate help in sight.

(sighing) ...So. As to feeling joy about things? I suspect I'm a good ways off that yet. Flashes of amusement and happiness (and also of extremely black humor, possibly rather blacker than usual) have been coming and going as usual. But then the "happiness" thing is kind of unavoidable for me, because in this regard I am a very cheap date, and always have been. I mean, anybody who looks at my shitposting here should be able to detect that. :)

Meanwhile, as for travel: There's definitely a therapeutic side to this. Right up until his last day, P. and I had stacks and stacks of plans for places we wanted to go in the short- to long-term: some of them ones we'd been to before, some not. I find (not entirely to my surprise, but with satisfaction that it works) that there's currently some relief available for me in carrying out these plans, even though P's not with me except in "Shoulder Angel" mode. What I mean by this is: me traveling and seeing new and interesting things, and predicting—I like to think with some accuracy, after forty years of observing and interacting with the man—what Peter would generally make of them. So that practice will continue, when I can afford it and can spare the time away from home. (Those who want to contribute to these efforts are cordially invited to go over to the Ko-Fi and drop in whatever they please with the tag "Operation Shoulder Angel," so I know what it's about. And thanks in advance to any who feel inclined to do this.)

Additionally, in terms of the general suggestion some have made, that I should "Get out of the house and go be with your Tribe when you can", at the end of the month it seems I'll be at Archipelacon 2, on an island I didn't even know existed until some weeks back, and had to Google for. That should be interesting! Detailed reports will follow.

As for continuing to write: that won't stop until it's my turn to stop breathing, if I have anything to say about it. Casual writing, like this, is enough of a daily commonplace that it's in no danger, I think, of being interrupted. Meanwhile, I look forward to being able to settle back into actual prose work as soon as possible, as things are kinda backed up at that end. If I have to travel to do that because it's difficult to do at home... well, I've done that before, and often. If I must, I'll do it again. Some of my best writing has happened in holiday flats and hotel rooms.

Anyway: thanks much for the question, which took courage to ask! I honor that. And as for you: hang in there and do what you can for your own situation... though (obviously) at your own speed. I can tell you for sure that action on this issue will help, at least a little, over time, to kill some of the fear... and will help you prepare for the unexpected.

HTH. ❤️

*Even though we didn't wear caps. When I was still practicing, we worked in street clothes. Just as well, as I always looked like a dork in a cap.

[sooniebby]

ఌ 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐊𝐄𝐑

w.c › 6.6k

warnings › bottom male reader. A faceclaim for him, if you need visuals. Based on my short Drabble. Changed some things to keep it fresh.

plot › a stalker (you) who becomes an idol, experiences withdrawn feelings from not being able to stalk your bae anymore due to scheduling issues. So your sister forces you to make some online friends, one you get particularly close to.

kinks › phone sex

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-

Arakawa Naoki had a stalker.

Naoki couldn’t exactly remember when you began watching him. He just randomly noticed you appearing in places you weren’t before. At first he was creeped out—wondering what trusted adult he should tell.

Until he saw you trip over your own shoelace when trying to discreetly follow him into a grocery store.

Then he just started seeing you as a kid who wanted attention but would rather die than directly ask for it.

You were pretty harmless. After six months of your ‘stalking’, you began leaving him gifts and food. It was mostly his favorites too. How could he not appreciate you?

Once he had graduated middle school and moved to high school, he honestly expected to never see you again. Until he noticed you in his assigned classroom. Judging by how quickly you shoved a book in your face—you weren’t expecting him.

His luck.

That’s when he learned your name.

Momoi (Name).

Your last name was cute. Peach well? Adorable even.

He couldn’t find you scary at all. Though your classmates seemed to disagree. No one would talk to you or even glance your way unless they had no choice. He didn’t understand why, you were cute.

Sure, you didn’t put any efforts into your looks. Your tie was a mess, white shoes that were caked with dirt, cardigan missing buttons, a strange black stain on your blouse. Your face was permanently in a frown, eyes staring off into space if they weren’t looking at Naoki.

Okay.

Okay, maybe you weren’t cute to the average person.

But Naoki saw past that. He began paying attention to you—how could he not? He noticed that you were into music. One of the rare times you actually did something that wasn’t dedicated to him.

He saw you staring almost longingly at the music club last week. But you didn’t attempt to walk into the room, opting to quickly walk away.

You hardly knew how to hide your diary, having it out on your desk, wide open even when you left to the restroom. It made sense, no one ever went near you at all. Only Naoki cared enough to see what you could’ve possibly written.

5月10日 Arakawa-San recently got a bad haircut.. it’s really bad… but he’s still cute… so I’ll ignore it

5月11日 Sis keeps bothering me to audition, stupid. How do you nicely tell someone to shut up?

5月16日 Sis told me writing in the diary everyday would help me but honestly I feel like a psycho. Besides, I’m not sure what to write sometimes, should I just put nonsense?

5月17日 クククククククククククククククララララララララララ, おぉ〜 ??????? 悲しい嬉しい !!!!!!!! What if I jumped in front of the train, would it be an instant death? Hm

Mostly nonsense for the most part. Especially after May 17th. Seemed like you gave up actually writing your feelings in it. Oh well, it was a nice look into his weird stalker.

“Don’t you think Momoi-San is a bit… strange…?”

Naoki glanced up from your diary. He had taken it up from your desk yesterday and it seemed you hadn’t noticed yet. You were both now seniors and were once again in the same class.

“What do you mean?” Naoki questioned, glancing back at your diary. His friend, Nakamura groaned as he rubbed at his hair. He scooted closer which caused Naoki to quickly position your diary so Nakamura couldn’t get a passing glance.

“I feel like he follows you around! I’ve just started noticing!”

Naoki held back a laugh. Nakamura was about four years late.

“You’re imagining things. Why would anyone follow me? I’m not anyone important.”

“I guess… but…”

10月4日 Momo-Chan died yesterday. I didn’t think hamsters could live ten years. Sis really cared for that rodent

11月7日 I’ve been watching 悪い髪 for four years now but I haven’t even spoken to him this is bad, I got rejected from the university he applied to I haven’t even told mom and dad I only applied to one… they’ll kill me

12月19日 forgot I had this stupid thing sis is dragging me to an audition next year maybe by then she’ll forget I can just be a full time stalker

3月23日 she didn’t forget—it’s next week. Oh god, 行きたくない、行きたくない！姉さん、お願いだから

“Naoki! Since when did you read???” Nakamura snapped his fingers, catching Naoki’s attention.

“What?” Naoki closed the diary and shook his head, “you have no proof. No sense in getting paranoid over hearsay. Just leave it alone.”

Nakamura sighed and rolled his eyes, “fine. But I’m not being weird, that guys a freak. I won’t be surprised if he has nothing going for him after we graduate.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

もとも

To say Nakamura was dead wrong would be an understatement. You and your sister must’ve went to that audition and passed with flying colors. Because next thing Naoki knew was that you were on a poster at his part time job with your sister, teasing your debut. Mo to Mo.

You had cleaned up nice for the photoshoot, Naoki felt validated for thinking you were cute underneath all that ‘dirt.’ It seemed the agency was leaning heavily into an alternative and more edgy look with you and your sister.

Naoki didn’t think he’d ever seen your bare arms before until that poster. That stare that your past classmates saw as terrifying was oddly sensually. He was happy that you had something going for yourself, his stalker.

But…

He didn’t expect that meant he’d only get to see you on the tv from now on.

2 years later

“(Name), stop wallowing in your stolen hoodie please. You can’t keep getting so sad every time it’s his birthday.” Hiyori, your sister said, kicking your back as she walked past you to the kitchen.

You only whimpered, curling into Naoki’s sweater that you stole on December 19th, your 2nd year at high school. He had left it in his locker one day and you just wanted it, luckily he often forgot to lock his locker.

“But… Sis…” You whined, wiping away a few tears with your hand. “I only know what university he went to… I have no time to see him anymore.”

“It’s not like you ever spoke to him.” Hiyori muttered, tossing an apple up and down as she walked back over to living room. She kicked you once more before plopping down onto the couch, resting her feet on your body.

You made no effort to move. “But… I liked seeing him… even if didn’t say anything to him. Seeing him.. helped.”

“You’re lucky he never noticed just how insane you are. You could’ve been in jail right now.”

“Mhm.” You glanced over at your phone, tapping on the screen. “Do you think he’s having a good birthday?”

Hiyori only hummed, “maybe. Arakawa Naoki, right? How’d you even start stalking him?”

“He helped me.”

“Helped. Yea, that’s enough information,” Hiyori shook her head, deciding she was done with you for the time being. She began tapping away at her phone, occasionally giggling. Probably her girlfriend.

You watched the time tick on your phone, right when it reached midnight. The day was now December 25th, Christmas Day. No longer Arakawa Naoki’s birthday. You groaned and turned off your phone, glancing over at Hiyori.

“Merry Christmas…”

“Merry Christmas. Let’s go to the aquarium, that’ll cheer you up.” Hiyori said, taking her feet off your body.

“Aquarium…” You muttered, shifting over to glance up at her. “Tokyo Sea Life Park?”

“If that’s what you want. It shouldn’t be too busy when we go.”

It was very busy.

“What the hell?” Hiyori groaned, pulling down her hat to cover her face. She squeezed past a group of students pressed against the windows. “Tch, these kids have no respect. Hogging up the glass, can’t even see shit.”

You hummed absentmindedly, glancing around. “It’s fine. I just want to see the voyagers.” Your face was properly covered with a mask and sunglasses, a hat resting on the top of your head.

“It’s a Sunday—why are so many people here! I’m sweating too much.” Hiyori complained, her mask slipping down a bit. “Go off without me, I need a water.”

“You sure?”

“Go!” She waved you off, already walking away.

“Ah, okay..” You only shrugged. Better to let her cool off than aggravate her any further. You dodged and weaved through the crowds, coming across couples and families that were taking photos of the fish. It had been two years since visiting Tokyo Sea Life Park in Edogawa City.

You’d come frequently on Mondays and Wednesdays because Naoki would usually have baseball practice. Despite how much you loved him, watching him practice could only be so much fun after awhile.

“Look, isn’t he cute?”

“Ah, don’t point at him! It’s rude.”

“Is he a model?”

“You can’t even see his face, his hat’s hiding it!”

You glanced over at the two girls whispering about, not paying any attention to the fish swimming behind them. Ah, young love. Cute. You shook your head and looked over at the sign on the walls. Voyagers of the Sea… Voyagers of the Sea…

“Excuse me, are you looking for something?”

“Ah,” you glanced up, coming face to face with an employee. They were dressed a bit weird. Wearing a hat and mask. Could employees wear something like that? “Uh, hm, where’s the Voyagers of the Sea? It’s been awhile since I’ve been here.”

The employee turned their head to the map on the wall, muttering to themselves. Shouldn’t an employee know where everything is? You were about to just tell them to forget when they suddenly reached over and grabbed your hand.

“I found it. C’mon.” They sounded like a man. You gasped as he tugged you along. The path was bumpy, constantly having to skid to a stop due to the large crowds. You winced each time you bumped right into his back. Gosh, he had broad shoulders.

Two more sharp turns and another knock to your nose on his shoulder, you arrived at the Voyagers of the Sea. You rubbed your nose, groaning to yourself before glancing over at the tanks.

You couldn’t help but grin. “It’s still pretty.” You whispered mainly to yourself, stepping close to the glass. “Bluefin tuna,” you pointed as it swam past, “eagle ray, scalloped hammerhead.”

“Y’know,” you glanced back at the employee who was standing near you. He hadn’t left yet surprisingly. “Bluefin tuna are the largest tuna species. My sister says they’re also the tastiest. And scalloped hammerheads have a 360-degree vision, but then that means they can’t see in front of them. One time, when I was here as a student, one of the fishes was hiding in front of the scalloped hammerhead’s nose. And—”

“—You really like these things. Are you a marine biologist?” He suddenly interrupted you, tilting his head.

“Oh, sorry. I’m not. I couldn’t study something like that.” You didn’t elaborate. You glanced down at your hand, the employee’s hand casually holding yours. “Uhm. You, uh, don’t need to—”

“—Sorry.” He quickly dropped your hand as if he was burned. “Sorry. You just have… soft hands. Very comfortable.”

“Thanks,” you glanced at his name tag. “Nakamura-San.”

“Naka—?” He interrupted himself letting out a laugh, nodding slightly. “Right, right… I’m Nakamura.”

“Mhm. That’s what your name tag says.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Nakamura laughed. “Do you have anymore fish facts?”

“Aren’t you working right now? I don’t want to bore you.”

“It’s okay. I’m interested in learning.”

“Ah. Okay. Well, hammerheads give birth to live pups, and usually a female hammerhead can fertilize her own eggs without a male. But as soon as she has the pups, the baby hammerheads learn how to survive all on their own.”

“Really? They don’t need a parent?”

“No. They do just fine.”

“Self sufficient.” Nakamura hummed, pulling down his hat. “You’re interesting. Are you in school?”

“No. I uhm, work in the music industry.”

Nakamura perks up at that, looking over at you. Though you weren’t too sure due to his hat covering his eyes. “Really? Do you know Mo to Mo?”

You felt yourself freeze. “Ah, uhm, I’ve heard of them…”

“My friend really likes them. She blasts their music all the time, I think I know the lyrics by heart by now.”

“Mhm, they’re good, so I’ve heard.”

“Yea, have you—”

“—It’s Momoi Hiyori!!!!”

“Hiyori-San, sign my tits please!!!”

“Sign my forehead!!!”

“Momoi Hiyori?” Nakamura whispered as you felt yourself panic. The sounds of fans grew louder with the accompaniment of loud heels clicking against the floor.

There, your sister, hat long gone and mask off entirely, was sprinting your way. She was frantically motioning for you to start running as a crowd of fans were right on her heels.

“Crap.” You whispered, ready to book it but Nakamura grabbed your arm.

“Wait! Can I get your LINE ID?”

“LINE ID?” You whispered in shock. Only your family and manager had your LINE ID.

“Hurry up, Seabrain!!!!” Hiyori yelled, rushing past you.

You cursed and pulled out your phone, fumbling to open up LINE and show your QR code. “Here, here. Just scan it and add me.”

Nakamura rushed to scan the code, humming once he got it. “I got it. Let’s—” but as soon as he glanced back up, you were long gone.

“—hang out sometime…?”

He pulled off his hat and rubbed at his head. “He’s fast…” he glanced down at his phone and looked at your account.

Account Name: シーブレイン

“ぱらぱら” — 好きです

The profile picture was of a koi fish, a hand reaching into the pond to touch its scales.

“Seabrain? Cute.”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

ナオイス

シーブレインちゃん, hi~ it’s ’Nakamura’

“Good, good. Lean down further, please. Beautiful.” The photographer said. The sounds of camera flashing and continuous talking almost caused you to miss your phone ringing. Which was strange.

You had little to no contacts. Who could be texting you? It had been nearly two weeks since you had went to Tokyo Sea Life Park. You opened LINE and were surprised to see a request.

“Naoise? Naoise?” You struggled to pronounce the name, tilting your head. What type of name was that? It was just nonsense. “Seabrain-Chan? Is he making fun of me…?” You huffed and turned off your phone, placing it face down on the table.

“Who’s making fun of who?”

You squeaked, glancing up to see Hiyori. She was dressed in a skintight bodysuit, hair slicked back with copious amounts of gel, sharp dark eyeliner and black lipstick. “Hah, answer me.” She said, reaching over to grab your phone.

“Ah, wait!” You reached over to stop her but she easily grabbed both of your wrists in one hand and unlocked your phone.

“Hm? N-Nao-Naoise? Hm, strange name. Seabrain-Chan, hi, it’s Nakamura. Who’s Nakamura?”

“Just an employee at the Tokyo Sea Life Park. He asked for my LINE ID before we had to leave.” You grunted, trying to pull your hands free. How the hell was your sister stronger than you?

“Aren’t you going to answer him? He’s your first contact that’s not family or a coworker. Here, I’ll answer for you.”

“Wait!!”

シーブレイン

(⌒▽⌒)☆ hey, Nakamura-Kun~ I thought you’d never text me

“Are you insane?! Why did you use the a text face?!” You whined, as Hiyori showed you the text she sent. “And I sound so desperate!”

“Why not? It’s cute.”

“Cute?!” You groaned. “Not at all, only kids use that!”

“Not true. My girlfriend sends them to me all the time.” She released your wrists and hands over your phone, pulling out her own to text her girlfriend. “Anyway, talk to this Nakamura guy, maybe he’ll get you to forget Arakawa.”

You frowned. There’s no way you’d ever forget him. Not someone like him.

ナオイス

Aren’t you cute? 悪いな, 海洋くん。

I got busy, my parents and siblings came to visit me since they missed my birthday Couldn’t refuse them

Marine-Kun? You rolled your eyes. Well, it wasn’t like he knew your name. You didn’t really feel like entertaining this any longer but you thought about how your life has been so far. Sure, you technically had fans but you did feel a bit lonely.

Back then, you could watch Naoki and feel moderately okay. Just seeing him was good enough to brighten your mood. But you haven’t been able to see him in two whole years.

Maybe you should… try to forget him?

You shuddered at the thought. Okay. Not forget him. Just, gain a friend.

シーブレイン

気にしない 。

I was busy too. I have to prepare for an upcoming single

ナオイス

Single? Woah

Are you a producer? Songwriter?

シーブレイン

Ah

“Sis!!!” You suddenly shot up, startling Hiyori. She glared at you. “What should I do?”

“What? Why are you screaming?”

“I told him I have to prepare for a single! But! I don’t know what to say? Who do I pretend to be? A singer? Or maybe a makeup artist? Songwriter? I told him I worked in the music industry, I can’t possibly be a makeup artist, oh what should say—!”

“Just say you’re a backup vocalist and are participating in the music video.”

“Ah.” You grin. “Smart. You’re so smart, Big Sis!” You give her a wet kiss on the cheek that she quickly wipes away with a groan, turning your attention back to your phone.

シーブレイン

Backup vocalist. I was just asked to participate in the music video.

ナオイス

mjk? すごい！

You’re cool. I’m just studying meteorology.

Probably become a weather forecaster ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

シーブレイン

Weather forecaster? Is that what you want?

ナオイス

No way

I was a baseball player but

Fucked up left leg, it was bound to happen, I already sprained it once

シーブレイン

それな are you okay now?

ナオイス

Yea. It’s been a year now, I’m

ksnjdnwbdow

You froze, raising an eyebrow. “Ksnjd… is this roman alphabet slang I don’t know?” You began typing the letters into the search bar when he suddenly texted you again.

ナオイス

悪いな。

I need to head back to work, almost got caught by my boss (＞人＜;)

See ya~ シュモクザメ (^_^)/~~~

“Hammerhead shark?” You grumbled, unable to hide the slight smile on your lips. “He’s going to call me everything in the ocean…” you finally took the time to actually see his profile picture. It was of a teddy bear, brown with an eye missing, close to the camera. Though you could still see the background of beach sand.

“That was fast, did you forget about Arakawa by now?”

“Never!”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

“I’m not doing that again, Nakamura, those aquariums are stressful.”

Naoki sighed, shoving his phone into his back pocket. His hair was pulled into a ponytail as he slipped on some gloves. He began cutting up some fish.

“Why are you even in the kitchen?”

Nakamura rolled his eyes, “it’s my mom’s restaurant, I can go wherever. But c’mon, please? They’re only free on Sunday and I used up most of my vacation days already.”

“Sorry, I can hardly handle standing in here for three hours straight. I’m not doing your job for you again.” Naoki held up the knife, pointing it at Nakamura when he attempted to get close.

“Didn’t you get some guys LINE ID because of me?”

“Because of you?” Naoki chuckled, shaking his head. “Keep talking and you’ll replace this tuna.” He slid the knife clean against the tuna’s body, the head off without a second slice.

Nakamura rubbed his neck. “Sheesh. Fine fine. I’ll figure something out… so cruel. Ah, that Momoi kid is having a comeback soon. Do you still keep up with him?”

“No.” Naoki muttered, pulling out the spine from the tuna. “I haven’t since my accident. He stopped stalking me.”

“I still can’t believe you actually liked that he was stalking you.”

“You wouldn’t get it. But I’ve gotten over him, alright?”

“I’m glad I don’t. Try to form a healthy relationship with this new guy, okay?”

“Stop asking me to take your Sunday shifts for your mysterious babe, okay?”

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

4 years ago

You were a senior in middle school, staring down at the lake beneath you. Your shoes were placed down beside you. Your backpack resting on the ground as you peered over the railing. You were a bit short back then, still lagging behind the other boys who were finally getting tall.

Hiyori had teased you’d probably end up her height. Lo and behold you were only an inch taller than her in the present.

“Is that… hm, what’s that one?” You whispered, pushing on your toes a little, trying to see what was floating above the water. It was a bit hard to see—the sun going down being your only source of light.

“They really need to make more light posts.”

You pulled at your uniform to only to feel your button pop loose, falling into the lake below. A curse was on the tip of your tongue as you looked down. It fell with a quiet plop, not even making enough noise or movement to seemingly bother the inhabitants of the lake.

The drop wasn’t high by any means. But the lake wasn’t safe for people to get in. It was deep and the current was surprisingly fast. Once you got swept in, it would be hard to leave. You were honestly wondering if this was actually a lake. It had to have been a river that was just unnaturally wide.

As you pondered what to actually call the body of water underneath the bridge, you heard someone yell.

You glanced to your left just before you tackled to the ground. A delayed cry left your lips from the sudden force. You awaited the pain but didn’t feel anything. The person who tackled you had managed to take the fall damage, now that you were laying atop of them.

You slowly gazed down, noting their middle school uniform, and to your shock—a leg brace on their left leg. A shocked gasp left your lips, catching sight of their forgotten crutches on the ground not too far from you.

This person… was insane?

Said person began to cough violently, their hands digging into your back. You sat up and made sure to not accidentally touch their left leg. The sunset was your only light at this point. Yellow-orange rays shined down on the boy beneath you.

His black hair formed around on the ground, resembling a halo. A little cut on his cheek. On his right cheek there was a mole, almost directly on his cheekbones. His hands slowly slide down your back before falling limply to the ground.

“Hey… Oi. Did you hit your head?!” You whispered, reaching down to touch the back of his head. Sure enough, as you brought your hand back, there was a bit of blood on the tip of your fingers.

You fished out your phone and quickly called for an ambulance. As you waited, you heard a little laugh. You glanced down to see the boy staring up at you, his lips slowly pulling into a little grin.

“At least..” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “The ambulance is for me.”

“What…? I—did you think I was going to jump?”

He didn’t answer, his gaze unfocusing. You gently rubbed his cheek, hoping to keep him awake.

“I was just looking at the water. I’m sorry, please don’t be too hurt because of me…” You frowned. The only reason your shoes were off was because the right shoe had torn open. You were just waiting for Hiyori to get back from the nearby convenience store with some flip flops.

Now you were waiting for an ambulance.

“Prob… just a concussion.” He suddenly whispered, humming slightly. “Don’t worry.”

“Don’t fall asleep. What’s your name?”

“Arakawa.. Naose.”

“Naose?”

“Se?” He began to giggle. “Did I say se? Nice? Ki… meant Ki.. Naoki…”

“Naoki?”

“Hm?”

“Stay awake, please. They’re almost here. Think about, ah, maybe the amount of sea life that can live in a river. How they live different to like, uh, ponds or lakes? Do you like koi fish?”

“Sorry… but that’s really boring…” He muttered, groaning. “I’m falling asleep.”

“Sea life is boring to you?”

“Very… but it’s nice that you like it. I think.. I like.. the sky? Dunno, heheh. Koi fish, is that your name?”

“Huh?”

“Koi-Kun, you… hehe, should be… hm… what was I gonna say?” He began to giggle, raising one hand to gently point at your nose. “Do you, poke fish noses?”

“Fish noses?”

“The weathers nice.” He changed the subject, eyes struggling to stay open. “Y’know… legs’ real ‘urt. Tink ade t rse. Heheh.. ably never play gain.”

“Play what?” You gently patted his face, causing him to open his eyes again.

“Baseball. Mhm… just for a second… lemme..”

You tapped him again. “Stay awake please.”

“So mean…” he gazed over at you, a little smile on his lips. “You…. Pretty.. in a weird way. Koi-Kun.”

The sound of sirens caught your attention before you could respond. “Ah, they’re here! Hey, hey, Naoki-San, Naoki-San!”

That was how you met him, giving him a concussion and perhaps ruining his baseball career.

Young love (⁎⁍̴̛ᴗ⁍̴̛⁎)

ཆི❤︎ཆྀ

ナオイス

くらげさん, おはよう～(・ω・)ノ slept well?

シーブレイン

Jellyfish? That’s new, are you going to stick with a nickname or just keep calling me new ones each time?

ナオイス

∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿ of course～ でも！you know the kanji for jellyfish, right?

シーブレイン

海月? Umi? Tsuki?

ナオイス

Ya, Sea Moon, if you directly translate it in English wwwww

It’s what I think of you, cold and deep, so mysterious, like the sea～ and round, bright, and shiny, like the moon～

シーブレイン

Bright? The moon?

Most people wouldn’t agree with that, the moon doesn’t provide its own light

ナオイス

Right

But it still shines, even if it needs some help

Think of me as your sun, helping you shine,

Sea Moon～ (⁎⁍̴̛ᴗ⁍̴̛⁎)

Later, I have class

“Holy shit.” Hiyori cursed, staring at your phone in shock.

You and ‘Nakamura’ have been chatting for around two months now. The conversations were pretty boring for the most part. Honestly you assumed he’d stop talking to you due to how dry and cold you were. But he’d always respond quickly.

He always made time to respond to you. He even said his name wasn’t ‘Nakamura’ but he never told you his actual name. Not like you asked, you probably should.

He was really into using text faces. At first you viewed them as childish but you got used to them. They could be cute, occasionally.

You two shared pictures but never of yourselves. Just of dinner or any other item that was interesting enough.

“He.. he must like you!” Hiyori whispered, looking over at you. “Who could say something so.. casually?!”

“He can’t. He doesn’t even know what I look like! Or who I actually am! He’d freak out.”

“I doubt that.” Hiyori sighed, rubbing her hands through her hair. “You should try sending something, see if he’s just those friends who are poetic platonically.”

“What would I send?”

“Something sexy.”

“No way.”

You sighed, rubbing at your face as you stared down at your phone. Okay, you’ve always had a problem with saying no to your sister’s ideas. After some goading, you reluctantly took a video.

Hiyori already told you what to say once you pressed send. The video was just of you recording yourself in one of the outfits for your recent music video. It was one of your more scandalous outfits, skin tight pants with holes throughout. A see through shirt and a choker. Chains decorated the outfit.

It was a whole thing.

The video was only about ten seconds. You made sure to have your face out of frame as you pointed your phone down at your pants. There was a mirror right across from you, you laid on a couch, legs spread out, back slightly arched. Your hand was shaky as slid down to your crotch.

Pants button was already open as you gently gripped the edge of your shit that was tucked into the pants, slowly pulling it out. The slightest glance at the thin, tight black briefs you wore before quickly ending the video.

Hiyori’s ‘excuse’ was a simple and planned: “oooh, sorry sorry! I didn’t mean to send this video!” Then you’d send a normal video just showcasing your outfit in the mirror, standing up.

Good enough excuse since you could feign innocence, both videos did have you in the same outfit. And so long as you goaded ‘Nakamura’ into asking for what you wore for the video—it’d make sense.

Hiyori had said that ‘Nakamura’ would either forget and push past the video, or get horny.

You didn’t know what exactly you wanted.

You were a bit scared at the thought of making him uncomfortable—losing your first and only friend you have right now. But there was a small little part of you that was curious, deadly curious to how he felt about you.

ナオイス

Did you go to bed yet?

I can’t sleep (｡ ́︿ ̀｡)

You shot up from bed, staring at your phone.

This was your chance.

シーブレイン

Still awake

Is everything okay?

ナオイス

I’m ok (˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵) just a bit of pain in my leg again

But it stops after a few minutes

What～did～you～do～today～？ᶘ ᵒᴥᵒᶅ

シーブレイン

I filmed the music video

It was for a b-side song for the artist’s album that came out a few weeks ago

Very fun, so busy, the outfits were nice

ナオイス

wowowo ♪( ´θ｀)ノ すごいね！

What were the outfits? The singer didn’t make you wear trash bags so you wouldn’t outshine them, right~? (ﾟoﾟ;;

Today I just had class, my friend was blasting Mo to Mo’s new album, it’s catchy

シーブレイン

ww no they didn’t do that

We got good outfits

Oh, you changed your profile pic

You glanced at his picture, taking note of the new one. It was of that same teddy bear now directly in the sand. A human hand held out a peace sign, acting as if that was the teddy bear’s own hand.

シーブレイン

You really like that teddy bear

ナオイス

You noticed?

Yea, I do, it was given to me in my senior year at middle school

Don’t remember who gave it to me, just woke up in the hospital with it in my arms

Mom said the person left a note, just telling me sea life isn’t boring wwwwwwww ╭(╯3╰)╮

Anyway~ send send!!

You paused. Sea life isn’t boring? No, it couldn’t be. You shook your head. Sure, it was very specific, but—you couldn’t be the only person to write a note like that. Besides, that teddy bear is basic. Yea, it’s not you. No way. No, way.

You rubbed your face as you pulled up the video. You hesitated. Should you really do this? Wouldn’t it be more mature to just ask him if he might like you romantically? That would be smarter. Less manipulative.

Not like you could talk. You stalked a boy for four years straight. The only reason you stopped was because your schedule was overwhelming and any free time you had, you just wanted to sleep. Besides, you didn’t know where Arakawa Naoki really was anyway.

Sure you knew the school but it was a well known and large university. There were so many students. You didn’t even know what major he went in for. It’d take you awhile to find him.

Just as you were debating to yourself, your finger pressed against the screen. You glanced down to see that you sent the risky video.

Well—

You almost screamed in panic, ready to unsend the message but it was too late. It showed that he saw it. He viewed it. He more than likely just finished watching the full ten seconds.

Oh god.

It was a slow and agonizing minute as you stared at your phone, almost waiting for him to cuss you out. But instead, you got a video.

Your finger hovered over the video before pressing play. You quickly paused it though, reaching over for your headphones. Even if your room was on the other side of the shared apartment, you didn’t want to risk it.

After a deep breath and the little beep telling you the headphones were connected—you pressed play once more.

The video was a bit dark, the soft glow of the moonlight being your only light. A shuddered sigh left ‘Nakamura’ before he pointed the camera to his pajama pants. He tugged at the waistband, pulling it far before letting it snap right back against his skin.

A tight grunt left him just as the video ended.

ナオイス

Am I overthinking things?

It wasn’t an accident, right?

シーブレイン

It technically was

But I recorded the video with you in mind

Silence. You almost wondered if you went too far.

ナオイス

Can you show me more?

シーブレイン

Like another video?

ナオイス

Yea

I’ll send too

Not even a second later, he sent another video. You didn’t hesitate to play it. The video was mostly silence, the sound of sheets rustling as he kept the camera at his pants. His free hand returned to the waistband and tugged, but this time his pulled it further down.

You expected him to have been wearing boxers but to your surprise, his cock was now free. It was already leaking wet—coating white pre cum on his soft stomach. Now free, his hand grasped his cock, his thumb rubbing the pre cum across the head.

ナオイス

Kinda, hard to type one handed

Do me a favor

Masturbate like you’re alone

Don’t hold back

Your body involuntarily shivers as you reach over and turn on your fairy lights, allowing a little bit of light. You pointed the camera to your lower half, kicking the sheets off the bed.

You hesitated for just a moment before pressing record. Should you talk? You didn’t really speak a lot in general unless spoken to. Shaking your head, you slip two fingers into your mouth and suck, coating them with your saliva.

Despite feeling a little anxious, you didn’t attempt to muffle the wet sounds. You pulled your hand away and reached down, using your thumb to pull down your boxers. Your cock plopped out free, beginning to harden due to your rising excitement.

A low sigh left your lips as you reached down between your legs. Because of the angle, he wouldn’t be able to see much. But he would be able to hear the squelch as you easily slipped in two fingers inside your ass.

He would be dumb to not realize you must’ve masturbated an hour or so ago.

You ended the video just as your cock sprung to life, pressing send immediately. The wait for his response almost felt like torture. Your cock leaking dejectedly on your stomach. Your legs shifted on the bed as you tried not to continue on to reach your third orgasm of the night.

Not even a minute later he replied to you.

His video was straight to the point—the teasing long forgotten.

His hand grasped his cock as he jerked himself off. The sound of his shallow breaths and wet gasps filled your ears. You forgot all about recording another video, thrusting your fingers in and out, easily reaching your prostate.

You dropped your phone and gripped your cock, sighing at the relief. His moans were driving you insane—you wanted to hear it in person. Wanted to be the one touching him. Hearing every sharp gasp, watching his body shake from the pleasure.

“….gonna.. cum…”

A grunt your lips at his words. It sounded as if he struggled to even say those two words, his voice wet and shaky. You couldn’t hold back anymore. Being overstimulated from your previous masturbation didn’t help. A rub right against your prostate and a wet stroke of your cock, you were cumming right as he released a wet whimper.

You bit your lip to muffle yourself as much as possible, eyes threatening to roll to the back of your head. Your phone pinged again just as you remembered you forgot to record something.

ナオイス

Sorry, haven’t really

Properly masturbated in awhile

Did you cum at least?

シーブレイン

ええ

I came early too, don’t worry about it

It’ll be longer next time

ナオイス

Next time? ∠( ᐛ 」∠)＿

Do you like me, Sea Moon~?

You paused. You liked him enough to masturbate but. You wiped your dirty hands on your boxers. The word like was always associated with Arakawa Naoki.

Even now. Even after your little session with ‘Nakamura’…

You could only see a mole on a cheek and messy hair.

No. You didn’t like him.

Just as you were about to respond, he sent a picture. You opened it without a second thought, expecting a risky photo.

But the sight caused you pause.

It was of him.

‘Nakamura’.

Even with only the moonlight as your guide, you knew him. You knew Arakawa Naoki. Even if only half of his face was visible. The infamous teddy bear was in his arms. Half of his face resting on the pillow, a shy grin on his lips.

The mole rested on the same spot it always has, greeting you in the moonlight.

His hair messy and wild. You wondered if you were delusional for thinking it looked like it formed into a halo on the pillow.

ナオイス

Since you can’t actually see me

Post sex wwww (*ﾉωﾉ)

Pretty, right~?

神ってるね?

You couldn’t think. What should you say? Of course he was pretty. He’s been the only person you’ve ever constantly thought about. Even in two years that you haven’t seen him—he’s only gotten more beautiful.

But, you couldn’t possibly do this to him. Stalking him for four years and suddenly you had semi phone sex with him. Sure Hiyori never out right said anything but you knew she wanted you to act more ‘normal.’

Especially with you now in the public eye. You can’t just watch him in the shadows. You were an adult, you had fans, two years of leaving Arakawa Naoki alone to live his life peacefully.

You should end it here.

But here’s the thing about you.

You needed Arakawa Naoki as much as you needed air to breathe.

And here he was, offering himself on a silver platter.

Two years without him and it felt like torture. It felt as if you couldn’t live without him. Before you could watch him from afar and survive but now…

Now you can’t stand by anymore.

You’ve experienced life without Arakawa Naoki and you promised yourself to never experience it again.

シーブレイン

荒川直樹

ナオイス

???

Huh? How’d you get my name?

From my account? Did I tell you and just forgot?

You smirked at your phone, going to your account and changing your name. It really was him. To think he returned your affection after all these years.

シームーン

You probably don’t even know my name, but I’ve been watching you since our senior year in middle school

I thought I lost you

But you’re here, it’s like you were waiting for me

Were you, Arakawa-San?

ナオイス

Momoi-San…?

Did you

You knew this entire time?

You ignore me for two years then knowingly make me believe I’m texting someone else this whole time?

You’re sick, is that singing career of yours not fun enough? Your girlfriend?

Some man you are — I hope the videos were worth it

He was typing too fast for you to even respond to one of his messages. Girlfriend? You didn’t know he was Arakawa until today, what the hell was he talking about?

シームーン

What? What are you talking about?

Hello?

Arakawa-San?

Each message you sent was sent with an error. You tore off your headphones as you sat up, staring down at your phone in complete shock.

He blocked you.

Lol. Yall want a part two? You’re basically turning into a yandere btw. Comment if you wanna be tagged!

Words/Slangs:

クククククククククククククククララララララララララ, おぉ〜 ??????? 悲しい嬉しい !!!!!!!! — Kukukukukukukukukukukukuku Klaralalalalalalalala, ohhh ??????? Sad and happy !!!!!!!!

悪い髪 — bad hair

行きたくない、行きたくない！姉さん、お願いだから — I don't want to go, I don't want to go! Please, sister

“ぱらぱら” — 好きです — “parapara” I love it (it’s the Japanese onomatopoeia for rain sounds)

悪いな, 海洋くん — sorry, marine-kun

気にしない 。— don’t worry

mjk? — まじか (majika) Roman alphabet slang. Means “really”

すごい！— amazing

それな — Sorena, to express sympathy

くらげさん, おはよう～ — morning, Jellyfish-San

でも — but

wwwwww — Japanese’s lol or lmao

ええ — mhm

神ってるね? — heaven-sent; out of this world. He’s basically asking if his looks are godly

シームーン — sea moon

Tag list: @the-ultimate-librarian @tehyunnie @star-3214 @ning1e @anchoredphoenix @cherry-blossoms-187 @kiiyoooo @chill-guy-but-cooler @iwishtobeacrow @mello-life25 @smellwell @ofclyde @yuzuukix @remdayz @rhetorical-conscience @mooncarvers-world @castocipher @tomoeroi @love-kha1 @secretivemessenger @bensontrechic

[sqgeism]

ive been reading too many domestic fics lately

sage...*gets on knees and bows head in utmost reverence*

domesticity with the amphoreus men. A NORMAL DAY IN THE LIFE. THERE'S TOO MUCH ANGST. MAKE THE PAIN GO AWAY I BEG OF THEE.

lots of love,

ri.

𐙚 𓏵𓏵𓏵 𐙚 i don't wanna be the owner of your fantasy | amphoreus men x gender neutral reader

🍒 — ᥫ᭡ i just wanna be a part of your family . the world is kinder when i close my eyes and pretend all of it isn't on fire.

love mail — ⨾ hiii ri anaxa's #1 dove fr 👰‍♂️ i stopped writing vamp anaxa to LOCK IN. no more angst for oomfs.. only happiness 🧘‍♀️🧘‍♀️ (lying) rly quick sorry ri ily 🥀

anaxagoras isn't domestic.

he isn't domestic when he wakes up a little earlier than you, making sure to kiss your forehead before getting out of bed, moving the alarm you set to five more minutes since you don't want to get up too early.

surely, it isn't domestic when he makes you your preferred beverage in the morning—or a different breakfast each time for you to try. or when he had brought home your favorite snacks on the way home from the academy for you to eat later when he's gone. not at all, it's just all too sweet for the prickly professor.

and when he serves you breakfast in bed, turning off the alarm he had adjusted to instead wake you with loving kisses to your face, it isn't supposed to be interpreted as an intimate gesture, no way. "morning." anaxa whispers softly, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he watches your eyelids slowly flutter open. titan, your eyes had to be inspired by the finest of jewels when the gods were making you. simply gorgeous.

anaxa tries to make mornings as special as possible, knowing he'll be gone for hours once he walks through that door and comes home late again, to his dismay. he'd take care of you all throughout the day if he could.

don't.. don't call it domestic though.

it isn't.

anaxa will do anything but call it that </3

to say mydei yearned—that he ached and bled for this life—is an understatement.

titan forbid a man wants to scream about how much he loves his partner and the life they have together, that he loves waking up to you playing with his hair or tracing his marks. it's then followed by his home gym routine, and if you choose to join him or not—he hopes you at least stay.

if you do, he likes to talk about health and different routines he wants to try and if you're interested. if not, he likes it if you stick around and do your own thing. maybe read or some work? but stay close by, please, you're his motivation.

all meals are to be cooked by prince of castrum kremnos and prince of castum kremnos only, but if you'd like for takeout or a fancy restaurant (or he made plans), he's happy to do so! but cooking is a biiig love language for him, definitely used it to impress your friends and family. it makes him feel like a little boy getting praised whenever you tell him that your family wants him to cook something for them, he's just the happiest!

and kids, oh they're the dream. but he doesn't mean they have to be human kids, pets work too! they're basically kids, no? he just.. he wants to care for something, someone. he loves you so much but he also has so much love to give to the world too </3 agh hes such a sweetheart im sorry

he loves you because you're his last, he knows it. youre his heart and soul and he's surrendered every part of his being to you. his heartbeat is the same as your laughter and his eyes can only ever reflect you. he hopes he can give back even just a fraction of all the happiness you make him feel.

phainon is so painfully enamored with his domestic life he completely forgets he's supposed to be a warrior sometimes.

he thinks he's the luckiest man in the universe to see you when you just wake up, when you're still drowsy and trying to snuggle into his chest further, not wanting to get up.. an absolute goner. he's a 'weak' man (for you), all he needs is your sweet words to tell him to do something and he's all yours.

he likes it when you take care of him, considering how hard he works. phainon is a provider at heart but to be dote on is very very nice, who says no to kisses and sweet words from their angel anyway? absolutely not phainon. he'll HAPPILY take your attention away from the world, not like it needs it. the world has him, and he has you.

you're the one thing he doesn't have to share, to sacrifice (HOPEFULLY!!!!), and he doesn't ever want to lose sight of that fact. that no matter how much he goes through, he has someone waiting for him back at home. and they'll be expecting his arms around him before they sleep, whispering sweet nothings and look forward to waking up to have it all to themselves all over again.

and maybe that's why you two work so well together, the fact that you'll only ever be selfish with each other.

© sqgeism or wtv (^_^;)

[bunni-v1]

wellll since you are taking requests! Can I request Sylus, Caleb, and Zayne with a fem reader who's playful and loves to tease them in public but when their having sex, she's all shy and that?? <33 (I haven't requested something in such a long time, I forgot how this works 😭😭)

Don't Hide~

🍓Baby, you fucking know you can. My little MC is exactly like this, so thank you soooo much for allowing me to write her vicariously through this ask. I have sooo much fun with brat taming, you have no idea, I should write it wayyyyy more. Anyway, I really tried not to let my favoritism for Caleb show here, but he still has more than the other two. Sue me, I love my man.

TW: Intense eye contact in Caleb's; Brat taming; cat ears mentioned but not relevant in Sylus' part; Sylus is crazy big; teasing; softcore otherwise; editing/grammar errors (i am one college student)

Info: Sylus, Zayne, Caleb x Reader (Separate); NSFW

Word Count(s): Zayne (1.2k); Sylus (1.2k); Caleb (1.5k)

MDNI

ZAYNE

You loved to just push, didn't you? It was an annoyingly charming part of you, one that Zayne just adored in most situations. Playful poking and prodding was part of your daily routine, something he expected and honestly needed from you. If you weren't causing some kind of problem for him, you weren't doing well. He would rather you annoy him than see you sad and quiet.

Still, you really could get under his skin when you tried. Bonuses of knowing each other so well, he guessed. Even framing it like a positive was hard when you were trying your very best to get him to react.

Having your arms wrapped around him was a more than welcome experience in most cases. He loved it when you were so openly affectionate in public; it made him feel better about how badly he wanted to hold you, too. What he was not a fan of was the way your sneaky little hands seemed to be creeping lower and lower down his back. It was cute, at first. Easily mistaken as a comforting gesture when your fingers drew themselves back up after dipping just a little lower.

Yet, they didn't stop dipping a little lower. Each stroke got longer, went further down his back, until your fingers were dancing along the hem of his pants. If that weren't bad enough, you were doing it in front of a colleague of yours. Tara, you'd excitedly introduced. Chirping along happily together like two birds of a feather, like you weren't pushing your luck with each passing second. You knew that, though, didn't you?

He shoots you the subtlest look when your hand hovers over his behind, a warning. One, you do not heed, clamping your hand down and pinching his cheek with a Cheshire grin. And he squeaks, despite expecting it, the feeling still takes him off guard. Your grin only widens, especially when Tara blinks in surprise.

"Are you okay, Mr. Li?" She asks, befuddled at how such a stoic man could make such a noise.

He clears his throat, glancing at you, less subtly, "Fine. We should be going, though."

"Aww," you and Tara pout at the same time, though yours is far less genuine than hers.

"Well, it was nice to see you. Have fun with the rest of your day!" She waves, skipping away, oblivious to the tension between you.

Zayne lets out a deep and heavy breath, annoyance leaving him all at once. His eyes zero in on your smirking face, expression even despite the intent clouding his green eyes. He tugs your hand away, wrapping it around his waist in a firm grip so you don't do the same thing again.

"You can't behave for a second, can you?" He sighs.

Another self-satisfied smirk, "It's not my fault you have such a cute butt! It's just begging me to grab it."

He hums, pulling you along with him without another word. He can feel the excitement rolling off you in waves, practically leaping and bounding at his side to get home. How obnoxiously adorable. Your ability to manipulate him into giving you what you want was admirable; he'll give you that. Besides, it's not as though he'd be the one feeling embarrassed by the end of the night, so he'd let you have your little victories.

--

He'd had you on your knees before the front door could even fully close. Shaky hands struggling with his belt, fumbling futilely a few times before finally wriggling it out enough to unzip his pants and slide his member out. It bobs uselessly in front of your mouth, begging for some semblance of friction. Naturally, as if magnetically attracted, you lean forward to take him into your mouth.

A firm hand stops you before you can, making your face scrunch up in confusion, fluttering up to his. The intensity in his eyes is enough to burn you up from the inside, heated and full of intent. You look away quickly, trying to ignore the heat searing beneath your skin. He doesn't allow you to run, gripping your chin and bringing your eyes back to him.

"Use your hands," He commands, "and look at me. Understood."

You nod, letting out a shaky breath. Not good enough.

"Words."

You swallow, "Yes, Zayne."

The grip on your chin softens, stroking the skin there as if apologizing for the roughness, "Good."

Your shaky hands come up, spitting on them for lubricant, then carefully wrap around his cock. Gentle, easy, practiced. You know what he likes, slow and easy. You watch the way your hands glide along his shaft, smiling when the sticky pre-cum coats your fingers. So pretty.

He clears his throat, and you correct your mistake like you've been Pavloved. Looking up at his flushed face, chest heaving, and body, eyes watching your every move. Nervousness tends to build up in your chest when he looks at you like that. No walls or hidden meaning, just sheer desire. You want to hide away from it, but you know he won't let you. All you can do is swallow the ever-growing lump in your throat and let your face burn hotter and hotter.

You watch his Adam's apple bob in his throat, rubbing your thighs together to alleviate some of the need between your legs. It's useless, as expected, and only serves to make you feel more pathetic. You don't stop, though, obediently tugging his member at an even pace. His breath grows more shaky with each stroke, mouth slightly ajar and puffing the hot air out unevenly. Much prettier.

His fingers trace along your chin, down the sensitive column of your neck, and back up again. Mirroring your movements from earlier, giving you a taste of your own medicine. It makes you shy away a little, flinching back when they dip between your collarbones. He spreads them out as he comes back up, pausing in the center of your throat and giving the smallest press, prompting you to swallow against them. He shudders when you do, having to use the door to keep himself upright.

He was close, so close. It made you want to speed up, but you don't. Not unless he tells you to.

"Are you sorry?" He suddenly asks, low and gravely, like it was hard to get out in the first place.

You bite your lip, shrinking into yourself as you mumble, "'m sorry..."

"Clearly," he commands, "or else I'll make you stop right now."

You jolt, shaking your head adamantly, "I-I'm sorry. I am! I promise, please?"

He scoffs a laugh, "Brat... open your mouth, now."

You comply, sticking your tongue out, and within a few moments, he's spurting out onto it. You lap up his release obediently, never breaking eye contact, no matter how much it drives you insane. The hand on your chin comes up to pet your hair, a silent praise for your good work.

"Did you learn your lesson?" He asks lowly, scratching your scalp gently.

You nod, proud to please. It's cute. Really cute. But he's not quite satisfied. With a low hum, he helps you off your knees, nudging you through the house on a straight path to the bedroom.

"Why don't we test that theory, then?" He whispers, a promise that you were in for a long night of behavioral correction.

SYLUS

Sylus was a tease at heart, always pushing your buttons and getting on your nerves with little to no effort at all. He'd admitted to you on more than one occasion that he found your feisty reactions positively adorable. You were his little kitten, after all, what kind of man would he be if he didn't get you swatting your claws at him?

However, teasing him was a difficult endeavor. One that you'd become an expert in. See, you couldn't just whisper sweet nothings into his ear or draw your hands along him sensually. He didn't react to that; he found it more funny than alluring. Calling you needy, which you weren't. No, if you wanted to get something out of him you had to be smarter than just sheer sex appeal.

You had to be cute.

Not so cute that you came off as childish and stupid, he would catch on to things too fast and ruin your fun. Just cute enough that it would get his heart racing, make him pause, and take a second to admire you. When he did that, you knew you got what you wanted.

Which is why you were walking hand in hand with him now, swinging your arm just slightly between your bodies. You were in some expensive shopping district, looking around for something to wear for a mission you were assigned to. He'd insisted on buying you a dress when you'd mentioned it offhand. Who were you to deny him the privilege of seeing you spin around in glittering dresses like a teenager picking out a prom dress?

You'd gotten a bit... off track, though. Purposefully, of course, not that he needed to know that. Excitedly bounding from shop window to shop window, gazing in at the silly souvenirs and cute little stuffed animals like a kid on Christmas. Sylus allowed you to tug him around, a soft smile on his face as you rambled about how cute that little teddy bear is, then in the same breath refused to let him buy it for you.

You stopped short when you came across a little standee outside of a costume shop, laughing at its contents. Cat ears of various types hung on the little turnstile, the perfect killer. You bounded up to it, scanning across the different types before plucking two off the rack. You turn back to Sylus then, a giddy smile as you show him your little treasure, lifting it up with pride.

He leans down without another word, letting you set the white pair on his head. His eyes softening when you clap your hands. You know you've got him right where you want him. You just needed the finishing blow. You set the second pair on your head, pointing your chin to the sky like a proud lion.

He smirks at the sight, petting your head like he would a regular cat, "Aren't you cute?"

You bite your lip, going in for the throat, "Now I really am your kitten, huh?"

He pauses, visibly processing your words and realizing just what you were up to. A scoff tumbles out of his mouth, eyes rolling from the sheer idiocy. He'd fallen for your cutesy little antics, again, just like he always did. Steady fingers grip your chin, forcing you to keep your eyes settled on him.

"I wasn't aware she was so prone to misbehavior. Tell me, are you looking for punishment, kitten?" He purrs lowly.

Mission successful, "I'dunno what you mean, Sy..."

--

Riding Sylus always felt impossible thanks to his incredible size. You always managed to fit it, but it was more than just a little fight. This is what you asked for, though. Your little cry for attention earlier rewarded with a brand new pair of cat ears, and Sylus’ lazy smirk as you struggled to adjust to him.

Your hands weakly kneaded at his chest, trying to ground yourself from the intensity of the stretch. He merely watched you, red eyes drawing across your figure slow and steady, pleased to have you on display for him. His calloused hands rested at your waist, thumbing over the skin there in approval as you settled down.

It was impossible to hide from him like this, making the burning sensation across your body all the more apparent. You just couldn’t help but be embarrassed at the way he seemed to drink you in, savoring you with every sense at his disposal. You were sure he had a secret sixth one made just to relish in your humiliation. Yet, he does not say a word to shame you or make you feel less than. Just watches and appreciates you as you are.

Somehow, that was worse than degradation, melting your mind to a mushy pile of nervousness.

Still, you’d practically begged for this, and as always Sylus had given it to you as you wished. You wouldn’t want to disappoint both of you, so you took a deep breath and began rolling your hips. Slow little circles at first. Unsure, but gradually building as you grew more comfortable in your place on top of him.

Each movement set your nerves alight, sending shocks of pleasure across each inch of your skin. The heat building in your core, spanning across every nook and cranny of your body, wrapping you in a blanket of warm pleasure. Sylus seems to track it with his eyes, drawing up from the sensual roll of your hips, to the way your muscles tense, across your bouncing tits, and landing on your scrunched up little face.

You could practically hear him purring — no, he was purring. A low grumble shaking his chest, traveling through your trembling fingertips and sending the signals directly to the heat between your legs. To be admired so much was just too much for you to handle right now.

You lean over him, tucking your face into his shoulder. It’s a weak attempt to hide at best, not that you’d be able to hide no matter what you did, but you make it all too easy for him to pull you up with a gentleness that seemed too loving for the moment. All too Sylus as he eased your pouting visage back into his line of sight.

“Running away already?” He coos, fingers massaging your neck as if placating you.

You’re far too embarrassed to argue with him, so you just nod, “It’s too much.”

He hums, mocking thought as he takes in your weak excuses. You’re far too cute for him to know what to do with, but he would figure it out, “Do you need my help, kitten?”

In the second of clarity you have, you debate telling him no. Yet, he twitches inside of you when you open your eyes to take in his all consuming stare, and the thought evaporates from your mind. You do need his help, very badly. You’ll probably burn alive between the scorching pleasure and his fiery gaze without him there to placate the flames.

You give him a weak little teary eyed nod, and he eases your face back into his shoulder. He was always so accommodating with you, so gentle and loving that it made your stomach tie into knots. Only forgetting the feeling when he helped to work you along his length, humming sweet words of praise into your ears, letting you hide away from him all you wanted. That’s what you wanted after all, right?

CALEB

Teasing Caleb was an art form that only you had mastered. You would think that after knowing someone for so long, it would be easy to rile them up. Yet, Caleb was the most controlled man you had ever met when it came to handling your light-hearted jabs. Part of it was thanks to how well he knew you, but the other part was simply because he was good at ignoring his own feelings. He could push and push and push them down to the depths of his mind until they were practically non-existent, and your teasing was no different.

The most you'd get for your efforts was a smirk, maybe a ruffle of your hair as he scolds you, and if you were really annoying, he would chase you around the house and tickle you for your crimes. Rarely was it anything more intense than that.

Rarely. Not never.

There was one way to get Caleb hot and bothered enough to do something, and that was your favorite game of all time: Look, don't touch. It was fun to see just how far you could get, doing all his favorite things with an air of innocence, just to see how long it would take to get him to crack.

Your personal favorite method of torture was to find a shirt of his - dirty, preferably - slide it on and walk around the house with nothing but it and a lacy pair of red panties. (His favorite, judging from how often they go missing from the laundry.) It's a long game you have to play, because winning against Caleb's disciplined ability to pretend was always a long game. Luckily, you were just about the one weakness in his mental fortitude.

You start in the morning before he leaves for work, or else it won't work. If he's at home all day, he'll just take care of it without thought. You walk out of the room, and his eyes catch on your legs. They rake over the exposed skin like trying to burn it into his memory, as if he hadn't done that a million times before. Then, like clockwork, he realizes what he's doing and tries to look anywhere but you as you waltz around. Knowing he has a responsibility that he can't skimp on, even for you, keeps him stiff and robotic as you kiss him goodbye.

Then, step two kicks in: text him frequently. Keeping yourself at the forefront of his mind (which you always are, mind you) and letting him know you're thinking of him makes him squirm in a way that's unbefitting of a soldier. He can't stop himself from thinking about your legs, the way his shirt rested against your body, and what was beneath it. Waiting, begging him to get a peek as you stretched your arms over your head. His eye twitches when you send him yet another suspiciously worded text - never incriminating, but always implicative.

Then, when his shift is nearly over, when you spent your whole day playing coy, you reach the final phase of your plan. You send pictures. Nothing explicit. That would ruin the fun of it all. Just cute, mundane tasks. A downward angle of you cooking dinner, reading a book on his bed, or maybe just a picture of a movie you're watching with your bare legs in view. All visual reminders of what he left at home, all reminders of why he needs to get back now.

--

Normally, Caleb prefers you to tell him what you like in bed. He's soft, attentive, a little sloppy, but entirely obsessed with your pleasure. It's not as though he's neglecting that part of himself, quite the opposite, actually. You were the one who had made it abundantly clear that you wanted- needed him to put you in your place. He knows your little games, he knows you like no other person on the planet - in the galaxy, hell, the entire universe.

So, of course, he knew you wanted him to fold you in half and show you what happens to misbehaving, teasing little pipsqueaks like yourself for all your efforts. Who was he to deny you of what you'd been begging for all day? Wouldn't that make him a bad Caleb? It almost means that the way he makes you look at him, knowing full well that the eye contact sends you into a flurry of embarrassment. He's just so... intense, in every sense of the word, especially when he's having sex with you.

One leg bent up to your head, the other wrapped around his waist, and two strong arms boxing your head had you surrounded. Chest to chest, buried to the hilt, there was no escaping the little prison of pleasure Caleb had built for you. Your reward equaled your punishment, and you wished you could complain, but you knew your voice would catch in your throat and Caleb would tease you for it. You had no choice but to sit there and look up at him, hoping he'd be a little nicer than you were to him today.

His eyes are hot as they trace along the planes of your face, eating up the sight like his last meal on earth. The subtle shift in his expression as you squeeze around him, feeling the intensity of his gaze far more deeply than you'd ever admit out loud. His eyebrows twitch up in surprise, before a lazy smirk crawls over his face, leaning down to kiss along the apple of your cheek to the shell of your ear.

"Y'know," He starts in a low drawl, sending your head spinning, "If you want me to take care of you, you can just ask."

You shake your head, though there isn't a real purpose for it. You're just a little too flustered to think right when he's got you like this. His dominance really is something all-consuming, and it reminds you why you don't tease him like this often. You would be a dead man if you had to put up with his relentlessness every time you had sex.

"No?" He asks, as if he's confused, but the condescension in his voice gives him away.

He adjusts himself slightly, rubbing against your walls just enough to get you to tremble a little. Then, all at once, he pulls himself out to the tip and pushes his way back inside in a fluid motion, "You don't want me to do that? Then tell me what you need, won't you?"

You whimper, tossing your arms on your face like that might help you here. Nearly forgetting how easily he overpowers you in your hazy headspace until he seamlessly pulls your hands over your head, interlacing your fingers as if they belonged together.

"No, no, no. None of that, you gotta look at me, 'kay?" He hums so sickeningly sweet it makes you want to swing at him.

A whine tears through your throat, tossing your head to the side to bury into his arm. Defiant and bratty to the end, as always. He huffs out a laugh that's all too affectionate for how annoying he was being, then chases your face with his own. You feel the warm press of his sweat-slicked forehead against yours, heated breath fanning over your face. You don't budge, not even when he nudges your nose with his own as encouragement.

He's reaching the end of his limited patience; you can feel it in the way his fingers tremble around your wrists. He could hold back all day when you weren't physically near him, but he was inside you for god's sake. Any man - well trained soldier or not - would collapse under the extreme pressure of a nice warm pussy. Your nice warm pussy was simply one of the greatest weaknesses he had, second only to your oh so pretty eyes he was being deprived of right now.

"Pips," He whines, voice uncharacteristically squeaky, "Lemme see your pretty eyes, yeah?"

You curl your hands into tight fists, trying and failing to fight him off one last time. A little voice in your mind reminds you of how mean you were to him today. Listen to his voice, he needs you just as bad as you need him. It's okay to give in, Caleb will take care of everything, it whispers so sweetly. You can't refuse its logic, not when it seems so totally right as he twitches inside you again.

You slowly peel your eyes open, nearly jumping at the way he's staring so intently at you. Brows worried, lip caught between his teeth, and pretty purple eyes darting across your face. You expect some kind of comment from him, some words of praise or thanks, but all you get is his hips pulling back and slamming back into you. It gets your toes curling instantaneously, a moan ripping from your vocal cords in surprise.

You shouldn't be, though. This is what you wanted. Caleb was just giving it to you. He would always give it to you.

[sushirrrry]

clean || harry styles x you one-shot.

saw this picture, had to write something immediately — hot off the press, just for you hehe enjoy <3

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

You’re brushing your teeth beside him again.

It’s not the first time that you've done that—far from it, but something about this particular night makes the moment feel worthy of being remembered.

Harry’s standing next to you in the tiny bathroom of your rental villa, his skin still golden from the sun and his hair wild with salt and humidity; his curls starting to emerge at the root from the exposure to the heat.

He’s got a toothbrush dangling from his lips, foam threatening to escape the corners of his mouth as he tries not to smile too much at himself in the mirror. You hold your phone up, capturing the scene out of instinct.

Click.

He playfully rolls his eyes when the shutter sound goes off.

“Hope you’re not sending that to anyone. That’s top-tier blackmail, that is.”

You glance at the screen. The photo’s perfect; he's photogenic in a way that you merely can't describe.

His perfectly fitting t-shirt is rumpled from where he threw it on after his shower, damp at the collar, and a little crooked on one side. The linen pants sitting around his hips are low and loose, and there’s something sweetly disheveled about all of it as you prepare for dinner together.

“I’ll sell it to the press,” you say with a shrug, trying to keep a straight face as you rinse your mouth.

He chuckles, swiping at a bit of toothpaste foam with the back of his hand from it, then leaning in just enough to nudge your arm. “Can’t take me anywhere.”

“You’re in your own house.”

“Exactly. Even worse.”

You both laugh, and it’s a warm sound. Familiar, the happiness that is bursting around the small, tiled bathroom. It smells like mint and coconut conditioner and leftover sea breeze, like the beach never really left your skin even though you rinsed it off.

The villa had been a last-minute decision—his idea, of course. He’d shown you the listing one rainy Thursday in London, scrolling through photos of wide windows, string lights, and hammocks that swung over white sand.

“Let’s disappear for a week,” he’d said, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. “No work, no stress. Just you, me, and the ocean.”

You’d said yes because saying no to Harry was almost impossible. And now, four days in, your skin is freckled and your hair’s gone a bit wild and you haven’t worn real clothes since Tuesday. Only bikinis and linen shirts that you kept getting mixed with his in your pile of clothes that surrounded your suitcases.

He spits into the sink, grimacing dramatically— he was known for dramatics. "I think I got sand in my molars.”

You laugh, wiping your mouth with a towel. “Is that even possible?”

“Dunno. But everything tastes like sunscreen and fish and chips.”

You lean your hip against the counter, tilting your head as you watch him rinse. His profile’s soft in the low light; you notice that his nose is slightly sun-kissed, jaw shadowed with a bit of stubble from the lack of shaving the last few days.

There’s a tiny patch of peeling skin at the tip of his ear from where he’d missed with the sunscreen, and his forearm is still faintly striped from the crocheted bracelets he’d refused to take off in the water.

He catches you staring and raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” you murmur, pouting out your lip as you give him eyes that seem to gleam in his presence. “Just… you.”

That earns you a lopsided grin and a little shake of his head. The dimple expresses itself and makes you feel warmer than usual. He steps closer, resting his wet toothbrush on the side of the sink.

“You like me like this, don’t you?” he teases, voice low and teasing and full of cheekiness. “All brown and beachy. Bit feral.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “You’re not feral.”

“I’m practically wild.” He leans in until his forehead brushes yours, his voice nothing more than a whisper now, hands pressed to your waist that practically burn. “You should see what happens when I run out of moisturizer— I'm an animal.”

You snort, but you don’t pull away. You stay pressed forehead to forehead, his breath warm and minty and his hands, a bit damp from rinsing. sliding over your hips in that easy, familiar way that makes your stomach flutter.

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his head slightly. “Got all soft on me these last few days. Used to take you ages to relax.”

“You’re imagining that.” You press your hands to his chest, leaning back a bit in his arms.

Harry shakes his head. "I’m not. First day here you still checked your emails on the beach.”

“Once.” You argue.

“Twice.”

You roll your eyes, "Okay, twice.”

He grins in triumph, then brushes a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Now look at you. Barefoot. Sun-drunk. Smiling in your sleep," Harry cocks his head, "All those cheeky bikini bottoms you're flaunting are really turning you into someone else."

You pull back a little to look at him properly. “That’s ‘cause I have good company.”

Harry’s smile softens at that. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, dramatic again, and rests his chin on your shoulder. “Gonna be hard to leave.”

“I know.”

Neither of you say anything for a moment. The quiet isn’t heavy—it’s full, though. The kind of silence that stretches and wraps around you like warm sheets, thick with shared memories of late-night swims, sand between your toes, and early-morning pancakes eaten straight from the pan because neither of you could find a plate in the villa.

“I took a picture,” you say after a while.

“I know. Saw you.”

“Want me to send it to you?”

He perks up. “Only if you caption it with something flattering. Like, ‘my gorgeous man brushing his teeth with the grace of a tanned Grecian god.’”

“More like, ‘Bigfoot sighting.’”

He gasps, mock-hurt as he grasps at his chest. “Cruel. After everything I’ve done for you today—carried your beach tote, bought you three different kinds of ice cream, let you win at Uno—”

“You didn’t let me win.” You fight back, shaking your head.

Harry smirks, “I might’ve— could've played two Draw Fours in a row, but I spared you."

You both grin again, loving the ease of the moment. Then he grabs your phone, taps around, and pulls up the photo. His eyes linger on it longer than you expect.

“You really like it?” you ask, craning your neck to look.

He nods, smiling down at it. "Yeah. Looks like us.”

You step behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his back. His skin is still warm from the shower, his muscles relaxed under your hold.

The familiarity of the muscles makes your stomach twist at all the time spent between the sheets this weekend alone .

“You make me feel like this could be easy,” you say quietly, wondering if he can hear you properly.

He twists slightly to glance at you. “What d’you mean?”

“Like all of it. Loving someone, living with someone. You make it feel… calm. I used to think I wasn’t the kind of person who could do that."

You didn't know you could be loved this way, which makes it harder for him to accept your self-doubt. But you start to see how easy it is, and everything becomes... different.

His expression shifts—soft, sincere. “That’s ‘cause no one’s done it right yet. ‘Til me.”

You chuckle, kissing between his shoulder blades. “So humble.”

He turns, arms slipping around you now, pressing you to his chest as he leans against the bathroom counter.

"I’m serious,” he says, kissing your hair. “Don’t care how messy it gets. I want all of it.”

“Even the part where I use your towel without asking and get it all wet?”

He groans, still smiling beneath it. “You do that again and I’ll break up with you on the spot.”

You grin into his shoulder. “That’s fair.”

Another beat of silence. This time, it’s him who breaks it.

“Stay,” he says.

You hum into his chest, knowing you're not moving for a moment.

“I am staying.”

There's a pause before you feel him shake his head.

“No, I mean… after. When we go back. Don’t go to your place. Just come to mine. Bring your stupid frog mug collection and your sexy little bathrobe and take over my bathroom counter with your serums and your tangled necklaces and just… stay.”

Your heart trips a little at his confession, your eyes leaning up to meet his.

“You mean that?” you whisper, a bit confused by the sudden intimacy of the moment.

He pulls back enough to look you in the eye, the cheeky grin faded into something gentler. “I do. I want all the days with you. All the brushing teeth and stealing towels and waking up tangled up and going to sleep to your snoring—”

“I don’t snore.”

“Sure.” He bites his lip.

You kiss him before he can say more, pressing your smile into his mouth. And he kisses you back like he’s already won, like it was always going to be you.

Later, you’ll crawl into bed with your legs still cool from the evening walk on the beach to grab sharks teeth, and his arms pulling you close before you’ve even settled. You’ll fall asleep with the hum of ocean waves in the distance and his breath steady at the back of your neck as you lay tangled in between his tanned limbs and skin.

But for now, you stand in the bathroom, his toothpaste-smeared grin fading into something real, and think: this is it.

This is love. Sun-kissed with hints of mint and ocean breeze.

[thehatboxwitch]

in gentle captivity

gentle ways they coerce you into submission.

characters: phainon, mydei, anaxa

i just wanted to write something fluffy 😔

phainon

you glare at him balefully from the other side of the bed, your arms wrapped around you, shivering like a leaf in the wind.

“come on.” he gestures at you, giving you those pleading, adorable, puppy dog eyes.

phainon’s holding the blanket hostage. his arms are open. and the night is very, very cold.

“c’mon,” he coos again, and when he wiggles closer, you find it hard to turn away from the inviting warmth.

“there we go,” he says, voice muffled by the blanket. he bundles you up into his arms, against his solid chest, locking his legs around you. “there you go. come snuggle.”

despite yourself, you find your muscles relaxing, as phainon strokes his fingers through you hair, massaging at the top of your neck. it feels so unfairly nice, the way he envelopes you completely through sheer size alone, holding you with just enough pressure to be cosy.

you try making a sound of displeasure, but it’s hard when your voice is muffled by his chest. and you decide it’s okay if phainon wins - for today, at least.

mydei

“open up,” he tells you sternly.

“no,” you reply sharply. though you suppose your threatening face rather loses its edge when you’re lying weak in bed with a raging fever and a churning stomach.

“don’t be stubborn. i don’t have all day.”

the juxtaposition of big, scary mydeimos trying to feed you a bowl of hot soup he’d made would be quite jarring to the casual onlooker. but for the past few days, you’ve realised that he has the meticulous hand for caring for people as he nursed you slowly but surely back to health.

you squeak in surprise when mydei reaches forward and squishes your cheeks in a hand. he blows on the spoon, and delivers it skilfully into your mouth like a mama bird.

you swallow, because you’re not a child (and his cooking is too good to go to waste.)

“i’m not a baby,” you add uselessly. “you don’t have to feed me.

“i know,” he replies, with the patience of a mother too tired to correct her petulant child, and you feel sufficiently chided that you keep your mouth shut until he's done feeding you.

anaxagoras

it’s not often that anaxagoras keeps his mouth shut, but when he does, you know him well enough to know that he’s observing something.

typically that something is you. but still, you yelp quietly when he seemingly wanders up into your vicinity and claps his hands onto your shoulders.

“what the f- oh.”

anaxa forces your shoulders down, pressing into the pressure points with surprising force. it hurts, but you hadn’t noticed your tenseness until he works it out of you, methodically, robotically. it feels nice - if you put aside who's massaging you and how unfeelingly he's doing it.

“you’ve been… ahem.” he clears his throat. “you’ve been looking very… tense.”

“wow. i wonder why,” you reply drily. wasn’t this a problem of his own making? still, it was nice to be looked after, for once.

both of you spend a moment in silence.

“i’m surprised you noticed,” you murmur faintly.

his silence is notably loud. "...why would i not have noticed?"

"hm," you reply. "i don't know."

perhaps it was the way he seemed to see you as more of an experiment than a human person. if your feelings weren't serving his hypothesis, anaxa tended to brush them off. it was easy to feel lesser-than - even when all the while you were fighting to be otherwise.

you swallow back your pride. “this is… nice,” you force out.

anaxa’s hands pause. “…yes?”

you nod, hesitantly.

“good.” and though you can’t see his face, you get the distinct feeling he might be smiling.

a hatbox summer event

if you enjoy my work, rbs help the most! ⭐️

[gojover]

[11:00 p.m.] ⋆ sukuna thinks it’s adorable how riled up you get when he shows you videos of his nephew playing football at his first ever preschool football tournament.

not that he’d ever say it out loud, of course. but he watches you from the couch, one arm thrown behind your back, the other holding his phone steady while you lean in, legs crossed beneath you and your face the picture of righteous indignation.

“oh, come on,” you say, stabbing a finger at the screen. “that kid shoved him! where’s the ref? what sort of lawless league is this?”

sukuna hums, pretending to be engrossed in the video, though he’s more interested in the way your nose scrunches when you’re upset on someone else’s behalf. “you think i should write a strongly-worded letter to the preschool committee?”

“you should. i mean—look at him!”

on the screen, four-year-old yuuji stumbles, wobbles back to his feet, and immediately runs in the opposite direction of the ball.

“he scored on his own team three times,” sukuna says. “are we sure we want to die on this hill?”

“he’s learning,” you argue, smacking his arm. “and the point isn’t winning, it’s sportsmanship. that other kid was downright mean.”

“mm,” he says lazily, tossing his phone aside. “i’ll let his mom know you’re filing a report.”

you roll your eyes and shift to face him fully, legs knocking against his as you settle into the cushions. “you joke, but if i ever see that kid again—”

“you’ll what?” sukuna reaches out to tug you closer by the ankle until you fall back against his chest with a disgruntled squeak. “trip him with your foot while pretending to tie your shoelaces?”

you open your mouth. close it. “...you’re not supposed to encourage me.”

“you make it too easy.” 

he tilts his head back, rubbing circles into your thigh. his eyes are half-lidded, watching you with that same idle affection he always wears when you don’t notice him noticing. except now, you do. you shake your head, smiling all the same.

“you’re the worst,” you say.

sukuna grins. “tell me again while defending my nephew’s honour.”

by football, i’m referring to soccer for all you american folks out there ✊

[livrary]

Okay so, a lot of people say you can also just comment a heart or „kudos“ and those are absolutely valid options and great comments to receive, but I still want to make a case for writing longer comments.

I know they are hard, it’s not always easy to come up with something to say! But I promise you it’s also going to change the way you experience the fanfic and make not just the author‘s day, but most likely yours too!

First of all, commenting can take some practice. Like I said, it can be difficult, but starting off you can always go with a very simple „I loved this, it was so (insert adjective like cute, funny, romantic, scary)“

You can also just copy and paste a line or passage from the fic and quote it back to the author, telling them how much it resonated with you etc. The chances are high the author spent a lot of time formulating that sentence and will be over the moon to hear somebody liked it!

I know in high school we all roll our eyes at analysing the colour of the curtains or whatever, but these details do matter a lot of the time. The thought and effort the author might have put into their story are worth the thought and effort to read it with intention!

There‘s a fic I follow that updates quite regularly and I leave long comments on it. Reading it with the intention to comment makes me notice little things I would otherwise probably miss and it makes the reading experience insanely enjoyable.

And I love getting an answer from the author, because every single time they tell me how delighted they are each time they receive an email telling them I left a comment. And how nice it is to follow my thought process and see how their foreshadowing etc pays off. Once, I had a tough time coming up with a comment, so I mostly just said something about the chapter vibes (very different to the rest of the story) and the author was so happy about me noticing that, they actually revealed a little hint at the story’s direction to me in their answer! It was so fun.

If you read a lot of fic, you obviously won‘t have the time to comment like this on every work. I would be a huge liar if I told you I comment on every single fic I read. Short formulaic comments are great too. But if you want to make somebody else‘s day and enjoy yourself along the way, try to engage with the fanfic and write a personal comment, something that makes it clear you read this particular story by this particular author. They won‘t be annoyed at you and even if your comment feels boring or repetitive, it truly isn’t, I promise.

"Ao3 should allow multiple kudos" "I want to be able to leave more than one kudos"

COMMENT ON THE FUCKING FIC

I SWEAR TO GOD NO ONE COMMENTS MUCH NOW WHEN THE ONLY WAY TO SHOW APPRECIATION FOR A SINGLE CHAPTER IS COMMENTING AND I AM NOT HAVING THIS BULLSHIT BE LIKE TIKTOK WHERE NO ONE EVER COMMENTS POSITIVITY

FOR FUCKS SAKE JUST COMMENT ON THE FUCKING FIC YOU DON'T NEED A MULTIPLE KUDOS BUTTON YOU NEED ACTUAL WORDS

TRUST ME ON ANY WEBSITE OR APP I POST COMMENTS AND WORDS ARE 10X BETTER THAN ANY PLAIN LIKE AND WORDLESS REBLOG IF YOU LIKE SOMETHING LEAVE WORDS

COMMENT

ON

THE

FUCKING

FICS

[cherspastries]

Cher!! I love your writing and you aesthetic so much :)

You’re a graphic designer yeah? What driver do you think would work well with a graphic designer reader, and on that note, what occupation do you think each driver’s s/o would have?

And do you do emoji anons? 👀 If so can I be 🫧?

I LOVE HER AS SHE IS,

DOING HER THING!

WORK IT!

2025 Grid x Reader

SUMMARY 𐙚 What jobs I think each driver’s girlfriend would have + how you first met.

WARNINGS 𐙚 Fluff, reader is described with feminine terms, mentions of alcohol / handling alcohol, not proofread

WORD COUNT 𐙚 6.3K

A/N 𐙚 Hi!! Tysm I love my theme, and yes I do accept emoji anons! Hello 🫧 !! Also, before I actually write, I love all the WAGs and respect their jobs, but I wanted to romanticize this a bit so… All the drivers are getting hypothetical new girlfriends with weird and interesting occupations and personalities

DIRECTORY | MASTERLIST | REQUESTS: OPEN

RedBull ෆ

Max Verstappen

Bartender

You cannot convince me this man isn’t always in need of a drink. Whether he’s celebrating or he’s upset, Max likes a good gin and tonic. Sure, he can make his own, but nobody makes it as good as his lovely girlfriend: a bartender. That’s right! He met you at a club in Monaco, of course. It was after he had won a grand prix, and he kept coming back for more and more alcohol until he was blackout drunk. You had to call him a cab home, and he kept mumbling about how beautiful and perfect you were. When he came back to retrieve his lost phone the next day, he apologized and properly asked you out.

But it’s also nice because Max’s favorite way to relax with you is to lay across the couch, drink in hand, and watching a show you both enjoy. He doesn’t want to overwork you, but if you offer to whip something up real fast, he’s definitely not going to say no to your hard work and encourage you to keep doing what you love. Side note, I genuinely think he loves being able to party at the club you work at. He loves getting to enjoy a night out, but also being able to visit you whenever he wants. His friends have stopped wondering where he’s ran off to after they found out who was behind the bar. They shouldn’t be surprised when he disappears every five minutes to go chat you up again. Sometimes regular patrons give him dirty looks because they think he’s hitting on you inappropriately, but then you flash the matching set of rings and they simmer down.

Yuki Tsunoda

Seamstress

I’ll be honest, I was unsure about this one, but I honestly think it makes a lot of sense. Yuki has really good style, so I had a feeling his partner should be related to fashion. However, seamstress was a bit of a stretch. I think you’d make a lot of clothes for him, which is why he has such great style to begin with. He’s wearing handmade, high quality patchwork hoodies and jeans and shoes that you decorated yourself, all made by you! So yeah, whenever someone compliments his very fitting form of fashion, he lets you know that the people are certainly admiring your work. Do we all remember when the internet went crazy over Yuki wearing his RedBull shirt unbuttoned? Yeah. All you.

He first met you when you were still just a fan. Some might argue the dynamic seems inappropriate, but you were never a huge fan of him specifically. Just… An F1 fan. You sewed shirts for the RedBull team, and they weren’t the typical tacky wear that the team usually received. These had lots of thought and enthusiasm put into them— He could only imagine how hard and how long you have slaved away making those, so he wore it with pride… Even if it was a tad bit too big. After that, he kept seeing you in the paddock, communicating with various engineers and drivers, collecting autographs like it was your job. He complimented your work, you introduced yourself, and the rest was history. So yeah, you ended up falling for the irresistible charm of Yuki Tsunoda, and honestly who can blame you?

Mercedes ෆ

George Russell

Graphic designer

Yes, okay. This is my line of work, and I honestly believe George would be the most supportive for a graphic designer out of everyone. I mean, he at least thinks he knows fashion and technology, so he assumes that he’s being helpful. I can see the two of you being high school sweethearts that pursued different paths, but stuck together. Of course you knew George was into racing at the time, because he was karting even back then, but you never expected him to reach such fame. He even managed to get to a job with the FIA, designing graphics for winners and podiums and such, so yeah. People have been silently appreciating your work for years. You’re the one who gets to see all the unused winner graphics.

Whenever you’re working on a project, you consult George. Even though half the time you don’t listen to his advice, it’s nice to get somebody else’s opinion and support. You know he’ll be honest instead of giving you that “it’s perfect the way it is” bullshit, so his unfiltered opinion is just what you need to get a sense of what the right direction might be. He used to sugarcoat it, but you eventually told him that his honesty wouldn’t hurt your feelings, and he started to be more open. Not that it was rude, because his opinions were still helpful and polite! He always tops it off with a kiss and a wish of good luck. He knows you’ll make the right decision.

Kimi Antonelli

Tutor

Alright. We all have fun joking about Kimi needing a math tutor, but what if he doesn’t. Because his girlfriend is one. You know? You’re still in school, just like him, so you make a lot of money by people paying you to help them out in classes. Yes, Kimi needs a nerd girlfriend I feel it in my SOUL. Now, contrary to popular belief, you actually don’t tutor him. Why? Because he gets distracted by you very easily. He can’t stop looking at your pretty eyes, your plump lips, and your soft hair. All he wants is to bury his face in your neck and lay on top of you 24/7/365, because you’re so soft and warm. So no, you don’t tutor him. You can’t tutor him. You’ve tried. You’ve failed.

He brings you to the Imola Grand Prix, happily showing you off and introducing you to all of his track mates with that huge boyish grin. He tells them all that you’re just his tutor, and that afterwards you’ll be in his drivers room teaching him the pythagorean theorem (which he doesn’t even know how to pronounce in any language, mind you, so he’s just stumbling over syllables to get the idea out.) You correct him and politely let them know you’re actually his girlfriend. They all tease him, insisting that this whole story was just an excuse to sneak you into his room for a cheeky make out session, which you both quickly deny with flushed cheeks and slight stutters. Looks like he’s been caught before he could even try.

Ferrari ෆ

Charles Leclerc

Fashion designer

Now this isn’t to say that Charles doesn’t already have good fashion sense, because he definitely does. However, I do think that after the two of you started dating, there was a noticeable change in his choices. He started to dress in a manner that was suitable to his… Well, everything. He had custom made clothes with logos pertaining to him on them, everything matched his face and body shape, and he was dressed to an absolute T. All thanks to you! He doesn’t even have to ask, you just quietly sketch up designs for jackets and shirts that he can proudly show off at races, and you’ve even helped him customize merch that is both affordable, and fits the aesthetic of most of his fans. Goodbye trashy t-shirts with a logo lazily slapped on, and hello well thought out designs.

You were definitely hired to design some of his merch after the team saw your concept sketches. He was completely clueless to your arrival, but once he saw you he knew there was something irresistible that surrounded you. Your aura was undeniably attractive, and you were a genius when it came to your job. Of course. He loved your sense of fashion, so Charles discreetly asked you out to go get coffee and discuss things some more. Except, the two of you ended up talking and laughing the entire time, so of course you had to reschedule. And then you had to reschedule again because the same thing happened. Then finally you realized what he was doing, and asked him out on an official date. From then on, he proudly showed you off as his girlfriend. No more hiding!

Lewis Hamilton

Makeup artist

Yes, both of the Ferrari boys have their fashion girlfriends. I think if they existed in the same universe they’d be really good friends, too. I think Lewis loves to listen to you rant about different qualities of makeup, and how different makeups can affect break-outs on skin, and how to prevent all that. There’s a lot that goes into your line of work, and he never gets tired of hearing it. I think his favorite thing is hearing you talk about different color palettes and how you decide what colors suit a client best. You’ve definitely done similar things on him, and he stays true to your advice and tries to mix those colors in to his outfits. He also refuses to hire anyone but you to do his makeup for events, and he brings you everywhere he can. Trust that you were attached at the hip during the Met Gala, and that he was announcing to everyone he met that you did his makeup, and how talented you are. Watch out because you’re gonna have so many clients coming your way.

Unlike Charles and his girlfriend, you were not hired to work for him when you met. It was actually more of a meet cute— He was asking for advice in your local beauty shop, because he figured you looked like you knew what you were doing and could tell him what the correct shade of blush was for his niece, who was clinging to his side. You were in awe because holy shit, the Lewis Hamilton was asking you for advice, which you gave while stammering to an embarrassing extent. He thanked you, and asked for your number with the excuse that he might need more advice in the future. You did not hesitate to give it to him, and while he didn’t call for advice, he did call to ask you out properly. Your dynamic is very much so “girlfriend who knows a lot about fashion and boyfriend who pretends not to so he can hear her ramble.”

McLaren ෆ

Oscar Piastri

Food critic

Oh yes, the two of you are most certainly bonding over a shared love of food. Oscar Piastri doesn’t present himself as a foodie, but it’s more of a hidden pleasure of his. I won’t lie, when you first mentioned your occupation he thought it was somewhat funny. Reviewing food for a living seemed like something simple. He took it at the base level ideation and assumed that’s all it was. However, when you got really invested with talking about it, Oscar was quick to learn there was so much more. You discussed about different types of recipes, and methods when it came to baking. You ranted about cuts of meat and how each one had its own taste. With your influence, he quickly became quite the enthusiast himself. So, every time you guys went to a restaurant, you both ordered something entirely new to compare and contrast to past dishes. It was fun getting to try new things with you.

When you first met, it was in a restaurant. One of those crowded places where you ended up shoulder to shoulder with a random stranger because of how busy it was. For you, that random stranger ended up being famous racer Oscar Piastri. Although it was awkward at first, you sparked up soft chatter about the meal. He told you he was having the same thing he always did: pasta. You explained your meal, which was exotic to the both of you. When you expressed your disinterest in the taste he teasingly asked what made you so qualified to comment on such a thing. That’s what he found out. Intrigued by your charm, and your passion for all things food, Oscar couldn’t help but ask for your number.

Lando Norris

Teacher

Lando, in my firm opinion, is fantastic with children. He’s a little immature himself, which gives him that natural charm that makes getting along with children easy. He has no troubles throwing on that enthusiastic tone that lights their brains up. One morning in particular, Lando’s dear friend Max had a huge favor to ask of him: Take Penelope to school. Kelly was out for work, and he was running a high fever, which meant ‘Uncle Lala’ was on duty for the day. Admittedly she was a little late, and she showed up with a smoothie from Lando’s favorite coffee shop and a brand new pair of shoes. While he’s good with kids, he’s terrible at saying no. He walked the young girl into her classroom, and he damn near lost his mind. You were perfect— radiant, kind, soft-spoken but not timid. The dream girl that mirrored him perfectly. Even though you playfully scolded them both for being late, all he could focus on was how beautiful you were.

From that day forward, Lando made it painfully clear that something was up. He offered nearly everyday to take Penelope to school, which Max and Kelly would not complain about. She always returned with a huge grin on her face, recommending that her uncle take her again because he was so fun. However, when she started talking about the flirty comments he’d exchange with her teacher, they realized why he was suddenly taking an interest in the life of their child. Lando loves hearing about your day and listening to the various interactions between the kids in your class. He’s smitten with you and your ability to flawlessly interact with children— Unfortunately this means your relationship is destined to be filled with baby fever from you both. 24/7.

Aston Martin ෆ

Fernando Alonso

Wedding planner

As expected, you meet at the wedding of a mutual friend. You planned everything from the venue to the number of flowers in each arrangement, and both the bride and groom were eternally grateful for your help. It was always much easier to have someone else do a majority of the planning for you while you got to sit back and nod along to every suggestion made. In short, your efforts paid off immensely. When you sat down at your assigned table, you were surprised to see the Spanish man in question not far behind you. He seated himself across from you, reaching a hand out to shake yours politely. He was charming right off the bat, his flirty comments flowing with ease. You almost wondered if you were intentionally set up to sit beside this guy, because your fun-loving personalities matched up nicely. He matched your vibe and you matched his.

Now you were going 20 years strong, each anniversary celebrated more profound than the last. You were teased nonstop by friends and friends of friends about the lack of a ring on your finger. “Twenty years and he still hasn’t made it permanent?” was something you heard more often than you were willing to admit, but in all honesty, neither of you were interested in the concept of marriage. Your love was all you needed to seal the deal. You didn’t require a fancy ring to know that. But finally, after years and years of waiting, Fernando dropped down to one knee to give you the opportunity to finally plan your own damn wedding, and you happily accepted. You harbored no anger towards his decision to wait, because ultimately it made the experience a lot more special. You finally got to be on the other end of things and understand firsthand why people hire you to begin with: Planning your own wedding is not all it cracks up to be.

Lance Stroll

Author

Lance needs the peace and quiet that an author girlfriend brings to his life. He’s a well known introvert, which has yet to go unnoticed by anyone that he’s met. Lance prefers to keep to himself, and tends to distance from individuals who are overly loud. While opposites tend to attract, such an ideal is not the case for this fellow. He dreams of a romantically quiet life, and you’re there to fulfill that for him. You meet in the most cliche spot possible: a library. He’s not even that big on reading, but the spot was quiet and it gave him an excuse to brood in a corner and listen to music. You happened to be doing a book signing that day, which made the joint just a tad bit louder than he would have liked. However, when he saw you sitting at a table with a line extending outside the door, a cute smile on your face… Lance was utterly captivated. Your voice was low, your smiles were awkward, and your hands were trembling. Maybe it was weird, but that was everything he yearned for and more. When people started to clear and you started to pack up, he made a move.

Safe to say that said move was successful. The early stages of the relationship were less than ideal with both of you waiting on the other person to initiate every single thing, but finally you warmed up to each other and fell into a comfortable rhythm with your everyday lives. He cherished the days where he came home from loud engines and bustling crowds to the soft clicking of your keyboard, and the occasional flipping of pages. At the end of the day, no matter how stressful things get, Lance will always be grateful for the safety of your warm embrace as you hold him close to you at night. You’re his rock and his anchor, keeping him safe from the extroverts of the world. The media finds the two of you to be the ideal celebrity couple. Matching aesthetics, personalities, and beliefs. Your relationship is private, but it’s far from a secret!

Alpine ෆ

Pierre Gasly

Social media manager

I thought I was funny for this. You’re not a very good manager, because you’re always sitting there beside him, giggling at every post he scrolls by that’s related to him. With that being said, you always reach out and double tap the screen, liking whatever stupid thing had you guys giggling to begin with. So, to the people who wonder why Pierre is always liking every F1 related post, it’s actually your doing. You’re less focused on your actual job, and more on whatever content other people have managed to come up with. It’s really funny, in your defense. You guys first met because you were hired as the Alpine social media manager, but you always ended up laughing just a tad bit too much with Pierre over your ridiculous ideas that he kept building on to. Half the time you barely were able to execute said ideas, and ended up going with something entirely different.

Pierre loves that he found someone to match his energy and be okay with his teasing, along with tease him back. You’re fun— sometimes even more fun than him. Everyone in the paddock would agree. He loves filming videos and taking pictures with you for social media pages, and he loves even more than you get a little bit more freedom with his personal account and have directly spiced up all of his most recent content. Pierre fans have been wondering why most of his stuff has been a lot more enjoyable. Little do they know, you’re quietly working your magic behind the screen. Sorry Pierre, you get no credit. Although, having a hilarious muse does make it much easier.

Franco Colapinto

Florist

With this little flirt, knowing a lot about flowers actually proves to have some value. Franco’s always going out of his way to impress you: fact. He loves bringing home flowers, especially after triple headers, or just generally weekends that felt extra long without you right there beside him. It’s a new bouquet every time. While it is handpicked and arranged by him, it’s safe to say that Franco actually has no clue what he’s doing; his decisions are based off the initial beauty level of the flower. But, we can’t rule out that he intentionally picks randomly, because he does seem to love hearing you lecture him about flower language. He’s got roses being romantic burnt into his memory, but he can’t quite remember that yellow carnations are supposed to mean rejection. He does remember your face the day you brought them home, though, so he decides based on that. You sounded so sad as you explained the initial idea, and Franco was quick to make something up. So now, you guys decided they meant the love of Franco Colapinto— Yeah. He got his own damn flower.

You, as expected, had a meet cute as well. It came straight from a tacky hallmark movie. You had simply been arranging your outdoor stand one day, when a particularly fast biker flew by, clipping the edge of your stand and sending flowers flying through the air. You were devastated to see your hard work flying through the air and drifting away from you. Thankfully, one kind passerby stopped to help you pick up the lost work. He was handsome in his own, unique way. Somewhat familiar, you were sure. He laughed with you as he helped you set things back up, dropping a few flirtatious remarks that had your cheeks growing increasingly warm. It wasn’t until he dropped a joke related to racing that you picked up on it and breathed out a rather distressed, “Oh my God you’re Franco Colapinto!” He barked out a laugh and nodded to confirm your suspicions. He insisted you take his number. You know, just in case you need help dealing with a runaway biker again. It had nothing to do with the fact he thought you were the most beautiful person alive. No, no way.

Williams ෆ

Carlos Sainz

Baker

Get this man a beautiful baker girlfriend who can make him all the sweets in the world. No, but I did have a thought process for this. First date, he still doesn’t quite know that you’re a professional baker, so he’s going on and on about his incredibly pancake recipe when you mention that it’s your favorite breakfast food. You have a recipe of your own, of course, but you’re intrigued by the way he seems so cocky with said recipe, so you let him make you some when you visit him. And honestly, they’re really quite good! You’re considering replacing your own recipe. You repay his kind offer by baking him sweets— and I mean you really got busy in that kitchen, because you’re probably about to hand over 10 large containers full of sweets with flushed ears that tell him everything he needs to know. He’s a little embarrassed that he was ranting about his tasty pancakes to someone who makes them professionally, but he was happy to hear you sincerely liked them.

Now imagine Carlos’ embarrassment when he recounts how the two of you met to begin with. After a long night, he stopped by a local café to pick up a pick-me-up. You were there, but you weren’t behind the counter. You were standing off to the side, leaning over it as you chatted to the barista with a cup of coffee in hand. He approached the register, and you both paused your conversation so said barista could assist him. When Carlos pondered on a dessert from the display case, you very casually suggested that he take a croissant with that ‘trust me’ sort of vibe. He teases you— asks you what makes you a master of breakfast pastries, and you just shrug nonchalantly and tell him that maybe you have ‘insider’ information. He assumes you’re a regular by now, and accepts your suggestion. He gets the croissant. And your number. And a first date… And the embarrassment of finding out way too late into your relationship that you’re the damn baker for the café. That was your insider info.

Alex Albon

Veterinarian

The more obvious choice, yes. While I was afraid this might be too on the nose, I think it makes a lot of sense, really. He has a lot of pets. What does a guy with a lot of pets often do? He takes them to the vet. Alex already takes great care of his pets, so this visit was a little out of the ordinary. His cat had fallen ill, and he needed to get the proper medicine to care for her. But there was you, the newest hire at the clinic who seemed so good with his pet. You gave her treats to keep her distracted as you checked her out, ensuring the man that this was just a common sickness and would pass, but if he wanted he could slip some allergy medicine into her food next time. He was forever grateful. But then, suddenly his pets were falling injured or ill left and right. A man who rarely visited the vet was now becoming a regular, always coming up with some sort of concern. “Doesn’t her leg look weird?” “Nope, looks good to me.” You eventually caught on, and told him that at a vet clinic there was no rules against dating clientele. Now, there was rules against dating patients, but that was because your patients were animals.

He works well with your nonchalant charm. You’re easygoing and laidback, and that’s just what Alex needs. He appreciates having someone he can chill with because his life is often so chaotic that it’s hard for him to take time for himself. Therefore, he has you now. Plus it’s always nice to no longer have to visit the vet when you can now just stop by his house for a quick check up. It becomes even easier when you move in with him, because instead of being worried he can just rely on you to tell him when things are wrong and need to be taken more seriously. All in all, he found an absolute keeper, and the internet won’t stop encouraging him to put a ring on it to ensure nobody else does. Although, not sure anyone needs a veterinarian quite like Alex Albon does. So, I think he’s safe for now.

Visa Cash App Racing Bulls ෆ

Liam Lawson

Actress

I like to think you actually met when filming the F1 movie. You’re a background support character in the film, and Liam was just there to play himself, much like all the other drivers. You two managed to bump into each other, and it seemed like day to day conversations started to take place. You’d share a joke you heard while standing behind him at the coffee making station, or catch him up on the latest set gossip in passing. He was charmed by your wit, and you were charmed by the way he cluelessly fumbled over words around you. Imagine how surprised he was when you asked him out. He felt somewhat disappointed because he had been hoping to have that honor for himself, but he was glad that you reciprocated his feelings.

I think Liam with an actress girlfriend just makes sense anyway. He’s all for the drama you bring to the table, and loves watching every single film you star in, whether it’s a big or small role. He’ll go to every premiere, red carpet, and gala you’re invited to as your plus one. Not only does he love to show his support, but he also realized early on that he gets to meet a lot of his own idols this way. You have lots of connections, and he now has a stack of autographs from famous celebrities at home. It’s a win-win.

Isack Hadjar

Photographer

Your first time meeting Isack was actually a little chaotic. The team hired you to shoot some shots from the first practice on Friday. It was experimental, because it was their first time hiring you, and it was your first time working for a huge company, let alone shooting athletic shots. When it started raining, you hadn’t even noticed. You were so focused on capturing everything perfectly, and with the right settings, that eventually you were completely drenched without a care in the world. It was really down pouring. Subsequently, teams were pulled in from the nasty weather to dry off and warm up. You, however, were still perched in the stands out in the rain, laser focused on your camera. Isack, ever the gentleman, came out with an umbrella and held it over your head. You hadn’t even realized he was there until you felt his shadow cast over you. You looked up, and nearly dropped your camera. You were stuttering all like “Oh- It’s- Oh no, it’s you- Gah, I’m so sorry!” Which only confused him more. You explained you were meant to be taking shots of his team today, but all the ones you got were bad. You were better with portraits. He was stunned by you too. You were beautiful, even with your wet hair plastered to your face and your clothes soaking wet. So, with red cheeks himself, he invited you in to take some portraits, which would hopefully give you a chance at staying with the team. And you did! Which then gave him enough time to work up enough courage to make a move.

You’re a little scatterbrained, it’s true. Every-time you come to the paddock, you’re in a panic as you ramble about how you accidentally left your SD card at home in your laptop, and that your whole reason for coming was now ruined because you didn’t have a way to take photos. Isack reassured you that missing one race wouldn’t be the end of the world. Besides, he ended up finding your SD card in your purse when you asked him to grab your phone. You’re lucky to have found him, because he certainly helps keep you grounded. You’d probably have floated off into space without Isack there to hold you down and keep you steady.

Kick Sauber ෆ

Nico Hülkenberg

Sommelier

You were evidently flawless at your job. You knew everything there was to know about wine, and all of its pairings with food. It was an elegant and refined drink to be saved for fancy events, much like the one you met your beloved at. Your relationship has been in the making for about three years now, and despite its… Awkward start, the two of you have been developing nicely. There was an event for F1 drivers hosted at a vineyard, and you were hired to take care of the wine: a rather simple job. Famous people weren’t a surprise to you anymore, but as you were sharing with your audience the history behind the drink you picked out, you felt your breath leave your body in an untimely manner. That was when he walked in, stealing away your attention. Salt and pepper stubble, a lazy smile, and an appearance that screamed ‘just woke up from a nap in the sun’ in the most endearing way possible. You, a normally charming and easygoing woman, were caught off guard and ended up muttering something stupid like “this wine is… fermented” followed by a nervous laugh, which cued your audience to chuckle along with you.

He teased you later. Of course he did, because how could he not notice the way you’d freeze as you quietly eyed him. When you were setting up glasses, he approached from behind, and you immediately turned around at the sound of his voice, which consequently sent one of the glasses flying. Nico, a man trained in his reflexes, caught it with ease that made your heart flutter. Thank God you managed to snatch him up, because nobody had ever made you feel such a way. It didn’t matter if he didn’t win on the track, because everyday he came home to the most beautiful woman possible, who’d shower him with lots of well deserved love. Plus, you always knew what wine would suit his mood. Yeah. He made the correct choice.

Gabriel Bortoleto

Streamer

We know how brain-rotted Gabriel is. You can’t tell me he doesn’t have a favorite streamer too. It’s you. Before you guys started dating he was a fan. He found your unique commentary on games to be interesting and the way you played— yada yada. Truth be told, he just thought you were pretty and funny. He even suggested through donations (under a secret account name, mind you) that you play one of the F1 games. With the money you earned from the donation, you bought it and showed the whole world just how awful you were. Gabriel secretly messaged you on instagram, claiming he had just found you when you were playing F1 24, and would love to come properly teach you how to play on stream. You agreed, of course. And it was a success. After the cameras turned off, he shyly admitted that he had actually been a fan of yours for awhile, because he felt bad for deceiving you. You just thought it was cute, and offered him the opportunity to come back if he so wanted.

Now, Gabi is a frequent feature on your streams. Not necessarily just as your partner in multiplayer games, but he can be seen on your face cam. Maybe he’s sleeping in the background, or he just happens to pass by. Sometimes he’ll even come give you a kiss in front of thousands of viewers, acting like he forgot you were streaming when in reality it was done intentionally. Sneaky bastard. Your fans love him, but Gabriel also loves to remind them that you’re a happily taken girl. You don’t mind anyway. It’s nice to see your longterm fanboy staking his claim in a way he thinks is secretive. Trust that you know… You always know what he’s up to. There’s no hiding it. Don’t be surprised if he starts spamming your chat with italian brainrot. Imagine having to explain to newcomers that it’s a regular thing, too.

Haas ෆ

Oliver Bearman

Artist

This is a pair nobody expected, to be honest. The Haas team was directed by PR to show up to an art event. Apparently the establishment was sponsoring them for the next race, and it was the polite thing to do. Oliver didn’t really care— He wasn’t a fan of PR events and media. He was outgoing and charming, but he tended to keep his life private for the most part. But he was glad he went, because when he saw you on a shaky ladder hammering in a stubborn nail with frustration, he knew you were someone to keep him on his toes. You had on overalls covered in paint. Some was fresh, but most of it seemed deeply imbedded in the fabric, like you wore them just to get them dirty. Your arms, too, were covered in colors. It was quite the sight. When you saw him, you dropped your hammer. Right on your foot, and then it tumbled down the ladder to fall unceremoniously on the ground. You hissed as you descended the ladder, jittery with excitement. You greeted him with a very enthusiastic handshake, announcing how you didn’t think he’d show up. You kept rambling, and he kept listening. Eventually you asked him if he could sit still, and he said yes, to which you replied with, “I wanna sketch you, then. You have this beautiful angelic vibe and I need that.” So, if that’s not forward I’m not sure what is.

It’s true. You’re his joy, and he’s your muse. And, for what it’s worth, Ollie was right. You certainly do keep him on his toes because he never really knows what’s next with you. You’re vibrant and fun and you love nature— The stereotypical small town girl who falls madly in love with a city boy. You like to run through tall grass barefoot and paint in the middle of giant fields whatever your heart desires, and now you’re dating Oliver Bearman. But it’s a good thing, because you both have changed each other in the best way possible, and even though you’re so different, you work harmoniously in a healthy relationship. You’re both happier than you’ve ever been, truly.

Esteban Ocon

Model

This man is TALL. He needs a tall girlfriend to sit by his side, and that just so happens to be you. You met at a huge gala for F1, where various other celebrities were invited to bring more attention to the sport. You’ve always been a fan, so you were glad to have the opportunity to meet a lot of the people you had admired for so many years. One of those people was Esteban Ocon. He was hated by his own community, regarded as one of the least likable people around, but you saw through that. This was a sweet guy with a bad reputation over one incident that took place many years ago. He was a bit surprised when you intentionally sat down beside him and introduced yourself with a huge smile and a delicate handshake. You were beautiful. It was almost too good to be true. He couldn’t let go of an opportunity like this, so he clung to you the entire night and asked if you’d be willing to see him again. Of course you would.

He supports your career through and through. He admires your skill, and all the thought that goes into modeling. It’s truly impressive. In turn, you support his racing career. You frequently feature his races, and while you do try to avoid the cameras, it’s impossible to not be featured when reacting on occasion. You have a loving dynamic— almost the perfect couple, and everyone in the paddock knows it. You’re the type of people to solve every disagreement by calmly talking it out. You’re the type of people to live by the rule “never go to bed angry.” You both get bad reps. In his community’s mind, Esteban is cruel and vicious and impossible to like. In your community’s mind, you’re stuck up and bossy and rude. So, together you make a perfectly misunderstood pair that understands one another. Delightful, right?