#so i just started writing and hoping something falls out

[trashytracktales]

okay I know how everything is always about reader but I need you to write something about giving lando the pleasure he deserves.. like a nasty bj. I’ve seen so many edits of him with the song “dangerous woman” and it screeeeaaams smut. hope you’re seeing this vision and I love your work, i’d be so happy if you could bring it to life bc you’re my fav blog on here <3

Wanna bet? | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── A bit shorter than usual, but I haven’t posted anything in almost 2 weeks, and this request was the perfect excuse. Thank you so much for your support!! Hope you like it 🤍🎀

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✧₊⁺ summary ──── After a particular tiring day at work, Lando comes back home to his girlfriend, happy to fall asleep next to her. Unfortunately, he has a habit of not thinking before he speaks so, next thing she knows, she’s determined to prove him wrong. As many times as possible.

✧₊⁺ pairing ──── Lando Norris x she/her reader

✧₊⁺ rating ──── explicit

✧₊⁺ category ──── F/M

✧₊⁺ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, established relationship, descriptive language, oral sex ─ (m)receiving, somnophilia (consensual, implied), teasing and a bit of edging, swearing, mild dominance.

✧₊⁺ word count ──── 2.9k

✧₊⁺ date ──── Feb. 10, 2025

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THEY DIDN’T TEXT much throughout the day, because she knows how busy he’s been at work lately. Instead, she follows the same routine she recently fell into: she wakes up next to him, they have a quick breakfast together, then watches the door Lando rushes out every morning for a good half hour, contemplating. After that, she occupies the rest of the day with her own work, or curled up with a book on the couch, waiting for the same damn door to open.

The moment she hears the familiar jingle of keys, she looks up with the same excitement as yesterday, and the day before, and the day before…

Lando steps inside, looking exhausted. His curls are a mess from the cap he’s been wearing all day, his shoulders slumped with exhaustion, and there are faint shadows beneath his eyes, evidence of a long day at the MTC.

He barely manages a tired smile when he sees her, “Hey, pretty,” says Lando, dropping his bag by the door before trudging towards her.

She gets up, arms already outstretched in anticipation. He’s almost melting into her embrace, burying his face in the crook of her neck, breathing her scent in. For some reason, his deep sigh gives away more than words ever could, and she catches it instantly.

“Rough day?” the girl asks, rubbing soothing circles into his back. His muscles are tensed, yet soft under her palm.

Lando groans in response, tightening his hold on her. “You have no idea,” he exhales, relieved that he’s finally home.

“Oh, baby. I think I do,” she teases, pulling back to look at him, “You smell like grease and exhaustion.”

He chuckles, eyes twinkling despite his fatigue. “That bad?”

She scrunches her nose dramatically, “Mhm. Go shower, stinky. I’ll wait for you in bed.”

Lando doesn’t argue. He presses a quick kiss to her temple before shuffling toward the bathroom, stripping his hoodie off along the way. She watches him disappear behind the door, then heads to the bedroom, where she starts fluffing his pillows and making sure his side of the bed is just the way he likes it: neat sheets, a warm blanket, and her, not-so-patiently waiting for him on her side.

By the time Lando steps out of the shower, towel slung low around his hips, he looks slightly more alive. His damp curls cling to his forehead, and he’s rubbing a hand through them as he walks toward the bed.

“You’re an angel, you know that?” he asks with a wide smile on his face, noticing her efforts to make his night a bit easier.

Lando grabs the towel from around his waist, using it to dry his curls, completely unbothered by his own nakedness. She follows his big frame as he crosses the room, mesmerized, while the muscles in his back shift with each movement; in moments like this, she percieves Lando as a man that’s so effortlessly graceful. There’s something almost god-like about him, she thinks, like a sculpture carved by the hands of an artist obsessed with perfection: the sharp lines of his shoulders, the defined curve of his spine and, most distracting of all, the firm shape of his ass.

Her teeth sink into her bottom lip as he reaches for a fresh pair of boxers, blissfully unaware of the effect he has on her, pulling them up over his hips in one smooth motion.

Then, he simply slips beneath the blanket with a sigh. “Got the weekend for ourselves, but at what cost?” he chuckles, “I’m so tired, I swear I could sleep through an earthquake,” Lando yawns, stretching out before shooting her a lazy grin. “You could even blow me in the morning, I won’t be moved, baby! Dead asleep for the next couple of days.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

Wanna bet?

“Oh, nice,��� she ends up saying, trying her best not to sound offended.

“Just saying,” he smiles mischievously, already halfway to dreamland.

The girl shakes her head, humming at his words, but doesn’t contradict him. Instead, she shifts closer once he flips on his stomach, and starts running her nails lightly up and down his back, the way she knows he loves. At that, Lando’s body relaxes almost immediately, a soft sigh of contentment slipping past his lips.

Patiently, she starts drawing lazy patterns over his skin, listening intently as his breathing slows. And suddenly, seeing him falling asleep while she gently scratches his back, she realizes that all the waiting during the day is worth it, as long as Lando will always return to their bed at the end of it.

With a small smile on her face, she watches as his long fingers loosen their grip around the pillow, and the crease between his eyebrows fades.

And, despite his earlier comment, she makes a tiny mental note to prove him wrong in the morning.

THE FIRST THING she notices when she wakes up is how hot she is.

Lando’s entire weight presses against her body, his arm draped over her waist, and his face buried in the crook of her neck. He always sleeps like this, clinging to her even in unconsciousness, as if he can’t stand the thought of being deprived of her touch for one second. His breath is steady against the skin of her neck, while his curls are tickling her shoulder.

She sighs softly, shifting just enough to glance at the clock on the nightstand — it’s almost noon, and as much as she wants to stay like this and let Lando sleep in, cocooned in his arms, her bladder has other plans. So, carefully, she attempts to get out of his embrace, prying his arm from around her waist inch by inch.

Lando grumbles in protest, fingers flexing against her hip, but he doesn’t wake up that easily.

When she finally manages to slip out of bed, she tiptoes toward the bathroom, casting one last glance at him over her shoulder: still dead asleep, sprawled out now, his curls a mess against the pillow. That’s when she remembers his words from the night before, and her lips curl into a knowing smirk.

After she returns, she finds Lando on his back, the sheets tangled between his legs, one arm resting above his head to block the only ray of light that, ironically, landed on his face. She crosses the bedroom to pull the curtains all the way, and the room immediately floods in a semi-dark filter.

Then silently, she slides back into bed, her hands ghosting over his skin as she untangles the sheets. He looks painfully beautiful in the morning, the warmth radiating from his body seeping into her fingertips. She takes her time, letting her touch linger as she traces absentminded patterns over his stomach.

Lando shifts slightly, but his breathing remains even, somehow encouraging her hand to move lower.

The fabric of his boxers is soft beneath her fingers, but what catches her attention is the heat beneath it, and the hardening shape of his cock as she palms him gently. At that, a slow exhale leaves Lando’s lips, his hips tilting just slightly, but he gets sucked back into his sleep like it never happened.

She continues her cautious movements, fingertips pressing more firmly, drawing lazy strokes through the fabric. His body is responding instinctively, his cock hardening beneath her touch with each passing second. The faintest hitch in his breath makes something curl low in her stomach, and her pulse quickens as she slips her hand beneath the waistband, feeling the smooth, hot skin against her palm.

Lando stirs, a muted noise escaping through his lips, but his body is still heavy next to her.

She bites her lip to stop a whimper coming out, watching him closely as she runs her thumb along the tip, feeling the slick warmth there. A shiver rolls through him, Lando’s hips shifting again, just a little bit, as if seeking more of her touch.

Without even realizing, her mouth goes dry, her own breath unsteady now. Her cheeks burn as she looks at him, laid out beneath her. He’s thick and heavy in her hand, the heat of him searing against her palm. She strokes him slowly, teasingly, scanning the way his body reacts even without full consciousness.

The memory of his taste lingers on her tongue before she’s even taken him in — warm, heady, Lando. The anticipation is making her head spin as she pumps him once, twice, three times, feeling the way he throbs while wrapped around her hand.

With one goal in mind, she leans in, letting her lips brush against his hip, just barely, teasing herself as much as him. And then, with intent, she replaces her hand with her mouth — inviting and wet and ready to take him in without hesitation. Her lips are parting around his length, and the first thing that strikes her is the way he pulses against her tongue, the skin velvet-smooth over the rigid firmness beneath. The faint taste of salt lingers, a mix of him and the remnants of her teasing, making her stomach tighten with want.

She moves meticulously at first, savoring the weight of him, and the stretch of her lips as she takes him deeper. Then, without meaning to, a soft moan escapes her, vibrating around him; the sound surprises her, but not as much as the way Lando reacts at the sensation, a deep, unconscious whine slipping from his parted lips. It makes her smirk against his skin, but she doesn’t rush the process. This is about proving a point, about making him regret the words he so carelessly tossed at her the night before.

Her tongue moves with purpose now, swirling over the sensitive skin as she works him up with rhythmic strokes of her hand. She can’t take him all the way in her mouth, but that doesn’t mean she won’t try to ruin him in every other way.

When he throbs against her tongue again, that’s her sign to start sucking, her lips sealing around his cock as her tongue swirls over the sensitive ridge beneath his tip. The slick sounds that follow, a mix of her spit and his pre-cum, are animated by her breath that’s both shallow and eager.

She pulls him out with a wet pop, licking around the head, teasing the slit before dragging her tongue from base to tip, savoring every inch of him. Then she takes him in again, deeper this time, her pace steady, determined to draw out every last reaction from him.

And luckily, a soft sound escapes Lando’s lips — a barely-there whimper, the kind that makes her thighs press together instinctively. He stirs, his hand moving as if to find her, but when his fingers meet the empty pillow on her side instead of her warm body, he shifts, confused. His lashes flutter, brows furrowing just as he blinks himself into consciousness.

Then it hits him.

The wet heat of her mouth.

The torturous rhythm of her tongue.

The way her fingers work in tandem, stroking him with just enough pressure to have his breath catching in his throat.

She should stop now that she managed to wake him up. Nothing would be more satisfying then hearing him begging for release, first thing in the morning. But then, Lando inhales sharply, and exhales deeply with a throaty sound, as his head falls back against his pillow. Seeing what she does to him is better then hear him beg at the moment, so she continues with her movements, as dedicated as ever.

“Fuck,” Lando’s voice is hoarse, sleep-rough and so wrecked already.

She peeks up at him, making sure he’s watching when she takes him deeper, then she makes sure to keep eye contact as she presses her tongue insistently against the sensitive slit at his tip.

Lando’s reaction is instant: a sharp moan, hips twitching involuntarily while his hand finds her hair. His fingers tighten, not pushing, just holding, desperately needing to anchor himself to reality since she’s pulling him under so effortlessly.

“Shit, baby,” he breathes, eyes dark and hooded as he looks down at her.

She smirks with his cock in her mouth, the curve of her lips sinful as she bats her lashes, feigning innocence. Lando lets out a strangled laugh, but it quickly dissolves into another moan when she presses her tongue more firmly against his swollen tip, sucking just a little harder.

He is panting now, his grip in her hair tightening just as his hips lift slightly, torn between wanting to let her have her way and the desperate urge to fuck her mouth.

“You’re—fuck, you’re divine,” he praises, “So fucking pretty with my cock in your mouth.”

She hums as his thighs twitch beneath her, his chest rising and falling in shaky breaths. She can feel how close he is, his muscles tensing, his grip on her hair turning almost desperate. But just when he’s teetering on the edge, she pulls away with yet another obscene little pop.

Lando whines, his head snapping to glare at her, but she only grins, sliding up to lie beside him. Her hand never stops, though, her fingers still wrapped around his cock, stroking at an infuriatingly agonizing pace.

“Still think you’d sleep through it?” she teases, eyes sparkling with mischief.

Lando groans, hips shifting restlessly beneath her touch. “You’re evil.”

She chuckles, pressing a kiss to his jaw as her hand picks up speed. “And?”

“I love it.”

A couple more strokes, a slight twist of her wrist, and Lando comes with a shuddering moan, his release spilling hot all over his lower stomach. His entire body tenses beneath her before melting back into the mattress, so sweetly spent. He’s beautiful like this — flushed and panting, his curls falling against his forehead.

Lando lets out another shaky breath, chest still heaving, before cracking an exhausted, blissed-out smile. “I never questioned your ability to blow me, you know. I talk trash when I’m tied, but this is the first time I’m glad I did.”

She smiles, leaning in to kiss him, the gesture so natural. By the time she pulls away, he looks utterly wrecked.

“Yeah, yeah,” she says against his lips, smug and entirely pleased with herself.

Lando huffs out a breathless laugh, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. She tries to move, but before she can so much as shift, Lando’s arms tighten around her. With effortless strength, he pulls her back into his embrace, rolling her until she’s straddling his waist.

“Not so fast,” he says, his voice still thick with sleep, lips brushing against her jaw.

The sudden change in positions makes her gasp, her thighs pressing instinctively around him. His hands settle at her waist, warm and firm, holding her like she belongs nowhere else but on top of him. She can feel him beneath her, so warm and solid, the remnants of his pleasure sticky against the soft fabric of her panties.

The realization makes heat raising up her neck and cheeks.

Lando notices, and his half-lidded gaze flickers up to meet hers, dark amusement glinting in his tired yet satisfied eyes. “Yeah?” he hums, tilting his head back against the pillow. He guides her hips just slightly, his grip lazy but intentional, watching the way she shivers at the sensation. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

She doesn’t answer, but the way she bites her lower lip gives it away.

One of his hands slides beneath her shirt, fingers tracing the soft skin of her thigh before hooking around the edge of her panties. He tugs them aside so easily, and the moment the cool air meets her sensitive skin, she lets out a sharp breath.

“Well,” Lando’s voice is barely louder than a sleepy mumble now, raspy and dripping with satisfaction. “Let’s see what can I do for you, baby.”

His fingers tease over her clit, featherlight at first, enough to make her body jolt at the sensitivity. Then, with slow precision, he brings his hand to his stomach and gathers the remnants of his release on his fingertips, using it to spread it over her as he traces slow, torturous circles against her entrance. The sensation makes her body melt, a soft whimper slipping past her lips as her hips rock instinctively into his touch.

Lando groans at the reaction, his own breath stuttering slightly. “So eager, aren’t you?” he asks, letting his fingers slip further, dipping between her folds, feeling just how ready she already is to take whatever he has to offer.

The girl gasps, nails digging into his shoulders as her body clenches around nothing when he pulls his finger out, craving much more. Lando grins lazily beneath her, rubbing agonizing circles over her most sensitive spot before pressing two fingers inside this time, the stretch both delicious and teasing.

She shudders, her thighs twitching as she tries to close them, but he doesn’t let her. Lando’s free hand grips her hip, keeping her open just enough for him to keep teasing.

“Bet I can make you come just from this, hm? What do you say?”

He’s not even trying, and she knows he can do it. He’s done it before, and they both remember exactly how wrecked she was when he did. So, she doesn’t hate the thought and, as she tilts her head slightly, her lips are curling into a smug little smirk.

“Bet?” she asks, knowing she’ll win, no matter the outcome.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[come-as-you-are-111]

Gonna keep requesting (sorry if you’re already swamped, no pressure to write my asks) because you’re one of the best authors on my tumblr rn I am convinced. 🫰

Can we see Thanos picking F!reader for the final round in Mingle instead of Nam-gyu, and when they get inside a room, Thanos takes the opportunity to have a lil impromptu make out session? ✨

“With Me Flower.”

A/N: EEK!! Thank u so much I’m so happy I’m someone’s fav author! Hope you like this!! I tried to bring this request to life so pls enjoy!

Warnings: kissing, squid game gore

The announcement for Mingle blares over the speakers, and the room erupts into chaos.

People shove past each other, scrambling for groups, voices rising in panic. You have seconds to find a room—seconds to stay alive.

Every round, the required number changes. If you don’t make it into a room with the exact amount? You die.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as you scan the frantic crowd, searching for Nam-Gyu—

“Two.”

The final round. Pairs only.

The air shifts. Everyone still left turns feral.

You barely have a second to react before a strong hand grabs your wrist.

“With me, flower.”

Before you can respond, Thanos is already yanking you toward the nearest open door. His grip is firm, unyielding, his pace deadly fast.

Other people lunge for the door ahead, desperate to survive.

Thanos shoves one of them back, hard. The man stumbles, nearly falling, but another one grabs for your arm.

“She’s with me.” Thanos snarls, and before you can even blink, his fist connects with the guy’s face.

The sickening crack of bone echoes as the man collapses.

More shouts. More people grabbing, pushing.

“Go, go, go—!” Thanos orders, steering you toward the door as someone tries to yank him back. He elbows them off, shoving them aside with brute force before dragging you through the threshold.

The second you’re inside, the door slams shut.

Silence.

Your breathing is ragged, chest heaving from the adrenaline, your hands still gripping his jacket on instinct.

He exhales a sharp breath, knuckles bleeding. He flexes his fingers like it’s nothing.

“You—” you start, voice uneven, “You fought for me?”

Thanos scoffs, rolling his shoulders, a lazy smirk curling on his lips. “Duh.”

But his usual cockiness is laced with something else. Something darker.

He takes a slow step toward you, the dim lighting casting sharp shadows over his face. “What, you thought I’d let someone else take you?”

Your stomach flips.

The room suddenly feels smaller, the air thicker. His hands find your waist, fingers ghosting over the fabric of your jumpsuit, testing, teasing.

You should be thinking about the next game. About survival.

But all you can think about is him.

“You scared?” he murmurs.

You swallow hard, pulse racing under his touch. But you shake your head. “No.”

His lips twitch. “Good.”

And then—he’s kissing you.

It’s fast, consuming, raw. His hands grip your waist, pulling you in, pressing you flush against him. His lips move hungrily against yours, stealing your breath, making you forget everything—the game, the fear, the deaths.

You gasp against him, fingers threading through his ridiculous purple hair, tugging, desperate for more. He groans, his grip tightening as he backs you up against the wall, his body solid, warm, unrelenting.

It’s reckless. It’s insane.

But neither of you stop.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breathing heavy. His hands stay on your waist, thumbs brushing soft circles over your jumpsuit.

You’re dizzy. Breathless.

“Thanos…” your voice is barely a whisper.

His lips graze yours again, teasing, tempting. “Hmm?”

You exhale shakily. “This game is going to kill us.”

He chuckles, low and dark, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Then let’s make sure we win.”

And just like that, the speakers crackle to life, the next instructions looming—

But all you can feel is the way he’s still holding onto you.

A/n: Hi my lil monsters! How we likey? This is only my second time writing smt like this (spicy kinda) so I hope yall like!!

Love ya, Twilight

Taglist:

@amoristt @lousypotatoes @infinetlyforgotten @mirahyun @takuma-talkz -talkz @sxmmerchxld @multifandomgirllol @gizaspicebag @truefandemonium

[mrsjellymunson]

Meet Me

Written for the @steddiemicrofic February prompt rose, and the @st-loveconfessions February Acts of Kindness day 02 challenge write a ficlet inspired by an artwork - I chose this piece by @resande bc it’s fkg stunning || Word count target: 367 || Rating: T || CW: Recollections of angst and allusions to canon-typical violence/gore, hopeful ending || Tags: Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, post-S4, S4 fix-it, alternate outcome

Steve remembers.

He remembers it all. Everything about that night they fought demons.

He remembers the fear; tar-like dread rising in his chest as Eddie ran off to play the hero.

And after, how he’d staggered to Skull Rock, honouring the promise they’d made, a private pact to make it back here. Ignoring the nagging incertitude of whether both of them would.

He remembers the scent of rotting leaves and petrichor mingling with his own: sweat, blood and smoke, and how, gross as it was, it smelled better than where they’d just been. But behind it, a desire for cigarettes, weed and motor-oil that he'd never previously acknowledged, but was now inexplicably craving.

He remembers sitting, cold and alone. The only sounds rustling leaves above and his own ragged breaths. The notion that Eddie wouldn’t return gradually suffusing his mind like the chill that permeated his bones as the sun dipped ever lower.

He recalls twigs snapping, footfalls. The brief moment when he thought he might need his bat, for an animal. Or worse.

Then, just as the golden orb spilled its last over the horizon, illuminated by the diffuse celestial light…

Eddie.

He recalls indescribable relief. Then rising shakily on chilled legs, embracing his friend, holding him close. Feeling the texture of Eddie’s jacket in his fists, the sensation of solid, denim-clad thighs pressing against his own. How warm, how alive Eddie felt as Steve’s fingertips brushed his back as his clothing bunched in his grasp. The unexpected softness of Eddie’s hair, matted blood and entrails notwithstanding.

And how vigorously Eddie had gripped him back.

He remembers the relief suddenly morphing into something larger, stronger, more all-encompassing.

How a different sensation rose in his chest then. Something familiar, yet simultaneously completely uncharted. A fierce heat that started low in his belly, rising up through his torso, enveloping his heart and bursting out of his throat.

Flames he couldn’t contain or suppress, even if his life depended on it. A feeling so strong it subsumed all others. All fear, all doubt, all trepidation.

He remembers tears falling and his voice cracking as he’d sobbed and whispered the only words that entirely pervaded his mind,

“I love you.”

Thanks so much for reading!

PLEASE go and give love to the art by @resande, it’s called ‘Reunion at Skull Rock’ (you can see why I didn’t reveal the title at the start 😉) and I think it’s absolutely tremendous (all of their work is!). AND go send your ST love confessions via the asks at @st-loveconfessions , such a fantastic idea and a wonderful way to spread some love through the fandom ❤️

There’s lots more Steddie and Eddie on my masterlist

General taglist (open my sweet muffins, just ask!) @joejoequinnquinn @jamdoughnutmagician @guiltyasquinn @madaboutmunson @airen256 @sunshinepeachx @the-unforgivenn @skrzydlak @comeonatmebruh @jamiecb66 @80s-addict @abellmunsonmovie @definitionwanderlust @sheneedsrocknroll92 @munson-blurbs @wonderlanddreamer @daisy-munson @maedesculpaeusoubi @kurdtbean @mediocredreams @in2tswft @micheledawn1975 @littlebebebunny @12thatsanumber @alastorssimp @the-baby-angel @eddie-is-a-god @wolfqueenxxx @losingmygrasponreality @richter-raccoon @1deverland @evileyeandthecattywhumps @3rd-conchord @bellalillyrose

[goldfades]

i love crash out series and thanks for your service queen 😭 i had an idea for like a fight and then make up between them with smut? a lil longer too if you don’t mind

hi baby! i hope you enjoy this!!

warnings: NSFW under the cut, minors pls dni! i feel like i forgot how to write smut so PLEASE give me some feedback

The door barely clicks shut before Luka exhales, sharp and frustrated. You don’t look at him.

You haven’t looked at him since dinner.

Your coat is already halfway off when he reaches for you, fingers just grazing your wrist before you pull away, stepping into the kitchen like he’s not even there. Like the whole ride home hadn’t been thick with tension, the air between you stretched thin, fraying at the edges.

Luka leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with narrowed eyes. You don’t acknowledge him.

He hates it.

Hates the way you move around the kitchen like he’s invisible. Hates the way your lips are pressed into a tight, unyielding line. Hates the silence, because god, anything is better than this. You could be yelling, cussing him out, shoving at his chest with all the fight you have in you—and he’d take it. He’d welcome it.

But this?

This cold, calculated ignoring? He feels like he’s losing his mind.

“Are we gonna talk about it?” he asks, voice clipped.

Nothing.

Luka clenches his jaw. Pushes off the counter. Takes one step closer.

“Seriously? You’re just gonna act like I’m not here?”

Silence.

You open the fridge, grab a bottle of water, twist the cap with a little more force than necessary.

He watches. Seething. His patience, already thin, finally snaps.

“Oh, my fucking god.” Luka drags a hand down his face. “Can you just say whatever you need to say? Yell at me. Call me an asshole. Something.”

You take a slow sip of water. His eye twitches.

“You’re such a brat,” he mutters under his breath.

That does it.

Your head snaps up, eyes blazing, shoulders tight with irritation. “Excuse me?”

Luka smirks. Oh, now you want to talk.

He shrugs, leaning against the counter again, arms lazily folding across his chest. “I said,” he drawls, tilting his head, “you’re a brat.”

Your nostrils flare. He bites back a grin. He knows he shouldn’t be pushing you, shouldn’t be stoking the fire—but at least now you’re giving him something.

You slam the bottle onto the counter, stepping closer. He can see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers curl into fists at your sides.

“You’re impossible.”

“And you’re dramatic.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“There she is.” Luka grins, infuriating and smug, but there’s something else beneath it—something restless. Something hungry. His voice dips lower. “I was starting to miss you.”

Your pulse jumps. But you’re still pissed. Still fuming.

And Luka?

Luka loves you like this—fierce, unrelenting, all fire and defiance. But he loves breaking you down even more.

You glare up at him, chest rising and falling with each sharp breath. Luka is standing so close now that you can feel the heat of him, the way his broad frame crowds you in, making the kitchen suddenly feel smaller.

His smirk is lazy, but his eyes—his eyes are dark. Heated. He’s enjoying this.

And that pisses you off even more.

“You are such an asshole,” you hiss, pushing at his chest.

He doesn’t budge.

“Am I?” His voice is all silk and steel, infuriatingly calm, like he’s barely restraining a laugh. “For what? Wanting you to actually talk to me instead of acting like a little kid?”

Your jaw tightens.

“You think I’m acting like a kid?”

“I think you’re acting like someone who wants me to lose my patience.” He steps even closer, and you take an automatic step back—until your spine meets the edge of the counter. Luka leans in, bracing a hand beside you. “And you know what, baby?” His voice drops, low and thick. “It’s working.”

Heat pools low in your stomach.

You hate how easily he gets to you.

How his presence, his voice, his everything makes you feel like you’re standing too close to the edge of a cliff, toes curling against the drop. But you’re still mad. And you’re not about to let him just bulldoze over that.

“You embarrassed me,” you say, voice tight.

Luka’s brows knit together. “How?”

You scoff, shoving at him again—harder this time. He lets you. “At dinner. The way you were talking over me, making fun of me in front of everybody—”

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” His voice is firmer now, the teasing edge fading.

“Yes, you were.” Your fists tighten. “You always do this. You always think it’s so funny to push my buttons, and I know you don’t mean anything by it, but sometimes—sometimes it’s not funny.”

Luka exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. He watches you for a long moment, his gaze flickering over your face. Then, finally—

“Shit,” he mutters. “I didn’t—fuck, baby, I didn’t mean to make you feel like that.”

Your anger is still there, but it softens, just a little, at the raw sincerity in his voice. You cross your arms, looking away. “You’re an idiot.”

Luka huffs out a laugh, his hands settling at your waist. “I know.” His thumbs stroke slow, deliberate circles against your hips. “But I’m your idiot.”

You bite your lip. “That’s not a good excuse.”

He dips his head, lips brushing your ear. “No?” His voice is low, dangerously smooth. “Then let me make it up to you.”

Your breath catches. Luka presses closer, his body warm and solid against yours. His nose drags along your jaw, his lips just barely skimming your skin.

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

He notices, then smirks.

“C’mon, baby.” His voice is pure sin, rough and coaxing. His hands slip lower, gripping your thighs. “Let me fix it.”

You shouldn’t give in this easily. You should stay mad. But Luka—your Luka, with his infuriating smirk and teasing touch—knows exactly how to unravel you.

And right now?

You’re about to let him.

The tension between you crackles like static in the air, thick enough to choke on. Luka's hands are still heavy on your hips, thumbs dragging slow, deliberate circles against the fabric of your dress. He’s waiting—for you to push him away, for you to tell him off, for you to fight back.

But you don’t. Instead, you stare up at him, lips parted, breath coming just a little too fast. He notices. Of course, he does.

“Say the word, baby,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over your jaw. “And I’ll stop.”

You don’t say it.

His smirk is slow and satisfied. “That’s what I thought.”

You should still be mad. You should still be fuming, pushing him away, making him work harder for it. But Luka knows you too well. Knows the way your pulse is racing, the way your fingers twitch at your sides like they want to grab him but your pride won’t let you. Knows exactly how to break you down.

“Luka,” you breathe, and that’s all it takes.

He moves.

His hands slide down, gripping your thighs, hoisting you up onto the counter like you weigh nothing. You gasp, fingers tangling in his hair as he steps between your legs, pressing his body against yours, trapping you in.

“You gonna let me fix it?” he murmurs, his lips trailing down your throat, sucking just hard enough to make you shiver.

You hate him for this. Hate how easily he gets under your skin, how he turns every fight into something else entirely, something heated and breathless and dangerous.

And you hate even more that you love it.

“You’re such a menace,” you whisper, nails scraping against his scalp.

He grins against your skin. “You love me.”

And god help you, you do.

Your fingers tighten in his hair, yanking his head back just enough to make him groan. His hands squeeze your thighs in response, his control slipping, his breath warm against your lips.

“I’m still mad at you,” you tell him, but your voice is shaky, betraying you.

Luka smirks, pressing his forehead against yours. “No, you’re not.”

You glare at him, opening your mouth to argue, but he doesn’t give you the chance. Instead, his lips crash against yours, and everything else melts away.

The fight, the tension, the anger—it all disappears the moment his mouth moves against yours, the kiss hot and needy and just a little desperate. His hands are everywhere—sliding up your thighs, gripping your waist, pulling you closer.

Your legs wrap around his hips, anchoring him to you, and Luka groans, deep and low in his throat. He breaks the kiss just long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, his breath ragged.

“I hate when you ignore me,” he mutters against your skin. “Drives me fucking insane.”

You smile, tilting your head to give him better access. “I know.”

His teeth scrape against your pulse. “Brat.”

You tug at his hair, making him growl. “Cry about it.”

His laugh is dark and breathless, and before you can say another word, he’s lifting you off the counter, carrying you towards the bedroom with purpose.

“You wanna play games, baby?” he murmurs, voice thick with something dangerous. “Let’s play.”

And just like that, the fight is forgotten. Because Luka may hate when you ignore him, but he knows just how to make you beg for his attention.

Luka's steps are measured, each one echoing through the hallway as he carries you effortlessly in his arms, the sheer power of his body on display. The air around you crackles with an electric current, every brush of his fabric against yours sending jolts of desire straight to your core.

The bedroom door swings open with a soft thud behind him. Luka sets you down gently on the bed, his eyes never leaving yours, burning with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine. He leans down, his hands planted firmly on either side of your head, caging you in with the strength of his arms.

“You sure you can handle this?” His voice is a low drawl, teasing, yet laced with an edge of seriousness. He knows your games, the push and pull of your resistance, but tonight, the unspoken challenge hangs heavy between you.

Without waiting for your response, Luka’s lips find yours again, more forceful this time. His tongue slides against your lips, demanding access, which you willingly grant. The taste of him is intoxicating, a mix of mint and something uniquely Luka that makes your head spin.

His hands roam downward, finding the hem of your dress and pulling it up slowly, tantalizingly, until it bunches around your waist. Cool air hits your skin, causing you to gasp into his mouth, a sound that seems to drive him even further. His fingers trace up your thighs, light yet firm, mapping the skin he’s claimed so many times yet still can't get enough of.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, pulling back just enough to speak. His gaze is fixated on your exposed skin, as if memorizing the sight before him. His fingers hook around the edge of your underwear, teasingly pulling them down as he locks eyes with you, his intentions clear as his lips curve into a smirk.

The fabric slides off with ease, leaving you bare before him. Luka’s breath hitches slightly as he takes in the sight, the raw desire in his eyes enough to make your heart race. He dips his head, pressing kisses along your inner thigh, inching closer to where you want him most—but deliberately avoiding it, driving you crazy.

You squirm beneath him, trying to guide him where you need him, but he gently pins your hips down with his strong hands. “Patience, baby,” he chides lightly, his breath hot against your skin. His refusal to satisfy your needs makes every touch feel like both a punishment and a promise.

Finally, he relents. His mouth moves directly on your pussy, his tongue masterfully invoking sensations that leaves you writhing beneath him. Each lap sends waves of pleasure crashing through you, intensified by the sheer anticipation he's built. His name falls from your lips in a helpless mantra, echoing around the room, filling it with the sound of your pleasure.

Luka's hands grip your hips tighter, a silent command to stay still under his ministrations. But it's a tall order when every flick and swirl of his tongue draws whimpers from your throat. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, his fingers join the play, sinking into you with a precision that sends another jolt of pleasure coursing through your veins.

The room is thick with the heat of your bodies, every breath, every moan mingling in the charged air. Luka’s movements grow more urgent, more focused on your clit, as he senses your climax building. His name becomes a litany, a plea, a declaration as you teeter on the edge.

With a few more skilled movements, you cum all over his tongue, waves of pleasure rolling over you in a relentless tide. Luka slows his pace, riding it out with you, his own heavy breaths a testament to his satisfaction at your unraveling.

As you float back down, he crawls up your body, his weight a welcome pressure. His lips find yours again, kissing you deeply, passionately, sharing the taste of you. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers against your lips, a smile in his voice, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection.

Luka's gaze holds yours, intense and fiery, as he shifts his position. You can feel the solid weight of his bulge pressing against your thigh, a promise of what's to come. He trails one hand down the center of your body, a teasing path that makes every nerve stand on alert.

When he reaches the junction of your thighs, he pauses, his fingers playing at the entrance that beckons him. His other hand braces beside your head, his thumb caressing your cheek softly, a stark contrast to the hunger in his eyes.

Without waiting any longer, he aligns his cock at your sopping pussy. With a slow, firm push, he slides home, filling you completely in one smooth motion. You gasp at the sensation, a perfect stretch, a perfect fit, as Luka pauses for a moment, allowing you both to savor the moment and adjust.

Then, the restraint vanishes. Luka sets a pace that is both relentless and passionate. His hips snap forward with precision, each thrust driving him deeper, eliciting moans from deep within you. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, a rhythmic beat that drives the intensity of the moment.

Luka’s face is a mask of concentration and raw pleasure as he watches the effects of his movements reflected in your expressions. His name spills from your lips in a crescendo of sound, each utterance a spur to his motions. His hands roam over your body, one settling to anchor your hip, the other reaching up to pull your leg around his waist, changing the angle of his thrusts to delve even deeper.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, his voice rough with desire. His movements become even more targeted, designed to hit all the right spots within you. The change sends sparks of pleasure zipping through your veins, your back arching off the bed as you meet him thrust for thrust.

The intensity builds, a coiling heat in your belly that signals the rushing approach of your second climax. Luka senses it too, and his motions become even more focused, desperate, as if he’s chasing his own release that's tethered to yours.

"Cum for me, baby," he urges, his lips trailing hot kisses down your neck, his breath scalding against your skin. His words, spoken in that commanding tone, pierce the fog of pleasure and tip you over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he pushes you both past the brink.

Your climax shatters through you, waves of intense pleasure washing over you in relentless surges. Luka follows closely behind, his own release claimed in the tight clasp of your body, his name a prayer on his lips.

The room is warm, hazy in the golden light spilling through the curtains. Your skin hums, still tingling from him, from everything.

Luka collapses beside you with a heavy, satisfied groan, one arm flung over his face, the other instinctively reaching for you. His fingers find your waist, tracing absentminded circles against your damp skin. He’s still catching his breath, chest rising and falling, a lazy grin stretching across his lips.

“Jesus,” he mutters, voice hoarse, wrecked. “You’re actually tryna kill me.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, turning to face him. His cheeks are flushed, hair an absolute mess, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead.

“You deserved it,” you murmur, dragging a teasing finger down his chest. “Brat.”

Luka cracks an eye open, fake-offended. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” You smirk, shifting closer, your lips grazing his jaw. “You love pushing my buttons.”

He sighs dramatically, rolling onto his side to look at you properly. “I don’t mean to,” he says, quieter now. His big hand finds your cheek, thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “I just love messing with you.”

You arch a brow.

“Okay—” he amends quickly, lips twitching “—sometimes I go too far.”

You hum in agreement, stretching your legs against his under the sheets. “Yeah, you do.”

Luka groans, grinning as he buries his face against your shoulder. “Shit, you’re really making me work for this apology, huh?”

You bite back a smile. “You should suffer a little.”

“I’m literally dying.”

You laugh, carding your fingers through his messy curls. “You’ll live.”

Luka leans into your touch, all soft now, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder. “I really am sorry,” he murmurs between kisses. “I never want to embarrass you, baby. Ever.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your stomach flip.

You nudge your nose against his, letting the last remnants of your irritation melt away. “I know.”

He exhales, relieved, and then—because he’s Luka—grins. “Sooo... am I officially forgiven? Or do I need to go another round to prove how sorry I am?”

You roll your eyes, smacking his arm. “Go to sleep.”

Luka laughs, grabs you, and pulls you against his chest with a satisfied sigh. “Mmm. Fine. But only ‘cause you wore me out.”

You tangle your legs with his, feeling warm, sated, and impossibly content. Luka’s arms tighten around you, and for a long moment, neither of you speak—just breathing in sync, just existing together.

Then—

“Still think you’re a brat, though,” Luka mumbles sleepily against your hair.

You pinch his side.

He yelps.

Then, he laughs.

[softtdaisy]

injury prompt 16 and 22 for reid perhaps... :D Love your writing btw <3

make my heart beat again / spencer reid

summary. spencer was sad. spencer was miserable. he thought he could handle it until he couldn't anymore. he thought he could deal with it alone until he couldn't.

words count. 2 249

prompt. “Why won’t you let me help you?” “…because I don’t deserve it.” / “You deserve to be helped, I—who told you this?” from here

what to expect. very angsty, spencer is so sad i want to hug him, i chose the mentally injured more than physically, mention of murder very quickly

a/n. ok first thank you so much for requesting it sweetie!! and i'm sorry, i wish i posted it sooner but i started it again to make it shorter and...it's not shorter, but it's here and i hope you will love it (and now i can work on your other request) 🫶

F1 masterlist | general masterlist | request

You weren’t quite sure how everything started again with Spencer.

One day he was a memory of the past, one of your biggest regrets. The next time he was back in your place, like he always belonged there.

You went on a couple of dates a few years ago, and it would be a lie to say your heart didn’t fall for that boy. Sweet, gentle, the nicest man you’ve ever met. And so beautiful with his always so messy hair, his gorgeous brown eyes that always seemed to look at you like you were one of the seven wonders of the world, and that perfectly shaped mouth that you loved to kiss.

You were sure things could have worked out with Spencer if a) his work didn’t take him that much time—and more. b) You didn’t have other issues in your life you had to deal with before thinking about love.

So you ended your relationship, or whatever it was at that time, before it could be more serious. And you spent way too many nights missing Spencer Reid. 

The way he would start every date with a fact that could either last a minute or ten and how you could notice the change in his eyes when he noticed you were truly interested in what he was saying. How he was blushing at any physical contact you were initiating, even in bed after he made love to you. Or even how you never said you loved each other, yet the way his lips would stay longer on your shoulder when you were falling asleep was speaking for your feelings.

You never thought Spencer would miss you just as much.

But he spent months contemplating the idea of seeing you again and trying to convince you this could be good. That he could be good for you. But months turned into a year. And when he celebrated his whole single year on the other side of the country, Spencer read into it that maybe he had glorified love. In all its aspects.

And this conclusion haunted him for years.

To the point Spencer stopped meeting new people and was barely trying to stay in touch with those in his life. He wasn’t seeing his mom much; his colleagues noticed the distance he was building between them, and Spencer couldn’t remember the last time he saw his “friends.”

Because at some point, the fear of losing people turned into a feeling of not being good enough to people’s lives and made him a loner. A sad loner.

That was something you immediately noticed the first time you saw Spencer in years.

Your life has barely changed from your last date. Still the same job, but at a higher place. Still the same apartment, but with a different setting. Still the same person, but more mature.

It wasn’t hard for Spencer to find you. And if he spent a whole year contemplating going back to your place before putting that thought away, the day he truly needed it, it took him a minute to decide it was time.

You didn’t question his presence here when you opened the door. Maybe he should have. But when Spencer grabbed your face after you simply said his name with confusion, nothing seemed to matter. 

Not his hair longer than before, not him looking more shaped yet more fragile, not the circle under his eyes being way darker than the last time you saw him. Not that he was eagerly kissing you, something he never did.

You remember Spencer being gentle, taking his time to appreciate every second with you.

No, he was hungry, like each second could be the last with you. For him.

“What are you doing here, Spence?” you finally asked him. You were both lying on the rug in your living room. His eyes were locked on the roof, like he was disconnecting from reality. His arm around your back, holding you against him, was brushing your skin slowly, but he seemed to do that mindlessly. 

And Spencer didn’t turn his head to look at you when you, you couldn’t stop looking at him. “I needed that.” Not you. You put away the pain hearing that and tried to see the good in this, that you were the one he went to. 

But still, something was different with Spencer.

It would take you a few nights to realize he wasn’t blushing anymore when you touched him. Or that he didn’t seem to have a lot to talk about.

Actually, Spencer wasn’t talking much anymore. 

For weeks, Spencer would come to your place at night. Either after a day at the office or when he came back from a case. Usually, when it was the latter, he would even stay the following day to fully decompress from what happened.

You tried to question him once or twice. But Spencer always had the same answer: going down on you to keep you quiet with your question.

It was a win-win situation. 

He was giving you pleasure and making you think about something else.

He was concentrating on something else, and your moans were filling his head with other thoughts.

Until one night, the sex wasn’t enough to put his problem away.

You didn’t expect Spencer to come. Two days ago, he told you he had to leave for a case and it would probably last a week. Nothing out of the ordinary. But it gave you the time to think about him and where this was going.

Yet, your bell rang at 10 p.m. Let’s say that dating an FBI agent taught you to not open your door to anybody. You almost played dead and ignored it. But your gut told you to look at who it might be. 

You didn’t expect to see Spencer through your spyhole.

You certainly didn’t expect to see him cry on the other side of your door.

“Spencer, what’s going on?” you said, opening your door and immediately bringing him inside. The saddest part was that he let you do it. He didn’t stop you when you took him in your arms. Neither when you brought him to the sofa and sat him on it while you kneeled in front of him.

He was shaking; his face looked red from the tears and the scratching he did with his fingers, trying to take the pain away. But it didn’t work. And hurt him even more.

You grabbed one of his hands to take it away from his face. You tried to ease his joints with a soft caress. You even tried to make eye contact, but it was a lost cause with the way he was closing his eyes hardly, probably hurting himself like that. “Talk to me, Spence,” you whispered, putting your chin on his knee. “Open to me.”

You hated how he pinched his lips together before talking, like he was trying so hard to not break down. “I can’t,” he sobbed. He repeated that multiple times, sounding more angry with himself each time.

But the fact he wasn’t letting go of your hand made you believe that maybe a part of him, maybe just a very little one, wanted to have you. He still came to you tonight, right?

“Why won’t you let me help you?” 

This was a genuine question. One that grew over the last weeks. Sometimes, you would wake up in the middle of the night wondering which signs you might have missed when he was here. What did he try to hide from you with kisses and attention that you weren’t asking for? And if maybe you weren’t an accomplice of his troubles by accepting all his treats, knowing it was an excuse to keep everything from himself.

And during these moments, you imagined what Spencer might have answered. That he didn’t want his burden to impact your relationship, that he didn’t want to talk to you specifically. 

But you never considered what was coming as an answer.

“…because I don’t deserve it.” 

The world went silent. 

Except for your heart that just fell on the floor and broke into a million pieces.

Except for Spencer’s sorrow being louder than ever in your small living room.

It was obvious that Spencer wasn’t doing ok. But you couldn’t imagine how broken he really was.

You couldn’t force him to look at you and make him see he wasn’t alone at all. So you put your forehead against his, his sweaty hair sticking against your skin. Your arms wrapped against Spencer so you could hold him against him. You couldn’t believe that this grown-up man, in his thirty, could be a broken kid inside. You tried to hold back the tears.

You stayed like that for minutes; you don’t even know how long. This could last an hour or two if he needed to. You probably could have stayed all night if it meant calming Spencer down.

Little by little, you felt his shaking stop and even one of his hands land on your arm. The pressure of his fingers on your skin wasn’t harder, almost like he didn’t have any strength anymore. It was more like a delicate touch. One that reminded you of the old days, when Spencer was too shy to touch you.

Once you felt he was ready to hear this, maybe not listen yet but at least be able to understand what you were saying, you stopped hugging him so you could grab his face in your hands. “You deserve to be helped. I—who told you this?”

You met the saddest eyes you’ve ever seen at this moment. Couple with his sad smile. Oh, how you wished you could just kiss the pain away for once.

“I just…” he started, with a grazed, hoarse voice. “Every person in my life ends up sad or hurt or dead. I’m a problem. I’m a burden. I don’t deserve someone to take the time to help me, be there for me. I can’t risk someone, you, taking the time to make me feel better if it means losing you at some point. I can’t, I can’t do that again.” You heard the sob in his voice at the end. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but Spencer gave you the look, one he strangely never gave to you but that you understood immediately, meaning that he still had a lot to say. And deep down, you were happy to shut it if it meant he was finally opening up.

“I was taking care of a kid these days. We knew he might be in danger, so I was supposed to make sure he would be fine while working the case.” Spencer took a moment to continue, but you could only focus on the tear running down his cheek. “He got killed. Because I couldn’t protect him. Everyone around me has something bad happening to them. Even in my job. How can I be such a bad person?” 

You started brushing away the tears with your thumb, but Spencer cuddled against your hand. There was something even sadder with this man feeling like he didn’t deserve to have someone yet still craving every attention he could get.

“You’re not a burden, Spencer,” you whispered, and he closed his eyes again. “I can’t imagine how hard it must be for you to go through all these moments by yourself. I can’t imagine how hurt you must be from living such difficult times over and over again. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to have someone by your side.”

He didn’t answer. You weren’t sure this was the best decision, but you sat on his knees, trying to be closer to him so you could make him feel less alone. 

You thought that if he didn’t want that, he would push you away. But the way Spencer's hands ended up on your back so quickly made you think that maybe he needed that too.

“I can’t and won’t force myself into your life, Spencer, never,” you said, brushing his hair away from his face. “But if you’re ready to try, I can be by your side and help you consider that you deserve to be a supporter. Not only by me but by all the people that love you.”

Again, your words working on him, Spencer opened his eyes slowly. This time, even if the sorrow was still present, there was the smallest and almost slightest light in them. “Because people love you, Spencer Reid.”

As an answer, the only one he could give you, Spencer brought you against him and hugged you as hard as he could. It wasn’t the tightest hug he ever gave, but it was the best he could do. And it was enough. Enough to know that you opened a door in his mind. 

You offered your bed to Spencer that night, but he insisted on you staying by your side. He refused to let you know it was due to the fear of the nightmares he had for months now. Nightmares that always had different stories but ended the same way: with him losing someone and being alone.

All he needed was you, and you were willing to give yourself entirely to help him get better.

You didn’t know if you imagined it, but you were sure that when he was falling asleep, holding you against him like an antistress comforter, Spencer thanked you.

[glasvera]

smut & fluff with rivals!star lord x fem reader please,,,

Prepare to have your teeth rot <3

Hearts and Ribbons

Star-Lord x Fem!Reader

Description: Your boyfriend interrupts your beauty sleep to present you with a Valentine's gift... of himself!

Warnings/Disclaimers: SMUT (18+ only, Minors DNI!!!!), cursing, vaginal sex, cowgirl position, Star-Lord being canonically insufferable with his sense of humor, lots of fluff and comfort

A/N: I really let my cringe fly with this one. Star-Lord was actually stupid fun to write because of the joke potential. Also, I let the feels propel me forward, so this is barely proofread and I apologize.

Word Count: 2.9k

“Rise and shine, sweetheart!”

You groan sleepily, rubbing your eyes as the light to your sleeping quarters interrupts your slumber with its artificial yellow glare. With your brow furrowed, you narrowly blink one eye open to see who the perpetrator of this punishable offense was, and groan again when you see your boyfriend grinning ear to ear in your doorway.

“Peter,” you grumble, “what the hell? Why did you wake me up?” He winces at the irritation ringing clear as day in your voice. You wipe the sleep from your eyes as your vision begins to clear. “...and why are you in a bathrobe?”

“Don’t tell me you forgot!?” he exclaims as he stands at the side of your bed. You sit up to get a better look at him, your hair falling messily around your face. When you blink at him tiredly, giving him an unamused look, he sighs in defeat. “It’s Valentine’s Day! Well, back on Earth it is. I’ve been keeping track. Call me your calendar-ling.”

He’s too proud of that.

“Mmff… well we’re not on Earth, so…” you mutter in annoyance as you lie back down and tug the covers over your head. “...we can do Valentine’s in about 3 hours or so. Need my beauty sleep”

“Aww,” he whines, and it should be annoying, but there’s something adorable whenever he pouts like a little kid. “And to think, I got your present ready and everything!”

Your ears perk up at that. Material girl living in a material… universe, or something like that. He sees he’s piqued your interest and grins cheekily. His hand gives your comforter an experimental tug, just to see if you’ll let him, and you finally relent, rolling back over to face him.

“Okay, okay,” you sigh, giving him a slight smile as you start to sit yourself upright again. “What’d you get me?”

Tongue-in-cheek, his hand finds its way to the tie of his robe. The fuzzy fleece-like fabric zips with a whisper when he pulls it loose. It slips off of his shoulders and crumples to the ground in a puddle of cloth around his feet, leaving him entirely naked as he proudly places his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. A red ribbon criss-crosses his body, wrapping around his waist, his pecs, outlining his thighs, until finally it all comes together in a perfectly tied ribbon around his half hard penis.

“Me!”

Of course seeing him wrapped up like a pretty present is enough to get you a little hot and bothered. But he had interrupted your sleep presumably for Valentine’s sex, so in turn you had to tease him. With your best poker face, you cross your arms and look unimpressed.

“Oh. I was hoping you made breakfast or something,” you tut.

He deflates immediately, his arms flopping down at his sides, and you almost feel bad. “Well, I… I mean I could go grab--!”

You interrupt him with an airy giggle and take his hand in yours, pulling him onto the bed with you. It’s not the most graceful thing, and he lands with a soft “oof” on top of you while half crushing your rib cage, but you quickly pull him into your embrace. Your arms wrap around his neck while his find their place at your waist, though he does still look a bit befuddled by your sudden change in attitude.

“I’m kidding. Well, mostly,” you snicker before kissing the tip of his nose, loving the way it crinkles. “I am a bit hungry…” you add teasingly. The pad of your index finger trails along his jawline, tilting his chin up to press your lips softly against his. “...and you seem to have wrapped up a perfect snack just for me.”

His eyes darken slightly at the seductive purr of your voice, and he props himself up on his elbows to hover over you. “Oh, I’m a whole Happy Meal, babe.”

“You are the worst,” you respond with a giggly snort, but you contain any further laughter as you press that same finger to his chest, trailing along the line of the ribbon he’s wound himself in. Your touches travel lower, fingertips grazing along the soft silk almost ticklishly. While your eyes follow your hand, his are locked onto your face, watching your expression with rapt attention and studying the details of your face. He could probably draw it by memory if he were any good at that sort of thing, but he could never grow tired of looking at you. Feeling his gaze burn into your very soul, your eyes flicker back up to his.

“I’ll be anything as long as I still get to look at this gorgeous face,” he breathes. It’s so genuine that your face heats up immediately and your expression softens as your heart clenches in your chest. He could say a thousand pick-up lines, a million terrible jokes, make you groan and roll your eyes a billion times, but he could never stop you from loving him. Hell, you loved him because of that, and so much more, not in spite of it. Your palm rests against his cheek, and he leans into it happily. 

“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” you tease, the mirthful lilt in your voice ensuring he knows you’re kidding.

“Said,” he corrects you with a cheeky smile as his fingers card soothingly through your hair. “Now those words are all yours.”

“Sweettalker,” you hum as you toy with the neatly tied bow between his legs.

He gives you a throaty chuckle. “You know you love it.”

You hum your agreement before your hand wraps around his cock, the heat of your palm drawing a hiss from his lips as you begin stroking him languidly. He kisses you hungrily then, nipping and tugging at your bottom lip before his tongue is dancing with yours. Bracing himself on one elbow, his other hand grips your hip before sliding up beneath your nightshirt, groaning into your mouth when he cups your breast.

With every flick of your thumb over the tip he’s bucking into your hand, precum dribbling forth as you collect it on your fingertips and smear it over his length. He’s so hard, so ready and needy for you, and it makes your mouth water in anticipation. His lips leave yours, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, and you tilt your head to the side to give him better access as he leaves heated kisses along the column of your throat.

“Peter,” you breathe reverently, exhaling a blissful sigh when his fingertips roll your nipple between them.

You can feel him smiling against your neck. “‘Could listen to that all day,” he muses aloud before he continues sucking a dark spot into your skin.

“Mm… maybe I could record my own mixtape for you then,” you chortle as your hand quickens. “Let you listen to my moans, the sounds of you fucking me…”

A broken moan staggers from his throat as he bites down onto your neck and you gasp softly. Well, now you have his birthday gift planned, at least.

The wet heat of his tongue laves up your neck, soothing the reddening mark and indent of his teeth. “I think I prefer the live show more.”

“Then why don’t you give me a show, lover boy?” you taunt as you guide the tip of his cock to drag up and down the dampening fabric of your underwear. You bite your lip and suppress the soft moan in the back of your throat when he brushes against your clothed clit.

He shakes his head, his blonde hair tickling your face as he suddenly sits back. Now it’s your turn to let out a dissatisfied whine, and he takes way too much pride in the way you pout up at him. You’re a complete mess, with bruised lips, hickeys lining one side of your neck, and your shirt pushed all the way up your chest to expose your breasts. No, he has something else in mind entirely.

“You’re the star, babe. And Star-Lord deserves VIP treatment, don’t you think?” He takes himself in hand then, swatting yours away as he taps his cock against your inner thigh. “I wanna watch you ride me,” he says huskily as his eyes meet yours. There’s so much want, so much raw desire in his gaze, that it makes your heart pound in your chest. You need him so badly that denying such a request or even making fun of such a cheesy use of his hero name never crosses your mind.

You scoot over wordlessly, and he grins wickedly before flopping onto his back. It was an undeniably tantalizing view, seeing him wrapped head to toe in that shiny red ribbon. You shimmy out of your panties before throwing your leg over his hip to straddle him. His hands find your waist again before sliding up, cupping your breasts as you make a show of removing your shirt and your hips rock against his. He could feel just how wet you were when his dick slides along your slickened slit, and it drives him crazy. When your hands rest atop his, guiding him as his fingers squeeze into the plush of your tits, he lets out a shuddery groan.

“Like this, Star-Lord?” you ask with mock, saccharine sweetness. He bucks up into your heat. Oh, how he loved when you used his moniker in the bedroom.

“Fuck, yes, baby. You’re so sexy,” he rambles, moaning when your grinding makes the tip of his cock nearly slip into your sex. You line him up properly then, easing down onto his length almost too easily, and he grips your thigh possessively as his head falls back against the pillow. You take him to the hilt and he snaps back up, watching where the two of you meet as you immediately begin bouncing up and down with breathy moans. “That’s it. Give me a show.”

Your eyes squeeze shut and your brows knit together while your lips part with your soft “oh”s and “ah”s. His hand falls from your breast so he can admire the way your tits bounce with your movements. The sensation of a loose silk knot nudging your clit every time you come down is strange but not unpleasant. Peter sees you looking down at it and chuckles.

“Look at you. So needy that you can’t even properly unwrap your toys before you play with them,” he teases before pressing his palm flat against your stomach and finding your bud with the pad of his thumb. The added sensation leaves your thighs quivering around him, and you bite down softly on your finger to muffle the keening sound in your throat. You want to tease him back, to point out how he’s calling himself your toy, but he doesn’t give you the chance. Instead he lifts his hips up just a bit, nearly setting you off balance as you gasp and lean back to brace your hands on his knees, and he thrusts up into you at an angle that has you seeing stars.

“Oh, fuck!” you curse, barely remembering to bounce back against him as he pounds up into you. He knew your body too well, knew every spot, every way to touch you to turn you to putty in his hands. Your eyes are too busy rolling back into your head to see the way he smiles devilishly up at you. Watching you come undone because of him was intoxicating, and he was absolutely drunk on you.

“That’s it, Y/N, keep singing for me like that,” he praises you, swiping feverish circles into your clit in time with his thrusts. “Let the whole ship know who’s girl you are.”

That idea shouldn’t turn you on, and in your right mind that would be the last thing you would want to think about, but the thought of it now has your walls clenching around him and milking him for all he’s worth. Pressure coils low in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with every nudge of his cock head against your g-spot and every flick of his thumb on your pearl. Your moans turn into begging and praising.

“Yes, yes, Star-Lord, yes!” you babble between pleasured sighs. If you keep that up, there’s no way he’ll be able to last much longer. He pulls you down, earning a surprised yelp that he muffles with a searing kiss. He doesn’t relent, pistoning in and out of you as your moans grow higher and higher in pitch. With a tilt of his head the kiss deepens, and your mind goes hazy with desire while your tongues engage in another messy battle that leaves your head spinning. It’s all too much and finally the coil snaps, and you orgasm deliciously while your cries are swallowed by his kisses. He can’t hold back anymore, wrapping his arm around your waist and holding you down before going into an absolute frenzy. His cock hammers into your sensitive walls and he buries his face in your chest, moaning and groaning as you cry out from the overwhelming sensations. 

Your name leaves his lips over and over, uttering it like a prayer before he lets out a guttural cry, stilling and spilling himself into you.

The two of you slump against each other on the bed, panting as the afterglow washes over you. Resting your head on his chest, you roll your neck so that your cheek is smushed against his shoulder. In your post orgasmic bliss, your eyes gaze up at him lovingly, and a dopey smile spreads across your face. Peter looks down at you and smirks, bringing a hand up to brush through your now even messier hair.

“You know I love you, right? For… for you, I mean,” you murmur as you stare into each other’s eyes.

He gives you a quizzical look. “I… what do you mean?”

Your hand rests on his chest, and you draw lazy circles into his skin with your fingertip. “That I don’t need you to be Star-Lord. That I fell in love with Peter Quill, the man, and not Star-Lord, Guardian of the Galaxy.”

His eyes widen for just a moment before they narrow and soften. Arms wrap around you tightly then, squeezing you into a hug that nearly relieves your lungs of all their air.

“I… I know,” he responds, nuzzling his nose into your hair and breathing in the scent of your shampoo. “Even if it’s still hard to believe sometimes.”

It’s rare that he lets himself be insecure around anyone. You do your best to return his hug, draping your arms around his shoulders and pressing soft kisses to whatever skin you could reach. Taking the moment to savor each other, intimately enjoying one another’s embrace, you allow your eyes to wander about your room and… wait, hold on… when did…?

Strings of paper hearts, seemingly cut out by hand, zigzag and drape from the ceiling all around. A box of chocolates rests on your nightstand next to a vase of gorgeous flowers.

“Did you…?” you start, lifting your head to get a better look around you.

Peter’s laugh rumbles in his chest. “Finally noticed?”

“I-I…” you stutter, embarrassed at the realization that you had been entirely oblivious to the rest of his preparations until now.

“Figured you’d just wanna skip to the main course, so I didn’t say anything,” he teases with a wink. He reaches over, divesting the box of its lid before procuring a chocolate and offering it to your lips. You playfully roll your eyes at him before opening your mouth, taking the morsel gently between your teeth. It’s good. You haven’t had chocolate like this in a while. Your eyes close and you hum in satisfaction, and your reaction brings an ecstatic grin to his face.

“I’m glad you kept track,” you admit, “of Valentine’s, I mean, but… why?”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “We… we’re in space all the time. Dealing with, you know, other planets and types of people. Different rotations, different calendars, different days. It gets hard to keep track of time passing or even when it’s supposed to be day or night. But since you and I are both from Earth, it… I guess it feels important. To remember, I mean. It grounds me, even all the way out here in space.”

You smile fondly at him and lean up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “That’s surprisingly poetic of you, Peter.”

He snorts, giving you a playful flick on the head. “I’ll have you know that many people have told me I have an excellent way with words.”

“Imaginary friends don’t count, you know.”

“Hey!” he exclaims as you fall into a fit of giggles. It’s impossible for him to stay mad when you look so perfect, so sweet, so comfortable and at home in his arms. The back of his fingers brush along your cheekbone, and your giggles gently fade into bare titters as you continue to flash him a toothy grin.

“I love you,” he breathes out.

Your heart flutters no matter how many times he says that, and you lean into his touch. “I love you too, Peter. Happy Valentine’s day.”

[tentacle-priestess]

Yarn Girl

NSFW

I wanted to write a something based on @lavenderlimes1 idea. So here it is, my first ever post. I hope its not too long

It was past midnight. I had lost track of time while crocheting again. I tried to put the yarn and hook away but just couldnt, the feel of the yarn was just too soft and comforting, its color so bright and nice. "Just one more row", I told myself.

When I looked at the clock again, more than an hour had passed without me noticing. Surprised,I abruptly got up, but threads of yarn had gotten tangled all over my arms and legs causing me to fall over. "WTF!"

Splayed across the floor i started working on my left arm, trying to untangle the purple strands. After some minutes I didnt seem to be making any progress, if anything I was even more tangled up. My legs somehow spread open, hanging in the mess of yarn fibers that had inexplicably become tangled up from the lamp above me.

I know I should have been irritated, maybe scared, but I wasnt. The truth is the touch of the yarn felt oddly pleasing. I trailed a finger over one of the threads around my arm, it was plush and creamy. As I kept brushing my fingers against it I had the strange sensation that the yarn shuddered beneath me.

My heart started thumping and my hands quivered as I reached out to caress the yarn across my stomach and around my thighs. I could swear the yarn caressed me in return, gliding softly against the bare skin of my thighs and arms, even lifting the hem of my shorts and slipping beneath, pulling my already low neckline down, pulling my camisole up and wrapping around my stomach and moving higher, towards by breasts.

Soon my clothes were in complete disarray and I was suspended above the floor. I no longer had much control over the position of my body. I liked it. The strands of yarn completely removed my camisole from their way, exposing the tender skin on my breasts, my nipples already peaking. They wrapped slowly around my big and bouncy boobs, the feel of their lush texture sending shivers across my skin. As those tendrils circled closer and closer towards my nipples the expectation built up inside me. I wanted to feel them and they moved excruciatingly slow.

When they finally reached them a soft moan escaped my lips and I felt the yarn shudder and coil tighter around my body. The tendrils on my nipples held them between some strands and rolled them gently, too gently, maddeningly gentle. Sparks of pleasure radiated from them across my body, a warm craving pooling in my stomach, arousal soaking my panties.

As if sensing it, the threads around my hips tugged on my shorts and underwear, trying to pull them down. I helped them, I couldnt get rid of them any sooner and neither could she, I somehow knew, it felt right to think of this yarn entity as she. And I loved that. The only problem were my shorts. She was tangled to extensively around my legs to get them off. I sighed in exasperation, and could feel her frustration too. Desperate for friction I grind my hips against her strands, the fabric of my pj was thin enough for me to get some sensation but it was not enough. Then it dawned on my. "Help me reach my crafts scissors" I said. She hesitated for a moment, I felt her get very still, did she think I would cut her? but finally did as I asked. I was careful not to cut any thread as I cut through my shorts and panties, breaking free of them. She squirmed in delight around me. I did too, twisting and wriggling to get more of her touch.

She spread my legs open exposing me to her. I could feel her mischievousness as she splayed me open, wrapping herself around my thighs, holding me firmly in place. Then teased my with the slowness of her movement towards that spot where I wanted her. Needed her.

By now my scent was filling the room, I could smell it and it made me even more aroused. My juices were dripping from me, and when a drop finally fell on her, she jolted. My heart pounded in anticipation as I felt something like hunger emanate from all over her. Yarn tendrils captured my clit and I moaned loudly at the sudden pleasure that rippled through my body. She rolled my clit between her tendrils while also rolling both my nipples between more tendrils. I whimpered at the pleasure and vulnerability of being at her mercy. I started grinding my hips again, I wanted more of her. I wanted her inside me. I could feel my juices soaking her.

She blindfolded me with a thick web of yarn and pulled my legs over my head, exposing me further. The threads in contact with the soaking opening of my vagina clinging to it as if trying to get more juice. Then they started moving inside, I could feel her desire for my juices as dozens of yarn threads plunged deep into me. The sensation wasnt like anything i'd felt before. So many strands crowded my entrance trying to enter me and the sheer volume made my walls expand open. I gasped and moaned in pleasure and surprise, she moved rhythmically inside me while rubbing my clit and playing with my nipples. Blindfolded and tied up there was not much I could do, not that I wanted to. Pleasure built up inside me filling me to the brim, just as she was filling my pussy to the brim. She tightened her grip on me and pulled my legs wider apart as if showing me the control she had over me. Than unexpectedly she started pulling my butt cheeks apart, pulling my legs closer to my head, slowly exposing the pink tender flesh around my anus. I shuddered in surprise, "what are you doing?" I asked. She just began rubbing the sensitive skin gently. A loud gasp escaped my lips. I was not expecting it to feel so good. Shocks of pleasure and desire moved through my body. I needed it. I tried to move my hips in order to get more of her touch in that sensitive zone. Then as if realizing there was another entrance into me, the yarn tendrils started entering it, fighting for entrance, plunging inside, pushing at my sphincter and opening me wider. It felt too good. I was nearing my climax as she pounded my pussy and ass, rubbed my clit and toyed with my nipples. She held me tighter in place as he pushed more and more yarn tendrils inside both my holes, I moaned and screamed in pleasure as I fell into my orgasm, and then an other.

I feel I made this too long...

[writingwithfolklore]

Hey, I have a question about your month long detox.

Every time I’ve tried to do something similar I always just end up falling back into old habits and not getting anything done. How did you combat this?

Hi!

It's definitely tricky. I think one of the main things that I found really worked (and the book I mentioned, Digital Minimalism by Cal Newport, recommends) is to not just cut things out of your life, but to find high-quality leisure activities to replace them.

I didn't just cut out Youtube and all my other social media/non essential tech, I started up puzzling, and regular board game nights with friends, and scheduled time for writing, and took longer and longer walks with my dog. Essentially, early on I did a whole lot of exploring new hobbies, almost in a way to distract myself from how much I wanted to get back on Youtube. You are (or many of us are) literally fighting an addiction, and going cold turkey is an incredibly hard way to break out of it. So anything that can stand in place to take your mind off your usual habits is a better option to reach for.

After the month was done, these new hobbies and routines that I had picked up across the month were already my norm. I was able to reintroduce tech moreso around these new hobbies rather than replace them again. So instead of spending six hours on Youtube, I now every now and then fit Youtube into all the other stuff I'd rather be doing--reading, writing, hanging with friends, etc.

The book suggests a lot of options for what these new hobbies can be--from crafty ones, to social ones, to physically/mentally challenging ones. The month is a good time to figure out what you enjoy so that you can continue doing it well beyond.

I hope that helps, and good luck if you try it again!

[seventeenlovesthree]

Madoka Magica Ship Analysis - HomuMado

Based on these two polls [X] [X], I will write an analysis that'll also include how I feel about the ship (similarly to my Digimon shipping game analysis posts).

Disclaimer: I won't claim this to be a conclusive/definitive analysis of all of the ship's aspects. I have watched the original 12-episode-series and movies (including Rebellion), the Magia Record anime and I've read several manga series (the Original, The Different Story, Wraith Arc, Rebellion Story, Oriko Magica, Another Story, Mitakihara Anti-Materials). But I'm aware that I haven't seen/read all of what's out there and am also not thoroughly familiar with the games. Plus, oftentimes, ship dynamics vary depending on which series/timeline you are looking at. I'm fairly certain that thousands of words must have been written about this ship already, better and more elaborate than I probably ever could - so this is going to be my personal take on it.

Whether canon provides input on them or not.

As the main faces, characters (and ship) of the entire franchise, it's absolutely impossible to watch/read/play the series without taking note of Madoka Kaname, Homura Akemi and their dynamic. Their characters, arcs and development are irrevocably connected with one another - no pun intended (yet) - and without them, we wouldn't even have a story to talk about to begin with. But let's start at the beginning, shall we.

On one hand, we have Homura - who initially started off as a shy and timid girl, prone to sickness and ridden by insecurities. Presumably raised as an orphan at a government-funded orphanage, she struggles to find her way, fitting in at school, keeping up, making friends and socializing in general - thus she becomes an easy target for corruption (we shall keep this in mind for later) and is almost being dragged into suicidal tendencies by a Witch... If it wasn't for the pink-haired Magical Girl (and her senpai) who is going to rescue her - and Homura has no idea yet that she'll end up committing her entire life and purpose to her soon after.

Madoka initially starts off as not considering herself to be anything special - but is still determined to do good as a Magical Girl, she appears to be straight-forward yet kind, gentle and welcoming... Especially towards Homura. So - is it really surprising that Homura, timid, insecure, lonely Homura, would end up thoroughly enchanted by Madoka? The first real friend she must have had in ages? The person who smiled at her, reached out and encouraged her in her pure, innocent ways? Absolutely not, it's highly relatable, endearing... And thus, it shall be even less surprising to see Homura not wanting to lose her again. The feeling of being wanted, appreciated - of not being alone anymore.

After watching Madoka sacrificing herself, ending up killed by Walpurgisnacht in the original timeline, Homura makes her wish to become a Magical Girl herself - not just to meet Madoka again, but to be the one to rescue her this time. What appears to be a wish of determined, unexpectedly confident heroism at first will, just like every other wish, turn out to be a multi-layered mess of human complexity. An underlying desire born from affection - that will eventually turn into something deeper, desperation, obsession, whatever you may want to call it.

Homura lives through countless timelines, repeating the same month over and over again to save Madoka, discovering the fate of Magical Girls to become Witches eventually along the way, becoming more and more skilled at weaponry combat... At some point, she was already perfectly ready to become a witch alongside Madoka, as long as they're together, destroying the entire world - but is held back by Madoka's wish to prevent her from falling for Kyubey. And thus, Homura thoroughly hyperfocuses on her personal mission, so she won't lose the last bit of hope, no matter how bleak the situation may be. However, in the process, she is growing more and more distant, not only from Madoka and their fellow magical girls, but also from herself. Hardened by the experiences, she develops a cool facade and a stoic attitude, swallowing and locking away emotional attachment to anything and anyone that is not Madoka in order to reach her goal.

With every timeline resetted, more karmic energy revolves around Madoka - but with Homura's wish revolving around saving her, she also becomes increasingly more timid, reserved and insecure each time(line). While her general stance on Homura is still mainly the same - finding her, her look and name cute/pretty -, their ability to relate to one another dwindles with every reset. Homura's attempts at reaching Madoka, as desperate as they may appear, rather scare and alienate Madoka - who cannot possibly understand what she has been going through, the time she had spent, the absolute commitment...

Until Madoka eventually makes her own wish to honour all of Homura's achievements - until she wishes for witches to never have existed and, enabled by all the karmic energy, she becomes a literal Goddess in the process, the Law of Cycles to keep magical girls from despairing, creating an entirely new universe... One in which she has never existed as a human, but only as a concept. Selflessly wishing for everybody's happiness - whereas Homura wishes she didn't. While Madoka thanks her for all she had done for her sake, giving her her red hair ribbons as memory for safekeeping, Homura cannot fully accept this new reality. She does fight on at first, honouring Madoka's wish within a world that has Wraiths instead of Witches, determined to defy anyone and anything that shall threaten her legacy... But this state isn't meant to last.

The long twintail-braids shy, timid Homura used to wear alongside her glasses, mirroring Madoka's red-ribboned twintails as a symbol of innocence, are merely a memory of who Homura Akemi is going to become. For the sake of her initial wish, for the sake of devotion and love that have turned into an obsession that doesn't allow much deviation. And her will to keep living in Madoka's universe is fragile - as she has to overcome temptation in the shape of shape-shifting Wraiths, showing her her beloved Madoka once more - just for example.

And eventually, despair takes over: Trapped within a Witches barrier inside of Homura's own Soul Gem, a world has formed that technically would have granted her biggest wish - a world in which Madoka exists happily alongside her and her/their friends, fighting together, living a peaceful life... But this world is just a facade as well, meant to lure the Goddess into a trap to regain power over the old Witch System of an alternate reality. And Homura, whose hair can never be turned back into braids again, who has lost her way and purpose, turned into a Witch and is ready to sacrifice herself if it means keeping Madoka safe once more. But even as she is, once again, mercifully saved by Madoka in the end in return in another act of selflessness - Homura's initial wish takes over. To be the one to save Madoka - in Homura's sense, means to stop her from being selfless for once, giving her the chance to live a normal life in another fake reality. It's Homura's, presumably, selfish desire in contrast to Madoka's - as they have truly become opposites in every single way. In order to fulfill her wish and become Madoka's sanctuary - even against her will -, she became a Devil to defy the Goddess' universe, following a corrupted form of love once born from the wish to protect the one most important to her. To maintain the image of Madoka she had formed in her head, regardless of whether that is what Madoka has eventually become and wished for by herself. And thus, she cannot wear Madoka's red ribbon, the sign of her legacy and innocence, anymore. A black dress and red eyes now have to face a white dress and golden eyes. The braids cannot return... At least not for now.

... Too long, didn't read: There is A LOT to work with, you already know all of this and yet, I am pretty sure I haven't been able to capture every aspect of them.

Whether I think why and how they’d work.

As mentioned, depending on timeline, universe, state of progression, their dynamic tends to be WILDLY DIFFERENT. You can take Moemura/Shy!Homura and OG!Madoka, you can take Cool!Homura and Anime!Madoka (and their various states in between), you can take EndofAnime!Homura and Madokami, you can take Rebellion!Homura and Rebellion!Madoka, Homucifer and Madokami and you can take Homucifer and FakeWorld!Madoka... The possibilities are ENDLESS (especially when you also include the more comedic-leaning portrayals in spin-off mangas like Homura Tamura).

The good part about this is - you can basically pick your poison, you can make this dynamic as wholesome or as toxic as you desire your own personal brand of Yuri to be. Which is, in my opinion, one of the aspects that make Madoka Magica and HomuMado in general so unbelievably intriguing.

Let's start with the toxic side of things, because I would argue that this is where Rebellion left us hanging and where Walpurgisnacht Rising might continue (at first): Homura's wish and her mingling created a very idealized version of Madoka in her head that she wishes to protect and maintain. Her initial thankfulness and endearment towards the kind, strong Madoka in the original timeline have basically been replaced by her unshaken desire to SAVE her. She has to be the one who (selfishly?) stops her from being selfless, she has to be the one to shield and protect her from any harm, keeping her locked in a precious glass bowl preferably nobody else can mess with. The problem here is that this version of Homura (which is basically Homucifer, but also several stages of her before that) cannot accept any other reading of reality than her own. Yes, in an ideal world, she could have allowed Madokami to finally take her away to exist with her in lesbian heaven for the rest of eternity - but that was not what Homura had wished for. And also probably not what Homura thought she deserved after everything she had done. In a way, having her turn into Homucifer was also some kind of self-chosen punishment as a "sinner"...

And Madoka, honestly speaking, probably had a very idealized version of Homura in her head as well. I'm not just talking about Rebellion!Madoka (or FakeReality!Madoka for that matter), whose memories had been tampered with, but also Madokami - who claimed to have seen all that Homura had done for her, in all timelines and realities... But apparently, she hadn't noticed her state of mind, her being so close to despairing and snapping because she just couldn't take this universe. That she couldn't let Mami or Kyouko in, no matter how hard they tried. She still felt alienated from them and lonely, thus she always reverted back to her initial goal, as she simply didn't belong into this universe. It kinda leads me to believe that it may be impossible for even Madokami to see Homura as anything other than the braided girl from the very beginning, her "best friend" from the original timeline.

Long story short - these two need to actually TALK for once. Getting to know their REAL CURRENT selves in whatever state or timeline that may be. Seriously, letting Madokami and Homucifer have a verbal conversation about all these misconceptions and misunderstandings about each other, talking about needs and desires and BOUNDARIES in a meta-kinda-way would be incredibly satisfying to watch. (And I am pretty sure, such scenarios exist in both fanfiction and doujins, but I haven't found them yet!)

Personally, I also highly enjoy the dynamic between Moemura and OG!Madoka - even after a few timelines have passed, as it has been depicted in the second season of the Magia Record anime. It gave me the impression that Homura had already gained a little bit of confidence and Madoka was still hands-on enough for them to be on a similar wavelength - which makes their dynamic among the healthiest in the entire franchise and gives them a lot of opportunities to bond and develop. For Homura to form a proper sense of self, encouraged by but not entirely dependent on Madoka. Actually, this version is also incredibly close to the Rebellion dream versions of Homura and Madoka - which, unsurprisingly, also is one of the most peaceful versions of them, having them sit together in a flower field, talking for hours about actual things. However, this Homura is still hyperfocusing on Madoka here - and it may not even have been her 100% authentic self, since her memories had been influenced by Homura's vision of her.

However, you have to allow them to talk and actually get to know each other and their flaws, let them banter and tease... Let Homura see and learn to accept undesirable aspects of Madoka - and let Madoka shout back at her if necessary. Deep down inside, they both adore and admire each other - which is why they were compatible in the original timeline in the first place. Homura admired Madoka for her strength, whereas Madoka admired Homura for her coolness. And they absolutely have the potential to help the other to become their best selves. But they need to see each other for who they really are and thus have to abandon codependent tendencies for it to work; Homura has to accept that Madoka is her own person who doesn't need to be overprotected - and Madoka has to accept that she cannot "save" Homura just by herself, but that she may encourage her to get therapy to deal with her self-image first. Let Homura understand that "love" also means to let go. Let her see that different people define "love" differently as well and that you have to understand how your significant other loves to love them back right.

Whether I’d prefer them as platonic or romantic ship.

When I had watched Madoka Magica for the first time approximately 10 years ago, I was positively - and obviously - in love with this ship and its potential. I adored Rebellion for how tragically it portrayed it - and again, I'm not even sure if I did them justice in comparison to everyone who wrote about them before me. As outlined above, it has various layers to pay attention to and I absolutely cannot wait to see how Walpurgisnacht Rising will add to my initial analysis of them. Because their dynamic WILL change, there is no denying.

Even after all this time, I still (want to) see the romantic potential between them. They may not be my favourite Madoka Magica ship anymore, but I still rate them very highly due to their complexity, my own nostalgia and hopefulness - although I'm aware that I would ship them in very idealized ways myself that are self-indulgently peaceful (and required a lot of therapy). As much as I want to see them get a happy end one way or another - I am currently very invested in exploring Madoka's and Homura's polycule potential dynamics with the other members of the Magica Quintet and am looking forward to writing more ship analysis posts soon!

[cod-indulgences]

currently feeling ugh with my body again.. could you write small boobs chubby reader (it me) receiving some love with any of the men pls? 🥺🥺

Kyle Garrick x female!reader, insecure!reader, body image issues, low self esteem, small breasts!reader, chubby!reader, tits man Kyle Garrick, angst, fluff, fingering, breast worship, overstimulation, fingering

anon you and others sent me similar asks. this is me too, writing this felt very cathartic and I love you for sending this in. I hope it helps you!.......it's also over 3K

You wouldn't call yourself shy, just....practical. No need to draw more attention to your assets, or lack thereof.

Being fat was sexy, if you were a specific kind of fat. Men didn't come running for apron bellies or thick thighs, if there weren't big, lush tits to balance them out. And even while your flesh had expanded, growing around you like Saturn's rings, your breasts had stayed small. Clothes were a nightmare, and you got in the habit early of wearing crop tops instead of actual bras, wanting to avoid the discomfort of underwrire digging into your belly when you had to bend and move.

And then you met Gaz.

Your crush was inevitable and all-encompassing. He shone like the sun to you, even with that dumb hat, and you were left sighing over him in private. It stayed private though, because one of the first things you'd heard him proudly announce was that he was a tits guy- and your heart had sunk to your shoes. You'd known those sort of men, glancing past you for a woman with cleavage, with the sort of breasts that filled lingerie and bounced enticingly.

So when he started flirting with you- unmistakable flirting, innuendoes slipped in with coffee and invitations to dinner, compliments on your hair and clothes- you decided to take what you could get, as long as you could get it. It might just be a way to fill time for him, but you were so pathetically gone on this man that even the scraps handed out until someone with proper curves came through felt like a feast.

So you accepted the compliments and dinner invitations, kissed Gaz in your doorway and pushed aside the creeping discomfort as his hands curved around your back, your belly bumped up against him before your tits did. You could take this much. Even when the kisses got heated, his tongue slipping against yours and drawing lines down your neck, you kept your clothes on, a barrier to hold off the inevitable let down. You could handle him eventually finding someone better, you couldn't handle his face twisted up in disappointment at the sight of your body.

So when you got bold after a couple drinks and sat in his lap, let his hands rise up and cup your tits through your shirt, you didn't expect the shuddering moan Gaz released into your shoulder, the little "fuck, baby" and how it went straight through to your core. His hand squeezed and you whined a little, nipple perking up as he thumbed across it.

"Gaz- Gaz, wait, shit," you stutter, and he licks across your throat, his mouth lingering at the neckline of your shirt.

He squeezes again, and you moan a little yourself. It's like nothing you've ever felt touching yourself, or the handful of boys you'd slept with, ages ago.

"So sexy, so fucking hot," he says, and it's like cold water down your back.

"Gaz, wait- no, stop!" You push at his shoulders and he goes back, frowning when you climb off his lap. This is worse than disappointment. "I don't- don't fucking lie to me!" You feel too hot, shame burning your cheeks. "Don't give me that shit! I thought you at least liked me enough to not- to not do this-" You try not to let any tears fall. You don't want to cry.

He's just sitting here, staring at you like he's confused. "What? What are you talking about? What lies?" He says, and it's too much.

"The fucking- the sexy shit! Like this- like I'm something you want- just, I'd rather you leave, ok? Just go, and we can pretend it never happened." You sit on the far end of your couch, arms wrapped around yourself. You don't want to look at him, and when he stands up, your mouth trembles. Don't cry. Don't cry.

You expect him to go to the door. Instead he crouches in front of you, and takes your hands in his. You don't stop him.

"Baby," he says, and oh fuck that hurts. "Why do you think I'm lying?" He looks so fucking sad. Big dark eyes and his cheeks are still flushed, and he'd been smiling at you when you took his hand and brought it to your chest.

You can't look him in the eye while you lay it all out. "I know I'm not- not what you want. Or like. And you're my friend and I l-like you, a lot, but you can't do this. You can't say this shit and pretend it's true when I'm the one you're saying it to. I know better. People like me don't get to be sexy." His hand cups your cheek, and brushes away the release that managed to slip out. "So you can go, and I'm sorry it went this way, but I can't sit here while you're wishing I had the curves I know you want."

Gaz doesn't leave, or move away, and when you dare to glance at him you get shocked to see his eyes are wet. His other hand let's go of yours to cup your other cheek, and he leans in to kiss your forehead. "If I ever," he says, and kisses your eyelid, "meet any of the fuckers who told you things like that," your other eyelid, oh, your heart, "I'm going to kill them." He kisses your lips, soft, and you whimper at the tenderness of it.

"You, just as you are, are so sexy to me- no, stop," and he holds your face to look at him instead of away. "I don't know who started you thinking I want tits more than you-"

"You did!" You burst out. "You say it all the time, talking with the soldiers, about how you love a nice set of tits on a woman, how the breasts are the best part, whatever else, it's practically a catchphrase." The words are bitter in your mouth. "And I'm not just the fat girl, I'm the bad kind of fat, without anything good to balance out the bad. That's just how I am, and I thought I would be okay with the dates and the flirting, because I knew it wouldn't last anyway. But I'm not, and I'm sorry I wasted your time, and just....I just..."

He looks surprised, and then upset again. "No, baby, no. I'm sorry. I didn't know it would- sound like that. Look, okay yes, I love breasts, always will, but don't you get it's not about them being big for me? I don't care what size. I just," he laughs, a little incredulous, "I like tits. Big or small, whatever, they're all fucking awesome!"

You yank his hands away and he falls back on his ass, surprised. "Not like me! Not when the little ones are on top of, of all this!" You grab your stomach and shake it, flesh bouncing, a reminder of just what you carry. "I haven't been little anywhere it matters since I was fucking twelve."

Now he's standing up, looming over you. "Okay, first of all- you think I'm that fucking shallow? That all I want in a woman is how she looks? Fuck you." You swallow, suddenly ashamed. "And two, if you think you're that unattractive, you need to open your eyes. If you'd put your weight down on me properly instead of hovering like I was gonna break, you'd have known just how sexy I find you." He cups his hand over his groin, and you stutter, too close to eye level where his fingers outline a thick, heavy shape. You had been hovering, uneasy at sitting fully on his lap, when he'd sucked on your neck and touched your chest. Gaz boxes you in, hands on the back of the couch, and puts his face up close to yours. "If you tell me to go because you don't like me, then I'll go. But I'm not leaving just because you think I'm going to be fucking disappointed at seeing more of the body I've been jerking off over for fucking weeks."

His mouth crashes into yours, and you moan, all tangled up with emotions, shame and desire, the embers of lust fanned when he sucks on your tongue. He's big and strong around you, the smell of his skin and soap filling your nose, and when Gaz encourages you to turn and lay flat you obey. He settles over you, his hips wedged between yours, and you both moan together when he hitches up a little and rubs up against you. Two layers of pants mean you can't feel much, but it's enough, and he does it again as you mouth shakily at his cheek, sucking on his earlobe. It's messy and a little high strung, and your eyes are still teary when Gaz lifts his hand to your chest and waits until you swallow hard and nod. His fingertips are gentle, tracing the curve of your breast until they find your nipple again, and you fight down the wave of shame as you see how his whole hand covers you. Barely enough for a handful, that just can't be what he wants, you're not enough- but he's looking at you with such dark, hot eyes, and when you whine a little as his fingers start to play with your nipple, you see his pupils dilate. Fuck.

"No bra?" He murmurs, and pinches just a little through the fabric of your top, just enough to make you squirm under him.

"No," you gasp, "just a shirt and a- a crop top thing, I never wear them," and he moans a little, a soft fuck that he breathes out before suddenly getting his mouth onto your other breast.

You squeak, it's hot and wet, his tongue working your nipple through the thin fabric, and your thighs open up a little more as he grinds against you. He's just- he's enthusiastic, pinching and sucking, pressed up against your body from head to hip. There's a warm liquid lust pooling in your belly, and your chest heaves as you gasp for breath. You can feel him now, no hovering, hot and hard up between your legs.

Suddenly your clothes are too much after all. You push his shoulders, and as Gaz sits back tug at his shirt, yanking the collar up over his head until he starts helping. He's gorgeous, full pecs with little dark nipples that perk up under your fingers, the muscles of his abdomen flexing when you gently trace along his iliac crest, a little shivering twitch going through the flesh. His cock is bulging out his pants, and you picture it sheathed inside you and feel your pussy gush a little.

Gaz sets his hands at the hem of your shirt, and you clench at the heat in his eyes. You're trying, you're dizzy with arousal and so turned on you can't speak, but there's still fear there. But he's so, so sweet, and you want it so bad, and nod helplessly for him to draw the fabric up and away.

Your bra-top comes away with the shirt, and you don't even have time to cover yourself before Gaz has your hands in his, fingers intertwined, and he's fucking moaning over you. "Baby, fuck, if you knew how fucking luscious you look," and he's diving back into you, eating the moans that slip from your lips as he gets both hands on your tits.

Small, too small, but he gropes and squeezes them, letting the flesh fill his palms, tugging your nipples between his fingers. He releases your mouth and goes down again to suck fully on one nipple, and you shout, the sensation of hot-wet suction so much more intense without fabric in the way.

"Fuck, baby, yes- just like that, c'mon," he mumbles around your tit, and you realize you're grinding against his cock. Your pussy clenches and you moan, trying to lift your hips up, aching for something you can't get while you're both still half-dressed. Gaz's skin is silky smooth against yours, sweating, and you squirm a hand between your bodies to pull at the button of his jeans. Two fingers slip in and you manage to rub the base of his cock, feeling the heavy flesh and the heat, and he swears again and grinds up harder.

You're going to leave a wet spot, you realize, and the Gaz dares to oh-so-gently bite down, teeth scraping your nipple, and you feel your body turn to jelly.

It's so good, so hot, like nothing you've ever had. Forget body image or shame, you're reduced to broken moans and begging, you're fucking begging, and Gaz works your pants open blindly to shove a hand down. His fingers scrape past your pubic hair and then he's suddenly there, everything hot-wet-slick, your clit bumping against the heel of his hand as he slips a fingertip against your hole. Then two fingers, sliding in, and he groans so hard against your breast that you can feel the vibrations in your heartbeat.

"So wet, baby, so wet, all for me? All this from these sweet little tits getting the love they deserve?" He grinds his palm in and starts fucking you on his fingers. You can hear the wet sloppy sounds, and it only makes you clench, whining. Your other nipple aches where he's been plucking at it, and when he moves his mouth there instead, you shout and clamp down. "Fuuuuck, fuck baby do that again-" He bites this nipple, and you obey and let your pussy contract on his fingers, perfect and not enough.

You blearily look down and see your chest, Gaz's dark head pillowed on you, his lips sucking at the peak of your tit. Your other breast is littered with little red marks from his facial hair, your nipple swollen and red, and it's so erotic and sensual you can't breathe. Suddenly your tits are sexy, plump little things with sensitive nipples and soft round bottoms, your belly and sides tingling as Gaz drags his fingers over your flesh, groping, yanking at your pants to give himself room to get a handful of your ass. Your hips jerk up, and your moaning climbs in pitch as the instinct takes over, chasing a high that is so close it hurts- truly hurts, your clit throbbing and pussy squeezing where his fingers keep pumping in and out of you.

Gaz lifts his head, holding your nipple in his teeth as he tugs, and his big hot eyes hold your gaze as your mouth drops open on a moan that doesn't end, spiraling up and up as your nipples ache and pussy squeezes, a long hard clench, before it finally breaks into an orgasm that leaves you shaking and limp, sobbing in relief, the new gush of slick around Gaz's fingers dripping over his hand and wrist.

Your voice comes back in stops and starts. "Fuck- fuck, Gaz, oh God, please, I can't- can't-" because he's still fucking you, sitting up to stare at his hand between your legs, pants and panties shoved down your thighs, and you're aware of the bounce of your flesh. The old fear tries to crawl back up, but Gaz is working is cock out of his pants, and you gape at him. He's huge, thick and heavy, so hard he's wet at the tip. When his hand slows you shove at your clothes, trying to get the twisted fabric out of the way.

"You don't have to," he starts, but you kick a leg free and hook it over his hip, pushing his jeans down with your heel.

"I want to," you gasp, and help him guide the tip of his cock to your hole.

Your mind is a little more clear now, and you take the chance to memorize Gaz's face as he slides into you, how his eyes close and mouth falls open, the soft moaning sounds. He's a stretch, and you're slick as sin, you make it work. He hitches up your hips, and you breathe deeply to relax your muscles, and suddenly he's there, all the way in, an ache in your cunt and your clit as thin flesh rearranges around him. Gaz drops his head to your shoulder, braced on one elbow, and his free hand comes up again to cup your breast, squeezing and lifting the nipple up for a kiss.

You get a kiss too, hot and sweet, and moan into his mouth when he finally starts moving.

You're sore and sensitive, whining at each bump of your clit against his groin, as he picks up speed and starts really fucking you- the couch creaks and your thighs open as wide as they can under the onslaught- he's so big, almost too big, and you gasp and tell him this, making him whine in return.

"So big," you say again, and feel his hips stutter. "Gaz, fuck-"

"Say it again," he moans, and you yelp as he sucks again on your nipple, harder, pinching the other and tugging until your back arches.

"Fuck! Fuck, Gaz, you're too big, fucking my- my little cunt-" he grunts and slams in harder, fuck, "god, please, please don't stop, I'm gonna come again!"

Gaz fucks his cock into you like a machine, wet squelches echoing as your pussy clamps down, trying to hold him in, your clit rubbing against his groin and pubic hair, and you come again as he opens his jaw and sucks your whole breast into his mouth- hot-tight-wet, his tongue slurping over your skin, your nipple pulled so tight against the roof of his mouth and your other swollen and pinched under his fingers. You feel the distant gush of your pussy on his cock, the way it's suddenly so much wetter, sloppier, and Gaz shouts into your chest as he slams his hips in and stills, his cock pumping you full of come, grinding up into your dripping cunt to get as deep as possible.

He's heavy on you, but not too much, and as he slows and you both catch your breath you wrap your arms around his shoulders, clinging. There's a fragile feeling in your chest, under the sweat and aches and tingling skin, and your wordless begging for kisses against his head brings him up to you. He's as gentle as you are, slow and sweet, and the fragility firms, settles.

Gaz chuckles a little against your mouth, and when you hum a question at him, he answers, "I had a whole plan for you. Seduction and shit, take you to a proper fancy place to eat. Get you in an actual bed, especially." You start to laugh as well, seeing the picture you make- you're naked except for socks and your pants and underwear hanging off one ankle, Gaz with his jeans rucked down his thighs and a wet spot on the crotch. Your breasts are swollen and tingling along with your pussy as he gently pulls out, and you wince a little, feeling the aches in your hips and back.

"Not quite what you expected, then?" You tease, but there's a little old shiver down your back.

Bless him, Gaz just lifts your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. "Better than," he says, and holds your eyes with his. "I promise."

It's a heavy moment, and your eyes blink back tears, feeling sweet, precious, so stupid with your previous outbursts in the face of such affection in his eyes- and then your stomach grumbles, and you both burst into giggles. You grin at him. "Is that offer for a fancy dinner on the table still?"

Gaz winks. "Only if I get to have you for dessert after."

[i-am-a-l0st-gh0st]

I don't remember if I asked this one but, readers lover finds out that the reader made a playlist, specifically for them, and were listening to it right now to fall asleep

If I could write you a song, to make you fall in love- Xiao x gn!reader

I would already have you right under my arm

Warnings- Anxiety, storms, thunder, fluff, established relationship

Summary- You made a playlist for xiao a few months ago when you started dating. He had no clue about it, until he arrived home late to find you asleep on the couch.

Xiao didn't usually get home late, not without telling you anyway. The rain was pelting down outside, and winds blew as if the wind archon himself was causing them. Xiao hasn't returned home yet, and your thoughts instantly turned dark. Sure, he was grown and could handle himself, but his karmic debt was growing, what if-

You quickly shut down your thought before they got the best of you. I'm sure he's fine… just. Out. Maybe. You pulled out your phone and sent him a quick text to check on his state. The message had sent it, but he hasn't seen it yet. On your phone, you began to look for the music app and find the playlist you'd made for your lover.

It was songs that reminded you of him, songs that you'd sung together, songs that you'd cried together. It was your playlist. Xiao didn't know this play existed. It was just a sweet little keepsake you thought was cute.

As you walked around the house looking for some headphones, a loud crack of thunder startled you and sent the electricity off.

“Shit!"

As soon as you found the headphones, you went back to your safe haven on the couch. With the headphones connected to your device, you pressed the play button.

*Now playing*

*Always forever - Cults*

Xiao pov

He couldn't get home quick enough. He knew you must be worried sick about him. I mean, he'd told you he'd be home 30 minutes ago! His phone was dead, and the rain was pouring down too heavy to walk. For a whole, he had to stand in the much needed cover of the Wangshu inn. As he paced around the room, another customer approached him, sensing his trouble.

“Is something troubling you?” The older lady asked with a certain kindness in her voice.

“No I'm fine.”

“Young man, you've ben pacing for 10 minutes, you're worried.”

“I promise you I am not.”

“Whatever you say, young one.”

When the storm started to die down, the first thing xiao did was run out in the settling run. He had to get home as quickly as he could. He couldn't leave you to be home alone.

As he pressed on through the rain, it started to get heavier once again, betting down on every part of xiao that it could reach.

The front door swung open, presenting a soaked xiao, who was now dripping a puddle on the doorway. “Qingxin? Are you here.”

A small pit of fear started in his stomach. What if you had run out looking for him? But he couldn't jump to convulsions he hadn't even looked through the entire house yet!

As he turned the corner into the living room, you lay with your head resting on the sun of the couch. Curled into a pillow that looked like it'd rather be anywhere else.

Xiao did notice the ear bud in your ear and the faint sound of a song playing through them. Your phone screen was left on, so he took the chance to look at the song. Nothing else because he trusted you.

*Now playing*

*My love, mine all mine- Mitski*

The playlist name was just a blue and black heart emoji. Was the playlist about him? Were the songs you were listening ones about him? It was comforting to know that you loved him enough to dedicate an entire playlist to him.

“I'm home, my love , I hope you sleep well.” He spoke as his pressed his lips gently against your forehead. Even if you were fast asleep, you swore you felt it in your dream.

[sukunasun]

Do you ever plan to write a fic with a grumpy reader? Maybe with Getou or any chara of your choice?

screaming from the top of a building: grumpy readers are so relatable and deserve more nuance than being labelled as ice queens and stone-cold bitches! there is much more to unfold beyond the harsh exterior. how cantankerous and irritable you are but nonetheless meant to be understood and loved.

quietly, you lay there stowing away as a recluse. you love your books and your crochet hooks. working away and making the most of me-time. people don't draw near. instead, they try prodding with sticks and hurtling stones for a reaction hoping it's a smile or a nice conversation between two, but there is no gambling and taking chances. no risking it 'depending on your mood' because the weather report calls for sunny skies and yet, the storming grey cloud above your head stays looming. permanently brewing.

you claim it's just your face, your attitude, and overall unapproachable aura that inhibits you from making contacts and connections. an RBF that can't be cracked. "she's so intimidating," is a grating sound. you have long since given up on explaining yourself or waiting for the chance to when the backstory and lore is too revealing. not exactly dinner party talk. you wish it could be as easy as saying "im hurt and heartbroken beyond repair. mothering fear and angst without needing comfort." it feels nice, well-deserved even to wallow in dread.

there's bound to be disappointment from unmet expectations thus, you've stopped having them altogether. it feels better than accepting affection with open arms. so wrong, so weird to be wanted, to be chosen. where's the catch? when will the other shoe drop? the cycle of starting over becomes tiring, tedious—a mechanical performance. a complex creature who requires better coping mechanisms and a man who won't stab you in the back. friends who'd stop poking holes in the reasons when you say no, yet again, to meeting someone new in this state: when bricks are laid and piled high up in uniformed rows surrounding, it warrants avoiding all forms of showing and receiving love after the years spent shaping the architecture of your defences.

then there's geto. with his charm and wit and the way he pries the person from underneath facades and fabricated masks. your fragile, rocking foundations built on sand he topples down with a mere smile, hardened fortitudes he crushes to dust, weaving within hairline cracks and exploring the caverns of your heart like no one has before. all without much effort, or rather, he doesn't need to exert himself when you fall so willingly.

"why don't we do something else tonight, dinner and a movie?" he questions when you call again. right after work when the stress is at an all-time high and he's...well, you don't know what he does, but he makes himself available for you. he'll admit it's made him feel special being the only person let in, when everyone else has to scavenge for scraps, he's a privileged selected one. seen the glimpses of the warmth you possess when laid bare and sated.

such a skill he has to wring out the truth. still, you go on with the "i like being alone," answer. a mantra, a repetitive hymn to soothe the sting and sharp clawing against the chest til it no longer feels so. numb and sore aches it leaves behind. 'you'll regret it when you realize i'm too much for you,' stays clogged in your throat. he'd only admonish you for such thoughts. 'that's not true' he'd say, but you know better than to believe that.

"i get it," geto replies, feigning casualness when he's not a stranger to isolation and avoidant habits. sometimes he wished he wasn't exposed to a mirror of his own makeup. a paragon of performative indifference and detachment. "i'll leave when you want me to," he reassures you, but was that a wavering you hear in his voice? you don't dare assume because he makes things easy. not the kind to complicate, nor commit. say the word and he'd give you all the solitude you need. dodging the serious questions and serious labels. friend, boyfriend, guy-im-sleeping-with. he doesn't care for them because you don't.

maybe he's just referring to the task at hand, used to forgoing aftercare and post-orgasm cuddles for a late-night drive home. excluding that one time you allowed him a night on your couch. he won't stay if your hand comes up to his sweaty chest, pushing him away before he's had the chance to pull out and slide the worn condom off. it keeps him at a distance and he takes it as a sign that this is as far as intimacy goes—no kissing on the lips, no secrets and sweet nothings, your moans don't escape and neither do his plethora of dirty speeches, stifled and gritting in a tight-lipped prison—there is no room for it at all.

the last thing you need is to dispose whatever is left of an already flimsy resolve. becoming vulnerable and exposed to his rejection or the knee-jerk reaction when he touches you—when the strap of your dress falls at an angle, he instinctively chases after the smooth slope of shoulder with his lips, pressing soft kisses there and everywhere else simmering with anxiety, humming pleased and contented to taste the nerves slipping away, sinking his teeth in and feeling the flesh give to his possession—a longing that courses through and wrenches around your heart tight. you're so selfish to follow after his hands, to feel them feel you. they should be upon another but he grabs and gropes greedily like he can't wait any longer.

"or you could let me stay," he offers.

"the couch makes your back hurt," you reply.

"your bed is big enough for two," he counterclaims. doing what he does best. it's not the first time he's tried to hint at more, waiting for the opportune moment when you're putty in his hands, relenting to him.

"we can't," you gasp when he slips two fingers past your dripping folds. the smirk he wears hidden in the crook of your neck. "why–" you claw at his forearm tucked between your thighs, clenching around his limb for leverage while he makes you squirm and jolt with every nudge against your gspot. "–why me?" why an unpleasant, unfriendly, unwanted woman like you, haven't you suffered enough? why does he choose to torment you with his favour while seeking for yours. you remind yourself there's no place, no space for him here. you like the way things are no matter how painfully lonely it gets, you like the cool touch of your sheets and the emptiness your fingers trail over in the mornings. it's what you know, what you settled for. since when do two people meet and see each other for themselves, choosing to stay for long after the thinly veiled ugliness is stripped away. how do you tell him you're starting to grow accustomed. almost adoring. you've flown too close to the sun before, how do you deal with the fallout when you're inevitably lurched into the suffocating and slow descent towards earth?

in the last few seconds cresting upon your climax, suguru feels it building around the edges of your jittering limbs. head lolling back as you choke, fighting back your moans. your hips thrust in time, chasing after his fingers. he settles them as deep as he can, pumping fast and pressing down against your clit til it hurts, til the hard pressure causes your juices to drip down his fingers, squelching and making a mess.

fuck it, he knows it's the only time you'll have him this close so his arms brace you, supported by his strong chest, crushed by his biceps, suguru coaxes you, "i don't care how far you push me, or how much you pretend, i want you and i know you want me too—"

you shake your head, resisting, stop it, stop uncovering me. he talks of your lust as if some incontrovertible proof, you won't give in. with indefatigable, unwavering effort you set the record straight. "i don't like you like that," lying right as you're about to explode from pleasure, not the kind that feels like a firework, shooting silent and bursting forth, but you seize every muscle in his hold. choking on your breaths and feeling it tighten and coil in your stomach, in your toes, compact and revving, it releases like an engine. rolling and roiling so unyieldingly it makes your ears ring, suffocating you til your vision goes black, and a scream forces it way past your lips.

neither high-pitched nor guttural, it reverberates so soothingly, "im sorry!" you cry. for being this way, for using and tossing him aside, for wanting more. you sob with your head thrown back while suguru hums right against your ear. sounding pleased and pleasured with your admission.

slowing his fingers in time with your panting breaths, he questions "do you really think i wouldn't like you?" it's not the right time to do this but he can hardly bear it, he longs for truth, "do you not believe me?"

looking upon his face through half-lidded eyes, you see that interrogative spark in his expression, his arms never letting go. a tense anticipation takes shape. the air is thick with the scent of damp skin and something else—his shampoo, his cologne, you chase after it for more, pressed into his chest, it only takes one whiff to get a fill, the same way you cling to the corners of pillowcases and duvet covers for that little bit.

what has changed? he makes you act a fool, forlorn and fumbling around in the most fatuous ways. i want you he said so clearly. and it warms your being like never before. there is an urge to make excuses, accuse him for being in lust, he only said it in the heat of the moment, ensnared by a need for possession.

but there is no point in looking back.

"i believe you," you say, noses bumping and slotting close when your lips betray your better judgement, or rather, your unfavourable one. "i'll try." is the best you can offer.

[another-random-paradise]

hi hi hi! i was wondering if u could write headcanons for what it'd be like to date greaseball? <3 no stress!

Hello!! I’m SO sorry that this took so long, my life got really busy,, :(

You didn’t specify which version so I went with London 2024, I hope that’s okay - and I hope you enjoy <33

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Dating headcanons

Characters: Greaseball

Format: Headcanons

Version: London - Wembley 2024

Warnings: talk of arguments (nothing specific)

-She LOVES validation, especially from you, she will purposefully show of her muscles or go extra fast, in hopes of a compliment or even just a gasp from you. It feeds into her ego, a lot.

-A bit possessive and jealous. She hates it when someone else flirts with you, especially if it's another engine. She'll be there in seconds, cutting them down to size. She'll probably never admit it, but it's because deep down she's worried you'll leave her for someone gentler; someone better at loving you the way you deserve.

-However if she ever sees you defending yourself/cutting the flirt down to size yourself, before she can? She'd find that incredibly attractive! She'd be all smug about it too

-She sadly doesn't take well to critique. Communication isn't exactly her strong suit, so when you try to tell her that she did something wrong/made you uncomfortable, she'll usually just stare at nothing specific, crossing her arms; you won't get much more out of her than an occasional annoyed "mhm"

-It's not that she doesn't want to, she just doesn't know how to. Nonetheless, she carries your words around with her for a good while. She'll try to subtly change, but her ego tends to get in the way. She tries she really does, but she was never taught how.

-however, usually a few hours or a few days after every argument, you'll find a small gift from her, or a bouquet of your favourite flowers waiting for you (either on your desk or your doorstep, depending on if you live together or not). Of course, it doesn't make up for everything, but it's a start

-She'd definitely want to race together with you if you aren't also an engine, no matter if carriage or freight. Racing is incredibly important to her, and she wants to share the experience with you

-She usually likes to show you off, always having a hand on your hip, or a small kiss on your head, just generally keeping you close. The one exception is when she's in an argument with someone, for example when Electra is once again egging her on before a big race, she doesn't respond well to anyone getting to close to her when that happens.

-Date nights are usually stay in movie nights, races, or simply whatever you two impulsively decide to do.

-She isn't big on fancy dates. You did go on quite a few ones when you first started dating, since she wanted to show off and impress you - but she seems to get pretty awkward during them. Not to mention that she doesn't like having to wait so long for food at the fancy restaurants.

-after a hard day at work, she loves coming home to you and fall asleep cuddling. She'd never admit it, of course, but getting to hold you is very comforting for her

Again, so sorry this took so long—

Hope you enjoyed nonetheless!!

Feedback is welcome, just be nice pls <3

Have a nice day/night!!

[farfromhome87]

Message Received- Part 4/5

Previous parts here. Inspired by @mollywog I wish you would write a You've Got Mail inspired fic

***Peeta***

Peeta holds his breath as he waits for her reply. The three dots have sprung to life and then paused three times already, as if she is considering her words carefully. Peeta’s palms start to sweat. He’s not exactly sure why the stakes feel so high. So what if a stranger he’s been texting for a few weeks doesn’t want to see him? How many times has he been ghosted on dating apps? It’s hardly the first time he’s experienced rejection. But still, something feels different with her. Her works stick with him like those burrs that latch onto your clothing when you tramp through a thick patch of woods. You try to pull them off, but keep finding them weeks, months, years later, clinging to the heel of your wool sock, tucked in the fold of your jacket’s cuff. They poke at you until you pay attention.

The phone pings and Peeta rushes to unlock it.

Bullseye Hmm if I agree to meet… how do I know you’re not a serial killer?

Peeta puffs air out of his cheeks in relief. He grins

Peeta Mellark Isn’t that what you’re looking for? You begged me to kill you the other day…😉 Bullseye True… Peeta Mellark Plus, i think i’m the one more likely to be in danger Bullseye Oh really? Why’s that?

Peeta’s glad that he’s still outside alone in his car–he doesn’t need his nosy, wiseass roommate, Finnick, seeing the uncontrollably large smile cracking across his face. He pauses just a moment before tapping out a reply.

Peeta Mellark Well first of all, I know you’re in the market for targets. Which means you have access to a fairly antiquated but no less deadly weapon.  Guess my only hope is that practicing with those off-center targets has thrown off your aim And second of all, you were the one who texted me first. This could be a targeted hit! Bullseye WOW, you’ve really thought this through. Guess someone would if they had done something to merit a hit… What was it? Something classic? Bank heist?

Peeta snorts, his fingers flying across the screen.

Peeta Mellark Um excuse me. BORING Bullseye Ah, you slept with the mob boss’ only daughter then? Peeta Mellark A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell Bullseye Is that what you are? A gentleman?

Peeta bites the side of his thumb, considering. He supposes he fits the bill in the sense that he is considerate, respects boundaries, and is well-mannered, maybe to a fault… But the term “gentleman” also feels weirdly co-opted by misogynistic assholes who think women should fall at their feet if they hold open a door or pick up the tab at dinner. 

Peeta Mellark Actually, yes. But not in a condescending way Um I hope Bullseye Quick, which Jane Austen beau best represents you?

Peeta lets out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Then he scans his mental catalog of the author’s works. He’s read most of them, but Pride and Prejudice was the most recent. And the 2005 film adaptation is one of Annie’s favorites, so it's been background noise in the apartment lately. Her and Finnick typically rewind and replay sections several times when they get…distracted. 

Peeta Mellark Ugh putting me on the spot. It’s probably Mr. Bingley

Peeta winces a little as he types it–it’s not the sexiest answer– but if you can’t be honest with the perfect stranger in your phone, then when can you be? The fact is, historically, he’s been a Bingley. Optimistic. Affable. Quick to fall in love….

Bullseye Mmm golden retriever energy. I see… Peeta Mellark Am I putting you off the meeting? Bullseye Nah I can get behind it as long as you don't jump all over me and lick my face 😜 Peeta Mellark I make no promises. Depends on if you have treats in your pockets Actually, lately I've been a little sassy. It's kinda giving Elizabeth Bennet Bullseye Well that works out. I have major Darcy vibes 

Peeta smiles idiotically at the phone, his heart feeling lighter than it has in days. They agree on a time and place to meet before Bullseye says goodbye so that she can get on her twice weekly Facetime call with her sister, Prim. It’s odd, Peeta thinks, that he knows so many intimate details about her–her deepest fears, her hopes, her dreams, even the name of her beloved sister, but at the same time he doesn’t know her at all. It feels surreal that in less than one week this all will change. 

___ ___ ___

***Katniss***

“So you’re really going to meet this guy?” comes Prim’s skeptical voice over the phone. Virtual Prim scrunches up her nose. “You, Katniss Everdeen, queen of introversion, princess of canceled plans, lady of constant solitude?”

Katniss scoffs. “Hey, I meet plenty of people. I’ll have you know I was propositioned by every single member of a bachelor party last night at Abernathy’s.”

“Ew. You know that drunk meatheads sexually harassing you at your workplace is not what I mean.” She plops her head on her hand, the giant poof of her blonde bun bobbing on her head. “It’s just–this feels so out of character. How do you know he’s not some creep?”

“Prim, he told me he’s Mr. Bingley. He didn’t even hesitate. How many creeps do you know that have Mr. Bingley at the tips of their tongue?” Katniss says matter-of-factly, as if this settles things. She pulls a few items out of the fridge so that she can wipe down the bottom shelf. Katniss can’t sit still while she’s talking on the phone–it’s either anxious pacing that gets her a noise complaint from the crotchety old man downstairs, or cleaning.

Prim still looks unconvinced. “This isn’t because of Gale, is it?” she asks quietly.

At this, Katniss lets out a snort. She swipes her cleaning rag over the white plastic surface and then replaces the contents of the shelf, wondering vaguely how she has ended up with three half-eaten jars of pickles. “Definitely not. Prim, I know Gale and I dragged things out, but that relationship was over months before it was official. We’ve been over this. There’s no one I’d rather bag a buck with, but life isn’t a hunting trip. Just because you grow up skinning rabbits with someone doesn’t mean you’re compatible romantic partners.”

The corner of Prim’s lip lifts. She looks relieved. “Yeah, that’s true.”

“Anyway, this isn’t serious.” Katniss continues. “And I don’t see how it's any creepier than a Tinder date. And… I dunno, he’s nice. And I could use a friend right now.”

Prim’s face softens. “I wish I could be there. Especially with everything going on with the woods.”

“I know little duck,” says Katniss, pausing her frenetic cleaning to look her sister in the eye. Prim looks so grown up in her Panem U hoodie over a pair of scrubs, her modest apartment in the background, the brown men’s loafers of her live-in boyfriend visible by the door. She’s doing her residency at one of the most prestigious hospitals in the country and is well on her way to becoming–in Katniss’ opinion–the best pediatrician Panem has ever seen. “You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. I’m so proud of you. You know that, right?”

Prim gives her a long-suffering look reminiscent of her teenage years. “No, Katniss. Not once have you told me this. Not once. ONCE!”

Katniss barks out a laugh. “Yeah, yeah…”

“Look, will you just take Johanna with you or something? She can wait outside in case things go south.”

***

Johanna is entirely too gleeful the next day when Katniss broaches the subject during their lunch break. Her angular face splits into a grin so saucy they could probably serve it at the Olive Garden. The fact that Johanna is this excited sends alarm bells off in the back of her mind and Katniss immediately tries to backpedal.

“Maybe this is a bad idea–”

“This is a GREAT idea,” cries Johanna, actually rubbing her hands together in anticipation of Katniss’ inevitable mortification. Johanna puts a bracing hand on her shoulder and peers down at her through a curtain of purple tinged hair. “Plus it’ll take your mind off the hot nerd from the Conservation Department, since you seem so determined to hate him. Or on second thought, maybe it will be so terrible that it’ll drive you straight into his arms. Either way, I’m seated.”

Katniss groans, feeling her cheeks flush without her permission. “I do NOT want to think about Peeta Mellark right now.”

It’s true, she doesn’t want to think about him, especially not in the same sentence as 007. For some reason it feels weird, like the two of them can’t coexist in the same reality, like they are on separate planes in some metaverse. When Katniss tries to examine this feeling, she comes up empty. Honestly, feeling her feelings has never been her forte. At least not since her dad died and Katniss' mom sank into a deep depression that held her captive somewhere between life and her husband's grave. So that's why it's odd, these prickles of emotion, the heat that rises in her cheeks and pools in her core when she thinks of Peeta Mellark, her nemesis. And likewise, the twinge of guilt, as if she's betraying the man in her phone. The one who seems to see her soul. She just needs to meet him already, it feels like it's the only way to quell this confusing storm raging inside her.

***

Katniss lingers outside the agreed upon spot, a cozy wine bar in the regional capitol, suitably far enough from her home town that if 007 turns out to be a catfishing weirdo, she can more easily block his number and fade into obscurity. She smooths down her forest green sweater that Prim says accents her curves, and twists the end of her braid with restless fingers. She almost left her hair down flowing around her shoulders, but it seemed like trying too hard, especially since she had already done something out of the ordinary by swiping mascara on her short eyelashes. She had always wished they were long and luscious like her father's in the old photo hung over the mantle at home. And then an intrusive thought pokes her like a pesky stinging nettle–Peeta Mellark has long lashes, too. She accidentally noticed them the other day at the Hob after she chucked a cheese bun at him. Peeta had blinked those lashes in surprise and she wondered how they didn't get tangled up. Katniss rubs her temples in frustration and puffs out a breath of air. Stop thinking about him! She reminds herself.

Johanna clears her throat from her hiding spot in the alley where she has a good view of the interior through a window if she stands on a milk crate. She jerks her head toward the door and makes a “what are you waiting for” gesture with her hand. 

Katniss takes a deep breath and pushes open the heavy oak door. The sound of clinking glasses and conversation fill her ears. The place is nice, but not ostentatious. She's not surprised 007 has good taste. It's also quiet thanks to the plush cushions on the furniture and the intimate set up of the tables, nestled into alcoves, between lush potted plants. Her heart buoys thinking he clearly remembered that she gets overstimulated in a crowd. Katniss selects a small booth in full view of the window into the alley. A sweet-smelling candle is flickering on the tabletop and there is a painting of a meadow full of wildflowers on the wall. She can't stop staring at it, marveling at the way she can almost feel the wind rustling through the swaying grass and the sun on her face. Longing bubbles and fizzes in her chest, longing for her father, longing for the girl she used to be by his side in their meadow. 

Katniss shakes herself from the vivid memories, pulls out her worn copy of The Hobbit and a single dandelion plucked from the lawn outside Abernathy's, and places them prominently on the table. She smiles a secret smile feeling the candy bar in her jeans pocket, a subtle nod to their golden retriever banter. He'll surely find it hilarious. And maybe, thinks Katniss with a shiver, maybe she won't mind if he does bound into her personal space. She's surprised that the thought thrills rather than terrifies her. 

Then Katniss waits. She waits. And waits. And waits.

Every time she hears the faint tinkle of the bell above the door she perks up, adjusting the book and flower, hoping it's him. And each time it's not, her heart grows heavier.

— — —

***Peeta***

“Finnick, so help me god, if you ruin this for me I am going to tell everyone that you sleep in a silk bonnet!” Peeta grits out, casting a disparaging look at his best friend’s carefully styled bronze locks.

Finnick scoffs. “Go right ahead, I'm not ashamed of my beauty routine.” He examines his nails coyly, then gives Peeta a noogie. 

“Gah!” yelps Peeta, desperately smoothing down his hair. He actually put in effort today, used some goopy product that Rue recommended for curls. He glances nervously at the door, worried the scene Finnick is creating will draw attention. “I told you I don't need a chaperone.”

“Pfft,” tuts Finnick. “Not a chaperone, I'm your second. Y’know, like in case the “woman” you're sexting with is actually some burly catfisher and you have to duel him or something.”

“I'm not sexting with her!” Peeta protests, dropping his voice an octave on the sexting part. There's a little old lady waiting for the bus on the corner and she is giving them the hairy eyeball. “And unfortunately I left my dueling sword at home, so if you'll excuse me–”

Finnick grips Peeta’s shoulders before he can proceed, his expression sobering. “Ok, ok,” Finnick concedes. “But c'mon, man, you have to admit that you let yourself get hurt sometimes. You always dive in head first with that big ‘ol heart of yours.”

Peeta rakes a hand through his curls out of habit, wincing as his attempt at looking dapper is foiled. “Yeah, I know…but this one's different,” he says, rocking up on his toes, a nervous, hopeful current buzzing in his veins. “I can feel it.”

Finnick still looks skeptical, but he doesn't push it further. He's a dick sometimes, but at the end of the day, he's a great friend. “Ok, Peet. But at least let me take a look first.”

Finnick ambles over to the open door through which a welcoming amber light spills onto the darkening sidewalk, and peers inside.

“She’ll have a book with her,” mutters Peeta, wiping his sweaty palms on his dark wash jeans. “And a flower. A dandelion.”

Finnick stares for so long, and with such a curious expression on his face, that Peeta wonders if it actually is someone duel-worthy.  Finally, Finnick gives a low whistle. “Well, she's pretty, that's for sure.”

Peeta waves the comment off impatiently. He already knows this. Her beauty transcends the bounds of his shitty, outdated iPhone. It’s wrapped up in her words, the funny little expressions she uses, the way she can be poetic one moment and then snarky the next. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt chemistry like this with anyone, except maybe, well…Peeta’s stomach somersaults as a flicker of silver and a sweep of a dark braid flash in his mind and then shimmer away like butter in a hot griddle. Peeta coughs as if he can physically dispel this ridiculous notion from his body.

“Harmless then,” he says, attempting to push Finnick aside. Enough is enough.

Finnick resists, still looking mystified. “Well, I wouldn’t say harmless,” he chuckles.

“Ok, this is getting ridiculous. I'm a grown ass man.” Peeta dodges Finnick with the practice of a former star wrestler and launches himself at the door. Then just as quickly, he is reeling back, his eyes wide as cinnamon rolls. “Is that–?”

“Katniss Everdeen,” they say together.

Both Peeta and Finnick are silent for a long time. The old woman on the corner gets onto the bus and it belches a cloud of putrid fumes as it drives off. Finally Peeta scrubs a hand over his jaw and breathes, “Well, shit…”

Emotions are raging inside Peeta at the speed of weather changes in the mountains. First shock, then gut wrenching disappointment, then disgust, then relief? And then, at last, he lands on anger. White hot anger. And somehow that feels like the only emotion he knows how to handle in the moment. When he is fired up like this there is no chance of anyone stopping him, so he easily sidesteps an alarmed Finnick and marches into the wine bar without so much as a glance behind.

She’s at his favorite booth, the one with the wildflower painting. Because of course she would choose that one. How infuriating to realize that your rival has a chilling psychic power over you, that she can see inside you, instinctually know your likes, your dislikes…Is this how she has been pushing all his buttons?! 

Peeta skids to a halt in front of the table and slides into the booth across from Katniss, mastering his rage and training his face into a smirk. He drops his eyes to the bulging pocket of her jeans. “Is that a Snickers in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” he says smugly.

Katniss gasps. The shock in those sharp silver eyes tells him this was not a targeted catfishing exercise. She has no idea that the man in her phone is him. But she quickly composes herself, folding her arms across her chest in a way that pushes up her small, pert breasts and instantly draws his traitor eyes. Peeta blushes, feeling like she has already scored a point against him.

“Ugh gross,” she bites out. “It's an inside joke. For my friend.”

Peeta feigns nonchalance, digging his hand into the bowl of complimentary popcorn in the center of the table and shoving a handful into his mouth.  “Kind of rude for your friend not to show up.”

Katniss narrows her eyes. “Kind of rude for you to speak with your mouth full,” she retorts, not missing a beat.

Peeta doesn't react, which only serves to annoy Katniss more. “What's he look like?” he asks her, glancing around the bar. “Maybe he just doesn't see you tucked away in here.”

Katniss flushes a delicious shade of strawberry and Peeta chalks one point up for himself. “I don't,” she starts, “I don't know.” She holds her head aloft proudly, but doubt flashes in her eyes. She looks so vulnerable for a moment that he almost feels bad about twisting the knife.

“You don't know?” repeats Peeta incredulously. “What do you mean? Is this some kind of blind date?”

“No!” she says too quickly and the attractive bloom of pink stays painted on the apples of her cheeks. Her cheekbones are so high and sharp that they look like they could cut glass. “It's just…a-a pen pal.”

Peeta plants his forearms on the table and leans toward her, trying to throw her off balance by the proximity. This ends up backfiring, however, because he catches the scent of her hair and it transfixes him with memories of spring. There's no other way to describe the earthy freshness, the subtle notes of cherry blossoms. “A penpal?!” he scoffs, sitting back against the plush backrest and attempting to get a grip on himself.

“Don't you have a PhD or something? she hisses through tight lips. “Do you really only have the capability to repeat back what I'm saying like a giant, bespectacled parrot?” 

Peeta can't help it. He barks out a laugh, pushing his black-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Touche,” he allows. “But you gotta admit, I think not many of us have had a penpal since the third grade.”

Katniss just harrumphs, crossing her legs and looking defiantly at the door, refusing to meet his eyes. She looks nice in her fitted green sweater and wide-legged black slacks, and there's something so oddly charming about how those worn leather hunting boots she always wears are peeking out from the hems. It's just so her. 

“Maybe he got caught in traffic,” Peeta suggests mildly, turning around to follow her gaze toward the completely empty street.

Katniss makes an irritated growling noise in the back of her throat. There's no traffic out here in West Panem. Ever.

“Or he got kidnapped by a gang of mountain trolls,” he grins, nodding cheekily at the copy of The Hobbit on the table. Her eyes flash and she pulls the book toward her possessively as if Peeta is sullying it with his razzing.

“I know what you're trying to do, ok?!” snaps Katniss. “Trying to make me feel like some kind of undesirable loser for getting stood up.”

Peeta’s grin drops. Shit. It's fun teasing her–it’s so easy, and well, she looks cute when she’s mad–but he never meant to make her feel small. That familiar voice pipes up in the back of his mind and ice fills his veins. Peeta, you worthless thing. Katniss is scowling at him, but it’s not her usual one. She looks almost defeated. And Peeta reminds himself that the restrictions on activities in the nature preserve are set to go into effect next week. He also reminds himself how he would feel if he were the one sitting here with a raw, open heart thinking Bullseye had rejected him.

“Katniss, no, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean–”

But before Peeta can beg her forgiveness, a smooth baritone that sounds uncannily like his own cuts through the air. “Peeta bread!” the voice cries delightedly. “I didn’t know you had a date?!”

Peeta blanches. Oh dear God. Rye. He’s not supposed to work tonight. It’s his business partner Thom’s night. Peeta checked the schedule! He checked that list twice, Santa Clause style.

Katniss’ head swings around so fast that her thick braid nearly knocks over her glass of water. She peers up at Rye distrustfully, her eyes flickering to Peeta's, then back again, clearing clocking the family resemblance. “This is not a date,” she says icily.

He winces at her tone. Would it really be that bad to be on a date with him? 

Rye just looks confused. He raises his eyebrows at Peeta. “Oh sorry, he just has a type–”

“Jesus, Rye,” grimaces Peeta. He wants to melt onto the floor and seep into the wine cellar. “Katniss is everyone's type,” he mumbles, stealing a glance at her. The crease between her eyes deepens and he hopes she doesn't think he's still messing with her.

Fortunately, Rye recovers himself and turns on the Mellark charm that Peeta normally has in spades, but seems to abandon him everytime he finds himself in Katniss' presence. Rye spreads his arms wide, now the picture of a debonair wine bar owner. “Well, any friend–er–” he shoots another bewildered glance at Peeta when Katniss' scowl intensifies, “acquaintance of Peeta's is an, um…acquaintance of mine. I'm going to have the kitchen send out a complimentary cheese plate and a bottle of our best red. Do you like Pinot Noir?”

Katniss' ears perk up at the mention of cheese and her stomach gives an audible grumble that Peeta pretends not to notice. She pauses before admitting, “It's my favorite.” She gives Rye a tight, concessionary smile as if to say, you seem nice enough, it’s not your fault your brother makes me want to run headlong through the plate glass window at the front of this bar.

Rye grins. “Well then you're going to love this.” Then he launches into a detailed description of the wine’s silky tannins and complex flavors, including the hint of baking spice that you get when you age it in French oak barrels, a nod to the family baking business.

Katniss looks bemused. The same expression that Peeta gets when Rye waxes philosophical about wine and that Rye gets when Peeta yammers on about biodiversity in broadleaf forest ecosystems. He notices there are specks of gold in Katniss’ right eye that catch the flicker of the candle light, just the right eye. Why can’t he stop staring?

“You know a lot about wine,” says Katniss generously, seemingly trying to make amends for her curtness earlier. 

Rye puffs out his chest. “Well, kind of comes with the territory. I co-own this place.”

“Oh, wow,” she replies, sounding actually impressed. Peeta feels a tug of pride deep in his chest that she approves of the place he selected for their first meeting. But then that heady tug suddenly feels like a trapdoor opening when he remembers that Bullseye is gone. It’s only Katniss Everdeen left. The most dizzyingly desirable yet utterly out of reach woman he’s ever known. “It’s a really nice place,” she says, gesturing to the decor with her olive hand–small, but sinewy, like she could definitely send an arrow sailing through his heart with ease…and perhaps already has. “I love the artwork.”

“Thank you!” says Rye warmly. “Most of the paintings are Peeta–”

Peeta’s eyes widen and he shakes his head at Rye, swiping his hand discreetly across his neck in the universal sign of “abort!”. Rye cuts himself off with an unconvincing hacking cough. Katniss’ shrewd eyes snap to Peeta’s  face and he avoids them. Will she remember that first conversation? The one where he said he was a painter? Even if she did, she probably thought he meant painter as in, house painter, commercial painter, right? Peeta swallows thickly, feeling her retina’s burning into his skin.

“Rye,” Peeta says, through gritted teeth. “How about that cheese plate, huh?”

Rye takes a hint and scurries off to the kitchens, leaving Peeta and Katniss alone, an unbearable silence stretching between them. The booth suddenly feels impossibly small. He shifts his bad leg into a more comfortable position and inadvertently grazes her knee with his. A flush creeps up his neck.

“So….Peeta Pie…” says Katniss, finally breaking the awkward silence. He’s surprised to see that her scowl has been replaced by a little smirk.

Peeta groans and pulls his hand down his mouth. “Bakery humor, you know? I come from a long line of bakers.” 

“Guess that explains the stuff you’re bringing to Hazelle at the Hob.”

“Yep!” he confirms.

Katniss presses her lips together, then says, “I don’t know why, but I just never pictured you as a baker.”

Peeta smirks and places his arms on the table in front of them, flexing shamelessly so that the outline of his biceps will strain at the fabric of his blue button-down, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. “Ah, I guess you think I’m too cut to be a baker’s boy, is that it?”

Katniss snorts and rolls her eyes. Peeta immediately regrets it.

What a dickish gym bro thing to say?! He has never, not once in his life, flirted so terribly. He had more rizz as a 16-year-old than this! Sure… he works out his upper body a lot more than he used to, he supposes his physique must look ok. But he has to, he needs to use his arms a lot more than he used to. When the prosthetic is off it’s surprising the strength you need to maneuver around. And maybe, says a voice that sounds oddly like his psychologist, Dr. Aurelius, you worry about your physical attractiveness more than you used. You wonder whether anyone finds you desirable, and that’s why what you just said is a cry for help, a need for reassurance?

The look of revulsion Katniss is giving Peeta mirrors his internal monologue. He has to fix this! He casts around for a topic that will neutralize the situation, something they can’t possibly disagree on. His eyes land on the book.

“What’s your opinion on the decision to excise the scouring of the Shire in Peter Jackson’s interpretation of the Return of the King?” he asks suddenly. 

Katniss blinks at him. “Huh?”

“C’mon, are you going to tell me you’re ok with the film completely leaving out the impact of war on Hobbiton? That it only shows war as some epic battle of elves and dwarves and men and not one of the common people?” Peeta raises his eyebrows at her expectantly. She still has her eyes narrowed, but she’s leaning in now. He knows she won’t be able to resist.

Finally Katniss blurts out, “And it totally sidesteps the commentary on industrialization!” The words come tumbling out of her mouth so fast that even Katniss looks surprised by them. She claps a hand over her mouth.

Peeta and Katniss stare at each other for a long beat, and then suddenly, they both erupt into laughter. It’s that kind of delirious laughter that you only get after unbearable tension. The kind of laughter that makes your eyes stream and coaxes the most unattractive and uncontrollable wheezing, snorting and gasping noises from the depths of your belly. The kind of laughter that wraps you up in a cozy, giddy blanket until you forget every painful thing.

A few moments later, Rye returns with a cheese plate (which Peeta notes is definitely custom made at twice the usual size) and two generous pours of the specialty Pinot. He gives Peeta a subtle wink before disappearing as quickly as possible. Katniss and Peeta dig into the platter, suddenly ravenous.

Now that the ice is broken, the conversation flows like water out of a washed out dam. They have the same taste in books (though Peeta knew that already) and music (though Katniss says he leans too heavily into sad-boy indie pop of the early aughts). And to Peeta’s delight, she tells him more about her sister, Prim, clearly the most precious person in the world to her. It feels like a gift to be trusted with those memories. Then Peeta makes Katniss laugh, recounting the time he and Rye played a prank on their big brother, Bannock, leaving “evidence” of a mouse all around the bakery, sending him on a Tom and Jerry-style wild goose chase to exterminate the ever-elusive pest.

It’s nearly 10 pm when their conversation falls into the first lull in hours. They have had second and third glasses of wine, a fact that left Katniss in stitches over his impossibly rosy cheeks, while she seemed cool, calm, and almost entirely unaffected. She tells Peeta she’s got stamina thanks to the drinking habits of her friend-of-the family, Haymitch–a  person too irresponsible to be a surrogate father (her dad was killed in a workplace accident when she was eleven), but too close to be without a family title. Her and Prim have always called him “uncle.” The wine bar has emptied out and the ambient noise around them has subsided to a dull hum.

Peeta casts another glance toward the open door. A cool evening breeze rustles through the leaves of the Monstera near the host station. “Guess your friend’s not coming, huh?”

Katniss pinches the bridge of her nose and looks down at the crumbs of chocolate fudge cake on her plate. She doesn’t look angry anymore, just so tired. “Just–don’t Peeta. I don’t need your gloating.”

Peeta holds up his hands in defense. “I’m not,” he tells her firmly. “I swear, I’m not. Listen…” Peeta pauses, searching her face, feeling her eyes lift to his like gray stones falling into the blue depths of a lake. “Anyone who would stand you up is making a serious mistake.”

Katniss blinks. She looks like she’s trying to figure out whether he’s being a prick or not.

“Big mistake. Huge,” assures Peeta, evoking Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman.

The reference earns him a half smile. She shrugs. “I should go.” Katniss begins rifling in her purse for her wallet, and before he can stop himself, Peeta puts a hand out to still the motion. He marvels at the way his fingers encircle her entire wrist, at the feeling of her heartbeat quickening in the delicate veins at the base of her palm. She gasps.

“It’s on me,” he says softly. 

Katniss doesn’t jerk away like he thought she might, but she shakes her head. “No way.”

“C’mon,” says Peeta. “It’s the least I can do after barging in and ruining your evening.”

“You didn’t–” Katniss cuts herself off and sighs deeply. “Peeta, I can’t. I have a thing about owing people.”

The corner of Peeta’s lips lift up in a hopeful grin. “Okaaaay,” he drawls. “Then buy me coffee at the Hob sometime?”

Katniss scrunches up her nose as she considers this. Her pulse thrums against the pads of his fingers. “Fine,” she relents, snapping the clasp on her purse closed. 

Peeta tries not to feel devastated as she stands up from the table and slips out of the booth. He releases her wrist and she immediately covers the spot where his fingers were with her other hand, caressing the soft skin in the way he wants to do. There’s an unreadable expression on her face. Confusion? Resignation? Or…could it be, longing? Pull yourself together, man, Peeta chastises himself. You’re projecting.

He stands up, too, and breathes, “So, see you around, then?”

“Well, seeing as I’ve got a debt to pay now…guess so,” Katniss snaps, but there’s something softer in her tone, something less cutting in her scowl. “Tell your brother I said thank you for the lovely meal.”

Katniss spins on her heel and glides toward the door with that soft footfall like one of Tolkien’s elves walking atop the snow. Before she crosses the threshold, she throws her head back over her shoulder, braid cracking like a whip, and calls, “Your coffee order is shit, by the way. Peeta bread.”

And then she steps out into the street and fades into the night.

[lapis-caeli]

Hii! Can i request headcanons for Haitani Ran with a s/o sleeping on the same bed, since his s/o has trouble falling asleep alone or without background noise? also do you think he'd like cuddling?

Sorry if this is too much!

I'm sorry for taking so long to write! I'm having a bit of writer's block, so it's taking me a while.

But here’s your request! I hope you like it hehe.

We all know how sleepy our dear Ran is, so I can assure you that he's more than delighted to have you as his cuddle plushie for sleeping. <3

I'm 100% sure that Ran loves hugging the first thing he finds nearby when he sleeps (I can totally picture Ran trapping Kakucho at a Tenjiku sleepover).

But now, with his partner? It's even worse.

Get ready to not move for at least the next 12 hours.

Everyone knows this man can sleep for 24 hours straight, so make sure to have something within reach for when you get tired of sleeping and he won’t let you go—because it will happen.

As for his partner not being able to sleep alone or without noise? That’s no problem at all. He’ll be more than happy to sleep with you every night if needed.

Need noise to sleep? Then it’s time to play one of his ASMR playlists that he has saved for when Rindou makes too much noise in the living room.

That’s true—it’s something that would worry him a lot.

What if one day you have a fight that keeps you up late, and you’re unable to sleep without him?

He would look for ways to help you fall asleep more easily.

Just imagine Rindou’s surprised face when he sees Ran sitting in front of the computer, searching for methods to improve sleep quality.

He would tell you about what he found so you could try it out.

You have no idea how relieved he would be if his research actually helped and you started sleeping much better.

That said, don’t think that just because you can sleep alone, you actually will.

Ran will ALWAYS want you to sleep together.

He just wanted to help so that if he had work or gang business and couldn’t be with you, you’d still be able to rest well.

But don’t think you’re getting away from him when it comes to sleeping—when you two started dating, you agreed to be his cuddle plushie.

Or at least, that’s what Ran has been sure of from the very beginning.

Besides, he’s already gotten used to sleeping with you, so that’s something that’s definitely staying.

Todos sabemos lo dormilón que es nuestro querido Ran, así que puedo asegurarte que esta más que encantado de tenerte como su peluche para dormir <3

Estoy un 100% segura de que a Ran le encanta abrazarse a lo primero que tenga cerca cuando duerme (realmente me imagino a Ran apresando a Kakucho en una fiesta de pijama de Tenjiku).

Pero ahora ¿con su pareja? Es peor aún.

Prepárate para no moverte en las próximas 12 horas, como mínimo.

Todos sabemos que este hombre puede dormir 24 horas seguidas, así que prepara algo para tener a mano cuando estés cansade de dormir y no te deje ir, porque pasará.

¿En cuanto a que su pareja no pueda dormir sola o sin ruido? No es ningún problema, él estará encantado con dormir contigo todas las noches si hace falta.

¿Necesitas ruido para dormir? Entonces es momento de poner una de sus playlists de ASMR que tiene guardadas para cuando Rindou hace demasiado ruido en el salón.

Es verdad que eso sería algo que le preocuparía bastante.

¿Y si un día tienen una pelea que los hace estar hasta muy tarde y no eres capaz de dormir sin él?

Buscaría métodos para ayudarte a dormir más fácilmente.

Imagínate la cara de sorpresa de Rindou cuando lo ve sentado frente al ordenador, buscando métodos para mejorar la calidad de sueño.

Te comentaría sobre lo que ha encontrado para probarlo.

No sabes cuanto le aliviaría si su búsqueda sirviera y estuvieras durmiendo mucho mejor.

Eso sí, no pienses que porque puedas conseguir dormir sole vas de verdad a dormir así.

Ran va a querer SIEMPRE que durmáis juntos.

Solo quería ayudarte para que, si tuviera trabajo o cosas de la pandilla y no pudiera estar contigo, pudieras descansar bien.

Pero de él no te librarás para dormir, cuando comenzasteis a salir acordaste ser su peluche para dormir.

O al menos eso es lo que tiene Ran claro, desde el mismo principio.

Además ya se ha acostumbrado a dormir contigo, así que va a ser una cosa que se va a mantener sí o sí.

- Header and Writing: Mars 💚

[live-laugh-lenney]

feeling ###nosy if you feel like telling what are your current works in progress 👀

i'll give you a few sneak peeks below of some current wips! hoping to get these out as soon as possible; some are just taking a bit longer than others to work through. <33

as well as getting locked in posted, i've got another lengthy arthurtv fic started off, in the early stages (and i've left a sneaky peek down below here) where the reader is george's best friend and falls in love with arthur so i'm excited for that one to take off!

a lot has been started so hopefully they'll be with you soon but enjoy these sneak peeks! the prompts are in bold and italics! x

George was having a terrible day (for any reason) and he’s down and gloomy about it, but the reader (a friend of his) takes care of him and makes sure he’s okay and long story short they fall in love and end up doing it on his couch while Arthur and Chris are away.

"don't be mad at me."

silence.

"yn, please."

he caught the lingering side-eye that she gave him and a smirk toyed at his lips.

"i'll get on my knees and beg if i have to," he states and the hollow of her cheek became a dimple as she chewed on the flesh inside her mouth, "oh, i see how it is. you want me to beg, don't you?"

the cushions move beside her and she's jostled around as he stands himself up from the sofa and, suddenly, a wave of cool air replaces the heat from his body that he emitted. the television being hidden behind his body and he adjusted the t-shirt that had ridden up his body and had become untucked from his jeans. and she really can't look away from him when he's kneeling before her.

she tries to keep the annoyed look on her face... except... it was hard when he knelt down in front of her, hands flat on her thighs, with a look in his eyes that held a lot more than apologies.

"please, stop ignoring me. i can't deal with it," he whispers, his eyes are level with hers and his orbs are a darker shade than normal, and she can sense her own mirroring his demeanour, "i need you to look at me, i need you to talk to me, i need you to stop being so annoyed with me because i'm an idiot."

his fingers were dangerously close to a zone that would have her like putty in his hands, melting into the cushions around her, completely at his disposal.

"jesus christ," he grumbles lowly, like he needed a pep-talk with his mind to confess what he needed to say, "i need you, yn."

please can you write something with arthurTV and reader going through a dry spell and putting an end to it !!

placing a hand on her back, he retracts it quick once he realised she didn't hear him enter the room, her whole body jumping at the sudden appearance of his touch.

"jesus, arthur."

"i'm so sorry," he laughs softly, setting her mug of tea down in an empty space on her desk and making sure it was away from any piece of paper that seemed important, "i thought you heard me come in."

"i had my music on," she says and slips her headphones down from her ears, letting them hang around her neck and she leant over to pause the song she was listening to, "honestly, i thought you'd have gone home."

"why?"

he moves to stand behind her so he could take in her desk; paper all over the place, scribbles and spider-maps on all of her ideas, chewed pen lids and ripped up post-it notes that weren't that important to her thought pattern.

"because i've been stuck in here all night with work on the brain," she frowns and he shakes his head, "you can go home, if you wanted. i'm not much fun right now and i wouldn't blame you."

"it's okay. i actually like being at your place as opposed to mine," he shrugs with a smile and presses a kiss to the top of her head, burying his nose into her hair as he laid both his hands on her shoulders and gave them a gentle squeeze, "but you should take a break, lovie."

"i can't."

"of course you can," he says softly, digging his thumbs into the nape of her neck and giving her shoulders a soft massage, feeling how the tension building up in her muscles disappeared at his touch, "come on, at least come and have a little nap if you're planning on pulling an all-nighter."

"arthur-"

"or, at least let me help you relax," he drops his head and he whispers the words softly into her ear and she can't help but let her head drop back into a position that collided softly with the back of her chair, "i miss you."

"i can't," she grumbles softly and looks at the way his face twists up in a quick look of frustration that was soon masked with a look of upset, "i want to, i'd love to, but i need to get all this done by tomorrow and i'm so close to being finished."

his lips press against her forehead and she closes her eyes at the soft touch grazing her skin, hands coming up the rest upon his hands that were still resting upon her shoulders.

for the last few weeks, she had been busy with meeting after meeting with brand-deal after brand-deal, talking with companies who were interested in her being the face of their products. spain, france and amsterdam had been places she'd spent three or four nights in, as part of a gifted trip she'd been invited on, and london had definitely been somewhere she had been excited to get away from.

she felt guilty.

she had been to all these amazing places for such amazing deals and opportunities, with new friends she'd met on the way, but she hadn't spent time with arthur. she hadn't been with arthur. and it killed her not to celebrate her achievements with him in a way they normally would.

"i've been really horrid, haven't i?"

i'm currently working on a best friend george x boyfriend arthur fic, too so here's a little something from that one!

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we never met? If I never came out that day?” George wonders, “I think my life would be quite boring.”

“I think my life would be even more boring,” YN laughs softly, “you’d still have all of this. You’d still have the podcast, the Tiktok, the Youtube channel, because the charisma that you have would have brought you this kind of life, anyway. The only exciting thing about my life is the fact that you’re my best friend.”

“That’s rubbish,” he shakes his head and sets his mug down on the table, “I think, one way or another, we’d have still ended up in each other’s lives. Just, not as soon as it happened. We were bound to have met eventually, whether it was that day or not.”

The office door opening brings YN’s attention away from George and to the brunette standing in the doorway, wearing a shirt that was almost identical to her own, a nervous look on his face once he realised he’d interrupted something. George’s head turned to follow where her eyes were looking, hand coming up top to wave the other guy in, allowing him to come and join them.

“Arthur, this is YN.”

“Hi,” Arthur smiles sweetly, extending his arm and his hand in an opportunity to shake her hand. To which she gladly mirrored, extending her own arm towards him and wiggling her fingers, their palms connecting in a soft yet hearty shake, “George has told us all so much about you, already. It’s nice to put a face to the name.”

YN couldn’t lie… Arthur was cute.

The handsome-kind of cute with the chiselled jawline hidden beneath the faintest amount of facial hair, shaggy brown hair with a fringe that covered his forehead, lips so pink and soft with brown eyes that held a lot of depth and emotion and she found it hard to look him in the eyes as she said her hello’s yet she found it difficult to look away from him when she finally gained the courage to make eye contact. 

“I mean, you’re all over George’s Instagram so it’s nice to finally meet the guy who he seems to enjoy the company of. I’m not sure whether I should be jealous or not,” YN teases him softly and Arthur lets out a breathy laugh, shaking his head and looking to his feet, “I love your t-shirt, by the way. Considering we don’t know each other, we’re matching today.”

It took Arthur by surprise when she stood up and he saw, in full, the same Natural History Museum logo printed across her chest which matched the same one printed on his own chest, just on different coloured cotton. 

“I seem to attract nerds, don’t I?”

and i also have a prequel started for this fic here!

“Meet me in the bathroom.”

YN felt his warm breath wash over the skin of her neck, the smell of orange juice hanging in the air from the Sex On The Beach he had clasped in his hand with a soaked straw that had been chewed upon with each sip he sucked up, a shiver running down her spine as butterflies bounced around the inside of her stomach. His arm snaking around her waist to pull her closer so he didn’t have to shout or speak loudly over the music bumping in the air, her black flush to his front, her body tensing underneath his touch.

All night, the two of them couldn’t stay away from each other.

From the moment she had walked through the door to Simon Minter’s birthday party, later than the time she told them she would be there, he was attached to her side. The first one to say hello to her, the first one to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, the first one to offer her a seat in the booth and the first one to take her jacket and place it with his so it wouldn’t get lost. He sat beside her in the booth that himself, George, Chris and Arthur Hill had taken their place in for the night and he brought her her drinks throughout the evening, refusing to take one off of her when she offered to buy a round. He kept a close eye on her everytime she got up to dance with Talia or Faith, watching every movement she made when a song they loved came on because he didn’t want anything to happen to her, always weary of where she disappeared off to when he took his eyes off of her for a brief second… only to let out a sigh of relief when he saw her standing at the bar as she topped up her drink.

No one else existed in his world when she arrived. His conversation with George dwindled out when he watched her walk over to them, his attention moved from making Chris the butt of his jokes when she joined in the conversations, and his behaviour changed now that she was amongst the four of them. 

The sexual tension between the two of them almost suffocating.

“Now?”

He nods and drops his hand from where he had placed it upon her hip, slowly dragging it down her body and letting his fingers trail slowly down her thigh and just beneath the hem of her dress, and she felt her knees wanting to buckle under his soft touch.