#that is to say every one of my posts ever

[baby-yongbok]

"Let Me Make You a Mommy"

SKZ Hyung Line x Reader

⤷ Smut | drabbles/hard thoughts

⤷ WC - 1.6k [total]

⤷ CW - Breeding kink, praise, teasing, overstimulation, anal sex, unprotected sex, power play, body worship

⤷ A/N: I started writing for one and then I just decided to do all of them... Maknae line will be posted next friday!♡

⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Chan

He’s buried deep inside you, slow and low, with his forehead pressed to your shoulder, groaning your name like a prayer that keeps getting answered.

You’re both so gone - sweat-slicked, sheets ruined, nails raked down his back. He’s been talking the whole time, voice dropping into that raw, ruined register that makes the filthiest things sound like gospel/

 So good, so tight, fuck, I missed this, made for me, you’re mine.

And then-

“Gonna make you a mommy.”

It slips out so fast he doesn’t even realize it at first. It’s not until your breath catches and your body freezes that he catches himself. And then he’s frozen with you, silently trying to find a pathetic cover up he knows won’t work. You pull back just enough to look at him, wide-eyed. 

“What…?”

Chan blinks. His mouth opens -then closes.

“I -uh…” A breath. “I didn’t… mean to say that.”

But you heard it. The way his voice cracked, the way his hips stuttered like the thought of it nearly made him come.

“You sure?” you ask, soft, curious. Not judging. Just listening. 

He groans, burying his face in your neck. “Don’t do this to me,” he mutters.

You laugh. “You did it to yourself.”

He’s still inside you. Still hard. Maybe harder after what he’s said. So you press your hips up just a little, clench around him, and ask, “You want to make me a mommy, Chan?”

“No,” he growls. Then again - less convincing, “Yes.” Then, quietly, “God, yes.”

He kisses you like he’s overflowing, confessing a deep dark fantasy. Maybe he is and it’s hot. The look in his eyes as he conjures up every single thought he’s ever had about breeding you full. 

“I think about it,” he admits. “When I’m alone. When I’m fucking you. When you smile at me in the kitchen like I wouldn’t drop to my knees for you.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I want you full. Round. Mine.”

You’re soaking now. And he feels it.

“You’re not letting this go, are you?” he murmurs.

You smile. “Not a chance.”

He growls again, grabs your wrists, pins them above your head.

“Then I guess I better make it worth it.”

And this time when he says it - “Let me make you a mommy” - he says it on purpose.

Minho

“You want it that bad?”

Minho’s voice is honey laced with venom, seeping into your spine as his hand pushes you down, face to the sheets.

He’s been working you open for what feels like hours, patience laced with punishment. Slick, stretched, and aching - but he still hasn’t fucked you where you need it most.

No - he took your other hole instead. Buried himself deep there, groaning like a sinner at the altar, while you writhed and begged beneath him.

“God,” he mutters, dragging out slowly, just to push back in with a ruthless roll of his hips, “this tight little ass’s already trying to milk me. But you want more, don’t you?”

You whimper, trembling, broken open and empty.

“Minho, please - please-”

He stills. Entire body locking up, voice turning cold and dark.

“Say it right.”

You blink, dazed. “W-what?”

His thumb brushes your lip from behind, a cruel mockery of softness. Then he thrusts just deep enough to make your eyes roll back.

“You want me to fill you up?” he asks, low and cruel. “You want my cock in your soaked little pussy? Want me to fuck you full and watch it take?”

You’re dizzy with it - with him - slick pooling between your thighs, untouched, throbbing. He knows it. You’ve been clenching around nothing all night.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what you want.”

And then he drops it - just above a whisper, but it crashes through you like a bomb:

“Let me make you a mommy.”

You gasp - wrecked.

“Minho-”

“Say it,” he hisses. “Or I’ll finish right here. You’ll be dripping down your thighs, and you won’t get what you’re begging for.”

You're trembling. Desperate. You choke on it.

“P-please,” you whisper. “Make me a mommy.”

He groans - so loud it echoes in the room.

And in one breathless, brutal motion, he pulls out and thrusts deep into your soaked cunt, bottoming out so hard your body jolts. The stretch, the fullness, after so much denial. You scream his name like it’s a confession.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he moans, heady and deep like his pace - already punishing. He’s got one hand in your hair, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “Should’ve said it sooner.”

You’re sobbing now - too much, too good - each thrust tearing you in half and stitching you back together.

“Gonna fill you up so deep,” he pants, losing control now, “gonna stuff you full like you’re meant to be - fuck, baby, I’ll give you everything -”

You can feel it coming - his orgasm, yours, both tangled into something molten and terrifying.

And as you fall apart beneath him, tears streaking your face, voice shaking, he leans in close, breath hot against your ear.

“You’re my baby” he whispers, so sweet it hurts. “All mine, full and leaking.”

Changbin

He holds you like you’re breakable - even though you’ve already begged him not to be gentle.

The sheets are a mess. Your thighs are sticky, trembling from your second orgasm. Changbin’s flushed and breathless above you, gaze flickering between your eyes and the place where your bodies meet, like he still can’t believe this is real.

“You okay?” he whispers, thumb brushing your cheek, sweat-damp curls sticking to his forehead.

You nod, breath hitching as his hips roll again, cock dragging against your soaked, swollen walls.

“Too good,” you manage, “Feels too good - Binnie, I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he says, leaning down to kiss your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. “You always take me so well.”

Then he slows, presses deep, and stays there, buried to the hilt, eyes locked on yours.

And in the quiet, he says it:

“Let me make you a mommy.”

You blink, stunned still.

His voice is soft. Barely a whisper. But it shakes.

“I want it,” he says, pressing his forehead to yours. “I want to see you round with me. Full of me. I think about it all the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat. He’s still inside you. Still hard. Still there - every inch of him trembling with want.

“I want you like this forever,” he murmurs, slowly moving again. “Messy and mine. I want to come so deep you feel me for days.”

You moan his name, hips rising to meet his.

“You’d be such a good mom,” he groans, thrusts picking up. “So beautiful. So fucking sexy.”

“Binnie-”

“Let me give it to you,” he gasps, panting into your neck. “Let me fill you ‘til there’s nothing left but me.”

You come again with a choked cry, clutching at him like he’s oxygen. He follows seconds later, voice breaking as he spills inside you - hips stuttering, arms locked tight around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to the idea of you, forever.

And when it’s over, when your bodies are tangled and quiet, he’s still there. Still holding you like a promise.

Still whispering, “I meant it.”

Hyunjin

Hyunjin touches you like art. Slow, careful, like you’re something sacred he’s not sure he’s worthy of touching.

His hands move like he’s sculpting you, thumbs pressing into the wet between your thighs like he’s shaping something that’s already his. His eyes are wide, lips parted, gaze so tender it makes your chest ache. Every breath is drawn out like he’s memorizing you all over again. 

“You’re so beautiful like this,” he whispers, kissing your belly, your hip, the soft underside of your breast. “I want to give you everything.”

You press into him, breath hitching, and he just melts - forehead to your chest, hands gripping hard at your hips like he’s scared you’ll slip away. “Shit,” he whispers, voice shaking. “You don’t even know what you do to me.”

He lines himself up, cock thick and heavy, dragging through your folds until you're gasping, aching.

“Breathe,” he tells you. “I’ve got you.” Then, he’s pushing inside - slow at first, like he’s afraid to break you. His mouth presses to your throat, his breath warm and shaking.

“Fuck - you feel like heaven,” he says, voice already cracking. “Every time.”

He starts slow, almost too slow - hips rolling like waves, each thrust deliberate. It builds heat low in your belly, that unbearable pressure that keeps you pinned under him. You’re nails skin into his shoulder harder with each time he sinks into you, making love. 

And then - something shifts.

You say his name, soft and wrecked. You beg him to go faster. You wrap your legs around his waist and meet his thrusts with your own, and that’s when the calm snaps.

“I want it,” he pants, his voice breaking against your skin. “I want to fill you up - want to feel you take all of me.”

Your hands claw at his back. He thrusts again, losing the rhythm, chasing something primal.

His grip tightens.

His pace turns brutal.

And his mouth finds your ear, breath hot and ragged.

“Let me make you a mommy,” he rasps, voice wrecked and raw and so, so honest. “Please - let me fuck it into you, let me give you everything - every fucking drop.”

You moan, breathless, trembling under him, and that’s all it takes.

He breaks.

“You want that, don’t you?” he pants, fucking you hard now, rhythm punishing. “Want me to fuck you so deep you don’t know where I end and you begin?”

Every thrust is frantic now - deep, bruising, like he’s trying to imprint himself inside you. His moans turn into whimpers, praise falling from his lips between curses.

“So good for me - fuck, you’re perfect - gonna look so pretty carrying my baby, fuck-”

When he finally comes, it’s with a shattered cry of your name, forehead pressed to yours, his whole body trembling as he pours everything into you like it’s a prayer. A promise

And you believe him.

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[wren-kitchens]

once more, with feeling

876 words

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

100% inspired by this incredible post by @thirdtimed! it had me by a chokehold i had to do something about it

it's not exactly the same every time. it's altered by what they went through, and why they’re asking, and how it all ended. but it's always close enough that it may as well be the same. 

the first time, it was unprecedented. 

blood on his hands, tears in his eyes, we expected it to be over—a failed experiment, one that only he would ever remember to save the others the pain. too much grief wracked his body for him to even choke out the words for a long while, but we waited. it isn't an unusual thing for us to do, to wait.

smearing sand on his sunburned face, he wiped away his tears and said,

"give me another chance."

the second time, we were curious.

shaken and silent, he stared into our face for a long while, as if trying to decipher what in void we were. the crown of crystals were still and a kind of grey that isn’t truly grey, but every colour at once, and his breathing was shallow. the bloodlust drained from his eyes, leaving them as grey as the crown.

we asked, because he would not have thought to answer otherwise. he flinched, and hesitated. 

"i.. can i see them again?"

the third time, it was almost expected.

still smoking from the explosion, she sunk to her knees, sobbing and clutching herself as if she feared literally falling apart. it took a long while for her screams of grief subsided, and longer still for the weeping to fade into sniffing and hiccups. she hadn't looked at us once, as if she didn't know we were there, but we did not wish to interrupt—she was entitled to her unraveling in private.

wiping her eyes, she didn’t bother to compose herself much more. she lifted her face, littered with gashes and scars, and with agony in her voice-

"i want my friends."

the fourth time.. well, it was a little surprising.

a victor had not yet arrived so high on adrenaline and confidence, and the blood that stained even his mouth seemed to be a trophy. the sword had not left his hand, and still dripped with what remained of the last two, the drops vanishing into the abyss below. he was grinning, and this was the most surprising part.

not needing any persuasion or suggestion, he looked us right in the eye—as none had done before, crowing,

"come on, give us another go!"

the fifth time, it wasn't the request that was new.

alone in a field of sunflowers is where we eventually found him, after waiting fruitlessly for his arrival. he startled a little as he realised we were there, but soon calmed at the understanding of what we meant for him. after all, it had been almost a year since he became stranded—and stranded was the word for it. the shawl was still the red and purple of the flowers he had once given to his partner, and we suppose one could say they started this whole chain of events.

setting aside his gardening tools, he smiled almost sadly. perhaps he would miss what had become his prison, despite everything it signified. he sighed,

"i think i’d like a better try at companionship."

the sixth time.. it almost didn’t count.

surprised to have even been considered for a crown, they laughed in delight when the paper version settled on her head, clearly pleased with our creative flair. we were pleased as well—it isn’t often creative flair ends up being a positive part of our abilities.  they looked around, as if deciding whether or not the place was real, and seemingly settled on an answer. we didn’t ask what the answer was. 

adjusting the paper crown, she laughed, clearly finding the whole situation amusing. when we asked, they seemed to be even more surprised.

"i get to choose? well- let's do it again!"

the seventh time, it became amusing. they did know they could choose something else, did they not?

whooping and throwing his arms around in celebration, came the second victor to be genuinely pleased by his victory and subsequent death. he spent a considerable amount of time pretending he was at an awards show, thanking his family, his wife, his best friend and so on. it was refreshing, after all that misery we witnessed at the beginning of the games, to see the tides changing. especially with him; rage used to be his fuel. now it seemed to be love.

grinning up at us, he waited for something. perhaps one of the others had mentioned it, but he did not seem surprised when we asked.

"what do i want? of course i want more!"

the eighth time, we don’t have to even introduce ourselves.

considerably more pleased than he had been the first time, he seems to think that taking his own life was the ultimate show of power against us. of course, we have changed our ways since his game, but he is not to know that. like his predecessor, he too seems amused by the paper crown. 

cracking his knuckles, and stretching his neck, we already know what he’s going to say, but we let him ask it.

"one more time."

[warpzoned]

Happy Straight Yoshi Saturday. More than three years ago the Birdetta part of this art was one of the first digital paintings I ever did. I remember listening to Copacabana Sadia by Junior Mendes while I painted it on a sunny day, and I felt like I was right there on the beach with her. So every time I see this piece of mine, I think of that song.

I remember when I posted this I saw comments of people surprisingly saying "wow she actually looks pretty in this," which I understand the surprise, since there's many that view her as unpleasing to look at. My advice to anyone who wants to portray a character as beautiful in their art is to see the beauty in them. And maybe listen to beautiful music while you do it.

#StraightYoshiSaturday

[l4ndoflove]

dj got us fallin' in love

feat. ???

lyrics the saudi arabian post-race party gets you stuck in a love triangle with the infamous papaya boys

maddie this was requested by the lovely @littleemmi for the 100 celebration! i'm not telling you who the driver is so you guys can try and figure it out yourselves ;)

faceclaim @.haileesteinfeld

norrislando_fans

❤️ 79K 💬 10.9K

norrislando_fans lando celebrating in jeddah after the race 💜🎧

comments

user1 celebrating what exactly?

↳ user2 finishing behind piastri again 😂

↳ user3 his last race as the championship leader lol

↳ user4 are you seriously still talking shit about him after he went from p10 to p4

↳ user5 lando hate is so forced i swear

↳ user6 louder please 🙏

user7 OMG DJ LANDO IS BACK

↳ user8 YESSS I MISSED HIM

user9 who is she

↳ user10 a misty memoryyyyy

↳ user11 😐

user12 she's living every fangirl's dream

↳ user13 no bc imagine standing this close to LANDO FREAKING NORRIS

↳ user14 oh to be her

↳ user15 luckiest girl alive 💔

user16 WHY IS HE STARING INTO HER SOUL LIKE THAT LMAO

↳ user17 bro if lando ever looked at me that way i would pass out

↳ user18 where i come from we call that foreplay ☝️

↳ user19 guys please leave them alone they're eye fucking

user20 wait isn't that magui?

↳ user21 clearly not

↳ user22 how are you so sure

↳ user23 fr she's not even showing her face

↳ user24 SOMEONE PLEASE FIND HER @

user25 they definitely kissed after that

lando

🎵 dj got us fallin' in love • usher (feat. pitbull)

❤️ 1.7M 💬 11.9K

liked by youruser, oscarpiastri, maxfewtrell and others

lando sick party

comments

maxfewtrell damn mate chill

maxfewtrell is that even legal 😱

maxfewtrell i hope they kicked your ass out

maxfewtrell kids these days

maxfewtrell jeez

↳ lando stop spamming my comment section you muppet

↳ maxfewtrell i'm the only one acknowledging this dumbass post fuck off

↳ user26 old married couple vibes

↳ lando old 🤨

↳ maxfewtrell married 🤨🤨

↳ user27 didn’t deny the couple bit though

user28 bro was higher than the sky in the first pic

user29 how he felt after taking that photo: 😈🔥🗿

↳ lando pretty much

user30 party lando is my favorite lando

user31 not him tagging a random girl instead of max 💀

↳ maxfewtrell dickhead

user32 HE DID THE WORK FOR US HELP

user33 we're all stalking her profile now right

user34 thank god it wasn't magui

↳ user35 you have no idea how relieved i am

user36 she's actually so pretty what

user37 okay i get why he went for her

↳ user38 10/10 would smash

↳ user39 WOAH BROTHER (me too)

user40 when will it be my turn 😫

user41 relax bro ain't nobody taking her from you

↳ maxfewtrell yeah i wouldn’t be so sure about that

↳ user42 wtf does this mean

↳ user43 MAX TELL US WHAT YOU KNOW

↳ maxfewtrell 🫥

↳ user44 NO WE NEED DETAILS PLEASE

user45 sir??? the lip bite???

youruser

❤️ 19.6K 💬 2.8K

liked by bestieuser, lando, oscarpiastri and others

youruser 5k new followers overnight... you guys okay?

comments

bestieuser WHO THAT IN THE BAAAAACK

↳ youruser not you too 🔫😀

↳ bestieuser yes me too

↳ bestieuser girl i told you he was famous

↳ bestieuser you know what they say "with great fucking comes great fame" or whatever

↳ youruser OH MY GOD WE DIDN'T FUCK

↳ youruser STOP SPREADING MISINFORMATION YOU SICK WOMAN

↳ bestieuser you stop spreading your legs first 🙄

↳ youruser i'm blocking you

↳ user46 i was here for two minutes and i already love her

user47 so lando tagged her but she didn't tag him?

↳ user48 probably didn't want the attention

↳ user49 spoiler: she got it anyway because lando doesn't know what "privacy" means

user50 not to be weird but i'd let her step on me

↳ youruser so this is what having a fanboy feels like

↳ bestieuser thought you knew after yesterday

↳ youruser what. is. your. problem.

↳ bestieuser you. gatekeeping all the juicy gossip.

↳ user51 i've never loved someone so much

↳ user52 she's my new favorite person

↳ user53 in my head we're best friends

↳ bestieuser see @.youruser??? they love me 🖕

↳ youruser guys please don't encourage her

↳ user54 BOOO GATEKEEPING IS FOR THE WEAK 👎🍅

❤️ by bestieuser

↳ youruser what did i do to deserve this

user55 that outfit is criminal

↳ user56 what's criminal is that he didn’t take it off

↳ youruser 😦

↳ youruser should i be worried @.lando?

↳ lando nah it happens

user57 THE MULLET IS FIRE

user58 meanwhile oscar chilling in the likes

↳ user59 i wonder if he was with them too

↳ user60 he won so probably yes

f1wags._

❤️ 69.8K 💬 9K

f1wags._ lando sharing his private jet with a mystery girl in saudi arabia 👀

comments

user61 that ain't no mystery girl that's yn 💀

↳ user62 SHE TROLLED US SO BAD

↳ user63 and she was smooth with it too

user64 "we didn't fuck" well you're about to

↳ user65 someone's joining the high mile club today

↳ user66 DAMN

user67 same outfit, same car, same plane but no they're not together 👍

↳ user68 MAKE IT MAKE SENSE

user69 TAKE ME WITH YOU 🛐

user70 if only i could be a fly on the wall

↳ user71 i bet you'd witness unspeakable things

↳ user72 why did we all collectively decide that they're going to do the nasty 😭

↳ user73 what else would they do?

↳ user74 idk maybe talk??

user75 isn't that a little bit excessive after literally one night of knowing each other

↳ user76 that's how love at first fuck works ig 🤷‍♀️

↳ youruser STOP IT WITH THE SEX JOKES

↳ user77 there she is

↳ user78 who summoned her

↳ user79 hi bae we missed you 🫶

↳ user80 bestie joined the f1 fandom and got traumatized in less than one day

oscarpiastri_fans

❤️ 46.9K 💬 7.2K

liked by bestieuser and others

oscarpiastri_fans @.oscarpiastri and @.youruser today at the mtc!

comments

user81 ✨️what the fuck✨️

user82 did we miss something orrr

user83 that's where lando brought her???

user84 they're so soft couple coded aww

user85 oh okay i kinda ship this

↳ user86 i can't tell if you guys are serious or not

↳ user85 why wouldn't we be?

↳ user86 you thought she was shagging lando until this morning

↳ user87 shagging isn't the word i would've used but i agree

user88 THE HEIGHT DIFFERENCE HELLO

↳ user89 she reaches his shoulder i can't 🫠

↳ user90 i don't remember oscar being this tall though

↳ bestieuser he's not but yn is short af sooo

↳ youruser uh fuck you!?

↳ bestieuser me too? isn't lando enough?

↳ youruser everyday i wake up [crying]

f1gossippofficial

❤️ 106.8K 💬 15.7K

liked by bestieuser and others

f1gossippofficial lando and oscar brought a special guest to the paddock and spent the morning together in the mclaren garage 🩷

comments

user91 WHAT IS THIS

user92 are we witnessing landoscar happen in real life

user93 what in the wattpad love triangle

user94 i smell pr stunt

↳ user95 if it is i'm sorry but they're not very good at it 💀

↳ user96 lando should've just stuck with magui at this point

↳ user97 you were all hating on her like two days ago pick a side

↳ user98 what about yn picks a boy first

↳ user99 girl really said: "lando or oscar?" "both. both is good"

↳ user100 can't blame her honestly 🤷‍♀️

user101 okay but seriously who is she dating

↳ user102 who said she's dating anyone

↳ user103 DUDE AREN'T THESE PICTURES ENOUGH 😭😭😭

↳ user104 there's something called "being friends" yk

↳ user105 hate to break it to you but that's not what this is

↳ user106 whatever floats your ship ig

↳ user107 LMAOOO

bestieuser alright folks let's settle this down once and for all

↳ youruser WHY ARE YOU EVERYWHERE

↳ bestieuser shut up and let me do my job

↳ bestieuser so who took my bitch:

↳ bestieuser lando

❤️ 19620

↳ bestieuser oscar

❤️ 10617

↳ bestieuser i see you're all going for the safest answer

↳ bestieuser interesting

↳ youruser why tf did you turn my love life into a multiple choice question

↳ bestieuser "love life" you say? 🧐

↳ bestieuser sorry babe i think everybody saw that 😔🙏

user108 LANDO’S SMILE ❓️❓️❓️

↳ user109 somebody's in looove 🤭

user110 i call oscar

lando youruser oscarpiastri

user111 HARD LAUNCH???

user112 SHE'S SO CUTE STOP

user113 big gremlin and tiny gremlin 💗💗💗

user114 THEY HAVE THE SAME SMILE I CAN'T

bestieuser blink twice if you were forced to do this

↳ youruser 👁👁⚫️⚫️👁👁⚫️⚫️

↳ bestieuser BRO WHAT IS THAT HAHAHA

↳ youruser blinking duh???

↳ youruser i was being held hostage 😰

↳ lando liar

↳ lando 🫵 you wanted this

user115 i'll physically fight anyone who dares to say they're not a couple

↳ oscarpiastri ☝️😮

↳ bestieuser speak up lover boy

user116 yeah girl we figured 🙄

user117 who are you actually going for tho

user118 i NEED to know who took that photo

↳ user119 well we all know lando has a thing for photography

↳ bestieuser fair but do you know who has a thing for the subject 🫢

↳ user120 ???

user121 pretty 🥹

user122 this is too soft i'm gonna cry

user123 now say it with me: they! are! dating!

↳ bestieuser yayyy 🥳

↳ user124 GIRL IT'S TRUE???

↳ bestieuser idk i just love saying random shit and watch you guys freak out ❤️

↳ user125 you scare me

↳ bestieuser yeah i have that effect on people

user126 THE SONG CHOICE AAAAAH

↳ user127 you can't convince me that was casual

↳ user128 THERE SHE GOES (my ship 🥰)

user129 help now i'm confused

↳ user130 me too i have no idea what to think anymore

oscarpiastri

❤️ 1,1M 💬 10.7K

liked by youruser, lando, bestieuser and others

oscarpiastri yeah

comments

bestieuser MAMA Y PAPA 🦘🐨🫶

bestieuser fucking finally

bestieuser took you long enough

bestieuser btw where are my credits for the second picture 🤨

↳ bestieuser my professional third wheeling ain't for free @.youruser

↳ youruser wdym you love third wheeling us

↳ bestieuser also true

user131 oscar what is that dry ass caption 😭

↳ user132 might as well put bwoah

↳ user133 LITERALLY THE FIRST THING I THOUGHT

user134 WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON

user135 proud to say i've been a ynoscar truther since day 1 💪

user136 now that i know i was right all along i can die peacefully

user137 WTFFF

user138 THEY LOOK SO HAPPY AND INNOCENT AND PURE I HOPE THEY NEVER EVER BREAK UP

❤️ by oscarpiastri and youruser

↳ user139 if they do i'm suing

user140 new comfort couple

user141 am i the only one who finds this weird? i mean we all saw that photo of her flirting with lando a week ago...

↳ youruser if you think asking a guy for his friend's number is flirting i have bad news for you buddy

↳ user142 QUEEN BEHAVIOR

↳ user143 i'm picturing her walking up to lando and him being all confident and shit and then she goes "your friend's kinda cute"

↳ bestieuser accuracy level: 100%

↳ lando lowest moment of my career

↳ youruser glad i humbled you then 😚

↳ user144 i will never unsee this now

user145 DJ LANDO REALLY GOT THEM FALLING IN LOVE

❤️ by youruser, yourbestie, oscarpiastri and lando

© 2025 l4ndoflove. all rights reserved.

[hyunjincanraptoo]

Escape... to Rio- H.HJ

So, I promised myself that I wouldn't write for skz in my country cause I'm already delulu af but after seeing my boys in Brazil... I kinda had to. And I know Brazil isn't just Rio but it's a city I really want to meet one day. Also, I was going to post this fic in 2 weeks on my bday but it's done and I felt bad for not posting anything these days so, here it is.

A special shout out to my beautiful friend @jehhskz. Thanks for giving me ideas for the dancing scene. At least in the fanfic we can dream hahah

Note: I made a summary with references to Brazil and words in Portuguese. It's linked in each of them. Hope it helps 😊

Word count: 6.3k (2.1k is smut 🤭)

Warnings: smut

Alexa, play So Good by Hyunjin (this song is 🔥)

Rio at night had a different kind of magic. The air carried the scent of grilled meat and the sea breeze, music spilled from every open doorway, and the streets pulsed with laughter and warmth. Hyunjin had been here for only a few days, but he was already spellbound.

He hadn't planned on stumbling into this bar tonight. It was one of those small, modest places tucked into the corner of a lively street, the kind that promised cheap drinks, good music, and a night worth of remembering. He barely noticed the neon glow of the sign when he stepped inside cause his focus had immediately been drawn elsewhere:

You.

You were on the tiny stage, a mic in hand, singing in a language he didn’t fully understand, but it didn’t matter. Your voice wrapped around the room like honey, drawing everyone in. Including him— especially him.

He didn’t mean to take so many pictures, but his fingers moved on instinct, capturing every shift of light on your face, every flicker of emotion in your eyes. He didn’t even realize how many shots he had taken until you finished your set and the applauses died down. And then, suddenly, you were walking toward him.

You approached with a confident stride, amusement glinting in your eyes. At first, you spoke in Portuguese, words he quite recognized but couldn’t string together fast enough.

"O-oi…?", he fumbled, the greeting coming out uncertain.

You tilted your head, "Hum?".

Still lost, he opened his mouth, but you cut in smoothly, switching to English with a teasing smile dancing on your lips, "Will you ever talk to me, or are you just going to keep taking pictures like a creep?".

His face burned instantly, "I… I'm sorry! I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable". He stumbled over his words, rubbing the back of his neck as he laughed in embarrassment, "Your performance was beautiful. I just… wanted to remember it".

You slid into the empty seat across from him, "Let me see”.

Hyunjin hesitated for half a second before handing over his camera. He watched as you looked through the photos, your expression shifting between intrigue and amusement.

"You’re really good at this”, you admitted, looking up, "But I still think you like me too much".

He choked on his own breath, "W-what?!".

You laughed, eyes twinkling under the bar soft lights, "Just saying. You’ve got, like, thirty pictures of me in here".

He had no argument for that. Instead, he grabbed his drink and took a hurried sip, only to wince as the alcohol hit his tongue, "Oh my god, that’s strong!"

"It’s cachaça. Strong, but good".

You waved down a waiter, ordering a round of caipirinhas. Hyunjin had heard about them but never tried one. When the drinks arrived, he took a sip and immediately blinked in surprise, "Wow. That hits harder than I thought".

You grinned, "Told you…"

He looked at you,eyes wide— apparently, you had no idea who he was. “Hyunjin. Hwang Hyunjin”

“Nice to meet you, Hyunjin. I’m Yn”.

“Yn”, your name rolled off his tongue like it was something holy.

“Where are you from, Hyunjin?”

“South Korea”

“Wow! You’re far from home… Anyway, welcome to Brazil”.

The conversation flowed easily from there, laughter between sips of caipirinha and small bites of snacks. Hyunjin had never felt this at ease with someone he just met, but something about you— your energy, your presence— drew him in like a tide, unstoppable and sure.

At some point in the night, you leaned in slightly, eyes holding his as you smirked., "You know what, Hyunjin? I’m starting to like you"

And just like that, he was completely lost in you.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

Days passed, and you and Hyunjin became inseparable,  like the sun and the sea. Everywhere you went, he was by your side, wide eyed and eager, taking in every new experience with a mix of curiosity and wonder.

One afternoon, you took him to the Leme Beach— a stretch of golden sand where the waves kissed the shore in a healing rhythm. Hyunjin was used to being busy, constantly moving, constantly expected to be somewhere doing something.

But there, under the Brazilian sun, you taught him how to do nothing. How to stretch out on a beach towel and let the ocean breeze carry his worries away.

How to sip on fresh coconut water directly from the coconut and let the salt of the ocean cling to his skin. How to enjoy a cold and sweet açai bowl, to let the deep purple stain his lips as he unworriedly hummed in delight.

"This is my new favorite thing", he declared, spooning another bite into his mouth, "I swear, I could live off this".

You laughed, "Just wait till I take you to eat real homemade Brazilian food".

Later that day, you brought him to a cozy restaurant owned by a family, a place that smelled like the aroma of spices and homemade meals. The plates came full, steaming with feijoada, rice, farofa, and manioc fries. Hyunjin was in heaven. That is, until he took too big of a spoonful of farofa and nearly choked.

"Oh my god…", he coughed, reaching for his drink as you tried, and failed, to hold back laughter. "Why is this thing so dry?!"

"You have to mix it with the beans, rookie".

Despite the near death experience, he finished every bite, sighing in satisfaction while rubbing his full belly, "I think I love Brazilian food".

That night, you took him somewhere different— one of those small corner bars, where the music was loud, the beer was cold, and the air was filled with the scent of fried snacks and laughter. Hyunjin didn’t know the song playing, but he knew it made him want to move. So when you grabbed his hand and pulled him to dance, he didn’t resist.

"I don’t know how to dance like this", he admitted, glancing around at the swaying bodies.

"It's called funk. I’ll teach you. Just follow me”.

He stumbled at first, his movements stiff and unsure. But then he caught on— especially the hip movements. You raised an eyebrow as he got a little too much into it.

His confidence only grew as he experimented, testing the rhythm with sharper, more fluid motions, rolling his hips in sync with the beat. His eyes lit up, and he turned to you with a mischievous grin, getting closer.

"Like this?", he asked, his voice low, his movements now, fluid and confident.

The sway of his body had an effortless sensuality to it, something that made your breath hitch for half a second.

You huffed a laugh, pushing his shoulder playfully.

"Alright, showoff. I see you", you teased, laughing as he grinned, rolling his hips with ease now, "How do you learn this so fast?"

"I’m... a dancer", he said with a cheeky smile.

But then, the music shifted, melting into a softer rhythm— a slow forró that made the entire bar quiet just a little, conversations dipped into whispers, and the sway of bodies turned tender. You didn’t need to say anything. Hyunjin was already pulling you closer.

"You lead", you murmured with a teasing smile, already placing your thigh between his legs, your chest brushing against his as he instinctively adjusted to the closeness.

He hesitated only for a second before your arms slid around his shoulders as his hands settled on your waist, fingers spreading gently like he was memorizing every curve of you. His touch wasn’t bold, just warm and delicate but with enough pressure.

His forehead almost touched yours, heavy breath brushing your skin. You could smell the faint trace of cologne on his neck, something woody and freshy, mixed with sweat from the long day.

Hyunjin’s gaze flickered from your eyes to your lips and back, his hand gripping more confidently on your waist as you swayed your hips together as one.

"You’re good at this”, you whispered, voice low near his ear.

He chuckled softly, his breath warm on your skin, “I’m just following the music. And you”.

Your fingers tightened on his shoulder as the space between you disappeared entirely. The kind of closeness that wasn’t about bodies, but energy. Something magnetic.

Hyunjin’s thumb brushed soft circles on your skin as he held you. You didn’t know if it was the music, the drinks from earlier, or just him but your whole body felt warmer.

"You smell like summer" he whispered, voice barely brushing your ear.

You glanced up at him, smiling softly, "And you smell like temptation", you murmured back, eyes glinting with amusement.

He laughed, soft and breathless, but his gaze didn’t leave yours. Not for a second. In that moment, everything else faded— the crowd, the music, the bar itself. It was just you, him, and the slow rhythm pulling you closer, like the universe had turned everything else off just so you could feel this.

Just so he could fall a little more with you.

When the song ended, neither of you moved right away. His hands stayed where they were, yours still resting on his shoulders, as if letting go would break whatever spell between you. But the world slowly returned— the clinking of glasses, a burst of laughter nearby, the next song picking up with a faster rhythm. You both blinked, a little dazed, before stepping apart.

Hyunjin scratched the back of his neck, cheeks flushed, “I think I just fell in love with Brazilian music”, he said, voice light but eyes serious.

You smiled, “Only the music?”.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, laughing nervously, “Guilty as charged”.

You nudged him playfully and reached for his hand again, tugging him back toward your small table by the sidewalk. The streets were alive with people, warm yellow lights hanging above like stars that never left, and your drinks waited, sweating slightly in the tropical night air.

“Do you always make strangers fall for you this easily?”, he asked, half joking as he sipped his beer.

You tilted your head at him,  “Are you always this obvious?”.

He nearly choked, coughing into his drink as you laughed, wiping a drip from his chin with your thumb. It was casual, intimate, like it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world to touch him like that.

And somehow, it was.

He stared at you for a second longer, brows drawing together like he was trying to figure something out.

Finally, he said it, “You really don’t know who I am… do you?”.

You blinked, “Hyunjin, right? Tourist. From Korea. Likes açaí, bad at farofa, weirdly good at hip thrusts”.

He grinned, “That’s one way to put it”.

You leaned closer, voice soft and teasing. “Is there something else I should know?”

Hyunjin just smiled, “No, not yet”.

And with that, the night went on filled with shared food, stolen glances, and a sense that something was shifting. That something real was blooming between the differences of language and culture.

And Hyunjin, in his quiet heart, already knew: this trip was never just about Brazil. It was about finding you.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

A few days later:

The day dawned sunny, perfect for the beach. But at the moment the two of you put your feet on the sand, the sky shifted before you even realized it.

The warm sunlight gave way to sudden dark clouds, then a soft drizzle that turned heavy within seconds. People around you ran for cover, but you and Hyunjin just stood there, drenched.

He laughed, tilting his head back as the rain soaked his buzzed hair and clothes, his white shirt clinging to his chest. You covered your face, squealing at the cold, and he took your hand, spinning you in a playful circle right there on the sidewalk.

“Hyunjin!”, you laughed, slipping slightly on the wet stone.

He caught you with both hands, pulling you into his chest. You looked up at him, rain dripping from your lashes, and he smiled. His eyes were full of that quiet warmth he saved just for you. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, and he kissed you.

It was messy and wet but it was perfect. The mix of the cold rain in contrast to his warm tongue against yours made something stir inside your chest.

When you broke apart, he leaned his forehead to yours, grinning like a fool. “A vida presta", he whispered in accented Portuguese, soft and sure.

You laughed, heart full of warmth, “Yeah, a vida presta when I’m with you”.

As the time passed by and you both dried and changed clothes, Hyunjin found himself sitting comfortably on the couch, legs stretched out long, absentmindedly playing with the rim of his glass. The warm glow of the late afternoon sun was filtered through the wooden blinds, creating golden lines across the terracotta tiles of your living room.

“I swear, I almost got scammed at the market the other day”, he said, shaking his head, “The lady tried to charge me double for a coconut. She thought I wouldn’t notice”

You laughed, stretching out on the couch beside him, “You do kind of scream tourist, you know”.

Hyunjin feigned offense, pressing a hand to his chest, “Excuse me?! I blend in perfectly”.

You raised an eyebrow, “You were wearing an ‘I Love Rio’ shirt yesterday”

“Okay… fair”, he grinned, dimples appearing, and leaned forward slightly, “But it worked, didn’t it? I got my coconut and a free snack out of pity”.

You shook your head, watching the way the golden light highlighted the curve of his jaw and the soft edges of his mouth. He looked at home there, stretched out lazily, long fingers tracing patterns on the couch fabric. It was unfair how effortlessly attractive he was. How could he be ridiculously stupid one second and devastatingly handsome the next?

“You’re so funny”, you murmured, tilting your head as a teasing smile played on your lips, “Or maybe just cute”.

Then, with a softer voice, you added, “I could keep myself busy with you for thirty hours”.

Hyunjin blinked, his grip tightening slightly around his glass. His expression shifted from playful to something more unreadable, more dark, “Yeah? I can satisfy you for thirty hours”.

His voice was lower now, rougher, like he was already imagining exactly what thirty hours with you would include.

You only smiled, tilting your chin up in a silent challenge. Hyunjin exhaled a quiet laugh, then set his drink down and moved closer, one hand resting on the back of the couch beside you. The air between you two grew thick, heavy with something unspoken yet undeniably present.

“That’s a dangerous thing”, he murmured, studying your face and lips, “To say things like that so casually”.

“And you’re easily flustered”, you teased, brushing a finger lightly over the inside of his wrist.  

The heat of the afternoon wrapped around you, making the air feel heavier, making the warmth of your bodies feel even hotter. A trail of sweat rolled down the side of Hyunjin’s neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his tank top, and you had the sudden, dizzying thought of following its path with your tongue. Hyunjin must have felt it too, because his fingers twitched against the couch’’s fabric before he finally touched you— just barely, fingertips skimming over your exposed knee, slow and teasing.

“Thirty hours?”, he murmured, voice dripping desire against your skin. “That’s a long time”

“You think you wouldn’t last?”, your voice was softer now, teasing but breathless, because the way he was looking at you— like he wanted to consume you whole— was making it hard to breathe.

He smirked, “Oh, I definitely would last”. His hand slid higher, an unhurried movement, the heat of his palm brushing against your skin, “I’d take my time with you”.

The ceiling fan spun lazily above you but you felt sweat gather at the back of your neck as Hyunjin leaned in, so close now that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.

“If I kissed you right now”, he said, voice impossibly low, “You think you’d still be talking?”.

You swallowed, heart pounding hard, “Try me”. 

Hyunjin didn’t need to be told twice. His lips brushed against yours, slow and lingering. The way his fingers tightened on your thigh, the way he deepened the kiss, slow but devastating made everything hotter.

And when he pulled back, just enough to meet your eyes, he was already smirking. “That’s one hour down”.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, fingers curling in his clothes to pull him back in, “Then you better make the next twenty nine worth it”.

Hyunjin hummed against your lips, tilting your back into the couch with a lazy smile, “Oh, I will, baby”.

And by the way he was looking at you, you knew he was keeping his word.

Hyunjin’s lips moved slowly against yours, but still teasingly, as if savoring the taste, the feel of you. His fingers curled around the curve of your thigh,gripping tightly, spreading fire to your whole low body. You could feel the heat of his palm through the thin fabric of your shorts, the contrast of his cool rings against your flushed skin made you shiver.

“You feel warm”, he murmured against your lips, and you could feel the smirk on his voice.

“Is it the weather?,  his fingers traced slow, lazy patterns against your inner thigh, “Or me?”.

You exhaled, nails digging into his shoulder, “You talk too much”.

Hyunjin chuckled, a soft, teasing sound that vibrated against your mouth,  “Then do something about it”.

And you did.

Straddling his lap, your body arched on top of his. His skin was hot beneath your fingertips, damp from the lingering warmth of the hot day. The scent of salt clung to him, a reminder of the beach, of the sun, of how long you had wanted to do this.

Hyunjin groaned softly as you moved against him, his hands gripping your waist, guiding your hips down onto his in a slow, maddening rhythm. The thin layers of fabric between the both of you did nothing to lessen the friction. If anything, it only made the anticipation worse.

“You’re so…”, his words trailed off into a low, breathy sigh as you rolled your hips against his, slow and torturous, “You’re… fuck…”

You smirked, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his neck, feeling the way he swallowed hard beneath your lips, “What was that?”, you whispered.

Hyunjin’s breath faltered,  “N-nothing”. His grip on you tightened, fingertips pressing into your skin with just enough pressure to make you dizzy, “Just… keep going”.

The only sound aside from your breathless sighs was the quiet creak of the couch beneath you.

Outside, the sun had begun to set, but still, the heat of the day still clung to the air, heavy and suffocating, but neither of you minded. Not when his hands were on you like this, guiding, gripping, making slow, torturous movements.

Not when his voice dropped to a whisper, rough and needy against your skin, “You said thirty hours”.

His teeth grazed the shell of your ear, making you shudder. “But I don’t think you can handle that”.

You exhaled shakily, your fingers threading through his damp hair, “You’re the one who should be worried”

Hyunjin let out a low, breathless laugh before flipping your positions in one smooth motion, pinning you beneath him on the couch. His knee pressed between your legs, his weight warm and heavy, making you gasp as he leaned down.

“Oh, baby”, he murmured, smiling, “I’m just getting started”

And then, just like that, the heat became overwhelming in the best way possible.

The couch creaked beneath you two as Hyunjin kissed you again— slower this time, deeper, his tongue sweeping into your mouth with a hunger that left you breathless. One of his hands slid under your shirt, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, dragging higher, until he found the swell of your breast.

“God”, he whispered, his voice hoarse and shaking, “You feel so good… I’ve been thinking about this since the night I met you”.

You arched into his touch with a quiet gasp, your hand slipping beneath the back of his shirt to feel the heat of his bare skin, damp with sweat and impossibly soft.

“You’re talking too much again”, you murmured, but your voice was ragged, your words breaking into a moan as his thumb rolled over your nipple, slow and deliberate under the fabric of your bra.  

“I can’t help it”, he breathed, dragging his mouth down to your jaw, “You drive me crazy, Yn… I don’t think you know what you do to me”.

His other hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts, palm pressing low onto your stomach, making you let out a soft whimper at the promise of it. 

“Can I?”, he asked, eyes dark, pupils blown wide. He was breathless— completely wrecked— and yet still waiting for your word.

“Yes”, you whispered, hips tilting up to meet him, “Yes, Hyunjin… please”.

Seeing you beg for him made something twitch inside of his boxers.  

So he didn’t hesitate. His fingers dipped beneath your underwear, sliding through the heat of you, and his breath caught hard in his throat. 

“Shit…”, he cursed, eyes locked with yours. “You’re soaked”

“It’s the heat”, you teased, “And I’m not talking about the weather”.

Hyunjin laughed but the sound was cut short as he pressed a finger inside you, slow and deep. Your mouth fell open, hands fisting in the back of his shirt as you arched off the couch. The rhythm he set was unhurried, purposeful. Each stroke of his fingers driving you more and more wild. His mouth was never far from your skin, kissing, licking, tasting you completely. Sweat slicked your bodies, making it easier to slide, to grind, to move together like you’d done this one hundred times.  

His name left your lips in broken pieces, again and again.

“I want you”, you gasped, pulling at his shirt, desperate. “Now, Hyunjin… please”.

He kissed you harder then, wild and open mouthed, pulling away only long enough to strip the shirt from his body, then from yours. Finally allowing your skins to meet, bare and burning, heat radiating off both of you.

Hyunjin reached for his waistband, then paused, eyes searching one last time, “If you want me to stop, say it now cause once I’m in… I don’t think I can go back”

“Don’t you dare stopping”.

He smiled crooked and hungry, then pushed his hips against yours, the press of him finally settling between your thighs. You both groaned at the raw contact, bodies already shaking with pleasure. When he entered you, it was slow and deep and intense.

“Fuck”, he rasped, burying his face in your neck, “You feel like heaven”.

You clung to him, nails dragging down his back, legs tightening around his waist “Move”, you begged, voice breaking,  “Please, move”.  

He did.  

Each thrust was slow at first, measured, as if he wanted to savor the feel of you, the sound of your breath, the way you gasped his name every time he hit just right. But it didn’t stay slow for long. The heat, the sweat, the way you kept pulling him closer, it all built into something rougher, messier, desperate.  

The couch shifted beneath you. Your bodies moved rhythmically, heat slicking your skin, breath catching in the thick air, mouths parting only to find each other again.

"Thirty hours” he growled, slamming into you harder. The slap of skin on skin echoed in the humid air, “I could do this for thirty hours straight”

“Then don’t stop”, you begged again, wrapping yourself around him completely, “Don’t stop. Ever”. 

And stopping wasn't on his plans.

 You could barely breathe at this point. Every thrust sent you higher, every drag of his hips made the knot in your stomach tighter. Endlessly tighter.

“I’m close”, you gasped as your body burned with pleasure.

“I know”, his forehead was pressed to your, and his body was trembling.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling, stroking, pushing you closer to the edge. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you”.

And when you did, your body tensed, your back arched, and your mouth fell open in a silent cry as pleasure crashed over you, hot and maddening. The heat swallowed you whole, thighs shaking around him as you shattered beneath him, around him.

Hyunjin wasn’t far behind. The way you clenched around him, the way your body pulsed with pleasure, it sent him spiraling.

“Damn, Yn…”, his voice broke as he buried himself deep, his body shuddering as he lost himself in you completely.

His breath stuttered against your neck, his grip on your hips tightening before finally, finally, he collapsed against your body, shaking, completely done.

Hyunjin let out a breathless, exhausted laugh, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, keeping you close. His fingers traced slow, lazy circles against your sweaty skin.

“Think that was at least two hours”, he murmured, “Only twenty eight to go”.

You let out a tired laugh, tucking yourself against his chest, letting the heat of him lull you into something soft and drowsy.

“We’ll see if you last that long”, you teased, voice heavy with exhaustion.

Hyunjin only smiled, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, voice full of mischief, “That sounds like a challenge”.

And with that, you had a feeling the night was far from over.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

The morning sun painted orange stripes across Hyunjin’s bare back. He was sprawled out on the couch, one arm dangling off the side, the sheets barely covering him. His lips were slightly parted, and his breathing was peaceful, heavy with sleep. Last night was… kind of intense. After round after round, it was no surprise he was that exhausted.

You sat on the floor nearby, knees pulled to your chest, sipping from your hot mug of coffee. It was still early, and the house was quiet, save for the occasional hum of traffic outside and the soft clink of your spoon against ceramic. You couldn't stop looking at him.

Maybe it was the way the light kissed the curve of his shoulder, or the fact that his presence somehow filled the whole room even while unconscious. He looked so far from the Hyunjin who popped his hips in front of the crowd last night,and yet, still entirely himself.

You reached for his camera and carefully turned it on. The shutter clicked softly as you framed him in the morning light, capturing the vulnerable stillness he never let the world see. Then, he moved. You held your breath as he blinked slowly awake, lashes fluttering, eyes squinting against the sun.

“...Are you taking pictures of me?”, he mumbled, voice thick with sleep yet still adorably.

You smiled into your mug, “Someone’s gotta return the favor, don’t you think?”.

He rubbed at his eye, pouting slightly,  “That’s not fair. I probably look like a mess”.

You tilted your head, lifting the camera again, “You look too beautiful not to be photographed”

That earned a sleepy chuckle from him, followed by a mischievous grin that made your chest feel too full.

“I think… you might be the most dangerous person I’ve ever met. You keep making me fall for you over and over”, he murmured, stretching with a soft groan before letting his arm fall over his face dramatically.

You leaned in, pressing a light kiss to the corner of his lips, “Get up, pretty boy. I’m taking you out”

“Where to?”, he asked, still not moving.

“You’ll see. And put on a shirt this time unless you want more photos like these”.

He peeked at you through his fingers, playful. “Maybe I do”.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile gave you away. You were already falling— fast and sweet and deep. And from the way he looked at you, you believed in his words when he said he was too.

You took him somewhere quieter this time, away from the crowds and noise. A place you loved as a kid, tucked behind winding roads and thick greenery. The kind of spot only locals knew about— a hidden waterfall.

You watched his eyes light up as you guided him through the forest path, hand in hand, laughter echoing between trees. When the water came into view, cascading down smooth rocks into a natural pool, he stopped in his tracks.

“This is… wow!”, he stepped closer, “It doesn’t even look real”.

You kicked off your shoes and dived in first, the cool water wrapping around your ankles.

“Come on, city boy. It’s even better when you come in”.

He followed, splashing in beside you, both of you soaked and breathless in seconds. He tossed his head back and let the water hit his skin, smiling wide like a child.

Later, you sat together on a sun warmed rock later, legs dangling in the water. He had his camera again— a  polaroid this time— pointing it at you.

“Don’t move”, he whispered. The click of the shutter was followed by a brief silence before you broke it.

“What are you thinking?”, you asked.

He hesitated, his gaze fixed on your face like he was memorizing it, “That I wish time would stop right here”.

You smiled gently and leaned your head on his shoulder, “Me too, Hyun. Me too”.

Hours later, you were browsing the little vendor cart set up near the edge of the beach with strings of colorful handmade bracelets swaying in the breeze. Your fingers stopped on a pair of tiny cowrie shells.

Hyunjin leaned in beside you, eyes twinkling, “Matching ones?”, he asked, already reaching for the other.

You grinned, “Only if you’re the one to tie mine”

“Of course, baby”.

You held out your wrist, and he took it carefully in both hands, the shells clicking softly as he looped the string around. He was so gentle, like he was afraid of hurting you, and so focused, brows furrowed in adorable concentration.

“Perfect. I tied it like it was meant to stay forever”, he whispered when he tied the final knot.

Then, as if to seal it, he pressed a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

You blinked at him, heat blooming in your cheeks, “You’re really leaning into the romance, huh?”

“I can’t help it” he said, slipping his own bracelet on, “You bring it out of me”.

Just then, a small group of teenagers wandered by, fresh from the ocean and still dripping water onto the pavement. One of them gasped, whispering something to her friend and then, with a little push from her friend, she stepped forward shyly.

“Licença… are you Hyunjin from Stray Kids??”. 

Your brows furrowed as two girls stood up, eyes wide, walking toward you both.

“Can we get a picture with you?”, one asked, holding out her phone.

Hyunjin let out a soft, nervous laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hum, sure... yeah.”

You stood there, confused, watching him pose and smile politely for the photos. They thanked him and walked off, still whispering and giggling.

You turned to him, eyebrows lifted in disbelief, “Okay… what was that?”.

Hyunjin looked down for a moment, then back at you with a sheepish expression. The breeze ruffled his loose clothes, and he scratched the back of his neck like he was trying to buy time.

“I was going to tell you”, he started, voice softer now, “Eventually”.

You raised a brow, “Tell me what? Are you in a famous dance group in Korea or something?”

He took a deep breath, “I’m an idol. A singer. In Korea. I’m in a group called Stray Kids”.

You blinked, “Like… famous famous?”.

He winced, chuckling nervously. “Yeah. Kind of”.

You stared at him, speechless, as he kept going, his words fast and honest, tumbling out like he’d rehearsed them in his head a dozen times.

“I came to Brazil for a break. I was burned out, tired of being ‘Hyunjin the idol’ all the time. I just needed to breathe, you know? I didn’t plan on meeting anyone, and I definitely didn’t expect you. But when I saw you... Damn, you were everything. You are everything I’ve been looking for. And you were just so you. Funny and confident and real. I didn’t want to ruin that by bringing in everything that comes with my name”.

You stayed quiet for a beat, watching him. Observing the nervous look in his eyes, the way he fidgeted with his fingers, waiting for you to react.

Finally, you stepped a little closer and said, with a faint smile, “Okay. Thank you for telling me”.

He blinked, startled, “You’re not mad?”.

You shook your head. “No. I get it. I mean, I don’t know what that kind of life is like, but I understand needing to breathe. And I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell the truth”

A moment passed, and then you poked him gently in the chest, “But don’t start acting famous now”.

That made him laugh, relief rushing through his features, “I could never”.

You rolled your eyes playfully, "You’re still the guy who thought cachaça was water and nearly cried drinking it”.

He laughed, loud and spontaneous as always, “God, I’m so lucky to have you”.

You smiled shyly before reaching for his hand, “Let’s go, I still have a lot to show you”.

And without any hesitation, he followed.

Later that afternoon, as the sun dipped lower over Leme Beach, the sound of laughter and a bouncing ball caught Hyunjin’s attention. A group of locals had formed a loose circle on the sand, keeping a small soccer ball in the air using only their feet, thighs, and heads.

You noticed him staring, so you poked his arm, “That’s altinha. Wanna try?”.

He looked intrigued, “A- Al… altinha?”

“Yeah. It’s kind of like juggling, no hands allowed. Think you can handle playing against the locals?”.

He scoffed, “They are kids”.

You crossed your arms over your chest, “They are good. I wouldn't be surprised if they beat your ass, Mr. Adult”.

That was the challenge he needed. Grinning, Hyunjin jogged over barefoot, and with a few gestures and smiles, was welcomed  into the circle.

At first, he fumbled a bit. His timing kinda off, the ball escaping his reach, but soon his body adjusted, and his natural coordination kicked in.

You watched from the sidelines as he kicked the ball up with ease, laughing with the locals like he belonged there. His clothes were tousled by the wind, skin glowing golden in the sun, and he looked so at peace— playful and so genuinely himself.

You even cheered after a particularly impressive save with his chest.

Hyunjin turned to you, flushed and breathless, radiating happiness like a kid, “I’m officially good at this game. Definitely gonna play it with my friends in Korea”.

You laughed, cupping your hands around your mouth, trying to ignore the fact that one day, he was going to leave you.

“You better not get recruited for a team and forget about me”.

He winked before leaning in to peek your lips, “Never, baby”.

⋆｡𖦹 °.🐚⋆❀˖°

Weeks later:

 The airport felt colder than it should. Maybe it was the artificial lighting, or just the air, or the fact that your heart was being tugged in directions you didn’t know how to handle.

Hyunjin stood in front of you, passport in hand, hoodie drawn up to hide his face from the world but not from you. Not today— or ever.

“This is for you”, you said softly, pulling something from your bag.

It was a polaroid, the one he'd taken of you at the waterfall with the sun in your eyes and body dripping wet.

Hyunjin took it carefully, like it might fall apart in his hands.

His eyes lingered on it before they lifted to yours, “I can’t believe it’s been a month”

“I still can’t believe you hip thrusted during samba. That’s not a thing, Hyunjin”, you teased, trying to lighten the moment, even though your throat felt tight.

He chuckled, but the sound was low and sad, “I don’t want to go"

“I know”, you whispered, “I don’t want you to go either”.

You kissed him then— soft and slow. A kiss full of all the things you couldn’t say out loud without breaking.

When you pulled back, he touched your cheek, gaze locked with yours, “I’m going to call. And text. Every day. I mean it”, he said.

You nodded, trying to keep it cool, “You better. Or I’ll come to Korea and haunt you”.

He laughed, but there was a glint in his eyes, charged with raw emotions.

“And I’ll still be in love with you. Even if we are miles apart, okay?”, he added, voice just above a whisper.

You looked down, smiling sadly, “Yeah, I know” you said, “Me too”.

Then, just before the final boarding call echoed through the terminal, he reached out his pinky finger toward you, “Promete?”, he asked softly.

You stared at it for a moment, your lips trembling before curling into a smile.

Slowly, you raised your own pinky and wrapped it around his, “Prometo”.

You stayed like that for a breath longer, fingers interlaced in a promise that felt stronger than anything either of you could say. And when he finally walked toward the gate, his figure getting smaller with every step, you didn’t cry.

Because somehow, you knew he wasn’t really gone.

A part of him belonged to Brazil now.

And that part… was you.

I really want to write a part 2 or some epilogue idk, so wait on me 🫶🏻

Taglist: @hyyunjinnn , @jehhskz , @mbioooo0000 , @nightmarenyxx , @rozsdascsaptelep , @thatonegirlonhere , @notmedina127, @sweetlifeofjoy , @jeonginsleftcheek , @yelhsaa , @my-neurodivergent-world , @hyunles , @lexlikesbts , @imagine-all-the-imagines , @mysterysold , @teenagepeterpan , @hangonhyunjin

If you enjoyed it please consider liking and reblogging. Feedbacks, loves notes and requests are very much appreciated 😊

[ijustwannabecool]

Drive to Survive – Episode 3: Family Mode

Lewis Hamilton x Wife!Reader

Summary... The world knows Lewis Hamilton for his speed. But in Monaco, Drive to Survive captures a side no one’s ever seen before: the chaotic, adorable magic of the Hamilton family—through the voices of his three biggest fans.

Trigger Warnings: Pure fluff, children with microphones, soft dad Lewis, emotional overload, very light language from the kids that will make you giggle.

A/N: hope you guys enjoy this fic. Please let me know what you guys wanna see next. Request are open!! Happy reading and have a beautiful rest of your day!!

Like, share, comment, reblog!

-----

The paddock is buzzing with race-day energy—teams in motion, engines roaring, broadcasters perched, cameras flashing. But Y/N’s entire world is bundled on the couch of the Mercedes suite.

Mateo is hanging halfway off her lap, Leo is sitting cross-legged on a beanbag in front of the screen, and baby Sofia is snuggled to her chest in a wrap, a pacifier bobbing gently as she hums.

Netflix producers are circling, politely attaching clip mics to the boys' shirts.

“I don’t know if I love this,” Y/N murmurs to Lewis, who is already half-suited and crouched next to them, one hand balancing Sofia’s head for a kiss.

“You don’t have to do it,” he says immediately, his voice low and warm. “One word from you and I’ll tell them to shut it down.”

“No, no,” she smiles, brushing his curls from his forehead. “I’m just being protective. This is the first time people are going to see them. Like... really hear them.”

Lewis leans in, nuzzles the side of her face and whispers, “They’re gonna love them. They’re gonna see what I see every day.”

She rolls her eyes, but it softens into a grin.

“Alright,” he says, standing up and pressing kisses to all three of their heads. “Wish me luck, superstars.”

---

MIC’D UP CHAOS: “THE HAMILTON KIDS AT MONACO GP”

Leo (7): “Mum, is Daddy gonna beat Verstappen today?” You (laughing): “You say that like it’s a video game.” Mateo (4): “I beat Max in Mario Kart yesterday.” Leo: “That was me, Teo.” Mateo: “Liar.”

---

Leo (pointing at the TV): “Look! Daddy’s waving! That’s for us!” Mateo (squinting): “No it’s not. That’s for the tires.”

---

Mateo (gasps): “Why did Daddy say that word! That’s a BAD word!” You (whispering): “Yeah, and we don’t repeat it.” Leo (grinning): “He only says it when he’s behind someone slow.” Mateo: “So Max is slow?” You: “Oh my God.”

---

Sofia (9 months): [happy squeal] Mateo: “Sofiiiiii, stop yelling. I’m listening to Daddy’s car.”

---

Leo (dramatically): “If Daddy doesn’t win, I’m never eating broccoli again.” You: “Wow. Revolutionary protest.” Mateo: “I already don’t eat broccoli. I’m winning.”

---

Mateo (whines): “Mum, Leo took my popcorn!” Leo: “You dropped it!” Mateo: “IT’S THE PRINCIPLE!”

---

Sofia (fusses quietly) You: “I know, I know. You miss Daddy too.” Leo (softly): “He always kisses her forehead before he races. Maybe she knows.”

---

AFTER LEWIS’S LAST-LAP OVERTAKE FOR P2

Leo (standing): “GOOOOOOO DADDY!” Mateo (screaming): “ZOOM ZOOM ZOOMMMMMMM!” Sofia: [Claps] You (cheering): “That’s it! That’s our guy!”

But the cheering turns to panic for a split second when Lewis swerves on the final corner to block a late overtake.

Mateo (voice trembling): “Is Daddy okay? Is his car broken?” You (squeezing his hand): “He’s fine, love. That was just… some spicy defending.” Leo: “Daddy’s got the grip of God, that’s what Uncle Nico said!”

---

POST-RACE: THE REUNION

Lewis skips press. Walks right past the crew. The helmet comes off, the smile is tired but real—and it grows tenfold when he sees them.

He jogs to the suite, rips off his gloves.

Leo runs straight into him, launching into a hug. Lewis swoops him up, spins once before grabbing Mateo in his other arm. Sofia is still wrapped on your chest, and he presses a kiss to her cheek before kissing you right on the mouth—sweat, adrenaline and all.

“You’re insane,” you whisper, breathless.

“I know,” he says, grinning. “But did you see that move?”

“They all saw it. And heard your entire potty-mouth symphony too.”

Leo: “Daddy, you said the F-word three times!”

Lewis: “Three? That’s all?”

Mateo (serious): “I’m telling Grandma.”

Lewis (laughing): “You traitor.”

---

CUT TO THE FINAL MOMENTS OF THE EPISODE

The family is on the couch later that evening in the motorhome, Netflix crew wrapping up.

Sofia’s finally asleep.

Leo is laying half-on Lewis’s chest. Mateo is holding the remote like it’s a championship trophy.

The race replay is on. The audio is off.

But the family noise? Oh, it’s all still there.

Mateo: “Next time, can I wear Daddy’s helmet?” Lewis: “Only if you want to get helmet hair.” Leo: “He already has helmet hair.”

You (laughing): “He was born with helmet hair.”

Lewis looks at all of them—his wife, his kids, this moment. And he whispers it low so only the mics can catch:

“Best podium I’ve ever had.”

---

BONUS SCENE: THE LAST CLIP OF THE EPISODE

“MIC CHECK: LEO AND MATEO ANSWER YOUR QUESTIONS” (Filmed post-race, aired during the closing credits)

The screen fades from the on-track footage to a quieter room inside the paddock hospitality area. Two chairs. A backdrop with the Ferrari logo. Two small boys—Leo and Mateo—sit with juice boxes, clip mics still taped to their shirts, legs swinging in rhythm.

-

A Netflix producer off-screen asks, “Okay boys, ready?”

Leo (nodding seriously): “We’re always ready.”

Mateo (confused): “Ready for what? Are we fighting?”

---

Producer: “What’s it like having Lewis Hamilton as your dad?”

Leo: “He’s just… our dad. He makes pancakes on Sundays. They’re okay.”

Mateo: “He lets me eat cookie dough when Mum says no.”

Leo: “He also yells a lot when people drive slow.”

---

Producer: “What does he say when he’s mad?”

Mateo (smirking): “I’m not allowed to say.”

Leo: “But it starts with F.”

---

Producer (laughing): “Who do you think is his biggest fan?”

Leo: “Me.”

Mateo (gasps): “No, it’s me!”

Leo: “You didn’t even know what DRS was until last week!”

Mateo: “Well you cried when he lost in Baku!”

Leo (shrugs): “It was emotional.”

---

Producer: “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Leo: “Race engineer. I want to help Daddy win.”

Mateo: “I wanna drive faster than Daddy.”

Leo: “That’s impossible.”

Mateo (grinning): “I’m gonna do it in reverse.”

---

Producer (last question): “If your dad could hear you right now, what would you tell him?”

Leo: “We’re proud of you.”

Mateo: “Love you, Daddy. You’re the best vroom vroom.”

Both (together): “And can we get ice cream now?”

The camera lingers on their faces for just a second longer—Leo’s confident grin, Mateo’s wide-eyed innocence—before the screen fades to black and the episode credits roll to the sound of a faint baby squeal in the background.

[whatsupsonnyboy]

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

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

wc: 7.3K

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

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

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

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

But then he was there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt like the natural next breath.

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

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

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

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

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

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

You kissed him.

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then everything sped up.

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

He stared.

Because shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

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

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

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

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

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

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you murmured.

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

And it was.

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

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

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

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

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

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

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

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

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

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

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

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

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You obeyed.

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

He was losing it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was it.

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

Then silence.

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

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

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

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

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

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

Your heart skipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

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

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

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

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

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

- 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was easy. Too easy.

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

He made you laugh. A lot.

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

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

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

You nodded. Because you did know.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he was gone.

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

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

-

You never had the talk.

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

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

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

That thing.

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

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

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

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

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

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

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

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

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

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

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

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

But it didn’t matter.

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

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

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

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

It just felt right.

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

You probably already knew.

-

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

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

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

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

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

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

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

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

“you bailing on us tonight?”

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

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

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

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

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

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

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

But still.

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

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

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

8:11.

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

But there he was.

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

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

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

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face. 

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold.  It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm. 

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”. 

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

[starsinthesky5]

I've been watching videos of Taylor at the children's Hospital from last year and all I'm thinking about is songbird doing that in a Cincinatti hospital and it being so sweet. She's the first lady of Cincinatti your honour

a/n: this might have been one of my favorite things to write out. this concept is so :(

───────⋆⋅☆⋅⋆───────

she's is absolutely serious about her charity work and philanthropy. giving back to her community is one of the most important things to her, especially now that she’s in a position to do something about the causes she’s always cared about. she doesn’t just post the links or sign the checks—she shows up, rolls her sleeves up, and works.

she’s deeply involved in youth mental health advocacy—funding school programs, hosting quiet music therapy sessions, personally partnering with child psychologists to create resources for kids navigating grief, anxiety, or trauma. she’s a soft place for so many to land. the kind of person who will read through every letter sent to her team from a worried parent or a hurting teen, and figure out a way to respond, to help.

and food insecurity? that’s close to home for both her and joe. they’ve seen what hunger does to a family. they remember. and she and joe put real money and heart into community food banks, his foundation, student lunch programs, meal kits for families during the holidays—always quietly, always intentionally.

her name's on programs and articles now, sure. but it’s also on the mouths of the kids at the shelters who light up when she walks in.

because she goes. regularly.

like to the children’s hospital in cincinnati—where the nurses and staff just smile when they see her name on the visitor log. she usually shows up in a soft cardigan, no makeup, her hair up with a bow. guitar case over her shoulder, tote bag full of handmade care packages in hand. she brings notes for the parents, bracelets and stickers for the kids, books for the rooms.

and it’s not a media event. it’s never performative. no press, no announcements. she doesn’t let her team record it. the only footage that exists is a few grainy phone videos from starstruck nurses or overwhelmed parents who post about how kind she was, how she remembered their kid’s name weeks later, how she sang lullabies to the babies in the NICU.

she sings for them, but more importantly—she sits with them. cross-legged on the floor beside hospital beds. reading storybooks aloud with funny voices. letting a five-year-old decorate her face with butterfly stickers. holding hands with a scared teenager and asking, what’s your favorite song right now?

sometimes when she’s at the hospital, the kids ask her about joe in the shy, giggly way kids do—“is he really your boyfriend?” or “he’s my favorite quarterback ever!” and she just beams, leans in like she’s telling them a secret, and says, “mine too,”. they light up when she pulls up a silly picture of him in her phone—usually something where he’s got bedhead or a grumpy face—and they all giggle together like it’s the funniest thing in the world. one little boy once asked if joe could come visit too, and when she said maybe next time, he asked if joe liked fruit snacks, so he could save him some. she texted joe immediately. he showed up two days later with a whole box.

speaking of, when joe comes with her? it's so special.

he doesn’t like attention. but he loves her. and she’s the one who got him to be more hands-on with his foundation in the first place. more than just a name or a face—she inspired him to show up. to go to the shelters. to play catch with the kids from the food programs. to give the teens at the mental health center someone who listens, not just someone who donates.

when they go together, it’s not a spectacle. joe’s quiet in the background—handing out juice boxes, playing uno, helping a little kid build a lego castle while she sings a lullaby across the room. they leave with drawings tucked into her tote bag and little friendship bracelets on both their wrists.

and yeah, cincinnati knows.

they call her the first lady of the city with so much love it doesn’t even feel like a nickname—it feels true. like she’s theirs, and they’re hers. and joe? joe just grins when people say it. because she wears that title so naturally, so gracefully, like she was always meant to.

because even with all the fame, the shows, the stadiums full of people screaming her lyrics. this is who she is. someone who shows up. someone who gives. someone who cares.

and she brings him with her. and teaches him how to care even louder.

[corevibeself]

Let Me Slap You In The Face (PAC)

Not literally... HAHA!

Here is the reality check reading from the recent poll I posted. Sorry, it took so long to post. I have been busy with school. Thank you for voting; hope you enjoy a slap in the face

Let me relay the message: This isn't to hurt you! I make sure my delivery is tinged with a bit of humour, but I will say, this is for people who are open to self-empowerment and won't see this as an attack, because the reality of it is, we've all got shadows; we've all got things we do that we want to change. The key is not identifying yourself with the parts you don't prefer; you are so much more than just what you see as flaws. This is never done to shame anyone; my intent is always out of the kindness of my heart and soul. If I do end up coming across that way, apologies in advance; I'm still learning how to communicate non-aggressively; I have Pluto in Scorpio in the 3rd house, HAHAHA.

I'll be using the Rebel deck for their straightforward messages and looking at some shadow aspects of my oracle cards. Enjoy the reality check, HAHA!

Pile 1

Ooooh girl, okay—"Who Says" by Selena Gomez literally started playing in my head when I read your message. Specifically, the lyric, “Who says you’re the only one that’s hurting?” Go listen to that song—seriously. I think there are more lyrics in there that might resonate with you. It’s a meaningful track because it speaks directly to those negative beliefs we carry about ourselves, the ones that hold us back.

You know—“I’m too fat to wear this,” or “I don’t think I can be as good as them.” That’s the kind of energy I’m feeling. But here’s the thing: those thoughts don’t matter. You’re not competing with anyone else. You’re only ever competing with who you are right now. The best version of you—it’s real, it’s possible, and it’s yours. But you’ve got to stop making excuses.

That doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid. They 100% are. But sometimes our emotions are rooted in beliefs that just aren’t true. And we don’t want those beliefs to rule our actions. Just because something feels true, doesn’t mean it is true. Every human being is worthy of love, of going after what they want, of being who they are. No exceptions. You were born on this planet as a good person. Anything negative you feel about yourself? That came from someone else. So start letting go of what isn’t truly you.

You already know who you are—because what you are feels good to you. Do you like crochet? Then you’re creative. That’s beautiful. That’s part of you. Maybe you’re sensitive and cry when you hear music—that’s a stunning trait. To connect so deeply with sound shows your open heart and your incredible receptivity. These are just examples, but what I'm trying to say is: change your perspective and see your worth, pile 1.

I do feel like there might be some victimization energy here, not because you’re weak, but because you don’t fully believe in yourself yet. It feels like you don’t think you’re capable of what others can do. But that’s not true, and that’s not the energy we want. What we want is self-empowerment. The universe isn't against you, Pile 1, and if it feels like it, shift your perspective. No, this isn't toxic positivity; we can acknowledge our sufferings and the negativity of the world, our pains and feelings, whilst still choosing to see the light. I choose to see the glass as half full, because I'd rather savor what’s there than mourn what’s missing. Do you realize that every setback or negative experience has shown you more of yourself? Yet you choose to run away from what it's shown you, from what needs healing, to hide in the comfort of what feels safer. At some point, the pain isn't even about the situation anymore; it's just self-inflicted. A shift in perspective is all it takes to change your entire worldview. If you think it will be hard, then it will be. If you think facing yourself, changing yourself, and being authentic and vulnerable is hard, ask why. You will start to see all the limitations you put on yourself.

It also feels like you might be someone who people-pleases. Maybe you hide your true feelings to avoid conflict or because you’re scared of being abandoned. I get it. But here’s the truth: you can respectfully express your feelings. It’s totally possible to communicate honestly and kindly. And if someone still walks away after you’ve been real with them? Then they weren’t meant for your honesty and vulnerability. But others will be. I promise.

Oh—and I got a specific message for someone who’s a tarot reader: if you tend to sugarcoat your readings because you’re afraid the truth will hurt someone, or they won’t want to hear it—don’t do that. You’re dishonouring your intuition and your craft. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to want to protect people. But when you filter your truth too much, you make it harder to be authentic—and you deprive others of the real magic of you.

Pile 2

I’m going to suggest you stay open-minded, Pile 2. I know you think you know everything down to the tea about a specific subject or situation — but babe, you don’t. And that’s totally fine. Sometimes, you need to make space for other perspectives.

And this is specifically for my chronically online babes: please, go outside and touch some grass. We are not meant to be consuming this much negativity every single day, and I feel like it’s messing with how you view the world and the people in it.

I fully believe we create our reality through our thoughts, emotions, intentions, etc. Maybe you don’t believe that, and that’s okay — but you have to admit that constantly taking in content that makes us feel like shit… dealing with people who dump their trauma on us… reading toxic comments… listening to fucked up internet stories… all of that affects you. More than you realize. It affects your brain, your thoughts, and your emotions. And yes, all of that spills into how you experience life, whether you are conscious of it or not.

And no, I’m not saying you can’t be sad, or angry, or human about things that are happening in real time in the world, or that you have to be ignorant, it's great that you care, but living in constant hypervigilance or walking on eggshells isn't fun either so there needs to be a balance.

I’d also say to bring awareness to your emotions. Are you growing from them? Or are you being suffocated by them and using them as a reason to act a certain way?

Social media creates a fear-based, warped version of reality that makes it hard to feel safe being yourself. Yes, there are dangers in the world. Yes, we should be aware and protect ourselves. But assuming the worst in everyone? That just creates a constant state of anxiety , you start to believe that’s what life is. That’s all there is.

You might even be someone who unintentionally projects that negativity onto others. One example I’m getting is like… an online debate or argument. And I’m not saying your feelings aren’t valid — they are — but make sure you’re not matching someone else’s energy if they’re coming at you sideways. It’s not worth it. Not everyone’s going to believe in what you believe in. Not everyone thinks the way you do. It sucks, but people are the way they are for a reason.

If we were all the same, we wouldn’t grow — we wouldn’t even know who we are. And yeah, that includes the “bad” people we meet. But what if you started seeing those people and situations as an opportunity to learn more about yourself, instead of trying to change them or control how they think? You’d be helping your own growth, and naturally attracting the people who do vibe with you.

Life’s not about changing others — you can’t force that. But you can become the highest version of yourself. And when you do that? You’ll inspire others just by being you. Through your kindness. Through loving yourself and forgiving others, not for them, but for you.

People hate when I say forgiving, as if I'm asking you to forgive their actions, no. I'm asking you to forgive yourself for letting their actions take a toll on you.

So yeah. Be more open-minded. Not saying you’re not, Pile 2, but on certain things… you’re kind of closed off. And when we really believe we’ve got something all figured out, we stop ourselves from growing.

I’m picking up on this mindset: “I’m thinking this way because it’s right. This is wrong. These people are wrong. I know I’m doing what’s right.” And trust me, I’m all for following your inner compass — but ask yourself:

Does it feel light? Does it drain me? Do I feel empowered?

That’s your real answer.

Pile 3

Like, literally, stop obsessing. It doesn’t matter as much as you think it does, and you’re just purposely making your life harder than it actually is because of some unhealed shit that you're aware of — but you either distract yourself or lie to yourself to make yourself feel better. When in actuality, your body and mind and heart are begging to be in sync with each other.

I think you tell yourself things to make your situation feel better than it actually is — like, not delulu in a good, empowering way — you're delulu in a way that is controlling and limits your potential as a person. You like things to be your way, which is fine, but has your way been working out for you? Or are you still dealing with the same old habits or situations, and emotions that keep popping up?

It just feels like the energy of someone who thinks they got their shit together — and you do — but it’s too much. You're not letting yourself breathe. You're not hearing your heart out. You're afraid of facing all of what you've pushed down, in fear that it will be too overwhelming to feel.

Like, please, feel your feelings and emotions instead of intellectualizing them and telling yourself that everything is fine when it's not. It's okay not to be okay. It's okay to feel like you don't want to plaster a smile, or do that assignment, or show up to work with the best energy. It's okay to not be as confident in your situation. It's okay to just be in a state of shitty emotions — because they are there to be acknowledged, not pushed down or told that there's a solution.

Your emotions don't need a solution; they need to be felt.

Find a moment, close your eyes, and feel. Where is the emotion? Is it a physical sensation — a tightness in the chest, heavy shoulders? Focus on it. Breathe in it. Let yourself be present.

I just remembered this quote, so maybe this is for you: "When we constantly think about the why — why did this happen, why, why, why — we’re trying to regain a sense of control over situations that were never meant to be controlled." This is a coping mechanism, a fear of failure, a fear of not doing enough, not being enough. BUT YOU ARE. No amount of external shit will heal the internal, NO AMOUNT. You don't have to do certain things to be seen as worthy, you don't have to have a whole load of money, or perfect confidence or whatever it is you tell yourself you need to have or the way your life needs to look. Ask yourself, when I think of my life and what I want, is it from a place of fear? of lack?

"If I don't have this, I won't be whole."

But you are whole as you are, and you struggle to see or feel that.

You need to become more comfortable with not having your shit together, because most of it comes from major anxiety issues that will impact your health, babes. Like, seriously, consider sitting with chaos a bit.

You also have great intuition, so I already know that you know you're not treating yourself the best. You're aware that you're controlling — even if just subconsciously — and I bet you can just feel how tired and exhausted your body is. So listen to that.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

FINALLY I'M SO GLAD I COULD FINISH THIS POST., Hope y'all enjoyed my hand swiping across your face in the most brutal manner possible, jkjk hehehe

[galacticwiseguy]

The first half of your post has nothing to do with the second half.

You'll notice that I specifically and explicitly said that if a specific person asks for only specific pronouns then those are the ones you should use! In this case, of you specifically and only want to be called he/him ever then it's not hard at all for people who know you to do that and that's what they should do.

But then you pivot to talking about misgendering! Which shows that you've completely missed my point. Using "they" can never be misgendering because it is not gendering. That's the whole point of "they," that's why we have it. It's the pronoun which does not gender. You can't be gendering someone wrong if you aren't gendering them at all.

You have every right to ask people "please gender me, I don't like it when people talk about me without gendering me" and they should respect that. But you can't claim that someone who is simply not saying anything about your gender at all is saying something inaccurate, you can just say that you don't like it.

If "they" isn't the universal pronoun, if that's not what you can use about literally anyone anywhere any time without saying anything about them or their gender, then what is? And if you say "no such pronoun exists"-- well that's simply unacceptable and must be fixed.

*grabs your hands and speaks to you in a tone that is so gentle* they/them pronouns stop being universal once you learn a person's pronouns. Sometimes that person's pronouns will include they/them and in that specific case you are allowed to keep using those pronouns for that person. In any case where you learn a persons pronouns and that person doesn't use they/them, you should no longer use those pronouns for that person. If you continue to use they/them pronouns knowing that person doesn't use them, you are now misgendering that person. Kindly stop doing that please. Thank you, I love you.

[mythicveils]

Musician Sevika

TW: Fluff, Mention of biting, gambling, drinking, wholesome

•┈┈┈••✦ ♡ ✦••┈┈┈•

☆*. Musician Sevika who gets you tickets to any place she plays. Weather it be bars, theaters, or coffee shops, The moment it's booked she's already handing you a ticket.

☆*. Musician Sevika who is a small jazz singer, but everyone in town knows about her, and knows that you're hers.

☆*. Musician Sevika who whenever you're sick will lay in bed with you, holding you close to her chest while she hums or sings your favorite song of hers.

☆*. Musician Sevika who knows her deep honey smothered voice makes you weak in the knees, and uses it to her advantage any chance she gets.

☆*. Musician Sevika who writes a love song about you and sings it at every gig she has, Making eye contact with you the entire time.

☆*. Musician Sevika who spoils you any chance she gets. The moment you even mention something, nessessity or not, you wake up the next day with it on the kitchen counter with a note "said you wanted it, Princess. "

☆*. Musician Sevika who goes gambling every Friday night after a short gig and sets you in her lap, one hand on her cards, the other on your waist. During each match she whispers something along the lines of "mm, with you on my lap, Darlin',I can't tell if they're losin' or you're my good luck charm." Although You aren't listening you're only focused on that low sultry voice.

☆*. Musician Sevika who while younger, during her free time would learn saxophone. Sometimes you'll beg her to play you a song on the old saxophone in the closet of your shared room, But she brushes it off. Although sometimes if you beg long enough she will play a song for you, and show you exactly what she wants in return right after.

☆*. Musician Sevika who hears you sing her songs while you're in the shower, or hum the tune while cooking her breakfast. She walks up behind you wrapping her arms around your waist "mm, and who's that song by?" she teases kissing your cheek tenderly.

☆*. Musician Sevika who does funny warm ups with her voice before a gig. One day you walk into it and think there is a cat fight outside, before you see her and Burst out laughing.

☆*. Musician Sevika who just wants to make you feel as loved as possible in every aspect, but in bed her gentle nature is completely gone, she's pulling your hair, making you beg, teasing you, and biting your neck or inner thighs.

☆*. Musician Sevika who is mainly popular for missing one arm, but her music is absolutely breathtaking, and written beautifully. Every time you ask how, her only response is always "because you were my inspiration, Princess. "

☆*. Musician Sevika who has always been rough and mean, until she met you and started making music, she always says you are her lucky charm because everytime you're involved her life changes for the better.

☆*. Musician Sevika who plays multiple instruments, piano, saxophone, and bass guitar. Although she usually sticks to singing jazz or playing bass guitar.

☆*. Musician Sevika who is a regular at her favorite bar and everyone always knows her and waves. Sometimes she will take you, but that's only if you say you want to go.

☆*. Musician Sevika who gets home from a gig on a rainy night with a soaked kitten nestled in her arms and a excuse already written on her lips "look at it, sweetheart, it's soaked we need to keep it for tonight at least. " that one night turned into two years and the kitten is now your cat named meatball, after he stole Sevikas meatball right off her fork.

——— ☆ • ♧ • ♤ • ♧ • ☆ ———

AU note: Hii, this is my first post of writing I've ever done so I really hope you enjoyed. My asks are open and I would love any ideas for fics.

[dilf-docs]

"Call It What You Want" Series: Drabbles. In today's episode, Y/n L/n goes on a Chicken Shop Date! ft. Amelia Dimoldenberg

Set: Before the first part of the CIWYW series Warnings: None. Just lousy comedy. I'm sorry Word count: 974 words

"So, I heard a rumor"

You pop a fry into your mouth. "Gotta be more specific with that"

"That you like older men" she replies back in an instant. You almost choke on your fry. Almost. You're quick to recover, taken back still.

"Oh, that" you let out a laugh. "I suppose it's true"

You think back about one of your most liked instagram posts, an old one. A graphic t-shirt with the front spelling I Love Dilfs, a red heart in the middle. Pedro had teased you about it, to which you replied: Are you stalking me?

"Why not older women?" she questions, and your eyes go wide at it. You've never been one to label yourself, especially not online.

"You aren't old, Amelia"

Her character falters a bit at your comeback.

"Did you just called me old?" she jabs. "I can poison your nuggets"

"Well" you reply, "it would be a bit weird that I thought about other people while we're on a date, right?"

She contains a laugh.

"I'd say then, that you have good taste" she bites a nugget. You bite yours. "Can I ask one thing, though?"

"Sure" you lean forward, then look at the camera, pleading, "as long as it's not about my dating life-"

Finding out who you were dating was one of the Internet's favorite topics. It went wild every time a new project of yours dropped, since you seemed to have insane chemistry with your co-stars. This time, the victim was Sam Cafflin, who just happened to star in some horror flick called Bagman. You weren't even together in the movie, but the few promotions you did together were enough for fans to place their imput in your relationship. They always did, yet, so far, no one had been able to guess it right.

And you're lucky, because it's been a while now since you and Pedro were together.

"If you could choose any D.I.L.F to take my place and be on a date with you, right now, who would it be?"

"Rude. I see you insist on me cheating on you on our date"

"I'm curious" she says, her accent shinning. "The Internet loves to pair you up with older men as much as you love to pair up yourself. Have you noticed?"

It's no secret. You're as clear as ambiguous. Everyone knows your preference, but none the fact that you're even married.

"Of course. I love my fans too much" you take a sip of your lemonade. "You could say I am a fan of them"

"Alright, but who you'd pick?" Amelia insists.

"Depends on the season" you chuckle. Your mind instantly goes to your husband. Still, you decide to spice things a bit with your answer. Give the Internet something to say. Give him something to say. Shit stirrer, you hear his voice in your mind. "Right now, it's summer, and Hugh Jackman seems the right answer"

The blonde woman raises her eyebrows.

"He was here just last month" Amelia says. "Should I give him your number?"

"You don't have my number" you deadpan. "Nor his"

Her eyes go wide as she suppresses a smile.

"Say I did. Should I ask yours for him?"

You shrug. "I'm a busy woman. If they want me, they better find me"

She chuckles lightly at that. "Well, thank you for making time for me then"

"Oh, for a pretty girl, anytime. Might like you more than my D.I.L.F.S"

Yet, in your heart, there's only a space and Pedro's carved itself inside it.

"Hugh Jackman, huh?" he muses. "What the fuck is he gonna do for you, hmh?"

You wrap your arms around his neck, moving from side to side in a cheeky manner. He's been bugging you with it ever since you stepped inside the house, and you've been trying so hard for him to drop it, but you knew it was lost case ever since he started spamming your phone once the interview dropped last night.

"Pop those claws out"

"You could have a Roman general yet you chose a mutant freak"

"The Roman general dies. Wolverine is immortal" you argue back.

"You're saying that just because he's trending right now... I want to see if you hold to the same answer when Gladiator II comes out"

"Baby, be honest. Are you jealous?" you tease.

He scoffs. "Of a guy with forks for hands? Please"

"Calm down. No need to fight this war, general" you stand on your tiptoes, his lips brushing yours. "You know I'm all yours"

His grip on your waist tightens, then leans into your ear and whispers, possessively so.

"Damn right you fucking are"

You're enjoying this a bit too much. Not even the Internet had gone that crazy over your interview.

"Hugh Jackman can sing though"

"Aw, c'mon!" you laugh as he slips from your embrace. "That's it, you're sleeping on the couch tonight!"

"No, wait" you chase after him, giggling.

His face is flushed when he looks back at you.

"You know, I Iearned to sign Future Days, for Joel. But now? You get nothing, ungrateful deceiving wifey"

You feign hurt, placing a hand on your chest.

"Is it bad to say another man is hot, or have you gone too woke?"

"You're married. Don't bullshit me"

"Secretly married!" you protest.

"So that allows you to thirst out-loud for other men?" you remain silent. God, he's stubborn. "You've been a real bad girl"

You stop on your tracks. So does he. When you smile, wickedly so, he knows he's done for.

"I can be a good girl if you want"

Sultry voice. Dripping in honey, dropping in tone. Batting eyelashes. Parted glossed-up lips. His cock twitches. He feels like a fool.

Pedro just runs a hand through his hair. "Fuck, baby. You're gonna be the death of me"

[aila0veyou2death]

HIHIHI!! I saw that requests are on lmao and wanted to request if u can write about a Toga!reader from mha with Mark? I dont have this request well thought out lol but I wanna to read about the reader asking Mark to suck his blood cuz she loves him sm and it's just a way of loving him/wanting to be closer to him. Or maybe how she would be with other variants and their reactions to this?

𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐲 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

𖹭 pairing: invincible/mark grayson x toga!reader (A.K.A everyone's favorite punching bag with savior complex x darling killer who just wants to be loved)

𖹭 TW: NON CON touching, dark content, blood, gore, violence, yandere behavior, deaths, biting, body horror, m4sterbati0n, biting, n3cr0philia?, sadism, knifeplay, love confession, blood kink, (no smut)

𖹭 author's note: hey love, huge thanks for being my very first requester! ♡ I did my best to capture Himiko Toga's personality, but I gave her my own little twist (hope you don't mind!). I really hope you enjoy this fic, even though it's a bit long and messy. Thanks again for the support :P

YOU left a trail of blood and filth in your wake.

It all started with one body—a man in his forties, found slumped against a dumpster in the alley behind Burger Mart. His throat was cleanly slit, his chest torn open, and his heart gone, leaving only a dried smear of blood across his torso. His limbs were stiff and awkward, as if he'd been dropped carelessly. His skin had gone pale, cold, and tight over his bones, drained of every last drop of blood.

He looked like an empty juice box tossed aside without a second thought.

Just another late-night murder in a city built on violence—the kind of death that barely stirred public interest, let alone made the evening news.

The responding officers were clearly unsettled when they arrived. One of them muttered something about how clean the wound was, how deliberate. Another swore under his breath, as the flashlight trembled in his grip. But there were no leads. No witnesses. No surveillance footage. No prints. Just a corpse that looked too neat for a gang hit and too messy for a clean kill.

They did their job, took their photos, wrote their reports, called it in. The word "TASTY" spelled out on the body had been exsanguinated post-mortem, but couldn't confirm the exact method. It was strange, yes—but in a city like this, strange wasn't enough.

They chalked it up to a mugging gone wrong. Maybe organ trafficking. Maybe some unhinged vigilante making a statement. There was no evidence to say otherwise. So they zipped up the body bag, filed the paperwork, and quietly tossed the case into the ever-growing pile of unresolved crimes that were collecting dust in the precinct basement.

It was left unsolved and forgotten.

Until it happened again.

A week later, it was a young woman, barely in her twenties, who was found dead inside the dressing room of a small boutique downtown. She sat on the floor like a broken doll, her back slouched against the wall, chin tilted down as if she was admiring the beautiful, blood-soaked dress clinging to her body. Her skin was covered in tiny crescent-shaped marks, like someone had kissed her over and over with their teeth.

This one caught the attention of the police. It felt off—ritualistic, too personal. But even then, they brushed it off as a one-off. Maybe it was caused by an angry customer in the shop or maybe a jealous friend. Something. They didn't connect it to the man in the alley, not yet. Just another case buried under red tape and assumptions.

But then it happened again.

And again.

And again.

Different corners of the city. Different types of victims. Men. Women. Younglings. Elderlies. None of them seemed to be connected. No shared workplace or relationship. No overlapping habits. But every single one was found the same way—drained, pale, twisted like marionettes with cut strings. Bloodless. Limbs bent into impossible angles. Bite marks blooming across their skin like bruises. Some were stabbed until their organs spilled out in ribbons. Others… seemed to have been used—touched, posed, played with, like toys in some perverted game.

Then the pattern shifted.

And that's when the Global Defense Agency finally got involved.

It wasn't just civilians anymore.

Low-grade heroes began vanishing without a trace. Sidekicks. Interns barely fresh out of training, still grinning with hope, still figuring out how to zip up their suits the right way, disappeared on solo patrols and never came back. At first, it was brushed off as carelessness. A few days passed, then their bodies started showing up.

But it didn't stop there.

Even villains—ones with reputations too terrifying to whisper—started turning up butchered like raw meat. Some were found with their tongues torn out. Others with their chests split open, hearts missing entirely.

There were always messages.

Little tokens of affection left behind at every scene.

Heart shapes drawn in blood—on walls, on floors, sometimes on the bodies themselves. Lipstick kisses pressed onto cold, lifeless throats. And words—carved into skin like poetry, each letter trembling with obsession.

"LOVE ME."

"MINE."

"TOUCH HIM AND DIE."

"PRETTY."

They weren't just killings anymore. They were something darker. Unhinged. A twisted display of violence that made even the most seasoned investigators shudder. There was no clear pattern to follow, but one thing started to stand out—many of the victims were unnervingly attractive. Young, beautiful, desirable. But that wasn't the worst part.

The brutality felt... personal. It was as if whoever was doing this had more than just a need to kill. The manner of the deaths—those intimate, grotesque marks left on the bodies—suggested a perversion, an obsession that couldn't be ignored. It wasn't about justice or revenge. This felt like something far more insidious.

Some even whispered about the killer being a vampire, but no one could explain how such a creature could walk through the city without being noticed. What was clear, though, was the terror each crime scene radiated. Whoever was responsible was insane, driven by something no one could comprehend.

That they didn't care if the victims were heroes, villains, or something in between. Capes, masks, titles—they were all meaningless.

Because this wasn't a killing spree anymore.

This was a love letter.

Written in blood.

Signed with madness.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Invincible.

That very name sent a thrill down your spine every time it was whispered on the news, shouted in panic, or etched into headlines soaked in blood and awe. Invincible. The son of Omni-man. The golden boy born from betrayal.

Everyone knew who he was.

The world called him a hero—sometimes. Other times, they called him a fool. A ticking time bomb. A monster wearing his father's old sins like a second skin, dressed up in bright yellow and blue as if that would cleanse the blood off his name.

But not you. Never you.

You didn't see a monster.

You saw him.

Because once—just once—he saved your life.

The memory of being caught up in the middle of a villain's rampage. Just another face in the panicked crowd. You don't remember much of it—only the weight of rubble above you, the scent of smoke, and the rising certainty that you were about to die.

And then he was there. A blur of colors and blood. Bruised, limping, and barely standing himself.

But yet, he still chose you to save you.

He picked you up with shaking arms and got you out of there. Just for a second, you were cradled against his chest like you were something fragile. Precious even. His heartbeat thundered against your ear. You remember the way he looked down at you—exhausted, bleeding, but alive.

And in that fleeting moment, you believed your life mattered.

To him.

Even if he forgot you the second he flew off to save someone else, that moment stayed with you. Blooming into something deeper than you could fully register.

The hero named Invincible had unlocked something dangerous inside of you.

He's always fighting. Always surviving.

Covered in blood and bruises, barely breathing some days. Even when the world turned against him, even when his own body gave out and he collapsed mid-battle, he always got back up. That's what made you love him. Not his strength. Not the name. But the way he suffered. The way he bled for people who never deserved him. The way he hurt.

And maybe it started there. The obsession. The infatuation. Watching him on grainy livestreams, recording every frame, memorizing the way his fists clenched when he got angry, the way he winced every time he got hurt. You've read every thread, followed every forum. Collected every newspaper and photograph like sacred scripture.

But it wasn't enough.

You needed more.

So you started digging. Slipping into dark corners of the web, bribing black-market info dealers, paying in blood when money wasn't enough. You broke into agency servers, threatened people who got too nosy. You memorized GDA patrol routes, stole files, hacked comms, followed him through the sky when you could.

Until one night, there it was—buried in a corrupted data file deep inside a forgotten hard drive pulled from a broken GDA drone. A name and a face revealed itself.

Mark Grayson.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Mark.

Mark.

He had a name. A home. A life. A history. He wasn't just a fantasy anymore—he was real.

You laughed and cried a little, maybe. Hugged the screen monitor to your chest like it was a love letter. You whispered his name over and over until it tasted like sugar on your tongue. You watched old news clips of his father, paused them at just the right frames to see Mark in the background. You replayed the moments you had once overlooked, tracing his figure on the screen with a gentle touch.

It felt like falling in love all over again—except this time, you were closer than ever to your goal. Closer to making him love you back.

But even then—he still didn't see you.

Because no matter how much you watched, no matter how close you got,

he never looked back.

So you made sure he'd notice.

You stopped holding back.

For the first time, you let the hunger consume you completely. Twenty lives in just under a month. Twenty warm bodies that writhed and begged and bled beneath your hands. You drained them dry, one after another, licking the life right out of their veins as if savoring the last drops of wine at a decadent feast.

Each one tasted different. Some sharp, metallic. Others are sweet like syrup. But none of them were his. None of them made your tongue tingle with that fantasy you've played over and over in your head.

Mark Grayson.

What would he taste like? Would his blood be warm and rich like sunlight, or bitter with the weight of his pain? Would it burn your throat like a guilty pleasure, or melt on your tongue like a secret?

The thought alone made your thighs press together.

You only chose the pretty ones. The ones with soft skin and bright eyes—people who looked like they were built to be adored. People who, in your twisted logic, deserved to die in the warmth of your love. You'd cradle their lifeless faces as their blood soaked your clothes, paint hearts on their cheeks with their own fluids, whisper sweet nothings into their cold, deaf ears.

And when it was over—when their final breath left their lungs and the world went quiet—you didn't stop just yet.

You straddled the corpse while it was still warm, with sticky blood clinging to your thighs as you rocked your hips slowly, teasing yourself on the dead man's body like it was a lover. It wasn't him—but in your mind, it was. It had to be. You closed your eyes and pretended, trembling as your fingers slid between your folds, soaked with arousal and death.

Your slick mixed with blood, dripped down your thighs as you fucked yourself harder—two fingers deep, knuckle-deep, curling and thrusting as you used their cooling body like a prop for your fantasy. You moaned like a slut, voice broken and desperate with your hips grinding in slow, obscene circles. The blood made everything slippery, messy, and perfect.

You pictured Mark pinning you down, his weight pressing into you, his bloodied hands gripping your wrists, voice snarling filth into your ear as he rutted into you like an animal. You imagined the way he'd split you open, ruin you so good you'd cry for it, his cock stretching you while the world burned around you both.

"Fuck—Mark!" you cried out, breath hitching, fingers fucking faster, rougher. "Need you. Need your cock—need your cum—fuck, please—"

Your back arched as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around your own fingers while your blood-slicked thighs trembled violently. You sobbed out his name again, drunk on the fantasy, ruined on top of a corpse you barely remembered killing.

You slumped forward, sticky and panting, with your cheek pressed to a cooling chest. You smiled through the tears and mess.

You were getting closer.

Closer to being his.

Closer to making him yours.

Even if it meant drowning the world in red.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

Mark knew about the murders.

You'd be living under a rock if you never heard about it. It was all over the news—headlines screaming about bodies found mutilated and drained of blood, left in grotesque, intimate poses that made even seasoned investigators sick. The killings weren't just violent. They felt personal. Victims were left sprawled on the ground, limbs twisted as if reaching for someone who was never coming. Faces frozen in terror, cheeks smeared with blood-streaked fingerprints, like a lover's touch gone horribly wrong.

At first, it was just civilians. Pretty young women. Handsome men. People who had no connection, no obvious reason to be targeted except that they looked like they belonged in a perfume ad or a fashion magazine. Then a couple of low-level villains ended up dead in the same fashion. Then a few heroes and agency interns. One of them was someone Mark knew. Not well, but enough that it knocked the breath from his lungs when he heard their death.

The GDA started getting involved—quietly at first. But Mark noticed them—agents rushing to crime scenes in the darkest corners of the city, murmuring words like "copycat killer" and "blood fetish" under their breath.The vibe around these murders was different. Everyone felt it. And Mark, who was still reeling from his most recent fight, exhausted and still healing, didn't need one more horror to add to his plate.

And then the letters started showing up.

It began with a simple package. No return address. Dropped into his college dorm mail. Mark barely noticed it until he saw the label:

To my darling Invincible ♡

He frowned and opened it. Inside was a small, handmade plushie of himself. Perfectly stitched in that bright yellow and blue colors. Tiny little bloodstains dabbed at the corners, like someone pricked their fingers while sewing it. There was a note folded neatly beneath it—written in looping, pretty cursive on rose-scented paper:

Hii ♡ You don't know me, but I know you! I'm your biggest fan! I watch you all the time and I love everything you do~ You're so strong and brave and amazing, even when you’re hurt... actually, especially when you're hurt. It makes me want to hold you and kiss all your bruises better ♡

You looked so tired and beaten up on the news the other day... seeing you like that made my chest ache. I just wanted to scoop you up and take care of you myself. I hope this little gift keeps you company while you rest! ♡

Please eat well and get lots of sleep, okay? I worry about you sooo much... you mean more to me than anything in the world. I love you so much (>///<)

I'll be watching you always~ ♡

Love forever,

Your #1 fan ♡

No name. No address. No explanation. Just… that.

Mark didn't think much of it at first. Fans existed. Some got weird. He was used to bizarre mail—requests for autographs, drawings, the occasional flirty note. But then came the second letter.

Then the third.

Then the fourth.

That's when things turned strange.

Trinkets started arriving in neat little boxes, tied with delicate pink ribbons. Locks of black hair sealed in plastic. Dried petals soaked in blood, pressed between handwritten pages that reeked of perfume and iron.

Child-like drawings with crayon hearts and stick figures of him and someone else—always a girl with blank, blacked-out eyes and a red smile too wide. They were always holding hands. Always kissing.

Sometimes, he was drawn with a knife in his chest, and the girl crying hearts onto his body.

One package contained a half-burned photograph of him walking out of school in plain clothes—his backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes on his phone. The back reads in smeared ink:

You're so beautiful when you're distracted. I want to be the one who breaks your focus.

Another box had a teddy bear with its head stitched back on, soaked in something sticky and sweet-smelling. A voice recording hidden in its stuffing played a girl humming softly. A lullaby. Twisted and broken by static. But underneath the crackle, he could hear her muttering his name.

And then there were the letters—so many letters.

Covered in lipstick marks, childish doodles, dried blood, and glitter.

They didn't ask for anything.

They only promised to bring him love and devotion. Forever.

I'll be your everything, even if you don't want me yet. I already belong to you.

You looked so tired last night. Gosh, I really wanted to kiss every bruise. Don't worry—I will, one day.

Do you know how many people I've turned down just for you? They begged, but they weren't you. They didn't matter.

Mark didn't say it aloud, but something about it all crawled beneath his skin...

That's when he finally realized.

The gifts weren't addressed to Mark Grayson.

No, they were always for Invincible—but they referenced things only someone who knew his real identity would know. What shirt he wore on campus. Which route he walked home. How he looked when he was too tired to smile. The way he joked with his friends at Burger Mart. What nights he stayed home with his mom, helping her cook dinner because he "owed her a favor."

Details no one should know.

But yet, someone out there knew.

Mark sat at his desk that night, letters scattered across the wood, the room unnervingly quiet around him. He picked up one of the envelopes and turned it over, brow frowning when he caught sight of the kiss mark in blood staining the seal.

Still no name.

Still no hint of who it was.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the mess of notes and little trinkets piling up.

This wasn't normal. They weren't just a fan. This wasn't just admiration, and whoever this was—they've been watching him. Following him. Studying him. A possible threat.

Mark wasn't scared.

He was pissed off.

And worried.

Because if someone was willing to cross this many lines for him...

What else were they willing to do?

Mark's mind raced with possibilities, ugly scenarios spinning out like spiderwebs. What if they came after his mom? His friends? What if they were already close enough to touch him without him even knowing?

Because sooner or later, Mark knew, he was going to have to face them.

𖹭 𖹭 𖹭

The mission was chaos.

What was supposed to be a simple takedown turned into a battlefield straight out of a nightmare.

Mutated beasts, bigger and faster than anything they'd been briefed for, tore through the abandoned industrial zone.

The new Guardians fought to keep up, but they were scattered, wounded, shouting over broken comms.

Mark barely caught sight of a flash of claws before a massive creature barreled into him, sending him flying like a stone across the concrete wasteland.

The world spun.

He smashed through a wall, skidded across broken asphalt, and lay there for a second, groaning, the night air cold and sharp in his lungs. His body screamed in protest, but he forced himself up, shaking debris out of his hair. His vision swam. Distantly, he heard the others still fighting—but he was cut off, alone.

Stumbling forward, he turned to a corner—and froze.

In the half-lit clearing beyond the broken ruins, a scene of carnage stretched out before him.

One young sidekick—a rookie, barely older than a kid—lay dead in a pool of blood, body twisted unnaturally.

Another sidekick, battered and gasping, feebly tried to crawl away from the figure kneeling over them.

It wasn't a monster.

It was a girl.

YOU sat comfortably in a puddle of blood like it was a warm bath, your head tilted slightly, as you hummed a tune under your breath. Blood soaked your clothes and hands. There's even smudges across your cheek in a careless streak. In one hand, you toyed with a gleaming knife, twirling it lazily between your fingers.

His presence seems to have alarmed you as you looked up in his direction.

Then the moment your eyes locked on his, they lit up like a kid seeing fireworks for the first time.

"Invincible!" You gasped, voice bubbling with giddy excitement. You clapped your bloodstained hands to your cheeks, practically vibrating with happiness. "You're really here! I can't believe it! You're really here! Oh god!"

Mark stiffened instinctively, with his body screaming to move, to do something, but he stayed frozen, caught off guard by the sheer giddiness pouring off you in waves.

You quickly rose to your feet, swaying slightly, with a blood-streaked knife dangling loosely from your fingers. You approached him with a light, almost bouncing step, as if walking on air. Your cheeks were flushed pink, your eyes glossy with tearful joy, your whole body trembling from sheer excitement.

"I'm your biggest fan!" you cried out, your voice quivering with emotion. "I've dreamt about meeting you, about actually talking to you! I was expecting it to be a little more romantic—but that's fine! You're here! You're standing right in front of me! And that's all that matters!" you babbled, the words tumbling over each other in your giddy rush. You looked at him like a little girl seeing her favorite fairytale prince come to life, as if you had just won the most precious thing in the world.

Mark's heart slammed painfully against his ribs.

For a moment, he could only stare at you, the words tripping over themselves in his fogged brain.

Biggest fan.

The letters.

The bloody gifts.

The weird, child-like drawings.

The lock of hair.

He blinked hard, with his mind racing and stomach sinking.

"...Wait," he croaked, voice rough with disbelief. He took a slow, instinctive half-step back. "Wait—don't tell me you're the—the one who's been giving me all those gifts—"

"Yes!!" you burst out, cutting him off, your bloody hands clapping together with a wet, sticky sound. "That was me!! Oh my God, you figured it out so fast! You're so smart, Mark! I always knew you were perfect!" you squealed, bouncing once on the balls of your feet like an overexcited child.

Mark's blood ran cold.

He instinctively shifted another step back, his jaw clenching as his gaze flicked briefly past you—to the bodies sprawled behind you. One unmoving. Another still twitching weakly.

No.

No, no.

He forced himself to focus back on you, his fists tightening at his sides.

"You..." he growled, his voice low and furious now. "You're the one who's been killing people these past few months."

You tilted your head sweetly, your blood-matted hair sliding over your shoulder. You blinked at him with wide, innocent eyes, like he had just asked if you liked puppies.

"Aaand?" you said lightly, letting out a soft giggle that sent a shiver down his spine.

Fuck.

You're insane.

You're dangerous.

And you're obsessed—with him.

He shifted his weight, preparing to strike first, to end this before anyone else got hurt.

But you were faster.

The moment he tensed, you lunged at him with startling speed, the gleaming knife flashing in your hand. The blade, still smeared with blood, arced toward him with wild, giggling energy. At your hip, some strange mechanical device strapped around your waist hissed softly—lined with sharp little needles, twitching and ready.

Mark dodged just in time, but you were relentless, laughing breathlessly, slicing at him with wild abandon. Every time he stepped back, you pressed closer, your face flushed with sheer exhilaration.

"I love you, Mark!!" you gasped between attacks, your voice high and breathless. "I've always loved you! You're my everything! Everything I ever wanted!"

The knife slashed again, grazing his arm—it was not deep, but enough to sting.

And your device sprang to life instantly—a sharp, thin needle shooting toward the wound like a striking snake, trying to drink from the fresh cut.

Mark snarled and slapped it away, stumbling back, panting.

"You're insane!" he snapped, his voice shaking with furious disbelief. "Stay the hell away from me!"

But you only laughed—in a sweet, trembling, horrifying sound, so full of innocent adoration it made his skin crawl.

"I just want to be a part of you." you whispered, clutching the bloody knife close to your chest like a precious love letter. "I want to live inside you, Mark. Right here..." You pressed a bloodied hand flat against your own chest, over your heart, your eyes dreamy and soft. "Inside your ribs, close to your heart... wrapped up in your warmth forever... Isn't that beautiful?"

Mark's stomach twisted.

He had fought monsters before. Aliens. Mutants. Nightmares from beyond the stars.

But this?

This was worse.

This was human. Twisted into something terrifying.

And it wanted him.

You twirled the knife playfully between your fingers, giggling breathlessly, the blood on your face gleaming under the broken, flickering streetlights. "You're just so adorable like this, all bruised and bloody," you cooed lovingly. "I just want to scoop you up and put you in my pocket... keep you safe forever. So no one can ever hurt you again! Wouldn't that be nice, Mark? Only me... Only I get to touch you."

Mark's fists clenched tighter, fury burning through his veins.

He charged at you without thinking—and for a moment you dodged gracefully, almost dancing—before you spun on your heel and lunged, stabbing at him again with the sharp device strapped to your waist.

Mark grunted as he hit the ground hard, the air punching out of his lungs. Before he could even scramble up, you were on him — straddling his hips, pinning him down with surprising strength. Your hands, still sticky with blood, pressed against his chest as you leaned in close, your face flushed, your eyes wide and glassy with adoration.

The needle found a new wound, and it pierced just beneath his ribs—and you let out a shaky, blissful sigh, your whole body shuddering in delight.

"Please..." you whispered desperately, voice trembling with devotion. "Please, just let me have a sip... just a little taste... so we can be connected. So I can be with you forever..."

You gazed down at him, your eyes wide, glassy, pleading.

"Let me live inside you, Mark... inside your heart... inside your blood... I want to be yours forever and ever and ever..."

Mark struggled, growling under his breath, but your grip was surprisingly firm. His body tensed and jerked beneath you, trying to break free, but you clung to him with the desperation of someone who had waited their whole life for this moment. His mind screamed for him to move, to fight, to do something—but there was something stopping him.

Maybe it was the hesitation blooming like a poisonous flower in his chest, a sick, churning knot twisting his guts.

Or maybe it was the blood loss—the slow, awful realization creeping over him as he felt the thin sharp tubes of your device hungrily siphoning more and more of his blood, the warmth of it leaving his body in shuddering waves.

He gritted his teeth, his heart hammering painfully, his vision starting to blur at the edges. His fists clenched into the fabric of your outfit as he tried to push you off, but you only pressed closer, pinning him tighter against the cold concrete with a strength fueled by sheer, manic devotion.

"Get off me...!" he hissed through clenched teeth, his voice low and dangerous—but you only giggled softly in response and that sent fresh chills skittering down his spine.

Your eyes shimmered with feverish delight as you leaned down, your face inches from his. "Not until you love me back..." you whispered, voice quivering with emotion, "and let me have a taste of your blood."

Mark's body jerked weakly beneath you, but you shushed him, your bloody fingers brushing tenderly over his bruised cheek, smearing crimson across his skin like war paint. You smiled widely, trembling with joy—like this was the happiest moment of your life.

Mark squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, gritting his teeth harder, trying to block out the horrible sweetness of your words. He forced his body to move, to react—but the blood loss made everything slow, sluggish, like moving underwater.

The needle of your device slid deeper against his skin, greedily drinking from him, and you let out a soft, breathless sigh of pure bliss, your whole body shuddering from the overwhelming happiness of being this close to him as your dream finally come reality.

"You're mine now." you whispered.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁₊˚⊹ ᰔ

𖹭 please don't repost, publish, or translate this shit anywhere. You don't have the right to do that. Thank you for understanding.

Divider made by @cafekitsune ୨ৎ

author's note: sorry this took forever to finish! I kinda stared at anon's request for a while like "??? Help:)" because this was actually my first time writing a request fic! Thankyou so much for being patient and reading through it!

[pinescent-and-gingerbread]

Late to the party to reblog as always, but GOD, HAPPY I HAD THE TIME TO INDULGE IN THIS MASTERPIECE. This might be one of my new favourites from your Zae!! (even if I say so every time LMAO)

You know how downbad I am for solo Arthur. For utterly frustrated Arthur, taking matters into his own hands. Oh God this was perfect. As aways, I'm caught right from the beggining:

Channeling the self-control of a brigade of soldiers, Arthur willed his unruly cock flaccid as he left the post office.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is how you open up a perfect fic 😂😂. Seriously, though, I loved how you gave some context about their relationship in a light way, not too much info dumping, but just enough to understand Arthur's point of view. Looooved this passage

Every time he passed by the quiet homestead, he found himself lightly pulling on Boadicea’s reins and scoping out something to fix. Your ways of showing gratitude, like a hug or kiss on the cheek, turned his neck to shades of crimson, yet he’d still come knocking again some time later. On his last visit, you were dragging him to your room by cotton suspenders, mouth attached to his before he could get a word in. An innocent lamb you were not—he was sure of it now in a half-daze, hypnotized by your breasts as you bounced on top of him. Matter of fact, you must’ve been a witch or a succubus; he’d never felt so used, drained, and perfectly satisfied.

I was wondering if I could use the word succubus a few days ago for my own writing, and I'm very grateful you showed me that yes indeed!! I love how he's all yearning here, not doing anything explicitly to win her over but just coming back every time. I could totally picture him do that. And oh yes, yes, yes, he deserves to be drained like that 😏😏

And of course, the heart of the matter is absolutely brilliant and delightfully written.

Fuck, he wanted to rip that photographer’s head clean off his shoulders for capturing you like that, but goddamn, he wanted to shake the man’s hand too. This slip of paper was a slice of heaven on Earth.

I laughed sm at this!!! I can totally imagine him getting all jealous the photographer saw her nude but being so grateful at the same time, confused boy 😂. Also please, just the fact tha you managed to transcribe sexting and sending nudes to fcking 1899 is MASTERFUL Zae!! I'm in awe as always!!

I had a dream about you. Do you ever dream about me?   The bulge in his pants begged for attention, and he appeased it, palming himself idly while his eyes stayed trained on the photograph. He’s too old and weathered for this—pining over some girl and touching himself like he’d gotten a second wind of puberty. 

I love how you start it slow. Two simple sentences, and he's gone. And I'm too, to be honest 😤

His cock sprung free, twitching and yearning. Flicking his eyes to your photo once more, his right hand moved on its own, kneading his leaking tip. He peeked over the edge of the paper, watching precum drizzle down his shaft, imagining it was you leaking around him. 

*sighs*. Click. Bzzzzzz (seriously this is a fucking treat to read Zae. Thank you for writing and sharing your magic with us mortals.)

Also, the part when he wishes for more photos; sooo hot of course (loved how he would even provided money for it eheh) but also, the need to have a proper one? What a perfect way to show his need for actual love and affection on top of lust. This is an incredible "show don't tell", I'm on my knees rn.

Jesus all the parts about Arthur being eager in her dream, I was MELTING Zae. The way you wrote him reacting to specific sentences and parts is just so perfect. I'm repeating myself, but it was just incredible to read and so vivid and interactive, even if we're still just readers. I don't know why and how but I felt so involved!

I get the feeling that you do a lot of taking care of other folks and don’t get that in return. Am I right? I’d take care of you, Arthur. I’d keep your belly full and drain your balls all in a night. They tightened at the thought, and his hips were a piston now, going up and down on their own accord.

See? Stuff like this. It's absolutely wonderful. I was SO turned on I should be ashamed!!! And oh, that part with the necklace 😏🔥 Very very clever once more. And so erotic! You bet your ass he's an excited mess. What a tease!!

And oh, the climax. His climax. Our climaxes. This had the effect intended, dear, I've been way too much impacted by it.

Don’t think me too crass, but do you touch yourself to my letters like I touch myself to yours? Yours are more well-mannered than mine. But still, I wonder, is your fist wrapped around your cock? “Yes, darlin.”  Goddamnit, he was talking to himself now, arm cramping as he pumped feverishly at his engorged dick, his orgasm waiting to explode behind his eyes. Do you imagine it’s me instead? I wish it was me. I wish I was on top of you again, milking you for everything you’ve got. Would you give it to me this time, Arthur? Would you spill inside of me? And spill he did, teeth gritted and grunting, as hot ropes of lust spurted out over his hand. Once again, he’d made a mess of himself on account of you.

This was too good Zae. I won't recover from this one until a long time 😮‍💨I was in the same state as him honestly, this wrecked me 😂

And the last line, so light and fluffy. Our dear baby, always longing and yearning. Perfectly wrapped!

What can I say more? One of my favorite fantasies to read, written by one of my favorite authors?? What more could I've asked for? Thank you so much for this incredible piece Zae!!!

Causerie

Summary: You send Arthur a letter. Pairing: Arthur Morgan x female!reader Word Count: 2,185 Tags: Male Masturbation, solo handjob, mentions of oral and unprotected p in v, dirty talk, long distance relationship, high honor Warnings: 18+ MDNI

an: So this came out of nowhere LMAO It's a bit different from what I'm used to, but I ran with it. The mentioned photo was heavily inspired by @sir-walton-goggins's under-the-cut sketch of their OC, Kris Blake. 😍😍😍 I hope you enjoy! Thanks for reading!

Causerie: an informal conversation

Channeling the self-control of a brigade of soldiers, Arthur willed his unruly cock flaccid as he left the post office. An envelope addressed to Tacitus Kilgore in familiar dainty cursive teased him from inside his satchel. The nagging twinge in his gut could only be satiated by his fist wrapped tight around himself in the solitude of his tent. 

He didn’t know how he’d make it through the rest of the day without losing his sanity. Once you’d unknowingly planted the seeds, his thoughts of you grew wild and untamed like the weeds at your feet. He’d never seen something so ridiculous—a woman in her day dress, the lacy hem stained with dirt, trying to repair a loose fence post on her own.

“No man ’round here?” he had asked, holding his hand out for the hammer.

“There is now.”

You beamed, your smile stunning him like a camera flash. Unbeknownst to him, that grin was a brand, marking him as yours for a long time to come. 

Every time he passed by the quiet homestead, he found himself lightly pulling on Boadicea’s reins and scoping out something to fix. Your ways of showing gratitude, like a hug or kiss on the cheek, turned his neck to shades of crimson, yet he’d still come knocking again some time later. On his last visit, you were dragging him to your room by cotton suspenders, mouth attached to his before he could get a word in.

An innocent lamb you were not—he was sure of it now in a half-daze, hypnotized by your breasts as you bounced on top of him. Matter of fact, you must’ve been a witch or a succubus; he’d never felt so used, drained, and perfectly satisfied.

And guilty, too. He couldn’t even look at you as he confessed to his life of criminality, finally admitting what he’d come to tell you in the first place. After this job, he was leaving for good.

To his surprise, you didn’t put up a fight—just wished him well—and dammit, that made him want you even more. You didn’t follow him outside—only watched from under the blanket as he said his last goodbye and promise.

“I’ll write t’you.”

Receiving your letters kept his heart ticking and dick aching. What started as a pile of polite notes quickly transformed into a library of erotica. His hands trembled in anticipation as he opened the latest letter. 

Dear Arthur, 

Are you still alive? I hope you haven’t gone and gotten yourself killed. I’m sorry if I kept you waiting. A new photographer opened up in town, and I stopped by the studio one evening just before he closed. I may have batted my lashes and stood a little too close when I asked for his help. A special photo of me would be the perfect gift for my dear husband, who was about to be shipped away to war in the Philippines. You should’ve seen how red he got when I dropped my blouse. I tried to sit pretty. Did it work?

A photo? Arthur checked the discarded envelope, searching for the supposed gift. A small photo was still tucked away in the envelope. He took it out and held it up to the lantern to get a good look.

Christ.

You were directly in the center of the camera with a lazy smile on your face. Pearls adorned your neck, and velvet cloth draped over your shoulders, just barely covering those twin humps on your chest. Fuck, he wanted to rip that photographer’s head clean off his shoulders for capturing you like that, but goddamn, he wanted to shake the man’s hand too. This slip of paper was a slice of heaven on Earth.

And for what he was about to do with it, he was going straight to hell. Setting the letter aside, the gunslinger undressed down to his union suit with the ardor of his twenty-year-old self. As he settled back onto the cot, he locked on to your sultry eyes and sighed contently.

I had a dream about you. Do you ever dream about me?  

The bulge in his pants begged for attention, and he appeased it, palming himself idly while his eyes stayed trained on the photograph. He’s too old and weathered for this—pining over some girl and touching himself like he’d gotten a second wind of puberty. 

But he couldn’t help it. Even after deafening gun fights and vicious animal attacks, he’d find a letter to re-read, and now he had this picture to accompany his fantasies. His gaze shifted from the photo back to your words on the page. 

We were in this beautiful room in a palace or someplace like that, swimming under blankets. It was far from my humble bed, but it felt like paradise. 

If only you knew, that little bed was his paradise.

Dream you tasted like whiskey and ash and smelled like leather and gunpowder. I don’t think it was too far off from the real thing. We weren’t wearing any clothes, of course, and your head was tucked between my thighs. 

Breath shaking, his hips shifted upward, the memory of your thighs on either side of him overwhelming his senses. Arthur sucked in his bottom lip and didn’t waste any more time undoing the bottom two buttons of his union suit. His cock sprung free, twitching and yearning. Flicking his eyes to your photo once more, his right hand moved on its own, kneading his leaking tip. He peeked over the edge of the paper, watching precum drizzle down his shaft, imagining it was you leaking around him. 

Oh, Arthur, I could feel your lips on every part of me at once, kissing up my stomach, bosom, arms, thighs, legs, all over. But when you found my lips again, I don’t know how my pounding heart didn’t suck me out of the dream. Has anyone ever told you how gorgeous your eyes are or how heavenly your hands feel? And your back, Mister Morgan, is like a brick wall. How I wish I could’ve dug my nails into it.

Arthur’s fisted pace quickened as he stifled a groan, trying his very best to keep the sounds of his sin quiet. He urged himself downward into the cot, hoping the friction could mimic the sting of your nails dragging down his spine, but it was no use. Tightening his grip in frustration, he turned his attention back to the photograph of you. He wanted to study your hands, to imprint them in his mind’s eye so he could imagine them scratching his back and pleasuring his cock.

But the photo was too close up, only your face and a peak of your breasts captured at that moment in time. Would he be too brazen to ask for another? To request a pose? Hell—he’d stuff the money in an envelope with a list of the depraved positions he’d like to see you in. Your hands on your bust, legs spread open, on all fours, one with your pretty fingers in your mouth, and a full body shot with just the pearls. Dammit—he’d kill for it. 

But then, at the very end of the list, he’d ask for a respectable one. One of you with your hair pinned up under a fancy hat, dressed in your finest, wearing a necklace, earrings, and a bracelet with your hands folded politely over your lap. One that was sweet and proper. One that he could tuck in his journal, frame, or pin up on the wagon. One that he could take out in broad daylight and pretend, just for a moment, that he really was that war vet admiring a photo of his loving spouse.

His hips moved involuntarily again, jutting up into his fist—the placeholder for the pussy of the woman he’d one day make his wife.

I didn’t plan to get you in bed that night, as unbelievable as that may sound. You were just so damn handsome and so so kind. I couldn’t help it. I needed to know how you’d feel inside me. I hope you don’t see me as just some Jezebel.

“No,” he gasped out. Wet sounds of his strokes accompanied his declaration.

I really did and still do have feelings for you, Arthur. It’s quite scary, actually. Maybe that’s why my dreams about you are so vivid? I realized just how much I cared that night, looking down into your eyes. I don’t take you as the type of man to just give yourself away on a normal day like that, so I hope you feel the same way as me. Did I ever say thank you? Thank you for being such a giver. I have a tendency to take, take, take when I’m on top, but you got payback in my dream. You had me pinned under all of your weight, damn near suffocating me. It was the good type, though. When you pushed into me, I forgot all about it. I never took you for an eager man either, but you were drilling me into those blankets with the fervor of a threshing machine. Are you an eager man, Mister Morgan?

He answered in shallow pants, twisting his fist around his length and rocking his hips. 

I have a curse of waking up right when I’m on the edge, so as you can imagine, I had a wet problem to take care of. My fingers just don’t quite do it like you. I wish we could’ve had more time together. I get the feeling that you do a lot of taking care of other folks and don’t get that in return. Am I right? I’d take care of you, Arthur. I’d keep your belly full and drain your balls all in a night.

They tightened at the thought, and his hips were a piston now, going up and down on their own accord.

I know you’d never ask because you’re too nice, but I’d get on my knees for you and take care of you in that way. I’m sad we never got to try it, that I never got to taste you. The thought gave me the silliest idea. Are you looking at my picture? Imagine that pearl necklace is your spend on my chest.

Jesus—the perverted imagery hit him like a train. He looked at the pretty pearls atop your chest. Goddamn, minx. 

Don’t think me too crass, but do you touch yourself to my letters like I touch myself to yours? Yours are more well-mannered than mine. But still, I wonder, is your fist wrapped around your cock?

“Yes, darlin.” 

Goddamnit, he was talking to himself now, arm cramping as he pumped feverishly at his engorged dick, his orgasm waiting to explode behind his eyes.

Do you imagine it’s me instead? I wish it was me. I wish I was on top of you again, milking you for everything you’ve got. Would you give it to me this time, Arthur? Would you spill inside of me?

And spill he did, teeth gritted and grunting, as hot ropes of lust spurted out over his hand. Once again, he’d made a mess of himself on account of you.

Shame crept in as he floated back to reality and stared up at the canvas of his tent. He brought the letter back to his face to read the last paragraph. The least he should do was finish it—dirty old bastard. But when he landed on your words and processed them, he was left with a numb, longing ache in his chest.

If we were together, I’d help clean you up, then maybe we could spend the rest of the night all tangled up in each other. I’m sorry I’m not there to touch you for real, but I hope these letters bring a little light to that hard, lonely life of yours. If I can make you feel good, even from far away, that’s enough for me. I miss you. Any chance you could come see me soon? 

Yours.

Arthur sighed and folded your letter back up neatly, tucking it away in his now hollowed-out copy of Rambles Through Woods and Plains. Though your photo and letter were out of sight, his mind refused to wander from the subject of you.

An assortment of motion pictures flickered in his memory: the way your head tipped in laughter at his dry sarcasm, how you so graciously welcomed him to that sitdown meal, the way you worried about him just as much as he worried about you, and how your words, even from afar, brought him unmeasurable comfort. Making it back across the Upper Montana could be a brutal fight, but he’d outrun the law and take a few bullets if he had to. He’d bare it all to bring you back with him. 

As he relaxed into the cot, another thought drifted by, small and almost weightless like a dandelion seed in the wind: maybe he wouldn’t have to bring you back at all. Perhaps he could stay right there with you.

[mysteriouslysapphic]

Late night confession

Larissa Weems x reader | NSFW

• First time ever publishing my writing, I hesitated a lot before posting on here but then I thought why not! I hope you will enjoy it :)

It was late in the evening. Most of the school had gone quiet, and the only sound left was the ticking of the old clock on the wall. Larissa Weems was still at her desk, finishing up the last of the paperwork. You were sitting on the couch in her office with a folder in your lap, pretending to read through it. Really, you were just watching her.

She looked tired, but still beautiful. Her blonde hair was pinned back as usual, and her lips were pressed in a straight line as she signed something. Her shoulders were tense. You had wanted to say something for weeks now, but every time you tried, the words got stuck.

“I can help with that,” you said, voice soft.

Larissa didn’t look up. “You’ve already done more than enough,” she said. Her voice was calm but kind.

You nodded and looked down at your hands. You felt stupid for even offering. Of course she didn’t need your help. She never seemed to need anything. That was part of what made it so hard. You didn’t know how to get close to someone like her. Someone so strong. Someone who always looked perfect.

The silence stretched between you. You could feel her watching now, even though you weren’t looking at her.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she said after a moment. “Quieter than usual.”

“I guess I’m just tired,” you said.

She didn’t answer right away. You could feel her still looking at you.

“That’s not it,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

You hesitated. “No. Not really.”

“You can tell me if something is,” she said. Her voice was a little softer now.

You didn’t know what made you look up, but you did. Her eyes were on you, and there was something different in them. Not just concern. Something more. You swallowed and tried to find the words.

“It’s kind of personal,” you said.

Larissa leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “I can handle personal.”

You felt your face get hot. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Start anywhere,” she said. “I’m listening.”

You looked down at your hands again. They were shaking a little. You felt like an idiot. But you also knew that if you didn’t say something now, you never would.

“I like you,” you said. “More than I should. I know you’re the headmistress, and I work here, and it’s probably not okay, but I’ve been feeling this way for a while and I didn’t know how to stop.”

You stopped talking and waited. The silence was so heavy it made your chest hurt.

Then you heard her stand up. Her footsteps were slow as she walked around the desk. When she reached the couch, she sat down next to you. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at her.

“You’re not the only one who’s been hiding it,” she said quietly.

You finally looked up. She was watching you with a soft expression, her blue eyes gentle. You didn’t know what to say. Her hand reached up and touched your cheek. You froze.

“Is it okay if I kiss you?” she asked.

You nodded.

Her lips touched yours lightly. It was soft. Careful. Like she didn’t want to scare you. Your hand moved up to rest on her arm. She kissed you again, a little deeper this time. Your heart was beating fast, but you didn’t pull away.

Larissa kissed you again, longer this time. Her hand slid behind your neck, holding you steady. Her lips were warm. You let yourself lean into her. It didn’t feel rushed. It felt safe.

When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours.

“We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” she said.

“I want this,” you whispered. “I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

Her eyes searched yours, making sure you meant it. Then she kissed you once more before standing up and offering you her hand.

“Come with me,” she said.

You took her hand. She led you gently to the bedroom behind her office. You had never been in there before. It was warm and quiet. There was a large bed in the center, the blankets neatly folded, everything in place. It felt strange and intimate to be here, but you didn’t feel afraid.

Larissa sat on the edge of the bed and looked up at you. “Are you nervous?”

You nodded. “A little.”

She smiled and pulled you gently between her legs, resting her hands on your hips.

“You don’t have to be,” she said. “We’ll go slow.”

You touched her face, brushing your fingers along her jaw. Then you kissed her again. This time, it felt a little braver. Her hands moved under your shirt, just resting on your skin. You gasped a little at how cold her fingers were, and she smiled against your lips.

“Still okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” you said. “Please don’t stop.”

She helped you out of your shirt, her fingers brushing carefully over your sides. Her touch was warm now. She looked at you like she was trying to memorize everything.

“You’re beautiful,” she said softly.

You blushed, not knowing what to say. So you kissed her again instead.

She let you undress her slowly. Her blouse came off, then the skirt, until she was sitting there in just her bra and stockings. You stared for a moment, heart racing. She was even more stunning like this, real and close and looking at you like she wanted you just as much.

You climbed onto the bed beside her. She rolled over to face you, her hand resting on your waist.

“Tell me if you want anything to stop,” she said again.

“I will,” you promised.

She leaned in and kissed down your neck, taking her time. Her hand slid up your stomach, over your chest. You gasped and arched into her touch, wanting more now. It still felt slow, but there was heat building under it, like something about to break.

“Do you want me to touch you?” she asked, voice low in your ear.

You nodded quickly. “Yes. I really do.”

Larissa’s fingers dipped lower, under your waistband, her movements slow and careful. She kissed you again while her hand moved between your thighs. You gasped against her mouth when she touched you, your hips bucking up slightly.

She didn’t say anything. She just watched your face while she moved her fingers, learning what you liked, what made your breath catch. You clutched the blankets, trying not to be too loud.

“You’re so sensitive,” she whispered. “So sweet like this.”

You whimpered as her pace got a little faster. It wasn’t rough, not yet, but it was building. You buried your face in her shoulder, moaning softly against her skin.

“I’m close,” you whispered.

She kissed your temple. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

You came with a soft cry, her name on your lips. She held you through it, never letting go.

When your breathing slowed, she kissed your forehead and pulled you close.

“You’re amazing,” she said softly.

You smiled against her chest, still catching your breath. “So are you.”

You lay there for a while, her arm wrapped around you, your head resting on her chest. Her breathing was slow and steady. You listened to it, letting it calm you down.

Neither of you spoke for a bit. The silence wasn’t awkward this time. It felt peaceful.

Her fingers traced slow circles on your back, up and down, again and again. You could feel her heartbeat under your cheek.

“I didn’t think this would ever happen,” you said quietly.

“Me neither,” she replied. “But I’m glad it did.”

You tilted your head to look at her. She smiled down at you and brushed your hair gently behind your ear.

“You didn’t have to be so gentle,” you said with a soft laugh.

Larissa raised an eyebrow, amused. “You were shaking when you kissed me.”

You laughed a little harder and hid your face again. “Okay, fair.”

She kissed the top of your head. “I liked taking my time with you.”

You felt warm all over again, but in a different way now. Safe. Wanted. Seen.

“Can we stay like this for a while?” you asked.

“Of course,” she said, pulling you in tighter. “As long as you want.”

You closed your eyes and listened to the steady rhythm of her heart. Your fingers curled around hers. There were still things to talk about, things to figure out. But for now, you didn’t need anything else.

[listening505]

Dating Pau Cubarsí [headcanon]

a/n: yeah, I was gone for months, but I wrote this while watching the Barca game last week so felt an urge to post this so here we go. I also have no idea what happened to my master-list, but you can request anything if you want:) I think I need to post a new master list and everything… anyways here you go

Pau slips little handwritten notes into your books and jacket pockets—each one a tiny “just because” reminding you how much he adores you, whether it’s a doodle of your favorite flower or a sweet nickname he’s been practicing.

During quiet moments, his fingertips softly brush stray hairs from your face, tucking them behind your ear with a smile that says you’re perfect just the way you are.

After evening training sessions, he always makes you hot chocolate, stirring in extra marshmallows and proudly bringing it to you while you cozy up in his jacket. When you say to him, you feel like you should be the one making him the hot chocolate, he refuses and say you always need to be treated like the princess you are. Making you blush

Midnight cravings never stand a chance; he knows your comfort foods by heart and surprises you with little deliveries, lighting up when he sees your sleepy, happy face.

Getting ready for bed feels extra special when he hums your favorite lullabies, his voice low and soothing, turning even the most restless nights into peaceful dreams.

Watching TV together usually ends with soft butterfly kisses along your collarbone, his playful affection pulling giggles from you that make his heart feel so full.

Holding your hand becomes second nature—his thumb tracing tiny circles against your skin, quietly reminding you that he’s always there.

Late at night, when the world feels extra soft, he whispers “I love you” in your native language, after practicing it over and over until he gets it just right.

After a long day, spontaneous foot massages become his specialty, his strong hands easing away any tension while you melt into the moment.

On chilly evening walks, he gently drapes his scarf around your shoulders, pulling you close as he tells little stories from his childhood in Girona, his voice mixing with the crisp air.

Baking sessions turn into mini adventures, with flour flying everywhere and laughter filling the kitchen—his favorite part is always sneaking little tastes of cookie dough with a shy grin.

Sometimes he leaves his favorite hoodie on your chair before leaving for training, knowing you’ll smile when you find it and feel just a little closer to him.

Before every match, he shyly asks you to be his “lucky charm”, cupping your cheeks and pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Reading the same book you’re reading quickly becomes one of his sweetest habits; he loves highlighting quotes just so he can say, “this part made me think of you.”

He picks out matching keychains one day, grinning when he finds two puzzle pieces that fit together perfectly.

Lazy afternoons mean soft touches—tracing invisible little hearts on your back as you lie together, his hand moving slowly and absentmindedly.

Braiding your hair, even when he’s absolutely terrible at it, becomes something of a tradition; every messy braid makes him beam like he’s created a masterpiece.

Meeting your family for the first time makes him adorably nervous, but his warm smile and kindness win them over faster than he could have ever hoped.

Flowers find their way to you all the time—sometimes from a shop, sometimes plucked from a garden or park—always with a bashful "this one looked like you."

His phone hides a little secret: an album filled with photos of you, candid and beautiful, each one capturing the way you make his world feel brighter.

No matter how small your bag is, he insists on carrying it, teasing that since you already carry his heart, it’s only fair he carries something of yours too.

Falling asleep on the couch leads to waking up cocooned in a warm blanket, your forehead kissed so gently it feels like a dream.

Tiny hearts and your initials decorate the corners of his notes and notebooks—little secret declarations he doesn’t even realize he’s making anymore.

After important matches, he loves wrapping his jersey around your shoulders, even if you are proudly wearing it to the matches, pride shining in his eyes because you’re always his biggest victory.

When he talks about the future, it’s all soft smiles and quiet promises—a cozy house, a small garden, endless sunsets, and a life filled with shared dreams.

If your name isn’t Spanish or has a tricky pronunciation, he makes sure to learn it perfectly—repeating it to himself until he gets every sound just right. Whenever someone else mispronounces it, he gently corrects them with a smile, proud to say your name exactly the way it deserves to be said.