#the POST WATER 7 TENSION..

[bizrreparallax]

god i wish there was more fan content of them (not even rlly in a romantic way just in general) their relationship is giving me brainworms and it feels like the pool of fics/fan content about them specifically is so shallow….. cries

[fallingformatt]

SEXUAL TENSION M.S.

bsf!Matt x fem!reader

summary: the sexual tension between you and your best friend Matt causes you two to ‘talk it out’ in the car

based on these requests available: here, here

warnings: filthy ass smut bro

word count: 3.2k

a/n: I’ve been so busy with work, but im glad i finally found the time to write something hope yall enjoy it :) this post is not proofread

➽───────────────❥

"Wait do you like him?" my friend asks with a smirk on her lips as she playfully pushes my shoulder.

I was hanging out with my friend at the beach tanning, eating some grapes, swimming and just taking in the sun.

"I don't know, it's like this weird sexual tension between us like I just feel that hot and bothered vibe coming from him," I say to my friend as I twirl a strand of my hair between my fingers.

"As in general or like just around you?" She asks me while raising an eyebrow. "Girl I don't know, we don't talk about how often we get laid," I say with a serious tone. "You should then," she answers as one corner of her lips rises up followed by a wink. "Can we not? I'm not asking Matt if he wants to fuck me or just fuck in general, let's change the subject," I say now slightly annoyed about how long this topic has dragged on.

I have to admit though, in the past couple of weeks there have been moments of strong sexual tension between me and my best friend Matt. I don't know what it is but every time we hang out in a group setting, I feel him throwing glances at me while fidgeting with his rings practically undressing me with his eyes, his eyes seem to scan me up and down, eventually meeting mine every time, his stare would get this hint of hunger like he's been starving for something, so I went for advice to my friend but she doesn't have a serious bone in her body so it obviously didn't go far.

Not even a second later I heard my phone ring. I turn it facing up to look who's calling. My friend leans in pushing up her sunglasses to see the caller as well. "Oh it's Matt, you should ask him if he's down to fuck," she says with a huge smile plastered across her face. "You're so funny," I say sarcastically as I roll my eyes before answering the phone.

"Hey!" I say as I bring up the phone to my ear.

"Hey, what are you up to?" Matt asks.

"Nothing much, I'm at the beach with a friend," I say as I turn my head to look at her, as soon as I do so, I see her standing on her knees humping the air before she points to my phone laughing. I instantly facepalm regretting that I even mentioned something to her.

"Hello, are you there?" I hear on the phone.

I snap back as I remember that I'm currently on the phone with Matt.

"Yeah sorry, what did you say," I say.

"I asked if the weather is nice, am I really that boring?" Matt says.

"No I was just looking at my friend, she was kicking down someone's sand castle," I lie as I search around with my free hand for something to throw at my friend. "Yeah the weather is nice, the water is really warm too, what are you doing?" I continue.

"I'm driving home, do you want to do something later?" Matt asks and I see my friend walking over to me kneeling next to me pressing her ear against my phone trying to hear what Matt is saying.

"Yeah I'm down, do you have something in mind?" I answer as I try to push my friend away with my elbow staring at her and shaking my head.

"Chris and Nick really want to see you, so I was thinking we could go to topgolf, and get something to eat after that," he offers.

I see my friend nodding her head up and down signaling me to say yes. How did she even hear that is beyond me.

"Yeah I'm down, should be fun," I say.

"Alright I'll pick you up at 7, see you then," he says before ending the call

I look down next to me and see one grape lying in the sand, without giving it a second thought, I pick it up and throw it at my friend. "You're such a child," I say as I roll my eyes smiling. "You still love me," she says sitting down smiling, finally relaxing after being on my case this whole time.

The sun had started to set and we decided to head back to my friend's house. The beach is like a 10 minute walk from her place. "What time is he picking you up?" My friend asks me.

"He's picking me up at 7, but it's not like you didn't know that already, you're so nosy," I say as I look down at my phone to see the time. "Shit it's 6:27 pm already, there's no way I'm gonna get back to my house and get ready in time.

"You can just get ready at my place," she offers. I nod and pull out my phone from my pocket and text Matt the new address.

We go into her house and I drop my bag at the door running for the bathroom to shower. I turn on the water and hop in.

"Are you really that excited to see him?" my friend asks as she opens the door to the bathroom. "What do you mean?" I ask her. "I mean you rushed to take a shower so fast, surely you're excited to meet up with him," she says as I hear her turning on the sink to wash her hands. "I'm literally just showering, I don't want to be sweaty, covered in sand, and gross, no matter who I'm meeting up with," I defend myself. "Whatever you say," my friend says as she leaves the bathroom.

I hopped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around my body. I went past the kitchen to my friend's room. I open the door and she's sitting in front of her vanity doing her skincare playing some music in the background.

My eyes lay upon an outfit lying down on her bed, it's a short jean skirt and a black lace tank top, I raise my eyebrow in confusion "What's this?" I ask. "It's an outfit for you to wear," she answers, I tilt my head. "Well unless you're gonna go to topgolf in sweats and a bathing suit, you should wear what's on the bed," she exclaims. "But this is what I would wear if we went clubbing not something I would wear hanging out with friends," I answer. "Trust me on this one," my friend replies. "You seriously need to move on," I say as I grab the outfit and put it on.

I check my phone to see the time, 7:05 pm it reads and as I was about to put down my phone I receive a text from Matt.

"I'm here" that's all the text says.

"I have to go," I say to my friend as I stand up from her vanity and head for the door. "Wait, just one more thing," she says as she runs over to me with a perfume bottle and sprays a few sprays on me. "What's that?" I ask. "It's a pheromone perfume, it's supposed to make guys crazy," she says, smiling proudly holding the bottle. I just sigh as I go for the door. "This way we'll find out if he wants to fuck in general or if he wants to fuck you!" my friend says happily, waving at me as I exit.

I get in the front seat as I see that Chris is sitting at the back. "Hey," Nick exclaims. "Hey," I say to everyone as I put on my seatbelt. "You look good," Matt says as he turns his head looking me up and down and Nick nods his head in agreement. "Thanks, guys," I say and we start driving. We're now driving for about 15 minutes, there's music blasting through the whole car as Nick and Chris are arguing, trying to scream over the loud music about which is the best spongebob episode making me giggle from time to time.

We're stopped at a red light and as I'm scrolling through my phone I feel someone's eyes on me, I pick up my head and see Matt looking at me, there it is again, that hungry stare, he's looking me up and down before his eyes again meet mine. I see him bite his lower lip before a little smirk creeps up on his lips. "You look so fucking good," he says, making me smile, his voice was deeper than usual. He turns his head to focus on the road again as the light turns green.

This is the vibe I was talking about with my friend earlier, we've never had this kind of tension between us before.

I turned my head back to see if Chris and Nick noticed his comment, and no they were still arguing, but the topic of the argument had changed to waffles and pancakes.

"We're here," Matt says as the car stops and he pulls out the keys from the engine and we all exit the car. As we go in, Nick goes to registration and pays for all of us. We all walk to our playing area and we all get something to snack on and some drinks.

"I'm up first," Matt says as he walks over to the playing area, he sets up the ball and swings the golf club. Next up is Nick, he does the same, now it's my turn, I walk up to the playing area, set up the ball, and take a swing with my golf club, I miss completely and I turn my head to look at everyone laughing, well almost everyone, Matt is the only one who's not laughing, which made me less embarrassed, I guess that's what best friends are for. "You need any help?" He asks, I nod my head and he stands up walking over to me.

I set myself up to take a shot and Matt walks over standing behind me, he puts his hands over mine "You have to hold the club tightly, okay?" Matt says as he tightens his grip around my hands. "Keep your back straight," he says and I straighten my back, which causes my butt to brush against his crotch. He inhales sharply before he continues, "Now swing," he says as he guides my hands with his swinging them to the side before hitting the golf ball and watching it fly away. I turn around to face Matt, "thank you," I say as I give him a hug. Before I get to pull away I feel his arm around the back of my neck as he leans into my ear, "you did so good," he says as he lets me go a slight grin forming on his lips, we walk back to the lounge area and Chris stands up as it is his turn now.

I was now sitting watching them play as I understood pretty quickly that there wasn't gonna be a golfer made out of me. Throughout the night I kept noticing Matt's glances, he's now sitting across from me, and he's staring me up and down as he's fidgeting with his rings. His gaze sends shivers down my spine, making me actually shiver and Nick notices.

"Are you cold? I left a sweater in the car, Matt can get it," he offers, " yeah that would be nice," I say as I look back at Matt and he seems to snap back into reality not really understanding what's going on.

"Come on Matt, I'm gonna go with you to get the sweater," I say to help him understand what's going on, he nods and stands up and we start walking to the car. I was actually glad that I managed to get him alone, I needed to understand what was going on with him, but I didn't want to ask with everyone around.

As we get to the car he unlocks it and I get into the front passenger seat and lean back to get the sweater Nick was talking about, as I grab the sweater I hear the door open, I turn my head to look and I see Matt leaning down, his arm resting against the open door. "You ready?" He asks. "No get in," I say as I lean back into my seat, placing the sweater in my lap. Matt gets in the car and closes the door. "What's up?" He asks. "I should be asking you that," I answer and Matt tilts his head confused by my statement.

"What's going on with you?" I ask. "What do you mean?" He answers me with a question not understanding what I'm talking about. I take a deep breath slightly nervous about what I'm going to say next, but I needed some clarity so I knew I had to ask. "Past couple of weeks you have been zoning out, staring at me," I state, I watch his face, waiting for his reaction. His expression grows dark, and once again his glare turns dark.

"You're driving me fucking insane, " he says his voice getting deeper again, "you don't know what you're doing to me, your sent, your presence," he says as he moves his stare from my eyes to my lips before licking his. "Tell me," I say as I put my arm on his bicep. "How about I show you instead," he says as a smirk appears on his lips. He leans over and grabs the outer side of my thigh, signaling me to move. I cautiously move over the center console his arms grabbing and holding my ass for support as he guides me to sit in his lap.

Without any warning he pushes his lips onto mine, kissing me roughly. One of my hands travel to his hair and the other one rests on his chest, his hands travel to my hips, pushing and guiding them back and forth, I let out a quiet moan as I break the kiss, "Matt this is wrong," I say as I try to calm down my breathing. "I don't care, I want you," he says as he smashes his lips back onto mine and I give into the kiss, he moves from my lips to my cheek and down to my jawline, his one hand still guiding my hips back and forth as the other hand moves over my ass grabbing it and slapping it.

I'm not fighting him and give into his touch fully, I throw my head back as I feel my panties getting wet and a moan slips past my lips, Matt takes advantage and attacks my neck, leaving wet kisses, slipping in a few bites as he's sucking on my sensitive skin leaving marks.

"Move up," he says, his voice is demanding. I move my ass up, both of my hands move to his shoulders as I hold them for support. He quickly unbuckles his belt and bucks up his hips sliding his jeans down along with his boxers. Matt's hand travels to my panties, he rubs against my clothed clit before sliding them to the side with one quick motion. He places his hands on my waist pushing me down and signaling me to sit down again.

He pushes his lips on my neck leaving sweet kisses around the dark marks he had created, he leans back and his eyes lock onto the hickeys, "pretty," he says as he grabs my jaw, his thumb brushing over the bruised, sensitive skin.

Matt grabs my ass as he moves me slightly up, positioning his dick against my entrance before pushing me down, I let my head fall on the nape of his neck as my elbows rest on his shoulders, my hands roaming his hair, I let out a moan as I start to move my hips.

"You feel so good princess," Matt groans, his hand tightly around my waist as the other one holds a tight grasp on my ass, his nails digging into my skin as I become a hot mess on top of him. "Matt," I moan out, my movements are sloppy and sensual.

"We can't be gone for too long," Matt whispers in my ear and suddenly fastens his thrusts underneath me. A sudden feeling of overbearing pleasure comes over me as I throw my head back no longer able to control my breath, moans and whimpers leave my mouth before I bite my lower lip trying to be quiet. "Baby don't be quiet, I'll make you scream my name," Matt growls deeply as his hand travels to my lower back holding me for support.

"Will you?" I manage to slip out between my moans as I start to grind faster on his cock. "You're such a brat," he says as his hand wraps around my hair pulling my head backward. His lips attack my collarbone, he's sucking and pulling on my skin slipping in a few bites, I hiss at the pain, "not so brave anymore huh," he says as he detaches from my collarbone before leaving a trail of kisses up my neck before meeting my lips.

"I'm," I whimper, my hands roaming around for something to hold onto as I feel my climax approach me. "You're?" Matt asks proudly as he's the one making me unable to finish my sentence. "Close," I manage to moan out between his hard thrusts and my grinding as we move in sync. "What was that huh?" He chuckles. I grab the collar of his shirt to pull myself together as I gather my strength to form a sentence.

"I'm so close Matt don't stop," I blur out, I feel my walls closing around his twitching cock. "You take my dick so well baby," Matt moans out sending me over the edge. "Matt," I scream out as my orgasm takes over me. Matt lets out a low growl-like moan, as I feel his seed pumping into me. I push my lips against his in order not to scream as I ride out my high.

"Oh my god Matt," I say as I move off of his cock and back to the seat next to him. "You did so good princess," he says as he leans in and kisses my forehead before he pulls up his pants. "We should get back," Matt says and I nod in agreement. I take Nick's sweater and pull it over my head putting it on.

As we step out of the car, I close the door and fix my short denim skirt and I see Matt fixing his belt. "I'm gonna leave the window slightly open," he says slightly chuckling pointing to the windows that had fully fogged up and I let out a small laugh as well.

"What took you two so long," Nick says as he looks at us and we try not to look suspicious. "We were talking," I say confidently, I see Nick shifting his eyes from Matt to me, and his eyes fall down to my neck as a smirk appears on his lips, "you got something here," Nick says as he brushes over his own neck with two fingers. My eyes immediately shoot to Matt as I slap his shoulder from the back.

I guess there definitely was some sexual tension between us that needed to be resolved.

[its-avalon-08]

📣 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕖 📣

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10

🏁 pairing : Lando Norris x Piastri!Sister!Reader

🏎️ summary: she’s oscar piastri’s little sister — sarcastic, sharp, and completely uninterested in drivers. he’s lando norris — charming, persistent, and suddenly very interested in her. she came for oscar. she didn’t plan on falling for the one person she should’ve stayed away from.

themes : fluff, flirting, angst, over protective brother, anxiety

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼𓇼 ⋆.˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆.˚ 𓇼

chapter 4: the slip and storm

The McLaren hospitality lounge buzzed with post-practice chatter. Engineers swapped notes, PR whispered over updated schedules, and Oscar lounged in a chair with a water bottle, scrolling aimlessly on his phone.

He looked up for a second and asked casually, “Anyone seen Y/N?”

It was a question tossed into the void. One of those throwaway sentences meant to be ignored or vaguely answered.

But Lando, too comfortable, too relaxed in his seat across the room, didn’t even hesitate.

“She went to get an iced oat latte. Should be back in ten, she said.”

The room kept moving. No one paid attention. But Oscar stilled.

Slowly, too slowly, his gaze snapped to Lando. “What?”

Lando looked up, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “She told me last night when I called. Said the coffee here is weak and she needed real caffeine or she’d combust.” He grinned a little, fond. “I told her to try that corner place I liked in Monaco—”

“You told her?” Oscar cut him off, voice ice-cold now. “Why the fuck are you telling her anything?”

Lando blinked, confused. “I—I don’t know, mate, we’ve just been talking—”

“Talking?” Oscar stood abruptly. “What the hell does that mean? You’re texting my sister now?”

Lando sat straighter, the mood changing instantly. “It’s not a big deal—”

“Oh, really? Because you knowing her coffee order, her exact location, and casually saying she texted you sure as hell feels like a big fucking deal to me.”

“Don’t do this,” Lando said, quieter now. “Oscar—”

“No, you don’t get to ‘Oscar’ me like I’m being dramatic. I told you, explicitly, to stay the fuck away from her.”

Lando stood now too, face tense. “I wasn’t trying anything! We were just talking. She's easy to talk to, alright? She's funny, and smart, and—”

“Don’t.” Oscar’s voice dropped dangerously low. “Don’t you fucking list things about her like you know her. You don’t. And you sure as hell don’t get to like her.”

Lando clenched his jaw. “I never said I did.”

“But you do.”

Silence.

That was enough.

Oscar let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “Of course. Of fucking course. You couldn’t help yourself.”

“I didn’t plan it,” Lando muttered. “It just… happened.”

“Oh, like she’s a pit stop you didn’t mean to take?” Oscar snapped. “She’s not a detour, Norris. She’s not a casual little joke for you to flirt with on a Wednesday and forget by the podium.”

“Jesus, Oscar, I’m not like that—”

“You are. You’ve always been. And now you’ve got your eye on my sister?”

That’s when the door opened.

Y/N stepped in, iced coffee in one hand, a soft smile on her face—until she saw Oscar’s expression. The tension. The red blooming across his cheeks. The way Lando’s fists were clenched at his sides.

“Uh..what’s going on?” she asked, blinking between them.

Oscar didn’t even look at her.

Didn’t acknowledge the coffee. Didn’t meet her eyes.

He just muttered, “Fucking unbelievable,” pushed past her roughly, and stormed out.

She froze in place, stunned. The door slammed shut behind him.

The room had gone quiet. Too quiet.

Lando exhaled shakily and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Hey…” she said slowly, voice soft now. “What just happened?”

Lando met her eyes—guilt and frustration swimming behind his own.

“…He knows.”

Her heart dropped.

-

Y/N sprinted through the paddock, dodging camera crews and team members, her heart pounding in her ears louder than the announcements blaring over the speakers. She spotted the familiar McLaren driver's room door just as it slammed shut.

She didn’t even knock.

Pushing it open, she slipped inside, breathless. “Oscar—”

He was by his locker, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Cold.

“Don’t.”

She froze mid-step. “Don’t what?”

Oscar turned to her slowly, eyes sharp, voice like ice. “Don’t come in here and act like you don’t know exactly what you’ve done.”

Y/N blinked, trying to keep her cool. “Oscar, what the hell is going on—”

“What was my one fucking rule?” he snapped, stepping forward. “What was it, Y/N?”

Her lips parted, confused. “What—what are you talking about?”

He stared at her, breathing hard. “No. Dating. Teammates. No drivers. That’s it. That was all I ever asked.”

“I’m not—Oscar, I’m not dating anyone,” she said, incredulous. “Seriously? You’re flipping out over a conversation?”

“A conversation,” he repeated with a bitter laugh. “Oh, so the texts? The late-night calls? The giggling in the paddock? The way he looks at you like you’re the fucking moon? That’s just casual chat?”

Y/N’s face hardened. “We’re friends.” She was lying to herself and she knew it as well as Oscar did.

Oscar scoffed. “No, he doesn’t want to be your friend. He wants more. And you—you know it.”

Her voice rose, defiant. “Maybe he does. So what? I’m allowed to have people in my life who are good to me, aren’t I?”

Oscar stepped back, his expression unreadable. “You don’t get it.”

“Oh, I do. This is about control, Oscar. It’s always been about control with me.”

“Control?” he repeated, voice sharp. “You think I want to control you?”

“You’re sure as hell trying!” she shouted.

He shook his head, stepping past her like he couldn’t stand to look at her. “You wanna know why I made that rule?” he asked, quieter now but way more dangerous. “Because of that idiot ex who broke you. Because I had to watch you fall apart, bit by bit. You shut yourself off, Y/N. You doubted yourself. You stopped FUCKING eating Y/N. All that handwork you put into your job was going to crumble if I hadn't helped. And I swore I’d never let someone in this paddock do that to you again.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not that girl anymore.”

“Yeah? Then stop fucking acting like she doesn’t still live in your head,” he snapped.

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Y/N crossed her arms, voice trembling. “You think so little of me.”

Oscar looked at her for a long beat. Something flickered in his eyes—something close to regret—but he didn’t say a word. Just grabbed his helmet from the shelf.

“Don’t come find me after quali,” he muttered. “I need space.”

“Are you serious right now Osc—?”

The door shut behind him before she could finish.

And she was left alone, in his room, the sound of the paddock muffled behind the thick walls… but loud enough to remind her that everything had just changed.

taglist: @landofotographyy @doofenshmirtzevil-inc @rd14 @stylesmoonlight12 @azuramicah @il0vereadingstuff @star73807-blog @sltwins @dustie-faerie @stylesmoonlight12 @lauralarsen @ayatotiddies @carey86 @hescrush @xnatqq @downsideup1989 @lilorose25 @henna006 @dustie-faerie @lewishamiltonismybf

[astrolook]

🔥💪 Mars As Darakaraka - Lover, Fighter or Probably Both💪🔥

Note: These are just my personal observations and recurring patterns I've noticed over the years from married clients, relatives and friends. Take what resonates with you and leave the rest. Feel free to share in the comments if any of this hits home. This post is based on Vedic astrology.

Mars as Darakaraka - Lover with a plan Your spouse will be bold, headstrong, and fiercely independent. They’re action-oriented and won’t wait around for help, they’ll do it themselves, even if it bruises their ego. Expect quick tempers in fire signs, silent treatment in earth signs, and emotional outbursts or guilt-tripping in water signs. They like things done their way and any deviation from the plan? Cue the irritation. Often tanned or sun-kissed, they love being outdoors. Think horse riding, biking, or just actively doing things around the house. They're not the type to sit still, and laziness genuinely annoys them. Prone to get injuries and vehicle accidents.

Emotional Expression:

Fire signs: Can be physically expressive sometimes breaking things or, in worst cases (esp. with Saturn), showing anger through physical abuse.

Water signs: Emotional manipulation, tears for attention, mood swings.

Earth signs: Calm exterior, silent treatment masters. You may never know when they’re mad... until it’s too late.

When they're down, they can become unpredictable, hot and cold, distant one day, intense the next. In a good mood, though? Total fun. Never boring, always on the go.

Professions: STEM fields, military, law enforcement, sports, tourism, digital creators (YouTubers/podcasters), manufacturing, any field that needs drive, risk-taking, or hustle.

☀️ Mars + Sun: Bold, blunt, no BS. Can come off rude, doesn’t tolerate drama. Highly-educated.

🪐 Mars + Saturn: Age difference possible or mature than you and teach you things, either a mentor or emotionally manipulative depending on signs and house placement. If Saturn is retrograde, they may sulk when upset and find it hard to say no. Often exploited by others. Significant age gap.

🧠 Mars + Mercury: Sharp wit, cutting words. If Mercury is Rx, brutal comebacks, sarcastic bombs, dormant-volcano vibes.

💘 Mars + Venus: Sky-high chemistry and libido. Can indicate extramarital affairs if placed in 6th, 8th, or 12th houses.

🌍 Mars + Jupiter: Foreign spouse likely, especially if in Sagittarius, Aquarius, Pisces, or houses 7, 9, 11, 12. If Jupiter is Rx, you might move in to their hometown and settle down with them.

House Placements:

1st: Obsessed with you (for good or bad) and your goals. Ride-or-die energy. Can be nosey at times like checking your phone or calling you 5 times a day.

2nd: Makes money, spends it faster. Budget? What's that?

3rd: Possible sibling tension (yours or theirs). Either best friends or beef.

4th: Clashes with family or feels unwelcome at home.

5th: Unplanned pregnancy, in some cases. Romantic chaos included.

6th: Both partners working, time management and compromise are keys.

7th: Young at heart. Their moods mirror yours. Big impact on your public life.

8th: Seductive. Uses charm to win fights. Heated arguments = steamy makeup sessions.

9th: Opinionated. Preaches unsolicited wisdom.

10th: Career-driven. May see you as the trophy. Big spender on lifestyle.

11th: Social butterfly. Has 20 friend groups and rotates through them like wardrobe.

12th: Calm on the outside, storm inside. When they blow up? Run. Holds grudges long after "forgiving."

Next Post will be about Jupiter as Darakaraka!

Wanna dive deeper into your chart's layers? ✨🔍 DM me for a full astrology reading, a 5 or 8-year marriage report, or a detailed synastry breakdown 🌙💬 Check out my pinned post for pricing and more info 💫💸

Let’s decode your cosmic chaos together ⭐💖

[pellucid-constellations]

If It All Fell (6)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: Angst, PINING

a/n: Sorryyyy for the wait <3 As a lot of you know I have been going through it lately, but I really enjoyed writing this and hope to post more immediately 🤜. Let me know what you think :))

Part 1 ♡ Part 2 ☆ Part 3 ✶ Part 4☼ Part 5 ☁ Part 7 ☆

Series Masterlist

~~

Day Court was immeasurably beautiful—with all of its pristine columns reflecting orange light. Marble flooring shone with distorted images of acrylic brush strokes that hung on granite walls. Fountains billowed at the mouth of every doorway, sculpted fixtures at their bases. Warm wind kissed your skin and glistening waters welcomed you and Day Court was so incredibly beautiful. 

You were sure, if given the chance, you would think the same of its residents. 

Unfortunately, you were not given the chance to come to that conclusion. 

“The High Lord is in a meeting. He sends his apologies for not meeting you upon your arrival—the merchants of Day can get a bit rowdy,” the servant laughed. “I can show you to your rooms in the meantime.”

“Rooms?” Rhysand posed. You attempted to look over Azriel’s wing to gauge the conversation, but Cassian took another step to the side, halting your movement. 

“Yes, Helion informed us that the four of you would be here, so we prepared four rooms. If that’s not—”

“Three rooms will suffice, thank you,” your High Lord drawled. 

The servant squeaked, and you were sure if you could see her, her nerves would be evident. “Of—of course, High Lord. I assume Lady Y/n will be with—”

“We will deal with the division of our rooms on our own. Thank you…” 

“Amira,” the servant offered. “My name is Amira. I will be attending to you, Lady Y/n, during your time here.” 

You knocked your head to the side, brushing Cassian’s bicep as he stood beside you. You barely caught Amira’s mousey brown hair before the membrane of a wing flushed out and pushed you back. 

“She doesn’t need an attendant,” Azriel bit out, misplaced malice creating tension in the hall.

“Oh, it’s okay, I—” 

Apparently, not even your voice was allowed to be heard. Rhysand cut you off. “No attendant,” he confirmed, after sending his spymaster a sidelong glance laced with reproach. “No servants in our rooms, either. We are rather private, you understand.”

A pause. 

You wished you could see anyone’s expression. 

From beside you, Cassian offered you a pity smile, nudging you with his elbow in an act of comfort. 

“Anything you require,” Amira shakily responded. “Shall I walk you back, then? Just to show you where you will be staying?” 

“Lead the way.” 

Azriel immediately stepped back, his shadows scrambling past him to enclose you in dim light. You felt his presence, firm and tall, looming at your back as you took the first few steps down the hall. 

This all felt entirely misplaced, with the bleakness of your group extinguishing some of the vibrance of the court you walked through. Cassian kept close to your side, some of Azriel’s shadows drifting off and cloaking the red glow on his hands and chest. Rhys, ever the High Lord, took up the front, footsteps light but purposeful. 

Everyone looked grim. 

Except for you. 

This court held no negative connotations for you, no malicious undertones that impacted the rest of your family. It was simply beautiful, and your family was simply cloistering you. 

But you agreed to this; anything to make them feel better. 

To make Azriel feel better. 

You turned your head to the side as you walked, catching the shadowsinger in your peripheral. Tense, on-guard, unyielding; Azriel’s jaw was set in a firm clench, but it was different from what you were used to. When he was tense at home, it was almost out of… anticipation? Trepidation? 

Here though… here his posture was derived from rage. From practiced, honed fury. 

You turned your head away before you attempted to fix it, to comfort him. He wanted to be angry, told you as much before he winnowed you to Day in a flurry of his shadows. 

I’m going to be different, he had told you, I need to be different. It can’t be like the last time. I can’t let you get hurt. 

The fear in his eyes had melted away in the Day Court sun; the second your feet landed on meticulously carved cobblestone, Azriel was no longer just your friend. 

Amira led you to three doors along a wall, mumbled a few parting words, and bowed away before anyone could send her a second glance. You attempted to offer her a reassuring smile amidst her flee, but Azriel’s shadows were too dense. A hand on your back led you into a room and Amira was gone. 

“That went well,” Cassian breathed, a long sigh punctuating his descent into a loveseat by the bed. “She didn’t look terrified at all.” 

The bedroom door clicked shut. Rhys raised his brows. “She’ll thank us later.” The High Lord’s eyes drifted to the shadowsinger sulking by your side. “This isn’t exactly a leisurely visit.” 

Your gaze shot around the room in the following lapse of silence, analyzing the tense nature of each male. The air felt stagnant and stiff, the light somehow dimmer even with the open windows, and you weren’t sure if your voice would make it worse or ease some of the pressing emotions. 

Rhys took a seat in a chair by the door, and you decided speaking was better than leaning into the uncomfortable silence. 

“It’s so beautiful here,” you began, playing with your fingers, second-guessing your decision to stand. Azriel remained motionless at your side. “The sun feels different somehow. Brighter, maybe?” 

“The skies have an affinity for their namesake in the solar courts,” Rhys offered kindly. 

You hummed, rolling onto your toes and then rocking back on your heels. “I suppose that makes sense. The nights are incredible back home.” 

The use of that word—home—did not go unnoticed by the group. Not by you and certainly not by the male standing guard at your side. The replacement of the word had been relatively common since you woke up. 

Here in Velaris, there is…. 

When you came back here all those years ago…

Let’s go back to the house…

Never home.

But being in Day—being away from Velaris—just solidified what you already assumed. Velaris was your home. You were sick of letting your family dance around that truth. 

~~

“Mother above, I was sure I would never see you again,” a strange voice tore your attention from Cassian’s vivid retelling of your first time flying with him, and although it was an interesting story, the man before you was even more enticing. 

With deep skin and an even deeper smile, white linen billowed around his confident figure. The man appeared to glisten as he walked toward your small group, golden sandals trailing up bronze calves. Even the air around him seemed to glow. 

Enticing didn’t seem to be the correct word. 

You’d been directed into a rather large study after a brief lunch and a “tour” of the grounds that only included the wing you were staying in. Rhys had chalked it up to Helion stalling for time. You’d tried to coax a more comprehensive tour out of the guard leading you around, but a sharp look from Azriel was enough to put that conversation to rest. 

“You look just as you did. Perhaps a bit gaunt but…” The man—Helion, you’d deduced—trailed off when the whisper of a shadow trailed at his neck. “I am Helion,” he smiled. “You have known me for many years. In love with me, as most are. But, alas, it is not fated.” 

Some of your awe shifted to shock. “I am—I’m sorry, I am in love with you?” 

In front of you, Cassian let out a long breath and fanned his wings out before letting them hang behind his chair. You sat straighter in your own seat, mortification creeping into your chest at the small laugh Rhys let slip across the room. What set your mouth into its flurry, however, was the raised brow you received from Helion. 

“I didn’t mean that to offend. I mean—what I meant was just that… Well, no one said I had a lover or even mentioned you in that way so it came as a shock. But I presume there is much about myself I have yet to learn so… you are a very beautiful man and I’m sure—” 

“Y/n, it’s alright,” came Azriel’s soothing voice from beside you, his scarred fingers pushing hair behind your ear halting your apologies. “He was only joking.” A pointed look in the High Lord’s direction. “He does that from time to time, unfortunately.” 

More mortification made an appearance. 

“Oh.” 

Helion’s raised brow had morphed into an unsure expression at some point amidst your rambling. “When they said you had no memory… You will have to excuse me, y/n. I assumed you’d have more… context. Especially with your abilities.” 

“We told you she remembered nothing and had no access to her magic,” Azriel defended, his fingers dropping to rest beside your thighs. 

“Well, yes, but often when magic tampers with the mind, the personality remains intact. Like a muscle memory.” 

“Oh, her personality is there,” Cassian retorted, a bittersweet smirk playing at his lips. “Just not when she’s met you five seconds ago and you’re revealing fake truths. Sarcasm doesn’t often work with strangers.” 

Helion nodded grimly, turning back to you. “I apologize.” 

“It’s really alright,” you comforted, attempting to calm some of the twisted guilt marring the High Lord’s face. “They worry too much. Right now everything I do is without context and I find myself embarrassed more often than not. It’s not your fault.” 

Helion did not look convinced or reassured. His eyes simply traveled to the corners of your face and tracked down to the patterns Azriel was drawing into the skirts of your dress. 

“Do you see now why we needed to come to you,” Rhys chimed in from above his crossed arms. 

Helion hummed. “Yes. Shall I get started then?” 

The room shuffled. You were informed that Helion had to be touching your head to assess the injury—unlike Rhys’s assessment—so you were sat atop a table to give him better access. Azriel followed by your side, his front pressed against the table, Cassian stood his ground behind Helion, and Rhys took up residence on your other side. 

“In Day, we have a type of healing that extends to magical wards and enchantments, was that explained to you?” Helion asked, kind eyes never leaving yours. Too kind—uncertain and full of reproach.

“Yes, they said maybe the witch put something in my mind. Like a blockage.” 

“Precisely. And I was informed about Rhysand’s unsuccessful attempt at entering your mind. That could be due to a spell, which is why I would be more useful.”

Rhys scoffed. 

You let a smile tug at your lips, but it was quickly extinguished when you considered the outcome of this process. “Will it feel the same? What you’re doing and what Rhys did?” 

You could almost hear the way Azriel ground his jaw. 

Helion glanced at him from the corner of his eye. “It will feel different. I am not in the business of thoughts or memories. I won’t be able to access anything other than any inflictions you may have.” 

“So it won’t hurt?” 

“I cannot promise anything.” 

The table beneath you shifted an inch, just to be caught by hands glowing with blue light.

I need to be different. It can’t be like the last time. I can’t let you get hurt.

“Still sure you can’t just beat the crap out of whatever’s going on in my head?” you posed to Cassian, tilting your head up to call over Helion’s shoulder. 

The general’s chuckle eased some of the tension in the room. “I would if I could.” 

“Promise?” 

“Always.” 

With a resigned breath, you nodded to Helion. The High Lord’s hands glowed a golden white, he lifted them to your head, and then there was nothing. 

~~

Azriel

If he hadn’t shot his hand out when he did, Azriel was sure your head would have fallen out of Helion’s grasp and plummeted to the floor. 

You were limp. 

Eyes closed, neck bent—completely and utterly limp. 

Azriel took the liberty of tugging on the bond just to make sure you were still alive. He hadn’t done so since you woke up in the forest, remembering the fear in your eyes, but you looked so incredibly lifeless. 

“Helion,” he barked, his worried expression never turning from your face. 

Icy panic gripped his stomach, twisting it with fervor. 

Cassian took a step forward. 

“Why is she unconscious?” his brother gritted out. His tone was an empty threat; he couldn’t hurt a High Lord, and neither could Azriel, but Azriel would do much more for much less. 

His life had become a nightmare. 

Literally. 

On his worst nights, he relived the time you went missing and the subsequent loss of your memories over and over until he woke up screaming. His heart would beat so rapidly it seemed impossible to slow and he would be inconsolable for several minutes, but he always had you there. He would wake up from that nightmare and you would be there. 

He had that dream every night now, and he woke up to the same. The guestroom he occupied didn’t smell like you, and even though you were just on the other side of the wall, he couldn’t make out the sound of your breath enough to let it lull him back to sleep. Nothing you owned was in that room. Everything he owned was still in a pile by the door after Feyre had rushed to clear the evidence of him from your space. But why did that matter? What were books and trinkets and clothes in a room that was otherwise devoid of everything he loved? 

Leaving his room was worse. 

Gods, all he wanted to do was hold you. To really, truly hold you and for you to hold him back. But you looked at him cordially, the same way you looked at Cassian and Rhysand and Mor. 

When he left the house he had to deal with Feyre and Nesta’s constant questioning. Even Amren had taken an interest in your well-being, and while he appreciated the care for his mate, he couldn’t take it. 

He couldn’t take echoing the words, “She’s fine. Healthy. Less pain today,” over and over when he could tell what they really wanted to know were things you wouldn’t share with him. He couldn’t take the fact that you didn’t tell him you loved him—that he would whisper it at your back every time you turned around and you never heard. You were skittish at his touch and shy when you spoke and you were never the first to voice your opinion and he just couldn’t take it. 

With your head in his broken hand, Azriel felt another piece of him crack. 

“I did it.” Rhys broke the silence, a concentration twisting his brow. “Helion and I agreed it was the best way to go about this. It had to be sudden though—unexpected. We needed a moment where her mind was completely unexpecting.”

Cassian cursed. “You couldn’t have told us that before you made it look like she died, Rhysand?” 

“If y/n were dead no one would be standing here right now and you know that.” 

“Still,” Cassian mumbled. “Warn a guy.” 

“I’ve felt this before,” Helion said, shaking his head. “But that’s impossible. Rhysand, you would have—” 

“I would have, yes, but not if it was created through other means. It was a witch, not a daemati.” 

“She could have been both.” 

“Extremely unlikely. Keep going.” 

Azriel watched the way your lashes fluttered, counted the beats of your heart and pretended you knew who he was. 

“What’s happening?” he asked. “You’re both in her head. Talk.” 

“I couldn’t get through the wall myself because it wasn’t her magic,” Rhys explained. “I assumed it was the witch’s, but this signature is too similar. It’s exactly like it was before, just muted.” 

“Like it was before?” Azriel repeated, finally turning his head up. 

Rhysand looked grim. “Almost identical.” 

“That isn’t possible,” the shadowsinger immediately refuted. “I killed that bastard myself. There is no way he could have done anything to her.” 

“Azriel, I think it’s possible that—” 

But Azriel did not let the High Lord of Day finish his thought. “You don’t speak to me about her,” he seethed. “Not when she came to your court and one of your people did this to her. I trusted you with her. I sent my mate here and she has been paying the price for that ever since. This is your fault, so you do not tell me what you think. You tell me what is certain.”

The room went silent, and Helion looked back at you, eyes glazing as he continued his work. 

A strong, steady hand clapped against Azriel’s shoulder. It took Cassian three tugs before Azriel reluctantly let your head go, but only after Rhysand placed his own hand at your back. 

“Look, I get it,” Cassian comforted, hands on his brother's arms. “If this was Nesta I’d probably be tearing this room apart right now. But he’s all we have here. And you know it wasn’t his fault last time. You remember how hard he worked to get her back.” 

Azriel ignored him.

Cassian roughly shook his frame. 

“Hey, you know that. And you know y/n’s going to be pissed at you when she gets her memories back and hears how much of an ass you’re being to Helion. She’s going to be severely pissed if you start a war trying to kill the guy.” 

“If.”

The small smile Cassian was sporting faltered. “What?” 

Azriel finally met his eyes. “If she gets her memories back. It was an if last time and it’s an if again.” 

The two High Lords discussed quietly in the back, their hands still on you. Azriel’s shadows refused to leave your side, weaving through your hair and your clothes and the fingers against your head. 

“Well last time she got them back, didn’t she?” 

“You truly believe that will happen twice? I was praying to the mother for luck the first time, Cassian. She won’t listen again. I guarantee she won’t.” 

“Az…” Cassian trailed off. There was no speech to formulate, not when defeat and resolution were so clear on his brother’s face. 

“She won’t love me a third time.” 

Your cough had Azriel bolting away from his brother’s concerned gaze in an instant. You were no longer in Helion’s grasp, instead leaning against Rhysand’s arm as the High Lord of Day scribbled something in a book.

“Ow.” You rubbed at your head with a pinched expression, squinting up at Azriel as he leaned down. “I think I passed out or something.” 

It was mostly out of hysterics, but a small laugh escaped the spymaster. “Or something.” 

Gods, you sent a spark of joy down the bond and it was all-consuming. You did that from time to time, unintentionally flooding Azriel with whatever emotion you felt the strongest. More than once he had to stop himself from opening his side completely just to relish in the reminisce you offered him. 

“What about this time? Did we figure it out?” you slurred, squeezing your eyes open just to have the drop closed once again. 

Azriel tucked his hand against the back of your head and looked expectantly at the two High Lords before him. 

When Helion spoke, Azriel let him, if only because he was still living on the high of his mate’s lingering amusement. “Whatever the witch did, it was a mimicry of the daemati that tore into her head all those years ago. I need to do more research, see if I am able to undo whatever it is she redid without irreparably damaging her mind. If I can’t, the only answer is the witch.” 

“Is that even possible? To mimic something like that?” Azriel asked, stepping forward so your drooping head would fall against his arm. 

“Witches draw power beyond their reserve and even beyond the cauldron. We know so little about them. Tamlin should not have been making deals with them,” Helion curtly replied. 

Any lightness in the room had very clearly disappeared. 

“Take your mate back to your room. We can discuss this when she no longer looks like she’s fighting to stay awake.” 

“I am awake,” you argued, trying and failing to haul yourself into an upright position. 

Rhysand huffed out a laugh. “I wouldn’t even be awake after having two high lords in my mind. Go rest. We will talk in the morning.” 

Azriel assisted as you stood on unsteady legs, but the attempt was futile. The shadowsinger gathered you into his arms as you sent an accusatory finger in Rhysand’s direction. “Liar.” 

It wasn’t until you were alone in the hallway, your head against Azriel’s shoulder, his arms beneath your body, that you spoke again.

“Azriel?” 

He hummed in response. 

“What’s a mate?”

Part 7 ☆

[demie90s]

All That Legend and Still Can’t Shake Me

꒰ 🍒 ꒱ DIANA TAURASI X READER ꒰ 🍒 ꒱ MASTERLIST

1/? - Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5, Part 6, Part 7,

Hush. Pt.8 (smut)

⭑ pairing: diana taurasi x reader (rookie!fem!reader)

⭑ summary: you made history as the youngest Mercury starter, first rookie to drop a 40-piece since 2006, and the fastest-growing fan favorite in the league. but none of that compares to how you treat Diana Taurasi like she’s just another baddie on your radar—and you never miss a shot.

⭑ genre: flirty tension, veteran x rookie dynamic, lowkey enemies to lovers, locker room heat, teammates just watching

⭑ warnings: language, cocky reader, suggestive moments, eye contact that lingers too long, Diana being over it (but not really), everyone watching this slow-burn play out like it’s prime-time

⭑ word count: ~ 0.8k

————————————

“You could be better,” Diana mutters, passing you in the tunnel after warmups.

You don’t miss a beat. “You could be mine.”

She stops. Just long enough for her head to tilt. That patented Taurasi side-eye—the one that’s made rookies crumble and refs rethink their careers. You don’t flinch. You’ve never flinched. Not around her.

“You’re bold,” she says, walking again.

You grin. “You’re fine.”

This is how it’s been all season.

You: rookie of the year, viral clips, fastest-growing WNBA account on social media, already being called “the future of Phoenix.”

Diana: unbothered, untouchable, still pulling up from the logo like she invented it.

You hit the court every night with one goal: win games and make Diana smile. Not necessarily in that order.

————————————

Your season started with a bang—literally. First WNBA game, you dropped 32 points, 7 rebounds, and 5 steals. Broke a record. Broke a few hearts. Twitter exploded. “THIS ROOKIE GOT THAT DOG IN HER” was trending for hours.

You did post-game interviews like you’d been doing them for years. Calm. Cocky. Flashed a grin and said, “We’ve got vets on this team. I just follow greatness.”

The camera panned to Diana. She rolled her eyes.

The fans? Obsessed.

Edits hit TikTok by morning. Slow-mo videos of you passing her the ball with captions like “just a rookie in love with a legend” and “taurasi’s #1 problem.”

You didn’t deny it. Why would you?

She was Diana fucking Taurasi.

And you? You were coming for her.

————————————

“You’re staring again,” Diana says one afternoon at practice, eyes never leaving the free throw line.

“Only ‘cause you’re cute when you act annoyed,” you shoot back, spinning a ball on your fingers.

“She’s not even good at being subtle,” Sophie whispers from the bench. “I live for it.”

“It’s getting worse,” Brittney mutters, sipping her water. “She’s not scared of Diana at all.”

“She’s gonna get her ass handed to her.”

“Or a date.”

You grin, sinking a three just as Diana turns toward you. “Bet I can drop 20 before you hit your third.”

“Bet you can sit down and shut up,” she fires back.

You wink. “Only if you ask nicely.”

————————————

Game night. You come off the bench hot. First quarter, you block a pass. Second quarter, you get a steal and assist. Diana passes to you on a fast break, and you take it coast to coast. Pure net.

The crowd goes wild. She jogs back beside you, deadpan. “Don’t get cocky.”

“Don’t act like you’re not impressed.”

She glances sideways. “I’m not.”

But she is.

Her lips twitch when you wink at a courtside camera. When the crowd starts chanting your name, you lean toward her and murmur, “You jealous of my fan club?”

“I was here first,” she says.

“Then act like it,” you purr.

————————————

The locker room after a win is electric. Someone’s blasting music. Sophie’s dancing on a chair. You’re still in your jersey, sitting on a bench, scrolling through your DMs. Half of them are fan edits. The other half are thirst tweets about you and Diana.

You hold one up to her without looking. “This one says ‘I bet the rookie calls her ma’am and she likes it.’ Thoughts?”

Diana doesn’t break stride. “You’re delusional.”

“Admit it,” you say, leaning back, “I make the team more fun.”

She stops in front of your locker. Arms crossed. Smirk barely hidden.

“You’re chaos,” she says. “And a headache.”

“But a pretty one.”

She doesn’t respond. Just walks away.

You follow her with your eyes.

Coach walks by and mutters, “You’re gonna give her an aneurysm.”

You smile. “Only if she resists.”

————————————

It keeps going like that. Game after game. Practice after practice. You flirt. She rolls her eyes. You drop 30. She shrugs. You steal her snacks. She cusses you out. You flirt harder.

And slowly, something shifts.

She starts passing to you more. Waiting for your cut. Laughing—laughing—when you stumble over a cocky one-liner mid-game. The team notices. The media notices.

“She’s warming up to you,” Sophie says one day.

You smirk. “Told y’all. Can’t fight charm forever.”

————————————

End of the season. You’re in the tunnel, gear bag slung over your shoulder. Rookie of the Year interview scheduled in ten minutes. Diana’s waiting near the door, already in sunglasses.

You stop next to her. Breathe in. Calm. Composed. Until you look at her.

“You still ignoring me?”

She exhales. “You’re exhausting.”

“But you like it.”

Silence.

Then: “You made history this year.”

You blink. “Was that… praise?”

“I said you made it,” she replies. “Didn’t say you deserved it.”

You step closer. “Say you’re proud of me, 3.”

She glances over her shades. “I’ll say it when you stop acting like I’m your girlfriend.”

You lean in, lips inches from her ear.

“I’d treat you right if you were.”

She snorts. “You’d ruin me.”

“I’d start slow.”

She walks away. You grin.

The media never stood a chance.

And neither did she

————————————

MASTERLIST

⭑Not me turning this into a sports romcom with court-side tension and locker room foreplay. this is for the girls who think Diana’s stare could kill but also wanna make her laugh.

[sunandflame]

Paulie NSFW/Kink Headcanons

Warnings: nsfw

Word Count: 697

Pairing: Paulie x Reader

crossposted on AO3

1. Rope Kink (Bondage)

Let’s address the elephant in the room: he’s a rope master. Paulie absolutely has a rope kink—part functional, part control, part intimacy. He loves the physicality of it—wrapping you up safely, precisely, and seeing the tension against your skin.

Expect elaborate ropework, often improvised on the spot.

He checks in constantly during it, murmuring “Too tight?” or “You good, babe?”

2. Loud, Gruff Talker in Bed

He’s not polished, but he's vocal—gruff praise, curses under his breath, or ragged moans when he loses control. You’ll hear things like:

“Fuck, you feel good—don’t stop, don’t stop—”

“You’re gonna kill me one day, y’know that?”

3. Switch Energy with a Dominant Lean

He likes being in control—pinning you down, gripping your hips, making you say please—but if you tug his tie and push him back? He’ll lose composure fast. He gets so flustered when you top him. His switch side shows up especially if you praise him while taking the lead.

“H-Hey—wait, what are you—... shit, you're gonna kill me like this...”

4. Praise & Fluster Kink

Paulie adores being praised—especially if it's physical. Tell him he feels good inside you? That his hands are perfect? That he’s your favorite? He’ll groan and grip harder, maybe thrust deeper just to earn more of it. But he’s also a blushing mess about it.

“Y-You don’t have to say stuff like that—...I mean, you can, but—!”

5. Oral Fixation (Giving)

He loves using his mouth, especially after a long day. He sees it as a way to unwind you, as much as himself. Expect long, focused sessions where he’s completely in his element—face buried, hands gripping your thighs, groaning at every reaction.

6. Workbench Sex / Workshop Quickies

There’s something deeply hot to Paulie about pulling you onto his worktable after a long day—grease on his hands, sawdust in his hair, and you bent over plans and blueprints. He loves spontaneous, rough sex when he’s still in work mode. Tools rattling, clothes half-on, just raw need.

“We can clean up later—right now, I need you here.”

7. Clothes-On / Half-On Kink

He finds it stupidly sexy when your clothes are only partially removed—skirt hiked up, shirt unbuttoned, his belt undone but pants still on. It’s messy, desperate, unpolished—he thrives on the heat of the moment.

8. Dirty Talk with a Clumsy Edge

He tries to talk dirty, and he’s not bad at it—but sometimes it comes out clumsy in a way that’s so hot because it’s real. Expect lines like:

“Fuck—y-you feel amazing—like, too amazing, it’s actually dangerous—” or

“I’m gonna wreck you. Respectfully. Thoroughly. Efficiently.”

9. Muscles & Manual Labor = Stamina

Let’s be honest: the man works with his hands all day, swinging tools, building ships. That strength and stamina absolutely translate to the bedroom.

He can go for multiple rounds.

Sweaty, shirtless, grunting—he’s like a walking thirst trap without even trying.

10. Cum on Skin / Mess Appreciation

He’s a tactile guy. Seeing his release on your body does something to him. Chest, stomach, thighs—he groans like he’s watching a masterpiece. He also gets super handsy post-orgasm, running his fingers through the mess while admiring the view.

11. Prone to Sex in Weird Places

Workshop table? Hammock? Rope storage shed? Paulie’s not afraid to get messy or creative when the mood hits.

You might hear, “Shut the door, no one’ll come in. C’mere.”

He has the tools to hang you up in very inventive ways—if you’re into it.

12. Sensitive Post-Orgasm / Overstimulation

He tries to act tough, but give him a second round too soon and he shudders. His back arches, hands scramble for something to hold, and he’ll swear under his breath. Still? He doesn’t ask you to stop. He loves how you take control when he’s sensitive.

13. Aftercare King

Rough sex? Rope play? Even just intense sessions? He’s the type to immediately scoop you up afterward—check for marks, give you water, clean you up. He might grumble about “being too soft,” but it’s his way of showing love.

Will 100% wrap you in a blanket like a burrito and kiss your forehead.

“Did I hurt you? No? Good. I’ll run a bath, just stay put, alright?”

[nevadancitizen]

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

synopsis: The Soviet Union has been producing robots for a long time based on a miracle compound: polymer. But that was invented in 1941. The current year is 2038, and, due to rising tensions in the Arctic, Americans aren't as kind to Soviets as they once were. It's too bad you're a russki, and it's really too bad that you work in cybersecurity. And honestly, with the case Fowler has put you on, you're at risk of losing your job. It doesn't help that you're stuck with Lieutenant Hank Anderson and some new android apparently called Connor.

A Detroit: Become Human AU with elements from Atomic Heart (2023), in which the international political climate is a bit different and more prominent within the story. The Soviet Union still exists, and she's threatening America by proxy of her invasion of the Arctic.

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

tags: Robot/Human Relationships, Action/Adventure, Action & Romance, Slow Burn, Fluff, Canon-Typical Violence, Gender-neutral Reader, Mutual Pining, Minor Character Death

small note: this fic has russian in it (i mean, obviously). i'll be posting the translations in the comments of the fics, so if you're confused, be sure to check them :)

note, continued: also, the reader in this fic is gender neutral. please do not refer to them with feminine or masculine pronouns. instead, please address them by they/them pronouns. this fic is all-inclusive and not meant to alienate anyone -- it's meant to be written so that everyone can read, no matter their personal pronouns!

CH. 1: A Silent Dog & Still Waters

CH. 2: Like a Mouse in a House Full of Cats

CH. 3: Android Autopsy (Or is it Necropsy?)

CH. 4: Without Torture, There is no Camaraderie

CH. 5: Live For a Century, Learn For a Century

CH. 6: Some Sort of Sick, Self-Inflicted Schadenfreude

CH. 7: Does Every Rabid Dog Get its Tail Docked up to the Ears?

CH. 8: Mind Palaces & Other Shattered Crystalline Dreams

CH. 9: If You Chop From the Shoulder, the Ax Will Find Your Hip

CH. 10: Either Fickle or a Friend (Or a Really Fucking Fickle Friend)

CH. 11: Only Philosophy From the Poor Rings True

CH. 12: Friends & Tobacco are Separate Things (& so are Revolutions)

CH. 13: The Joys of Soviet Technologies (or, Good, Honest Snake Oil – if There is Such a Thing!) (or, Let's Talk Homecoming (the Military Operation, not Prom)) (or, The Smallest Church in Saint-Saëns) (or, Wake up & Smell the Ashes)

CH. 14: No Misfortune is Without Blessing

CH. 15: These are the Moments

EPILOGUE: Welcome Home, Officer

[clawsdevour]

fogged up

wc: 1.9k content warning: smut, post-time skip, established relationship, shower sex, small mention of slapping, oral (m!receiving), reader x kiyoomi sakusa, oneshot, not proofread

note: to be honest. this plot and like little scenario has BEEN simmering in my mind since like 2020 LMFAO i jsut never started writing until this summer..

ꕮ * ׂ.﹑

It was currently 7:33 PM, and the other day you invited your boyfriend, Kiyoomi Sakusa, to sleep over at your place for the night since he’s got volleyball practice near where you resided. He’s supposed to arrive around eight which is usually the time he gets out. 

Twenty-seven minutes.. Good amount of time for an everything shower before he gets here, you thought to yourself. You’re grabbing the cute pjs you saved to wear for the night you invited him over, along with a pair of some lacy panties to add with your sleepwear if things get a bit intimate. 

The cold bathroom air hits your face when you twist open the knob and set your clothes on the marble counter. Turning on the water, as you wait for it to get warmer you start stripping yourself naked before hopping in and closing the glass door. 

You do the usual routine starting with double shampooing, a nice and hydrating hair mask, wash it off before letting your condition sit in your hair. Despite hearing all of the water shooting down onto you and the hitting the tiles, you heard something else from another part of your house. The front door. Someone got into your house. Fuck.. Is this gonna end up like that one movie where that girl dies in the bathroom?? Keep in mind, you lived alone. The door creaked to a close when you heard a heavy thud and footsteps heading towards the noise you created in the bathroom. 

You were just halfway into your everything shower when you saw the doorknob move side to side through the glass walls of your shower. The clunk of your handle slowly twisted the door open, from outside you’re staring at an eye that pierced back at you to which you knew who it was. Oh thank god, It’s just Kiyoomi!! Sighing in relief before you realized you’re completely left exposed, vulnerable and completely wet, trying to hastily cover up with just your hands.

“O-Oh.. I’m sorry” his husky voices mutters out, realizing you’re helpless naked and showering while he slams the door shut in awkwardness, still standing right outside. Both of you were in a bit of shock at the sudden interaction, the tension rose to its high even though you were separated by the door. 

“Wait Omi! Do you… wanna join me? You just got back from practice so you must be feeling really sweaty and gross right now!” peering your head out of the glass door to stare back at the blank wall that’s dividing you two. His head hung back up to ask through the walls if it was okay, to which you obliged. 

He creaks back open a sliver while asking you to excuse him for his intrusion. His tall muscular body walks in, dark eyes wide open, face slightly flushed and tried their hardest to resist seeing your bare figure covered with the sheen layer of water that glistened with every movement.

Kiyoomi brought in his clothing and set it aside next to yours as he began to undress in front of you, to which you watched from the corner of your eye while he strips his articles of clothing one by one. His lean long torso, and toned arms left you salivating. Especially when he slid down his boxers to reveal that he already had an erection that coiled out, a large and tall one at that, leaving you in shock while he’s a bit ashamed.

“I can’t help myself.” He’s standing face to face with you with the glass shower somewhat opened, looking down at you and your perky, shiny breasts. You let out a subtle giggle as you grabbed his hand to lead him in the shower with you. His deep black curls, saturated and drooped down as the water catches onto his thick hair.

Turning around to face the showerhead as you wash out the conditioner that was in your hair for a while, you felt Kiyoomi’s large hands hover around your slick waist. His head, in the crook of your neck planting a soft peck on your jaw. You felt his bare cock press and increase in size along the curve of your ass.

“Did you miss me at practice, Omi?” you could feel his mouth form into a small grin along your neck. He’s gradually sliding his dick up and down on the crevice of your ass, as he nods into you. One of his hands let go from your waist and slide up to your boob, feeling it up and flicking around your nipple as you let out small whines from his cheeky antics.

“How’d you know?” he’s moving his hand up from your nipple to your chin to position you for a kiss on the lips as you gaze back at his eyes that’re filled to the brim with lust and desire. The tapping sounds coming from the water hitting onto you two and the floor made it inaudible when you and Kiyoomi started to full on make out in the shower.

His hand on your waist eventually slid down to your slippery clit, rubbing it in slow sensational circles while you continue to receive his loving, sloppy kisses that enhanced your experience. You were the first to pull away from him to catch your breath while you turned around and kneeled in front of him to face his raging boner. He’s flushed to a rosy pink hue as you started to stroke his cock aggressively since the water made it easier to slide your fingers around his dick.

“Shit.. if you do that, I don’t know what I’m gonna end up doing with you.” His thumb reaches down once more, but to open your mouth while your undivided attention was set on him as he’s toying with your warm tongue that swirls around his calloused digit. When he took out his thumb from your slobbering mouth was when you started going down on his length. 

The warmth your mouth provided him was overwhelming, his hot breathless puffs ringing in the little heated glass room and mixed with the humidity. The amount of slick your cunt produced kept getting washed down by the water, but sucking him off made you feral and crave him even more as you bobbed your head repeatedly on it. His long fingers were buried in your sopping wet hair as he held your head to use your mouth like his own personal flesh toy.

His dick twitched like crazy in your mouth from the unbearable pleasure that he had to pull out before he came in your mouth. But you absolutely refused, you wanted all of his release in your mouth.

“Ha.. you’re kidding me…” he snickered whilst holding eye contact with you, your eyes penetrated his while he pumped his warm gooey cum into your mouth before taking it out while he watched you swallow it all down. Sticking your tongue out to playfully taunt him, he can’t help but snicker at how you just took it all like that down your throat.

“Put it in please, I can’t wait any longer Omi.. it’s been so long since you’ve been back” stepping closer to the glass wall of the shower, your hands spread across the glass that fogged, ass sticking out with the water shimmering as it runs down your back, your head is turnt to peep at him with eyes that begged with sin. 

“You’ll get what you want.” Kiyoomi splashed behind you as he closes in between the gap, his hands gripping your hips to get closer to his. You watch impatiently from behind as he’s lining up his tip with your slick entrance, the water making it a bit slippery before you felt your hole widen as his head presses into you, letting out an immense moan that rippled along the walls. 

“O-Omi..!” Moaning out his name as he starts to thrust his size into you, creating banging sounds that recoiled with the water that hits from above.

The side of your face pressed against the shower to watch him at work drilling into your pussy with all the wet squelching that echoed and mixed with sounds of the downpour. Your tits were pressed against the glass and moved whenever he pounded into you, creating foggy looking silhouettes around you. The shadows and your nipples squished around, as you’re able to watch this all go down in the mirror across from you.

His tightening grip was bruising, but you loved it. You also loved whenever he lands a finishing strike across your ass that stings a bright red on your cheek as if your ass was a volleyball that he spiked. Your whimpers and that lewd look on your face powers him further to fuck you even harder. Whenever you call out for him, he can’t help himself but pick up the pace to pleasure you even further.

Kiyoomi’s watching you get pounded by him in the mirror, enjoying every second of it. His soaking wet hair brushes against your skin whenever he peppers kisses along your back, while he smells the scent of clean soap wash off your body the more he pounds into you.

“You feel so fucking good you know that?” You babble out words that you couldn’t even make out the moment your slurred speech comes out of your mouth. Your hand reaches down for your clit to stimulate you further to get closer to your release which he noticed. Kiyoomi’s quick to grab ahold of your hand and keep it pressed against the glass as he continues to groan into your ear, saying you don’t need to do that when you’ve got him.

“M’not letting you cum alone.” Kiyoomi pauses for a brief moment before taking out his cock from your gaping hole, causing you to whimper from feeling so empty without him being in you.

When you turn around to face him with a slight pout on your face, he picks you up and slams you against the cold glass. Awoken from the mind numbing pleasure, your headspace is in for a slight shock when his slightly swollen lips meet yours for another long kiss as if he were a starved animal.

He’s backing away to slip back in his throbbing cock into your dripping entrance as he’s pressing your back further onto the glass walls of your shower. Kiyoomi’s holding onto you so tight, not letting you go anywhere as he continues to fuck you brainless, feeling all the sensations when your bodies continue to rub up against each other.

His twitching dick and your throbbing cunt, the lust in the atmosphere, the sounds that echo off your wet bodies as the shower runs, Kiyoomi’s almost at his end point. Both of you are sore and stimulated to the max as he releases his white cum into you, coating your plush gummy walls with his white paint. You’re both still, trying to pick back up your unmatched breathing.

“I’m sorry.. I got carried away,” he’s panting while pulling out, kissing your forehead as a gesture to ask for your forgiveness as you continue to cling onto his broad shoulders.

His essence seeps out of you and drips onto the bathroom tiles as it gets washed away due to the warm running water. You’re trying to regain your composure as he continues to hold you in his arms, Kiyoomi’s fingers moving away the stray wet hairs that clung onto your forehead while looking into your starry, but droopy eyes peer back into his while you mumble out an it’s okay. 

“You’re too beautiful” he whispers to you before setting you down to help finish washing you up before bed.

masterlist here

[onesiesdaydream]

Whiskey Eyes I Chuuya Nakahara x Reader (Part 2)

Part 1 I Part 2

Summary: Chuuya stumbles home piss-drunk in the dead of night. Safe to say, you were both in for a really long night.

A/N: Sorry for having to make this two parts, it exceeded Tumblr's character limit per post so I had to split it :/

TW: Mentions of puking and hangovers.

MASTERLIST

You woke to the sound of retching.

The kind that echoed sharply against bathroom tile—all hollow force and regret. You blinked against the pale light creeping in through the blinds and instinctively reached for the other side of the bed. Empty. Cold.

Another gag. A muffled curse.

You were on your feet before your toes even registered the chill of the floor on your bare feet.

The bathroom door was half-shut, dull light spilling into the hallway. You pushed it open slowly and found him hunched over the toilet, shirtless, knees pressed to the cold tile, one trembling hand braced against the wall. He hadn’t noticed you yet—too focused on breathing between waves of nausea.

You knelt beside him, gathering his damp hair away from his face before tying it back in a loose bun. His skin was clammy. The sharp tang of bile and stale whiskey clung to the air.

“Hey,” you murmured. “You’re alright. Just let it pass.”

He groaned, eyes fluttering open just enough to glance at you—bloodshot and heavy with shame.

“I’m fine,” he rasped.

You rolled your eyes, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “If you were fine, I wouldn’t be finding you on the bathroom floor at 7 AM.”

He let out a sound caught between a cough and a miserable laugh, resting his forehead on his arm. “You didn’t have to get up.”

“You think I’m gonna let you die of alcohol poisoning alone in the bathroom?” Your tone was light, but your fingers were gentle as they traced slow circles between his shoulder blades.

Another groan. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing. “I don’t even remember coming home.”

“You hit on the toaster and gave me a bottle cap like it was a wedding ring.”

A weak laugh escaped him, barely more than an exhale. “Romantic. Bet I was real smooth.”

“Like sandpaper,” you said, nudging his shoulder with yours. “But at least you remembered where home was.”

You reached for the washcloth draped over the sink, soaked it in cold water, and pressed it to the back of his neck. He shuddered, then slumped against you with a defeated sigh.

For a while, the only sounds were his ragged breaths and the drip of the faucet. You kept running your fingers through his hair, slow and steady, anchoring him.

Then, quietly, he spoke again

“I hate this part,” he mumbled. “Waking up and knowing you had to deal with me like that.”

You didn’t answer right away. Just reached for the mouthwash in the cabinet and handed it to him once he’d leaned back.

He took it with a shaky grip, swished, spat, then let his head thud against the toilet. He gave a breathy, miserable laugh and squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. For always putting this bullshit on you.”

“You didn’t put anything on me,” you said, watching as he swished another shot of the mouthwash and spat. “I’d rather have you home and hungover than not at all.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned heavily against the wall, eyes closed.

You stayed by his side as the silence settled again, your fingers never leaving his hair. It was the kind of quiet that carried weight—not tension, but something softer. Something full of the unspoken.

You stayed like that for a while, tucked into the quiet hush of the morning, the kind that only existed before the world woke up—before traffic, before sunlight fully reached the floor, before the weight of the day settled in. You didn’t rush him. Just held his hand and let him exist exactly as he was—messy, hungover, but still him.

Eventually, he shifted, just enough to press a kiss to the side of your head. It was barely more than a whisper of warmth, but it was real.

“Thank you,” he murmured against your temple. “For staying. For not hating me when I’m like this.”

You turned your head to meet his tired gaze, brushing your thumb across his cheek. “I love you, even when you’re like this,” you said. “And when you’re not.”

He shifted, just enough to rest his head against your shoulder, the curve of his body leaning into yours with quiet trust. His breath was warm against your neck, still unsteady but slowing, like the worst of the storm had passed.

“You know I don’t mean to make it hard,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

“I know,” you whispered, your hand finding his and giving it a light squeeze. “You just do, anyway.”

That earned you the tiniest smile.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promised, tilting his head enough to look at you. His eyes were still red, still tired—but clearer now. “Dinner. A real one. No whiskey. Just one bottle of wine. Flowers, maybe. You deserve flowers.”

You laughed softly, pressing your forehead to his. “You don’t have to buy me flowers. Just… come home safe and sober next time. And maybe don’t flirt with the toaster.”

He chuckled—a real one this time, hoarse but genuine. “Deal.”

You helped him up slowly, easing him toward the sink. He rinsed his face while you grabbed a clean towel which he patted gently against his cheeks.

“C’mon,” you said, guiding him out of the bathroom. “Let’s get you back in bed before the hangover decides to fight round two.”

He let you lead him, head bowed, one arm slung around your waist for balance. And when you finally got him settled again—new shirt, water and bucket by the bed, the morning sun stretching golden across the floor—he pulled you in close and tucked his face into your neck.

“Don’t go so far,” he whispered, already half-asleep.

You smiled into his hair, your hand resting over his heart.

“Not a chance.”

[withoutyouimsaskia]

Sometimes It's Fated (Sandman Short Story Part 1)

Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

​GIF: Originally posted by @tavners

Pairing: Morpheus/Dream of the Endless x AFAB reader

Summary: Reader Self-Insert. After restoring the Dreaming and locating the missing dreams and nightmares, Morpheus turns his attention to finding you, the human he believes fate has chosen for him. (Title inspired by Placebo's "This Picture".)

Warnings: Minors DNI. Dark!Morpheus. Soulmates. Angst. Obsessive and possessive behaviour. Tension. Home invasion. Voyeurism. Implied masturbation. Dream manipulation.

Word Count: 2.6k

A/N: Wow, this took way longer to finish than I had originally planned. My head's been all over the place with trying (and thus far failing) to find a new job. The themes are very different to what I've written before; I hope it reads okay. Please let me know what you think. All my love, Saskia xx

Sandman Masterlist

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

Fate.

A phenomenon that governed every particle of matter within the known universe and even those beyond.

Some considered it a comforting concept that excused them from the burden of decision making, citing: "I'll leave it up to fate." For others the phrase was a cursory, throw-away comment or a romantic line they heard in the lyrics of a song.

The real truth of the matter was that Fate was a trio of immortal beings, goddesses, with sight so potent that they knew the past, present and future of every individual to have lived. The mythology of the Greeks, Romans and Norse hadn't been too far off with their stories of the Moirai, Parcae and Norns but of course, no humans really believed there to be any realism in myths. They were just stories. It didn't matter either way; they existed and had influence regardless of what the majority believed.

For beings such as The Endless siblings, the presence of Fate in the cosmos was not only real, but also something that affected even themselves.

For the King of Dreams, an eventuality had been prophesised long ago by The Kindly Ones that spoke of a bond that was to be forged between himself and a mortal.

Lord Morpheus, in his pride, had tried to be above such a foretelling, even questioning its validity because the notion of a mortal accepting his version of the universe seemed wholly implausible.

But he could not truly stop himself from wondering about you, reaching out to see if he could feel your presence in the minds of the dreamers he hosted.

It wasn't something he indulged in with frequency. More of a once-in a-decade interval. Enough to appease his curiosity.

Of course, this was put on hold during his imprisonment at Fawney Rig.

Morpheus had had much to contemplate during this period. The damage his absence caused to the collective subconscious, the decay of his realm, the loss of freedom and dignity. There was also a chance that you had been born and died in the 106 years he spent in captivity.

What if he was too late and had lost the chance of discovering who you were?

It was a nauseating prospect that scraped and scratched a space deep within his being; bleeding him of his remaining stores of hope that were so significantly depleted after the death of beloved Jessamy.

Despite the nasty emotional wound, finding you was a charge that he assigned at the end of his priorities after his escape.

Recovering his scattered tools, restoring the Dreaming, locating his absent creations, unravelling the mystery of Rose Walker and confronting Desire all had needed to come first.

The latter interaction had left Morpheus with a seething rage that was currently propelling him down the boards of the dock that sit above the Ocean of Dreams.

The dense mist in the air is buffeted by his movements and the only sounds are the tread of boots, the creak of wooden slats and the lap of water.

With each step, the liquid becomes choppier as it reacts to its master's mood and by the time he has reached the end of the dock, the surface of the water roils fervorously, completely in line with Morpheus' dangerous temperament.

The words of Desire's final silken-toned taunt echo in his mind with grating persistence.

"Oh, poor Dream. I really got under your skin this time, didn't I?"

He is loathe to admit there is truth in the question.

There are moments where Morpheus ponders the turn that the relationship between them has taken. How Desire went from being his favourite sibling to someone one shade shy of an adversary. Their faultless adeptness at provoking his temper and manipulating the events that encircle him would be impressive if not for the danger posed to humanity.

The agitated water eventually draws focus to how out of control he and his emotions have become. Morpheus knows he must get them in check, and quickly, for he knows the consequences all too well should he ignore it.

He clenches his fist and swallows it all down, pushing it deep inside his belly until the crackling entropy of the anger is fully dispelled.

Morpheus then sweeps his coat out behind him as he sinks lithely into a crouch. Trepidation nips at his heart and tugs his attention to a sobering thought.

This foray into the water may be fruitless.

You may be long gone and there would be no way of ever knowing you.

His nostrils flare as he takes a deep breath; he has run out of excuses to not look, even if he is afraid of the outcome.

Long, delicate fingers dapple the surface of the inky ocean. The waves still at the touch, obedient to him with instancy.

He repositions to full height and reaches into his coat to find the pouch of sand stashed in the pocket. A handful of twinkling grains slip off his palm into the ocean, lighting the water it touches to a luminous green.

"Find my soulmate," Morpheus commands silently.

The intention is set. He steps off the dock into the water.

At first, like every other prior attempt, there is no sign of you. Morpheus floats submerged in the tepid liquid, filtering through the hubbub of countless other dreams and nightmares.

Then there is a pull.

It is faint yet indisputable. Warmth explodes in his chest and he groans inwardly from the delicious sensation of relief.

You are alive, and you are dreaming.

A path of radiance appears in the water, a line that shows your connection, and provides a location for him to hone in on.

Morpheus dives deeper without hesitation.

As he reaches the edge of your subconscious, he rejoices that he got a handle on his emotions. He wouldn't want your first perception of him to be one tinged with rage, however unaware you were of him, with your soulmate being the source.

He hesitates for a moment before entering the dream you are in and is somewhat taken aback by what he finds.

A room comprising of four blank walls, a floor, a ceiling and a door. There is but one other feature; a window, and its view is as non-descript and inoffensive as the internal space.

You stand by said window, head turned from him.

Despite being unable to see your face, he sees your anxiety with immediacy. It is an aura hovering about your body, being sucked into your lungs with every fast-paced breath.

You begin to throw glances towards the door. Morpheus filters through the layers of the dream. No one is scheduled to come across the threshold.

The more he observes, the more questions arise in Morpheus' mind.

What was making you so affected? What were you expecting to happen?

There's nothing in the scene that is intended to be unpleasant yet you are reacting in a way that most observers would characterise as unsettled.

Morpheus, despite not yet knowing you, doesn't like to see you this way. His dominant instinct is to end the dream but he quashes the desire to review the bigger picture.

The empty room dream was symbolic of a beginning.

It clicks into place.

What you were feeling, even if on a purely instinctual level, was the anticipation of meeting your soulmate and starting your new life.

Morpheus steps into the frame, just a couple of paces behind you.

You feel his presence instantly, eyes full to the brim with tears as you whirl around with a soft gasp.

You see him.

The tears spill and patter onto the white floor.

Morpheus reaches out, overcome by his need to provide comfort.

You disappear.

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

Morpheus is sat on his throne. He pores over the book he had located in the Dreaming's library a little over a week ago that contains the details of your life. It is something he has taken to doing when the impatience of waiting for you to fall asleep becomes too keen.

Your subconscious has him enraptured, watching it every night as if it is a stage show. Each dream he delves into is like the tug of fingers on a loose thread, your psyche has begun to unravel before him.

Everything from whims to cravings, hopes to fears. Your temperament, the things that delight and irk you. What drives you and demotivates you. He consumes it all with an insatiable hunger.

Based on the projection of yourself that he sees, there is no doubt that he is attracted to you.

All that prior haughty disregard for the Fates' prophecy has been cast aside like a negative thought in a meditation session. Morpheus is a romantic. A believer. He is ashamed to have even doubted your coming.

He wonders if it would vex Desire to learn of him finding his soulmate and by extension, the prospect of companionship, perhaps even physical intimacy or love.

It is all too easy to imagine the sickly sweet grin they would smile at him, shown to be fake by the almost imperceptible contempt glinting in their golden eyes.

Would his triumph drive them to distraction?

It is this smug sentiment that spurs his next decision. He wants more. The next logical step is to find you in the waking world.

He rises from his throne, a sure hand ready to bring forth his pouch of sand when he falters.

Tears pool in his eyes.

His mind is suddenly marred with the memories of what happened in 1916. The agony, mortification and rage that followed. He couldn't go through that kind of treatment ever again and the waking world expanded the risk of it transpiring.

"No," he says resolutely. His sadness turns to resolve, the hard line of his grimace matching those set in his brows.

He will not let the actions of a group of mortals dissuade him from going to you. And besides, he has researched everything he can about you from within the safety of the Dreaming.

He takes a measure of sand and uses it to materialise within your bedroom.

It is obvious from a quick scan of it that deliberate attempts have been made to ensure the space is cosy and calming.

Two marshmallowy pillows support your head. The cotton sheets have been meticulously tucked to avoid drafts. A lavender reed diffuser fragrances the air with a subtle scent. There are no devices or screens visible.

Everything has its place. A coaster supported glass of water within reaching distance. Touch activated lamp in case of emergency. The diary lined up with the back left corner of the bedside table, pen placed parallel in the spine dent. All clothes are in the wardrobe or stashed in the laundry basket.

Morpheus moves to the curtain-shrouded window and delicately moves the dark, heavy fabric to catch a glimpse of the outside world.

The scene is sepia stained from an old streetlight positioned right outside your home. It explained the choice of curtains.

You stir slightly from the change in environment and Morpheus allows the curtain to fall back in place. He remains stationary until your breathing returns to its previous pace. It is imperative that his presence remains undisclosed. He knows that mortals do not take well to home invasion.

Then, your right hand slips out from the duvet cocoon revealing a cushion cut ruby ring on your middle finger.

He smiles exultantly. The similarity between the jewel and his own now-destroyed dreamstone was undeniable.

The Fates were making it transparent.

You were the one.

Morpheus approaches the side of your bed now. In your momentary discomfort, you had moved your head, making your whole face visible to your uninvited guest.

He bends gracefully so his face is closer to yours and observes you with an intent fascination.

Even in the gloom, Morpheus asserts that your features are even more captivating now that he is able to look upon them in person and is certain that if he could guarantee an absence of fear then he would fall to knees and worship you right there.

Fingers stroke a lock of hair splayed across the pillow and his thoughts turn darker still, imagining what he would do with you if he could get you alone in the Dreaming. How he would seduce you with words, and then pleasure your body with his own until you were senseless.

Getting you there would be so easy, all he needed to do was move his hand up and touch your skin and -

Morpheus stops himself, deciding that now is not the time for an introduction. He will wait until tomorrow. You need to rest. It will be quite the revelation for your sweet mortal heart.

Morpheus whispers a promise, "We will be together soon, my precious soulmate."

He leaves after taking one last look at your peaceful form.

When he returns to the Dreaming, Morpheus discovers that the visit has riled him way beyond what he thought possible.

It was supposed to sate his curiosity and answer some questions.

It has done the opposite.

His craving for you is sublimely intense, opiate-like in its ensnarement.

He needs to possess you. To have you all to himself. Everything would fall into place. Loneliness, disillusionment, jealousy; they would never darken his outlook again. You would heal him, he is certain of it.

He paces restlessly in the low light of his private chambers as heat ripples beneath the surface of his being, charging him with pure sexual lust.

He hungers for the moment when you feel the same about him.

For now, all he can do is stand and touch himself while thinking of your face, an act that has been carried out repeatedly in the days since he found you in the Ocean of Dreams.

An erotic idea enters his mind.

Your subconscious is still in the Dreaming; he knows the feeling of it intimately.

Perhaps he could bring you a dream mirroring his own current fantasy.

To give you a taste of what was to come.

A gift that only he could bestow.

The mere thought of it turns him on even more. His back arches and his eyes roll back as he choses the words through which he would deliver the offering.

"Dream of me," Morpheus murmurs breathlessly. "Dream of me."

He repeats the phrase until he is unable to continue, moans taking over the darkened space around him.

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

It is dusk the next day when Morpheus returns to the waking world.

The instant he touches down on the Earth's surface, he knows exactly where to go. The metaphysical connection between you is as strong as the energy pulsing through a ley line.

The city he is directed to is thrumming with life but the side street he stands in has been spared from the furore.

It is fortuitous that he is permitted to be unobserved for Morpheus is struggling now with the urge to get closer.

Providence is pulling him in and also locking him out.

He walks up to the door and then an invisible force makes him back away.

He doesn't even try to fight it.

The Fates hold all the cards. Morpheus is beholden to their each and every whim.

It is surprisingly liberating.

He is dancing in the cross hairs. Blinkered by the tie the universe has fashioned for you.

All he has to do is wait.

The door to the building is pushed open.

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

Taglist: @herfantasyworldd

"Fate. Up against your will. Through the thick and thin. He will wait until you give yourself to him."

[spitefulsatanfics]

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

❝ *YOU HELD ME TOGETHER* ❞

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Female!Reader

Tone: Soft hunter tension, road-worn intimacy, mutual protection, sweet domesticity within chaos

Rating: M (language, canon-typical violence, intimacy)

Word Count: 5,217

Based On: Supernatural — Season 7 (non-episode specific; post-Bobby, pre-Amelia arc)

Written By: Little Devil ♡

Synopsis -

The world is unraveling around them. Leviathans are crawling from the cracks, the boys are off the grid, and Bobby’s death still echoes through the walls of every safe house. But in the middle of the chaos, there’s her. The only thing that still feels real.

Tonight, it’s just a nest, a rainy town in Oregon, and Dean Winchester—who’s not used to being taken care of. But maybe, in the stolen warmth of cheap motel sheets and whispered memories, she reminds him that there’s still something worth holding onto.

A story of two hunters finding comfort in the in-between, of shared burdens, soft kisses, and silent vows stronger than salt lines.

❖Novella❖

The rain was coming down sideways.

Not the kind of storm that comes and goes, not the polite Midwestern type. This was the Oregon coast’s version of grief—wild and lashing, cold as loss. Dean Winchester gripped the steering wheel with calloused fingers and stared into the blur of trees, the Impala’s wipers groaning against the deluge.

“She okay?” he asked himself quietly, glancing toward the passenger seat.

She sat huddled in her soaked hoodie, arms crossed against the cold, gaze half-lidded from exhaustion.

“You okay?” she asked back, voice soft.

Dean offered a half-hearted smirk. “What, me? Peachy. Just love driving into the gaping mouth of a thunderstorm while chasing a nest of bloodsuckers with a migraine.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Don’t forget sleep-deprived and running on gas station jerky.”

He let out a short laugh. “You wound me, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. He said it like breathing, these days. Like it was etched into the cracks of his armor.

---

⋆｡°✩ Small Motel Rooms & Soft Glances ✩°｡⋆

By the time they reached the motel, the rain had quieted, leaving only the scent of pine and pavement. Dean killed the engine and exhaled deeply. Tension radiated off him in waves.

“I’ll check us in,” she offered, already reaching for her wallet.

Dean opened his eyes and blinked slowly. No protest. That was new. Usually, he’d argue, protect. But lately, he’d been letting her lead. Trusted her enough to shoulder the weight sometimes.

The room was exactly what they expected—faded floral bedspread, buzzing overhead light, a single lamp with a yellow glow. She dropped her duffel bag by the door, peeled off her jacket, and turned just in time to catch him pulling his own soaked flannel over his head.

Their eyes met. Something warm flickered in the space between them.

She handed him a towel. He took it, fingers brushing hers with a spark that made her breath hitch.

“Thanks,” he murmured. He ran the towel through his hair, water dripping down his neck. He smelled like rain and leather and the faintest trace of whiskey and engine grease.

She changed into an old flannel and worn leggings, catching his gaze again in the mirror. He didn’t say a word. Just watched her like she was something sacred.

---

⋆｡°✩ Midnight Watch & Leviathan Blood ✩°｡⋆

The hunt was brutal.

Four vampires, all stronger than expected. The abandoned church outside of Tillamook became a blur of shattered pews and rotting hymnals. But they moved like a pair of blades—Dean and her, perfectly timed.

She took out the straggler while Dean went for the nest leader. It ended with blood on the altar and a long gash torn through Dean’s side. He stumbled, and she was there before he hit the ground.

“Dumbass,” she whispered, catching him. Her voice shook. “Why didn’t you say something?”

He grunted, jaw tight. “Didn’t want you distracted.”

Later, she stitched him up in silence. Her hands were steady even as her chest ached.

“You’re not just some soldier,” she said, threading the needle. “You don’t have to throw yourself in front of everything.”

Dean’s green eyes locked on hers, pained and vulnerable. “I don’t know how not to.”

---

⋆｡°✩ 3:12 AM & Truth Between Heartbeats ✩°｡⋆

The motel room was quiet. The bed creaked under their weight.

She laid facing the window, curled in his arms, his chest flush to her back, his breath warm against the nape of her neck. His fingers tangled with hers under the blanket.

“You really okay?” she asked after a long stretch of silence.

Dean didn’t answer at first. Then, with a voice full of wear: “I hate this world sometimes. Hate how it chews us up.”

She turned in his arms to face him, hand brushing over the line of his jaw. He leaned into her touch.

“But you still keep going,” she whispered.

Dean kissed her shoulder. Soft. Reverent.

“'Cause I’ve got something worth going for now.”

Her lips met his—slow and steady, not frantic. Just the kind of kiss that said you’re home. She pulled back only slightly, eyes searching his.

“I love you,” she said.

Dean’s expression shifted into something softer than she’d ever seen.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “I know. And I love you too, sweetheart.”

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

❝ END ❞

“You’ve got me. And I’ve got you. That’s enough.”

=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=°=

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

On Good Behaviour 7

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, threats, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: after release, you try to get on the right track but your new boss isn’t much help. (ex-con reader)

Characters: Loki

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

"May I get the bill?" Laufeyson inquires as he checks his watch. 

You put a finger in the air, "mine's separate, thanks." 

"Pardon you," your boss dismisses you with a flick of his fingers. "One bill is acceptable." 

Braxton nods and spins to go about his task. You stiffen in your chair. Fulla sighs. Frigga tuts. 

"How kind of you, darling," his mother intones. "Treating all of us to a pleasant lunch." 

"It is a wonder that you've not snared yourself a woman. There are those who prefer money over personality," Fulla trills. Laufeyson growls. 

"Yes, thank you, Mr. Laufeyson," you fold your hands in your lap. "And thank you two for having me. I hate to impose." 

"Hm, oh, she is a stickler for rules," Laufeyson chirps dryly. "Not a toe out of line." 

You let the comment roll off of you. You are as anxious as him to be over with this. You sense the squint in your direction from Frigga as Fulla eyes up her nephew. 

The server returns. He hands the bill to Laufeyson who returns his credit card. You wait for it to process and try not to wither away in the tension. 

Laufeyson is the first to stand. You follow suit. The older women make no move to rise. 

"We'll finish our drinks," Frigga smiles. "And I will see you at your father's event." 

He takes a deep breath and nods. He bends to kiss her cheek, "yes, mother." 

"Buh bye, Loki," Fulla wiggles her fingers. 

He sighs. He comes around and kisses her too. 

"Oh, I knew you loved Foo Foo still," she giggles. 

He stands with a roll of his eyes and gestures past his aunt, "we've work to do." 

"Yes, so important. Ta ta," Fulla calls after him. 

"Nice meeting you," you say then pivot to follow your simmering boss. 

Great. They've got him pissier than usual. You're used to the prickly demeanour. Prison is full of assholes. He's another breed. He tries to hide it behind his stiff upper lip and tailored suits. 

You go outside and approach the car. He unlocks the doors. You wait for him to get in before you do. He starts the engine as his silence persists. 

"You're not very gracious," he says at last as he reverses out of the spot. 

You frown, "I appreciate the lunch. I can reimburse--" 

"That isn't my meaning. Water?" 

"Water... I..." you swallow. "It's part of my probation." 

He snorts. "Ah, yes. No, that makes sense." 

The taunt in his voice makes you wince. You knew this was some trap from the moment he told you to make the reservation. It's not surprising. It's no different than the woman who sold you the skirt Fulla loved so much. People judge you at a glance. It almost makes you want to just go back to prison. People look at you like you belong there. 

He drives on and your eyes narrow at the road. You twist in your seat as he goes straight where he should turn. You scalp bristles like it would when Tonya would hang outside your cell a bit too long. You cross a leg over the other and grip the door. 

As the buildings grow familiar, the pavement cracks, and the brick grimier, the realisation sinks deep into your chest. This is your neighbourhood. Well out of the way of the office and surely far from his own abode. 

He pulls in at your building and you check the time. Would he really be so thoughtful as to drive you home? You look at him. He smirks. 

"I am curious to see what kind of hole a rat like you crawls back to every day," his eyes meet yours with a glimmer. 

This is your punishment. Not for anything you did. For his own embarrassment. For what he meant to do and was kept from following through on. 

"Well, aren't you excited to be home?" He slithers. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Since when--" He pokes your shoulder meanly, "do you question me? Let us remember the order of things. I am still your boss." 

"Yes, Mr. Laufeyson," you latch onto your purse and undo your seat belt. 

You open the door and get out. You look up at the apartment building with the dingy windows and chipped brick facade. You brace yourself as you start forward. Laufeyson's steps echo your own. 

You dig out your keys and unlock the grated front door. It's heavy; a deterrent for non-residents. You get to the inner door and twist the key again. As you start up the stairs, he hums. 

"Hm, that skirt is not too gauche on you," he muses and you nearly trip over the top step as he brushes your ass with his hand. He snickers at your stumble. "It would look better off." 

You blink and keep going. Your body goes rigid as you get closer to your apartment door. You stop to unlock that too and enter. He presses against you as he trails you in. You quickly move away from him. He clucks as you hang your purse and step out of your shoes. 

"Mm, shoes off in a place like this," he remarks. 

You look around. The kitchen is a part of the front room. There's only the bathroom aside from that. It's what you can afford. He tilts his head mockingly. 

"Well, I do see that you certainly are in desperate need of employment..." he removes his jacket and hangs it over your purse. "But you can show me how much you really want this job." 

You stare at him. His lips slant and he closes in. He looks you up and down. 

"I've spent my patience, so let us finish what we started." 

His intent pours over you like ice water. Bumps raise on your skin and you shudder. You clench your jaw and swallow it down. You know how to survive. That's all you're doing. 

You grab his tie, so roughly he flinches. His hands go to yours, easing your touch. 

“Do try to repress your darker tendencies. This isn’t a street brawl.” 

You stare at his throat as he drops his hands. You gently loosen the knot of his lie and unloop it from around his neck. You feel the silk then fold it neatly and set it aside. You can’t speak. You have nothing to say. You’ve always been the to do what needs to be done. 

You turn back to him. He grabs your upper arms and you inhale in surprises. He urges you deeper into the apartment. He stops you in the centre of the floor. Once more, he lets you go. 

You feel him watching you as you unbutton his shirts. His chest rises with a triumphant breath. You push the fabric back on his shoulders, his undershirts taut across his torso. You expected... less. He looks skinnier. 

You tug his shirt tails free and strip away his button-up. You take your time in folding that too. He wants it proper, so you can be diligent. 

Next the undershirt. He lifts his arms, gaze boring down on you like a laser. Put it with his other shirt. Then his belt. You pause, hands on the buckle, and steel yourself. 

He chuckles, “let us not pretend you are the sacred virgin--” 

You grip it tight and shove your thumb under the leather. You push free the end and unlash it, jerking him as you do. You flick open his fly and he hums.  

You want to choke him with his damn belt. He’s enjoying this too much. That’s the point, isn’t it? Keep him happy and he won’t ruin your life. 

You shove his pants down and he catches your hands. He brings them up as the fabric rumbles just along the top of his thighs. He tuts. 

“Darling, I know you must eager, especially after all those years behind bars--” 

“I’m not doing it without a condom,” you insist. 

He snickers and pokes his tongue into his cheek. He releases you and steps around you. You stare at the wall as he turns and struts to the fold out couch. He tests it with his knee. 

“In my jacket is my wallet... I do hope you can resist taking anything else,” he grabs the top of his pants as he pulls his foot back to the floor. 

You spin and go to the door. You search his jacket. You find his leather wallet and unfold it. There are four condoms inside in a short chain. The intentionality of that makes your blood boil. 

You turn back to your grim apartment. The peeling walls, the stained carpet, the emptiness of such a small space. You are at the bottom and he can see it so clearly. 

As you near the bed, he sprawls across it on his back, naked. You try not to notice his dick and how it lays rigid up his stomach. You are going to have to. There’s no avoiding it. 

You almost wish he’d done it at the office. Anywhere but your home. It’s not much but it’s what you have. It’s the seed of what you’re trying to grow. 

You get up on the bed and walk on your knees toward him, between his legs. He has his arms bent behind his head as he watches you. You peel open the condom and take him in hand. You roll the rubber down his length. He groans and twitches. 

“Darling, I said have some kindness. You needn’t rush,” he purrs, “Slow.” 

You meet his green eyes and wince. That gleam in them. He is a cruel man. Maybe he never did the things you have, but he is worse. You never enjoyed what you did. You only did it because you really believed it was your only choice. 

Just like this. 

You grip him and pull up your skirt with your other hand. You climb over him and direct him between your legs. You press his tip again your cunt, rubbing it up and down, trying to cozen yourself into this. You tilt your hips slightly as you do. 

You aim him along your entrance and hold your breath. You close your eyes and lower your head. You lower yourself, the blunt pressure forcing a whine from your throat. You put your hand flat to his stomach as you sink down. 

You grunt and bite down as your walls resist him. You lift yourself and try again. You rock on him, coaxing through the tension. Finally, you take all of him and shiver out a breath. He moans and spreads his hands across your thighs. 

A glance at his face has you horrified. His eyes are alight as he watches the intersect of your bodies. You rock slowly and slip your hand off his stomach. 

“Mmmmm,” he purrs and runs his hands over your skirt.  

He picks open the button at the bottom of your blouse; and the next; and the next; every one until it falls open. He grabs your bra and tugs it down until your tits spill over the top. He fondles you as you focus on moving your hips. 

You grind against him, the friction easing the singe in your walls. Not enough to get you off, only enough to get you through. Your breath shallows and so does his. He cups your tits and runs his thumbs around your nipples. He groans as your motion builds. 

His hands crawl back down your stomach. He frames your hips and pulls you down to your limit. You whimper as he holds you there. He bites his lip. 

“You are much more delightful than anticipated,” he snarls and drags his hands down to clutch your skirt in his fists. “Go on.” 

You lean forward and press your palms to his chest. Your pace quickens with ever tilt of your hip. He squeezes the fabric of your skirt, twisting it until it’s tight around your stomach. He keeps it wrapped around one fist as his other hand kneads your ass. 

He urges you on, rocking his hips from below. His face is flushed, his arms and chests strained, his throat constricted as he chokes on his moans. A ripple rolls through him. 

“Faster,” he hisses. You oblige. “Mm, darling, yes—oh—oh--” He sputters as his eyes roll back. “That’s-- like that--” You buck your hips, faster and faster. Finish already. “Dar-dar-darling...” he growls and snaps his mouth shut.  

His jaw clenches and he spasms. The way he quakes and tense, then whimpers, assures you that it’s done. He got what he wants and you gave it to him. He must feel like such a big man. He has to if you feel this small. 

[followingthebutterflies7]

Sweeter Than Honey | Part Three: Lines Blur

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

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

Part Three: Lines Blur

You weren’t supposed to care. You were supposed to be a weapon. So why does it feel like you’re the one being disarmed?

The days after the ambush moved like honey. Slow, heavy, and sticky with consequence.

You should’ve felt accomplished. You saved Spencer Agnew’s life. The most guarded, most volatile man on the FBI’s Most Wanted list now looked at you not as a liability, but as something resembling trust.

An asset.

A shield.

A person worth protecting.

And yet… it didn’t feel like victory. Not exactly.

It felt like the beginning of something much harder to walk away from.

Alex Tran lingered more than usual, becoming a shadow in every hallway.

He didn’t speak. Just watched. Like he was waiting. Not for you to make a mistake, but to decide something.

There was something different in his gaze now. Less suspicion. More calculation. As though the real threat wasn’t that you were an outsider… but that you might choose to become something else entirely.

Spencer didn’t bring up the ambush. He didn’t bring up you saving him. Not once. Not in passing. Not in the quiet glances he gave you across meeting tables.

But something had shifted.

He no longer asked about your credentials. No longer questioned your projections or pressed your logic. Now, when he passed by, he gave you a glance. A twitch of a finger. A silent order only you seemed to recognize.

He didn’t really speak to you. He didn’t even say your name. You wanted to talk to him, wanted more than the lingering looks. Wanted him to really speak to you for weeks. To hear his sweet voice curl around each letter of your name.

And you were soon rewarded for your patience. He finally asked to see you.

It all started with a folded note.

Not a message relayed through one of his people. Not a formal invitation. Just thick, cream-colored paper, slipped under your office door with precise handwriting.

Midnight. North corridor. Room 7. -S

You stared at it longer than you should have. Your heartbeat felt like it had moved behind your ribs and into your throat.

You were trained to expect the unexpected. You were conditioned for every scenario. But something about the simplicity of it, the stillness, made your breath catch.

Still, you went.

You always did.

Room 7 was nothing like the rest of the office building.

No sterile steel or clinical efficiency. It was small and warm. It had wood-paneled walls, a low-hung light, and the faint scent of old smoke and leather. There were no guards posted nearby. No eyes on you.

Spencer sat in an armchair in the corner, shirt sleeves rolled, two tumblers of amber liquor on the table beside him.

He didn’t look at you when you stepped in. Just said, “Shut the door.”

You obeyed without a word.

“Sit,” he added, gesturing to the chair across from him.

You sat.

A long beat passed in silence. You didn’t dare speak first. The way he studied the space between you, the calm in his shoulders, the glint of firelight in his eyes, it felt too precise to interrupt.

Then finally:

“Do you think people are more loyal out of love or fear?”

You blinked. The words threw you.

The question landed like a pebble in deep water. Rippling, deeper than it seemed.

Spencer didn’t clarify. Just let the question hang between you. He watched you closely, like the answer mattered more than any report.

You answered carefully.

“Fear gets results. But love… keeps people coming back.”

He hummed softly, considering.

“Interesting,” he said. “You speak like someone who’s seen both.”

“I have.”

He looked up. Met your eyes.

“I want to know how you think.”

That surprised you. Most men like Spencer wanted obedience. Efficiency. Compliance.

“Why?” you asked.

“Because you’re not like the others I’ve brought in,” he said. “You don’t play the role. You don’t beg. You’re calm. Too calm.”

You tilted your head, pulse ticking up.

“That bother you?”

“It intrigues me.”

He leaned forward then, sipping from his glass, gaze fixed on you.

"You’re not drinking," he noted, watching you from behind the rim of his glass.

"I like to stay alert."

He gave a small nod. “Clever.”

The silence between you deepened, no longer stiff, but warm. Charged.

You shifted in your seat. Crossed your legs slowly.

He glanced down. Then up.

To your lips.

You felt it. That little flicker in your stomach. Dangerous. Stupid.

You're here to extract intel, you reminded yourself. You're here to seduce if necessary. This was the job. The mission. The game.

Still, something twisted in your chest when he murmured:

"I don’t like people who pretend."

You held his gaze. "Neither do I."

He didn’t respond. You claimed the silence.

Your voice came out low when you said, “You’ve been quiet. Haven’t heard from you in weeks.”

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured.

“About?”

Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you. “About whether I made a mistake bringing you in.”

You met his eyes. “And?”

“I still don’t know.”

“Well, it’s been a little over six months, so I think it might be a little too late to-”

He interrupts you. “You didn’t flinch when the shooting started.”

You didn’t think you’d be talking about the ambush, but you still replied. “No.”

“You killed without hesitation.”

“I did.”

Spencer leaned forward.

“Most people run from chaos. You walked into it.”

“I’m used to chaos.”

“No,” he said softly. “You belong to it, Elise.”

You should’ve redirected the conversation, it was going into dangerous territory. You should’ve steered things back to work, to logistics, to anything safe.

But he had said your name.

It was your alias name, but he had still said it. You had been wanting to hear him say it for weeks. You let yourself bask in the way his voice sings the word.

You didn’t speak again for a long time. Just listened to the way Spencer spoke of schedules, strategy, market shifts in the underworld economy. He would sip from his drink, yours was left untouched.

And when he finally realized how late he kept you, he rose to walk you to the door.

His hand brushed yours. You felt something there.

You thanked him for his time and generosity, your mind already thinking of what you needed to report back to Marlowe.

You didn’t see him flex his hand as he closed the door, moving the fingers you had just touched.

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

The next day you walked into your office and hadn’t even put down your bag when you noticed the small black box tucked carefully next to your desktop. You just stared at it confused for a moment before slowly opening the box.

Laid so carefully inside sparkled a vintage gold bracelet. It was plain, dainty, but elegant in its simplicity. You took it out reverently. There was no doubt who this was from. Never had you received such a gift on an assignment before that was from your mark.

A sudden pang of guilt shot through your heart. You didn’t deserve a gift for your deceit. You replaced the bracelet back in its box, and closed the lid with a small frown on your face.

The next meeting came two nights later.

This time the two of you met in a private study tucked behind Spencer’s office. It was smaller than the first, but no less deliberate. There was a fire lit in a cost hearth when you arrived. The room smelled of rich leather and old books, a bottle of deep red wine breathing on the side table.

He poured two glasses.

Didn’t ask if you wanted one.

Again, you didn’t drink it.

He didn’t comment.

But you caught him glance at your wrist, looking for something.

The bracelet.

You hadn’t worn it.

And you saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just a sliver of reaction.

“You always show up when I ask,” he said as you sat.

“I work for you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

You held the glass. Let the firelight play across the surface.

“Then what do you mean?”

Spencer leaned back, watching the flames as if they might answer for him.

“You could say no. You never do.”

You were quiet, unsure of what to say.

“You’re curious about me,” he said. “You won’t admit it. But you are.”

Your pulse flickered. “And you’re not curious about me?”

His gaze met yours.

“I’m always curious about things that can break me.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. Something started to burn inside you under the heat of his stare.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink.

He just said, “Elise, what did you want to be? Before all this?”

You smiled lightly, a practiced gesture.

You gave him the lie first. You always did. “A dancer.”

He raised a brow. “Really?”

“No.” You met his gaze. “I wanted to be free.”

He didn’t smile. Just leaned back, drink in hand, his eyes reflecting something darker.

“Freedom’s a lie,” he murmured. “There’s only power. And the price you pay to keep it.”

You swallowed, “And you? What did you want?”

He looked at the glass. “To be the one no one could touch.”

His words followed you home.

You dreamed of your conversation that night. Of him speaking while his hands slid under your shirt. While his lips ghosted your throat.

You woke sweating.

You told yourself it meant nothing.

But the next day, you returned from your lunch to find a black silk scarf neatly folded with your reports. The fabric felt like water through your fingers and like the soft brush of a caress on your neck.

You gently ran the scarf across your cheek, and the image of a man with strong eyes and dark curly hair stroking your face entered your mind’s eye.

You wanted to wear it, it was gorgeous. Like the bracelet, you tucked it away in the drawer, but your fingers lingered on the fabric longer than they should have.

You didn’t wear it. Not yet..

You told yourself you were keeping your distance.

But you already weren’t.

Spencer would seek you out more after that. Not to ask about work or anything closely related. He didn’t ask for updates on the supply routes or laundered accounts. He didn’t check in on shipments. He asked what books you read. What you dreamed about as a kid. What you were most afraid of losing.

You lied, of course. Just enough.

But not all the way.

Because the more he opened up, the harder it became to keep your armor sealed.

Especially when he said things like:

“You strike me as someone who doesn’t let people in, but once you do, you’d burn the world for them.”

And worse?

You wanted him to be right.

You weren’t sure what game he was playing. Not sure why he was spending all this time with you. You knew he wasn’t doing the same with any of his other employees.

A small, sick part of you wanted it to be because he wanted to.

But the rules have changed. So what game were you going to play now?

Because the lines that had been drawn in the sand were blurring.

No, they were disappearing.

And the part of you that was still FBI?

She was starting to want them to.

The report you filed that night was all fabricated.

You told Marlowe that Spencer had grown paranoid post-ambush. That he hadn’t made contact. That you were still working on gaining his trust.

She told you it was time to act, time to lock in. Time for you to stop observing and to start engaging. To use your highly refined skills that had landed you this mission in the first place.

You agreed a little too quickly. You’d never wanted to pull someone in so badly… and that was exactly the problem.

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

You were scheduled for a quarterly check-in two nights later. Just something that was supposed to be simple and routine.

A dry handoff of encrypted shipment records; just files, just protocol. The kind Spencer only trusted to a small circle of his most loyal operatives. You’d become one of them. Or at least… that’s what he let you believe.

These meetings usually happened in the glass-walled conference room adjacent to his office. Bright. Formal. Professional. There was always a layer of remove between you.

But this time, it was different.

He told you to come late. Told you he’d be working in his basement office.

No explanation. Just the time. His voice low and unreadable when he said, “Come alone.”

You knew something was off before you even reached the bottom of the stairs.

It was too quiet.

Too still.

The usual guard wasn’t stationed by the stairwell door. The air shifted. It was cooler, denser, like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

The corridor lights flickered dimly overhead, casting everything in a bruised shade of gold. You followed the sound of something low and rhythmic. A steady, pulsing bassline echoing faintly through the lower levels.

Until you realized it wasn’t music at all.

It was a voice.

Then a plea.

Then a scream.

You didn’t think.

You just moved.

The basement hallway had a long row of reinforced doors. Steel, thick, soundproof. Only one was open.

You paused at the threshold.

Spencer stood inside.

His sleeves were rolled up. His shirt half-unbuttoned. Blood on his knuckles, smeared across his collarbone, trailing down his wrist like warpaint.

The man slumped in the chair in front of him wasn’t moving. Not really. His head lolled forward, face grotesquely swollen, lip split wide open. One arm bent at the wrong angle.

Spencer didn’t glance up.

He was laser-focused. Controlled. Dead calm.

He grabbed the man by the hair and yanked his head back until the spine cracked audibly.

“You’ve wronged me,” Spencer said, voice so soft it chilled. “Now you answer to me.”

The man whimpered. It was guttural, wet, almost pathetic.

Spencer leaned in. Whispered something only the man could hear.

Then, without pause, he drew a blade from his belt and drove it cleanly below the ribcage.

The motion was swift. Exact.

The sound was worse than the sight.

You didn’t cry out.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even breathe.

You just watched.

Frozen in place as blood spattered the wall. It painted the tiles behind Spencer, dark red against cream. It soaked his sleeves. Spilled across the floor.

You were supposed to be sickened.

Instead, your heart was racing, and not from fear.

You were staring at the way the veins stood out in his forearms. The sweat dripping down his throat, vanishing beneath the open collar of his shirt. The slow, heavy rise and fall of his chest after the killing blow.

You should have left.

Should have turned around. Should have called Marlowe. Should have run.

But you didn’t.

You stepped quietly into the shadows.

And you watched him wipe the blade clean.

You escaped the basement ten minutes later. You weren’t even sure how your legs carried you up the stairs. You barely remembered opening the door.

One minute, Spencer was wiping the blade clean. The next, you were halfway up the stairs, the cold concrete biting into your palms as you gripped the railing too tight.

You should have gone home. You had meant to. You were halfway down the corridor, pulse still fluttering in your neck, when Spencer appeared.

He emerged from the shadows like he’d always known exactly where you’d be. He moved quietly. Always did. He didn’t look surprised to see you there.

“You were early,” he said, voice low. Controlled. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

There was still blood drying on his collar. A smear near his temple. He wasn’t breathing hard anymore, but his eyes still held the echo of what he’d done.

They searched yours for something.

Disgust. Horror. Condemnation.

You gave him none of it.

“I’ve seen worse,” you said breathlessly.

He blinked. Once. Slowly. “You really shouldn’t have.”

“You don’t get to tell me what I should see.”

A charged silence stretched between you. Then he stepped forward.

Not fast. Not threatening. But deliberate.

Your back touched the wall behind you.

He stopped just short of touching you. Just far enough that it hurt to not close the space.

His voice dropped to a near-whisper, but you felt it down your spine.

“I need to know if you’re afraid of me.”

You met his gaze without hesitation, heartbeat loud in your ears.

“You already know I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you wanted me dead,” you whispered, “you’d have made it pretty.”

His jaw twitched. His eyes darkened.

He didn’t move. Didn’t touch you.

But something flickered behind his eyes, like he wanted to.

Then, for one heartbeat, for one terrifying, exquisite second, you thought he might kiss you.

And you wanted him to.

God, you wanted him to.

But he didn’t.

“Then you’re smarter than most,” he murmured.

He turned and walked away, leaving you standing in the dark corridor, breathless and shaking.

You didn’t move for a full minute. Not until the sound of his footsteps faded.

Only then did you realize you were still holding the file folder. Your fingers had crushed the corner.

You’d seen a lot in your time. Cartels. Torture. Betrayals that made your stomach turn.

But this?

This had excited you.

Not the violence. Not the gore.

Him.

The way he moved. The way he chose when to break a man and when to whisper. The way he seemed to know exactly who he was.

You’d infiltrated monsters before.

So why did you want so badly to believe Spencer wasn’t one?

Or worse, why did it thrill you to think maybe he was, and you didn’t care?

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

You didn’t sleep that night.

You lay in your bed with the lights off, staring at the ceiling, your fingers clenched around air that you wished was Spencer’s hand.

You fell asleep with your pulse still echoing in your ears, the memory of the blood on his hands looping behind your eyes like a reel with no end.

But not the version with blood on his hands.

In your dream, he touched you softly. Slowly. Carefully. Like you were something he hadn’t allowed himself to want until now.

His fingers ghosted your jaw. His mouth brushed your neck. His eyes burned with something tender and dangerous. His hand slid up your arm, over your collarbone. You didn’t speak. Neither did he.

You leaned into him. Wanting him to touch you more.

You woke with your breath caught in your throat and the sheets tangled around your legs like chains. The cheap lamp beside the bed flickered once, then settled. You sat up, rubbing your eyes.

Spencer’s voice was still in your head.

Soft. Dangerous. Hypnotic.

I need to know if you’re afraid of me.

You weren’t.

You were afraid of yourself.

Because now you wanted him even when you slept.

Your burner phone blared, shocking you from your thoughts. You were shaking when you reached for your phone.

Marlowe’s voice was sharp even before you said hello.

“Your last report was late,” she said. “And thin.”

“I was caught up,” you sighed. “There’s been movement, but no breach. I’m still inside.”

“I’m not asking about the mission. I’m asking about you.”

You sat on the edge of your mattress, staring at the blank page of your fabricated files, the dream still clinging to your skin like sweat.

“What are you talking about, Marlowe?”

“You’re slipping. You’re using soft language. Pulling punches. No updates on vulnerabilities. No new pressure points. That’s not how you operate.”

“I’m maintaining cover.”

“No, you’re becoming part of it.”

Silence crackled across the line.

Then, colder: “You’re starting to like him.”

You didn’t respond.

Marlowe’s voice sharpened.

“I pulled your psych evals before you went under. You passed because you were cold. Controlled. Focused. Unbreakable. You don’t catch feelings. You don’t flinch. You finish the job.”

“I’m still finishing the job,” you said flatly.

“Then why don’t we have what we need, Agent Daliah?”

“You’ll get it, Marlowe. I haven’t lost sight of the objective.” You hung up.

Your hands trembled for a second after.

Not from fear.

From anger.

Because the problem wasn’t that you hadn’t done your job.

The problem was that, somewhere along the line, you’d stopped wanting to.

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

It was raining the night Spencer asked you to walk with him.

Not a meeting. Not a mission.

No guards. No staff. No reason.

Just, “Come with me,” said quietly in the hallway as you passed each other, his fingertips brushing your wrist, a light touch that lingered far longer than necessary.

And you followed him.

He took you to the back of an old cathedral he’d bought and turned into a private sanctuary. The pews were gone. Candles flickered along the stone walls. Somewhere above, the rain drummed against stained glass.

You sat beside him on a carved bench, closer than you should’ve, the air warm between your shoulders.

He didn’t speak at first.

Neither did you.

His arm brushed yours.

It didn’t feel accidental.

Finally, he quietly said, “Sometimes I wish I could disappear.”

You turned to look at him. “You?”

“Not forever,” he added. “Just long enough to remember who I was. Before all this.”

You looked at him then, really looked. His hair was damp from the walk. The collar of his coat clung to his neck. His jaw was clenched. Not from anger, from something deeper.

“What did you used to be?” you asked.

He gave you a wry smile. “Hungry. Lonely. Careless. But still human.”

You didn’t know what made you reach out.

Maybe the way his voice cracked on that last word. Maybe it was the loneliness in his voice. Maybe it was your own reflection in it.

But your fingers found his, hesitant and trembling.

He didn’t pull away.

He turned toward you.

Closer.

Then he brought his other hand up, slowly, resting it just under your jaw. His thumb brushed your cheekbone.

You forgot how to breathe.

You leaned in, just barely.

He did the same.

The space between you collapsed into a single breath.

All you could do was stare into his eyes, the pounding of your heart drowning out the rush of rain.

You could feel the heat of his face, the blush of his cheeks. You could count each individual eyelash.

He drew you closer, if that were even possible. And all you wanted in that moment was to be claimed by him, Marlowe be damned.

And then, he stopped.

He pulled back.

Not far.

Just enough to leave the moment dangling like a blade over both of you.

“I shouldn’t,” he said.

All the sound came rushing back. You sucked in a breath. A mistake as his cologne flooded your senses.

You nodded.

“I know.”

You sat there for another beat, not speaking , but his hand still cupped your cheek.

The air between you thick with all the things you couldn’t say.

Spencer searched your eyes, trying to find answers you so desperately wanted to give him but couldn’t.

And then, barely a whisper:

“You’re not who you say you are.”

He just stood and left.

Leaving you frozen on the bench, the rain and candles your only company.

That night, in your dreams, Spencer touched you again.

He cradled, held you close. You wanted more.

But when you reached for him, he disappeared.

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

Alex Tran was waiting for you when you arrived at the office the next morning.

He didn’t speak right away. Just walked beside you down the long glass hallway, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. Too relaxed.

When you reached your desk, he stopped.

“You’re compromised,” he said.

No emotion. No preamble. Just fact.

You didn’t stop. “Excuse me?”

“You’re different,” he said. “Since the docks. Since your meetings with Spencer, and the incident in the basement. Since he left you in the chapel. You look at him like you forgot what this was.”

Your pulse spiked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Alex stepped forward. Not close enough to touch. But close enough to threaten.

“I do. I see everything,” he said. “I’ve seen what it looks like when people want to kill him. I’ve seen what it looks like when they want to use him.”

He paused.

“You look like you want to save him.”

You said nothing. Because what could you say?

He tilted his head.

“Don’t fall in love with him.”

The words hit like a slap.

“I’m not fall-”

“You are. I see everything,” Alex’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “And I’ve seen what happens to people who get close to Spencer. They burn. Or they bleed.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned in, quiet, deadly.

“If you betray him, I will kill you myself.”

Then he walked away.

You wanted to call after him, wanted him to explain how he knew any of this. But your reprimands from Marlowe stopped you.

You couldn’t ask questions. Couldn’t risk your position.

A fire started to burn inside of you. Small and low.

You tried to focus on your work, you had a huge shipment coming in, but you had opened your desk drawer to see the gold bracelet and black silk scarf that Spencer had gifted you. You closed the drawer. The warmth in you slowly growing.

You tried to review paperwork, many things needed your signature. But your hand burned when you realized you were using the pen you had been given by Spencer so long ago. You were feeling hot.

After another hour you couldn't take it anymore. Something in you snapped. You packed your gifts in your bag, claimed you were sick, and ran home. The fire now raging inside you.

You had barely put your work bag down and locked the front door when you lost it.

You grabbed the living room lamp and threw it at the wall. Glass flew across the room.

It wasn’t enough.

A scream ripped through your throat.

You tore down the kitchen, taking doors off of the cupboards and smashing mugs in the sink.

You yanked down the curtains from the walls, pulled the poles and screws from the wall.

You up-turned the couch and tore up the cushions, sending feathers flying in the air.

You had trashed your entire apartment, the warmth inside you now a raging inferno.

The pen. The bracelet. The scarf.

They were all too much.

Too intimate.

They said something. Something that all the meetings, conversations, and questions couldn’t convey.

Something that would have been said with a kiss. But he had pulled away.

You sat on your ruined bedroom floor, the mattress half falling off the bed frame, heart thudding against your ribs. Your fingers clenched around the scarf until your knuckles turned white, like the fabric could hold you together.

Spencer was really noticing you. Not just watching. Not just talking. Seeing.

And worse? You liked it.

He was magnetic. Attractive. Dangerous. The kind of man who didn’t beg for attention because he owned it.

You told yourself that was all it was.

A reaction to a pretty face. A clever mind. A near-death bond.

You’d studied men like him. Slept beside them. Lied to them with a smile. You were trained for this.

He was your mark.

Not your fantasy.

Not your downfall.

You should hate him.

You should want to burn him down.

But all you could think about was his hand on your cheek.

The tremor in his voice.

The fact that he saw you.

And that you liked it.

Too much.

You stared at yourself in the mirror. Blood in your palm from the glass.

Hair wild. Eyes red.

You steeled yourself.

This wasn’t love, despite what Alex claimed to have seen.

It was just attraction. Power. Chemical confusion.

You could still win.

You would.

If he was getting close, then you’d get closer.

You’d seduce him so completely he wouldn’t see the knife coming until you buried it in his back.

It was what you were built for.

And you were damn good at it.

The next morning, you wore the bracelet.

Wrapped the scarf around your neck.

Slid the pen into your bag.

And walked into the office like you owned it.

Spencer saw you during a meeting.

And when his eyes dropped to the bracelet on your wrist, you saw it.

That sparkle. That flicker in his eyes of something raw and pleased.

You smiled.

Let it bloom slowly.

Like you hadn’t just set fire to every boundary you’d ever drawn.

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

Tag List: @tenderhornynihilist @sbrewer21 @happyclifford

[h0lydrag0ns]

Hey, so I have trouble sleeping, and I'd love for you to do a post inspired by him helping a teammate on a rough night. Thanks! :)

Absolutely, anon! I've been having trouble sleeping lately too, so here it goes.

Simon “Ghost” Riley headcanons! (Helping a teammate through a rough night version)

1. He doesn’t ask questions.

If you show signs of distress, he doesn’t press. He just sits nearby, present and silent, giving you the space to breathe without judgment.

2. Quiet presence.

He won't speak unless you do. Sometimes he’ll just hand you a water bottle or a warm drink and sit on the floor beside your bunk, mask tilted like he’s listening—even if you’re not saying anything.

3. Hyper-aware.

Ghost picks up on changes in body language fast. Tension in your shoulders? Avoiding eye contact? Sleepless at 0300? He notices.

4. No pity, just understanding.

He doesn’t give you the “it’s going to be okay” speech. Instead, you’ll get something like, “I’ve had nights like that too.” And somehow, that means more.

5. The tactical blanket drop.

If he sees you curled up and shivering, he won’t make a scene. he’ll just toss a blanket over your shoulders like it’s an accident and walk away brfore you can thank him.

6. Shared silence.

Sometimes he just sits down across from you and starts cleaning his gear. No talking. No staring. Just existing in the same quiet space, showing you you're not alone.

7. Smoke break companion.

Even if he doesn’t want one, he’ll light a cigarette just to step outside with you. Offers the lighter without a word. Keeps watch while you stare into the dark.

8. Grounding instincts.

If he sees your hands shaking, he might hand you something small... his lighter, a coin, a shell casing. Something to focus on. You don’t even have to ask.

9. Sharp memory.

He remembers what helps you calm down. The song you hum, the snack you keep stashed, the way you breathe when you’re trying to get through a wave of panic. And he adapts.

10. The unspoken follow-up.

The next day, he doesn’t bring it up. But he hands you a protein bar, nods once, and keeps walking. Like saying, “You’re still here. That’s all that matters.”

Masterlist

[buddierecs]

eddie diaz centric buddie fics

all explicit rating - 18+ only!!!!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

eddie, enraged and envious by: songbvrd "eddie goes through the stages of grief watching buck and tommy together and gets progressively more unhinged as his jealousy builds." word count: 23k important tags: idiots to lovers, jealous!eddie diaz, possessive!eddie diaz, slow burn, mild smut, panic attacks, feelings realisation, pining would you know him in the dark? by: desertpersephone "eddie is injured on a call and left blinded. buck immediately volunteers to move into the diaz house and help eddie out. surely this will be a normal few weeks and eddie's heightened senses will reveal nothing about how intertwined he and buck are, right" word count: 22k important tags: injury recovery, feelings realisation, repressed!eddie diaz, mutual pining, porn with feelings, blow job, oral fixation, hand jobs would you lie with me and just forget the world by: colonscopys "eddie diaz is 7, and 13, and 14, and 18, and 34. and he loves, and he loves, and he loves, and he loves, and he loves." word count: 45k important tags: TW: suicidal thoughts, childhood friends au, internalised homophobia, catholic guilt, ptsd, depression, therapy, healing, angst there ain't no turning back by: 42hrb "the Buddie healing road trip" word count: 28k important tags: future fics, road trips, getting together, friends to lovers, mutual pining, sharing a bed, oral sex, anal sex eat, praise, love by: brewrosemilk "in which eddie teaches himself to voice his desires without shame." word count: 109k important tags: established relationship, porn with feelings, fluff and smut, domestic fluff, dirty talk, praise kink, rough sex, semi-public sex, impact play, five times eddie diaz used grindr (and the one time he didn't) by: daniwib "eddie diaz likes men. he thinks. this is the story of how he explores his sexuality." word count: 72k important tags: 5+1 things, different first meeting au, gay!eddie diaz, strangers to lovers, friends with benefits, porn with feelings, anal sex, blow jobs eddie diaz vs the feelings by: elvensorceress "eddie dives into the mysteries of attraction, romantic love, and asexuality because there's a good chance he's fallen in love with his best friend." word count: 62k important tags: sexuality crisis, demisexuality, asexuality, idiots in love, fluff, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, soft!buddie, slow burn, anal sex, frottage still waters by: milenadaniels "five ways eddie's body feels different after the shooting" word count: 7k important tags: post shooting arc, injury recovery, getting together, first time, blow jobs, hand jobs what if i can't have us by: woodchoc_magnum "in which eddie is dating marisol; buck's dating tommy, and eddie has feelings about that, which he simply does. not. understand." word count: 47k important tags: pre-relationship, mutual pining, emotional infidelity, team as family, protective!eddie diaz, eventual smut, demisexual!eddie diaz, jealously caught up in your curls by: smilingbuckley "after having been in el paso for awhile, taking care of his abuela, eddie can finally go home to los angeles. he fully expected his son to have changed over the past few weeks because he's a teenager, they change every day. what he didn't prepare for was buck, who suddenly has grown out his curls. curls eddie has a weakness for. it causes for some... interesting situations, until eddie reaches his breaking point." word count: 6.1k important tags: horny!eddie diaz, getting together, hair kink, soft!buddie, first time, blow jobs, anal sex, pining waiting all night by: thescarletaria "eddie has a sex dream about buck and it triggers a whole avalanche of emotions he wasn't prepared for." word count: 19k important tags: sex dreams, feelings realisation, sexual tension, hand jobs, blow jobs, anal sex, soft!buddie, getting together, making out the mouth is the thing that craves by: underhung_aura "eddie loves buck and he really loves buck's cock" word count: 11k important tags: porn with feelings, established relationship, blow jobs, cock slut!eddie diaz, cock warming, soft!buddie