#the air is clean and breezy

[a-god-in-ruins-rises]

fuck it we're day drinking

[alpha-dash1998]

A Breath of Fresh Air: My Experience with the Breezy+ Air Purifier

[princesskenny1998]

Big Mouth | Judd Birch x female!preppy!reader ~ Babysitter, PT.1

It was a breezy Saturday afternoon, and you were babysitting Nick Birch and his best friend Andrew Glouberman at the Birch residence. You had done this a few times before, and each time, it had been pretty uneventful. Nick and Andrew were quirky, sure, but babysitting them was easy enough. The Birches paid well, and their house was a nice place to hang out—large, clean, and quiet, except for the occasional outburst from Nick and Andrew about some ridiculous debate they were having.

You were sitting in the living room, absentmindedly flipping through a magazine as the two boys argued over which superhero would win in a fight—Superman or Thor. Their bickering was loud but not unexpected, so you just tuned them out and nodded along whenever one of them tried to pull you into the conversation. After all, it was just another typical babysitting job.

Until it wasn’t.

You heard the front door open with a soft click, and the sound of footsteps echoed through the house. You didn’t think much of it at first—Nick’s parents sometimes came home early, or maybe it was just Nick’s older sister, Leah, back from her day out. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw him.

Judd Birch.

You had heard about him before—Nick had mentioned him a few times in passing, describing him as a bit of a loner, someone who kept to himself and had a darker edge. But you’d never seen him in person, never really thought about him at all.

That changed the moment you laid eyes on him.

He was standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with an air of casual indifference. Tall, dark hair that looked like it had been hastily tousled, a leather jacket thrown on like he hadn’t given it a second thought. He had a smirk that screamed trouble, and his eyes—sharp and dark—seemed to pierce right through you.

Your breath hitched in your throat.

Your Hormone Monstress, who had been lying dormant until now, suddenly stirred to life. "Oh my God," she purred in your ear, her voice low and sultry. "Would you look at him? What a man! Forget babysitting, sweetheart, we’ve got ourselves a real treat right here."

You felt your cheeks flush, heat creeping up your neck as you tried to maintain some semblance of composure. Judd’s gaze flickered over to you for a split second, his expression unreadable, before he turned away and disappeared down the hallway without a word.

But that was all it took. One look, one fleeting glance, and you were completely hooked.

You tried to focus on Nick and Andrew, who were still in the middle of their superhero debate, oblivious to the internal chaos you were experiencing. But it was impossible to concentrate. Your heart was racing, your mind was swirling with thoughts you couldn’t quite control, and your Hormone Monstress wasn’t helping.

"*He’s so brooding," she sighed dreamily. "You’ve gotta get him alone, doll. Just imagine what he’d be like…"

You blinked, shaking your head as if that would help clear the thoughts. "Stop it," you muttered under your breath, feeling a mix of embarrassment and frustration. You couldn’t believe you were getting all worked up over some guy you barely knew—Nick Birch’s brother, no less.

But your Hormone Monstress wasn’t having it. "Oh, honey, this is no ordinary crush. This is destiny. You need to get to know him. Now."

You sighed, knowing that there was no reasoning with her when she got like this. But honestly? You weren’t entirely sure you wanted to reason with her. Because the truth was, Judd Birch was… different. He wasn’t like the boys you normally hung around, the preppy, clean-cut guys who always seemed so safe, so predictable. Judd was a mystery, and you couldn’t help but want to unravel it.

The rest of the afternoon dragged on, with Nick and Andrew eventually settling into their usual routine of playing video games and trading awkward jokes. But your mind was elsewhere. Every few minutes, you found yourself glancing toward the hallway, wondering if Judd would reappear. Wondering if he had noticed you at all, the way you had definitely noticed him.

Finally, when the boys were thoroughly engrossed in their game, you decided to take a walk around the house—under the guise of checking on things, of course. You wandered down the hall, trying to act casual, but your pulse quickened with each step.

You weren’t sure what you were hoping for. Maybe to bump into him again, maybe to exchange a few words—anything to break the strange tension that had been building inside you since he first walked in.

As you passed by the open door to one of the back rooms, you froze. There he was, sitting on the edge of the bed, fixing something on his leather jacket. His back was to you, but you could still feel the pull, that strange magnetic energy that seemed to surround him.

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not you should say something. Your Hormone Monstress was already screaming in your ear. "Go in there, babe! Now’s your chance! Ask him for help with something, anything. Just get him to look at you."

You swallowed, your palms suddenly sweaty, and before you could second-guess yourself, you knocked lightly on the doorframe.

Judd turned his head slightly, his eyes catching yours. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you with that same unreadable expression. It was like he was sizing you up, trying to figure out what you wanted.

You cleared your throat, trying to sound casual. “Uh… hey. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay back here.”

Judd raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a smirk. “Everything’s fine. Why? You babysitting me too?”

Your face heated up, and you cursed yourself for blushing. “No, just, um… making sure.”

There was an awkward pause. You could feel your Hormone Monstress practically vibrating with excitement, urging you to say something—anything—to keep the conversation going. But your mind was blank.

Finally, Judd shrugged, turning back to his jacket. “Well, I’m not a kid, so you don’t need to check on me.”

You winced inwardly. Great, now you probably just looked like a nervous wreck. “Right,” you said quickly. “Sorry. I’ll, uh, let you get back to whatever you were doing.”

As you turned to leave, Judd’s voice stopped you. “Wait.”

Your heart skipped a beat. You turned back around, trying not to let the rush of adrenaline show on your face.

He was looking at you again, his eyes dark and intense. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice low and smooth.

You blinked, taken aback. You hadn’t expected him to ask that—hell, you hadn’t expected him to care. “Oh, um… it’s [Your Name].”

Judd nodded slowly, as if testing your name on his tongue. “You’re that girl who babysits the little twerp, right?”

You nodded, unsure where this was going. “Yeah, I’ve been babysitting him for a while now.”

Judd smirked, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. “Huh. I’ve seen you around, but I didn’t think you’d be the type to hang out with little kids.”

You felt your pulse quicken again, and your Hormone Monstress was back in full force. "He’s noticing you! He’s noticing you! Say something cool!"

You swallowed, trying to think of a response that didn’t make you sound like a complete idiot. “Well, Nick and Andrew are… entertaining, I guess,” you said with a small laugh, though your voice felt shaky.

Judd’s smirk widened slightly. “Entertaining, huh? That’s one way to put it.”

There was another pause, but this time, it didn’t feel quite as awkward. You felt a strange connection between you, something unspoken and electric. You didn’t know what it was, but it was there, and you couldn’t deny it.

Finally, Judd stood up, his tall frame looming over you as he adjusted his jacket. “Well, I’ll let you get back to babysitting,” he said, his voice casual, though there was a hint of something else in his tone. “Don’t let the little nerds drive you too crazy.”

You nodded, still feeling a little breathless. “I’ll try.”

And with that, Judd walked past you, his shoulder brushing yours for the briefest of moments. You watched him go, your heart pounding in your chest, and you knew—right then and there—that you were in deep trouble.

Because Judd Birch wasn’t just a crush. He was a problem. A problem you didn’t know how to handle, but one you weren’t sure you wanted to solve.

Your Hormone Monstress, of course, was ecstatic. "Oh, sweetheart, this is going to be fun. Buckle up, because we’re just getting started."

And she was right. You knew it, deep down, that this was just the beginning of something far more complicated than you’d ever expected.

But for now, all you could think about was how you couldn’t wait to see him again.

[formulafanfics13]

Healing & Thriving - LN4

Masterlist || part 1 || Part 2

Two months. Sixty-two days, to be exact.

That’s how long it had been since Lando Norris had torched his own career in front of a global broadcast audience. Since the McLaren floor turned silent. Since her world collapsed.

She hadn’t set foot in a paddock since. Not since the day after. Not even in passing. She’d stayed away, stayed out, stayed quiet. No statements. No interviews. Just a clean break. The grid had moved on, or pretended to. Media outlets speculated, endlessly, and social media tried to guess where she was, if she was okay, if she and Lando were still together. None of them got it right.

She hadn’t seen Lando since the Singapore GP. But the invites kept coming. Not from McLaren. From Mercedes.

From Lewis. From George. And eventually, from Toto. He didn’t pressure. Just sent her an email. No subject line. No signature block. Just the message:

"Final race of the season. You’re wanted here. Let me know. —T"

And now, here she was. Abu Dhabi. Paddock pass heavy around her neck, branded not with orange but silver. Her black tank top clung to her skin in the desert heat, layered under a breezy open linen shirt in soft white. No makeup. Gold hoops. Fresh nails. The Mercedes lanyard caught the light as she stepped through the gates, hair pulled into a low twist, sunglasses perched high. She looked like she hadn’t aged a day, but everyone who saw her felt the shift.

No longer McLaren’s. Mercedes'. The paddock reacted like thunder had cracked the sky. Phones lifted instantly. Group chats pinged. A Red Bull comms girl actually gasped. Sky Sports producers scrambled. Cameramen angled to catch her in frame. Drivers did double-takes. Team principals stopped mid-sentence.

She walked with purpose. Not alone. With a Mercedes rep at her side, clipboard in hand, walking her through schedule points and garage access rules. Every few steps someone greeted her.

"You look amazing," someone whispered.

"Welcome back," said another.

The first familiar face she saw properly was Oscar. He stopped walking completely. Eyes wide. Like he couldn’t believe it. She smiled softly. A real one.

He stepped forward, pulled her into a hug so tight she nearly laughed. "Jesus. Took you long enough."

"It’s good to see you," she whispered.

He looked at her for a moment. "You okay?"

She nodded. "I am now."

He stepped back. Smiled gently. "Mercedes looks good on you."

Then came Charles. Then George. Then Lewis. All of them wrapping her up like she'd never left, like the last two months had just been a bad dream someone could wake her from. "You ready for the circus?" Lewis murmured as they approached the Mercedes hospitality suite.

She exhaled. "As I’ll ever be."

The door opened. Air conditioning blasted out. And there was Toto, standing near the coffee bar in conversation with Susie and two engineers. He looked up. Saw her. Smiled. It was subtle. Controlled. But warm. He walked over, blazer sharp as ever, eyes scanning her face like a father checking for signs of bruising. Then, softer than she expected: "You came."

She nodded. "I didn’t want the season to end without being here."

Toto dipped his head. "I’m glad. You belong here."

He turned to Lewis. "Get her a headset. Full garage access."

Lewis smirked. "Already in motion."

And just like that, she was home. The Mercedes garage welcomed her like she'd never left. Mechanics offered fist bumps. Strategists gave her smiles. Someone handed her a cold water bottle. She slipped on her headphones as the FP1 countdown began and stood behind the engineers, eyes on the screens.

There, just through the blur of mechanics and soft engine purrs, Lando. She didn’t look at him. Didn’t need to. But she could feel the shift in the air when he realised she was there. She didn’t flinch. Because this time? She wasn’t watching from his garage. She was watching from the one beside it. Drenched in silver. Surrounded by loyalty. Standing tall.

She was back. And she wasn’t his anymore. She was Mercedes.

The paddock didn’t know how to behave. Not with her here. Not when she wasn’t wearing orange anymore. Not when her lanyard was silver and her smile came easier, freer, less like a girl gripping the edge of something breakable and more like a woman who had survived the wreckage and come back stronger.

She didn’t look at Lando. Didn’t need to. He was everywhere and nowhere at once. Floating in the corners of her vision like a ghost. Haunted. She knew what she looked like, sun-warmed, perfectly casual, dangerously calm. The kind of woman who didn’t need to say a thing to turn the whole paddock upside down.

But what really killed them? Was who she walked with now.

George Russell was glued to her side, all soft teasing and big-brother protectiveness. She wore his black sunglasses when hers slipped, his water bottle when she got handed too many coffees. At one point, she sat in his engineering chair while he ran through simulator feedback, and no one questioned it. Because George looked at her like she belonged there.

"You better not disappear again," he said that afternoon in the garage, one hand resting on the back of her chair. "Toto’s gone feral without you. Keeps rearranging the hospitality lounge furniture like it’s going to fill the emotional hole."

She laughed, head tilted up toward him. "He does have control issues."

"Don’t tell him I said this," George stage-whispered, "but he’s low-key obsessed with you."

Across the garage, Lewis snorted. "Not even low-key. He yells at anyone who calls you 'Lando’s ex'."

"Swear to God," George added. "Nearly decapitated a comms guy last week."

She blushed but didn’t protest. Because… it felt safe. It felt good. Being with them again. Being held in their loyalty like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She followed Lewis to debrief later. Sat beside him in the corner, knees tucked under her, flipping through telemetry like she used to. One of the interns dropped their iPad when she smiled at them. Another whispered is she back? like she was folklore. When they left the room, Lewis threw his arm around her shoulders. "Come on. Let’s go cause chaos in catering."

George caught up. "You already beat me to it."

"That was one time-"

"Two," she corrected. "You threw grapes at Esteban."

"I was aiming at Christian."

They were halfway into a story about Charles accidentally locking himself inside a hospitality bathroom when someone called her name. She turned. Oscar. Hair messy, lanyard skewed, fresh off the sim. He looked like he’d just spotted a shooting star.

"Hey," he said softly.

She smiled. "Hi, trouble."

He pulled her into a hug that lingered. Held. "I really missed you."

She swallowed. "I missed you more."

"You doing okay? Really?"

She nodded. "Getting there."

He stepped back, eyes scanning her face like he was making sure. Then he lowered his voice. "You look happy."

"I am."

Oscar grinned. "Good."

And just as she opened her mouth to ask about practice, another voice chimed in from behind. "Still stealing engineers' chairs, I see."

She turned around, and there he was. Andrea Stella. Soft smile. Eyes warm. Wearing team black and orange, but standing with a gentleness that had nothing to do with McLaren. Only her. She didn’t hesitate. Hugged him tight. Like nothing had changed.

"Hi, darling," he said into her hair. "You look well."

"You’re not allowed to make me cry in public."

"I’d never."

He stepped back, brushing his hand along her shoulder. "I was hoping I’d see you again."

"You really didn’t have to stay in touch, y’know."

He raised an eyebrow. "You think I’d let PR get in the way of someone I care about?"

She smiled. Nodded. "Thanks, Andrea."

George stepped forward then, gently slipping his hand into hers. Lewis flanked the other side, looking at Andrea with polite caution.

Andrea took the hint. "You’re well protected."

"Too well."

"Good. You deserve it." Then softer, "I’m always here. If you need someone to talk to. On or off record."

"I know."

He nodded once. Then disappeared back into the flow of media and mayhem.

She looked at George. Then at Lewis. "Still want to do catering?"

"Fuck yeah," George grinned. "Let’s go break into Ferrari’s dessert table."

She burst out laughing. But the moment they reached the Mercedes hospitality entrance, Toto was standing there, arms crossed, sunglasses off, his entire posture radiating calm murder. He looked her over once. Then raised an eyebrow. "You spoke to Andrea?"

"Yes."

"And?"

She smiled. "It was nice. He's still him."

Toto nodded, just once. "Alright."

"You’re not mad?"

"I’d be mad if you spoke to Zak. Not Andrea."

She smirked. "You didn’t threaten anyone today."

"Not visibly," George muttered.

Lewis laughed. Toto looked at her then, full face, real emotion. "You’re not here to be invisible. You’re not here to shrink. You want to sit in the pit wall today?"

Her eyes widened. "Are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"I’d love to."

"Good," he said. "Because the comms boys have missed your corrections."

George groaned. "You mean she’s still better than half the engineers?"

"She’s better than most of you," Toto deadpanned.

And for the first time in weeks, she felt something crack open in her chest. Not pain. Not grief. Peace. She wasn’t an accessory anymore. She wasn’t a secret. She wasn’t his. She was herself. And she was home.

[dollyswishingwell]

can I ask for scenarios of who are the lad boys most jealous of among themselves?

ᯓ★ˎˊ˗ The Truth

𝒲𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝑔𝓇𝒶𝓃𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒻𝑜𝓇 ˙⋆✮ Rafayel, Zayne, Xavier, Sylus, Caleb

𝒢𝑒𝓃𝓇𝑒/𝒲𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔 ˙ ⋆✮ Angst? yandere men, fluffy at the end ofc who do you think i am

> ࣪𖤐.ᐟ They find out about each other

𝙍𝙖𝙛𝙖𝙮𝙚𝙡 °‧🫧⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

You’re curled up on the window seat, wearing one of Rafayel’s oversized shirts, white linen, sleeves falling past your fingers, as the late afternoon sun casts gold across the sea below. He’s been quiet for a while, slouched on the floor beside you with his head resting against your thigh, absently sketching something with a piece of coral-dyed charcoal.

“I saw the pictures, by the way,” he says lightly. His tone is breezy, like he’s talking about the weather. But there’s a tension in his grip, the charcoal tip pressing down too hard on the paper, breaking with a faint snap.

You blink, brushing his hair back from his eyes. “What pictures?”

He leans back a little, lifting his head to look at you. His smile is all soft curve and pout, but his eyes, those swirling blue-pink eyes, are unreadable. “The ones Thomas found while searching for photos for the exhibition for you. You and the other four. What was it? A little rotational dating game before you picked your favorite?”

Your mouth opens, but before you can explain, he stretches out languidly, tossing the sketchbook aside. “Zayne, huh?” His voice is suddenly more pointed, sharp in the way only Rafayel can make sugar sound like venom. “Of all people. The perfect heart surgeon. All clinical and cold and—” he waves his hand, making a sour face, “—probably calls you by your legal name and keeps a sterile bedroom with clean sheets and no color.”

You can’t help it, you laugh, which only makes him poutier.

“Raf—”

“No, no, it’s fine.” He flops back dramatically onto your lap, grabbing your hand and placing it on his cheek like some tragic prince. “I just can’t believe I’m the final choice after you’ve sampled the entire tragic-boy buffet. The control freak, the silver-haired crime lord, the glowing Lightseeker, and him.” He huffs. “Did he make you wear hospital gowns in bed?”

You giggle again, rubbing his cheek with your thumb. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I am dramatic,” he agrees, sitting up suddenly. “Because I love you and I’m clingy and weird and I collect shells to make paint so I can draw your eyelashes on walls that no one else even sees.” He presses his forehead to yours, arms winding tight around your waist. “But I didn’t think I had to compete with some emotionally constipated scalpel god.”

You cradle his face gently, nose brushing his. “Zayne was… cold. I never felt as loved. Not the way you love me.”

His arms tighten. “Good.”

You pause. “…You’re still jealous.”

“Yes,” he admits immediately. “Hideously. Viciously. I fantasized about throwing him into the ocean for like three minutes. Then I got distracted by a shell that would be perfect for that painting of you.”

You laugh again, and he buries his face in your neck with a long, groaning sigh.

“I’m going to be so annoying about this for weeks,” he mumbles. “I might draw a comic about it. Title it ‘Heart Surgeon Gets Dissected by Housewife’s Superior Husband.’”

You’re still giggling when he kisses your throat, soft and clingy and a little desperate.

“But you’re mine now,” he murmurs. “And you’re never going back to anyone with sterile hands and no shell pigment in their life.”

You nod, arms around him, stroking through his soft purple waves. “Never.”

And he smiles, smug and soothed, but still muttering, “I bet he’s never even touched a squid.”

𝙕𝙖𝙮𝙣𝙚 ⋆꙳•❅‧*₊⋆☃︎ ‧*❆ ₊⋆

The bedroom is quiet, except for the gentle whirr of the air purifier and the occasional flutter of pages from the journal you left open on the bed. You’re in the bathroom humming softly, door cracked slightly ajar. Zayne sits at the edge of the bed, silver-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, your phone in one hand.

You’d asked him to check your messages for the boutique delivery time.

You hadn’t meant for him to see the album.

He swipes, once, twice, and pauses.

An old photo.

You, laughing in a silk dress, leaning against a sleek black car. And there, next to you, is Sylus. Hand possessively on your waist. His arrogant red eyes locked on the camera like he owned the moment.

Zayne exhales slowly. A photo slide reveals another. You and Xavier, curled up in some sun-drenched conservatory, a book open on your lap. His arms are around you, sleepy smile on his face. Another, Caleb, still in uniform, hand cupping your cheek. Then Rafayel, grinning with his face buried in your neck while you laugh.

Then a final one.

Of him. Zayne. Just his hand in yours, caught in motion. His hazel green eyes are unreadable. It’s the simplest photo of the bunch.

“You were busy,” he mutters.

You step out of the bathroom, drying your hands on a towel. “Did you find the message about—”

“—You dated all of them,” Zayne says without turning around. His voice is even, but quieter than usual.

Your heart stutters. “I—”

He turns, lifting the phone, thumb still on the photo. “Before you chose me. All five of us.”

You open your mouth, then close it.

He stares at the image of Sylus again. “Sylus.” There’s a slight tension to the way he says it. A faint twitch at the corner of his jaw. “Really?”

You step forward carefully. “Zaynie—”

“I’m not angry,” he says, setting the phone down neatly on the nightstand. His tone is clinical, like he’s giving a report. “It’s in the past. I’m aware people explore their options.”

“But you are upset.”

He looks up at you. Hazel-green, sharp behind the lenses.

“I just thought I was the only one who…” He exhales again. “Never mind.”

“Zaynie—”

“Sylus,” he says again, more bitter now. “Of all people. The man most likely to dismantle an entire nation for fun. Did he kiss you like that?” His voice lowers, something colder and meaner bleeding through the usual composure. “Did he touch you like he was entitled to you?”

You blink. That was…unlike him.

“Zayne—he didn’t mean anything, I chose you. I married you.”

He lifts his eyes, gaze cutting like a scalpel. “You did.”

You kneel on the bed in front of him. “And I’d do it again. Every time. Even if I had to go through all of them just to find my way back to you.”

His eyes soften. Not by much. But enough. His hand comes up, resting at your waist.

“I’m not going to pretend I don’t hate the thought of his hands on you,” he murmurs, voice low. “Or that I won’t replay it when I see his name in the news. But…” His fingers squeeze your waist gently. “You’re here. With me. And I won’t let old photos haunt me more than they should.”

A pause. His lips brush yours.

“But if Sylus ever so much as looks at you wrong again, I’ll break his fingers.”

You laugh, breath catching. “That doesn’t sound very professional of you, Doctor.”

His mouth twitches in the faintest smile. “I’m off duty.”

𝙓𝙖𝙫𝙞𝙚𝙧 ⋆⭒˚.⋆🪐 ⋆⭒˚.⋆

You’re sprawled across the plush sofa of your shared penthouse, surrounded by holographic catalogs, flicking lazily through outfit options for an upcoming gala. Xavier’s head is in your lap, silver hair soft under your fingers as he watches your screen through half-lidded eyes, blinking slowly, rhythmically.

He’s barely awake. Or so you think.

Until,

“…Who is this?” he murmurs, pointing lazily at a half-loaded preview photo in your gallery.

You freeze.

It’s a group of old memories that auto-synced from your previous device. A photo set, fuzzy at the edges, filtered in pink light. In this one, you’re in Caleb’s jacket. His military cap is tilted on your head. His arm is wrapped around your waist. You’re smiling up at him like he’s the whole damn sky.

Xavier sits up slowly. Not angrily. Not even quickly. Just with that eerie, unhurried grace of his. Like a cat waking from a long nap.

You reach for the device, but he doesn’t hand it over.

There’s no change in his expression. Just calm, wide blue eyes.

“You dated them?” he asks. Voice soft. Quiet. Like the moment before a snowstorm.

“Xavier—” You swallow. “It was before you and I—before I even knew what I wanted. I didn’t think you’d—”

“All of them?” he cuts in. Not harshly. But not gently either.

You nod, feeling a cold trickle in your chest.

His fingers tap the image again. “Even him?”

He means Caleb.

And that’s when you notice it. A subtle shift in his eyes. Something sharp behind the pale blue. Something calculated. Familiar. The part of him you only see when he’s “Lumiere.”

You exhale, steadying yourself. “It wasn’t serious with Caleb. It felt… safe. Like being coddled. But it wasn’t what I wanted long-term. He, he tried to keep me in one place. You let me breathe.”

Xavier nods once, slow.

“He always thought he could keep things if he locked them away,” he says absently. “But that never worked. Not with you. Not with anything.”

You blink. “You know him?”

“I know everyone in association and the fleet,” he replies simply. “I was monitoring his operations for six months.” A pause. “The penthouse cameras were child’s play. His surveillance teams were sloppy. He liked to keep tabs on your every breath. Did you know that?”

You go still.

He turns his head to look at you, and though his voice is still mild, it’s too even.

“He treated you like a prize. Like a pretty little jewel in a case. Like something earned.” His lips press together. “I hate that.”

Your heart aches. “Xavier, I chose you. I married you.”

A beat.

Then his arms wrap around your waist, tugging you gently into his lap. His face buries in the crook of your neck with a sigh, exhausted, warm, clinging.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know you’re mine. I just… don’t like remembering that anyone else ever thought they could have you.”

He pulls you tighter.

“I won’t do anything to him,” he murmurs. “Unless he tries again.”

You nod. You know he means it.

“But… can I delete the picture?” he asks drowsily, lips brushing your collarbone.

You chuckle softly. “Yes.”

He’s already asleep before you finish saying it, arms still wrapped tightly around your waist, like even in his dreams, he’s holding on.

𝙎𝙮𝙡𝙪𝙨 ✮ ⋆ ˚｡𓅨⋆｡°✩

Sylus lounges in your shared penthouse, long legs stretched out on the velvet couch, blazer draped casually off his shoulders. He’s flipping through one of your old data drives you gave him to “clean”, you barely remember what was even on it. Some old backups. Random documents. A few photos.

He shouldn’t care.

He usually doesn’t.

Until one thumbnail catches his attention.

A kiss.

You. And Zayne.

You’re in the hospital gardens, wearing something soft and summery, sitting on Zayne’s lap. His arms are around your waist, steady and secure. His lips are on yours, firm, focused, reverent. His glasses are pushed halfway up his nose, and one hand is holding your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

Sylus doesn’t blink.

The screen starts to crack under the pressure of his thumb.

You come out of the bedroom in an oversized shirt, his shirt. “Did you find the malware folder, or did I just store old cat memes again?”

His red eyes flick up to meet yours. Amused. But cold.

“You didn’t mention Zayne kissed you like that.”

Your stomach drops. “Sylus—”

“He looks so serious in this one,” he continues, voice a silk-slick drawl. He lifts the screen lazily toward you, tapping at it with one long finger. “Like he thought it was some kind of vow. Or were you the one making promises?”

You step closer. “That was before I picked you. Before I knew what I wanted.”

He leans back, arms spreading along the backrest like a dark prince holding court. “Ah, but he knew. That’s the problem.” His smile thins. “Zayne doesn’t do things he doesn’t mean. He kissed you like you were his answer. Like he was ready to take your pretty little hand, put a ring on it, and have you organize his surgical instruments in alphabetical order.”

His red eye flashes.

“Did he ever touch you like I do?”

You flush. “No. Not like that.”

A hum, deep in his throat. Pleased. But still simmering.

“I don’t care who you played with,” he says smoothly, brushing the photo away with a swipe of his hand. “Rafayel? A flower with teeth. Caleb? Hm. Too obsessed with owning you to notice what you needed. Xavier? I’ve seen voids with more clarity.”

“But Zayne?” He sneers the name.

“He meant it. That little fantasy of his, you in his house, in his arms, in his bed. Saint Zayne and his sugar-spun housewife. His hands are still steady in the OR, but I wonder if they’d shake if he saw the way you cry for me now.”

You step into his space. “I chose you.”

He grins. Sharp. Unapologetic.

“I know. And he’ll never understand why.”

He pulls you down into his lap, pressing a kiss just below your jaw, voice hot at your skin. “But let him wonder. Let him lie awake at night imagining all the things I’ve done to you that he never had the nerve to ask for.”

His hand slips under your shirt. “You’re mine now. Not even his perfect hands can fix that.”

𝘾𝙖𝙡𝙚𝙗 ⋆｡ ‧˚ʚ🍎ɞ˚‧｡ ⋆

He’s seated in his Skyhaven penthouse office, gloves off, collar undone, the screens across the far wall humming with data. He’d been pulling old comms records, going through historical fleet logs.

He wasn’t looking for this.

But there it is. A security clip from over a year ago. Rafayel, brushing your hair behind your ear in a soft-lit lounge. You’re laughing, ducking your head into his shoulder. He tilts your chin. Kisses you.

And you kiss him back.

The room chills.

Caleb doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.

His hand tightens around the glass of water on his desk. It cracks, once, cleanly, and he sets it down before it shatters.

His voice, when he speaks, is low. Quiet. Too quiet.

“Of all of them…”

He watches as Rafayel scoops you into his lap.

“You let him touch you like that?”

Later, you come home. You expect the usual, Caleb pulling you into his lap while you pick out tomorrow’s outfit, letting you play with his uniform badges, warm kisses to your temple while he murmurs praise.

Instead, he’s waiting at the door. Still in uniform. Cap on. Gloves on.

“Where were you the night of the 114th sky Gala?” he asks calmly.

You blink. “That was ages ago—before we even got together—”

“Answer the question.”

You hesitate. “With… Rafayel.”

His eyes darken. “Did he kiss you first, or did you kiss him?”

“Caleb—”

“Did he touch you under that dress?”

You flinch. His voice is calm but ice-edged, steel-clad. The Colonel, not the childhood friend.

You take a slow breath. “It didn’t matter. None of them did. I chose you.”

He studies you for a moment longer. Then slowly reaches up and removes his gloves. One by one. He tucks them into his belt.

Then he steps in close, tilting your chin up the same way Rafayel did, but harder. More possessive. More his.

“I should’ve locked you in this penthouse a year earlier,” he murmurs. “Should’ve taken you before any of them got the chance to leave a mark.”

He kisses you, hard. A warning. A brand.

“You’re mine now. You don’t leave this house without me.”

A beat. Then softer, more broken:

“…I don’t want to think about him touching you ever again.”

You wrap your arms around him. “He doesn’t matter. None of them do.”

His grip tightens. “He thought he could have you. I’ll make sure he forgets.”

[cinnamongrl2006]

Can you please right some smut for dilf roy harper. He's so under appreciated

Roy Harper x Babysitter!Reader ⋆ ˚。⋆୨୧˚ mdni (18+)˚୨୧⋆。˚ ⋆

warnings: vaginal sex, unprotected sex, oral (fem receiving), fingering, age gap, alcohol consumption, mentions of past alcohol and substance abuse.

a/n: Wanted to post this yesterday or the day before that, but what do you know, I went out with friends and spent all day sleeping and terribly hungover. Also, omg, this is sooo long I'm actually so sorry!!

You had been working as a babysitter for Roy Harper for a couple of months, though it felt more accurate to call yourself a live in au pair. Endless nights and days were spent caring for his daughter, Lian, when he was traveling for work. He said he worked in security, you assumed he worked venues all over the country, but you never really asked.

────୨ৎ────

You saw him when he got home, tired but dressed in clean clothes, his hair tousled—he must have showered before arriving. An overnight bag was slung over his shoulder, and you noticed his bruised arm and bandaged hands. But you didn't mention it; instead, you looked up at him and offered a warm smile of welcome.

“She didn’t give you too much trouble, did she?” he asked, following you into the house.

You took his bag from his shoulder and helped him put it away as he settled on a stool in the kitchen. The overhead lights cast shadows over his chiseled face, and his red hair gleamed like fire.

“No, no. She’s a really sweet girl.” You met his gaze as you spoke, and for a brief moment, your heart stopped when he smiled at you, dimples dancing on his cheeks and creases forming at the edges of his eyes.

“I’m glad you think that.” He nodded, a playful smile dancing on his lips as he turned to pull a couple of bills from his pocket. “This should take care of it.” He slid the cash across the kitchen counter to you, his fingers grazing yours, and for a brief moment, that touch felt charged, the air thick with unspoken possibilities.

But he couldn’t—no, he was much older than you, and you had so sweetly offered to take care of his daughter when you saw them around town. You liked Lian—you liked everyone in your neighborhood, really, and everyone liked you, too. You were such a sweetheart, with your skirts and dresses that billowed in the wind, so flowy that on breezy days, if he stood just right, he could catch a tantalizing glimpse of your panties— stop. He suppressed a groan and readjusted himself, his pants growing tighter over his crotch.

You noticed the way he shifted, the tension in the air thickening as his eyes lingered on you longer than usual. Your heart raced at the thought that maybe, just maybe, he found you as attractive as you found him.

"Thank you, mr. Harper." A playful smile crept across your lips, and you couldn’t help but let your eyes dance over him, daring him to make the first move. 

You had tried to keep things professional for the past few months, not daring to say a word about how you noticed his lingering gaze and touches—how he'd squeeze your waist and press his hips against your ass when he walked past you in the kitchen, muttering something about there not being enough space. But now, with the air thick with unspoken feelings, Lian asleep just down the hall, the lights dim except for the soft glow of the overhead lamp above the kitchen table, and silences stretching long as your eyes roamed each other hungrily, you wanted him to notice.

Roy, perched on a stool, caught the intensity in your gaze. A playful smirk spread across his lips as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “So, calling me Mr. Harper now, huh?” he teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I didn’t realize we were keeping it so formal."

You felt a rush of warmth at his words, the way he leaned into the playful banter. “I thought it suited the situation,” you replied, your heart racing as you took a step closer, the distance between you charged with anticipation.

He tilted his head, a look of mock contemplation crossing his face. “I think ‘Roy’ is much more fitting for what’s happening right now,” he said, his voice dropping to a sultry whisper. "don't 'cha, sweetheart?"

Oh, he'd noticed alright.

You swallowed thickly, your eyes drifting over his tattooed arms and the way his hands flexed over the counter. They were strong and capable, and the sight sent a current of warmth straight to your lower stomach.

Roy took a moment before he stood from the stool, stretching slightly as he straightened up, “I need a drink. Want one?”

“Sure,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. He walked towards the fridge, the muscles in his back flexing with each movement, and you felt your heart rate pick up.

As he rummaged through the fridge, you took a moment to admire him, your gaze tracing the lines of his silhouette.

"What do you want?" He turned to look at you, your cheeks flushed when he caught you staring.

"Whatever you have is fine." You brushed him off with a flick of your hand.

"I've got anything you want, beautiful. Try me." He grinned.

"What a generous bartender you are," you smiled back, "really, whatever you drink is fine."

"Well, I aim to please." His eyes shined with mischief under the refrigerator lights. He straightened up, closed the door and walked over to you with two beer bottles in hand, one of them with a different label. You never asked about it, but the whole neighborhood knew, really, that he'd had issues before.

"Is that your way of flirting with me?" You asked, taking the drink from him, now standing before you, so close you could feel the warmth from his body.

He chuckled, sighed, "maybe. Is it working? I think it is."

He was right, it was. Your body thrummed with need, your skin tingled at his closeness. His eyes were so bright, so welcoming. His hands wrapped around your waist, fingers grazing the hem of your top.

“Yeah, it’s definitely working,” you breathed, your heart racing as you took a step closer, closing the small gap between you.

With a sudden burst of courage, you leaned in, your lips brushing against his in a tentative kiss. As you pressed closer, deepening the kiss, you felt him respond, his hands tightening around your waist as he pulled you even closer.

You could feel the warmth of his body enveloping you, grounding you in the moment.

He held your waist tightly, teeth and tongue against your mouth as he led you to his bedroom, one hand on your waist, one hand on the back of your neck.

You stumbled through the hallway until, eventually, he laid you on the bed. He stood over you, hands on your thighs rubbing soothing circles. His fingers hovered over the button on your jeans for a second before he asked "Wanna take these off for me, sweetheart?"

The words caught on your throat and only a breathy whine came out, you nodded eagerly. Roy tapped your thigh with his hand, prompting you to look him in the eyes.

"Use your words, beautiful. I wanna hear your voice."

"Yes. Yes we can—uh...we can take them off." Your voice shook with anticipation, your skin was red and hot all over, need ran through your veins like electricity.

"Good, okay,"

Roy's hands made quick work of taking off your jeans the second you gave him the go ahead, tugging the fabric down your legs and tossing it aside. He slowly kissed his way up your legs, your hands tangled in his hair, brushing strands away from his eyes.

His hands wandered up your stomach, fingers gently exploring the soft curve of your waist beneath your shirt. With a teasing slowness, he pushed the fabric upward, giving you the chance to pause, to pull away if you wanted. But you didn’t.

You sat up slightly and peeled off your shirt, throwing it somewhere on the ground before you pulled him in for a kiss—light and giggly, teeth clashing against teeth as you both smiled.

His hands were on your breasts the moment you unclasped your bra, lips chasing behind them. You let out a soft moan when his hand moved to your waist and his tongue ran over your nipple, sucking it into his mouth.

"Shh, shh, need you to be quiet. Wouldn't want Lian to wake up, now, would we?"

You shook your head, "No. 'm sorry."

"That's okay, sweet girl." He brushed your bangs out of your face and kissed you again as his other hand left your breast and traveled lower, down your stomach. He broke off the kiss, pausing at the hem of your panties for a second and toying with the bow on it, waiting for your approval. When you kissed him again in response, his hand dipped under the waistband and down to your slit.

You made a point of keeping your mouth shut, your volume down, as one of his fingers traced your cunt. He kissed your clit over your panties and smiled up at you. The wet patch that stuck to your folds made your urgency clear to him, but he didn't give in easily.

"Why are you still dressed, that's unfair!" You protested, voice shaky, breathy. Your lips were swollen and your cheeks flushed and Roy swore he'd never seen anything more beautiful.

"You're very demanding, you know that?" He chuckled as he took his hoodie, then his shirt off.

"I work with children." You shrugged, tugging him closer by the belt loops of his pants, your hands working to undo the buttons and tugging at the zipper until he pulled them down his thighs and off his legs.

He laughed and leaned over you again, kissing your lips softly while pulling your panties down your legs and tossing them aside. His fingers dipped inside your wetness, thrusting in and out a few times.

He kissed you once more, this time with more fervor, swallowing your keens and moans. When he pulled away, he shushed you gently, bringing his slick fingers to his mouth and sucking them clean before trailing down your stomach again.

He kissed his way down to your center, his hands held your thighs open as he lapped at your wet cunt. He ground his hips against the edge of the bed, his cock throbbed, wet with precum, at the sight of you. He didn't stop working his tongue inside you, not when your legs shook at his sides, not when your hands pulled at his auburn hair so tightly it burnt at his scalp; he only stopped when he felt your breathing pick up, and you came on his tongue with a soft moan of his name.

He sat up and peeled off his boxers, while he eyed you, legs spread and eyes hazy, so pretty for him.

He kissed you again as he pushed his cock inside you, you both groaned at the intrusion, breathy.

"I'll go slow, okay?" He cradled the side of your head in his hand.

"I'm fine, just— One second...gotta adjust." You breathed out.

Jason pushed in slowly, cursing when your cunt fluttered around him and your lips found his jaw.

"Fuck— You're- You're so tight," He held your hips with a bruising grip as he bottomed out. "Just relax, baby, I've got you."

You knew he was fully aware of what he was doing. Being older and more experienced, he was gentle, caressing your face and kissing your cheeks. He didn’t just call you beautiful; he made you feel it, too.

His thrusts were slow and deep, picking up a rhythm once you got used to his size. His hands moved from your hips to your legs, putting them on his shoulders. He smiled when you moaned and muttered a whiny "Fuck, 'm sorry—".

You had to bite his shoulder to stifle a moan as he pressed his hand against your lower stomach, feeling the bulge his cock was making. Your nails left red little trails down his shoulders and back.

"Just like that, good girl." He congratulated your silence with a kiss, thrusting in harder and faster, drawing you closer to the edge with a hand snaking down between your bodies to play with your clit.

Your breathing was more ragged, pussy fluttering around him like you'd never let him go. Your back arched into him as your second orgasm hit you.

Roy's thrusts got messier, his rhythm faltering as he fucked you through your release chasing his own. He came with a groan falling limp over your body and rolling off of you quickly. He sighed, one arm over his eyes the other on his chest as if that was going to steady his breathing. "I'll get you cleaned up in a second,"

You hummed and curled up against him. "I'll leave now, don't want Lian to see me here and be confused."

He chuckled, "Yeah. She likes you."

"I know."

"No, I mean she likes you for me." He sat up in the bed and left to the bathroom to clean himself up. He came back with a wet towel and sank down to his knees to wipe you clean. He kissed your ankled and knees, your inner thighs and your stomach.

"So, what do you think of that?" He spoke again.

"I uh...I think—" You spoke nervously.

"Let me rephrase, would you want to do this again sometime? After a proper date, preferably." He climbed up your body and settled beside you.

"Yes, yes, definitely." You curled up against him, your head resting on his chest.

"Cool, cool, okay." He kissed your hairline, "Five minutes and you go?"

"Five minutes and I'm out of here," You looked up at him, kissing his cheek.

You weren't going to be out of there in five minutes, you could only hope to sneak out before Lian woke up in the morning.

────୨ৎ────

[httpvomitello]

Bully x Nice Girl – Joaquin Torres x Y/N: He teased her relentlessly back in the day, but now he’s the one falling hard for the girl he swore never to like.

I hope you like it ~ ☆

Tables Turned .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: He used to tease you like it was his job — the cocky, too-charming boy who always knew how to get under your skin. But years later, Joaquin isn’t laughing anymore. Because the sweet girl he once swore he’d never like? She’s the only one he can’t get out of his head.

joaquin torres x f!reader

Joaquin Torres used to be the worst.

You weren’t being dramatic.

Back in high school, it felt like his entire existence revolved around finding new and creative ways to get under your skin.

“Hey, Sunshine,” he used to call across the hall, grinning wide when you’d scowl back.

“Did you leave your glasses at home again, or are you just ignoring me?”

Or your personal favorite—

"Biting your lip like that won’t make algebra any easier, princess."

Everyone else thought it was harmless.

Typical teenage teasing.

You knew better.

Joaquin was relentless. Smirking, cocky, magnetic in that stupid, infuriating way that made your stomach twist even when you hated him most.

Eventually, you grew up.

Graduated.

Left that version of him behind like a bad memory.

Or so you thought.

Because now, standing in front of you at Sam Wilson’s barbecue, wearing a perfectly fit t-shirt that showed off way too much arm, smiling like he knew exactly what kind of havoc he was about to cause—you realized the universe had a sick sense of humor.

You tried to act casual, setting your drink down a little harder than necessary on the table.

“Didn’t know you were invited,” you said, aiming for breezy and missing by a mile.

Joaquin chuckled, a low, lazy sound that made something traitorous flutter in your chest.

“Didn’t know you still hated me,” he said, grin widening.

You lifted an eyebrow. “Did you think I forgot?”

He leaned a little closer, like he had a secret to share.

“Was kinda hoping you’d just admit you liked the attention.”

Your mouth dropped open—and before you could deliver the scathing retort you were forming, he laughed and backed off, heading toward the grill like he hadn’t just punched your heart straight in the face.

Cocky bastard.

The rest of the afternoon was pure torture.

Joaquin was everywhere.

Handing you a drink with a wink.

Teasing you during a game of cornhole.

Sitting way too close during dinner, his knee bumping yours under the table way too often to be an accident.

And the worst part?

You didn’t hate it.

Not even a little.

You hated that you didn’t hate it.

You hated that every time he laughed, your heart felt like it was skipping down a flight of stairs.

You hated that when he caught you looking and gave you that slow, knowing smile—you smiled back.

When the sun dipped low and the backyard filled with fairy lights, you tried to slip away for some air.

You made it as far as the side of the house before you heard footsteps behind you.

"Running away again, Sunshine?"

You turned, arms crossed.

"You are insufferable, Torres."

He just smiled, taking a few slow steps closer.

“Yeah, but you’re still here.”

You opened your mouth to snap back, but he was closer than you realized—close enough that you could smell his cologne, something clean and woodsy that made your knees a little weak.

“I was a jerk back then,” he said suddenly, voice softer. “I know that.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“I teased you because…” He laughed, shaking his head. “Because you were smart. And kind.”

You stared at him.

He shoved a hand through his hair, looking more nervous than you’d ever seen him.

“I was a dumb kid who didn’t know how to deal with someone like you. Someone who scared the hell outta me.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs.

“I don’t scare you now?” you whispered.

Joaquin smiled, but it wasn’t cocky this time. It was soft.

“Terrify me.”

You exhaled shakily, the years of tension humming between you like a live wire.

He stepped even closer, leaving almost no space between you.

“I think about you,” he said, voice low. “Way more than I should.”

Your breath caught.

“And if you’ll let me,” he added, eyes locked on yours, “I’d really, really like a chance to do this right.”

You should have thought about it. Should have weighed the risks, remembered all the stupid fights and stupid jokes.

But instead, you closed the space between you in one reckless step, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to you.

The kiss was electric.

Years of teasing, years of fighting, years of ignoring what was right under the surface—gone.

He kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting forever. His hands found your waist, holding you like you were something precious.

When you finally broke apart, you both laughed—quiet and breathless.

“So…” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw.

“Still think I’m insufferable?”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Oh, absolutely.”

He laughed—and kissed you again, slower this time, like he had all the time in the world to convince you otherwise.

And honestly?

You were already convinced.

[glowettee]

✧˖° how to enter your next era like she would (because this is your season)

hey girlies, it's mindy here <3 and guess what?

it’s here. the season of reinvention. the kind of fresh start that smells like new perfume, feels like sun-warmed skin, and looks like a completely elevated version of you. you know that feeling? when your life is about to change, and you can feel it before it even happens? yeah. that’s this.

howeverrrrrr, your next era won’t just magically appear. you step into it. you create it. you decide that you’re not the same person you were in winter, and suddenly? you’re not.

this is your guide to entering your next era like she would. gracefully, intentionally, effortlessly. because this is your season. let’s make it a good one.

✧˖° ➼ 01. decide who you’re becoming

every new era starts with a decision. before you start buying new clothes or changing your routine, ask yourself:

who is spring-you? • what does she look like? how does she carry herself? • what does she prioritize? what does she no longer tolerate? • what kind of energy does she bring into a room? • how does she make people (and herself) feel?

you don’t need to have all the answers, but get a vision. because stepping into your next era isn’t about wishing you were that girl. it’s about becoming her.

💌 homework: write a “who i am becoming” list. every morning, read it and align your actions with it.

✧˖° ➼ 02. upgrade your routine like a main character

okay, let’s be real, if you’re still waking up late, scrolling aimlessly, and letting your day run you, then you’re not in your next era yet. A next-era girl moves with purpose.

✨ spring routine shifts that change everything:• morning air & sunlight first thing (no more waking up in the dark, scrolling your phone. get up. let the light in.) • romanticize your mornings. set the tone. music, skincare, something warm to drink. make it feel luxurious. • clear the mental clutter before you start your day (brain-dump your thoughts, plan your top 3 priorities). • move your body in a way that feels good (walks, pilates, stretching. something that makes you feel light and energized). • have a “main character” moment daily. a walk with your best playlist, a solo coffee date, a journal session that makes you feel aligned.

💌 homework: pick one thing to add to your morning routine that makes you feel like her. do it tomorrow.

✧˖° ➼ 03. let go of what doesn’t belong in this era

the quickest way to upgrade your life? stop carrying things that aren’t meant for you anymore.

what doesn’t belong in this season of your life? • self-doubt, comparison, playing small • people who drain you, situations that make you feel stuck • habits that keep you stagnant (procrastination, mindless scrolling, overthinking)

your next era requires space. clean out your physical space, your mental space, your emotional space. release.

💌 homework: do a “spring cleaning” of your life. unfollow accounts that make you feel less-than, clear out old messages, declutter your space. make room for what’s next.

✧˖° ➼ 04. refresh your aesthetic (because energy shifts deserve a visual upgrade)

listen, you don’t need a full wardrobe reset to enter your next era. but a small aesthetic shift? instant mindset boost.

✨ easy aesthetic upgrades that shift your energy:• a new signature perfume. something fresh, floral, clean. every time you wear it, you step into your next era. • spring-inspired outfits. soft colors, breezy fabrics, put-together but effortless. you’re that girl now. • elevated beauty rituals. glowing skin, hydrated lips, soft hair. not just for looks, but because you deserve to feel taken care of. • new playlist energy. your next era has a soundtrack. make a playlist that makes you feel untouchable.

💌 homework: change one small thing about your aesthetic this week that makes you feel like your upgraded self.

✧˖° ➼ 05. shift from waiting to creating

too many people sit around waiting for their lives to change. waiting to feel motivated. waiting for the right time. waiting for some external sign.

your next era doesn’t arrive when you feel ready. it arrives when you decide.

the energy shift happens when you start moving differently. • you stop talking yourself out of things and just do them. • you stop second-guessing and start trusting your instincts. • you stop waiting for confidence and act as if you already have it.

💌 homework: stop postponing something you’ve been waiting to do. book it, start it, commit to it. make it real.

✧˖° mindy’s personal tips (because this is your season, babe)

💌 energy is everything. walk into every room like you belong there. because you do. 💌 romanticize this reinvention. new season, new version of you. make it intentional.💌 start small but start now. one small shift today = a completely different life in three months. 💌 be delusional if you need to. act like your dream life is already happening. your brain will catch up. 💌 this is your fresh start. take it.

[buttermilkbunny]

Air Ghouls ࿐ ࿔*:･ﾟ

More details and headcannons below!

- More bubbly, extroverted, and touchy

- Thicker fur for better insulation

- Sleeker bodies, smaller ears/ appendages to allow for more aerodynamics

- Can be more flexible

- Scents: Clean linens, breezy, citrus

- Magic: Can cause weather changes (voluntarily or involuntarily), cleansing, boosted jump (like a jumping mouse)

[shizunitis]

shizunitis mark of tumblr dot com… what does he ponder…

demon emperor luo binghe (-ge variant) meets shen yuan who becomes his loyal confidant and advisor just fresh out of the abyss. sy stays unobstructive and away from the emperor most times. he visits the palace every few years for a longer period of time to check up on binghe and offer any advice he might have. while he’s there, lbh’s wives and guards keep like. disappearing, dying, etc. it is heavily implied throughout the fic that, through how when shen yuan leaves the palace the disappearances/deaths stop, shen yuan is the culprit.

lbh refuses to believe this. he would not want to ever lose shen yuan. he looks forward to his visits and is happy when he’s there, something he won’t squander with speculations and offensive accusations.

but the thought lingers. shen yuan is clearly distancing himself from lbh, has been for decades, but now it’s more clear than ever. he cuts their meetings short. his visits become shorter and farther apart and, if lbh were to stop and think, he’d realise that shen yuan’s visit this time was highly unusual in its timing and sudden announcement.

finally, the evidence is stacked against shen yuan, who is spotted leaving the harem with blood on his clothes, looking angry. he is brought to the emperor in chains, and his eyes are empty as he stares up at lbh from where he’s made to kneel. the guards announce a wife was found near-dead in her chambers, and is unresponsive. the emperor listens to the accusations and drags shen yuan away himself, locks him in a room, and goes to have a terrible think. he accepts he doesn’t want to kill shen yuan, even still. he goes to find shen yuan again, to demand an explanation, but shen yuan is refusing to speak.

lbh is called away by an emergency in the human realm. he secures the room shen yuan is held in, and goes. when he comes back, exhausted from battle, he finds shen yuan speaking to shang qinghua, who had long been thought dead. lbh eavesdrops: the truth of shen yuan and sqh’s transmigration is revealed and shen yuan comes clean about what happened that night: he was helping one of lbh’s wives, who’d gone through a miscarriage. he was angry at lbh: he doesn’t say much other than speak about lbh’s cruelty, and how he hadn’t expected it to be this bad, but the underlying sentiment is clear.

sqh reassures him that “the plan” is going smoothly and the mushroom bodies are ready. lbh remembers them from when he encountered an enemy using them for their own ends, and puts two and two together.

but he hesitates to act. he could clear the misunderstanding up, he could explain and ask shen yuan for guidance, as he always had, but the truth is he doesn’t know that shen yuan would ever forgive him. he’d neglected his wife in a time of need, who had to call upon another man to save her, putting both in an impossible position. he’d imprisoned and mistreated shen yuan, who’d been with him for decades at this point. he’d done many things to drive everyone away. if shen yuan wants to be rid of him, shouldn’t he be allowed that?

this is where xin mo kicks in and lbh can’t hold himself back. he reveals himself. sqh disappears in a flurry of snowflakes, and shen yuan is left to defend himself against an angry, xin mo-fueled luo binghe who’s clearly just back from war. lbh slashes a portal in the air and pushes shen yuan towards it. shen yuan asks lbh to wait, that he has something important to say, he can’t leave just yet, he needs to listen to him; with the last of his sanity lbh demands shen yuan never return, unless he’d like to die with no back-up plan to fall on this time, and finally pushes him past the gaping maw of xin mo’s portal. then he has a quick and breezy breakdown.

the next day, lbh declares shen yuan dealt with. but oh! what’s this? the murders continue! it was not shen yuan after all?! some wives had demanded he be left alive, but everyone had thought them insane! it was actually a wife this whole time?! and liu mingyan and ning yingying were the first ones to notice?! and they brought their case to the emperor demanding justice?! and sha hualing was the first to rally her forces and go against the murderer, only to be imprisoned away from the palace, months ago?! and shen yuan released her and brought her back to the palace and begged she not tell anyone, least of all luo binghe?! oh my!! oh no!!

anyway. yeah thats. that’s what’s on my mind right now.

[mapsthewanderer]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb XII

Synopsis: The café was supposed to be just another coffee shop. For a law student who enjoys her morning coffee and a shy newbie still learning the ropes, it should have been nothing more than part of the daily routine… But then there’s Caleb.

Details: 3000 words. Non-MC!Reader as the law student. The movie’s over. The verdict has been delivered in your own mind. But… is it really the end? This piece is 3000 words of complicated, emotionally tangled romance. It’s not an easy love story, but it is one I hope you’ll enjoy.

Parts: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9, part 10, part 11

Tags: @gavin3469 @unstablemiss @i-messed-up-big-time @mipov101 @zukini-01 @ariakamil @zaynessdarling @gojosballsack69 @moon-cakei

Sunk costs | Pt. 12

The credits roll over a final blood-slicked frame, orchestral stabs still echoing in your bones.

You survived.

You didn’t scream. You didn’t hide. You didn’t flinch (that much). Your expression stayed somewhere between unimpressed and emotionally dead inside. If Caleb’s sandwich theory had any hope, it had been dismantled by your steel-spined, murder-montage endurance.

Still. You’re a little rattled. Maybe a lot.

There are only so many artfully executed decapitations a person can watch before they start reevaluating their life choices.

And speaking of life choices.

You’ve spent the last 120 minutes deciding—very calmly, very rationally—that this isn’t it. That you’re not going to accept mixed signals and chaos masquerading as charm. That you’ll do the mature thing: ask him to walk you home, say something breezy and dignified like we should obviously just be friends, casually revoke the kiss like a refund request, and file the whole night under emotional learning experience.

You’ll stop coming to the café, of course—because you know how to read a room. You won’t make it weird. Just find a new café without emotional landmines. Somewhere quiet, with reliable wi-fi and zero baristas who make your pulse spike. Clean break. Good boundaries.

You’ll overthink every hypothetical. Spend too long reviewing the same four lines of a contracts case brief. Argue internally with fictional judges about tort reform. Highlight entire pages out of spite.

Totally fine. You know how to write off sunk costs.

(You only have to survive the next ten minutes without crying. Or raging. Or going full unstable-litigator-in-a-drama. Just keep the lawyer face on. That’s all.)

The lights come on. The aisle fills with murmurs and the crackle of candy wrappers. You follow the others out, blinking like you’ve just returned from war.

Outside the theater, the air feels too bright. Too normal. Like the last two hours hadn’t been a cinematic bloodbath and an emotional obstacle course.

Gideon stretches like he just finished a casual jog, arms up, back cracking. “Hey,” he says, glancing your way. “I—. Uh, sorry again for the door ambush earlier. Didn’t break anything important, right?”

You blink, glancing down at your arm like it’s just now reporting back. “I think I’m still in one piece.”

“Good.” He pauses, then adds with mock solemnity, “Also, thanks for not suing me. Caleb said you were the type to bring legal fire.”

Caleb coughs behind you—too quickly. Too obviously.

Gideon’s grin widens, eyes gleaming. “What? I’m just being polite.”

You raise an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Anyway. I’m heading out—bike’s around the corner. Wanna swap numbers?”

You don’t even get a second to answer—

Because Caleb, smooth as ever, slides in with: “Give her a break. You can just get it from me later.” Easy. Light. But the subtext is glaring. Gideon just lifts his eyebrows, all too amused.

“Oh. Sure. I guess that works.” Then, with a lopsided grin, he adds, “Nice to actually get a movie night in again. You bailed on the last one, remember?”

Apple girl hums her agreement. “You said you were working late, but we all know that’s code for ghosting us.”

Caleb just waves them off, all mock innocence. “Had to make sure someone got back to campus in one piece. You know—priorities.”

A beat. Not long, but long enough to feel the weirdness.

Then Caleb’s already moving, catching your wrist like it’s just something he does now. “I’ll walk Golden Girl back home,” he says, glancing toward the others. “It’s on the way.”

You open your mouth.

Gideon beats you to it.

“Wait—aren’t you headed the wrong way? Thought you were staying over at—uh—”

He nods toward Apple girl. Doesn’t finish the sentence. Because Caleb’s already walking. Already pulling.

“Night, guys,” he tosses over his shoulder, casual as anything.

Behind you, Gideon lingers near the sidewalk, phone in hand. “Sure. Uh… I’ll walk her home,” he says, nodding toward Apple girl again. “Catch you guys later.”

Caleb gives him a quick chin-lift of thanks, but doesn’t speak. Instead, his hand slides down, until it settles over yours.

Then—

“Caleb!”

Light footsteps. A flutter of laughter.

You both turn as she jogs up, sleeves bunched at her wrists, steps light on the pavement. She pulls Caleb into a quick hug, then does the same to you—brief but warm.

“Goodnight,” she says, voice all syrup and sleep. Her smile is aimed at you now. “And seriously, thanks for coming. I’m glad I got to meet you.” Then, turning back to Caleb with an easy familiarity that still tugs at something under your ribs: “Get home safe.”

It’s instinct, the way your stomach drops. Silly, indeed. But it doesn’t matter—because it only confirms what you already decided. This? Is exactly why your plan makes sense. Clean break. Emotional firewall. No more gray areas.

She turns back to you, eyes glinting as they catch the charm at your collarbone.

“Oh! There it is! That necklace’s cute on you,” she says, tilting her head with a grin. “But… isn’t it his?”

Your hand jumps to the charm, fingertips brushing the silver.

She’s still smiling. “You can’t just re-gift a gift, Caleb. You should get her her own necklace.”

He doesn’t look at her.

He’s already looking at you.

And then, without a beat, he says, “I should,” soft and certain. His hand is still in yours. And the way his thumb presses into your knuckles—slow, sure, lingering—it doesn’t feel like a joke. Doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove something.

It just feels like him.

“Gideon’s waiting,” he tells her over his shoulder, not unkind. And she pouts dramatically, but spins toward Gideon without another word.

Yeah—he obviously has history with apple girl. The kind that runs deep. The kind that doesn’t need words. It’s in the way she said “get home safe,” like it’s always been her line. Like she’s said it a hundred times before. But your brain’s too crowded to ask. Too full of slasher film flashbacks, a heart pulling in three directions, and a chain at your neck that suddenly feels heavier than it should.

You already know where this is going.

It’s the same kind of walk that happened outside campus. The same warm-cold weirdness that settles between you like fog. The same strange ache that crept in just before he said he wouldn’t know how to stop kissing you.

Only difference now?

His hand is in yours.

You shift your grip in his hand, trying to find your footing.

You glance down.

Then up at him.

And you stop walking.

Right there, mid-sidewalk.

The chain catches between your fingers before you even know what you’re doing. You pull the necklace over your head and hold it out to him, palm open.

His brows knit. “What—?”

“I don’t want it anymore,” you say. Not loud. Not biting. Just… honest.

He takes it slowly, fingers brushing yours, eyes unreadable.

“I— I gave it to you,” he says, voice quieter now. “I wanted you to have it.”

“I know,” you murmur. “But I can’t wear it if we’re just—if this is just…”

You trail off. The word friends is nowhere in reach. You don’t even know what this is.

Something flickers in his eyes. Violet and wounded. And then, too fast to track, it’s gone—swallowed by that familiar lopsided smile.

“Nope,” he says, suddenly lazy again. “Not getting rid of it that easy.”

Before you can protest, he’s stepping forward, slipping the chain back around your neck. The charm settles over your shirt again, warm from his hands. His fingers linger against the metal, then trail down—just barely brushing the fabric.

“Hm… Yup. Definitely a nice necklace,” he says, eyes dipping to where the charm rests against your shirt. “And it looks better there.”

You stare up at him, throat suddenly too dry.

“You said this was a friend thing,” you manage, soft but steady.

“I told them,” he says, not missing a beat, “that they were meeting my girlfriend.”

Your breath stops. The world doesn’t—but your thoughts screech to a halt like someone objected in your brain.

You blink. Once. Twice.

He grins—small, a little crooked, like he’s waiting for impact.

“You—you just said that? You said what—?!” you ask, voice catching.

“I mean,” Caleb shrugs, all casual confidence, “it came up. They both asked when I booked four seats, and I got excited and said, ‘my girlfriend’s coming.’” His eyes find yours, a familiar smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. “Didn’t know I had to file paperwork for it.”

Then, with a little tilt of his head—teasing, but not unserious: “Or should I have said… what did you call it? Exclusive flirting partners in crime?”

His smile deepens like he’s proud of himself for remembering. Like that label meant more to him than he let on.

You part your lips to say something—

But he keeps going, like he can’t stop now. Like the words have a hold on him.

“And. Uh—T—” He catches himself, shifts gears without missing a beat. “Apple girl screeched when she saw your fit check pic. And she wouldn’t stop going on about how pretty you were.” A beat. “Whole block probably heard her.” Then, quieter—just for you—

“I told her to relax, act normal. But yeah… then it hit me—I was kinda scared to actually see you in person. Just—suddenly.”

You scowl, which is the only thing keeping your knees from buckling. “Wait. Hold on. You didn’t think you needed to mention that to me?”

“I figured showing up and staying was your way of signing the weirdness contract,” he deadpans. “You came. You suffered through at least four graphic deaths. You survived a seating chart nightmare. That’s commitment.”

You narrow your eyes. “You thought throwing me into your group chaos with a side of gore counted as wooing?”

Caleb lifts his brows, all mock-thoughtful. “Well… there was popcorn. Physical proximity. And I shared my Sour Patch.”

“Sour Patch isn’t exactly a winning argument,” you mutter.

“But offering them,” he says, gently tapping your jacket pocket, “in the dark? In public? That’s intimacy.”

You shake your head, but it’s not just a shake. It’s a full-body exhale, hand half-lifted in disbelief. “This is probably the weirdest shit I’ve ever been exposed to,” you mutter. “And I’ve taken property law. I don’t appreciate it.”

Caleb just blinks, startled—half-laughing, half-bracing.

“Listen. You’re impossible,” you add, jabbing a finger at him. “Absolutely communication-bankrupt. I swear to God, I have a crash course printout somewhere—old contracts material. ‘How to establish dialogue with clients who actively resist clarity.’ I will staple it to your forehead.”

He grins, infuriatingly unbothered. “And yet, somehow, still your problem.”

“Oh my god.”

But you don’t walk away.

Because yeah. He is your problem.

And that’s the problem.

‘Cause there’s something new in his voice—lighter, but grounded. Like he’s still figuring out how to say what he means. But he’s saying it anyway.

You can see it—behind the bangs falling into his eyes, behind the smug smirk that’s barely hiding real hope.

“Caleb. Be honest,” you say, folding your arms to cover your heart’s entire meltdown, “was this whole group chaos supposed to charm me?”

“I panicked,” he admits, no hesitation. “It was either introduce you to my friends or lose my mind not introducing you to my friends. I compromised.”

“And dragged me into a social Rubik’s Cube situation without warning?”

Caleb smiles. “Well… you survived.”

“You’re lucky I’m into emotionally confusing cases.”

His grin breaks wider. “That’s why you’re my favorite lawyer.”

“Your only lawyer.”

“Still counts.”

And just like that, something in your chest starts to unclench. Because he’s being real. Messy. Thoughtless. Thoughtful. All at once.

But real.

Then—because of course—he leans in close, breath brushing your cheek, warm and maddeningly casual, as his hand slips into your jacket pocket like it belongs there. Fingers search with practiced ease until they find the Sour Patch Kids hiding in your pocket. He pulls out a red one.

He holds the candy between his teeth, grinning around it like it’s part of the performance.

“Mood candy,” he mumbles around the gummy, voice low and a little shy. Then—quietly—he reaches for your hands, gently trying to uncross your arms like he’s unwrapping a closed-off moment.

“Please… cheer up,” he says. “And… If you let me… I’ll take you on solo dates from now on. Just you and me. No interruptions, no weird dynamics. Just… us. Like I should’ve done from the start.”

A breath slips past your lips—soft, reluctant—as your fingers uncurl from your crossed arms, and you let him take your hand.

You don’t say anything.

Because you’re still trying to find the words. The break-it-off words. The let’s-just-be-friends words that have been drafting themselves in your head for the past two hours.

But also—damn it—you still want to understand what this is, what he’s doing. Because something about the way he said it—makes you hold back. Just for a second.

And just as you start walking, slow steps down the quiet sidewalk, shoulders brushing every third one—he adds, voice low, almost like he’s not sure you’re meant to hear it,

“I… honestly just wanted you to meet them. See how it felt. I know it’s weird.” A pause. “But mostly, I just wanted you there.”

A breath.

“I’m… not really good at this,” he says. A little laugh under his breath, self-deprecating. “Like, dating. Or whatever this is. I don’t know the rules. I keep trying to act normal around you and then my brain just—” He bites the gummy. “—stops cooperating.”

You slow slightly. He does too. Glancing up, you catch the side of his face. The way his bangs fall over his brow. The way he’s not looking at you now.

“I want to be around you,” he says. “But I also don’t want to screw it up by being… too much. Or not enough. Or making you uncomfortable… with everything that comes with me.”

He nudges your shoulder with his.

“I’m not used to… caring this much about how I come off.”

There’s a pause—quiet and crackling—and the words slip out before you can stop them.

“You—… Do you live with her?”

He stops. Just briefly. Like he didn’t expect you to say it out loud.

Then he nods. Looks down at your joined hands. “Yeah. I used to.” A pause. Then—almost offhand, but not quite: “I live closer to campus now. I just come back some weekends… or… when I can.”

Your stomach flips, but he’s already rushing to fill the silence.

“It’s not—look,” he starts, fingers brushing his bangs like he’s trying to reset something in his brain. “We’ve known each other forever. Grew up together, same everything. She’s been my best friend since we were kids.”

His brow furrows, like the words are harder to pin down than he expected. “It’s always just been… us. I didn’t know how to bring that up without making it sound weird. Or like I was hiding something.”

There’s a beat. A breath.

His voice dips, careful now, like he’s balancing something fragile. “And… ugh… For the longest time, I thought maybe that was all I’d ever need. Like, that kind of bond would be enough.”

His gaze lifts, and lands squarely on you.

“But then you happened,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair, like the words are heavier than he expected. “And I realized I might’ve been wrong. I told you before… Being around you feels… light,” he says, almost like it surprises him. “Like—for once—I’m not dragging chains behind me. Like I can actually breathe, and not brace for the weight that usually follows.”

You watch his brow knit, lips parting like he’s still trying to explain it right. Like he’s bracing for impact again.

But instead of pulling away, your fingers tighten around his.

“You… should’ve told me. But I’m not completely weirded out,” you say, soft and steady. Then, with a small shrug and a lie bold enough to count as perjury, “I’ve done mock trials messier than this.”

(It’s not true. Not even close. This is the weirdest case study in personal chaos you’ve ever lived through—like someone ripped off a band-aid and then asked you to hold hands about it. But it’s Caleb. And somehow, that’s starting to feel like a valid legal defense.)

His shoulders relax. Just a little. And under the streetlight glow, he looks at you like he’s seeing a lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“Thanks for… being patient with me,” he says, voice softer now. “I’m sorry if I made this weird.” His thumb brushes over your knuckles—barely there.

“I’ll talk to her,” he adds after a beat. “She’s used to us being a certain way, but… that can’t be the same anymore. I don’t want you to feel like… there’s no space for you.”

He glances at you, bangs falling into his eyes.

“I’m figuring it out. But I want to get it right.”

You stop at a crosswalk, the red hand blinking overhead. He looks at you finally, like maybe he thinks that was too much.

“Pretty sure I’ve said more in the past twenty minutes than I have all year. Must be the law student charisma,” he mutters.

“But yeah,” he finishes, a little quieter now. “That’s where I’m at. Stupid candy and all.”

Then he turns slightly, hand brushing yours—fingertips catching the edge of your jacket pocket like he’s grounding himself.

“Hey. I—I’m sorry,” he says, real now. Not teasing. Not dodging. “For the mess. For not explaining things right away. For… being kind of a dumbass about all of this.”

His thumb brushes over your hand again, slow, uncertain. Then his other hand shifts—tightening just slightly where his fingers still rest near your pocket. Like he’s bracing for whatever you’ll say next.

“If you want space after this—if you don’t want to deal with… whatever this is—I’d get it.” His voice drops, a little tighter now. “I wouldn’t like it. But I’d get it.” Then, quieter—almost like it slips out:

“But… can I still make your pre-lecture coffee?”

The walk sign flashes.

He goes for another candy.

You don’t let him get there.

You don’t think. You rise up on your toes and kiss him.

Right there at the crosswalk.

Hands gripping the front of his jacket. Mouth pressed to the smug curve of that sentence he was about to say. And for once—finally—he doesn’t say anything back.

Just kisses you like he’s been waiting to.

Like the world narrowed down to this exact crosswalk. To you.

To this.

And yeah.

You’re still kind of mad.

But you’re also kind of gone.

——————————————————————————

My insecurities surround me like lions in the den

And I feel like I'm losing touch with what I am again

So won't you fall for me?

Won't you fall for me?

——————————————————————————

Part 13

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So. Sunk costs; costs that have already been incurred and cannot be recovered, regardless of future outcomes or decisions. They cannot be changed and should not factor into future investment decisions. Only future costs and benefits should influence decisions. Will you still accept Caleb, knowing he’s carrying this? Will you trust him? Will you accept the bond he shares with apple girl? Will it be worth it if you do? Thank you for reading. I’m a bit on the fence about continuing right now—the arc I felt good about is suddenly making me second-guess everything. But I’m so grateful you’re here. Seriously, thank you 🫶🏻

[retroaria]

hiii!!!! congrats on 1.5k omg!! could i get the dialogue nsfw no. 4 with chuuya (and maybe dazai if u feel like it) with sub!fem!reader please? tysm!!

₊˚⊹♡ Chuuya Nakahara x sub!fem!reader

a/n: cliffhanger lol bc i love leaving the smut up to your imagination 😌

˗ˏˋ written for aria’s 1.5k follower event! ˎˊ˗

There was an uncanny stillness in the air surrounding Yokohama tonight. It was thin, breezy, serene - the streets were quiet and clean. “Chuu~ did you have something planned for us tonight?” you leaned against your door as you held it open, your eyes flickered up and down Chuuya’s figure before you. “It’s awfully quiet out…”

A sly smirk spread across his face as he reached out to wrap his arms around your waist and pull you in, “Wouldn’t want anyone dying on date night, all operations are at a halt. You’ve got me all night darling.” he cooed at you, his thumbs rubbing soft circles into your sides. “Are you ready to go?”

“You lead the way.” you tilted your head up and spoke into his ear, teasingly. His hand shifted to your lower back, guiding you out the door.

Chuuya didn’t get to spend nights like this with you often. His position in the mafia demanded his full devotion, and you knew this when you decided to entangle yourself in his madness. You meet with him in shadows as he passes through, or you’ll wake up some mornings in his arms, left to wonder how he snuck in the night before. He often would apologize profusely for his shortcomings as a partner, though you both know you couldn’t leave each other no matter how distant you felt.

On occasion, life would slow down, and Chuuya would find a way to arrange a single night where he isn’t needed. He’d call you in the morning, tell you to dress up as nice as you please, and by nightfall, there he was at your doorstep - roses in hand and a smile on his face. These clandestine meetings gave you time in between to yearn and long for each other. It made every touch feel electric, and every teasing word that melted off his tongue pool into your panties.

The night was beautiful as always, Chuuya Nakahara wouldn’t be caught dead doing anything less than extravagant for the woman he loves. A candlelit dinner, a piano playing softly throughout the room, a bottle of his finest liquor, and his hand holding yours across the table as he gazes into your eyes and listens to you speak. You spent the evening getting blissfully lost in each others presence, your temptations aided by the alcohol.

Eventually you found yourselves stumbling slightly through the streets back to your apartment, hand in hand, clingy closely to each other. He recounted a recent mission, pride and righteousness laced in his words. Chuuya was nothing but a punk who made it big in the criminal underground, surely no one in your life would approve of your relationship with him, but that only made it all the more fun. No one could rile you up this much, keep you on your toes and at the edge of your seat - ready to release every inhibition upon his command. As you neared your building, he wrapped his arm snug around your waist and pulled you close, excitement and anticipation bubbling up inside you.

You fumbled with your keys as Chuuya pushed his body up against your backside, his warm breath trailing down your neck as he nibbled playfully on your ear. “Someone’s antsy…” you said just above a whisper as you finally pushed the right key in and opened the door.

“I only have but so much time with you doll, I think we better to make the most of every second…” he said, lacing his fingers with yours as he let your guide him into your apartment. As soon as the door shut he practically yanked you into his arms, his fingertips tilting your chin up to face him, “…that is, if you’ll allow me?” he smirked at you expectantly, his thumb tracing down your jawline before moving to gently rub your cheek.

“Whatever you want…” you muttered out, entranced by his seductive touch and gaze. You aren’t even sure how it happened, he wrapped you up in his cloud of lust, and you came back to as your back fell softly against the bed sheets. Chuuya kneeled on the bed before, sat perfectly between your legs, his hands sliding up your thighs to your hips.

He slipped his hands under your shirt, smoothing against the skin of your body underneath as he hummed in delight. You sat up slightly and lifted your arms, allowing him to pull the shirt over your head and toss it to the side, his hands supported your back and he pulled you into a passionate kiss as you worked on undoing the buttons of his shirt.

You both worked your way through each others clothes, you pulled down his boxers and watched his cock perk up against his stomach- his tip slightly leaking in anticipation. Chuuya stopped abruptly once he had you in your bra and panties. He took in the view before using his hands to pray open your legs, squeezing gently at the fat of your thighs. His fingertips grazing down until they met your clothed core, pressing slightly through the fabric of your panties. Your breath hitched and his eyes darted up at you. “Is this where you need me baby?” he said to you softly, playing with the hem of your panties teasingly.

You hummed in approval, shaking your head a bit as your hips gently grinded up further into his touch. He pulled his hand away and placed it firm against your chest, sliding up until his fingers were wrapped loosely around your neck. “Use your words doll, tell me where you need me.”

He’s barely even touched you and he’s already taken your breath away, your hips buck slightly again, “Hmph~ anywhere chuu, please…” you pleaded. His eyes darkened a bit.

“Anywhere I want?” the devilish smile he flashed down at you was painfully hot, you wanted to instinctively shut your legs for some amount of friction as you felt your wetness pooling in your panties.

“Anywhere…touch me anywhere chuu~” your approval was all he needed to finally begin playing with you as he pleased. He pulled your panties down, lifting your legs above his head so he could pluck them off and toss them to the ground. He kept one hand wrapped around you neck as he trailed the other down your thigh, feeling the gentle pulse of your nerves the closer he got to where you needed him most.

Finally, his fingertips made there way down to your heat, pushing through your folds and rubbing against your entrance, collecting your arousal to spread up towards your clit. As he drew slow circles on your bundle of nerves you let your eyes flutter shut in pleasure. You could feel his hand around your neck tighten.

“Keep your eyes open, look at me, baby.” he said sternly, increasing the pressure of his fingers rubbing against your clit. Your eyes met his and you were immediately pulled into his lusty gaze, your vision locked on him as you whimpered at his touch. He released your neck hesitantly, only to use his other hand to plunge two of his slender fingers into your gushing entrance. You rolled your hips into his hands, egging him on to speed up his thrusts. He curled his digits into your sweet spot and prodded at it roughly, continuing his movements on your clit and nearly pushing you over the edge. “I want you to look at me while you cum all over my hands princess, let me see how good I make you feel.”

Your eyes darted down to watch his hands work your cunt and you could see his cock hanging eagerly over the sheets, his tip red and plump, a subtle white glaze precum dripping down into his shaft. Your mind filled with dirty visions of his cock pumping rope after rope of his hot seed into your weeping cunt. Your body squirmed and tosses under his touch and you looked back up at him, brows furrowed and rolling slightly back. He could feel your walls clenching around his fingers as he sped up all his movements.

Chuuya groaned as he watched your eyes roll into the back of your head. He removed his hand from your clit and brought it back up to wrap around your neck, his other hand continued finger fucking you so rough you could feel yourself tipping over the edge. You stomach fluttered and your hips lifted slightly. You brought your hand up to wrap around his bicep, your nails digging into him as your orgasm washed over you. You moaned out and he watched you fall apart beneath him with his mouth slightly ajar, looking at you like he was ready to devour you whole.

He rode you down from your high, removing his fingers from your hole and rubbing gently through your folds. He leaned down and kissed your neck, trailing his kisses up until he reached your soft lips. He tugged on your bottom lip with his teeth as he pulled away, quickly replacing his mouth with the fingers you came around moments ago, pushing them past your lips and swirling them around your tongue. “Mmm~ good girl, taste all that cum I fucked out of you…”

He reached his other hand down to slowly pump his throbbing cock, swiping his thumb over his leaking tip with a low groan. He pulled his fingers out of your mouth and gripped your hip firmly, he rubbed his cock through your slick folds and moaned, his tip swiping back and forth against your clit. You squirmed beneath him, overstimulated, and he chuckled down at you.

“I’m hardly done with you baby, I know you can take it all for me tonight, isn’t that right?” he said as he lined his tip up with your entrance.

“Y-yes, Chuu~” you cooed at him. He reached one hand up to caress your cheek gently as he looked down at you with a mixture of lust and adoration.

“Good girl, now let me make you feel good princess…”

[hartleychristopher]

Studying with Chris late at night and you leave to clean your face or whatever during one of your breaks, u come back with glasses and he’s just??? He didn’t even know you wore glasses, but apparently he’s got a thing for it because he’s stopped paying attention entirely

(Nerdy Chris gets a boner about nothing studying edition)

😛😛

Pairing: crush!chris x fem!reader

Warnings: shy/kind of a little bit loser!Chris, glasses k!nk(?), smutty! 18+!

A/N: I love you 😛 anon you always have the best ideas <33 I loved writing him so flustered and awkward and HORNY, the way god intended him to be…

The room is dim, lit only by a floor lamp casting soft shadows over scattered notes, open textbooks, uncapped highlighters. Chris’s laptop glows quietly amid the clutter, its screen full of tabs and citation bookmarks, while lo-fi beats murmur from a wireless speaker in the background. The air is heavy with late-night tension, filled only by soft music and the sound of pencils scratching on notebooks, or the clicking of a keyboard.

You’re trying to focus on your work, you’ve been staring at your notes for hours but your eyes are going blurry. You blink a few times, trying to will them to see better and you rub them, only to be irritated by your contact lenses. Wincing slightly, you rise from your place on your bed and you head to the bathroom, murmuring a quick “be right back!” to Chris who barely hums in acknowledgment.

You take your contacts out once you’re in front of the bathroom mirror. You decide to wash your face while you’re in there too, your makeup has worn thin with the stress of the day. Instead of deciding to put in a fresh pair of contacts in you opt for your glasses, your eyes thoroughly irritated from your extended-wear lenses anyways. You’ve kept your glasses in the medicine cabinet because it’s been so long since you’ve even worn them.

You come back to the room feeling a bit more refreshed; a clean face, your hair brushed out, your eyes free to breathe behind your glasses.

Chris glances up at you when you enter the room again, mumbling a small “hey” and looking back to his laptop—until his head whips back up for him to do a double take, his eyes widening when he sees you in your glasses for the first time.

He freezes, mid-keystroke, doesn’t even blink.

You don’t notice at first, climbing back to the foot of the bed where your study materials are still scattered.

His brain: blue screen.

His voice trips over itself. “I—you—yeah, you, um.” He gestures vaguely at your face like he’s trying to draw a diagram in the air. “G-Glasses.” He says from his spot on your bed, propped up against the headboard.

You raise an eyebrow. “Yeah. My contacts were bugging me.”

He nods, violently. Too many times. “Right. Logical. Vision and…comfort.”

He is not looking at the computer. He is trying so hard not to stare—he’s failing. Chris is having a hard time keeping it together, you look gorgeous like this; fresh-faced, your cute glasses framing your pretty eyes perfectly, making them appear slightly bigger. It’s making Chris dizzy.

You tilt your head, amused now. “Something wrong?”

“No,” he squeaks, clearing his throat, his voice deeper this time: “No. Just. Glasses. Good. I mean—t-they look good—really good. Not that you don’t look good normally, I mean, you always look good, just t-that the glasses are, like, bonus good. Extra—uh, data.”

He winces. Data? C’mon, man…

You just smirk, too inebriated by exhaustion to care about being blunt: “You have a glasses kink, don’t you?” You push boldly.

His soul leaves his body.

“I don’t���not a kink—I mean I appreciate optical enhancements—” he covers his face with his hands, groaning.

You just laugh, breezy and unbothered, “optical enhancements?” You parrot his dorky choice of words back at him.

“God, please stop before I implode.” He removes his own glasses to rub his eyes—an excuse to keep himself from meeting your gaze right now.

When he adjusts his glasses back onto his nose he sees you’ve crawled over to him, you’re dangerously close now, blinking up at him through your frames.

“I’ve never made out with another person wearing glasses, do you think they’d knock together a bunch?” You giggle, trying to rile him up.

“Jesus Christ, are—are you trying to get me to go into cardiac arrest?” He breathes, his blue eyes are heavy lidded and blown out, he tries to discreetly move his laptop over his crotch so you don’t see his growing erection. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, his chest is rising and falling with his shallow breath.

You don’t miss how he places his laptop over his groin precariously. Your eyes drift from his shielded crotch and back to his face.

“This laptop is in my seat” you smirk.

Chris’s brain seems to short-circuit again.

“W-what?” He sputters

“You heard me, Hartley” you smile with faux innocence.

His brain catches up and he nods, quickly, shoving his laptop out of the way so hard, he’s lucky it gets caught on your blanket and doesn’t clatter to the floor. His big hands are reaching for your waist, tugging you into his lap to straddle him.

A broken moan leaves his mouth when you settle on his aching cock, his sweatpants, and your thin leggings are doing little to shield your hot core from his hard length.

“Oh!” You breathe through a moan, getting a good feel of his size through his clothes. “So you really like my glasses.” you conclude from his boner.

“Really like them—so p-pretty” he breathes, his lips parted with his heavy breathing, you crash your mouth to his, your lips slotting between his easily, resulting in a hot, messy kiss that makes your brain feels like it’s melting and spilling out of your ears—in the best way.

“How would you like to see me in nothing… but the glasses?” You ask between desperate kisses.

Chris groans deeply in response, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. He’s trying to catch his breath when he says:

“Ohhhkay—I need to sit down—“ he’s already sitting. “Or—I mean—lie down. You need to sit down… on my face.”

<3

Chris taglist: @fritzhardt @avwade69 @maiiuelle @avrells @fordthegamelord819

Wanna join my taglist? Click here!

[arcadia-smith]

TW:abuse, torture, SA.

Find Part 1 here

Simon Riley x Reader

The Interpreter's Prayer

Part 2

***

It was one of those fleeting weekends, the kind that felt stolen from time itself- where the demands of work fell silent, and the weather conspired just enough to lure you outdoors.

You and Simon, untethered from duty, had decided to take Mia to the playground, her laughter ringing out like tiny chimes against the backdrop of a breezy afternoon.

"I don't know, Simon," you murmured, exhaling a sigh that felt heavier than the wind brushing past your cheeks. Your fingers swept stray strands of hair from your face as your gaze lingered on Mia, her small figure darting through the jungle gym. "The field isn’t my place. I’m an interpreter, not a soldier."

Simon’s response was as steady as the earth beneath your feet. “You’ve passed every physical and psychological test the sergeants have thrown at you,” he said, his tone calm but firm. “And if I’m being honest, you shoot better than half of them.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, a mixture of disbelief and reluctant amusement. “Why me, Simon? Why do you need me for this?”

He turned to you, his eyes steady, carrying the weight of unspoken truths. “Because you speak Arabic. Because you wear a woman’s face.” His voice was measured but edged with quiet urgency. “And because Basma will only trust us if she sees someone like you. It’s a simple job—quick, clean. In and out. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Your brow furrowed, doubt threading through your voice. “And what about Mia? My mum’s all the way in London, and I can’t ask her to drop everything.”

Simon reached for your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, a silent anchor amidst the storm of your thoughts. “Johnny’s already agreed. He’ll take care of her. Three days- no more. I swear I’ll bring you back without so much as a scratch.”

He paused, his lips curving into a small, hopeful smile. “And maybe, after this, we can revisit that conversation about giving Mia a little sibling?”

You scoffed, shaking your head, though the faintest hint of a smile tugged at your lips. Before you could form a reply, Mia’s voice rang out, bright and insistent.

“Daddy! Come push me on the swing!”

She bounded toward Simon, her tiny hand clasping his with the determination only a five-year-old could muster. With a soft chuckle, he let her lead him away, leaving you on the bench, the echo of their laughter swirling in the air.

Your heart wavered, caught between the unease of his request and the quiet confidence in his promise. You weren’t thrilled by the thought of stepping into the field, but you understood why he had asked. And despite your fears, you trusted Simon’s word- that you’d return home, unscathed, to the sanctuary of your daughter’s laughter and his steadfast embrace.

***

Darkness greeted you like an old enemy.

Your consciousness returned in fragments, each shard bringing new pain, your head a symphony of dull aches and dried blood turned to rust in your hair.

Movement became a study in agony — every muscle a testament to violence. The chain around your ankle sang cold songs against your skin as it trapped you in this tomb of shadows.

Awareness crept in slowly, like poison through veins: the chill air kissing bare skin, your clothes stripped away like dignity, leaving you vulnerable in cotton basics that offered no armor against the world.

Pain bloomed like dark flowers across your body — legs, arms, stomach. And deeper still, where violation lived like a curse.

The cold floor became your sanctuary as you curled inward, knees drawing close like a child seeking comfort in the womb.

Time lost meaning in the darkness, minutes or hours flowing past like black water while you lay there, a comma in death's sentence.

Tears gathered like morning dew, but pride held them prisoner. You wouldn't give them the satisfaction of salt tracks on your cheeks.

Anger rose like a tide — at Simon, whose faith in you had become a betrayal, whose love had led you from safety into nightmare. At the men who'd written their cruelty on your flesh in bruises and blood.

Then Basma's face floated through your mind like a ghost, followed by her children — and Noor, sweet Noor, whose tears had been the last light you'd seen before darkness claimed you.

The voices outside grew like thunder clouds, Arabic words seeping through walls "If she's awake, we'll make her speak."

Then another voice, smooth as silk hiding steel "I need to find my wife. That's all I care about. Do what you want with the foreign woman." Nasir — a man whose name tasted like ash and endings.

Light invaded like a blade, carving through darkness to blind you. In the doorway, a silhouette became a man whose eyes held all the warmth of winter frost, his satisfaction curved like a scythe across his face.

"Little hero awake." His words stumbled from his tongue, broken English sharp as shattered glass.

His gaze crawled across your skin like insects, his tongue darting out — a snake tasting fear in the air. He moved with the terrible patience of a predator who knows its prey is trapped, fingers suddenly tangling in your hair like thorns. Your head snapped back, neck exposed to the cold air. His other hand found your face, fingers tracing your features like a sculptor modeling clay, but there was nothing of art in his touch — only ownership and cruel intent.

"It will be more fun while you're awake." Each word fell like acid rain, promising storms to come.

Pain bloomed as he yanked you upward, your gasp a butterfly breaking free against your will.

"Tell me where that traitor wife is and I might not hurt your pretty face more than I already have." His words slithered through the air as his fingers found your throat, a collar of cruelty tightening with each breath.

Your defiant silence painted rage across his features. He threw you down like a discarded doll, but his anger transformed into something worse — a terrible pleasure that turned his mouth cruel.

He descended like a shadow, dragging you closer by your chained ankle. You fought with all the fury of a caged storm, legs kicking, but his strength overwhelmed yours like darkness swallowing light. His weight pressed you into the cold floor, a mountain you couldn't move.

Tears you held hidden now broke free, a loud scream of pain as you tried to claw at man's shoulders. To push him away, yet he seemed immune to your struggles.

Closing your eyes you drifted off. To thoughts of Simon and Mia. And a sunny day at the park. Far away from here.

The chill on bare skin once more returned. You were left raw and exposed.

Part 3

[heylittleriotact]

WIP WHENEVER

Thank you for tagging me, @roguishcat and @xxnashiraxx! I haven’t written much over the past few days because art, but here’s a bit of what I’ve got going on for Chapter 12 of i heard people are dying to get in here

Tagging: @allofthebarks @aldisobey @thepalehorsevictoria @emmg and @preciouslittlebhaalbae

It was always a bit disconcerting to wake up in someone else’s bed for the first time, but as Rook lazily wandered the path between sleep and waking, becoming aware of the thick, heavy duvet she was huddled in, while her fingers dragged over the luxurious texture of linen sheets she couldn’t even begin to put a price tag on, that fleeting confusion gave way to a warm feeling that touched every corner of her.

Granted, she had no idea where Emmrich had gone, but she was surrounded by him even in his physical absence: his sheets, his bed, his scent - even the subtle ache between her thighs was his doing - and it felt amazing.

Unsure of what time it was due to the black-out curtains over the windows, Rook reached over the bed for her phone on the nightstand, squinting into the bright screen until her eyes adjusted.

7:15… on a Saturday. Who gets up this early on a Saturday?

Emmrich, evidently. How long had he been awake? And why wasn’t he cuddling her?

Unacceptable.

She flung back the down-filled duvet and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, taking her phone with her to use the flashlight so she could find a light switch on the wall and illuminate the room properly.

When she had, she looked at her duffel bag on the gold damask chair in the corner of the large room - it contained enough clothes to last the weekend, and enough underwear that even if she shit herself numerous times before Sunday afternoon, she’d have fresh clean ones.

She had brought along a pair of sweats and a couple of comfy tees, but…

Instead she went to the chest of drawers against the wall, tall and handsome like Emmrich, and she could tell by a glance that it sure as shit wasn’t comprised of pressboard and dowels.

Solving murders for the cops as a side-gig is clearly not without its side-benefits…

Looping her fingers into the solid brass handles of the uppermost drawer, she was greeted by a plethora of designer underwear and socks in nearly every colour and pattern imaginable. Giggling, she slide the drawer shut and opened the next one: ah, more cashmere sweaters - he likes his knitwear, doesn’t he?

The next one yielded a variety of casual chinos and one single pair of dark grey jeans at the very bottom that looked like they’d been in that exact spot for years.

The bottom drawer contained what she was looking for (amongst sweat wicking athletic shirts, and to her delight, a few pairs of breezy pants that wouldn’t have been out of place in a yoga studio): a stack of t-shirts, carefully folded like everything else, but bearing the same air of untouched neglect the jeans had.

Settling onto her knees, Rook pulled the stack out and balanced them on her lap, feeling utterly at home with the act of brazenly snooping through Emmrich’s dresser.

“Mhmmm…” she murmured, lifting the topmost shirt and unfolding it, holding it up before her. “I knew there was more to you than Beethoven…”

Pink Turns Blue - she wasn’t familiar with the band, but there was no mistaking that this was indeed a band shirt. It was old: the black cotton faded nearly to grey, the screen printed graphic cracked and lightened by countless washes.

Draping it over the edge of the drawer, she unfolded another.

Depeche Mode, nice.

Then another.

Bauhaus… ooooh…

Siouxie and the Banshees, The Birthday Party, The Legendary Pink Dots, The Velvet Underground

The Cramps…

“Ewww gross: The Smiths,” she wrinkled her nose and put it down. “Judging you, for that one, Emmrich.”

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds

Einstürzende Neubauten…

“Can’t have one without the other, right?” She smiled at the purple and gold stylization of a stick-man and the crimson splash bursting out from behind it, the band’s name picked out in the same ochre shade that outlined the stick-man.

This one looked to be the most threadbare and heavily worn: the neckline was riddled with small notches where the elastic had deteriorated, and the material was so thin in places it might tear if handled too harshly. Sure enough, the seams under the armpits were lined with holes where friction had stressed the cheap garment the most.

She cast a glance over her shoulder towards the door to ensure Emmrich and his soft footfalls hadn’t snuck up on her, and when she deemed the coast clear, she brought an armpit to her nose and gave it a tentative sniff.

Oh yeah. This smells like a favourite.

The fibres were steeped in the permanent, detergent-resistant musk of a garment that had been worn and sweated in and washed hundreds of times: the lingering ghost of Emmrich’s booze (and potentially other substance) fuelled escapades of youth.

An image of Emmrich, lankier even than he was now, clad in tight leather pants and tattered combat boots, grooving sullenly in an 80s goth club wandered through her mind. He was sweaty, bare-faced, and the amount of hairspray in his dark hair undeniably contributed to the hole in the ozone layer. A flat gin and tonic dangled at his side and he puffed on a dirty ass clove cigarette as he watched the band with half-lidded disinterest, swaying in place to the music.

[littlelamy]

Request idea, I don’t know if you write for Zach Maclaren (but otherwise I guess….a slight non canon Soft!Rafe, no way canon Rafe would be like this, anyways: I got this thought watching the very beginning of the horror movie (but make it romantic ey) Reader is about to check into her airbnb but discovers there is already a guy there  who has also booked the Airbnb, it’s been double booked by the host. He feels bad that she can’t find anywhere else to stay since it’s so late at night, so he offers her to stay over the night. The start of a sweet, gentle unexpected romance where he keeps doing cute awkward things to gain her trust and show he is not some psycho/weirdo, kinda like the movie (the male character waited to open a wine bottle so she could see him do it so she feels safe to drink it, he suggested making her tea again and for him to watch him since she did not drink the tea he made)

the neon glow of the porch light buzzed weakly, flickering against the creeping dark of the countryside. the night air was thick with the scent of damp wood and distant pine, the kind of quiet that made the world feel abandoned. you pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your overnight bag digging into your shoulder as you stepped onto the front porch of the isolated airbnb.

except—

the door was already open.

your fingers tightened around your phone as you hesitated at the threshold. the host had sent you the check-in instructions just an hour ago, a breezy message about how the key would be under the potted plant by the door. but now the entrance yawned open, warm light spilling from inside, and a figure stood in the center of the rustic living room. a tall, slightly disheveled man with a duffel bag at his feet, blinking at you in surprise.

his eyebrows lifted, then furrowed. “uh. hi?”

you sucked in a breath, heart hammering. “hi.”

a beat of silence stretched between you both, thick and awkward. then his lips quirked at the edges, amusement flashing in his eyes.

“did—” you started, gripping your phone tighter. “are you the owner?”

he huffed a soft laugh, shaking his head. “no. i booked this place for the night.”

your stomach dropped. “that’s not possible. i also booked this place for the night.”

his blue eyes widened, something like understanding clicking into place. he dragged a hand through his hair, messy strands shifting under his fingers. “oh, man. you’re kidding.”

“nope.”

another pause. then, a sheepish smile tugged at his lips, dimples showing. “that’s… definitely a problem.”

you exhaled, shuffling your weight from foot to foot. your day had already been long, and the thought of hunting down another vacancy in this middle-of-nowhere town this late at night made exhaustion sink into your bones. “yeah. big problem.”

he seemed to pick up on your hesitation, rubbing the back of his neck. “look, uh, if you’re not comfortable staying here with a total stranger, i get it. i can sleep in my car.”

you glanced out into the night, at the vast emptiness of the countryside. your conscience twinged. “that doesn’t seem fair.”

he hesitated. then, with a slow, teasing grin, “we could… both stay? i promise i don’t bite. unless you want me to.”

you narrowed your eyes, but your lips threatened to curl into a smile. “smooth. real smooth.”

he laughed, rubbing at the back of his neck again. “worth a shot.”

crossing your arms, you took a step forward, your body brushing just slightly against his as you entered. he smelled good—clean, warm, something a little woodsy. you told yourself not to notice.

“and how do i know you’re not a serial killer?” you asked, tilting your head.

he let out a soft chuckle, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “fair point. i, uh, could give you my id? let you take a picture of it. i’ll even let you watch me make my tea so you know i’m not drugging anything.”

“tempting,” you mused, biting the inside of your cheek. “but i think i’ll keep an eye on you just in case.”

you studied him. he seemed harmless, all boyish uncertainty and awkward sincerity, but there was a flicker of charm beneath it, something playful lingering in his expression. slowly, you stepped over the threshold, shutting the door behind you.

his lips quirked in relief. “cool. so… i’m zach.”

“nice to meet you, zach. i’m y/n. and just so you know, i get the bedroom.”

his laughter was warm, something easy settling in the space between you both. he held a hand to his chest, mock-offended. “damn. you’re ruthless.”

“you have no idea,” you teased, dropping your bag onto the couch.

he grinned, eyes twinkling. “guess i’ll just have to win you over then.”

and just like that, the night stretched ahead, uncertain yet oddly promising.

lamy's notes: i hope you liked it!

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