#the thought of sharing a moment like this with him???

[itsnesss]

𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐝 | max verstappen × fem!reader

summary | you watch max become the sweetest, most devoted girl dad

warnings | pure fluff, extreme dad!max softness, baby talk, domestic overload

box | in honor of max already being a dad and will surely be very happy with little lily

🖇️ more mv1 🖇️ f1 masterlist

You wake up before the sun fully rises, as has become the norm since the little one entered your lives. At first, you thought you’d collapse from exhaustion, but now… now it’s different.

You get up with a smile on your lips, even when your eyes sting and your muscles ache. Because you know that in the room next door, a piece of heaven is waiting for you.

But you're not the first to get there this time.

When you open the nursery door, you see him. Max. Sitting in the rocking chair with your baby in his arms, gently swaying her while whispering softly, like he’s sharing a secret only she can hear. He doesn’t notice you at first, too focused on the tiny being he’s holding like she’s made of glass.

“Shhh, prinsesje… papa’s here, always.”

His voice is raspy with sleep, every word soaked in devotion. Something in your chest tightens.

You never imagined Max could be like this. Sweet. Tender. Vulnerable.

He was always intensity, speed, competition. But now, with that baby in his arms, Max is all calm. He’s shelter. He’s home.

You linger in the doorway for a few more seconds, just watching. The way he strokes her cheek with the tip of his finger, how he murmurs in Dutch, saying things only she seems to understand. The tiny pink hat with little ears —the one you knitted yourself— covers her head, and the white onesie with tiny race cars —clearly his choice— is still slightly too big.

Max looks up and sees you.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” he whispers, as if any louder sound might break the magic of this moment.

“It’s okay,” you reply softly, stepping in quietly. “I love catching you two like this.”

The smile he gives you is tired but full of joy. Max looks at you like you’re his favorite person in the world, and you realize you’re now part of something much bigger: a family.

You sit on the edge of the bed, watching them. The baby yawns, stretches slightly, and curls back up against Max’s chest as if she knows there’s no safer place.

“She looks like you,” you say.

He shakes his head, eyes still on her.

“She has your lips. And your lashes. But yeah… I see a bit of myself in her eyes. That determined look. Like she already knows what she wants.”

You chuckle softly. Because it’s true. That baby already has a personality.

“She smiled in her sleep earlier,” Max says with a tenderness you’ve never heard in his voice. “Do you think she was dreaming?”

“Of course,” you whisper. “Probably dreaming you were taking her for a ride in a giant plush Red Bull car or something.”

Max laughs. That deep laugh you love so much. The one that comes from his chest and lights up his whole face.

“Can you imagine when she says her first word? What if it’s ‘dad’?”

“What if it’s ‘mom’?” you tease, pretending to be offended.

“Well, I can live with that. But ‘pole position’ wouldn’t be bad either…”

“Max.”

“I’m kidding! Kind of.”

A comfortable silence falls between you, the kind that only exists when two people understand each other without needing words. Max keeps rocking her, and you rest your head on his shoulder. Your hand brushes against his, and for a moment, the world stops spinning so fast.

“I never thought this… would feel so good,” he murmurs, his voice stripped bare with honesty.

You did. You always knew. From the moment his eyes lit up when he found out he was going to be a dad. From every ultrasound, every little kick, every over-the-top shopping trip filled with pacifiers covered in flags and onesies with the number 1.

Max Verstappen was born to be a girl dad.

And an amazing one at that.

Later, the sunlight spills through the window like a warm caress, and Max is lying on the rug in the unfinished playroom. The baby is on her back, staring at him in fascination while he makes silly noises with a stuffed tire plush.

“Who’s the prettiest princess? You are, yes you. With those little podium cheeks. That tiny champion nose.”

You walk in slowly, your phone camera ready.

“Are you commentating an imaginary Grand Prix for her?”

“She’s the driver, and she just won,” he says, puffing out his chest like it’s his greatest achievement. “Right, sweetheart?”

She kicks her feet excitedly, as if she understands.

“Please don’t nickname her ‘Little Verstappen’ like the media.”

“But it’s adorable!”

“She’s going to be a meme…”

He shrugs.

“If that means the world gets to see how perfect she is, I don’t care.”

You snap a photo just as he kisses her forehead. Max doesn’t notice. He’s too busy holding her tiny hands and telling her that one day, he’ll take her to Monaco and she’ll have her own pink helmet with stars.

And even though it sounds like a fantasy, you know he would do it in a heartbeat.

In the afternoon, while the baby naps against your chest, Max walks in holding a new bottle and looking slightly guilty.

“Another one?”

“I couldn’t resist,” he says sheepishly. “It has little ducks… and says ‘Daddy’s Champion’.”

You raise your eyebrows gently.

“Max…”

“What? They’re cute! Look” he sits beside you "I also got her a onesie with my number on the back. And one with yours, just in case you ever want to race too.”

You laugh. You can’t help it.

“You do realize she has more clothes than I do, right?”

“And I’d do it all again. Ten times over. She deserves the best.”

He looks at you that way that makes the world slow down for a moment.

“You two are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

You want to thank him. For being the dad you never expected. For having the patience when you were at your limit. For holding her tight enough to keep the world at bay. For talking to her about engines and speed as if she’s already part of Team Verstappen.

But you don’t need to say it.

Because he already knows.

And in that moment, you do too.

Night falls, and with it, exhaustion. The baby cries and won’t settle. You try rocking, feeding, singing — everything. But she stays restless. Right when you’re about to break down, Max appears with a glass of water and determination in his eyes.

“Give her to me. You need to rest.”

“But”

“Give her to me,” he repeats softly.

He takes her so gently it’s like he’s holding a trophy. You follow him as he walks to the living room, turns on soft music, and starts dancing with her in his arms. Step by slow step. Movements so tender they almost make you cry.

“My mom used to do this with me,” he murmurs. “When nothing else worked.”

And like magic, she quiets down. She rests her head on his shoulder and sighs.

From the hallway, you press a hand to your heart. Because this? This is everything.

Max sways with her, not to show off or to calm her down but simply because in his world, nothing matters more than this moment.

“I’ve never loved like this before,” he says when he sees you there.

“Loved how?”

“With fear. With hope. With everything.”

And you know exactly what he means.

Because since she arrived, your lives flipped upside down. The races, the trophies, the interviews — none of it matters anymore. Only her first steps, her giggles in the bath, the lazy Sundays in pajamas. What matters is watching her grow, safe and happy, knowing she has two people who would give her the world.

Max sits on the couch, her tiny body asleep on his chest. You curl up beside him. The three of you together. And in that warm, quiet silence, you know you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

In a home built of arms, of gentleness… and love.

Max kisses your forehead, careful not to move too much.

“Thank you for giving me this.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t need to say anything else.

[zenithsturniolo]

⮱ finger sucking - matt sturniolo

1k words — drug use, suggestive, teasing, finger sucking, slow burn tension, language

a/n: this idea was bothering me for daysss omf

it’s late.

like really late. the kind of late where time stops mattering and everything feels soft around the edges. fuzzy, golden, too quiet except for the occasional rustle of chip bags and the slow pulse of the tv casting low light across the room.

matt’s sunk into your couch, hoodie half-off his shoulder, one leg tucked under him. the joint between his fingers burns low, glowing red every time he lifts it to his lips. you’re curled up beside him, sharing warmth, high enough that your limbs feel disconnected from your thoughts.

"these hit different when you’re stoned," he mumbles, licking cheeto dust off his thumb. his voice is hoarse and lazy, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

you glance over, your lips curving. "you always say that."

"’cause it’s always true."

he plucks a gummy from the bag in your lap, then pauses, holding it up like a peace offering. "open."

you roll your eyes, but you obey - parting your lips just enough for him to push it between them. his fingers brush your bottom lip. and then you do it.

slow.

deliberate.

you close your mouth around his fingers first, not the candy. your tongue grazes the tips, your eyes locked on his. you suck - just for a moment. soft, barely-there pressure. and when you pull away, there’s a little pop, like you wanted him to hear it.

he doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. just stares.

you smile, chewing innocently. “what?”

his jaw tightens. “you tryna be funny?”

“no,” you say sweetly. “you told me to open.”

he blinks once. twice. then shifts on the couch like he's trying to hide the fact that his whole body just reacted.

“you’re such a fuckin’ brat,” he mutters, more breath than voice, reaching back into the bag - this time without breaking eye contact. his fingers curl around another gummy, slow and intentional. “do it again.”

your pulse stutters.

“what if i don’t wanna?”

“then you shouldn’t’ve started,” he says, voice low, eyes dark. “open.”

you hesitate - just long enough to be annoying - then part your lips again. this time, he doesn’t ease the candy in right away. no, matt slides two fingers past your lips without warning. gummy clutched between them, yes, but he doesn’t care about that.

you suck them in, mouth warm and slow around the tips, tongue dragging along the pads like you’re tasting him, not the candy.

his jaw twitches.

you hollow your cheeks just a little, enough to make him groan - a low sound from deep in his chest, like he wasn’t expecting you to go there.

you let go with a soft pop, then sit back like nothing happened, eyes fluttering up to meet his again.

“you good?” you ask, saccharine-sweet, voice dipped in honey.

he stares at you for a second, maybe two.

then he laughs - shaky, breathless, head tipping back against the couch.

“you’re gonna drive me insane,” he says, dragging a hand over his face.

“already do,” you tease, grabbing another chip and crunching into it like your mouth wasn’t just wrapped around his fingers.

matt watches you, tongue poking at his cheek, expression unreadable. there’s a pink flush creeping across his nose, and his hands are fidgeting now - knee bouncing, fingers flexing like he doesn’t know where to put them.

“you’re such a menace,” he mutters.

you grin, smug, proud. “me? you were the one who fed me like that.”

he snorts. “yeah, and you were supposed to just take the gummy. not turn it into a fucking porno.”

you giggle. “aww, did i make you nervous?”

“no,” he lies instantly.

you shift closer on the couch, knees touching now. “then why’re your ears red?”

he opens his mouth - maybe to deflect, maybe to deny - but then your hand slides over his thigh and his breath catches. a little tremble under your touch, like the bravado’s slipping.

“still not nervous?” you whisper.

his gaze drops to your mouth. then lower, to your fingers playing at the hem of your shirt.

he swallows. “no.”

you swing a leg over and straddle his lap, slow and deliberate. the weight of you makes him shift back against the couch cushions, hands flying to your waist like instinct.

“liar,” you murmur, leaning in close, your lips just barely brushing his jaw.

“fuck,” he whispers.

your fingers trail up his chest, lazy, until they reach his mouth. you hold one up between your fingers, soft and taunting.

“your turn.”

his eyes flick to yours, dark and glassy, and then - without hesitation - he parts his lips and pulls your finger into his mouth.

hot. slow. deliberate.

his tongue drags up the length of it. sucks once. then again.

your breath stutters this time. his eyes never leave yours.

you freeze - not out of fear, but something thicker, sweeter. it coils up your spine when you feel his tongue swirl again, slow and lazy, around the pad of your finger.

your breathing stutters. the room feels smaller.

he drags his mouth back, letting go of your finger with a soft pop. his lips are shiny now, pink and slick and parted like he’s still tasting you.

“what?” he says low, teasing.

you blink. once. twice. your hand’s still hovering between you - helpless, trembling slightly, like it doesn’t know what it’s supposed to do anymore.

“you’re such a fuckin’ tease,” you whisper, voice raw.

matt leans in until his nose brushes yours. you can feel the edge of his smirk against your mouth. “you started it.”

you inhale sharply as his fingers skate under the hem of your shirt, featherlight, tracing the bare skin of your stomach, like he’s daring himself to keep going. like he’s barely holding back.

his hands shake just a little.

yours do too.

“we’re still high,” you murmur, barely audible.

he presses a kiss under your jaw, slow and warm. “so?”

“so this could be stupid.”

“feels pretty fucking smart to me.”

his mouth moves to your throat, open and hot, then lower, a trail of heat down your skin. his grip tightens on your waist.

“matt,” you breathe, eyes fluttering shut.

and then his voice breaks against your collarbone, soft and wrecked and starving -

“please let me have you.”

find my masterlist here !

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© zenithsturniolo

[mattrempeswife]

TWO HOUSES TWO HOMES

pair: jack hughes x f!reader | part: 01 02 03 04

genre: slow-burn, domestic angst, emotional healing.

warnings: past infidelity, emotional hurt/comfort, co-parenting tension, toddler talk, fluff, and chaos, hints of reconciliation, jack’s guilt and longing.

summary: two years after your daughter lorelei’s birth, you’ve kept things civil but emotionally distant with jack. co-parenting your spirited toddler has required grace, patience, and sacrifice, especially when it comes to the wounds jack left behind. you’ve buried the betrayal for lorelei’s sake.

fia’s notes: sorry for keeping you waiting! i truly hope you enjoy this chapter, it means so much to me that you’re following along. if you have any ideas or suggestions for what you’d like to see in the next part, my ask box is always open! feel free to send anything in; i’ll read every single message and appreciate all your input.

Two years.

It had been two years since you left that house, since you told Jack that his ex could have him and walked away with his unborn child growing in your belly.

Two years later, Lorelei “Lo” Hughes was a talkative, curious little whirlwind with your eyes and Jack’s mischievous smile. And despite it all, despite the nights you cried alone while she kicked inside you, despite the ache that never fully healed, you and Jack had managed to co-parent.

Not perfectly. But peaceful.

There were lunches and dinners the three of you shared for Lorelei’s sake. Jack had never introduced another girlfriend. Maybe he hadn’t moved on or maybe he just kept it quiet. You didn’t ask. You didn’t want to know.

Because even now, even after everything… it still stung.

But Lorelei was everything.

And for her, you smiled when Jack picked her up. You waved when he scored a goal. You took her to his games and let her wear his jersey ‘Lorelei Hughes 86’ she’d yell with pride.

Ellen often hinted, softly, lovingly that she hoped one day you’d find your way back to each other. Not because she excused Jack’s past, but because she believed in love, in healing, in second chances. Jack brought it up too, once in a while.

Quietly. Always hoping.

And sometimes, late at night when Lorelei was asleep in your arms, you’d think about what it would be like if you were a family, really a family. Under one roof. No more hand-offs in driveways or co-parenting schedules. Just… a place called home.

But those were just thoughts. And today, you had a full day to yourself.

Lorelei had woken up bouncing, curls wild and tangled, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“See Daddy today? Pwease?” she chirped, grabbing her tiny backpack.

You smiled softly.

“Okay, baby. We’ll go see Daddy.”

So you packed her things, kissed her forehead, and drove her to Jack’s place.

Jack opened the door in a hoodie and sweatpants, hair still damp from his morning shower. His eyes lit up when he saw Lorelei sprinting into his legs.

“Daddy!”

“Hey, Lo-Bug!”

He scooped her up, spinning her in a circle as she giggled uncontrollably.

“You got tall again. That happen this week?”

She nodded like it was the most serious thing in the world.

“Mommy say I gwow like… a bean. Fast bean.”

You laughed from the doorway. Jack glanced over at you, expression soft.

“You coming in?”

You shook your head. “I’ve got a spa appointment. Taking the day for myself.”

“Good,” he said genuinely. “You deserve it.”

Your eyes met for a moment, something unspoken lingering in the air until Lorelei loudly interrupted.

“BYE Mommy! Spa make you sooo shiny!”

You kissed her cheek and slipped out before the softness could pull you under again.

Jack and Lorelei spent hours playing tea party, building pillow forts, and coloring the living room floor in chalk.

She wore a purple plastic tiara and called herself ‘Princess Lo’ while Jack was dubbed ‘King Daddy.’ Halfway through their royal feast (made of crackers and apple slices), Lorelei suddenly looked up and tilted her head.

“Daddy?”

“Yeah, bug?”

She poked his chest. “You wuv Mommy?”

Jack blinked.

She was looking at him so innocently, chewing her cracker like it was no big deal, like she hadn’t just ripped open the quiet cage around his heart.

“Why do you ask that?” he said softly.

Lorelei shrugged in her tiny, chaotic toddler way.

“You smile when Mommy talk. You wook hapy. Mommy pwetty. pwetty. You wuv her?”

He swallowed. “Yeah, baby. I… I do.”

Lorelei beamed. “My too! Mommy my best fwen.”

Jack stared at her for a long moment, his chest aching. Because in her simple, perfect way, she’d said the thing he’d never had the courage to say since that night.

And now, it might be too late.

That night, you were sitting on your couch in your robe, freshly moisturized, when your phone buzzed.

From Jack 🏒: Lo doesn’t wanna leave.

From Jack 🏒: She’s crying and keeps saying she wants both of us to stay here.

From Jack🏒: She won’t calm down.

From Jack🏒: Can you come?

Your heart sank.

You quickly threw on a hoodie, grabbed her favorite stuffed bunny, and drove through the dark to Jack’s house.

When you stepped inside, Lorelei was hiccuping against Jack’s chest, eyes red.

“Hi, baby…”

She turned, saw you and immediately clung to you like a koala.

“Mommyyyy! Stay! Pease stay…”

You stroked her curls.

“We have your room at home, baby girl. With your star lights and—”

“No!” she wailed. “Sleep HERE! Wif Daddy too!”

Jack looked just as helpless as you felt.

“She’s been like this for twenty minutes.”

You sighed. Looked down at your daughter. Her little face was trembling.

You couldn’t say no.

“Okay,” you murmured, heart heavy. “We’ll stay.”

You ended up in Jack’s kitchen, sleeves rolled, making pasta and grilled chicken because, as you suspected, the man barely fed himself unless it was a protein shake or pizza.

Lorelei sat at the counter wearing her tiara again, waving a spoon like a wand.

“I’m magic,” she announced.

“Yes, you are,” Jack said, grinning.

Dinner was chaotic. Lorelei spilled her milk, refused the broccoli, and sang half of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star mid-bite.

But Jack kept stealing glances at you. And you saw it, the regret, the affection, the hope.

You bathed Lorelei while Jack cleaned up. She laughed when he peeked in with a towel and declared.

“Time for the royal robe, Princess Lo!”

By the time you dressed her in fresh PJs and tucked her in, she refused to let go of your wrist.

“You swep here,” she whispered.

“Baby…”

“With Daddy too. One bed. Like… like a fammy.”

Your throat tightened.

When you hesitated, she burst into tears again. Real, messy sobs.

Jack looked at you. “Just… lie with her until she falls asleep.”

So you did. And then you stayed.

One on each side of her tiny body, while she curled up between you like this was how it always should’ve been.

You watched Jack reach over, brushing her curls from her cheek. His hand lingered near yours.

And in the quiet, as Lorelei finally drifted off with her bunny tucked under her chin. Jack whispered into the dark.

“She asked me earlier… if I loved you.”

The silence was louder than anything he could’ve said. Finally, you whispered back.

You didn’t move. “You didn’t have to answer.”

“I did,” he said. “And I didn’t lie.”

“I never stopped loving you.”

“I used to think love wasn’t enough.” you said

“I made you believe that,” Jack admitted. “I’m sorry.”

“Jack, I don’t want to talk about the past.”

“I know,” he murmured.

“But… someday, I hope we can talk about the future.”

You didn’t answer, you didn’t pull away either.

[bluntzah]

COME & SEE ME FOR ONCE ੈ♡˳

♫ sza — 2AM. nav ; m.list.

word count. 1.9k

warnings. mentions of unhealthy relationships, sexual + graphic content, please review all warnings before proceeding. i’m not responsible for what you choose to engage or interact with.

summary. you support hamzah’s media hustle, but his constant absence hurts. when he leaves again mid-fuck, you’re left wondering if love is enough when you always come last to this motherfucker.

Your boyfriend is a busy man. Hamzah dedicates a lot of his time to filming for YouTube, constantly creating content, brainstorming ideas, and bringing them to life. From the beginning, you knew what you were signing up for. He made it clear that he takes his YouTube career seriously. Of course you supported it. You always backed Hamzah in whatever he chose to do: if he likes it, you loved it. That was all that mattered to you.

There was never a moment you didn’t have Hamzah’s back. No matter what he needed, you were there. If he ever forgot something important: whether at your place or his: off filming something with Mandy and Martin, you’d step in without hesitation. Sometimes that meant driving across town in the middle of your own busy day, retracing his steps to find whatever he left behind. Other times, it meant calling in a favor from a friend, asking them to go out of their way just to make sure he had what he needed to keep filming.

You supported your boyfriend more than anything in the world. His passion, his grind: you admired it, stood by that shit alongside him, never ever asked him to slow down. But that didn’t mean his absence didn’t sting sometimes.

On nights out with your girlfriends: dressed up, laughing, dancing at the club — you’d catch their boyfriends with them. Arms wrapped around their waists, sharing drinks, stealing kisses between freaky ass songs.

And then there was you sipping your drink alone, smiling through it, but feeling disappointed. Not because you doubted his love, but because you wished, once in a fuckin’ blue moon, he had the time to be there. To pull you close, to make memories outside of his hustle.

You knew exactly what you were signing up for: he made it clear from the start. And you accepted it, with your chest. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt sometimes, even just a little. That being said, every moment you do get with him, you hold onto like it’s gold. Just like now, this moment you’re in, making it count.

It’s a Saturday. You’re beneath Hamzah in his warm sheets, his body pressed close in missionary. Each deep thrust has his cock sliding in and out of you, your squishy walls gripping him greedily.

You love every second of it. After a long week of barely seeing your boyfriend, with him pulled in every direction but yours, having him this close making you feel so good feels like oxygen. So you take full advantage: hooking one leg around his waist, your heel pressing into his lower back, urging him so much deeper.

“Mm—missed you so much… missed your cock so bad,” you breathe out, lips parted and trembling. Your hand finds Hamzah’s, the one wrapped around your throat, and you guide it downward, over your collarbone, until it cups your breast.

“Work, baby… y’know that,” Hamzah murmurs, he gently brushes a strand of hair from your face. Needing nothing in the way of your beauty, needing to see the way your eyes slowly go cross from how good he’s making you feel. Especially after a week without him inside you — it had been pure torture.

“I know…” you whimper, hips rolling up in a desperate plea for more. “Just miss you. Feels like we’re never this close anymore…” You’re not sure if it’s the way you’re so drunk on his dick or the raw honesty slipping from your lips, but something in your voice makes Hamzah pause. His thrusts slow, then stop completely, buried deep inside you.

He went unmoving for a minute — clearly caught in some thought. You were just about to ask what was on his mind when, without a breath, he moved. He flipped the two of you over, his back hitting the mattress, and you landing on top. His hands gripped your hips, lifting you, positioning you exactly where he wanted.

“What…” you start to ask, but he cuts you off with action instead of words. His cock presses against your soaked folds, lining himself up before guiding you down onto him. You don’t resist at all, clutching his shoulders, the muscle of his meat beneath your fingers as you slowly sink onto him, taking him in with a choked breath, the stretch as delicious as the way he fills you.

He was stretching you so deeply, that your head began to fall against his shoulder, a soft moan running out your lips. “Nah, don’t drift,” he murmured, wrapping an arm tighter around your waist. “You just said we’re never this close… and you’re right. So let me feel you all close like this.”

You lifted your head, only for him to wrap his arms around you, pulling you into a hug. The kind of hug you’d normally hate from anyone else, the kind that made you feel caged. But with Hamzah, in this angle, it felt different. His tip brushed your g-spot just right, making you shiver.

He fucked up into you, syncing his thrusts with your bounces. Yes, yes, yes. You needed this so desperately, especially after the week you’d had. The way he hit that perfect spot perfectly sent a spurt of euphoria through you, as the pleasure made your eye twitch shut. You missed this, missed him. Missed the way your bodies fit so perfectly as he moved inside you, hitting every spot just right. Even his soft whimpers, those deep moans had you seeing stars: they were incredibly sexy.

You’d been craving this, aching shitless for it. That beautiful heat between you was everything… until Hamzah’s phone rang from the desk: it began buzzing once. He didn’t move. You opened your mouth to ask, but he silenced you with a kiss, his hand sliding up to pinch your breast just right, drawing a soft gasp from your lips he swallowed whole.

The second time it rang, your eyes flicked toward it again. Hamzah gently turned your face back to him, brushing your jaw. Focus on him. On how good he was making you feel. And you did — rolling your hips to meet his, lips parted as dirty moans slipped through your teeth.

By the third ring, your patience cracked. “Just answer the fuckin’ call,” you muttered, frustrated as you lifted yourself off him and swung your legs over the bed.

It’s not that you wanted to be a bitch for the fuck of it, but you seen the way his phone, and that call, started to circle his mind. That was the whole reason you kept looking over, because his lifting of his hips into you slowed and he started to dissociate slightly. You rather him take the damn call than think of something else while he’s inside you. You’re not fuckin’ with it.

If it’s on his mind that much, then let him take the damn call. The fact that he doesn’t even protest just proves your point even more.

You started slipping on your panties, one foot through the hole after the other. Hamzah grabbed his phone, sliding his thumb across the screen to accept the call, bringing it to his ear. One hand rested on his hip, his bare ass cheeks and back turned toward you.

You grabbed Hamzah’s old shirt and slipped it on, not bothering with a bra. This was your boyfriend’s house, and the only company besides you was him and his cats.

Hamzah kept talking on the phone, brown eyes moving to you every few seconds. He held the phone between his ear and shoulder as he peeled off the condom, tossed it in the trash, and reached for the boxers he’d flung on the edge of the bed. “Yeah, I’ll be there in like five or six minutes,” he said, slipping them on.

You almost wanted to roll your eyes: of course the one rare moment you two had alone had to be interrupted.

A voice was heard on the other end, followed by the sound of clicking. Hamzah set his phone down on the bed, grabbing his pants and stepping into them. “I’ll make it up to you soon, baby—swear on my life,” he said with guilt. “Martin lost some footage for a video due in a few days, and we’ve got to reshoot it.”

He pulled on his socks, then slid into his shoes as he sat at the edge of the bed. You moved toward him until you were right behind him. Leaning in, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, then another, and another.

He let himself melt into you, leaning into the presses of your lips as they brushed over his skin. A tickle went through him when you kissed just over his pulse, the spot so sensitive it made him tilt his head. His nose brushed yours before he moved closer, until his mouth found your bottom lip, catching it between his own and giving it a suck before releasing it with a pull.

“I’ll make it up to you. Promise.” he repeated, but deep down, you knew he wouldn’t. The cycle would just keep repeating itself. He couldn’t even give you a full hour before something or someone else pulled him away. This wasn’t the first time it had happened, not by far. It had been the routine most of the times you two had been together. It was frustrating.

“You aren’t.” You said. Hamzah blinked a couple of times, clearly confused. “What?” he asked, and this time, you almost wanted to shout it at him. You were sure you talked clearly with no stutter.

“I said.” You take a deep breath. “You aren’t. You aren’t gonna make shit up. This is like, what? The hundredth time this happened? You and Martin just film shit and don’t save it or something?” You know this is going to annoy him. He’s told you many times what he does for work and what packages come with it. But it’s just so frustrating to stay silent.

“Don’t start with that,” Hamzah muttered as he grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. “I told you—” But you cut him off, already knowing what was coming next. “Yes, I know, you warned me about what I was getting into,” you rolled your eyes. “But it’s so hard when I just want to spend time with my boyfriend, and he’s always caught up with something. Or when we finally do get time together, it feels half assed. What, Martin gives you an hour to push your dick inside me, and then it’s straight back to filming?”

When you finally stopped talking, you let out a quiet huff, arms crossing over your chest out of instinct. “Are you done?” Hamzah asked, clearly referring to your rant. The way he said it made your blood boil even more: like he wasn’t taking a single word you said seriously.

You rolled your eyes and looked away. It always felt like he wasn’t really listening: your words going in one ear and right out the other.

When he leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, mumbling a casual “Bye, babe,” you didn’t say a word. You didn’t even glance at him. The only sound was the jingle of his keys as he walked out the door, leaving you there, barely covered in his shirt, lying alone in his bed, while he just… left.

[quokkareactions]

Random attractive things they do: SKZ

Chan: Wearing a suit

He emerged annoyed from your room struggling with his tie.

"I thought I knew how to tie these things"

You chuckled and waved him to yourself.

"These are some talented hands you have. I'm surprised there's anything they can't do"

"Very funny" he rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't being funny... And done"

He pecked your lips and went for the front door.

"Thanks, baby. I'll be back in a few hours"

"Have fun, handsome!"

Minho: Taking charge during plans

"Don't worry about dinner tonight" he said, grabbing his car keys. "I've got it all figured out"

You raised your eyebrows.

"Oh really? Care to share the plan?"

"Not a chance" he replied with a grin. "You'll see"

He drove you to a cozy little restaurant you've never been before, complete with a view of the city lights. It wasn't extravagant, but the effort he put into surprising you in itself was enough to make you melt.

Changbin: Rolling up their sleeves

You watched as he leaned over the kitchen counter, rolling up his sleeves before starting to chop vegetables. The casual movement exposed his forearms, the slight flex of muscle catching your attention. He glanced up, finding you staring.

"What?" he asked, smirking as he kept chopping.

"Nothing" you replied, cheeks flushing "Just... You look good doing that"

He laughed shaking his head, but you could tell he was pleased. For the rest of the night you couldn't stop glancing at those rolled up sleeves and the effortless confidence they added to his demeanour.

Hyunjin: Driving with confidence

The way he handled the car was mesmerising. One hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift, his focus steady but relaxed. You couldn't help but stare.

"Take a picture, it lasts longer"

"Oh no need, this is already etched into my brain" you answered with a teasing smile.

"So this is why you never drive"

"No, I simply suck at driving... You looking hella fine is just an added bonus" you shrugged.

Jisung: Giving genuine compliments

"You know, you’re amazing at what you do" he said out of nowhere as you were walking through the park. You turned to look at him, surprised.

"What brought that on?" you asked, smiling.

"I just realized I don’t tell you enough" he said, hands in his pockets. "The way you handle things with so much passion... It’s inspiring."

Your heart skipped a beat at his sincerity. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way he said them, like he genuinely admired you. That moment stayed with you, a quiet reminder of how much he appreciates you.

Felix: Being good with kids

You were at your nephew's birthday pool party and Felix was in the pool, splashing around ith the kids. After watching them for a while, you leaned back on your sunbed, closing your eyes and enjoying the sun. When the sunlight unexpectedly dissappeared, you opened one eye to glance at the shadow.

"What's gotten you so smiley?" he inquired with a lovestruck grin.

"You..." you confessed while madly blushing "You're really good with kids"

He smiled and leaned down to kiss the top of your head before returning to the pool.

Seungmin: Pulling you close in crowded places

The street was packed with people, and you were struggling to keep up. Without saying a word, he reached for your hand and gently pulled you closer, his arm wrapping protectively around your shoulder.

"Better?"

"Much better"

He didn't let go until you were out of the crowd, and even then you didn't want him to.

Jeongin: Casual stretching

He was sitting on the couch when he suddenly leaned back, stretching his arms over his head with a groan. His shirt lifted slightly, revealing a hint of toned abs. You tried not to stare but couldn't help yourself.

"Everything okay over there?" he asked catching your gaze.

"Uh, yeah" you replied, quickly looking away, cheeks burning.

He smirked, clearly enjoying your reaction and stretching once again, just to tease you.

[miyadollie]

R/CRUSHES : HOW DO I TALK TO MY OFFICE CRUSH ? sillyguy0813 says : dude just borrow a stapler

★ STARRING office worker lee jeno x fem reader ( ft. best friend jaemin ) ★ WORD COUNT 2.6k + 3OO bonus ★ CONTAINS co-workers to dating, fluff !! lee jeno being a cutie, jaemin is a menace to society, workplace romance, ★ MIYA SAYS 💗 this is my first time TRYING to write a long fic :3 pls give me any constructive criticism and feedback thank uu 🧘🏼‍♀️ . update : wow i absolutely dislike my writing here but its been rotting in drafts too long and i gave up on fixing this TT

it starts with a stapler.

one you’re not even sure belongs to you. maybe you bought it once during a sale, or someone left it at your desk during a particularly chaotic week, and it stayed. quietly claimed as yours.

the moment wasn't love at first sight, no grand declaration of love with bouquets or fireworks. just a quiet tuesday morning, your inbox overflowing, the boss increasing your headache by preponing your deadlines, the coffee machine on its last breath and the fluorescent lights above flickering slightly like they, too, were tired of this job. and then there’s him.

lee jeno. clean-cut. soft-spoken. the kind of guy who always says “excuse me” when passing behind you, even when there’s plenty of space. always dressed a little too well for your casual office. not flashy—never that—but tidy, crisp. thoughtful. one cubicle down, diagonal from yours. he’s been here a while. a familiar face in the sea of semi-familiar ones. you’ve never really talked but only ever exchanged the kind of polite nods reserved for coworkers who share nothing but recycled air and a breakroom.

until today. “could you pass the stapler?” you look up, startled slightly by the voice.

he’s leaning just slightly over the low partition separating your desks, eyes trained on the corner of your workspace where your lonely black stapler sits. he gives you a smile. not flashy. not flirtatious. just—nice. warm. gentle. you blink once. then reach for it. “thanks,” he says. you nod. he returns to his screen. that’s it. except… it isn’t. because the next day, he borrows a pen. the day after that, post-its. then tape. then scissors. always returning everything. always smiling. always saying thank you like he means it. and now you’re wondering. is this flirting? some kind of extremely office-safe, hr-friendly version of it? or are you just painfully, embarrassingly overthinking it? or maybe did you have an unspoken crush on him? not that you can be blamed. - lee jeno is attractive. undeniably so. you’ve seen him once—just once—rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down in the middle of summer, and you swear you forgot how to form a coherent sentence for ten straight minutes. defined forearms. slim but strong hands. that razor-sharp jawline, often tilted thoughtfully while reading something on his screen. dark lashes. deep voice. a gym guy, apparently—you overheard it once when he mentioned it to jaemin (you weren’t eavesdropping, you just… have really good ears). you haven’t initiated anything. neither has he. but those tiny moments? the ones that make your heart skip? they’re adding up

────

FRIDAY | 4:30 PM

“soo… still down to try that new restaurant?” jaemin asks one afternoon, casually leaning on your desk during lunch with a fresh iced americano in hand—probably his fifth for the day. “obviously,” you reply, eyes lighting up. “people have been absolutely glazing it online. thanks for getting us a table!” he grins. “see you at 9 then.” just as he turns, he spins back around like a cartoon character. “oh, also—jeno’s coming. hope that’s cool?” you freeze. your face says i’m fine, but your body language screams mayday. “y-yeah. sure. totally chill,” you manage. “coolcoolcoolcool,” you say, immediately turning your head towards your computer, and then you see your reflection on the blank empty screen. you were blushing. hard. jaemin smirks knowingly as he walks off. of course he knows. he always knows. after all, he’s the mastermind who told jeno to borrow your stapler in the first place. ────

8:55 PM

the restaurant is low-lit and warm, the kind of place where the wood-paneled walls muffle outside noise, and everything feels just a little more intimate than it should. you arrive five minutes early. out of habit, mostly. or nerves. you’re not sure which. jaemin’s already there, somehow sipping an iced americano even here, scrolling through his phone while pretending not to notice your presence with a dramatic sigh. “i told you 9:00,” he says, without looking up. “it’s 8:55.” “still early.” he glances at you now, then raises an eyebrow. “cute top.” you ignore his antics, he’s just trying to get a reaction out of you. typical jaemin. your heart is already thudding too loudly, because jeno walks in right after. black shirt, sleeves rolled up. clean slacks. a bit of cologne, subtle but warm. his hair’s tousled slightly, and his eyes light up just a little when they land on you. “hey,” he says, with that soft smile. you don’t trust yourself to speak, so you just smile back, scooting over so he can sit across from you. the conversation is light, easy. mostly thanks to jaemin, who fills every awkward silence with a joke, a story, an embarrassing anecdote about your office. jaemin and jeno were friends in school, you get to know that night, they were benchmates. jaemin always chose jeno as his partner for every game, every lab, and jeno just liked his company, so he stood with him always. jaemin talks about you to jeno too—how you both were first day interns and hit it off over a conversation about which seventeen album is truly the best. but every now and then, you catch jeno looking at you. not staring. not even for long. just—looking. like he’s seeing something he's trying very hard not to see too obviously. “so,” jaemin says mid-way through dessert, smirking at you over his spoon, “funny how you two never end up talking at work.” you nearly choke. jeno shifts in his seat. “like, what’s with all the stapler borrowing, huh? no small talk?” you glare at him. he grins. “i’m just saying. feels like there’s some unspoken office tension.” jeno lets out a quiet laugh. and then, after a beat—he looks at you. “i guess i just… wanted a reason to talk,” he says, voice soft. and your breath catches. your heart is thudding again. you manage a smile, small and shy. trying not to mess up words or blabber out something nonsensical. “i noticed,” you reply. the space between you feels full, suddenly. full of every little interaction. every thank-you. every passing smile. jaemin stretches obnoxiously. “well, look at the time! i’ve got a meeting with my bed in ten.” you roll your eyes. “you’re so obvious.” he shrugs. “you’re welcome.” and just like that, he’s gone with the wind. leaving you and jeno, two half-finished desserts, and a quiet restaurant glowing gold in the late-night hush. “i can walk you home,” he says, gently. not pushing. just offering. and something in you says yes. to the walk. to this night. to the maybe that’s been building between you both. ────

10:45 PM

the night is cool, with a breeze just strong enough to lift the corners of your coat and make you tuck your hands into your sleeves. the restaurant’s warm glow fades behind you, replaced by the hush of quiet streets and dimly lit sidewalks. jeno walks beside you, hands in his pockets, his steps matching yours. neither of you says anything at first. the silence isn’t awkward. it’s... full. full of unspoken things. of nerves and glances and the way your arms brush every few seconds and both of you pretend not to notice. “jaemin talks too much,” jeno says eventually, voice low. you laugh softly. “it’s his specialty.” he hums in agreement, then adds, “he wasn’t wrong, though.” you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flicker to yours and then away again, like he’s testing the water, like he’s afraid of saying too much too fast. “i... didn’t really need the stapler that day.” your breath catches. “oh,” you manage, and you’re smiling now. you can’t help it. “i just... i guess i liked the idea of you looking at me. talking to me.” he pauses. “even if it was just a stapler.” you stop walking, just for a moment. jeno turns, realizing you’re no longer beside him. there’s a streetlight above him, casting shadows across his face and soft highlights in his hair. “you could’ve just said hi,” you whisper. he steps closer. barely. but enough to make the air between you buzz. “i know,” he murmurs. “i wanted to. every day. but you always looked so focused. and i didn’t want to ruin that.” your heart is a mess of drumbeats and warmth. “you wouldn’t have.” silence again. then he says, barely audible, “could i maybe get your number... just for office related stuff, of course.” you nod, because your voice has already betrayed you too many times tonight. a soft smile tugs at his lips. the quiet kind. the kind you know he saves for only a few people. he walks you all the way to your apartment. and when he says goodbye, it’s not a hug. not a kiss. just a quiet “goodnight” and a look that lingers longer than it should. but your heart knows. it knows everything. ────

SATURDAY | 9:00 AM

the next day, the office is just waking up. it always feels colder in the morning—half because of the ac blasting too early, half because everyone’s too busy chasing caffeine to talk. desks are still half-empty. monitors glow. the printer sputters. someone sneezes. a mug clinks. you step in, trying to hide the stupid smile that’s been stuck to your face since last night. your coat is too warm for indoors but your hands are cold, so you hold your coffee tighter. and then you see it. your desk. something’s different. sitting neatly on top of your keyboard is a brand-new stapler. blue, shiny, absolutely unnecessary. you freeze. right beside it, a yellow post-it. his handwriting. neat. almost too neat. “thought you could use one that wasn’t cursed.     —jeno :)” you almost laugh. it’s such a him thing to do—dry humor disguised as helpfulness. but your heart? it’s fluttering like it’s stuck in a romcom scene, an angelic choir singing along in tandem. you reach out and pick up the stapler.you didn’t even need one nor were you going to use one. but you want to keep this one forever. cherish it. maybe even pass it on as an heirloom.

just then, you hear someone clear their throat. “new office romance i should know about?” you don’t even need to turn around. jaemin. of course. loud, nosy, iced-americano jaemin. “shut up,” you say instantly, trying to sound bored. your cheeks are already heating up. but he walks past you, grinning like the devil, a bounce in his step like he’s in on the joke you’re still figuring out. and then—your gaze drifts. to the cubicle across. there he is. jeno. typing. or pretending to. his posture is the same—back straight, eyes on the screen—but his fingers are still on the home row keys, just gliding about. and when he feels your eyes, he glances up. It's brief, barely a second. but he smiles. like last night wasn’t just dinner. like it meant something.

a few hours later, a message pops up.

jeno lee “did the new one pass inspection?”

you “it’s still under review by the council. but i think they approve ;)”

jeno lee “let me know if it jams. i’ll personally fix it.”

you smile. a full smile this time. the kind that makes you reach for your coffee, lean back in your chair, and breathe in like something in your world has shifted.

jeno 💗 “what’s your go-to coffee order?”

you “anything except that poison jaemin drinks every day. ‘i like my coffee as dark as my soul’ ahh guy.”

jeno 💗 “haha.” “noted.”

the next morning there’s a cup of coffee on your desk, with yet another post-it note. “it’s the new specialty at a cafe near my place. i thought you’d like it :)”

that was truly the best coffee you had ever tasted. and maybe he started getting it for you every day. ────

WEDNESDAY | 9:00 PM

it's another day at the office. rain taps gently on the windows, a soft drumbeat to the silence of overworked employees and abandoned coffee mugs. you’re still at your desk & so is he. the fluorescent lights overhead are dimmer than usual, humming low like they’re tired too. you stretch your back, glancing at the clock. 9:04 pm. “still here?” comes his voice. you look up to see jeno leaning on the edge of his cubicle wall, sleeves rolled up, tie a little loosened. “so are you,” you shoot back. he smiles. “want company for the walk back?” you nod before your brain catches up.

the streetlights blur against the wet pavement, reflecting like oil paint smudged across the road. jeno’s shoulder brushes yours every few seconds—neither of you move away. he talks about the weird way jaemin eats ramen. you laugh. you tell him about your favorite childhood cartoon. he says he watched it too, and suddenly it’s three blocks later and you’re still talking. at a red light, you both stop. he glances down at you. you glance up. it’s a pause so charged you swear the rain quiets. “...you looked really pretty today,” he says suddenly. his voice isn’t confident or smooth—he says it like a secret. you don’t respond right away. just tuck your hair behind your ear, your face heating. he notices. the light turns green and you simply walk on. on reaching your apartment building you stop at the steps. he’s still holding the umbrella. you don’t say anything. he doesn’t either. there’s that moment again—that pause like the world might tilt if either of you moves. “i’m really glad you came to dinner that night,” he finally says, voice quieter than before. “been wanting to talk to you properly for months.” you blink. “...really?” jeno chuckles. “you had the office’s only decent stapler. of course i had to make a move.” you laugh—nervous and shy and full of everything you’ve been holding back. he takes a step closer. just one. not too much. “but also,” he adds, and this time his voice is a little more sure, “i like you. not just the lunch break, passing-notes kind. the kind where i want to sit and mindlessly watch silly romcoms with you, the kind where i want to walk you home every day and make sure you had dinner. the kind where - " he goes on. but words fall on deaf ears. you feel your heart clench, sweet and sharp. you’re about to respond when— “...so, if you’re okay with it,” he continues, scratching the back of his neck, “can i officially take you out sometime? like, not just coffee machine and post-it flirting. a real date.” you blink. once. twice. your face is warm. your chest feels like it’s glowing. “...yes.” you don’t even hesitate. his smile is soft. wide. genuine. and when he hands you the umbrella and waves goodnight, walking back with his hands in his pockets and a quiet bounce in his step. you think, maybe this started with a stapler. but it’s gonna end with something a lot more permanent. ──── BONUS : FEW WEEKS LATER | 2:00 PM

you, jeno, and jaemin were perched on the edge of the rooftop, paper lunchboxes balanced on your laps, chinese takeout - courtesy of jeno. the breeze is nice, the sky a little overcast, and jaemin's halfway through an enthusiastic rant about the company’s new vending machine layout.

“and like .. why did they move the green tea to the bottom row? what kind of criminal.. oh, thanks man.” he says as jeno hands him a napkin mid-rant, like muscle memory.

you say while giggling, “you guys are like an old married couple.”

jeno chokes on his rice. you pat his back helpfullly , still giggling.

jaemin just shrugs. “what can i say? i raised him well.”

jeno glares at him. mouthing ' stop. talking.' he knew jaemin could slip up any moment. for he always did.

jaemin does not stop talking.

“i mean, not to brag, but if it weren’t for me, he’d still be hovering awkwardly near your desk pretending he needed your stapler.”

you blink. “wait. what?”

jeno drops his chopsticks.

jaemin freezes. realizes.

“oh..." he mutters.

your jaw drops. “waitwaitwait. you told him to borrow my stapler?”

“in my defense,” jaemin says, holding up both hands, “i was just trying to save him from dying of heart failure every time you walked past. it was either that or fake a paper jam crisis.”

jeno is silent. fully hiding behind his lunchbox now.

you slowly turn to him. “is this true?”

“…maybe,” he mumbles.

you snort, trying to hold in your laughter. “oh my god. so all this time..”

“don’t act like it wasn’t genius!” jaemin interrupts. “you’re welcome, by the way. this whole slow-burn coffee shop romcom office love story? all me.”

jeno groans. “can i push him off the roof.”

you lean into jeno’s shoulder, grinning. “you should’ve just said hi.”

he sighs. “i wanted to. but every time i tried, you were always typing so fast. and glaring at your screen like it personally insulted your ancestors.”

you snort. “fair.”

jaemin raises his water bottle. “to true love, born from borrowing office supplies.”

jeno snatches it from him and takes a sip without asking. you think that’s revenge enough. read more ❤︎ please like, reblog and let me know your reviews (๑>◡<๑) this work is a piece of fiction and is not intended to reflect the real personalities, actions, or beliefs of the individuals portrayed. the idols mentioned are used purely as fictional characters for storytelling purposes. no harm, disrespect, or objectification is intended. everything written here is entirely imaginative and not based on real-life events or relationships.

[fairestwriting]

Hi omg I just found your blog ahfbxbd

Could you do smthn (a little drabble or hcs🤷‍♀️) of Leona when his (pref. Fem) s/o is on their period? Since he respects women so much and likely chugs Respect Women Juice (was that cringy?😭 mb)

Could do savanaclaw in general if you wanted but thats up to you and stuff<3 whatever works best for you

Sorry my brains working overtime lmao

Anywho please take care of yourself and drink water and eat something!!<3<3

wah tysm for the nice words! i’m happy you’ve been enjoying my blog!! <3 i haven’t done scenarios/drabbles in a long time so i thought well why not…

also tbh. even if it’s an old meme it’s never cringy for me. every man shoul chug respect women juice like he does.

ೀ pairing: leona kingscholar x f!reader

ೀ word count: 1,396

“…So yeah, it should be better by tomorrow, I think.” You say, letting out a sigh as you press the pillow to your stomach, but not too hard— Leona’s eyes just remain on you for the whole thing, like he’s committing every detail to memory. “It’s always worse on specific days.”

“Looks like it.” Finally showing any sort of reaction, Leona frowns slightly. “And you’re planning on just going to class anyway?”

“Well, I can’t miss an entire week every month, can I?” You huff out a quiet laugh, but he doesn’t seem to really share the sentiment. An alarmed feeling flashes on his eyes, slightly widening, and your laughter increases by the tiniest bit. “Oh my god, Leona, I’m fine. You’re looking at me like I told you I got stabbed.”

“You were *talking* like you got stabbed a few minutes ago.” He points out, glancing behind him towards the kitchen door. There’s the whistle of the kettle, finally— “I’ll get that.” He mutters before you can finish using up the small bits of strength you’d been conserving to get up.

“Do you even know how to fill a hot water bottle?” Naturally, you ask him. Leona’s ears go flat against the top of his head as he rolls his eyes.

“Come on, Herbivore. I wasn’t raised in a barn.” He snarks at you. You raise your eyebrow, unconvinced, and he huffs. “You know I have cousins, right?”

“And you were the one filling those up for them?” You reply with another question, and he clicks his tongue, just making his way to the kitchen without a word.

His footsteps feel almost noisy, contrasting with the silence that the entire dorm building is submerged into. Grim was somewhere in there, in his bedroom, but you’d already told him to keep it down when you had a headache earlier.

He tried to be sassy at first, but quickly changed his tune— There are maybe certain traits of guys that transcend species, you think.

”Ow, fuck—“ You hear Leona’s hushed swear from the kitchen, and it gets a small laugh from you.

“Careful!” You call after him, the hint of the smile staying on your face. He doesn’t respond to it, but you can kind of imagine the look on his face.

…It’s a few more moments of aimlessly staring off into space until he’s coming back. The hot water bottle makes its characteristic sloshing noises with every step of his.

Right now, that basically sounds like the first notes of Heaven’s choir as the gates open for you. He holds the bottle by its neck with one hand, like he’s afraid of the heat radiating from it.

“You can just hand it over.” You tell him, and just now you notice he’s setting down a glass of water on the coffee table in the meantime.

“Aren’t you supposed to cover that up with something?” He asks, and you blink, confused for a second. “The bottle, Herbivore. This thing’s hot.”

“Oh, it can go on top of the blanket.”

“You sure that’s enough?”

“Yup. Just hand it over.”

He hesitates a little, but the bottle is with you soon enough. You exhale, sighing in relief as you feel the warmth against your body, slowly seeping through the rubber and getting its hands into the tightly wound painful spots on your abdomen.

Leona watches closely. You can see his eyes moving in small steps, following what little movement you make. He sits on the couch, right where your feet would be if you hadn’t curled up on yourself like that.

“Do you believe I know how to make those things yet?” A bit to your surprise, he’s the one to break the silence, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lip. You hum thoughtfully, hand resting on top of the hot water bottle like you’re grading it.

“Hm. Yeah, it’s not bad.” You shrug, shifting to get more comfortable. A surge of pain spikes through from the movement, making you wince, but the reward that comes later is enough. “Did you actually make them for your cousins?”

You ask the question absentmindedly as you pick up your phone, not planning to do anything in particular. He pauses. The silence tells you enough.

“…That’s what I thought.” You say with a smirk, mostly to yourself, and he makes an annoyed grunt.

“Oh, give me some credit. You said I did fine.” He complains, and your smile widens a little. “Is there anything else you need, or do I just get to be your footrest now?”

“Footrest is okay.” You snicker, looking up from the screen to see a spark of amusement on his face. Finally, you think, he was really looking so serious before. It’s almost funny to compare. “You’re gonna stay? I thought you had practice later.”

“I have practice whenever I feel like having practice.” Of course you do, you think as he shrugs. “We don’t have anything coming up anyway. I got more important things to do now.”

“Like being a footrest for your girlfriend.” You poke fun at him a little. The reaction you get is smaller than you expect.

“Yes, Herbivore. I’m booked for the whole afternoon.” He replies without missing a beat. You’re still kind of curled up, even though you’re laying more on your back now, but just to make the point, you let your legs shift a little, poking at his thigh. “I’m guessing those pain meds kicked in.”

“Oh, yeah. Thankfully.” You say, looking back at the screen, and Leona hums.

“…Do they actually take all of the pain away?”

“Not always, but it’s working pretty well now.”

At that, he frowns again. “And you’re saying you’ll just take those and go to class tomorrow.”

“…Yeah?”

Silence. Leona just kind of stares. You can kind of see the gears turning behind his eyes. It’s established this was his first time filling a hot water bottle, yeah, but you kind of wonder if it’s his first time helping someone with… anything period-related at all.

“Skipping is an option, you know.”

“Ugh, don’t tempt me. My attendance’s gonna go to hell.”

“You know I can just get that sorted out for you, right…” He replies in kind of a murmur.

…You said it like a joke, but he didn’t return that part of the gesture at all.

“What?” He asks, and you notice it’s been a few seconds since you started actually considering the pros and cons of skipping tomorrow’s classes.

It’s a little funny, how flustered he suddenly looks. And he only gives you that look *right now,* when you’re giving him that oh, I’m surprised you can be that nice look.

“Stop looking at me like that.” He mumbles, averting his eyes. “Just take the day off. No way you’re getting anything done if you feel like you’re getting ‘punched in the stomach’ for the whole day.”

…You’d used those exact words to describe your situation a few minutes ago, it reminds you. And he definitely wasn’t wrong, but…

“What about my notes, though…?” You protest, but your soul can’t be quite in it. It’s right at this moment that you feel your guts twist again, even through the muffling of the water bottle and the pills…

“I’ll pay Ashengrotto off to get you copies or something. Are you convinced enough now?” He responds without missing a beat. Your eyes widen a little at how eager it sounds. “C’mon, Herbivore. I know you’re stubborn, but it can’t be that bad of a deal.”

“Well, what if I’m also in pain the day after tomorrow? Would you pay for that too?” …You’re kind of just pushing back for the sake of it. It’s just how you talk to each other. You get a feeling Leona can sense that, especially when he gives you a smile

“I’ll make it a damn monthly subscription service if it means you’ll stay put when you’re in pain.” Again, he doesn’t miss a single beat.

You’re tempted to push back, but well…

It definitely sounded like a good idea, right now— And when you do agree to it, Leona gives you this grateful smile, you don’t think you’ve ever seen it on his face before.

And you smile back, getting the feeling this week definitely wouldn’t be as miserable as you expected it to,

if you like my work you can support me by commissioning me or tipping me on ko-fi ── ᵎᵎ ✦

[stellamarielu]

I mean if you’re willing to share I’d love to hear your thoughts on Pope and a pregnant!reader

ooh boyyy. you don’t understand the can of worms you’ve just unleashed…. @ovaryacted and i talk about this so much we should be admitted to the loony bin.

(for the purpose of this little thought, the reader is pregnant with a girl because girl dad pope supremacy duh!)

so like, i don’t think pope is one for pda at all, but when it comes to your baby bump he can’t keep his hands to himself. he’s always standing next to you with an arm wrapped around your waist, hand trailing under the hem of your shirt to feel the swell of your skin. driving with one hand on the wheel, the other extended to the passenger seat with his hand on your stomach. it was a casual act of protection. he wouldn’t let anything happen to either of you, always keeping you within arms reach. but there’s also a part of him that just likes seeing the way your body is changing, being able to feel it under his fingertips. knowing that you’re growing another life in your body. a baby. his baby.

he just can’t get over the fact that you chose him— that you want to start a family with him. he can’t wrap his mind around the idea that he’s going to be a dad. it scares the shit out of him. in fact, after seeing the positive pregnancy test, he’s spent almost every single night staring at the ceiling, terrified of fucking everything up. having a baby is the ultimate offer of unconditional love, one that he doesn’t think he’s deserving of.

but then he’s sitting with you on the couch, watching a movie while you doze off in his arms. you’re fast asleep and his hand is in its usual position, resting underneath the material of your shirt, palm against your stomach, guarding gently over his two girls. he’s watching the screen with heavy eyelids. then he feels it. a gentle flutter underneath his fingertips. his brows furrow, and he sits up ever so slightly wondering if his mind is playing tricks on him, only to feel a more definite movement. a kick. and then another.

he’d never felt her move before. this was the first time, and it was like she could sense him there, pushing against his hand to remind him it was all real. the love in his life— the security of his own little family. he immediately smiled down at the skin underneath his hand. you were still asleep despite the excitement in your belly. it was just him and her, sharing a moment together between the warmth radiating at his palm and her subtle jab of recognition. a moment of pure connection with his daughter. the first of many.

[plushieni]

from this ask

bakugo treasured you in ways that made no sense, even to himself. he wasn’t sure when it happened—when you went from a stranger, someone who only ever seemed to appear when something was broken, to the person who consumed his every thought. fixing his gadgets, repairing his suit, tweaking his gear; it was supposed to be a simple, exchangable relationship. but somehow, it became something deeper.

some would say it was inescapable, the way you’d fit into his life without him realizing it, until the small talk turned into long fulfilling conversations. the laughter you shared during late-night tinkering sessions, the way your hands would brush when you passed him a tool, the small moments that kept adding up.

when he realized he liked you, he knew he had to ask you out—to get it out of the way, just in case you didn’t feel the same. he just couldn’t hold it back anymore. his voice was rough, like he was gritting his teeth to get the words out, but he made himself say them. it wasn’t some dramatic confession—no cheesy speeches or anything like that. but for bakugo, it was everything.

“y’know, when i’m with you, things aren’t so… bad. you don’t annoy the hell outta me either. and i wanna do better by you. so what do you say? can i be your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone as blunt and straightforward as ever.

when you two started dating, it was definitely a change—but for the better, of course.

you were his equal. it didn’t matter that your strength wasn’t physical—he was more than aware that your mind was just as sharp as his combat, your skills just as powerful in their own right. and it wasn’t just your genius that made him admire you; it was the way you moved through the world, the way you manage to tackle problems and challenges with effortlessly. it was impossible not to respect you.

he’d mention your adjustments to his gadgets, dropping your name casually, always being proud of you. “they thought it’d work better if it was smaller, huh? damn nerd was right,” he’d mutter, hands adjusting his gear with a satisfaction that only came from knowing it had been you who made it better. he was impressed by you more than he would ever say.

complimenting you constantly, but never in the way you’d expect. not with gentle words or soft confessions. no, bakugo’s version was different. “you’re not entirely useless…” or, “you did good, dumbass. don’t beat yourself up.” it all came from a place that was all him, raw and unfiltered. and you knew, deep down, to him it was a comment of admiration.

he understood your dedication to your work, how you’d get lost in a project for hours, forgetting everything else around you. he didn’t need you to ask for anything. he just knew. on the days you got so caught up in your tinkering that you barely remembered to eat or sleep, bakugo would be there—slipping into the workshop with a plate of your favorite food or stacking your laundry neatly by your bed. he wouldn’t say a word. he’d just do it, like it was second nature.

and if it got too bad—if you were pushing yourself too hard—he’d drag you away from your work, his hand firm on your shoulder as he pulled you toward your couch. “get some damn rest, you idiot. i’m not gonna let you burn yourself out.” it wasn’t harsh; it was just how he cared—and oh boy, he cared a lot.

around you, bakugo found a strange sense of calmness. when he was with you, things slowed down. there was no pressure to be something bigger, louder, or stronger. he didn’t have to be the ‘the best’ all the time. didn't have to put up an act. he could just be him, and that was enough. maybe it was the way you let him sit in silence, neither of you needing to fill the space with words. or maybe it was the way you’d look up from your work and catch him staring, only for him to gruffly turn away, pretending he wasn’t adoring you the whole time.

so, with every little thing, every little action, you knew. you knew that he was the one for you. no one else.

more of my works here

© plushieni do not copy, steal, translate, repost any of my works

[gf2bellamy]

part five: opportunity synchronicity

— ★ opportunity knocked softly this time, dressed in shared music, fortune cookies, and a bookstore on a rainy afternoon—and for once, spencer didn’t hesitate to answer.

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: nothing!

masterlist - part one ✦ part two ✦ part three ✦ part four

Spencer's mind had been spinning for months—a whirlwind of unsaid words and aborted confessions, each one dying on his tongue before it could take flight.

He was staring at the polaroid on his desk—the one from Garcia's apartment, now framed and positioned just so—when Hotch's voice cut through his daydreaming.

"Reid. My office."

The conference invitation should have been routine. But then Hotch mentioned Delaware, which was three hours away.

"You’ve been asked to speak at a conference," Hotch said, sliding a folder across his desk.

Spencer’s interest piqued. "Really? Where? What about?"

"Delaware. Forensic advancements in cold case resolution."

"Three hours," Spencer murmured automatically, his mind already cataloging potential references, studies, case studies—

"Who else is invited?" The last conference he’d attended had been with Emily, her dry commentary balancing his tendency to ramble.

Hotch steepled his fingers. "Just you."

Spencer’s eyebrows shot up. "No one?" 

He didn’t mind presenting alone—he could talk for hours about his work—but the idea of driving three hours in silence, of spending the night in some generic hotel without the familiar buffer of a teammate…

"You can invite someone." Hotch's tone was carefully neutral, but the implication hung between them like a held breath.

It was as close to interference as Aaron Hotchner would ever allow himself. But even he—a man who treated office gossip like a biohazard—had limits. And watching the two of you orbit each other for so long, caught in some agonizing gravitational pull, had apparently reached them.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. The decision was already made. Had been made, really, the moment the words left Hotch's lips.

There was only ever one choice. Only one person he wanted beside him.

Only ever you.

The invitation had tumbled out before he could overthink it—and of course you'd said yes. Of course you'd grinned that sunrise-bright grin and declared, "God, yes, I need a break from work."

Now, an hour into the drive, your fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against your thigh as the countryside blurred past your window.

"Is it my turn yet?"

Spencer didn't need to check the dashboard clock. He knew exactly how long it had been since you'd last controlled the radio—twenty-seven minutes. The rules of your road trip playlist rotation had been established with near-constitutional precision after your third bickering match outside Baltimore.

Technically, he still had three minutes left with his science podcast.

He took one look at your pout—the one that always made your nose scrunch adorably—and surrendered. "Sure. It's your time."

Your triumphant sound filled the car as you lunged for the dial, scrolling through stations. When the opening chords of that song spilled from the speakers, your entire body lit up.

"My favorite song!" you crowed, already humming along.

The opening chords punched through the speakers, and Spencer's grip on the wheel turned white-knuckled.

Your song.

The one that had played the morning of the grocery run. The anthem of his awakening, the soundtrack to every synchronicity that had led him here—to you, to this car, to this moment.

The drive could have lasted days and Spencer wouldn't have minded—not with you in the passenger seat, humming along to the radio and stealing glances at him when you thought he wasn't looking.

Two hours later, Delaware welcomed you with a barely lit hotel lobby and an elderly receptionist who peered over her glasses with knowing eyes.

"One room or two?"

Spencer's throat went dry. His fingers twitched at his sides as he turned to you—only to find you already answering, your voice steady despite the way your thumb worried at the ring he'd given you.

"One."

You didn't look at him. Didn't explain. Just gave him a look with a nonchalance that would've been convincing if not for the way your ring almost slid off your finger.

The receptionist's smile deepened as she took in Spencer's flushed ears, the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. "Here are your keys," she said, handing them over with a wink you pretended not to see.

The elevator ride up was silent. Tense. Electric.

You broke it the moment the door clicked shut behind you, flopping onto the nearest bed with a dramatic sigh. "Finally," you groaned into the duvet, kicking off your shoes as Spencer hovered near the desk, suddenly hyper aware of every inch of space between you.

He busied himself with the room service menu, if only to stop imagining how your hair looked fanned out against the pillows. "What do you want to eat?"

What followed was a familiar routine—Chinese takeout containers spread between you, the scent of sesame oil and sweet-and-sour sauce thick in the air as Spencer outlined his conference talk. You listened with that focus of yours, the one that made him feel like the only person in the world, interjecting with questions that proved you'd been paying attention.

And if your feet occasionally brushed his under the table, if his hand lingered when passing you the soy sauce—well.

The room might've had two beds, but the distance between you had never felt smaller.

"Catch."

The fortune cookie arced through the air, landing neatly in Spencer's palm. You were already cracking yours open, the snap of plastic wrapper loud in the quiet hotel room.

Spencer watched as you unfolded the tiny slip of paper, your lips moving soundlessly as you read:

"Your patience will soon be rewarded."

A beat. Then two. 

Your fingers stilled around the paper, knuckles whitening just slightly. The silence stretched long enough that Spencer's chest tightened—until you finally looked up, offering a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Maybe I'll get the raise I asked for," you joked. Your voice was slightly shaky and so was your smile. 

Spencer knew deflection when he heard it.

"What does yours say?" You nudged his foot, the contact sending a jolt up his spine.

With careful fingers, he pried his cookie apart. The paper inside was crisp against his skin as he smoothed it out:

"What you seek is seeking you — watch for the signs."

The air left his lungs in a rush. When he dared to meet your gaze, he found you already staring—both of you wearing identical, awkward smiles.

"Sounds like a threat," you giggled, the sound slightly strained.

A threat from the universe, Spencer thought.

Or perhaps a promise.

The night stretched endlessly, the space between your two beds feeling both infinite and insufficient. Sheets tangled around restless limbs, pillows were punched into submission—neither of you slept, though neither spoke of it. 

Morning came too soon.

You watched from your perch on the edge of the bed as Spencer paced, reciting his presentation under his breath for what must have been the twentieth time. His fingers danced along an invisible keyboard, his brow furrowed in concentration.

The nervous energy radiating off him was palpable.

Seizing the moment, you reached across the chasm between beds, your fingers brushing his restless hand. "Spence," you murmured, your thumb tracing idle circles over his knuckles, "you'll do great."

His breath hitched at the contact, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he turned his palm up to meet yours, squeezing gently as he shot you a grateful smile—the kind that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your stomach flip.

A glance at his watch shattered the moment.

 "We should go," he mumbled, though his fingers lingered against yours a heartbeat too long.

The conference hall was mercifully close. As you stepped inside, you turned to him with a raised brow. "Where do you want me to sit?"

Spencer's gaze swept the growing crowd before landing on the front row. "Maybe first row?" The request came out softer than intended, barely more than a whisper.

He didn't say why. Didn't need to.

The thought of looking up from his notes and immediately meeting your eyes—your encouraging, loving eyes—was the only anchor he needed.

The conference was a triumph.

Spencer knew his material cold, but it wasn't the crowd that had his pulse racing—it was you. Sitting front and center, your gaze never wavered from him. He caught himself seeking you out between points, not for reassurance, but for the way your eyes lit up each time they met his. That particular smile—the one that started slow before blooming across your face—was becoming his new addiction.

You'd always looked at him like that.

He just hasn't understood why.

The moment he stepped off the podium, you were there, arms wrapping around him before the applause even faded.

"You did so so good, Spencer," you murmured against his shoulder, your breath warm through his dress shirt. When you pulled back, your hands lingered—palms cradling his jaw, thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks—before reluctantly letting go.

Spencer barely had time to smile at you before others approached with questions, but Spencer felt your presence like a physical thing.

Through every technical discussion, every eager handshake, he was hyper aware of you standing off to the side, smiling that private smile reserved only for him.

As an elderly man with kind eyes approached Spencer, Spencer replied to the questions with his carefully thought out answers. But he couldn’t help himself. His eyes kept darting to you. 

The way you were watching the crowd. The way you smiled proudly when you saw an elderly couple loudly compliment the conference. The way your eyes met his eyes more than once, and the way they would sparkle in ways that no one could cause but Spencer.

Spencer smiled softly as he finished his sentence, realizing he’d probably been rambling distracted for way too long now. He finally looked at the man, who had seemingly followed Spencer’s eyes.

"I remember those times," the man said wistfully, patting Spencer's shoulder. His wedding band glinted in the fluorescent lights. "Don't wait too long."

Spencer opened his mouth—to protest, to explain, to something—but the man just smiled and walked away, leaving him standing there with his heart pounding and your name on his tongue.

Across the room, you looked up as if sensing his stare, your eyes crinkling in that way that made his chest ache.

The universe had given him signs. Strangers had given him warnings.

"You're not paying," Spencer insisted for the third time as you dragged him toward the diner, your fingers curled around the crook of his elbow.

"Look how cute it is!" you beamed, ignoring his protest as the neon sign cast pink halos around your silhouette. The booths and checkerboard floors looked straight out of a 1950s postcard—the kind of place Garcia would call "romantic" with that knowing lilt in her voice.

Then the bell above the door jingled, and the universe delivered its coup de grâce.

Your song.

The same one from the car, from the grocery store, from every pivotal moment of his awakening—now piping through the diner's crackling speakers as you chatted animatedly with the hostess.

You didn't even notice, too busy confirming the reservation you'd made the second his conference ended.

Spencer stood frozen in the threshold, the scent of sizzling bacon and maple syrup wrapping around him as Jung's words echoed in his skull: "Synchronicity is an ever-present reality for those who have eyes to see."

He'd analyzed the concept a hundred times since the dream—poring over texts until his eyes burned, tracing the threads that connected every "coincidence." 

The Buddhist proverb he'd stumbled upon last week floated back to him now: When soulmates meet, it's the culmination of five centuries of cosmic preparation.

Five hundred years of atoms rearranging, of stars collapsing and reforming, all to bring him here—to this chrome-and-vinyl booth where you were currently stealing his fries with that smirk he'd loved across lifetimes.

Rain began pattering against the diner windows as you split the last chocolate chip cookie—because of course you’d ordered them, because the universe seemed determined to weaponize every memory he cherished.

You gazed out at the storm, then back at him with that grin that always made his ribs ache. 

“Drip drop,” you said, crunching into the cookie with relish.

Spencer's stomach flipped. The words—your words, from that rain-soaked night—hung between you.

“Drip drop,” he echoed, the words tasting like nostalgia and longing. His smile faltered—until your ankle hooked around his beneath the table, just as he’d done to you countless times in cafes and briefing rooms. The contact burned through his sock like a brand.

“These are so good,” you mumbled around a mouthful of crumbs.

Spencer hummed, reaching for another cookie just to have something to do with his hands.

“I do hope you won’t start preferring these over mine, though.” You waved a half-eaten cookie in his face, your eyes glinting with mock severity. “I put a lot of work and love into my cookies, you know.”

"Never," he said immediately, plucking the treat from your fingers with deliberate slowness. His lips brushed your fingertips as he took it, and the sharp inhale you tried—and failed—to hide didn't escape him. "I love your cookies."

Then you grinned, kicking his ankle playfully under the table, and the moment passed—but not the promise thrumming in his chest.

The storm raged through the night—rain splashing against the windows that faded into white noise while you played chess with Spencer's travel set, your knees pressed together beneath the coffee table. 

He let you win. You pretended not to notice.

Morning brought no reprieve. Rain still splashed against the glass when Spencer appeared at your shoulder, close enough that his breath stirred your hair.

"I don't think it's safe to drive home," he murmured.

You hummed in agreement, watching water cascade down the pane.

"There was a bookstore next to the conference building," he added casually—too casually, the way he always did when trying to sound spontaneous about things he'd clearly researched in advance.

"Of course you noticed that," you laughed, already reaching for your jacket. When you tossed him his scarf—the one he'd worn religiously since that fateful morning—his hands fumbled to catch it, the wool soft and familiar between his fingers.

The walk was a disaster. Within minutes, the downpour had soaked through your coats, your hair plastered to your foreheads as you splashed through ankle-deep puddles. The bookstore owner glared when you dripped across her threshold.

"As if it's our fault it's raining," you muttered under your breath, wringing out your sleeve.

Spencer shot you that boyish grin that always made your stomach flip—the one reserved for moments when you were being "adorably incorrigible"—before offering the owner a sheepish apology.

You drifted apart naturally, pulled toward your respective genres like planets orbiting the same sun.

From the philosophy section, Spencer watched you trail fingers along fantasy spines, your lips moving silently as you read titles. Yet every few minutes, one of you would glance up—searching, always searching—until your eyes met across the stacks.

The rain drummed its approval against the roof.

And for the first time, Spencer wondered if storms had souls—if this one had waited centuries just to strand you here, together.

Time slipped through the bookstore's aisles like sand through fingers. Spencer found himself in the classics section, fingers trailing over worn spines until they caught on a rare edition of The Importance of Being Earnest.

The discovery sent a jolt through him—the same play whose quote you'd scribbled on his cookie note what felt like lifetimes ago. His thumb traced the gilded title with reverence, the memory of your looping handwriting surfacing.

"Hello." Your voice at his shoulder startled him. 

Before he could turn, your cheek came to rest against his upper arm, warm even through his damp sweater. The contact sparked a dizzying sense of déjà vu—your weight against him in the dream-library, your breath ghosting over the same spot as you handed him that fateful blank book.

"Whatcha looking at?" you murmured, tilting your head to peer at his find.

Spencer swallowed hard before raising the book for your inspection. "Oscar Wilde," he managed, voice thick. His gaze dropped to the volume in your hands. "What did you get?"

When his gaze dropped to the notebook in your hands, his breath hitched. Gold filigree curled across its cover in the exact same pattern as the book from his dream library—the one you'd handed him with that devastating promise: "This one gets filled after you admit it to me."

You lifted your head slowly—too slowly. "Just a pretty notebook," you said, cracking it open with deliberate care.

Blank pages.

Just like before. Just like always.

"It's pretty," he managed, though the words weren't about the book at all.

You went very still, your smile faltering nervously when you saw the affectionate look in his eyes . "Yeah," you agreed softly, your gaze locking with his. "It is."

The moment stretched, the air between you charged with everything unsaid.

And Spencer was suddenly, terrifyingly certain that if he didn't speak now, he might never find the courage again.

But then your gaze darted nervously past his shoulder—then froze.

"Oh my god."

Spencer turned just as you reached toward the shelf, your fingertips hovering near a weathered copy of Pride and Prejudice. There, perched on the spine like a punctuation mark, sat a single ladybug.

"It must be hiding from the rain," you murmured, gently coaxing it onto your finger with the same care you reserved for his favorite books and Garcia's trinkets.

Spencer's breath caught.

The ladybug from your hair clip.

The ladybug from Garcia's book.

The ladybug that had been haunting him for so long now.

"It's so cute," you whispered, returning it to its perch with a tenderness that shattered his last thread of restraint.

When you turned back to him, a smile still playing on your lips, you found Spencer staring at you with raw, unfiltered wonder—like you'd hung the moon and every star in your wake.

Then the words burst forth like a dam breaking:

"I'm in love with you." The confession tumbled out in a rush. "And I think I have been for—for forever, and the universe keeps screaming at me about it, and at first I thought they were coincidences but there are too many, and—"

Your lips silenced his.

For one heart-stopping moment, Spencer stood frozen—every synapse short-circuiting at the warmth of your mouth against his. Then instinct overrode shock, and his hands cradled your face like something precious, kissing you back with all the tenderness of a man who'd waited lifetimes for this.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and grinning, the ladybug spread its wings and took flight—as if its work here was done.

Spencer stared at you, wide-eyed and breathless, his lips still tingling from the kiss. You met his gaze with a smile that could power cities, your fingers curled tight in the fabric of his vest.

Then you remembered the fortune cookie's promise.

"Guess my patience has been rewarded," you murmured against his mouth, feeling his breath hitch.

Spencer made a soft, questioning noise, his dazed eyes dropping back to your lips like he couldn't quite believe they'd been there moments before.

"I've been in love with you forever, you dummy," you confessed, tugging him closer by his lapels. "I've been waiting ages for you to do this."

"Really?" The word came out strangled, hopeful.

"Really."

That was all the confirmation he needed. Spencer surged forward, capturing your lips in a series of breathless, giddy pecks between stumbling words:

“I have—” kiss “—been so—” kiss “—scared—” kiss “—to do this.” kiss “But also—” kiss “—I never want to stop.”

You were giggling now, your fingers in his hair, and he was smiling so much he could barely kiss you properly, but neither of you cared.

Each press of his lips felt like a promise, each aborted sentence a love letter years in the making. The ladybug had long since flown away, but its message lingered in the space between your shared breaths.

A thousand kisses later—or perhaps only thirty, though Spencer had lost count somewhere between the philosophy section and the hotel elevator—you lay tangled together in bed as he recounted every cosmic sign.

"I was wearing a pink version of your sweater in your dream?" you asked, chin propped on his chest as you studied him. The lamplight caught the flecks of gold in his eyes, turning them molten. "Why?"

Spencer's cheeks flushed that endearing shade of pink you'd come to adore. "Well, chromatology suggests pink symbolizes affection and love in dreams," he began, fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine. "There was a 1978 study where—"

You pressed a fingertip to his nose, silencing the impending lecture. He blinked, then huffed a laugh.

"I think I still need to get used to this," he admitted, his breath catching as your fingers wandered across his collarbone.

You sat up abruptly. "In a good or bad way?"

"Good," he said too quickly, scrambling upright. The headboard creaked as he leaned against it, watching you. "Obviously good."

A beat of silence. 

"What?" you grinned, crossing your legs beneath you.

Spencer's blush deepened. "When did you—" He stopped. His eyes darting to the wall behind you. You grinned.

"—start liking you?" you finished, scooting closer until your knees brushed his. At his nod, you pretended to consider. "Probably at Garcia's apartment."

His eyebrows shot up. "The Polaroid?" The realization lit up his face like sunrise. "You're telling me your descent into lov—mmph!"

Your finger against his lips cut him off, though his triumphant grin remained. He caught your wrist, turning your hand to press a kiss to your palm before intertwining your fingers.

"Yes," you admitted, suddenly shy under his gaze. "You have me falling in love with you captured on a Polaroid."

Spencer's smile could have powered entire cities—that brilliant, boyish grin now shining just for you.

In the quiet that followed, you both stared at your joined hands—his long fingers slotting between yours like they'd been made to fit.

"Seems like ladybugs are our thing," you murmured, thinking of the photograph, the book, all the tiny moments that had led you here.

Spencer brought your knuckles to his lips again. "Yeah," he agreed softly, the word a vow against your skin.

The old Buddhist saying floated back to Spencer as he watched you trace idle patterns across his palm—when you meet your soulmate, remember the act to bring you together was five hundred years in the making.

Five centuries of atoms rearranging.

Of stars collapsing and reforming.

Of every seemingly random choice and chance encounter conspiring across lifetimes to deliver you here—to this moment, this bed, this perfect alignment of souls.

Your fingers stilled against his skin as if sensing his revelation. When you glanced up, Spencer saw eternity in your gaze—the same timeless connection he'd felt when you kissed him in the bookstore, when you laughed over chess, when you wore his sweater like it belonged to you all along.

He cradled your face, thumb brushing the apple of your cheek with reverence. No equations could quantify this. No textbook could explain how every synapse in his brain now burned with the certainty that you'd been written into his DNA long before either of you took your first breath.

You were his.

He was yours.

And five hundred years from now, some version of you would still be finding each other across crowded bookstores and rainy diners and ladybug-kissed moments, because this love wasn't made for just one lifetime.

[mullermilkshake]

Baby fever? Baby mana

Part 6 <- Part 7 -> Part 8

It's the last time to take a pregnancy test, the results always the same. But Jinwoo remains hopeful.

Yandere!Jinwoo Sung x Fem Hunter!reader Tags - Smut, NSFW, Unprotected sex, P in v sex, vaginal sex, breast play, creampie, mentions of pregnancy, pet name, mentions of choking and breed kink/praise kink, breeding

<<< For more Dark/Yandere content, click this link to go back to the Masterlist! >>>

<<< Or back to this fic's Master list. >>>

A month came and went by in a flash before Jinwoo’s eyes.

Nothing.

The weekly pregnancy tests took a toll, every time they came up negative under the watchful eye of Woo Jin-chu sitting right there with his stop watch, waiting for the results. And each time your heart sank and slouched into the sofa when he announced the negative line.

Desperation. One word to sum it up as you sat there, bouncing on his cock one final time before Jin-chul arrived later for the final test result. Jinwoo willed it to happen and frantically searched for anything to stop the association from taking you away from him that didn’t result in hiding you away where no one could get you and committing mass murder to keep it that way.

If Jinwoo had it his way, he’d get rid of the lot of them. Running out of ideas made his brain hurt and his intrusive thoughts had gotten much darker than before. Killing all of them to keep the status quo, fucking you like this, loving you, living with you and seeing you every morning when his eyes opened.

He never had the chance to take you to meet his mom and sister. Jinwoo wanted that chance and he could have it as soon as you were pregnant, because then the pressure would stop.

But you were right, it could take up to a year or even longer.

While it was never spoken aloud, what made Jinwoo more on the edge was the possibility of Jin-chul suggesting you be paired with Jong-in now that he’d managed to get Hae-In pregnant. It was only a matter of time too before Jong-in started to gravitate towards you in the long run.

Now that Jinwoo hid one of his shadows behind Jong-in, it gave him a better perspective of the relationship. And it wasn’t good. It was bickering at first, behind closed doors whilst Hae-in’s hidden mood swings were like clockwork yet still caused whiplash. Jinwoo’s shadow was a doorway to private conversations and hidden personalities that the public never got to see.

Jong-in was as considerate as he was to everyone, passively arguing with Hae-in about the little things she took issue with. Jinwoo knew she was just scared, or tired, or hungry, and Jong-in took it in his stride. But the two weren’t a couple by any stretch and only doing this for the association. Yet with you, Jong-in mentioned you way more than he should have, yet not saying much at all.

And that kept Jinwoo up at night, thinking of all the moments that man could get his hands on you, the things he’d seen and experienced, shared with Jong-in like you were cattle. If he could help it, Jinwoo would stop it without causing too much of a fuss and backlash.

It was those moments he wanted to keep all to himself.

Jinwoo could never grow tired of that little noise you made, jutting with a rasp in your breath when you were close, the way your fingers tensed on his bare chest in silence when another orgasm ripped through you as you cooed his name.

Just like right now. “Jinwoo-”

“I know.” He rested his hands on your hips, pushing his fingertips in the plush round flesh easing his stress away.

The sun had only started rising, Jin-chul was due at any time. Jinwoo never wanted it to end, but if the front door knocked before he came inside you again and never made it to the door in time, Jin-chul would let himself in. So despite his need to keep going, if he didn’t come inside you now, he might not get another chance for a while until he handled things himself.

You pulled at his hands, pressing them over your breast to massage them, play with your nipples in a way you knew he liked. Not only did Jinwoo find new stuff out about you, it seemed like you were taking things on board too. Even so, you never explicitly said outright that you felt the same way Jinwoo did, but there were some tell-tale signs that you were coming to terms with it.

Like putting his favourite genre of movie on, cuddling up to him over the course of the last two weeks like a fully functional couple. You were suddenly excited to see him come home and more aroused than before, taking more opportunities to get intimate than Jin-chul stated. In the last few weeks, you and Jinwoo weren’t just fucking every night, sometimes it was reaching peaks of three or four times a day depending on your mood. You had somehow changed the entire dynamic and taken the lead ever since the night of the association dinner.

Sex was out of this world, your eagerness elevated the experience and heightened Jinwoo’s senses which thrusted his exploration into the stratosphere. He was finding out new things about himself, about you. His own kinks and lustrous imaginations over you and what you enjoyed.

For instance, one night after Jinwoo gave you two orgasms to make your head spin, you asked him to choke you. He didn’t exactly deliver the first time, surrounded by his worries of hurting you for real instead of pleasuring you. Then, you directed him, patiently telling him what you wanted and it got your legs trembling, body jerking and lips babbling absolute nonsense.

And Jinwoo? Well, he realised early that he had developed a need to breed you and it turned into an obsession rather quickly, so much so that it was all Jinwoo thought about.

“Jinwoo, I can’t hold it-”

“Then come for me, pretty girl.”

Another thing that Jinwoo learned was the power of the right pet name, you took to them well and enjoyed a little praise along with it from time to time.

You stopped and held your breath, Jinwoo kept his hips moving and held you in place. Every ounce of pent up frustration and waiting for one last time. No, it couldn’t be the last time, though why did it feel like it would be?

Jinwoo would have let his darker side emerge had the sensation of your pussy clenching around his cock not made him float. The slapping of your bare ass down on the tops of his thighs, so sweat ridden and warm and he wanted it always.

Always.

Always. 

“Jinwoo- fuck- make me a mommy, just do it- please do it-”

That was a first and no way could it be in the moment when it sounded so raw, so real. Those string of words made the massive load he was about to give you all the more special once Jinwoo got over the shock of your demand. The first time that you had acknowledged your part in this and begged him, surrounded in your own feverish lust for an end result Jinwoo wanted this entire time.

A baby.

A baby with you.

A family.

He came, willing it to take, praying and wishing that this sensation would never end and you and he would be linked together for as long as he lived. A mark over you that he held close to his chest, while a newborn baby laid on yours.

It had to take. It has to.

Everything was pointing to a real relationship just by the way you laid in his arms all tangled up, his body took you in so naturally because you just fit right. Fitting perfectly because you were always supposed to be with him. It couldn’t be over just yet, right?

The ominous front doorbell rang like a warning siren in Jinwoo’s mind, a way to say times up folks, we’re splitting you up now if you can’t get the result we want on a stick that someone pees on.  

It wasn’t fair.

“Why does he come over so early?” You yawned, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before you sat up to leave the bed.

Don’t leave just yet. 

But you did, pulling your little silk robe on and trudging out of the room. Jinwoo laid there for a moment and listened to Jin-chul’s low drawl of a voice, thanking you and making himself at home in the kitchen. 

You wandered back through the bedroom with three pregnancy tests in your hand and a disheartened expression. “I won’t be long. You better get dressed.”

Jinwoo hid his pout from you and waited to get out once the bathroom door closed behind you. He wished he could be there with you, taking the pressure off for just a moment, a single second so that you could sit on that sofa with ease while the results came back after an agonising three miniature wait.

You would probably slap him straight in the face if he barged in the bathroom while you were peeing. So he opted to wait right outside, like he was there with you. You were shocked to still see him when you emerged from the bathroom, pausing right there in the doorway.

“Sorry.” He rubbed his neck and looked away in case you decided that it was inappropriate and waited for that slap he probably deserved, but nothing happened. “I just thought I’d wait here for you, y’know, it being the last time, and all.”

Jinwoo hadn’t prepared to see a smile on your lips when he looked back. “Thanks, Jinwoo. I think I really needed that today.”

Sitting down on the sofa just waiting was never a great feeling even without Jin-chul staring at the two of you awaiting the results of the three sticks on the table. The room sat in a horrid silence and sucked all of the air out of the room, even the sunlit daylight of the early morning. 

The three people in the room sat in silence, pure agonising silence.

“Well, it seems that your time is up…” Jin-chul glanced over at the tests and sighed. “They’re negative… shame.”

You said nothing, sat there looking down at your trembling hands. Jinwoo wanted to comfort you and tell you all of the positive things, but how could that fix the main issue that you weren’t pregnant?

He had failed. He’d fucked everything up.

“I've done all I can to delay the Chairman's decision, but he's adamant. There’s some things we’ll need to go over for the transition, we aim to have it done by the end of the day.” Jin-chul addressed you. “You’ll be moving into the apartment next door where you’ll undergo a three month trial with Hunter Choi. Now Hunter Cha is pregnant, we’re offering her accommodation at the new facility.”

Hunter… Choi?

Jinwoo’s fist clenched, practically shaking until his knuckles came over white, his worst nightmare was soon realised. Jong-in was taking you in because he’d already knocked up another woman? Was the scandal of this alone nothing that the association considered?

No. Jinwoo didn’t give a fuck, you weren’t going anywhere. Before you could protest, by the horrified look on your face, Jinwoo stood up, ready to fight anyone who approved of this. And when he did, something stopped you, Jin-chul and himself on the spot. An unmistakable wave of aura, nothing that Jinwoo recognised from any of the other S-Rank hunters, or any other hunter for that matter. It was just different. Unexpected.

“What was that?”

Jin-chul got to his feet and looked around, his expression confused and lingering on the fact that he mustn’t have recognised it either. “I’m… I’m not sure.”

Jinwoo closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind on locating it, placing a shadow on you out of instinct in case it was a magic beast. You were in a robe, naked, and being taken by surprise was a possibility. And when nothing happened, Jinwoo couldn’t place the uneasiness, the drive to find it like a parent looking for their child.

It was a need. A compulsion.

He glanced over at his system’s quest, expecting it to be unchanged, but something had changed. The progress bar had increased from zero, to ten. And then he found what he was looking for, when you moved closer to him and his shadow indicated exactly where that aura had come from.

From you.

Jinwoo blinked and placed his hand on your stomach without giving you warning, you stepped back but he never allowed that distance to gap itself. The aura was coming from you, or more importantly your lower half, your abdomen. Your mana was still there, just below the surface of this secondary aura, a different signature completely but so familiar to your own and Jinwoo’s

“What are you doing?

“Hunter Woo, do you have more pregnancy tests with you?”

Jin-chul was unfazed but complied. “I do.”

You watched Jinwoo and your eyes wandered down to your stomach. “Jinwoo… What-”

“We have to do more tests.”

“The tests were negative, Hunter Sung, there’s no point in doing so again. We’re done here. I have to find the source of that aura, so if you’ll excuse me-”

Jinwoo stopped him in his steps, glaring at him with what was probably the most murderous look he’d ever had access to. That compulsion to find the aura didn’t leave even though he found it, it was still driving him to deal with the issue and advocate before Jin-chul tried to cast him aside.

“Do the test again. Now.” 

After a half hour of Jinwoo second guessing himself and focusing on that mana spike within you, and another three pregnancy tests later after getting you to drink as much water as you could, the results were concluded.

Jin-chul took another look over them, and Jinwoo watched as his eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned… the tests are positive.”

And so the beginning of Jinwoo’s quest had begun.

Part 6 <- Part 7 -> Part 8

This is the last part I'm uploading at least until after the 12th may, I'm away for a week and won't have connection, but that doesn't mean I'm not writing, and now that I have sort of a plot for this, I'm going to continue writing so parts will come faster than they have been most probably. Thank you so much for all the support so far, I really appreciate it ❤️ ilysm

If you would like to be tagged, please let me know! Thanks so much for all the support on this likes, reblog and comments appreciated! ❤️

Tag list - @bubera974, @snowy-violet, @sky2lar, @starrynights23x, @minh907

@yessirr7, @aussie-boys-wife, @yihona-san06, @mashiromochi, @daiyanomochi

@justatimidcreator, @alia-17, @otomegamesforlife, @m00n-estelle, @towomatos

@stormnightingale, @johnnysactualgf, @solarisstarrsolomonsbeloved, @johnnysactualgf, @notleclerc

@minkuro, @misakicchi, @lovingyeet, @soft-dots,@gina239

@sabrina-senpai, @tsukimoon-chan, @afkmylajah, @livelaughlovekuni, @keiva1000

@delusionillusion322, @dreamingoftomorrow, @gina239, @blxuqueenie, @stardust0709

@chahaezii, @athanasia10, @crutoyu

DISCLAIMER - Crossposted from my AO3 - I do not own any of the characters or anything from the anime or manhwa. This is a work of fan fiction and is absolutely not representative of the views or intentions of the original creator(s).

Also please don’t post any of my work without permission thank you!

[aurorawritestoescape]

AHHHH RAIDER JOEL!!😩 NO ONE eats like he eats!!🥵🥵🥵🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

And no one l*ves like he does🥹😍

The truth is, each time your bodies are joined, he’s less sure how to separate them. He's not sure how to get out of that bed without you physically attached to him. Like a limb or a second skin, the thought of shedding you, even for a moment, makes his oxygen drop, unsettles his gut, has his pulse thrumming in his neck. 

This is so THEM❤️‍🔥 Set after their first kiss this passage is so powerful, beautiful and meaningful!! The hunger, the craving, the need, everything to the max with them, always😍 this is a masterpiece! Thank you for sharing, Toxy🙌💞💞💞

Dear Toxi,

At your suggestion, I used Resistbot to contact my congress people and representative and asked them to vote “no” on the SAVE act. If you can, I would love for you to write something about Raider Joel and Sweet Pea. They are my favorites. Thanks for all your great writing and your activism!

Thank you for your activism and ask. glad to provide raider. 🫡🖤 SAVE act | 5calls | resistbot | ask event: blorbos for democracy

Feast

raider!Joel x f!reader | 1.9k words

WARNINGS: 18+ PWP, 🐱 eating extravaganza, a little forceful, dubcon overstim, PIV, cockwarming, dark fluff, a bit of angst, light somno, Raider Joel needs a permanent hug. NOTES: Morning after Bodies / The Kiss but can read alone. Ty @iamasaddie for the gorgeous pic, ty @milla-frenchy for listening yrs before i write it sometimes, ty @dark-scape and everyone who supports me 🖤 🖤 Joel miller masterlist

You begin to wake up with Joel's hair tickling your breast as he works his way down your body, dragging his lips over your skin. After spreading your legs and resting them over his shoulders, he presses his open mouth to your hip, then inner thigh. 

His inner thigh kisses get closer and thirstier, sucking at your skin, capillaries bursting with pleasure as they rise to the surface to be seen by only him. Marked for no one but Joel. He noses your cunt and dips his tongue for a taste, then his tongue presses hard into your warmth. You moan quietly, feeling everything, but you're still so tired. It was a peaceful night, restful, but hard to shake the heavy slumber. 

You want to be in his arms, but his big hands holding your hips while he plunges face first into your cunt… It's so good, his arms can wait. The day can wait. The morning light filtering through the clouded window can wait as long as need be while Joel Miller takes his time. 

He laps at your pussy, then sucks at your clit. He flicks his tongue and feels you squirm. He reaches up and palms a breast as he eats your pussy like he hasn't had a meal in days and this might just sate him for the week. 

You throb, and pressure builds in your front, in your blood. His lips and tongue possess your pleasure center. His beard scratches your inner thighs, and you spread your legs further, beginning to squirm slightly under his touch. He looks up for a moment, but his eyes are behind a haze of pleasure, and yours are still closed. 

“Ugh,” you moan and your hips lift into his mouth. 

“Mm,” He grunts into your pussy and continues to play with your clit. He flicks his tongue, sucks hard, and listens to you unravel, closing his eyes, losing himself in the primality of consuming you for his pleasure and yours.

“J-joel,” you breathe, not loud enough for him to hear.  Need to feel his lips on yours again. His lips on… your other lips. The ones on your pretty face, the ones that whimper his name, this time asking, “Joel?” with no reply, only a crescendo of pressure swelling in your core. 

You drift back to the night before, the moment your mouths connected…. you float there with the swelling pressure as your buoy, until the riptide pulls you under, into the ghost of his mouth taking yours, and the pleasure breaks in a crashing wave. Tumbling over your senses, it rolls you onto the shore of his bed, soaked and trembling, gasping for breath with his head between your legs as he swallows your peak. 

The taste of your pleasure, your climax only makes him more voracious. While you're bathing in the high, he licks at your entrance, sucks and swallows. Plunges his tongue into you, searches for more. He tilts his head, fucking you with his tongue from different angles.  He’s a starving canine licking marrow out of bone. 

He brings his thumb to your cunt and holds it there on the spot that makes you whimper with the slightest pressure.  He fucks you with his tongue, then flattens his fingers and rubs at your clit, rolling it it in short quick strokes, building another fire in your belly with his tongue in your core. His thick fingers work you like a tap, drawing more of your arousal to coat his tongue. 

“C'mere,” you whimper, and he doesn't let up. His tongue thrusts into you. He laps over your entrance, up your slippery seam, before plunging his tongue in again, with his hand still aflutter. You squirm and he sucks, and then you're coming against his face, and he moans against your throbbing clit, then nudges it with the strength of his tongue and seals it with an open kiss.  His mouth breaks away to gush, “good girl.” 

Your legs tremble over his shoulders like a gelatin dish carried by heavy steps to the kitchen table where a hungry mouth waits. He holds one thigh, thumb and fingers pressing into the soft flesh over your muscle, and gives it an aggressive kiss, lips smacking as he pulls away and sets his eyes on the feast between your legs again. 

“Can you come here?” You ask, and he glances up at you with his mouth planted between your legs again. 

“It's, it’s too much. I can't,” You whimper. It feels like you could pee, like you could lose complete control. Does he hear you?  

“Joel, Joel,” you repeated. 

He sucks below your clit, flicks his tongue up against it before sucking again. He closes his eyes hard, and his hand comes to your breast.

“come here,” you echo and it comes out strained, stretched by pleasure, pulled apart by him.  You try to sit up, try to use your lower body to nudge him toward you, toward the pillow, but he forces you down, holds you firmly in place. You begin to lift his hand off your breast to break the spell, to get his attention, and his hand seizes your wrist.

Your resistance only makes his mouth more aggressive in its quest to swallow you again. 

You give in.  

He feels you relax, glances up, then interlaces his fingers with yours and it feels all better. The tension leaves your back and legs, your neck relaxes, your head sinks into the pillow. All the tension melts, flowing down to your center where it builds in your depths for a third time. 

His lips break away with a rumbling breath. 

“One more, baby,” he pants, “one more.” 

His tongue runs through your folds, up one side and down the other, circling your juicy hole, then giving it a suck before returning to your clit. 

His hand tightens its grip on yours, so large and commanding. Tight and firm, his palm flexes, his fingers press into the slopes between your knuckles.

His hips rut against the bed as he fucks you with his face. The movement of his ass, the telltale. rhythm of his hips and his tongue together, it tickles something in your solar plexus, opening you with a desperate need to be filled.

His head between your legs dips and pushes his mouth harder in rhythm with his hips against the bed. Tongue, hips, tongue, hips, suck, hips, suck, harder. With a pit opening in your center, you beg, “I need you inside.”  

You find yourself jealous of the mattress, wishing you were the fitted sheet that he was rutting against. Nevermind how many hours you were treated to the same push of his hips. How many nights. Nevermind that his face is buried in your cunt. You want him inside you. 

 A tear rolls down your temple.

You whimper his name, and he takes a breath to promise, “One more and you can rest, baby.  One more.” 

You can do it. You can do it for him. With tension coiling in your depths, with one hand in his, and the other in his hair, you watch his eyelids hover half open, then close with the soft rake of your nails across his scalp. 

Your hips lift with his hungry touch and he moans into your cunt. 

A growl escapes his chest; warm, damp air against your lower mound. The coil winds so tight you fear the snap as you begin to crest. But when the tension breaks and springs you open, the rush of release makes you glad he hadn't stopped. It floods every inch of you with a sizzling buzz.

It makes your body dizzy, and it makes you sleepy. He laps up all your arousal, all your release, everything he can, his hips still moving in rhythm. He slowly fucks the goddamn mattress with you quivering against his tongue. 

And then, finally, he’s done. He licks his swollen lips swallowing more of your taste. His neck and face are pink, the lower half is shiny. His breath is heavy, and so is yours as you recover. 

“I'm comin’, sweet pea,” he assures you. He lets go of your hand to prowl up your body.

He hovers you, and you glance down at his stiff, leaking cock, angry with so much blood and need it can hardly contain. It bounces heavily against your belly, right where you want it inside. 

He reaches down, aligns your bodies, and your breath hitches as he slides into you with a powerful thrust, plunging nearly all his length through your soft walls. He packs you full, just like you wanted. You're tired, so tired, and your face becomes peaceful as you're made whole. 

“You can rest now, baby,” he pants. With his length sheathed in your soft warmth, he slides a hand under your shoulder, pulls you against him, and eases you back into how you were sleeping - on your sides, facing each other. With a grunt, he hikes your leg up so he can bottom out fully with a sigh. 

An aftershock squeezes his shaft, making him shudder. He strokes your face, possessively cups the back of your head, with his thumb on your temple, then he brings his face to yours and kisses you once again.  With your mouths joined, he breathes through his nose, kissing you deep, letting his tongue slide into your warm, soft mouth, feeding you your own taste, collecting more of you for himself. Another spasm echoes from your walls, and his hips jerk. His lips break from yours with a groan, and his cock throbs, erupting warm and heavy.

Deep, so deep.

His pelvis tilts trying to inch ever further into you like he could fill your whole body up if he tried, and maybe he could. But he remains almost completely still as his balls empty into you through the twitch of his cock. 

He interrupts his shaky breaths to kiss you for a few seconds, lips clinging to yours. Then he pulls back to look you in the eyes and asks, “You okay sweet pea?”  

“Yeah,” you whisper with a nod. He holds you, and the rhythm of his breathing feels like a lullaby. 

“Let's stay in bed,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you whisper in agreement. 

You're wrapped in his arms, full of his cock, almost back asleep when his arms twitch and tighten around you.

“Are you okay?” You ask. 

He takes a deep breath. “Yeah. ‘Course I am, sweet pea.” He kisses your forehead.  But unease grows beneath the peace he feels, slow as cordyceps and just as real.

The truth is, each time your bodies are joined, he’s less sure how to separate them. He's not sure how to get out of that bed without you physically attached to him. Like a limb or a second skin, the thought of shedding you, even for a moment, makes his oxygen drop, unsettles his gut, has his pulse thrumming in his neck. 

“Just... always need more of ya, baby,” he mutters with a shift of his hips, then another deep breath. 

“You have all of me,” you whisper. 

"Yeah," he whispers and nestles your head under his chin where you can feel his thick swallow. 

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Thank you for reading 🖤 I have terrible anxiety with this series sometimes, there's so much I've scribbled and not shared. Your comments help a lot.

Please also consider sharing this fic - it's a great way to help resistance efforts by spreading the ask and links and enticing people who might otherwise scroll past this kind of information.

[delulumel]

Still yours

Pairing: exbf!bangchan x f!reader

Genre: ex’s to lovers, a little bit of angst, fluff at the end, possesive!chan

Synopsis: they say time heals wounds but two years later, he still looks at you like you are his. The problem is…you never stopped being his.

Word count: 3.0k

Warnings: cursing

Note: I’ve read so many stories here so I thought I might give this a try. I’m kinda nervous but hope you like it!

Your breakup with Chan wasn’t dramatic. No screaming, no breaking things—just the quiet realisation that you two won’t work out. The distance between you has stretched too far, the missed calls and unanswered messages for days.

But the last thing you didn’t expect from him was forgetting your birthday.

He didn’t forgot—no, he called you saying he will be working late and not to wait for him. While you stand there wearing your cute dress expecting him to surprise you.

When he showed at your shared apartment he knew immediately. He remembered it last minute and ran to you, but it was already late. The colour of his face drained when he saw the bag full of your belongings.

“We can’t do this anymore.” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

Chris didn’t argue—he couldn’t, it was his fault. He just stood there and accepted it.

You thought that would be the end of it.

But you were wrong.

You tried to move on

You deleted his number, threw away things that reminded you of him, you started to date other people—most of them were horrible.

Chan though didn’t move on.

He didn’t blow up your phone or something. Instead, he lingered.

“@gnabnahc liked your post” at 2 AM

He commented at old posts “I remember that day.”

And then your friends brought him up.

“Chan asked about you yesterday.” your friend mentioned.

You stiffened “what did he say?”

“He just wanted to know if you are seeing anyone.”

“Why?”

“You know how he is. He doesn’t like sharing you.”

You rolled your eyes. “he didn’t seem to mind sharing his time with everyone but me when we were together.”

Later that night you had a dream about him. Of course he would creep back into your mind after some while.

You shouldn’t have gone to the party.

But your friends begged you just so you can clear your mind.

The moment you walked in, he was there.

Leaning against the balcony railing, drink in hand, laughing at something Hyunjin said to him. His hair was a little longer, his black button-up rolled up to his elbows— he looked really good.

You turned to leave.

“Y/n” a familiar voice called you.

When you turned back Chan was already walking to you, his gaze dark.

“You are here.” He said in a deep voice.

“Yeah, suprise.” you said while forcing a smile.

His eyes devouring your figure like he wanted to memorize the image. “You look good.”

“Thanks.” you took a step back “You look good too.”

His jaw clenched “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“No” You lied “Just busy.”

“Bullshit” He stepped closer “You blocked my number.”

“Well that’s how breakup works Chan.”

Then—thank god—Hyunjin slided an arm around his shoulders, grinning “Stop scaring the guests man.”

He didn’t smile. He continued to stare at you.

You on the other hand tried to escape to the kitchen.

He followed you.

Of course he did.

The second you stepped inside, you whirled around “What the hell Chan?”

He pinned you against the kitchen counter, his body way to close, the cologne he always wore filling your lungs. “You blocked me” he repeated.

“I had to” Your body trying to escape but the marble counter was stopping you. “You kept—”

“Kept what? Caring?” His warm breath warming your face. “You think I could just stop?”

“You didn’t care enough when you needed to.” you shot back.

Chan let out a harsh laugh. “That’s what you think? That I didn’t care? I cared too fucking much. That’s why I worked so hard trying to built something—”

“For who?” You interrupted. “Because it sure hell wasn’t for us”

The words hung between you. Chan’s expression twisted, something vulnerable flashing across his face.

“You’re right, I fucked up.” His hand hovered near your face before it dropped to his side. “But don’t stand here telling me you didn’t know what you got yourself into. You knew who I was—what my life was like.”

“I knew the man who promised me I’d always come first.” Your voice breaking “Not the man who ignored me for weeks.”

Chan’s composure cracked. “I was trying to built a future for us!”

“Without me in it!” Tears blurred your vision. “You made all the plans, all the decisions but you never asked what I wanted!”

“I just wanted you.” You whispered. “Not your success. Not your sacrifices. Just you.”

Chan’s breath hitched. For a long moment he just stared at you, his eyes tracing every feature like he was memorising you. Finally he brought his hand up to cradle your cheek.

“Well I’m here now” he murmured, thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped from your eyes. “All of me. Let me make it up to you.”

You searched his face—the sincerity in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled slightly against your skin. Two years of anger and loneliness warred with the part of you that never stopped loving him.

Chan held perfectly still, letting you look your fill, letting you decide. The music from inside faded into background noise.

When you finally leaned in, his sharp intake of breath was the last thing you heard before his lips met yours.

A/N: omg I’m sweating, this is not for the easy lol. If you see any mistakes please let me know!❤️

[cherry-coffees]

Hiiii pookie!!!!

May I request this tiktok but it's Caitlyn kiramman x reader🙏

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSr7QohfN/

post-s2 Caitlyn x reader, 18+ mdni ♡

"Caitlyn?"

Her father's voice rings throughout the Kiramman Manor. Tobias is downstairs in the kitchen, finishing up dinner so the three of you can eat together. After the war had ended, in spite of his grieving of Caitlyn's deceased mother, he had made a vow to be present for his daughter. Thus, he had resolved to make dinner for her and, by extension, you at least once a week.

There's just one problem with this. That being: your girlfriend is super fucking horny.

Currently, Caitlyn has you pressed up against the wall nearest her bedroom door, devouring you like she'll starve if she doesn't. Her lips barely leave yours for more than a few seconds, addicted to the deep kisses you're sharing. Her tongue licks into your mouth to intertwine with yours — not caring if it's messy so long as she thoroughly claims what's hers.

"Cait," you force your mouth away from hers, dropping your head back against the wall as you gasp for air. "We can't. We have to go eat, and—"

"Oh I'm definitely going to eat something," Caitlyn murmurs, unbothered by your protests as she traces hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. She relishes in the whine you let out when she suddenly bites down, her teeth gently scraping over your skin before her tongue soothes the sting. You'll be going down to dinner with a prominent, reddening mark on your neck.

Caitlyn likes to think it's just evidence of her love. She's quite possessive of what's hers, especially when it comes to her girlfriend.

Her fingers easily slip beneath your skirt, the one you had worn just for her. Had you been hoping for your girlfriend to lose it at the sight of you and fuck you into the next century? Maybe. But Caitlyn is perceptive, and she knows you well enough to realize that was your goal all along.

"Nuh-uh." Her fingers caress the apex of your thighs, toying with the hem of your panties before slipping underneath them. "No complaining. You asked for this, darling. I don't want to hear it."

"Caitlyn?" Tobias' voice sounds again, a bit closer in proximity this time. Caitlyn curses under her breath, but you can't do anything but whine as her deft fingers slip through the wetness coating your core.

She hesitates only for a moment before pulling her fingers away from you — much to your dismay — to clamp her hand over your mouth and use the other to open her bedroom door. She pokes her head out just enough to make eye contact with her father. "Yes?" Caitlyn blinks, perfectly poised and composed as always.

"Are you alright? I thought I heard a thump," Tobias asks, and although you can't see him, you can hear the concern in his tone.

"Everything's fine," Caitlyn assures, and gods, you're so impatient. You wish she would hurry up so that you can have her fingers in more pleasurable places. "We'll be down in a few minutes."

You don't hear the first part of her father's response, so you assume he nods. "I'll call you when dinner's ready," Tobias' voice echoes from further down the hall now.

"Okay," Caitlyn agrees, and you barely have time to register that you're safe before she closes the door and is upon you in an instant. Her hand slips from your face and back between your thighs, her other hand tilting your head up to kiss you again.

Your whimpers are muffled into her mouth as she slips two fingers inside you, pressing her thumb against your aching clit. Curls them, too, to hit the spot inside you that makes you writhe. "Now," Caitlyn breathes in between kisses, pure need evident in her voice. "Where were we?"

Idk if I did this justice but this is what I thought of while watching that TikTok ;)

Ty for the request pookie, this was fun to write

~Cherry 🍒

[thedeadstoryteller1]

𝑇𝘩𝑒 𝑆𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝐼 𝐶𝘩𝑜𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝐹𝑜𝑟 𝑌𝑜𝑢 | 𝑍𝑎𝑦𝑛𝑒 𝑥 𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑁𝑆𝐹𝑊

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: A lifetime of longing. A priest bound by vows he can no longer keep. You and Zayne were childhood sweethearts who never dared to confess. When he chose the priesthood, you thought it meant he didn't love you. Years later, that forbidden love still burns between you. Haunted by dreams of a different life. Zayne finally breaks. One night, over the flicker of a candle and a shared dinner, he surrenders to the love he can no longer deny.

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: Priest, Virginity Loss, Love Confession, Religious Innuendoes, Angst With Happy Ending, Slow Burn, Forbidden Love. Mention of self harm/ self- flagellation. Please just skip if you’re not comfy with this. No need for hate and arguments.

𝐴𝑟𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑡: PoppyDropplet on X. This is MY personal commission from Poppy. I have my version of this masterpiece without the watermark or censor ( I personally put that there) PLEASE! Go follow Poppy she is amazing and sweet and deserves more recognition for her amazing work.

𝑇𝑎𝑔𝑠: @cordidy

𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝐶𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 4538

"Good afternoon, Father," you say as you spot him sitting on the church bench, peeling an apple with careful, almost reverent precision.

He looks up at the sound of your voice, his hazel-green eyes softening instantly. A small, warm smile touches his lips—the kind that always made your heart ache even back then. The simple black of his cassock makes his shoulders look broader, his hands somehow rougher and more earthly than ever before.

"Good afternoon, little dove," Zayne replies, the nickname slipping past his lips like a prayer he couldn't suppress.

You shift awkwardly, feeling the way his gaze lingers on you just a beat too long before he returns it to the apple in his hand. You sit down beside him without thinking, breathing in the faint scent of the old wood, candle wax... and him. Always him.

"Still the best at peeling them," you murmur, teasing, trying to keep it light, but your voice betrays you—it’s too soft, too full of unspoken things.

He chuckles under his breath, a low, rich sound that vibrates through your chest. "Old habits die hard." He finishes the apple and offers you a piece, holding it out between two fingers. His skin brushes yours as you take it.

The touch burns. So does the memory of every dream you've had of him—hands gripping your hips, breathless prayers whispered into the hollow of your throat, his body caging yours against cool church walls.

You quickly look away, cheeks heating. "How have you been?" you ask, voice almost trembling.

Zayne studies you for a moment. Too long. Too deeply. "Restless," he finally admits, so quietly you almost miss it.

You swallow hard. He’s not just talking about sleep. You can see it—feel it—in the way his fingers tighten around the apple, the way his throat moves as he swallows, the way his body shifts slightly toward yours, as if fighting some invisible force to keep from reaching out.

A silence blooms between you, charged and heavy, making the air thick enough to drown in. Your heart is pounding. So is his—you can see it in the pulse beating at his neck.

"Come to dinner tonight," he says suddenly, voice rougher than it should be. "Stay. It's been too long since we've... really talked."

He doesn't mean just talk. You both know it. The fire that's been smoldering for years is ready to burn the whole world down if either of you dares to spark it.

You nod, unable to trust your voice, and he smiles again—this time, something different flickering behind his eyes.

"That sounds like a great idea," you say, clutching your books to your chest, feeling like a girl again—nervous, hopelessly in love.

Zayne smiles—gently, warmly—and your heart leaps painfully against your ribs. That smile was never meant for the masses he served, no. Somehow, it always felt like it was yours.

"Is seven o'clock good for you?" you ask, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks burning.

"That is perfect," he replies, and though his tone is even, his hand twitches where it rests atop the bench, as if he has to physically restrain himself from reaching out and touching you.

You nod, offering a small smile before you hurry down the church aisle, books clutched tighter, feeling his gaze heavy on your back.

Later…

The bells have long stopped chiming by the time Zayne finally moves from that bench. The apple, half-eaten, sits forgotten at his side. His fingers dig into the wood, knuckles white.

"God forgive me..." he thinks, forehead dropping into his hand.

Every night, it gets worse. Every night, when the world grows quiet and the candles gutter low in the church, dreams come and torment him.

Dreams where he's not bound by vows. Dreams where he's not Father Zayne Li, but just Zayne—a man, your man. Dreams where he wakes beside you, tangled in sheets, the taste of your skin on his lips. Where he is your doctor, slipping a ring onto your finger, whispering your name as he presses you down into a mattress and takes you so slowly it borders on worship.

He dreams of a life where he never chose the cloth.

And when he wakes up—aching, sweating, painfully hard—he curls his fists into the thin blanket of his bed and whispers apologies to a God he isn't sure he can face anymore.

He never told you what you meant to him. He never confessed that the day he took his vows, it was your face that nearly made him falter. That he didn't turn to the priesthood because he lacked love—but because he loved too much. Because he was terrified that the depth of what he felt for you would devour him whole. Would make him selfish, make him human.

But now—seeing you again after all these years, the way you smiled at him today, the way your voice quivered when you asked to meet him for dinner—

It is breaking him. Undoing every wall he built with holy hands. And somewhere deep in the marrow of his bones, a voice is whispering: "It was never supposed to be this way. She was always meant to be yours."

Tonight, Zayne knows, something will change. Whether he has the strength to stop it—or the courage to finally give in—he does not know.

All he knows is that when he sees you again, there will be no priestly robes thick enough to hide his hunger.

The clock ticks past seven when you arrive.

The rectory where Father Zayne lives is simple, humble, but filled with a quiet warmth—a single candle burning low on the table, casting golden light across the worn wood and the two places set carefully for dinner.

He’s waiting by the door, dressed plainly now. No cassock tonight—just dark slacks and a simple white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. And it's then that you notice: his forearms, strong and lean... and marked.

Thin, faded scars cross the skin—some so light they are almost invisible unless the candlelight catches them just right, others still angry and pink beneath the surface. You feel your breath catch in your throat at the sight, heart twisting in your chest.

You want to ask. You ache to ask. But the look he gives you, that soft, trembling smile, halts the words on your tongue. There is something private about those scars. Something sacred. And somehow, you already know—they were not given to him by accident. They are deliberate. Chosen.

(You don’t know yet that each one is a punishment he gave himself for every sinful dream, every whispered prayer that ended with your name on his lips instead of God's.)

"You look beautiful," he says, his voice a low murmur, roughened at the edges, like it hurts to even speak the truth.

You flush under his gaze, stepping inside as he quietly shuts the door behind you, the soft click sounding impossibly loud in the heavy silence.

He pulls out a chair for you, the brush of his fingers against your back lingering longer than necessary—hot and grounding.

Dinner is simple—roasted chicken, fresh bread, a little wine—but you hardly taste it. Not with Zayne sitting across from you, stealing glances at you over the rim of his glass, looking like he’s fighting some great war within himself.

Every time your hands brush passing a plate, sparks dance along your skin. And those scars—they keep catching your eye. Each one telling a story you ache to know. Each one a reminder of the depth of his private suffering.

You talk. About small things—weather, memories, the way the town has changed—but every word feels fragile, layered with something much bigger neither of you can say aloud.

Then it happens.

You reach for the wine at the same time he does, your hands colliding—and in your fumbling, the glass tips, spilling a rich red pool onto the tablecloth.

"Oh—I’m so sorry—" you stammer, reaching for the napkin.

But he’s already there. Your hands meet again—and this time, he doesn't pull away.

His fingers wrap around yours, firm, grounding. His thumb brushes your knuckles, slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring the feeling. His head bows slightly, and when his eyes lift to yours—green, burning, broken—your breath catches.

He stands, hand still holding yours, stepping around the table to face you.

Close. Too close.

You can see the tiny pulse jumping in his throat. You can smell the faint trace of soap and candle smoke on his skin. You can feel his struggle pouring off of him like a storm barely held back.

The candle flickers violently as if sensing the crackling air.

"I’m sorry," he breathes, voice rough and low. But the way his hand tightens around yours says he is not sorry at all. Not for this.

You glance at the scars again, unable to help yourself. Your fingers twitch against his. Your heart feels like it might shatter.

"Zayne," you whisper, and his name—his real name, not Father—falls from your lips like a prayer.

And in that fragile, trembling instant, he knows: He cannot fight this anymore. He cannot survive another night of loneliness and bloody repentance when you are right here, alive, breathing, needing him just as much.

He leans in. So slow it nearly kills you. And just before his lips touch yours, he whispers, broken:

"Forgive me," he breathes, the words shattering in the air between you.

And then his lips find yours.

At first, it’s feather-light—almost not a kiss at all, more like a prayer whispered against your mouth. Zayne trembles as if the very act is agony, as if every vow he's ever taken is screaming inside him. But then you whimper—a soft, broken sound—and he shudders violently, losing the fragile grip on his self-control.

The kiss deepens.

He cups your face in his calloused, scarred hands, tilting your head gently but possessively, his thumbs stroking your cheeks as if memorizing the shape of you. His mouth moves over yours, hesitant at first, reverent—then hungrier, hotter, more desperate as the dam inside him finally, finally breaks.

You taste the years he spent denying himself. You taste the endless nights of loneliness, of silent prayers for strength that never came.

One of his hands drops to your waist, pulling you flush against his body—and you feel him: all hard muscle and restrained need, no longer hidden behind robes or titles. He holds you like a drowning man clutching salvation.

When you gasp softly against his mouth, his body jerks as if the sound wounds him—and suddenly his mouth is everywhere: trailing across your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin just below your ear, worshiping the curve of your neck with open-mouthed, panting kisses.

"You don't know..." he rasps between kisses, voice wrecked. "You don't know how long I've wanted... how many nights I've..."

He trails off, groaning deep in his chest, like the words themselves are too dangerous to finish.

You grip his shirt, fisting the soft cotton over his heart, feeling it hammering wildly against your palm. "Then show me," you whisper, your voice trembling with need and certainty. "Don't hold back."

Zayne stiffens—one last flicker of guilt, one last desperate attempt to cling to some shred of his former restraint. But then your hands slip beneath the fabric of his shirt, brushing against his scarred skin—your touch so gentle, so accepting—and he breaks completely.

With a low, tortured sound, he lifts you into his arms, carrying you as if you weigh nothing, as if you are something holy, something he must protect at all costs. He lays you down carefully—reverently—on the small couch by the hearth, the candlelight trembling wildly against the walls.

Hovering over you, he brushes a strand of hair from your face, his eyes searching yours one final time.

"Tell me to stop," he begs, voice wrecked, a man on the edge of ruin. "Tell me... and I will."

But you only reach up and cup his cheek, moving your thumb down to stroke the scar that cuts across the top of his arm—the mark of a thousand nights of punishment for loving you in secret.

"Don't you dare," you whisper fiercely. "Please, Zayne... I've waited for you my whole life."

A strangled sound escapes him—half-sob, half-gasp—and then he’s kissing you again, this time with no hesitation, no fear, no restraint.

Pure, desperate worship.

And you know—you know—there will be no going back.

Tonight, Zayne Li will finally become yours. Body. Heart. Soul.

Every scar. Every sin. Every prayer.

Zayne kisses you like a man starved—like a man who's been drowning in guilt and loneliness, and you've become his first breath of air.

His hands tremble where they frame your face, the calloused pads of his fingers so achingly careful, as if he's terrified he might break you. You can feel the tension thrumming through him—every muscle wound tight, every breath ragged.

He pulls back just slightly, enough to look into your eyes. His own are dark with desire, but beneath that, there’s something even deeper. Something raw and scared and hopeful.

"I've..." he starts, voice hoarse, shame darkening his features, "I've never... with anyone.You're..." He swallows hard, jaw tightening. "You're the only one I've ever wanted."

The admission hangs between you like something fragile and sacred.

You reach up, fingertips brushing along the faint lines of old scars on his arms, your touch so gentle it nearly undoes him.

"Me too," you whisper, voice shaking. "I've been waiting... only for you, Zayne."

A shudder runs through him. You see the way his eyes glisten, how tightly he clenches his jaw to hold back whatever emotion threatens to break loose.

Slowly, as if afraid you'll vanish, he leans down again—pressing his forehead to yours. His breath is hot and uneven against your lips.

"We don't have to rush," he murmurs, voice so tender it shatters your heart. "I would wait a thousand more years for you if you asked me to."

Tears sting your eyes at the purity of it—this man who has fought desire like a war, who bears the scars of his own denial, offering you patience even now.

But you shake your head softly, pulling him closer, pressing your palm against his hammering heart. "I don't want to wait anymore."Your voice is small but sure. "Please... just be mine."

A low, broken sound tears from his throat.

Then, with trembling hands, he begins to undress you.

Not hastily. Not greedily. But with the reverence of a man unwrapping a holy relic.

His fingers are clumsy at first, betraying how nervous he is, how inexperienced. Every button undone, every inch of skin revealed, is met with a hushed kiss, a whispered apology against your burning flesh, as if he fears he's taking too much.

When you're finally bare beneath him, you see the awe in his eyes—like you are something he’s dreamed of but never thought he was worthy to touch.

He shrugs out of his own shirt, and your breath catches again at the sight of him—beautiful, strong, and so human under the candlelight. Scars marring his arms and chest, proof of every night he punished himself for loving you.

You sit up slightly, your hands tracing the old wounds with trembling tenderness. "You don't have to suffer anymore,"you whisper, kissing the worst of the scars. "You're mine now."

Zayne's entire body shudders. His hands cradle your face again as he kisses you—deeper this time, pouring every unspoken word into the way his lips move against yours.

When he finally positions himself over you, he hesitates, forehead pressed to yours, his entire body trembling with restraint.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he begs, voice wrecked, barely coherent. "I don't... I don't know what I'm doing. I just... I love you. I love you so much."

Tears slip down your temples into your hair.

"I love you too," you whisper.

Slowly, with agonizing tenderness, he begins to guide himself inside you.

Zayne is trembling as he positions himself between your thighs, his body towering over yours, hands braced on either side of your head like he’s terrified he might crush you.

Your legs fall open naturally for him, your whole body aching with a need you barely understand but know—feel—was always meant for him.

You feel the heat of him pressing against your entrance—larger, thicker than you expected—and your heart stutters wildly, nerves and desire colliding in a dizzying rush.

"Are you sure?" he rasps, his voice wrecked, almost begging.

"Yes," you breathe, eyes locked to his, wide and glassy. "Zayne... please. I need you."

He lets out a broken sound—almost a sob—and presses forward, the blunt head of him breaching you.

The stretch is sharp at first—your body fighting to take him, unused to anything so big, so intimate.You gasp, a whimper slipping free, your hands instinctively gripping his biceps—feeling them strain under your fingertips as he trembles, fighting every instinct to pull back.

He freezes immediately, forehead dropping to your shoulder, panting harshly.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "I'm hurting you—"

"No," you gasp, tightening your legs around his hips. "Please... don't stop. I want it—I want you."

Zayne groans—a raw, animal sound—and moves a fraction deeper, slow, torturous inches sinking inside you.

The stretch burns, but underneath the sting is a growing fullness, a strange, almost aching sweetness that makes your toes curl. You feel every inch of him as he pushes forward—thick, hot, pulsing inside you. His whole body shakes with the effort it takes to move slowly, to not just take.

Your back arches, head pressing into the cushion, a soft, desperate moan leaving your lips.

"God..." he hisses through gritted teeth. "You’re so... so tight... I can barely—"

He cuts himself off with a strangled sound as he bottoms out, his hips flush against yours.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The sensation of being joined so deeply, so utterly, leaves you both gasping, clinging to each other. You feel the frantic pounding of his heart against your chest, the shuddering of his thighs, the way his entire body strains to hold still, to give you time.

The first few small movements are awkward—halting, unsure—but the friction is unbearable: the delicious drag of him inside you, the way your walls clutch around him instinctively.

You sob his name, the sound raw and broken, and Zayne’s control shatters.

He pulls out almost completely, then pushes back in—deeper this time, harder—making you cry out, your nails raking down his back without thinking.

"Oh—fuck—" he gasps, his voice wrecked, hips snapping forward again, deeper, filling you so completely you feel branded by him.

He moves with desperate, clumsy thrusts, each one a raw confession of how badly he needs you. How long he's waited. How close he is to losing himself.

Your bodies are slick with sweat, tangled together in the dim candlelight, moving in a rhythm as old as time, desperate and messy and real.

You cling to him, legs locking tighter around his hips, meeting every thrust with a helpless, needy roll of your hips. The pressure builds inside you unbearably fast—hot, bright, sharp.

Zayne buries his face in your neck, biting back a groan as he feels your walls tighten around him.

"You're perfect," he pants, thrusting harder now, faster, "so fucking perfect—meant for me—only me—"

The sound of his voice, wrecked and possessive, sends you over the edge.

Your orgasm rips through you violently, your entire body locking up, mouth open in a silent scream, vision white-hot behind your eyelids. You sob his name over and over, shaking under him, clutching him like you're afraid you'll be ripped apart.

Feeling you clench and shatter around him is too much.

Zayne thrusts once, twice more—and then he’s crying out, a raw, desperate sound torn from deep inside him, as he spills inside you, hot and thick, pulsing in waves. His hips stutter against yours, his whole body convulsing as pleasure tears him apart.

He collapses against you, trembling, burying his face in your neck, pressing soft, broken kisses to your skin as he tries to catch his breath.

Your hands roam over him gently, soothing, comforting, whispering his name like a prayer against his temple.

You stay tangled like that for a long time, hearts racing, bodies still joined, the candle flickering low beside you.

And in the quiet that follows, you realize:

This wasn’t just the first time. This was a vow. A claim.

He is yours. You are his.

And nothing—not God, not guilt, not the church—will ever take that away again.

The candle flickers low, the only sound in the room your mingled breathing—still ragged, still trying to find a rhythm after what you just shared.

Zayne doesn’t pull away.

He stays inside you, his arms wrapped tightly around your trembling body, his face buried against your neck. As if letting go would somehow undo what just happened.

You can feel the rapid beat of his heart against your ribs, the way his whole body still shudders in the aftermath. Slowly, his hands begin to move���stroking your back, your hips, your hair—with a tenderness so overwhelming it brings fresh tears to your eyes.

You tilt your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his temple.

"Zayne," you whisper, voice still raw from moaning his name.

He makes a broken sound in the back of his throat and lifts his head, looking at you.

His cheeks are flushed, his eyes glassy, a tear slipping free before he can stop it.

You wipe it away with the pad of your thumb, smiling gently.

For a long moment, you just stare at each other, breathing in the sacredness of it. This moment where you have become each other’s home.

Finally, you reach out—your hand trembling a little—and trace your fingers along one of the faint, silvery scars on his forearm. You feel him flinch, almost imperceptibly.

Your heart twists.

"Zayne," you whisper again, softer now, your thumb sweeping across the marred skin. "These scars... why?"

He freezes, muscles tightening under your touch.

You can see the struggle in his eyes—whether to lie, to protect you from the ugliness, or to be honest.

You cup his cheek, forcing him to meet your gaze.

"Please... tell me."

He exhales shakily, pressing his forehead to yours for a moment before pulling back, shame written in every line of his face.

"They’re... my penance," he says hoarsely. "For every time I thought of you when I shouldn't have. For every dream... every moment I wanted to break my vows and run to you."

You feel your chest tighten painfully.

He laughs bitterly under his breath, a sound full of self-loathing.

"I thought... if I could suffer enough, if I could punish the weakness out of me... maybe I could stop loving you."His hands clenched into fists at your sides, his voice breaking. "But it never worked. It only made me love you more."

Tears spill freely down your cheeks now.

You reach up, cradling his face between your palms.

"Zayne," you whisper fiercely, "You were never weak for loving me. Never. You don't have to suffer anymore."

He shakes his head, as if he can’t believe you, can’t believe he’s allowed to be this selfish.

"You’re the only thing that’s ever felt right," he chokes out. "And I was so afraid... afraid that if I let myself have you, I'd lose everything. But when I look at you... I realize..."

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours again, voice trembling with raw, open need.

"You are my salvation. Not my sin."

A sob escapes your lips and you pull him down into a kiss—slow, aching, full of all the promises you have no words for yet.

He kisses you back with equal desperation, arms tightening around you, pulling you closer until you are tangled so tightly it’s impossible to tell where one of you ends and the other begins.

Eventually, Zayne pulls away just enough to clean you up with shaking, tender hands, murmuring soft apologies and kisses against your skin.

He wraps you both in a blanket, lying back on the worn couch, pulling you onto his chest.

You listen to the steady thud of his heart beneath your ear, your fingers tracing idle shapes over his scarred skin, whispering sweet, broken nothings into the hush of the room.

He holds you as if he’ll never let go again. And you know, deep down, he won't.

The last thing you hear before sleep claims you both, warm and safe and loved, is his voice whispering against your hair:

"I am yours. Always."

The candle finally gutters out, leaving only the soft silver of the moon spilling through the window.

You’re asleep atop him, face tucked into the curve of his neck, your bare body draped over his. Zayne can feel every inch of you, every breath, every tiny shift—and it wrecks him.

He wraps his arms around you even tighter, as if shielding you from the world.

His fingers stroke lazily up and down your spine, comforting himself as much as you. He presses a kiss to your hair, inhaling the sweet scent of you, feeling it brand itself into his very soul.

For a long while, he just holds you.

And then—because you are safe in sleep, because he no longer has the strength to bury it—he begins to whisper.

"I've dreamed about you," he murmurs into your hair, voice rough and trembling. "For so long."

You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft sound escaping your lips, and he smiles—broken, reverent.

"In another life," he breathes, brushing his lips against your temple, "I'm your doctor."His eyes close, the ache in his chest almost unbearable.

"You come to me after work... tired, smiling... you call me ‘Zayne’ without hesitation. You wear my ring."His voice cracks, and he tightens his hold around you.

"In another dream... we're in a little house. Somewhere quiet. You grow herbs in the windowsill. You laugh when I try to cook."A shaky, almost-silent laugh escapes him, the sound wet with emotion.

"I hold you every night. I wake up to you every morning. No vows. No walls between us. Just you and me."

He swallows hard, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in like he needs you to live.

"I used to wake up crying," he admits in a raw whisper. "Because I'd reach out for you... and you weren't there."

A tear slips free, trailing down his cheek and falling into your hair.

"But tonight..." he exhales shakily. "Tonight, you're real. You're mine."

He presses a lingering kiss to your forehead, his heart finally quieting, his soul finally—finally—at peace.

"I don't deserve you," he whispers into the dark. "But I'll spend the rest of my life trying to."

You stir again, nuzzling closer into him instinctively, and he smiles—broken, awed, in love beyond salvation.

He holds you tighter, his last whispered confession sinking into your dreams:

"In every life... I would find you. I would love you. Always."And with that vow wrapped around his soul, Zayne finally lets himself drift into sleep—safe, whole, home.

My wonderful Ferrymen !

Thank you again for reading and supporting me. As of right now I’m sitting at 200+ followers. I NEVER thought my writing was good enough to be shared… but so many of yall enjoy it and I couldn’t be happier 🥹😭

Yes. I AM that girl … I AM a part of the fandom that enjoys the idea of Priest Zayne. I like to think that Zayne, no matter what timeline/ universe he is in he will always have scars. I think that is just what makes his character HIM. I love him so much guys. Like so VERY much. He did come home for the Spring Banner, right after Xavier .. working on Caleb so I can have all three of my fav boys 😭 I accept donations! Haha

Anyways ! Have a wonderful day and PLEASE go show support to Poppy ! She truly is remarkable!

Forever Yours,

~ The DeadStory Teller-

[transboyswitchytales]

Pretty Girl I'll Make You Famous

Maya Mason x Artist Reader

part 1

You are Maya Mason's wife and the head artist of Continental Studio's Animation division. You both haven't told the team that you are married. But the key to Maya's lock hangs around your neck..and that might just be a give away.

My Masterlist of Works

Mommy Kink!/G!PMaya/Impregnation kink/Video Game Discussions

You’d been in this industry for a while now. And you knew how these meetings usually went. But as of April, you’d been promoted. You were now the head artist of Animation for Continental Studios. So far, you have been greenlit for working on a new franchise. They wanted to make a popular video game series into an animated show. So you were sitting on a Tuesday afternoon with your best storyboard artist, Jennifer Kale. And the usual bigwigs: Matt, Sal, Quinn, Patty, and Maya. Of course.

Plus Alice, you’d figured taking Alice Wu-Gulliver would be a good idea. Knowing she could talk shop and not get her feelings hurt in the harsh crowd. While Jen would remain silent and take notes, Alice would politely defuse the conversation. Jennifer definitely could stir the drama, which is why you’d instructed her to be as quiet as she could stand. Which you knew was a losing game.  

Alice and you had spent some time with the storyboard team and made some concept sketches. A few mock posters for God of War, Red Dead, Halo, and Resident Evil. They were currently propped up, and your, Jen, and Alice drawings were spread across the conference table. 

What should have taken two hours was now going on six because none of them could agree on a fucking thing. You desperately wanted a new iced coffee, but you sat next to Alice as the guys paced. Patty was groaning with her feet on the table. Maya was across from you, but she wasn’t looking at the mockup drawings. She was looking at you, and you both knew why. 

Alice was talking to Matt and Sal while you and Maya had a silent debate wordlessly across the table. 

“So you like the God of War idea? Is it the idea of making it into more of an anime style that you don’t like?” Alice asked honestly, it was a good question. Seeing as how they’d been going around and around like school children for hours. 

“I like the anime idea,” Matt says, but then he looks down at a drawing and winces. 

“You keep making that face, what is it?” Quinn asks, and you are thankful for the woman. 

“Is it too hentai?” Matt questions. 

“What is hentai?” Patty says, groaning and pulling her hair in frustration. 

“Oh god.” Maya rolled her eyes, not wanting to explain it. She always knew what was in. 

“Porn.” You say through gritted teeth, surprising Sal in that moment. You’d kept your demeanor neutral for most of the meeting. Besides the communication of micro expressions with Maya. 

“Specificlly asian porn, so you don’t want to make it look like anime? Y/n made mock-ups that aren’t that-” Alice says delicately. 

“Look, I don’t mean to offend you-” Matt says, looking at Alice, and you try not to roll your eyes like Maya. Of course the white guy was saying that to the asian artist in the fucking room. Jen chuckled but didn’t say a word. 

“Not taking it personal-” Alice says, cutting him off before he can actually say something offensive. You decide to stop this before it’s an HR complaint you have to fix, again. 

“Matt, if you don’t want it to look like any kind of anime, we can go back to a more claymation look. 2D vector is in because of Rick and Morty.” You offer, and Maya nods, agreeing with you. Because you two always shared thoughts. 

“3D, 2D, hand-drawn is cool again because of Cuphead,” Alice adds, and you see Maya’s face twitch, she didn’t like the goth artist. Mostly because Alice had asked you out before you were her boss, and you had to tell Maya what happened. You two didn’t do secrets. You’d walked in with hickies the next day that would put a hentai artist to shame. 

“The point is, if you don’t like the more anime style, we can scrap it. No questions asked, we put it in because Netflix and Castlevania, and a bunch of the other ones. Listen, they aren’t producing it, but they’re marketing and distributing it. We just want to make sure our department gives you options. Whatever you guys decide is fine; we haven’t picked a franchise yet. Maybe we start there?” You try to keep it constructive, but Matt is staring at the Resident Evil drawing you’d made of Lady Dimitrescu. The over nine-foot-tall, large-breasted, vampire villain. And you tried to keep your face from looking annoyed at him ignoring you for boobs. Maya eyed you and followed your line of vision to see what was bothering you now. 

“Oh god, Matt put the damn drawing down. Don’t get an errection from a fucking drawing ok?” Maya snapped at the exec, who blushed and put it down. 

“No wait, that’s a good point. Matt, what gave you a boner?” Patty said, and you closed your eyes. You’d known this was going to happen. You’d drawn it, for god's sake, Maya had seen you drawing it. It was around four am, and you had your drawing table at a tilt as you made sure her breasts were proportionate to the video game. Maya had been in a mood since she couldn’t sleep without you next to her after all these years. But she’d seen you drawing and teased you about your concentration, until she saw what you were drawing, and her jealousy flared. She realized you’d not been in bed with your wife and instead been drawing boobs. So Maya took her top off to show you real boobs and fucked you against the drawing to prove that a vampire had nothing on her. 

Looking up at your wife in the conference room, she arched an eyebrow, her lips pursing a bit. You couldn’t talk to her about this even silently right now. 

Turning back to Patty and trying to tune back into the debate. 

“It has sex appeal.” Sal and Patty were, of course, on the same page. Quinn was looking at the drawing now, and she seemed to be having a sexual awakening. Maybe she’d finally figured out she was gay. Both you and Maya had been taking bets on how long it would take. 

Alice was explaining ‘The Village’ to the group. You took off your leather jacket and took a hair tie to tie up your long hair. As you stood and riffled through paperwork. You realized people were staring at you. Not just Maya, that was normal, but you realized men were looking. You turned to see Matt and Sal staring at your cleavage as you wore a low-cut shirt that was Maya’s today. 

But then you realized Patty was staring too, and she hadn’t been queer since the 80’s so something was up. Turning to Alice, who was looking too you realized that they were looking at your necklace. 

“Is that a key?” Sal asked as he had no ability to hold a thought in. 

“What?” You said trying to catch up with what they were curious about. 

You look over at Maya, who is smirking. Your eyes go down to her lock, the one around her neck. And then you realize, usually your chain is longer, more hidden, but it had broken during sex this morning. So Maya had grabbed a simple chain from her jewelry box. Then you’d moved the key that went to her lock onto it. 

“Oh…” You look down, realizing it’s visible and dangling from your neck. As you are hunched over the table.

“What’s the key go to?” Matt chuckled, and then Patty eyed Maya. 

“What’s your last name? Everyone calls you the what is it?” Patty snaps her fingers trying to remember. Quinn nods, trying to remember too and Alice winces at the names. She knew what people called her boss. But Maya licked her lips. Jen tensened next to Alice. 

“Yeah, before you got the promotion, they called you Walt’s Monster or the Reckless Rembrandt, and the Deviant of Da Vinci,” Sal said, and your fingers twitched. You knew what they’d called you. You were cutthroat, and you weren’t embarrassed. Maya and you both weren’t afraid of being crazy. You’d once set fire to an animator's desk because he wouldn’t listen to you. And he kept drawing dicks ontop of one of the queer interns illustrations. You felt for the young queer artists, poor Billly. You’d given Billy the assholes job, and you’d made an HR complaint against yourself.

 One of many…Because you’d set said assholes desk on fire. You’d taught everyone quickly that bullying wouldn’t be tolerated at your animation house. 

But you were feared in the Studio, and you didn’t mind. Maya was feared even more, and you two were a perfect match. Matching each other's freak, but you also were safety for each other. 

Nothing was embarrassing or too much in your house. Neither of you ever judged the other. Not for weird spirits of anger or workaholic-like tendencies. You had rules in your house about bedtime and self-care. But Maya knew what it took for an illustrator to make it. And you understood she was the thing between a movie that made it and a movie that tanked. And that was a lot on anyone's shoulders. 

But you’d found a home in each other long ago. Before you’d even worked for Maya’s studio. 

“Let’s stay on topic.” You interjected through clenched jaw, and Maya just tilted her head at you. You’d both made it a point to not mention that you were married. You’d been worried that people with think that Maya favored your projects because you were her wife. But you didn’t try to hide it that much. Your last name was Mason. But no one called you that; everyone just knew the nicknames. 

Maya laughs because she’d planned this. You see that now. She’d been getting annoyed at your desire to not tell people you were married to each other. The two of you had argued about it last weekend. 

“We aren’t teenagers. Baby, I don’t like that they don’t know you're mine!”

Maya complained having just got off the phone with her assistant. It was very late. She was in her bra and boxers and you were in her pajama pants and sports bra. Both of you were seated in the theater room. A long L shaped sofa that you were laying on as she paced. Her acrylic nails were perfect as she threw her hands in the air. 

You had your large iPad on your lap with your Apple Pencil between your lips. You don’t know what the silly assistant had said, but it had pissed off your wife. Because you were drawing and tuning them out, and now the veins were popping from Maya’s forehead. 

You rubbed your temples and took the pencil out of your mouth to respond. 

“Maya, I am yours. We know that. I wear my wedding ring to work every day! I’m not exactly hiding you in a closet!” You knew you shouldn’t have met her anger with irritation. 

“Alice didn’t seem to notice your wedding ring.”

You roll your eyes at her and she growls.

“You know I shut that down. She’s also one of my best concept and sketch artists. I’m not going to-“

“Mentioning it to HR, protects you both!” 

You’d told her you weren’t going to HR because of a harmless, casual ask-out. Alice wasn’t a perv who couldn’t take no for an answer. You’d told her you were married, and she’d apologized. That was that. You’d know if you’d taken her to HR, that would mean Maya could pull her file and make life hell for the poor artist. She’d even blacklist her if Maya wanted.

“Baby-“

“We were talking about trying for a kid! What happens when you are pregnant? I’m not allowed to bring you lunch? Can’t have lunch with my wife?!”

You knew now that Maya was upset yes, but she was scared. Something that you didn’t see from your wife often. You try to ground her in facts. 

“Maya you bring me coffee and lunch now! Why would that change?” You say more patient then before. 

“So the studio thinks your husband got you pregnant? That you are straight?” Maya sneers and she looks at the large projector screen. You’d put on ‘The Visit’ which had been a fun pick. Maya had not seen it yet, but you didn’t miss a Kathryn Hahn film.

 It was the scene where the grandma is getting the young girl to crawl into the oven. Maya looks momentarily distracted but you knew better. She grabs the remote and pauses it. Which you take to mean she is actually enjoying the film enough to not want to miss it. 

“No one thinks I’m straight at work.” You tell her and she plops down onto the sofa next to you. She grabs your knees and pulls you into her lap. You are all too happy to sit on Maya’s lap. 

“I know you just got that promotion. I’m so proud of you darling. We aren’t on different levels now-” Maya tries to reason with you.

“Say that to my paycheck, Mama still makes a lot more than me.” You tease and smile and Maya doesn’t fall for the distraction. 

“You are my wife. I heard my assistant talking with Matt, who was asking Patty if you were single. No one is paying attention to your wedding ring, which is rude since I spent so long picking it. Now I’m tired of this. I want to have your pussy in my mouth in the office. And I want people to get scared when they’re rude to you, because they know your Mommy will skin them alive.” Maya smirks at her sinister thoughts, and you kiss her. She moans as your tongue seeks hers. You start to make out, and it does distract her this time. Maya’s need to possess you, be inside you, it’s just too much. 

You’d been an idiot to think that was the end of the conversation. Now looking at Maya with a gleam in her eye and her hair cascading down her gorgeous back that you’d scratched up this morning. You realize she’d planned all of this. 

“No I really don’t remember her last name!” Patty said annoyed, not one to be distracted like your wife by your breasts. 

“Boss?” Jennifer asks her eyebrows knit in confusion on what to do. Jennifer tended to defend you in the workplace. Which was sweet but not needed. Jen told the men in the office that if you’d been a guy, they wouldn’t have given you such nicknames or questioned your authority. They’d all see you for the talented artist and the sharp business mind you were. You’d fucking studied animation at CalArts. You’d undergrad at the Rhode Island School of Design. 

You were a triple threat with illustration. You could paint, animate, concept art, story board, block a fucking scene. You knew so much about special effects that Maya when you first started dating would call you and send you top secret scenes to make sure they didn’t look stupid. You’d helped her, free of charge of course. But somehow Maya always paid you for your work, in fancy dinners, in weekends away, in new art equipment, even in hours of her between your thighs. Maya always liked treating her favorite artist. 

“It’s fine Jen, my last name is Mason.” You don’t look at Maya but you turn to Patty and tilt your head much like your wife does. You roll your tongue over your front teeth. 

“Shit. Fucking..oh shit.” Sal says, and his eyes look at your wife. 

Patty starts to laugh so hard you think she might have broken. Quinn’s mind can’t seem to catch up to how you both are gay and married, and successful. 

“Oh my god.” Alice whispers looking down at her lap as if she’s about to totally be fired. 

“It’s fine Alice.” You whisper to her and she looks like she doesn’t believe you for a second. So Jen pats her shoulder to comfort the poor artist. Jen wasn’t shocked as she’d worked for you before.

“Woah that’s crazy coincidence! Unless, are you guys like related though, like cousins?” Matt says over Pattys laughter. And Sal looks like he’s gonna combust at Matt’s dumb ass. 

“Would she be wearing the key to Maya’s lock if they were cousins Mathew? It’s a fucking kinky thing idiot.” Sal whisper screams at him. You force a smile at the head of the studio. 

“Oh my god.” Matt’s mind is starting to catch up and it’s hilarious. Meanwhile Maya just looks like the king of the table. She’s smiling broadly like she’s won the lotto. She’s made everyone uncomfortable and the cat is out of the bag. 

Patty finally stands up to stop laughing as she goes over to find the booze and she pours three whiskeys. 

“Isn’t it a little early to be-” Quinn says not liking that Patty was drinking in a meeting. But Patty holds the tops of the three glasses pinching them to carry them and the bottle. She pushes one towards Matt. But Sal takes it instead and downs it. Then she walks over to Maya. 

“Mozel Tov.” She says and hands Maya a drink. Maya clicks her glass against Patty’s and the two down their drinks. 

“Boss?” Jennifer asks again unsure of how to defend you. You’d not needed her defending. But you’d hired Jen when she was like twenty two out of art school. And she’d followed you to the studio. So you knew Kale was ready to walk out if you were. 

“Relax Kale, no one’s in trouble. And we are making the Resident Evil and God of War animated films. Matt they’re brilliant and my wife will need a full budget. She’s already got the story board mostly complete but I’m sure Maximoff got a script already, right Babe?” Maya looks at you now and you roll your eyes and nod. Wanda had been your friend for a long time and you two had already been working on stories. The two of you could make anything fantastic together. 

“Sounds good to me Matt.” Patty agrees and refills Maya and her own glass. 

“So vampires?” Sal asks and Matt is still reeling, his eyes are huge and you don’t know if he can even hear the room anymore. You look over at Alice but she’s gawking at Maya with so much fear. So you turn to Jen to back you and she doesn’t need to be told twice. 

“Vampires are part of it, but not all of it. It’s supernatural beings meets Daddy Daughter day. Think The Last of Us kind of a thing.” Jen tells the team and you wish you’d let her talk instead of Alice now. She’d been solid at pitching ideas in the animators room. But she’d not liked white dudes in power, and you couldn’t blame her.

“God of War should be a different type of animation. So people don’t think we’re just re-doing the last thing.” Quinn says and Maya looks ready to tell her she’s an idiot. 

“We could do the anime style for Resident Evil, because the sex appeal. Then we’ll make more of a Marvel comic look for God of War. Lots of blood in both but different amount of visual carnage.” You instruct. 

“I like it, like Kill Bill animation scene?” Matt says finally looking at you. 

“Exactly.” You agree with him, and he smiles. Patty leans down to pour more alcohol into his and Sal’s cup. Like they’d earned it this time. Sal let’s Matt drink this time. 

“So manga style for Resident Evil and God of War get’s comic book. Do we lean more towards Deadpool type of humor?” Jen asks and she’s not looking at the room but writing things down. 

“No, it’s not gonna sell as well. Keep the Last of Us idea for both. Make it heartfelt but gory and marketable.” Maya says and she sips at her drink. 

“Does Hr?” Quinn starts asking Maya who holds up her hand. 

“We’re married, and I didn’t hire my girl. The Studio knew the Deviant of Da Vinci was the best fit. I didn’t do a thing. So there will be no complaints or silly favoritism.”

It was a half-truth, Maya was always doing something behind the scenes. But your portfolio got you the job. As for the raise and promotion you weren’t a hundred percent sure she didn’t do something. But Maya kept talking firmly with the class. 

“Mrs. Mason got here because she’s the best. My wife also saved our last animated film. Which I was able to market and profit the studio two billion dollars. So does anyone want to complain?” Maya asked and the look in her eyes was enough to make the grown men feel scared. 

“Let’s just focus on the films. I’ll have Wanda send over her script for Resident Evil. I’ve got Romanoff and Barton ready to write for God of War. Does anyone have anyone else they want to throw in the ring?” You ask and Patty drinks before shaking her head in surprise. 

“You got Wanda Inc and R&B Productions in your back pocket? Matt your head animator needs a fucking raise. Besides if you piss her of she’ll set the place on fire and then Maya will kill you with her bare hands. Da Vinci, honey, you just email me when you've got them all lined up. I’ll come over and produce. Not that it seems like you need any help. We always knew whoever Maya ended up with would be a firecracker.”

“More like a pitbull.” Quinn murmured and you turned and glared at her. She seems a bit scared of you and her eyes went down to her notes. 

“Natasha won’t work with us.” Sal said and he took the glass from Matt and drank the last of his whiskey. 

“Why not?” Patty angrily snapped at him.

“Because someone tried to hit on her at a Cat Blanchet party and now she thinks our studio is the plague.” Matt said staring at Sal and everyone knew exactly what happened. 

“She’ll work with me. Just keep Sal out of the studio when she’s on my side of the lot.” You said confidently and Maya grinned at you. She’d been telling you that the Animation building was ‘yours.’ And now in front of Matt you were owning it. And she couldn’t be more proud. 

“We can do that.” Matt said and he grabbed the Resident Evil drawing you’d done of Ethan Winters. “Do we really want him to be white?”

This made another four hours of discussion over voice actors. 

_________________

When the meeting was finally over, Matt offered to take everyone out to dinner. You turned to Maya, who didn’t look like she felt anyway about it. But you two spoke a different language for each other. So when you finished your silent discussion, you turned to Matt.

“Sorry Mr. Remick, I need to start illustrations for the first teaser-” He shook his head at you not taking no for an answer.

All of you were walking out of the conference room and you cursed yourself for being friendly. 

“It’s Matt! And no way, we’ve never gone drinking together! And with your promotion we gotta celebrate! Right Patty!”  He said as you guys walked out the front door in a group. Jen shook her head and you touched her shoulder to bring her to the side. Jen had the big mock ups under her arm and she’d have to bring them back to work tomorrow. 

“Bye girl, I’m going the fuck home,” Jen said as Patty, Sal, and Matt bickered about restaurants. 

“See you tomorrow. Drive safe, Kale.” You tell her, and she smiles at you.

“Good job today Boss. Two feature films, our old boss could never have gotten them to do one. Continental is about to get rocked by it’s illustrators!” Jennifer shouts at you before she crosses the studio to her side of the parkinglot. Alice waits until Jen is away to ask you something.

“Do I still have a job?”

“Oh my god Alice, yes. I can’t do these films without you-”

“Yeah you could, you could totally Miyazaki the shit out of this. But is Maya gonna let me stay?” Alice asks just as you feel your wife coming over to you. Her hand grabs your ass and you know she’s not a fan of you alone with your flirty animator. So her possessive hand holds your right asscheek to remind everyone on the lot what happens in your bedroom.

“Yes, you have a job. Do not worry. Go get some rest. Early start tomorrow with Wanda, ok?” You tell her and she smiles more reassured and eyes Maya before waving goodbye to you both and running after Jen. You hoped the two of them would get drunk and date each other already.

“You sure know how to manage your minions, Baby,” Maya whispers before her body is flush with yours. One hand coming around your hips. You are holding the file with all the drawings from today. You ignored her compliment and closed your eyes, letting your head fall back onto her shoulder. Her long, dark hair tickling your ear. Before you straightened back up remembering what the three of them were talking about behind you. Maya made a noise of irritation at you moving away from her shoulder. She liked how cuddly you were, she demanded PDA. And now you had no reason not to touch each other at work. 

But you broke her pout with your own. 

“Please tell me we aren’t going to get drinks with Matt and the gang.” You didn’t turn to look at her as she kissed behind your ear. You felt the last traces of her lipstick against your skin. 

“I already told you my thoughts, and you read me better than anyone.” She teases and you knew from before she didn’t want to hang out with them tonight. Maya usually bitched about Matt and Sal after work for twenty minutes each night before she sighed and said ‘ok enough of them, give Mama a kiss’ and you guys continued your night without their names. 

“Ok, we settled on a nightclub!” Matt says coming over to you both. You try to hold your grimace but Maya’s hand on your ass squeezes and you know she is aware of your displeasure. The two of you tolerated clubs but neither of you were in your twenties anymore. Clubs weren’t so much fun when you had things like responsibilities and mortgages. 

“I’m taking my wife home Matt. You guys have fun.” Maya says and it’s stern and leaves no room for arguing but Quinn comes around with her iphone. And she’s typing and looking up to Sal. 

“We have to go! We all have to go! It’s bonding!” She squeals, and you take a half step back towards Maya’s side, and she knows what that means. You feel anxious, and it’s her job to get you out. She’d appointed herself your protector in all things. 

“We are leaving, see ya tomorrow!” Maya turns you around and she flips her long hair over her shoulder. 

“We need to go by your office and get your stuff?” You ask Maya and she shakes her head. She pulled the keys to her car out of her pocket. 

“Nah, Baby, it can all wait until tomorrow. Straight home or do you wanna get Indian on the way?” She asked, and your mood shifted and you beamed at her. Maya always knew what to say. 

“Indian, you’ll even let me get it super spicy?”

“Whatever my little artist wants, she gets.” Maya teased and you rolled your eyes at her. But she came around to the front of the executive's lot, where she had one of the best parking spots. 

Opening the passenger side you threw your art in the back like it didn’t matter, and her eyebrows furrowed. But Maya closed the car door. You let your head lean back against the sports car's headrest. Maya has a few cars, but you never cared much about vehicles. But she’s got a big Hummer, a SUV, and this little red Bugatti Chiron. 

It’s got a gorgeous interior and it costs 3.5 million. You had been shocked when she’d brought it home. You both usually talked about big purchases. 

But that was when Maya had been promoted and made the big bucks. So you’d let her celebrate and she’d fucked you inside and on the hood to christen it. 

You close your eyes and try to box breathe through the anxiety, and Maya opens her side and she goes over to your thrown art. You hear papers moving, and you open one eye, confused. But Maya is collecting all of you and your team's drawings and putting them back into the folder carefully. 

“What are you doing?” You finally ask and she’s put the drawing on the back seat now that they weren’t wrecked all over. “Were you mad I made a mess in your pretty car?” You tease. 

She snorts at you.

“No, I just don’t like the idea that my wife’s drawings are crumpled in a pile like they aren’t stunning. Like she didn’t spend a week preparing for that meeting.”

“Maya..” You say like she’s the sweetest, and her face softens, and she leans over and pecks your lips.  

“Your art matters to me.”

“You mean because it’s gonna make you a bunch of money and you can buy a Bugatti in blue this time?”

Now Maya throws her head back and laughs. 

“No, but that’s not untrue. I cared about your art long before it made Mama any money baby. You have more talent in your pinky finger than every soul combined in this whole lot.” She says starting her car like it’s just a fact she says everyday and no big deal. You grab her strong bicep and she turns to you. 

“You actually believe that?”

“Of course I do. And you should too if you know what’s good for you.” Your wife says, and then the Bugatti is revved and she burns rubber as she speeds off the lot. 

_______

After you put the order in on your phone, the two of you picked up dinner. You are stuck in traffic now with everyone else in LA. And you groan before grabbing your phone and start checking work emails. Maya has at one point pulled her sunglasses on, and she’s looking at you and not at the road. 

You know Maya, you’d been married for thirteen years now going on fourteen and you’d both never stopped fucking. So you didn’t need to see her eyes, or an inch of her face to know what she was thinking. 

“Whatever your cock wants right now it’s gonna have to wait until we get home.” You say as you write an email back to Natasha about how the meeting went and what the story elements she wants to incorporate. 

It’s not the first film you're going to work on. You figured you’d break your team in half, one side for Jen and one for Alice. You’d have Jen focus on God of War because the comic was more her speed. Alice obviously like you, enjoyed more supernatural animes, and she’d rather work on Resident Evil. Also, Alice played more video games in general so she’d be good on both. So maybe you should need to make her go on both projects and then mayb-

“Darling, stop it.” You looked up to see you were still sitting in traffic, you turned to Maya who had lifted up her sunglasses and was looking at you like she’d caught you doing something naughty. 

“What? Is there something on my face? Is it pen again, and you are just now telling me?” You wipe at your nose. You always had pencil or charcoal on your nose. You’d been worse with paint during college. Maya always found it adorable and you knew sometimes she didn’t even tell you, just liked to watch you. 

“No, you don’t have anything on your face. You are ignoring your wife though. You are sitting there thinking of how you want to divy up your team. Your answering emails and I need your full attention.”

“You aren’t getting head while we are on the 405 again. You are going to wait until we get home and then you can fuck my throat until the cows come home.” You tell her putting your phone down.

“That’s a visual, what a dirty girl I stole. No, I’m talking about how I’ve been talking to you for the past six minutes and you haven’t listened to a word of it! If we were just now dating I’d be offended. But since we’re married, I know where you sleep. I’ll just get my revenge when you least expect it.” She smirks, showing her teeth now. 

“Maya Mason, I apologize for being such a bad wife. What were you wanting to talk about?”

“This week, I was thinking we should have you stop taking birth control. I can call tomorrow and get you in with your OBGYN. I’ll have my assistant clear whatever day you want this week, and we’ll go together. That’s what I was talking about.” Maya wiggled her eyebrows, and it had the effect she wanted as you laughed. But then you did what she didn’t want and you shook your head. And she groaned in clear upset. 

“My love, we talked about this. I just got promoted, we need to wait a few years. Let me make a few billion for the studio and have job security-”

“You already have job security because I’ll never let them get rid of you!” Maya says offended that you thought she’d let something so stupid happen at her studio. To you of all people!

“And then once everything's running smoothly, we will take the IUD out. I promise, then you can get me pregnant as many times as you want.” You say, and you see Maya is annoyed and also delighted all at the same time. Before she speaks again. 

“Ok, first off, nothing in the studio will ever run smoothly. That’s just showbiz, my girl. Secondly, you are saying I get to pick now how many kids we have?”

“We can compromise, I get to say when and you get to say how many, how about that?” You knew Maya was a business girl down to her bones, and she thought for a minute. 

“I am gonna draw up a contract tonight.” 

You laugh at her in shock. Your eyebrows went high up your forehead.

“Will this be as legally binding as the key and lock situation we have?” You tease and Maya bites her lip and you can see she’s excited. 

“You are going to regret your terms now, baby girl.”

“Oh my god Maya how many do you want!”

“I’m thinking eight.”

“NO WAY! YOU want my vagina to be as congestied as the 405! Your dick will never be snug inside me again! It’ll be a hot dog in a hallway situation!”

“You are unbelievably tight already, and I’m not worried about it. I want eight kids running around who look like you and swear like me. You already said I could have as many as I want, you fucking blew it superstar. I gotta teach you how to negotiate again.” Maya laughs, and the traffic is moving now. 

“Is it too late to get a divorce?” You tease, but you see Maya’s lip twitch. She didn’t like joking about divorce and you knew that. She’d never been divorced, never had kids, and she never wanted either. Not until she’d met you. 

“Baby.” She said and you slide over and kiss her jaw. 

“Sorry Mommy. That wasn’t very nice. Can I make it up to you?” You ask and your hand is on her thigh. It moves up her tight pants and you don’t have to travel far to feel her cock twitch under your hand. 

“You know I don’t like it when you say the D word.” Maya whispers and you know she’s not happy. 

“You know I’d never. Let me make it up to you? Let me taste you?” You say and you kiss the side of her mouth and you feel her cock harden under your touch. Blood pumping to her shaft and out of her head. And you have Maya Mason wrapped around your finger. You have the key to her heart. 

To be continued..