#this post was just already too picture heavy

[kingofbodyrolls]

Stuck in a Cave (m) | pjm

Trapped in a snowbound cave over the Christmas holidays with your long-time rival, Park Jimin, you're forced to face the simmering feelings you've both been burying beneath layers of denial. As the cold closes in, unspoken desires begin to thaw, setting your hearts ablaze in a season meant for warmth and wonder.

→ Pairing: jimin x reader (female) → AUs: christmas!au, holiday!au → Trope: enemies to lovers → Genres: fluff / smut / comedy / forced proximity → Rating: mature/explicit/R18  (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 9k → Warnings + triggers: unprotected sex in the form of oral (female and male receiving), fingering, breast play, nipple play, dry humping, kissing, creampie, squirting, biting, slapping, multiple orgasms, a little bit exhibitionism, avalanche and being buried in the snow. → Author’s note: I KNOW, I KNOW—I totally said the last one was the last one, but surprise! Here we are again! 😂 Look, I’m not even gonna jinx it by saying this is the actual last one, because let’s be real, who knows? Maybe this hilariously chaotic couple will spark something in me again when I least expect it. But, uh… don’t place any bets on it, okay? I actually wrote this back in November (along with all my December posts—productive queen energy, am I right?). As for when I’ll write again? TBD! But in the meantime, I really, really hope you enjoy this little gem 🫶✨ → Read the spoiler? [group chat texts]  → Read on AO3? [link] 

[s.masterlist] → this is part of a mini series ‘The Winter Collection’, but it can be read as a stand alone (as can all the installments in the series).

“Tell me again why we’re trudging up these stupid mountains?” you groan, each step heavy with snow and the weight of too many unspoken things. Your boots feel like lead, sinking deeper into the cold ground, and the cabin—warm, distant, almost mythical now—is but a tiny speck on the white horizon.

“Because we can’t just hibernate in that cabin all day,” Jungkook sing-songs, absurdly gleeful, his cheeks flushed pink by the crisp air, his laugh echoing against the snow-covered pines. You try not to roll your eyes, picturing instead the warm glow of the fireplace, the flickering shadows, and your room… the one you share with Jimin. You chase away that thought, try to ignore how close he walks ahead of you, his snowsuit doing nothing to hide that damned perky ass. The world is a cruel place, you sigh. 

If only your heart hadn’t shifted. He’s still your mortal enemy—or so you keep telling yourself. But ever since that night in the cabin, when he stumbled on you tangled in sheets, with your sparkly dildo deep inside your cunt… something different stirred. The hatred’s still there, raw and defiant, but now it’s wrapped in something softer, warmer, and maddeningly confusing.

“Keep up, Y/N, or are those legs of yours already giving out?” Jimin turns, his eyes glinting, tongue poking out in that infuriating way, and a flush creeps up your cheeks. It’s his fucking fault your legs feel like jelly. Him and his insufferable grin, his teasing remarks, and… his stupid, perfect, cock. No, you’re not in love, you tell yourself.

You scoff, forcing a smirk. “Oh, is that a volunteer to carry me the rest of the way?” you toss back. “But then again, I doubt you’re strong enough,” you add, savoring the flare of irritation in his eyes. Your friends, accustomed to this fiery dance between you and Jimin, fall into a knowing silence. They know the drill—the barbs, the heat, the grudging laughter—all too well. They’ve long stopped trying to intervene, though sometimes, in rare moments, you suspect they see right through you both.

Jimin’s gaze sharpens, his smirk dropping. “Oh, we both know I could carry you,” he says, his voice low, “but since you’re such a brat about it, I won’t.”

You cross your arms, fuming like a child denied their favorite toy. “Fine!” you spit, your voice sharper than the biting wind. “I don’t want you touching me anyway!”

Jimin leans in with a wicked grin. “Not what you said last night…” he murmurs, the sing-song lilt in his voice hitting you right in the chest. You hate that he knows how to rile you up, that he says it so casually, right in front of everyone. The knowledge that they all know—their sly looks, the teasing remarks, even Seokjin’s smirk as he tossed you a pre-packed box of condoms when you arrived at the stupid cabin. Namjoon’s knowing grin, Taehyung’s shoulder-pat for Jimin, Yoongi’s dry threat to make your lives hell if you wake him up again…

Yes, they’re a chaotic bunch, your friends. And Jimin? He’s chaos itself.

Snowflakes begin to fall, delicate and silent, each one like a whispered secret from the heavens. They drift lazily at first, dancing on the wind before settling on your outstretched palm. You pull off your glove and catch one, marveling at its intricate beauty before it melts against your warm skin, leaving only a glistening trace.

“Let’s keep moving—we’re getting to the top,” Jungkook calls out, his eyes bright with the thrill of the climb. Yoongi only grunts, casting a longing glance back toward where the cabin lies hidden, nestled far below. You can almost read his mind; he’d probably be back there with you now if it weren’t for Jungkook’s threat to cut the cabin heat unless every last one of you joined him on this “bonding adventure.” What a tyrant, you think with a wry smile.

“The top?” you nearly yell, unable to believe his determination. Your legs ache, every muscle weighed down by the stiff bulk of your snowsuit. Sure, it keeps the cold at bay, but you feel like you’re dragging half the mountain with you. And to think—once you reach the summit, you’ll have to make the long descent all over again. You didn’t pack for this kind of endurance test; a few snacks, a water bottle, and a first aid kit are all that line the bottom of your backpack.

“We’ve been going since dawn! We started before the sun was even up,” you pant, each breath puffing out in frosty clouds.

Jungkook just grins, a giddy light in his eyes. “But wasn’t the sunrise worth it?” he asks, and you reluctantly admit that he’s right. The first rays of morning had painted the snow in hues of rose and gold, spilling across the horizon and seeping into the untouched drifts like watercolor on silk. It had been beautiful—almost painfully so. But not as beautiful as the warmth of the bed you’d left behind, or the person you’d woken up next to, making you question things you’d rather not dwell on.

As you trudge forward, the landscape transforms around you—trees bowed under the weight of snow, deer darting into the thicket, startled by your approach. Occasionally, you catch sight of dark caverns nestled into the mountainside, and one finally catches your eye. “Can we rest in there?” you ask, pointing.

Jungkook sighs, reluctantly nodding. “Fine, but only long enough for a snack and some water.”

You and Yoongi both exhale in relief, each of you slinging off backpacks as you duck into the small, cold shelter of the cave. Jimin strolls past, tossing a wink your way, and you can’t help but curse inwardly at how infuriatingly good he looks in that white and blue snowsuit, his blonde hair practically glowing against the muted backdrop of snow and rock. No, you tell yourself, forcing your gaze elsewhere. You will not let him get under your skin. Not today.

Inside, you settle on the rocky ground, pulling out a protein bar with trembling fingers, too cold to bother savoring the taste. Outside, the snow has thickened, the wind howling as it funnels through the cave’s mouth, whipping icy tendrils against your skin. You shiver involuntarily, glancing at the darkening sky. The storm clouds gather, swirling overhead, and the wind feels more menacing now, as if urging you back to the cabin’s warmth.

“The weather’s getting worse—don’t you think we should head back?” you ask, casting an uneasy glance at the others, but Jungkook shakes his head resolutely. You can’t fathom his determination, his relentless drive to conquer the mountain as if it’s some mythical prize that only he can claim.

Reluctantly, you pull on your goggles, shielding your eyes against the stinging snow, and follow the group out into the blizzard’s embrace. The world around you is pure white chaos, the snowflakes swirling in a furious dance, but somehow, you keep moving, each step drawing you higher into the snowstorm.

You don’t know how long you’ve been trudging forward, but when you glance back, the cabin is nowhere in sight, swallowed by snow and distance, leaving a hollow ache in your stomach. The snowfall thickens, shrouding the world in a relentless white, pulling you back to memories of the snowstorm you braved with Jimin on the way to Seokjin’s Christmas party. You shake off the thought and face the group, voice firm and brooking no argument. “I can’t see a thing. I’m done—let’s turn back.”

Yoongi sighs with relief, already turning around. “I’m with you,” he mutters, not hiding his frustration.

Jungkook, still a stubborn figure cutting through the snow, scoffs. “What, are we scared now?”

You let your words fly over the whistling wind, fury sparking in your eyes. “Call it scared if you want, but I’m not planning to be buried out here. It’s not safe.”

Namjoon checks his phone, frowning as he reads, “The weather app says a storm’s coming—and it’s not letting up for days.”

A heavy silence falls, filled only by the wailing wind and the cold sting of snow against your face. Another storm. Your heart sinks.

“Told you this was a mistake,” Yoongi grumbles.

Jungkook finally concedes, his tone subdued. “Alright. We’ll head back.” Despite his daredevil spirit, he knows there’s no pushing through this. Relief flows through you at the thought of the warm cabin, the crackling fire, and eggnog shared between friends.

As you start the descent, birds flit across the white-gray sky, a fleeting touch of beauty against the coming storm. But a strange creak rises over the howl of the wind. An uneasy chill runs through you. “Did anyone else hear that?”

“What sound?” Taehyung shouts, eyes squinting as he tries to make out shapes in the swirling snow.

The wind muffles it again, but then—another deep, ominous creak, louder this time. Everyone freezes, and in the silence, you hear it: a faint roar that steadily grows, like a beast roused from its slumber. The snow shifts, and dread settles like lead in your gut.

“Let’s hurry,” you say, voice tense, and everyone quickens their pace. You and Jimin are at the back, struggling against the thickening storm. Then it comes again, an unmistakable, thunderous rumble echoing down the mountainside. You whip around in time to see it: a churning cloud of snow cascading toward you.

“Avalanche!” you scream, panic seizing you as the world erupts into chaos. The group scatters in every direction, shouts lost in the storm, but Jimin’s hand is on yours, firm and unyielding as he drags you down the slope, weaving through trees with urgent speed. The ground trembles underfoot, and you feel the roaring snow closing in, seconds from swallowing you whole. Breath ragged, heart pounding, you realize with icy dread that this might be the end.

But just as the avalanche draws near, a dark shape looms before you—a rocky cave. Jimin pulls you inside, the world plunging into blackness just as the avalanche thunders past, shaking the walls around you. You collapse, gasping, Jimin’s hand steady against your trembling glove covered fingers. Snow clogs the cave entrance, sealing you in darkness, yet somehow his presence keeps you grounded, the steady rhythm of his breath slowing your racing pulse as silence falls once more.

“Jimin?” you whisper into the dark, your voice a soft tremor against the silence.

“Yeah, I’m here,” he replies, though his tone is taut, barely concealing the edge of panic. The tension in his voice mirrors the tightness building in your chest.

“I think… we’re stuck.” The words fall out softly, as if speaking them too loudly might somehow make them more real.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, glancing at the snow-packed entrance, his expression tense and shadowed. “Our way out’s completely blocked.” Slowly, as your eyes adjust, his face emerges from the shadows—concern etched into every line, vulnerability softening the usual spark in his eyes.

“It’s alright. The others will find us soon.” You try to sound confident, to reassure him, even as a chill of doubt creeps through you.

“Maybe,” he says, his voice carrying the barest hint of uncertainty.

A moment of heavy silence passes before you offer, “We could try digging us out. Fresh snow should be lighter, easy enough to move.”

But Jimin just sighs, moving deeper into the cave before sinking down onto the rough, cold ground. “Too tired,” he murmurs, reclining against his backpack and looking up at the darkness above.

You join him with a huff, feeling the exhaustion seep into your bones as you sit beside him. “Yeah, me too.”

He shifts slightly, making room as you slide closer, the cold penetrating even through your thick snowsuit. “Maybe we just… wait,” he suggests, his voice low and resigned, and you nod, grateful just to have him beside you.

In the quiet of the cave, you take out your phone, pull your gloves off, fingers stiff from the cold as you type a quick message to the group chat. Is everyone okay? Can anyone help us get out of this cave? You hit send, hoping the signal reaches, hoping that somehow, somewhere, they’re safe and will see your message.

Time passes, an endless stretch of waiting in the darkness. The cold presses closer, burrowing deep, and you pull your knees up, trying to conserve warmth. “It’s so cold,” you whisper, teeth chattering.

“Yeah,” Jimin murmurs, slipping an arm around your shoulders, drawing you against him. His warmth radiates through the layers of clothing, his breathing soft and steady against your cheek. 

“Thank you,” you murmur, your voice small as you settle against him, aware of his closeness—the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his steady warmth grounding you. 

A silence stretches between you, and for the first time, you notice the delicate details of his face in the dim light. His lips, full and red, look as if he’s been worrying them with his teeth, the faint hint of color a stark contrast to his now pale skin. Your gaze lingers, and your heart skips a beat as he catches you staring.

“Are you okay?” you ask quietly, breaking the silence. His eyes flicker toward you, a breath catching as he seems to consider his answer.

Finally, he exhales softly, the sound barely a sigh. “Why do you hate me?” His voice is unguarded, almost vulnerable, like he’s been carrying the question far too long.

You blink, taken aback by the rawness in his question, and the easy reply slips away. It’s not hate, not really, but how can you tell him that? How do you explain the sharp, confusing tangle of emotions you feel every time you’re near him, the way he gets under your skin in a way no one else does?

You take a slow breath, willing yourself to find the right words in the quiet space between you.

“Jimin, I—” You trail off, the words twisting on your tongue, tangled somewhere between honesty and hesitation. Searching his gaze, you feel an odd, disarming softness in your own. “I don’t hate you,” you say, the admission spilling out quietly, as if confessing to yourself as much as to him.

“But you call me your enemy,” he replies, a sudden edge of hurt threading through his voice, as though you’ve wounded him in some way you hadn’t intended.

“I…” You hesitate. “I do.”

A crease forms between his brows as he looks at you, like he’s trying to decipher a riddle hidden behind your eyes. “I just don’t get it. You say you hate me so much, but you still… you still choose to sleep with me.” He pauses, cheeks tinged with something that might be vulnerability, though his voice stays steady. “And don’t get me wrong—the sex is… incredible. But this,” he gestures between you, “it’s confusing.”

Your pulse quickens, and you nod, feeling the truth slipping closer, almost within reach. “Do you want the truth?” The words are barely a whisper, a question woven through the cool silence between you.

His gaze softens, and he nods, leaning forward. “I’d love for you to tell me the truth. Don’t hide anymore.”

The walls between you feel thin, as if the icy cave itself might crack open under the weight of your confession. With a long, trembling breath, you gather the words from the depths of your chest, feeling each one like a stone in your throat. “I hate you because… because you’re perfect. Everything seems to fall effortlessly into your hands—grades, women, money, opportunities, whatever you want, like it’s just waiting to be handed to you. You’re good-looking, too,” you add, unable to meet his eyes, “and you… act like you know it all, like you’re better than everyone. Like it’s easy to just be good, without ever showing a flaw, a struggle, anything real.”

Jimin’s face is shadowed, yet you see the surprise flicker across it as he absorbs your words.

“It’s irritating,” you continue, emboldened now, “to watch you from a distance, to see you seem so above it all. Would it hurt to be a little human?” You exhale, feeling the tension spill out with each word. “And if I’m being honest, it started long before any of this… since kindergarten, actually.”

A confused frown deepens on his face, and he tilts his head, caramel eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Kindergarten?” he repeats softly. “What did I ever do to you in kindergarten?”

A dry, self-deprecating laugh slips out as you remember the humiliation so clearly etched into your memory. “You stuffed worms in my locker, my shoes, the pockets of my jackets. Then one day, in front of everyone, you pulled my pants down and told everyone I was a boy. I was humiliated… crying… and you laughed like it was nothing.”

Jimin’s mouth parts in shock, his eyes widening as he absorbs your words. He falls silent, as though his mind is spinning back, searching for the fragments of his memory that still hold that image. 

“That was you?” His voice cracks slightly, touched by disbelief. He looks at you with something between remorse and horror.

You nod your head, a mixture of anger and sorrow swelling in your chest. “You don’t even remember?”

He winces, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck as he searches for words. “I… I’m so… I’m so sorry.” His voice is raw, laced with an almost childlike shame. He turns to you, eyes earnest and heavy with regret. “I was a kid—a stupid kid. I… never realized the weight of what I did.”

You shake your head, meeting his gaze evenly. “You’ve always been a dick, Jimin. A bully,” you add, hoping it stings just enough.

He nods slowly, his lips pulling into a remorseful line. “I know. I know I’ve been… careless. And I wish I could take all that back. I wish I could change what I was, what I… did.” He pauses, glancing down, biting his lip like he’s gathering courage. 

But then his hand reaches out, gently brushing yours in the cold. His eyes meet yours, brimming with apology. “If you’ll let me, I want to try and be… better. Real. Not perfect, just… me.”

“It was humiliating, Jimin. I was the laughing stock for years—well into school,” you say, voice softening with a hurt you’d almost forgotten. Your gaze flickers to his, hesitant, but steady. “And even now, as adults, you never stopped singling me out, teasing me. At first, I thought you were just bullying me all over again.” You hold his eyes, bracing yourself. “But that’s not what it was, was it?”

He swallows hard, his throat working as he searches for words. “No,” he replies, voice almost a whisper. “I never meant to hurt you, Y/N. Not then, not now.”

“I know that… now,” you breathe, barely above a whisper. You can feel something shifting, unspoken.

He looks down, mittens pressed against his temples, and you see him struggling, caught between words. “It’s your turn to be honest, Park,” you prompt gently, needing him to lay his truth bare, even though you think you already know. You’ve been holding onto a realization, but you want him to say it, to free you both from these years of misunderstandings.

He lets out a shaky sigh, his gaze tracing your face with a softness that catches you off guard. “I… I liked you. Even back then, I thought you were amazing—strong, fierce, and different from anyone else. I wanted so badly to get your attention, to make you notice me. But the only thing that seemed to work was… making fun of you.” He pauses, rubbing his head with a small, almost defeated smile. “I know how it sounds. I was a stupid kid. I just didn’t know any other way.”

You stare at him, breath catching, your chest tight. He liked you. Past tense. Your heart beats louder as you whisper, “And now?”

He meets your gaze, a spark of humor and something deeper lighting his expression. “To be clear, I still like you,” he says, words filled with a raw honesty. “I still think you’re fierce and strong and… stubborn as hell.” He laughs softly, glancing down as his cheeks flush. “But I’m sorry, truly. I’ve been a jerk, trying to get close to you in all the wrong ways.”

A laugh slips from your lips, warm and soft. “That you are,” you tease, hoping it stings just a little, though your voice is laced with a fondness you can’t hide.

He chuckles, a little nervously, but he inches closer. “Maybe, but…” His voice lowers. “I’m your jerk.”

And that’s all it takes. You move toward him, closing the space, and press your lips to his with a need that has simmered, unacknowledged, for so long. His mouth is soft, tender and cold at first, but as the kiss deepens, warmth spreads, igniting between you like a long-awaited spark finally catching flame. His hand rises to your cheek, his touch hesitant, reverent, as though he’s savoring each moment, each breath.

A low sound escapes him, his lips parting just enough for his tongue to trace your lips, soft but insistent. You open to him, feeling his breath, tasting him in a slow, heated dance that feels both new and achingly familiar. It’s as though every word left unsaid, every look and touch left unshared, has led to this moment—an unspoken promise unfolding between you.

For years, you’d run from this, denying the pull between you, clinging to your hate to hide the want. But in his kiss, there is a confession, a surrender to the fire you’d both fed. You feel him breathe out, his lips curving into a soft smile against yours, and you can’t help but return it. For the first time, that tension between you isn’t a battle—it’s something beautiful.

Whatever it is that’s sparked between you and Jimin these past few weeks—this whole holiday season, really—has been wild, confusing, and so, so good. He knows how to rile you up, pulling at every loose thread in you, but somehow it always leaves you wanting more. You breathe out a laugh and press a kiss to his cold cheek, feeling the scrape of winter on your lips.

“I don’t… I don’t really hate you anymore,” you whisper, breath mingling with his as it hangs in the frozen air.

He tilts his head, eyes dark and half-lidded as he gazes into yours. “Hmm?” he murmurs, his voice low, dangerous in a way that thrills you.

You feel a warmth rise through you and giggle, words spilling free. “Actually, I think I kind of like your stupid ass.” Your confession hangs between you, breaking the ice you’d held onto for too long.

He lets out a deep, satisfied chuckle, brushing his lips over yours before catching your bottom lip gently between his teeth. “So you do, do you?” he murmurs, his smirk curving just right.

He laughs, soft but filled with a rough, quiet possession. “You’re such a brat,” he teases, voice a warm rumble against your skin. “But you’re mine. Right?”

“Yes, yours,” you gasp, feeling heat spread through you, even through layers of wool and fleece. And when his gloved hand traces your cheek, the cold feels electric, meeting the fire he stirs in you.

You press closer to him, fighting against the fabric that holds you back, and your fingers drift to the zipper of your snowsuit. “I think you’re the only one who can warm me up,” you murmur, voice laced with a tempting edge as you bat your eyes up at him. You ease the zipper down slowly, watching his eyes track the movement, the hunger flickering there, even in the shadows.

He watches your movements, tongue flicking across his lips. “Do you think that’s a good idea?” he asks, voice low, but his own fingers stray to his zipper, betraying his anticipation.

“Don’t you want me?” you ask, coy, breathless. “I’m freezing,” you whisper, letting his name fall from your lips like honey. “Warm me up, Jimin.”

A shiver runs down your spine as you slip out of your snowsuit, baring your skin to the chill. You let each layer fall away, watching his gaze darken with every inch. The way he looks at you makes you feel like a fire ready to ignite, even in this icy cave.

“Do you want to touch me?” you murmur, letting your hands slide up over your skin, cupping your breasts and circling your perk nipples with your fingers. “Keep me warm?”

His breath catches, and you hear the small intake of air as his eyes roam over you. “You’ll be the death of me,” he says, words rough, barely restrained. His mittens fall away, and his hands shake slightly as he unzips his own suit, each motion slow, deliberate, eyes locked onto you as he bares himself, piece by piece.

His last layer falls away, and he stands before you, bare, his skin glowing in the dim light. He’s beautiful—always has been—but now, here, he’s something else entirely, a vision you want to savor, every single inch.

Your body feels like it’s burning, a heat that cuts through the cold and wraps around you both, a living, pulsing warmth that’s only intensified by the nearness of his skin against yours. You press closer, savoring the spark that flares between you.

Here, in the shelter of the cave, the storm howling outside, you can finally give in to him—no barriers, no misunderstandings, just you and him, bodies and hearts both raw, reaching for the warmth of each other, finally unguarded.

“Maybe you should look in a mirror sometime,” you pant, voice soft but daring as you lean closer, fingers sliding to rest on his strong, tense thighs. “Then you’d understand why everyone either hates you or wants you—you’re too damn good-looking.”

He shivers, the surprise flickering across his face, quickly replaced by a laugh. “Cold! God, your hands are freezing,” he says, teeth flashing in a grin that’s both playful and predatory.

“But my mouth is warm,” you whisper, your words laden with heat, slipping between you like a spark catching flame. “Would you like me to warm you up?”

A low groan tumbles from his lips, raw and resonant in the stillness of the cave. His eyes flash with need. “Fuck, yes… show me how much of a filthy brat you are, how good you take my cock,” he murmurs, biting his lip as he watches you, the hunger in his gaze unmistakable.

You move closer, lips parting as you take him into the warmth of your mouth, and he gasps, his breath coming in quick, shallow bursts. You know your hands are icy, so you hold them steady on his thighs, giving all the warmth you can to him through the softness of your lips, each deliberate, tender movement of your tongue.

“Here, hold on,” he breathes, voice catching as he leans forward, resting his hand on your shoulder. “I don’t care if your hands are cold—hold me. We’ll warm up together.”

You let your fingers dig gently into his thighs, and the intensity of his gaze on you sends a rush of warmth down your spine. With every movement, every soft sound he makes, you can feel your own heart quicken, feel his fingers thread into your hair, guiding you just the way he likes. He groans low, head falling back, eyes squeezed shut.

“Can I fuck your mouth now?” he whispers, his voice barely a breath, desire heavy in each syllable.

You squeeze his thigh in answer, and he tightens his hold, moving with a newfound rhythm, a need that’s both patient and wild. He moves against you, each movement controlled but trembling at the edges, and you let yourself melt into the moment, matching his pace, losing yourself in the heat of his touch and the unspoken need between you.

“So dirty,” he rasps, one hand sliding to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing over your skin in a soft, reverent gesture. “Your mouth is perfect.”

His praise sends a thrill through you, and you can’t help but respond, letting him feel the depth of your want in the press of your lips, the urgency in the way you take him. He gently brushes a thumb across your cheek, his hand soothing even as his breathing grows more erratic.

But then he pulls back, gaze tender yet intense as he catches his breath, looking down at you with an expression that makes you feel like the world’s slipping away outside the cave, leaving just the two of you.

“I want to cum inside your pussy, but first I want to taste it,” he murmurs, voice rough with need, his thumb lingering just below your lip. 

With the back of your hand, you wipe the dampness from your lips, whispering a single word, “Please.”

A grin curls across his lips, admiration flickering in his eyes. “My little cockslut,” he murmurs, voice low with praise.

“Lie down,” he instructs, gesturing to the soft fold of your snowsuit. You spread it on the ground, sinking onto it and parting your legs, heat radiating as you yield to him, vulnerability and desire intertwining.

He lets out a soft, appreciative sound, dropping to his knees and gazing down at you, his face close enough that you feel his breath trace delicate patterns along your skin. “So pretty and wet,” he groans, eyes dark with promise. “And I’m going to devour you. I think you deserve it, don’t you?”

A shiver skims through you as his breath fans over your skin, stirring the ache in you, anticipation pooling like molten warmth. He lowers his head, pressing soft, reverent kisses along your thighs, moving ever closer to where you need him most, his eyes locked on yours as if he’s drinking you in.

Without another word, he dives in, his mouth covering you with deliberate intensity, the warmth of his tongue drawing desperate sounds from your throat. Your hands find their way to his hair, tangling in the softness there, and you close your eyes, letting yourself surrender to each unhurried touch, each flicker of sensation he sends rippling through you.

“Fuck, Jimin,” you pant in pleasure.

The world outside the cave melts away as he moves with breathtaking skill, every graze and stroke pulling you deeper under his spell. He hums against you, his hands gripping your hips, and the vibrations send fresh waves of longing through you, toes curling as pleasure builds, each stroke pushing you closer to the edge, “That sinful tongue, Park,” you moan.

“I’m gonna come soon.”

You feel the touch of his cool fingers trace along your thighs, sending shivers through you, every nerve alight with anticipation. His fingertips graze your skin, drawing a soft quiver from deep within as his hand slides into you with reverence, coaxing you to open wider, instinctively welcoming him.

His lips and tongue explore with both gentleness and urgency, and each flicker, each lingering movement ignites a fire in your core, every cell in your body pulled taut, straining toward release. His hand moves with deliberate care, matching the rhythm of his mouth, deepening your pleasure as he senses the way your breath catches, your body arching and moving under his touch.

As his fingers press further, a delicious warmth blooms and pulses within you, and everything—your breath, your heartbeat, the world beyond—fades, leaving only the intensity of the connection between you. It builds slowly, steadily, like a wave gathering strength before it crests, your body and his locked in the timeless dance of anticipation and fulfillment.

“Jimin!” When your release finally overtakes you, it’s like being swept under by a warm current, filling you, leaving you breathless as he continues to hold you, his movements gentle, guiding you back down. He leans up, his face radiant, his gaze tender as he meets your eyes, and then he’s kissing you, his lips soft and warm, grounding you in the closeness you share.

“Jimin, please—fuck me like you did yesterday,” you whisper, your voice a sultry caress in the dim light, a soft yet desperate plea. Yet, deep down, you know there’s no need for such entreaties; he would give you the universe if you asked, for he is undeniably weak for you—a truth that has lingered in the air between you from the very beginning. 

As he crawls over you, you can feel his cock stirring, his body pressing closer, the warmth of his skin igniting a delicious ache within you. His face glistens with the evidence of your orgasm. He leans down, capturing your lips with his, the kiss deep and hungry, wrapping you in his embrace, soft and inviting. 

You savor the taste of yourself on his mouth, an intoxicating blend of sweetness and urgency that sends shivers racing down your spine. You can feel him, hard and throbbing, poised over your sensitive core, and every nerve ending ignites in anticipation. A heady mix of longing and need courses through you, the world outside fading away as you focus solely on him, yearning for the moment he finally fills you completely.

You gaze into his eyes, a storm of emotions swirling within you, wondering why it took so long to confront the truth that has simmered beneath the surface. With a rush of boldness, you bite your lip and pull him into a deep, fervent kiss, surrendering to the heat that has long been building between you.

When he finally pulls away, a teasing smile dances on his lips. “My needy little brat,” he murmurs, his voice low and sultry. “I’ll give you what you crave, don’t worry.” His hand strokes his cock, teasingly placing it against your slick folds, nudging them apart, igniting a fire of desire deep within you. You feel elated, ready for him to claim you as his own—like he can’t enter you fast enough.

Slowly, he pushes into you, a low groan escaping his lips as he fills you completely. “You’re always so fucking tight, no matter how many times I fill this perfect pussy,” he pants, anchoring himself on either side of your arms, his eyes locked onto yours, filled with lust and admiration.

You don’t respond, lost in the bliss of the stretch, the way he fills you up just as you crave. He grunts as he reaches the hilt, pausing to catch his breath before pulling back, only to thrust back into you with delicious force. 

“Fuck!” you gasp as he finds a rhythm, each thrust sending ripples of pleasure coursing through you. You revel in the sensation, your body alive with longing. 

“You really like my cock, huh, brat?” he teases, the usual playful tension replaced with a tenderness that sends warmth flooding through your chest. 

“Yes. I’m obsessed with your cock, Jimin,” you breathe, your hands roaming, gripping your thighs to change your angle, urging him deeper.

“Right there—fuck, it’s so good,” you mumble, each thrust striking your g-spot perfectly, sending sparks of ecstasy dancing behind your eyelids. 

“My brat, all mine,” he pants, driving into you deeper, harder, an intoxicating blend of pleasure and possession. 

“Hugging me so perfectly,” he breathes, his words wrapping around you like a warm embrace.

He leans down, his warmth enveloping you as his mouth finds a nipple, sucking hungrily. You moan, your fingers tangling in his hair, craving more of his touch. 

A new orgasm builds within you, heightened by the way he fills you, surrounds you with his warmth and the intoxicating scent of him—musky and primal. His tongue dances over your nipple, teasing it before moving to the other, and you feel yourself spiraling, stars flickering in your vision.

“Jimin, I’m coming again,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper as he sneaks a hand between your bodies, circling your clit with deft precision. The tension inside you tightens, coiling like a spring ready to snap. Your body arches, pressing your breast into his warm mouth as he continues to thrust into you. 

Just as the wave crashes over you, he pulls his finger away from your clit, leaving you panting, blissfully dazed. He pops off your nipple, gazing at you with a mix of admiration and desire. “My sweet brat,” he whispers, his voice thick with longing. “So beautiful when you come.” 

You bite your lip, feeling the throb of his cock deep inside you, aware that he’s close too, and the thought ignites another wave of need within you.

“Jimin-ah,” you pant, your voice thick with desire, “fill me up with your seed,” you moan, lost in a haze of pleasure.

“I’m gonna fill you up real good,” he promises, urgency lacing his tone as he quickens his thrusts, snapping his hips against you with raw fervor. 

“Fuck. I’m gonna come too,” he grunts, each word a desperate plea as your pussy throbs around him. With a strained moan of your name, he releases, his warm essence flooding you, filling you completely. A wave of ecstasy washes over you, and you can’t help but moan in response, a sound of both satisfaction and yearning.

He stills inside you, breathless, both of you bursting into laughter at the sheer intensity of your desperation. He lays his head against your chest, feeling the rhythmic beat of your heart, the warmth radiating from your skin.

“Why did we waste so much time?” he asks, his voice soft and breathless.

“Because you’re a jerk and I’m a stubborn brat,” you reply with a teasing laugh, your fingers threading through his hair, ruffling it playfully. “But we’re here now,” you add, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead, a promise of what’s to come.

For a while, he remains within you, and you don’t mind that his semen seeps out, mingling with the cold air of the cave. The chill surrounds you, but in this moment, you’re cocooned in each other’s presence, and you drift off to sleep, naked and intertwined.

When you wake, a chill has settled over you, and Jimin lies beside you, his arm wrapped protectively around your frame. But the cold bites at your skin, and you shiver, unsure of the hour or how long you’ve been ensconced in this cave.

A discomfort lingers between your legs, a reminder of the night before, and you groan at the sticky feeling. Jimin stirs beside you, his voice thick with sleep. “What time is it?” he murmurs, eyes still closed.

You reach for your backpack, fingers fumbling until you pull out your phone. A rush of surprise hits you as you see that an entire day has slipped away. “It’s morning apparently,” you say, the words echoing in the quiet cave.

“Ugh, it’s so cold,” he groans, drawing you closer, seeking warmth as you let him spoon you, his body a comforting heat against the biting chill.

“We should eat something though,” you suggest, your stomach rumbling in agreement.

“Do you have more protein bars?” he asks, voice still heavy with sleep.

“Yeah, a few. But do you have water? I’m almost out,” you reply, feeling his warm hands wander across your skin, igniting a soft sigh of pleasure from your lips.

“I do,” he answers, and with a reluctant sigh, you both rise, reaching for sustenance. You munch on protein bars and sip water, but a quick glance at your phone reveals a troubling truth—there’s no signal, and both your phones are perilously low on battery in the relentless cold.

“My stomach hurts,” you admit, a twinge of discomfort settling in.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern knitting his brows as he studies your face, his warm gaze searching for answers.

“I have to…,” you hesitate, a flush of embarrassment creeping over you. “I have to poop.” 

He bursts out laughing, the sound echoing in the cave like a burst of sunlight breaking through clouds. You stare at him, disbelief mingling with mortification. “If you have to go, don’t hold it in; that’s not healthy, you know. Just go over in that corner,” he points to the very spot where you’d relieved yourself yesterday. God. This is so not sexy at all.

“I’m not pooping in the corner. I’ll just hold it in,” you groan, mortified.

“Suit yourself, but you never know when the others will find us,” he says matter-of-factly. “Maybe we should try digging ourselves out?” A playful grin lights up his face, and you hate that you confided in him.

“I just don’t think I can do that in front of you,” you mutter, getting up to put your clothes back on, your cheeks burning.

“Fair enough,” he shrugs, “but at this point, we’re practically married. I’ve seen you cry, be a brat, pee, and everything else in between.” 

You sulk, the fiery banter reigniting as you jut out your bottom lip and cross your arms while he gets dressed, the familiar warmth of your friendship sparking once more.

“But be my guest and keep it in,” he says, moving toward the entrance. He begins to dig with his gloved hands, but the effort seems futile. You walk over to him, helping him remove the stubborn snow, only to find it’s solid ice. 

“I think it’s frozen over from the night. Damn it,” he pants, frustration seeping into his tone. “How are we going to get out?” you ask, desperation creeping back into your voice.

“I think we just have to wait for the others to find us. We still have some food and water, so we’re fine,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, retreating to your previous spot. You follow him, sitting down beside him, feeling utterly deflated.

“Hey, try to look happy while being stuck with me,” he huffs, curling his legs up for warmth.

“Sorry,” you reply, momentarily forgetting about your stomach’s protest. “I just don’t know what we can do,” you admit, feeling the weight of uncertainty.

“Well, we could always keep each other warm again,” he suggests, his tongue darting out to lick his lips, and that’s all it takes for the fire to reignite within you. You shed your clothing, drawn into his embrace, kissing him with an urgency that banishes all thoughts of discomfort. Time stretches and bends, and you lose count of how many times you and Jimin have surrendered to each other in this cave. Both of you feel drained and cold, so you curl up together, using your snowsuit as a mattress and his as a duvet, your bodies intertwined.

“What if we’re going to die in here?” you muse, unable to find the solace of sleep.

“Relax, we won’t,” he murmurs, nudging your naked back as he wraps an arm and leg around you, the softness of his skin warming you. You feel his gentle presence against your backside, a comforting weight.

“How can you be so sure?” you ask softly, your voice barely a whisper.

“I can’t, but one of us has to be positive,” he grunts, his breath deep and steady, a lullaby that eases your fears.

You drift into sleep like that, cocooned in his warmth, surrounded by the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat against your back.

When you awaken, the warmth of Jimin’s rock-hard cock presses against your back, and you catch your breath, a jolt of electricity coursing through you. Seeking his warmth, you instinctively arch your hips back, pressing your ass further into him. He groans softly, his arm slipping over your bare breasts, fingers grazing a sensitive nipple, sending a wave of pleasure radiating through you. 

“Jimin—,” you moan, rolling your hips against him once more, and his delight-filled groan vibrates through your body, igniting a primal urge within you.

He begins to move against you, rutting against your ass, grunting in time with his thrusts. His fingers play with your nipple, teasing and pinching, and your pussy throbs in response, each pull of your breath turning quicker and deeper as arousal ignites your body like wildfire. 

Suddenly, he withdraws his hand from your nipple, positioning it at his cock, pressing it between your cheeks. “Move forward a bit,” he instructs, his voice low and sultry, and you obey, angling your body just right for him.

In an instant, he starts to thrust against you, not yet entering, but the heat of it makes you shiver with desire. His hand trails down your stomach, gliding toward your slick folds. With deft fingers, he begins to rub circles around your clitoris, and you can’t help but moan, the sensation overwhelming you.

He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear as you lie side by side. “My dirty brat wants dick again?”

“Didn’t get enough yesterday?” he teases, pressing down harder on your clit, making your breath hitch in your throat.

“I’m always hungry for you Jimin,” you pant, the naked truth spilling from your lips. You crave him, a desperate yearning that cannot be quenched, and in this moment, you can’t stay away.

“So dirty, my girl, right?” he breathes, the question lingering between you like a sweet promise.

“I’m yours, only yours,” you confess, needing him to know—because you are infuriatingly in love with him.

“And I’m yours,” he replies, kissing your shoulder tenderly, fingers working your clit with growing urgency. “Are you gonna come on my fingers?” he whispers, his breath sending shivers down your spine.

“Yes—,” you choke out, the coil of pleasure inside you tightening with rapid intensity.

His fingers dance left to right, up and down, then he pinches your sensitive nub, and you bite your bottom lip to stifle a moan. “I want to hear you,” he urges, his voice dripping with desire.

Your toes tingle, your entire body igniting in heat. “Jimin—, I’m gonna,” you pant, and then the waves crash over you as you reach your orgasm, the world around you fading into bliss thanks to his skilled fingers and that filthy mouth of his. He nibbles at your ear while rubbing you through your orgasm, his cock thrusting insistently between your cheeks.

“Fuck, you almost had me coming too. It’s so tight between your ass,” he murmurs, his voice warm and sultry as you descend from your high. Jimin’s hand wraps around your leg, hoisting it up, and he positions his cock at your entrance, your pussy fluttering in anticipation, still tingling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

Then he slides in, grunting, “So fucking good, always.”

You moan his name in sheer delight, “Please move.”

He grunts, and with a rhythm that feels like poetry, he begins to move his hips, his cock gliding in and out of you, drawing you deeper into the exquisite sensation.

“You can go faster,” you murmur, breath catching as he holds your leg up, his fingers strong against your thigh.

A low hum escapes him as he obliges, thrusting harder, each movement reverberating through you. “So wet for me,” he pants, his hand squeezing your thigh as he picks up speed, sending waves of pleasure radiating outward.

When he starts hitting that perfect spot, stars blur your vision, your body arching instinctively into him. You’re spent from all of yesterday, your muscles deliciously sore, yet here you are again, craving more. 

His breath is hot against your ear, voice a low rasp. “My filthy girl. Always wet for me, always begging for my cock,” he murmurs, and you feel yourself clench around him in response, his words driving you wild, pushing you further toward the edge.

You pant as he thrusts deeper, each motion a sweet agony, his hips snapping against yours, the rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin filling the cave, a symphony just for you. “Little tease,” he breathes, “playing hard to get just to end up like this,” he says, almost growling the words against your neck, his tone both scolding and adoring, and it sends delicious shivers down your spine.

“Holy… Shit,” you moan, his relentless rhythm pushing you higher, his hands and cock guiding you past the breaking point. Your body tenses, waves of pleasure crashing over you as you come, and he doesn’t miss a beat. His hand finds your clit, rubbing it gently as you shake beneath him, his fingers slipping over your slickness before he brings them to his lips. “You squirted,” he grins, pride gleaming in his eyes as he tastes you, his gaze dark and devouring. “And you fucking taste incredible.”

His praise makes you clench around him, and he groans, driving into you, refusing to let up even as you try to catch your breath. “Fuck, Jimin,” you gasp, legs trembling with exertion.

“I’ve got you,” he assures, gently lowering your leg. Before you know it, he’s helping you to all fours, your head nestled against the softness of your snowsuit, and he lifts your hips, fingers firm at your waist. “Just a little more. I know you’re tired,” he whispers, his voice gentle but laced with desire. Settling onto his knees, he guides himself back into you, a deep moan slipping from your lips as he fills you to the hilt.

Gripping your hips, he pulls you back with each thrust, his rhythm quick, and every plunge feels deeper, more consuming. “So fucking tight,” he grunts, leaning down to nip at your shoulder as his hand smacks your ass, leaving a warm sting that only heightens the intensity.

He grips you tighter, fingers digging into your skin as he picks up the pace, and you feel yourself spiraling again, a third orgasm cresting before you’ve even come down from the second. Your body clenches around him, and it undoes him completely, a shudder ripping through him as he thrusts one last time, filling you as he groans in surrender, his release warm and full.

Breathless, he leans over you, his hand tracing gentle circles over your back. “Incredible,” he murmurs, caressing you in the afterglow, his praise softening the edges of exhaustion as you rest in his arms, completely spent but undeniably fulfilled.

Breathless and laughing, the two of you cling to each other as a noise echoes from the cave entrance. Suddenly, a chunk of snow tumbles inward, letting a burst of light cut through the dimness. Shielding your eyes from the sudden brightness, you spot Jungkook peering in through a widening gap. “Found them!” he calls out, then cringes, squinting. “Oh God—naked,” he grunts, feigning disgust as you scramble to pull your snowsuits over your bare skin, huddling together in hurried, flustered movements.

More snow is chipped away, allowing the full daylight to flood in, and soon the entrance is free. There, framed against the blinding white snow, stand all your friends, gawking with expressions ranging from surprise to outright amusement. You feel your cheeks ignite as they take in the scene—clearly, there’s no hiding what went on in the cave.

“We thought you were going to kill each other,” Taehyung quips, his eyes wide with mock horror as he takes in the scene.

Yoongi shakes his head, unfazed. “Told you they’d end up like this,” he mutters, already turning away to put his shovel back over his shoulder.

Seokjin groans theatrically, pressing a hand to his forehead. “For the love of all things holy, put some clothes on!”

Flushed and flustered, you stammer, “Could you maybe look away? A little privacy?” Jimin only chuckles at your side, entirely unbothered.

“Fine, fine,” Jungkook says, still grinning as they turn around, murmuring to each other, muffling laughter that echoes in the frosty air. You and Jimin hastily pull on your clothes, cocooning yourselves back into thick layers, but you feel oddly reluctant to step out of this little haven that the two of you created.

Just before heading out, you turn to him, and with a hand still bare, you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I meant everything I said, Jimin,” you murmur softly, your thumb brushing over his skin. 

He leans into your touch, eyes meeting yours with a warmth that seems to banish the cold. “Me too,” he whispers, and a beat passes, his gaze dropping to your lips before he finally asks, “Would you… do you want to make it official? Date me?” He’s almost shy, his heart racing, caught somewhere between hope and vulnerability, as if this simple question holds so much more.

The light in the cave catches the shimmer in your eyes as you tiptoe up to press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. “Yes, I want to date you, Park,” you whisper against his mouth, warmth radiating between you.

A smile breaks over his face, and soon it twists into that familiar, mischievous smirk. “Knew you couldn’t resist me,” he teases, already slipping back into the confident Jimin you know so well.

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help but smile as you grab his hand, fingers lacing together naturally. And as you step out into the bright snow, your friends’ teasing laughter ringing through the air, you realize you’re ready to endure anything, as long as you’ve got Jimin by your side.

“Have you checked your phone lately?” Jungkook asks, a mischievous smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he’s holding back a secret, a playful glimmer dancing in his eyes.

“No, why?” you reply, the curiosity rising in your voice. “It ran out of battery—Jimin’s too.”

The others nod in silent understanding, but when you finally make your way back to the cabin, plug your phone into the charger, and open the group chat, your heart sinks. The screen floods with a storm of messages, a chaotic wave of words and emojis that makes your stomach twist and your cheeks burn. With wide eyes, you instinctively flip the phone over, as if doing so might somehow erase the flood of embarrassing texts, as if they might vanish with a simple turn of the screen.

→ Permanent taglist: @nora12379 @jeonsbabygirlsworld @fancypeacepersona @ktownshizzle @pjmxxjm @ajoonniice @kookiewithluv

→ Series taglist: @yopjm @chimmy-licious @aubrey0moore @jeonsbabygirlsworld @haru-jiminn @13-manggaetteok @mima795 @nora12379 @joonsmagicshop @goldietigers294 @pjmxxjm @jimineepaboya 

→ Author’s endnote: HAHAHAHA 😂 How is it even possible for this couple to get more chaotic? Truly, their energy is unmatched. Did you have fun finally uncovering why they’ve been throwing daggers at each other this whole time? What do you think—was it worth the wait? Honestly, writing this unapologetically jerk version of Jimin has been an absolute blast for me 🤭 Like, it’s almost too fun to lean into his sass and pettiness! (Should I be concerned?) Can’t wait to hear your thoughts!

© @/kingofbodyrolls 2024 // Please don’t copy or repost! You are more than welcome to reblog it, leave a comment or ask me anything about the story 🥰

[slaytheusurper]

⭑ Delicious depravity ⭑

Ewanverse masterlist

A/N: I need serious help

Request: No

Pairing: Solo!Michael Gavy x Reader (only readers pic)

Warnings: NSFW, Michael is horny asf, pervy Michael, Michael discovers insane fleshlight, jerking off to readers bikini pic, more modern setting (Instagram exists)

Summary: Michael tests out his first fleshlight when coming across your new Instagram post ;)

Word count: 1.4k

Taglist: @venmondiese , @sylasthegrim (for my pookies)

Michael closed the door behind him in his dorm, after a long day of classes he just wanted to enjoy some alone time. Not that he had many friends to tire him but the amount of people he had to deal with everyday made his social battery drained nonetheless.

He set down his bag on his desk, opened it and pulled out his phone. Wondering if he should try sending Oliver a message again about hanging out tonight, he thought against it. It was a week ago that Oliver dumped him for Felix Catton and his heart hurt at the memory.

So instead he would settle for a night in, he threw his android phone on his small single bed and unlaced his shoes. He switched his khaki pants and short sleeved blouse for some comfortable grey joggers and his favourite t-shirt. 

Michael got settled on his bed, it was far too early to get settled under the covers so he grabbed his phone and mindlessly scrolled through his emails. Until he got a notification. His heart skipped a beat when he saw it was from Instagram, you had posted a new picture.

He clicked on the notification and Instagram opened, instantly switching to your profile. His breathing became heavy once your bikini clad body filled his screen. Fuck you looked amazing, the bikini barely covering your tits and cunt. 

He obviously knew of your little trip to Italy, the beach and bright sky behind you in the photo but he cared little for that. His cock started to swell in his joggers, the outline of it becoming very clear through the fabric. 

Michael felt like a fucking pervert when his free hand moved to massage himself through his pants but he couldn’t help it, he got so turned on by your revealing bikini. He gave up on restraining himself and lowered his sweatpants.

Pulling down his boxers as well so he could free his aching dick. He zoomed in on your barely covered tits with one hand, his other now starting to tenderly tug on his uncut member. Soft whines already left his lips, hand moving faster as he pleasured himself to your picture.

But tonight it wasn’t enough, your photo left him horny and pulsing with desire but his hand didn’t do it for him tonight. Then he remembered his purchase from a week ago, Michael got so pent up one night, his hand couldn’t make him cum so he went on the internet and bought a fleshlight.

It arrived two days ago but he hadn’t dared touch it, shoving it in the bottom drawer of his nightstand and ignoring it. The embarrassment from such a purchase was too much for him but he was too scared to send it back as well. But now, he needed release.

He put down his phone next to him and released his cock. Bending over the side of his bed to open that cursed bottom drawer. The box of it looked daunting but he grabbed it anyway, his face flushed red with shame of what he was about to do.

With a sigh and trembling hands, he opened the box. He didn’t expect the fleshlight to be wrapped in protective plastic but he undid it all the same. Next to it was a bottle of lube, he fetched that out of the box as well before throwing the box next to the bed.

He moved his glasses up his nose and inspected the erotic toy, he forgot about the fact that the toy had a turn on button. When he pressed it, the inside of it started to automatically clench and move up and down. His heart sped up and he was glad the toy wasn’t loud.

Even though he had a single dorm he didn’t want his neighbours to hear any of the depravity that was about to happen. Glancing over at the screen of his phone again, his cock ached and he opened the bottle of lube. 

Unsure if he had to lube up his own member or the toy he opted for his cock and squirted a good amount on his hands. He wouldn’t be Michael if he didn’t check the instructions of the lube and read that it was best to warm it up in his hands first. 

When he warmed up the lube enough he massaged his length with it, making sure there was enough before wiping the remains of the lube on his hands off on his bed sheet, he would wash it later. 

With his phone and the picture of you in his left hand and the fleshlight in his right, he moved the opening of it to his already weeping head. He groaned as the toys' tight walls enveloped his head, already he was feeling sensitive and wasn’t sure if he would last long.

He stared at the picture of you and pressed the button on the toy, immediately a way too loud moan left his lips with the way the toy perfectly squeezed and jerked his cock. Breath stuck in his throat and arse cheeks clenched, the toy fucked his pulsing dick way too good.

Never had he felt such a sensation in his life, having never even kissed a girl, let alone fuck a girl, he was gripping the fleshlight for dear life. Whimpers and groans filled the room as well as the squelching of the toy around his shaft.

“F-fuck! Fuck baby! F-feels so f-fucking goodddd-” Michael gasped. If this was the lowest setting, how fast could this thing go? The way the fleshlight now pulsated, clenched and fucked the skin over his head had Michael drooling. 

He looked at your picture and couldn’t help but imagine you were riding him right now. He imagined what your own moans and pleas would sound like as you fucked him. Please Michael your cock feels so good- Please daddy!

In his lust clouded haze he pressed the power button again, making it go faster but never did he imagine the toy would start vibrating as well. He cried out as the fleshlight jerked him faster, the vibrations feeling delicious on his tip. 

He could feel the precum oozing from his head, his thighs were shaking as he moaned and gasped. Michael was sure he saw god with the way this toy was pulling the life from him. “Please baby! Fuck! Ride me just like that!” Michael cried out, he was so fucking close. 

Pressing the power button again, desperate for release, the toy now started twisting as well. The vibrations got more powerful and it went up and down faster too. Michael couldn’t take it anymore, actual tears rolled down his cheeks and he started fucking up into the fleshlight.

Drool drizzled out of his mouth and he cried out for more. When the toy clenched around him again, he screamed. His cock shot ropes and ropes of cum, shooting it far into the toy which was still vibrating, pulsating and fucking him all the same.

His screams turned into sobs as he let the fleshlight fuck him longer, the sensitivity was almost too much to bear but he couldn’t stop. His cock didn’t even soften and for a moment he wondered what would happen if he pressed the button again. 

And so with wet cheeks, a drooled under chin, crooked glasses and pupils blown out with lust, he pressed it again. The toy pulled a scream from him once more as it vibrated extremely strong, the clenching of it now in a perfect rhythm and the twisting in a side to side movement.

He only lasted ten more seconds before he filled the toy's tight hole again. Crying as his now empty balls felt so extremely sensitive. His tip almost hurt when he pulled the toy off him and quickly turned it off by holding the power button longer.

Not only was his entire face red and sweaty, his chest was too. His legs were still shaking and his cock was red and overly raw from all the insane pleasure. He was still gasping for air when he noticed an obscene amount of his seed dripping from the toy onto his sheets. 

When he glanced at his phone again, he quickly turned it off with embarrassment. He laid the toy down next to him and tried to gather his senses. His dorm reeked of sex and depravity and it took him a while to come back down to earth.

[1mnshw]

a very risky gamble // s.r.

words - 3.1k

spencer reid x female oc

type of fic: enemies to lovers

SSA Vivienne Harper is pulled into a grisly cult case with the BAU, but the real challenge isn’t the killers—it’s working with Spencer Reid, the brilliant profiler she swore she’d never deal with again. As the body count rises and buried tensions flare, Vivienne must outsmart a deadly cult while facing a past that refuses to stay buried.

— — — — — — — — —

one

Ever since Vivienne was young, she’d always loved silence. It wasn’t a disdain for noise—when you grew up in New York, the chaos of the city became less a nuisance and more a constant, unshakable rhythm of life. No, it was something else. Silence felt like clarity, like the space where she could fully let go and breathe. Just her and the low hum of the open air.

She’d say, by rough estimate, she got about three minutes of it that morning. Three whole minutes from the time she walked into the building until Julian Mercer knocked on her office door.

“Harper, we need to talk. Got a minute?”

He barged in without waiting for an answer, already settling into the chair opposite her desk. That was Julian Mercer for you—patience wasn’t part of his vocabulary. It always seemed like he had too much on his plate to bother with niceties, which, given that he oversaw one of the busiest FBI field offices in the country, wasn’t far from the truth.

He tossed a thick file onto her desk with a thud, the kind of file that could probably double as a weapon in several states.

“Young boy, fourteen. Found dead near the Capitol.”

“Good morning to you too, Mercer,” Vivienne said dryly, flipping open the folder. The photos inside were grim—grimmer than most cases she’d handled recently. “Vocal folds removed post-mortem?”

“Yes. Look at the next picture.”

Vivienne frowned, but when she turned the page, her stomach sank. Carved into the victims’ chests was a symbol she recognized instantly.

An eye, its pupil cradling a dove, with the crescent moon underneath. The design was as intricate as it was chilling. She didn’t have to think twice to know what it meant.

She tried to steady her voice when she spoke, but it came out rougher than she intended. “They’re back?”

“They’re back,” Julian echoed grimly, his tone heavy with unspoken implications. “And this is just the beginning. Which is why the brass wants us to collaborate.”

Vivienne narrowed her eyes at him. “Collaborate?”

“With the BAU in Quantico.” He clasped his hands together and leaned forward slightly. “Now, you know we don’t have the manpower to send a full team down there, and I have to stay here and keep things running…”

He trailed off, gesturing vaguely as if Vivienne was supposed to pick up on the rest. When she didn’t, he sighed.

“So,” he said, leaning back in his seat, “the Bureau told me to pick my best agent. After I sent them and the BAU unit chief your file, they were both thoroughly impressed. You’re going down there as a temporary member to help solve this case.”

“Julian, what?”

“You heard me, Harper. You’re going to assist the BAU on this case in Quantico. This is a huge opportunity, and you should accept it as a compliment. I—”

She cut him off. “Respectfully, I decline. This is ridiculous. Mercer, you need me here, not in Virginia.” She slid the file back across the desk toward him. “There are cases in this city—my city—that need my attention. People here need my help.”

Julian didn’t flinch. He slid the folder right back to her, his movements deliberate, almost dismissive. “Respectfully, Vivienne,” he said as he stood, leveling her with a steely gaze, “this isn’t a choice; it’s a requirement. This is part of your job, and unless you’d like to explore other career opportunities, I suggest you go home, pack your things, and prepare to leave. They sent their jet here, and it leaves in two hours.”

The click of her office door as he left echoed louder than Vivienne wanted to admit. She let out a frustrated groan, raking her hands through her hair. Damn it.

It wasn’t that she didn’t see the stakes. She understood the gravity of the case—better than anyone, probably. But to drag her out of New York to work with a team she had no connection with, in a city she hadn’t lived in since she trained at the academy? It felt like a waste of time and resources. Still, trying to argue with Mercer was like trying to move a mountain with a teaspoon. The man wasn’t going to budge.

So she sighed, grabbed the file in front of her and her keys, and left. Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel the whole way home, the weight of inevitability settling over her like a heavy blanket. By the time she reached her apartment, she was already halfway resigned.

— — —

She arrived at the airstrip ten minutes early, her fingers gripping the handle of her suitcase as she approached the jet waiting on the tarmac. She paused at the edge of the catwalk, staring up at the sleek private plane. It gleamed in the dim light of the overcast afternoon, all polished steel and understated power.

Julian’s words echoed in her head. This is a huge opportunity. Begrudgingly, Vivienne admitted he wasn’t wrong—neither he nor the brass were the type to blow smoke up your ass, no matter how bad the situation was. If they wanted her on this case, they believed she’d bring something to the table.

Still, a small, defiant part of her wanted to resent the whole situation.

Nonetheless, she sent Julian a quick text.

Thank you.

He responded quickly, which was a surprise.

Don’t make me regret it.

Vivienne smiled as she drew a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and climbed the stairs, her heels clicking against the metal steps. As she stepped into the cabin, she had to admit—despite herself—it wasn’t half bad.

In fact, it was ridiculous. Luxurious leather seats, polished wood paneling, and enough legroom to stretch out comfortably made it clear: the BAU was in a different league. This wasn’t just a jet; it was a statement.

She dropped her suitcase near one of the seats, brushing her fingers over the armrest. “Well,” she muttered under her breath, “this almost makes up for being yanked out of the city.”

Almost.

It was hard not to imagine what her own department could do with the kind of budget that paid for this. She sank into one of the seats, the plush leather cushioning her in a way that was almost absurdly comfortable. Her gaze wandered to the large windows, offering a view of the jet engines gleaming in the muted light. For the first time since Mercer had dropped this bombshell, she felt a flicker of something unexpected—curiosity. The BAU wasn’t just any unit; it was the kind of team agents dreamed about joining. Legends in their own right. Maybe—just maybe—there was something to be gained from this after all.

As the engines hummed to life, Vivienne let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. The soft vibration under her feet grounded her, and she allowed herself a small, wry smile. Quantico wasn’t home, and she wasn’t thrilled about leaving New York, but there was a certain thrill in the unknown. Working alongside a team like this, tackling a case that would undoubtedly be challenging and grim, was the kind of puzzle she’d secretly always craved. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe she could make this work.

— — —

Hotch led her through the bustling halls of the BAU with his usual no-nonsense efficiency. Agents moved with purpose around them, their conversations blending into a low hum of activity. The building’s atmosphere was different from her office in New York—less chaotic, more deliberate.

“You’ll find we operate a little differently here,” Hotch said as they approached the stairs. “This team is small but specialized. Everyone brings a unique skill set to the table, and we rely on that dynamic to tackle these cases. Our technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, will be meeting you later on. She’s on her way in.”

Vivienne nodded, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Understood. I’ve read up on the unit’s case history—it’s impressive. I’m looking forward to seeing the team in action.”

Hotch glanced at her, his expression giving nothing away. “They’re looking forward to meeting you. We’ve had to operate shorthanded on cases like this before. Having another experienced profiler will be an asset.”

She followed him up the stairs, the quiet intensity of his words not lost on her. It wasn’t a glowing welcome, but she wasn’t expecting one. Hotch struck her as the kind of leader who spoke through action, not words.

When they reached the bullpen, the space was alive with the low buzz of conversation and the shuffle of papers. A conference room off to the side was lit, the walls lined with evidence boards, but the team had gathered near the center of the room.

“Everyone,” Hotch began, his voice cutting cleanly through the ambient noise, “this is Agent Vivienne Harper. She’s joining us from the New York City field office to assist on this case.”

All eyes turned toward her, and she instinctively straightened her posture. Hotch stepped aside, gesturing toward each member of the team as he introduced them.

“Derek Morgan,” Hotch started, motioning toward the tall man leaning casually against a desk. “He’s our tactical expert and one of the best at getting into the minds of offenders.”

Morgan grinned, stepping forward to shake her hand. “Welcome to the team, Harper. You ready for the big leagues?”

Vivienne raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Big leagues? That what they call it when you’ve got a coffee machine that actually works?”

Morgan chuckled, crossing his arms. “Oh, I like her already.”

Hotch moved on, ignoring the exchange. “Emily Prentiss,” he said, indicating the dark-haired woman beside Morgan. Emily stepped forward, her smile warm but confident. “It’s nice to have another profiler on board. You’ll find we don’t bite. Well, most of us.”

“Good to know,” Vivienne replied, shaking her hand. “I’ll keep my guard up, just in case.”

“Jennifer Jareau,” Hotch continued, pointing to the blonde woman who stood next to an evidence board, clipboard in hand. “She’s our communications liaison and media coordinator.”

JJ smiled, offering a handshake. “You can call me JJ. Don’t worry—we’ll ease you in.”

“I appreciate that,” Vivienne said. “Just don’t expect me to smile for the cameras.”

JJ laughed. “Noted.”

“David Rossi,” Hotch said, turning toward the older man seated at a desk with a cup of coffee in hand. “He’s one of the founding members of the unit and brings decades of experience to the team.”

Rossi set down his mug, offering a polite nod. “Welcome, Agent Harper. Don’t let the chaos fool you—we’re very organized. Usually.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Vivienne said, chuckling.

“And this is Dr.—“ The man standing behind the group stepped forward and cut Hotch’s introduction short.

“Vi.”

Vivienne’s pulse spiked. She hadn’t heard that nickname in years, not since the academy. The only person who ever called her that was—

“Spence.” They stared each other down, and the intensity on both of their faces was enough to silence the rest of the team.

Hotch cleared his throat and attempted to break the tension in the room. “You two have met?”

Spencer spoke, not breaking eye contact with Vivienne. “We met when we were both in training.”

“How long has it been? Five, six years?”

“Five years, seven months, and seventeen days. Not nearly long enough.”

“Clearly.”

Hotch’s sharp tone sliced through the thick tension. “That’s enough,” he said, stepping forward slightly as though positioning himself between them. His gaze flicked between Spencer and Vivienne, calm but commanding. “Whatever history you two have, leave it outside this office. Understood?”

Vivienne forced herself to look away from Spencer and nodded, her jaw tightening. “Understood.”

Spencer’s response was quieter but no less resolute. “Understood.”

Morgan, sensing the shift in energy, gave a small grin, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, this just got interesting. You sure you’re not gonna need a referee for this, Hotch?”

Hotch shot him a sharp look, and Morgan immediately quieted, but not before muttering, “Alright, alright, just checking.”

“Everyone, back to work,” Hotch continued, voice firm. “JJ, you and Prentiss check with Garcia on potential connections with the cult. Morgan, I need you and Harper to finalize the timeline. Reid, go over the backgrounds with Rossi.”

The team scattered, but before they all went to take care of their respective tasks, Spencer stopped Vivienne.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was low and edged with irritation, the same tone that used to make her blood boil. Judging by the sharp look in his eyes, he was just as annoyed by her presence as she was by his.

Vivienne let out a dramatic sigh, rolling her eyes. “Oh, you know, just building a damn rocket, Spencer. What do you think I’m doing? I’m here to work. The Bureau sent me, just like they sent you. Hate to break it to you, but you’re not the only golden agent of the FBI.”

His eyes narrowed, a glint of sharp disbelief flickering in them. “Yes, I’m aware, Vi. I just didn’t expect you to be the ‘highly regarded’ New York agent Hotch and Mercer have been raving about. Though, now that I think about it, I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m sure you’re still the same reckless person you’ve always been.”

Vivienne squared her shoulders, the old nickname lighting a familiar spark of irritation. “First of all, I told you to stop calling me that. It’s Vivienne—but I guess listening isn’t exactly your strong suit. Second of all, I’m sure you haven’t changed much either. Still hiding behind your precious facts and statistics, clinging to your spreadsheets like a lifeline, instead of actually doing something out in the field?”

Spencer's jaw tightened, and for a moment, it seemed like he might actually snap back—something he rarely did. Instead, he straightened his posture and fixed her with a cool, unwavering stare.

“Facts and statistics save lives, Vivienne,” he said, his voice calm but laced with steel. “But I wouldn’t expect you to understand that. You’ve always been more comfortable charging in headfirst and hoping your instincts will catch you. And hey, maybe they do sometimes, but how many people have you put at risk with that reckless approach?”.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Vivienne shot back, crossing her arms. “I didn’t realize we were measuring success by how many textbooks you can memorize in a week. But sure, go ahead, Spencer. Quote me some studies about how I’m doing my job wrong. That’s so much more helpful than actually, you know, doing the job.”

His lips twitched, almost like he was biting back a smile—or maybe a smirk.

“At least I don’t need to prove I’m the smartest person in the room,” he said. “Some of us let our work speak for itself.”

Vivienne started to respond, but Morgan cut in between them, a playful glint in his eyes. “You with me, Harper?”

Vivienne gave him a quick nod and followed him over to the other side of the room, but not before giving Spencer one last glance.

Spencer plopped down next to a stack of case files, flipping through them as he glanced over at Vivienne. After he handed her half the stack, he spoke. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

“I feel like what you’re about to say isn’t going to be about my undeniable expertise and sharp wit,” Vivienne said dryly.

He laughed, but shook his head. “We’ll get to that later. You and Reid, what’s the deal?”

Vivienne shot him a glare, groaning. “Come on, Morgan. Can’t you ask me about anything else?”

“I get it, it’s just— I’ve known the guy forever. He’s usually so calm, and I can probably count the amount of times I’ve seen him mad on one hand. But all of a sudden you show up, and all that gets flipped on its head. I’m not complaining, it’s pretty entertaining to watch,” he laughed, and Vivienne rolled her eyes. “Obviously something happened.”

Vivienne raised her eyebrows at him, smiling. “If you think it’s entertaining, you’re the only one.”

“Maybe,” Morgan said with a grin, leaning back casually in his chair. “I’m just intrigued.”

Morgan leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, clearly waiting for some juicy tidbit. Vivienne stared at him for a beat, then sighed, knowing he wouldn’t drop it until she threw him a bone.

“Fine,” she said, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “Reid and I met at the Academy. We didn’t exactly… get along.”

Morgan raised a brow, his grin widening. “Didn’t get along? That’s an understatement, judging by the way you two were about to throw punches back there.”

Vivienne smirked. “We were competitive, okay? He thought he was smarter than everyone, and I wasn’t about to let him walk around like he was the second coming of Einstein.”

“Let me guess,” Morgan cut in, “you made it your personal mission to knock him down a peg?”

“More like a few pegs,” Vivienne admitted with a shrug.

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head. “So that’s it? Just a couple of old rivals butting heads again?”

Vivienne hesitated, her eyes flickering across the room to where Spencer was sitting. “Something like that. It doesn’t matter. We’re here to work a case, not revisit ancient history.”

“Fair enough,” he said, though the glint of curiosity in his eyes didn’t fade entirely. He stood, grabbing the case files and flashing Vivienne a knowing grin.

“Come on, let’s get back to work before Hotch wonders why we’re sitting around gossiping.”

Morgan’s grin lingered as he moved toward the evidence boards, carrying a stack of case files under one arm. Vivienne grabbed her half of the pile and followed, letting his easy demeanor chip away at the irritation still simmering in her chest.

The bullpen was alive with the hum of focused activity. Agents moved between desks, flipping through files, pinning photos and diagrams to the walls, and mapping out connections. This was a team at its peak���efficient, driven, and unified. And now, whether Vivienne liked it or not, she was part of it.

Morgan dropped his files on the table with a dramatic thud, flashing Vivienne another teasing grin. “Alright, Harper, let’s see if that New York expertise can keep up.”

“Oh, please.” Vivienne smirked, pulling out a chair. “You’re about to get schooled, Morgan.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that.”

As they delved into the files, the tension faded, replaced by the steady rhythm of collaboration. For now, the case took precedence, and Vivienne was more than ready to prove that she belonged here.

— — — — — — — — —

hi! hope u liked this. this is ch1 of many, and i'll be cross-posting on a03 once i hit 3 chapters if u prefer that format!! this is my christmas gift, from me to you. love ya!

(p.s. i imagine s6/7 spencer in this, and this will be when the fic is set, but we will be 👀overlooking the ENTIRE plot of emilys death. bless!)

[dylawas-reblogs]

Those tags on the "you like my product" reblog that just came up on your queue. <3 Tbh I don't mind that you reblog from me lol following your blogs is a delight. The delay makes it extra funny because of my memory problems. So I'll see one of your reblogs and go oh ho ho that's a funny one I'll rebagel that only to see that it was reblogged FROM me lmao

HA! I was sort of hoping as such (that "I find it funny" statement). I came, I saw, I drafted the shit out of everything for days then after mass queuing disappeared again conquered.

[xitsensunmoon]

HOW TO GLAZE YOUR WORK WITHOUT A GOOD PC(or on mobile)/TIPS TO MAKE IT LESS VISIBLE

Glaze your work online on:

Cara app. It requires you to sign up but it is actually a good place for your portfolio. Glazing takes 3 minutes per image and doesn't require anything but an internet connection compared to 20-30 minutes if your pc doesn't have a good graphic card. There IS a daily limit of 9 pictures tho. Glazed art will be sent to you after it's done, by email. It took me 30 minutes to glaze 9 images on a default setting. Cara app is also a space SPECIFICALLY for human artists and the team does everything in their power to ensure it stays that way.

WebGlaze. This one is a little bit more complicated, as you will need to get approval from the Glaze team themselves, to ensure you're not another AI tech bro(which, go fuck yourself if you are). You can do it through their twitter, through the same Cara app(the easiest way) or send them an email(takes the longest). For more details read on their website.

Unfortunately there are no ways that I know of to use Nightshade YET, as it's quite new. Cara.app definitely works on implementing it into their posting system tho!

Now for the tips to make it less visible(the examples contain only nightshade's rendering, sorry for that!):

Heavy textures. My biggest tip by far. Noise, textured brushes or just an overlay layer, everything works well. Preferably, choose the ones that are "crispy" and aren't blurred. It won't really help to hide rough edges of glaze/nightshade if you blur it. You can use more traditional textures too, like watercolor, canvas, paper etc. Play with it.

Colour variety. Some brushes and settings allow you to change the colour you use just slightly with every stroke you make(colour jitter I believe?). If you dislike the process of it while drawing, you can clip a new layer to your colour art and just add it on top. Saves from the "rainbow-y" texture that glaze/nightshade overlays.

Gradients(in combination with textures work very well). Glaze/nightshade is more visible on low contrast/very light/very dark artworks. Try implementing a simple routine of adding more contrast to your art, even to the doodles. Just adding a neutral-coloured bg with a darker textured gradient already is going to look better than just plain, sterile digital colour.

And finally, if you dislike how glaze did the job, just try to glaze/shade it again. Sometimes it's more visible, sometimes it's more subtle, it's just luck. Try again, compare, and choose the one you like the most. REMEMBER TO GLAZE/SHADE AFTER YOU MADE ALL THE CHANGES, NOT BEFORE!!

If you have any more info feel free to add to this post!!

[whytheylosttheirminds]

happy birthday, baby (part one: birthday girl)

(boyfriend!rafe x girlfriend!reader two-shot)

summary it's your first birthday as rafe's girlfriend, and he's desperate to show you just how special you are to him...

content fluff! smut! 18+ minors do not interact!

(part two)

-----------------ꪆৎ‎---------------------

“It’s too much, Rafe!”

The pile of presents in front of you is outrageous. Bows and bags and big, meticulously wrapped packages.

“Never too much for my girl,” he stands back, beaming as he watches you take in the display with your mouth agape.

“I don’t even know which one to open first,” you muse.

“Any of ‘em. Just not,” he steps forward and plucks one bag from the pile, “this one. This one’s for last.”

You eye him suspiciously as he sets the bag on the kitchen counter, out of reach. 

“What surprises do you have planned, Cameron?”

“If I told you,” he smiles, stepping behind you and wrapping his arms around your torso, “then they wouldn’t be surprises. Now pick a present or we’re gonna be here all day.”

“Excuse me, I will not be rushed on my birthday,” you say defiantly.

“Not rushing you,” he drops a kiss on your shoulder, “just got a lot of shit planned for ya, I don’t want to waste any time,” he clarifies.

“There’s more?” You turn in his grasp, eyes wide.

He’d already woken you up with breakfast in bed, and an adorably off-key, groggy voiced rendition of ‘Happy Birthday.’ His bedroom was full of flowers and balloons, including two big pink ones displaying your new age. After you ate the fluffiest pancakes you’d ever had in your life, he slipped a heavy diamond necklace around your neck, kissing your shoulders as he clasped it. Giving him a million thank you kisses, you told him you loved your present, and he chuckled, leading you to the kitchen to the mountain of additional presents you’re now ogling.

“So much more. I’ve got a whole day planned for you, so let’s get to it,” he said with a quick tap on your ass, making you giggle.

“Okay, okay! I want…that one,” you point to the largest package in the back of the pile, “‘cause it’s big.”

“Huh, where have I heard that before?” He pretends to think, a smug smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

You roll your eyes, shoving him back by his shoulder and scoffing, “you’re on another one today, I swear.”

“Just excited to celebrate you,” he grins, placing a quick kiss on your cheek before pulling the biggest present out of the pile.

You sit in one of his dining chairs, opening present after present, each one delighting you more than the last. Flashy and expensive; a new bag, two pairs of shoes that have been on your wishlist forever, jewelry until you’re dripping in diamonds and precious gems. Sweet and sentimental; a printed album of all your instagram posts since the two of you got together almost a year ago, a gold ring engraved with a handwritten message, a crystal picture frame with a shot of the two of you on his boat at sunset. 

You wonder if it’s possible for your heart to actually burst from affection.

When only one present remains, you eye the counter quizzically, waiting for him to bring you the little bag he had set aside. Rafe just makes himself busy picking up the discarded ribbons and wrapping paper, a little blush on his face as he focuses on the chore.

“Rafe…” you try to get his attention.

“Yeah?” He leans down to pick up a bow that had fallen under the table, when he stands, you step in front of him, grabbing the trash from his hands and setting it to the side. 

“I want my last present please,” you smile, hands cupped in front of you expectantly.

He scratches the top of his buzzed head, taking a deep breath, “why don’t we wait? I booked you a spa appointment so you should probably get ready…”

“Rafe,” you cross your arms over your chest, “why are you being all squirmy?”

“I don’t know, I just don’t know if you’ll like it, I don’t want you to think…anything.”

You had no idea what he meant by ‘think anything,’ but this whole you not liking something he took the time to pick out for you business was just nonsense. 

Wrapping your arms around his neck, you stood up on your tiptoes to place a soft, steady kiss on his lips. 

“Well I do know. I’m gonna love it, because you got it for me, and I love you,” you ease his worry.

You had told each other you loved each other for the first time a little over a month ago, but it still feels like fireworks everytime one of you says it. Nothing in life is sweeter than the sound of his quick, reassuring “love ya” before hanging up the phone, or his whispered, emotional “I love you so much,” when he’s buried inside you late at night.

“I love you too,” he grins.

“Good,” you place one more kiss on his lips, “then I would like my last present now, please.”

“Yes ma’am,” he smirks, walking you toward the kitchen, kissing you all the way as he backs you up step by step.

By the time you reach the kitchen island, you’ve almost forgotten about the striped gift bag waiting for you there, distracted by his lips and the cute little smooches they’re making against your mouth with each step.

He reaches back for the bag without pulling away, holding it behind his back as he ducks down for one last peck before swinging it forward and presenting it to you.

“We can take it back if you don’t li-” you silence him with a finger to his lips.

“Shhh, it’s my last present of the day, let me enjoy this,” you request.

He nods solemnly, waiting until you were looking away, too distracted by the tissue paper in the bag to see the smirk growing on his lips as he thought about his actual last present for you. A rush of nerves shoot through him as he pictures the little black velvet pouch sitting in his nightstand drawer. 

Obeying your request, he bites his tongue as you pull out the rest of the tissue paper. When you finally see what’s sitting in the bag, a slow, delighted smile spreads across your face. You don’t pull the gift out, just bite your lip as you blink up at him through your lashes. His cheeks are adorably pink. 

He’s never bought you lingerie before. He’s seen you in plenty of it, though. Hell, he cleared a whole drawer for you like a month after you started dating, telling you to take as much space as you needed as long as he was the only one who got to see you in it. But the thought of him actually going into the store and asking the sales lady for exactly what he wanted to see you in, surely pulling out his black card and telling her the price tag was not an issue, made your belly tighten with lust.

“Ah I see,” you smirk, “it’s a present for me and for you.”

He nods with a lick of his lips, “you gonna try it on for me?”

You lead him to the chair you were sitting in to open presents, guiding him to sit and placing one more kiss on his cheek before excitedly padding to the bedroom to get changed. He watches you go with his tongue pressed into his cheek, readying himself, wondering how the fuck someone like him got lucky enough to be with someone like you.

Rafe had picked out the cutest little set for you. Matching floral bra and panties, sheer and constructed with hardly any fabric at all, a matching garter belt and thigh high sheer stockings. You gasp when you see the price tag, understanding now why the fabric feels so nice and the stitching is so intricate. 

You take your time pulling it on, both to be gentle with the expensive pieces and to tease the man waiting for you in the other room. The thought of him squirming in that chair wondering what the hell was taking so long makes you giggle.

“The fuck are you laughing about in there?” He calls out impatiently from the other room. “You’re killin’ me!” 

You laugh hard at that, head falling back in delight as you clip the last strap of the garter into place. You add a pair of kitten heels to tie it all together and run your fingers through your hair, one quick look in the mirror to appreciate yourself before stepping slowly from the room.

“Sorry to make you wait, baby,” you tilt your head apologetically and step towards him tauntingly. 

Rafe just smiles and looks to the ceiling, shaking his head slowly in disbelief.

“What?” You ask as you approach, hands finding his and bringing them to rest on either side of your waist.

His thumbs trace circles into your skin, “just don’t know how I got so fuckin’ lucky. Must’ve done something right in a past life.”

Your skin goes hot at his words, and the way his eyes are skimming over your body like you’re the eighth wonder of the world.

“Nah, I think you just did a lot of things right in this life,” you pull his arms so he’ll rise to his feet.

Rafe lifts his arm with his hand still holding yours, spinning you with his pointer finger like a ballerina, memorizing every inch of you as you twirl for him.

“No man could possibly be good enough to deserve you, baby,” he responds, his large, rough hands running over your bare hips, guiding you to hop up and wrap your legs around his waist. “I’m just the luckiest guy in the world.”

You kiss him, too overwhelmed by the way he’s looking at you and holding you up to say anything in response. No one has ever made you feel so special, so wanted. He’d kneel down and kiss your feet if you asked him to. But that’s not what you want right now.

“Need you, Rafe,” you mumble against his lips, legs squeezing him tighter, hands splayed on the back of his head like you’re trying to permanently seal his mouth to yours, “please.”

“You don’t gotta beg, angel,” he coos, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

“Cause it’s my birthday?” You tease.

“No. I’ll give you anything you want every day of your fucking life,” he swears, “you deserve the world.”

But you don’t want the world, you just want him.

“Fuck, Rafe,” you sigh, lowering your core over his growing hardness, playfulness gone and replaced by frenzied need.

In response, he shifts to hold you up with one arm, using the other to sweep aggressively at the counter and knock all its contents to the floor chaotically. You love him wild like this, complete disregard for the dishes and various items he’s just sent flying across the kitchen, too drunk on you to even attempt making it to the bedroom. 

He drops you onto the counter, not too hard to hurt, but just hard enough to make your tits bounce and a little “hmph!” to rise from your chest. You’re pulling him to you in seconds, nails clawing at his shoulders and the back of his head as his lips devour yours. He slots his hips between your knees, forcing your legs to fall open for him.

“Gonna make you feel so good, birthday girl,” he promises, chest hovering over you powerfully, lowering you slowly until you’re laying down on the counter, your legs dangling off the edge. 

He kisses down the column of your throat, nipping and nibbling all the way as he hooks his fingers to slip under the straps of the garter belt, pulling until the clasps break away from the top of your stockings with a snap!

You gasp, “you’re gonna break my present!”

“I’ll buy you a new one,” he shakes his head, bent in half to lower his mouth down your body, sucking purple splotches into the sensitive skin of your stomach, claiming you with every mark.

When he’s satisfied with his artwork, he lifts himself up, piercing blue eyes consuming you with an adoration you’ve never experienced before. You writhe a little under his hungry gaze, and his eyes wander to the panties he gifted you, corners of his mouth perking in a grin. His hand snakes up your thigh and he sweeps his thumb over your covered slit without warning, making you gasp and arch off the cold counter.

“Looks like you already made a mess of your present anyway,” his eyes twinkle with mischief as he spreads your wetness through the fabric.

“Can’t help it,” you whine under the pressure, “you always make me so fucking wet.”

He’s desperate to taste you, lowering to his knees and dragging your panties down with him. Gripping your hips, he pulls you to the edge of the counter, closer to his mouth. He nips at the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, the sting outweighed by the pleasure. 

You arch toward him, desperate to feel his mouth on you, but his fingers find you first. He spreads you, groaning a strained ‘fuckkkk’ at the sight. He gathers your slick onto his fingers so slowly, so deliberately, it’s driving you insane. 

Finally, finally, he lowers his mouth and licks, ever so gently, up your center. You’re on fire, the cold marble counter below you doing little to cool your spiked body temperature. 

Between deliberate licks he whispers praises, his tongue and voice taking turns worshiping you.

“Do you know I belong to you?” He confesses, his other hand gripping the edge of the counter so hard it almost cracks. “Do you understand that you fucking own me?”

“You talk so pretty, baby,” you moan, losing your grasp on language as he sends lightning bolts of pleasure shooting through your body, “love that mouth.”

“It’s yours,” he promises, finally lapping at your clit with a pointed tongue, “it’s all yours, everything I’ve got.”

“Just want you!” you cry out when he pulls the sensitive bud into his mouth and sucks hard.

“You have me, ‘m not going anywhere,” he says after releasing your clit with a pop. His middle finger, already soaked from you, dips into your entrance slowly. “You’re my everything, forever.”

Rafe continues to wrap you in soliloquies of praise as his other hand kneads the skin of your stomach reverently, like a potter molding his clay.

It’s these promises that make your head spin, drowning in the tapestry he weaves with his words until all you can think, all you know, is that you love him. When a second finger enters you and his mouth finds the spot he knows so well, everything in the world fades. The only thing that means anything is this man and the way he makes you feel.

His fingers twist and twirl inside you while his mouth works your clit. You’re beside yourself, feeling your release creep closer and closer with each flick of his tongue. You grab the edge of the counter top for purchase, but it’s not enough. Your hands paw at his head, wishing there was something more to ground you. 

You love his buzzcut, you had an appointment in your shared calendar each month for him to dutifully sit on a stool in the bathroom while you redid it with the electric clippers, but in this moment you wish for the first time that he’d grow it out. You tuck the thought away for later.

He loves the way you’re clawing at his scalp, and clenching around his fingers, knowing you’re close like he knows everything about you. He grabs one of your hands, offering his to you so you can squeeze as hard as you need to, loving the pain as he pushes you to the edge.

You cry out his name when you come, nearly breaking the bones in his fingers. He doesn’t stop until the very last wave of ecstasy rolls through you, his body hovering over yours as he soothes you through the cool down.

“You have no idea what you mean to me,” he whispers into your collarbone, following the vulnerable words with a shaky kiss.

“I think I have some idea,” your palm glides over his scalp, where you were just leaving scratches, inspecting to make sure you hadn’t done too much damage. “Because of how much you mean to me.”

He just shakes his head, his buzzed hair tickling your chin.

You both rise from the counter, Rafe straightening your lingerie set and taking in his gift to you one more time. He stands between your legs, fists on the counter as he leans forward on flexed arms.

“How am I supposed to top this?” You wonder aloud, hands smoothing over his shoulders and your head tilting in that adorable way he’s obsessed with.

“What do you mean?” He puzzles.

“When your birthday comes around,” you explain, “you’ve set the bar so high.”

Rafe smiles, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. His gaze wanders from you as he pulls back slightly.

“You don’t have to do anything,” he shakes his head.

“Are you joking? And miss the chance to celebrate you?” 

“We- I don’t really do birthdays,” he says, and before you can pry any further he adds, “plus yours isn’t even close to over yet.”

Rafe lifts you effortlessly from the counter, making you yelp in surprise. You rest your head on his shoulder as he carries you to the bedroom, thinking obsessively about the way he accidentally said ‘we.’

Your heart breaks picturing younger Rafe, no birthday candles to blow out on his big day, no crowd of friends and family singing to him, no one to make him understand how special and worth celebrating he is. 

No, that just wouldn’t do. You start planning the second he falls asleep that night, determined to make his next birthday the best he’s ever had.

-----------------ꪆৎ‎---------------------

for more boyfriend!rafe see my masterlist ♡

remember! writers live off replies and reblogs, don’t forget to feed your faves 😘

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ Game Set Match

♥ masterlist | request rules

♥ pairing: oscar piastri x olympic!tennisplayer!reader

♥ synopsis: with the help of carlos sainz and your brother carlos alcaraz, you were able to score a date with your favorite f1 driver

♥ smau - fc: women on pinterest - as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: swearing !!!

♥ a/n: here's some super late olympic fics

-July 28 2024-

liked by carlossainz55, carlitosalcarazz, arynasabalenka, and 406,271 more

ynalcaraz photo dump

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user7 the f1 in the second pic is so real

carlitosalcarazz she’s obsessed with that one mclaren driver

carlossainz55 @/carlitosalcarazz LANDO?!

carlitosalcarazz no the other one

carlossainz55 oh oscar

user1 PLS 😭

user2 THE DIFFERENCE LMAO

user4 new carcar lore

user10 y/n is just like me fr fr

user3 carlos sainz and the alcaraz siblings being friends was not on my 2024 bingo card

user8 I <3 them

user11 the collab we in fact knew we needed

user12 not carlos casually telling the whole world that y/n has a crush on oscar

user6 the fact that we got an oscar p2 today too

user5 SO hyped to see the both of them at the olympics

uer13 same !!!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

-left: your phone- -right: carlos a's phone-

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by carlitosalcarazz, landonorris, ynalcaraz and 294,923 more

f1gossip Oscar Piastri taking promotional pictures in Paris in time for the 2024 Olympics

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user1 y/n is shaking in her boots rn

user2 miss rabbit has fainted

user7 NAH HE SAW THE POSTS

user6 was he invited by a certain someone

ynalcaraz @/carlitosalcarazz YOU DIDN'T.

carlitosalcarazz I did

ynalcaraz blocked.

carlossainz55 I was expecting a thank you

ynalcaraz stop roping other carlos into this 😩

carlossainz55 you call me other carlos?

landonorris 🤣🫵

user3 ynoscar crumbs

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris, lewishamilton, and 593,502 more

oscarpiastri thanks for inviting me @/carlitosalcarazz and congrats on yours and @/ynalcaraz’s gold 🥇

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ynalcaraz @/carlitosalcarazz i fucking knew it

ynalcaraz anyway thanks tho osc 🥰

user1 the nickname.

carlitosalcarazz great to see you again

landonorris me wondering where my invite was

oscarpiastri me wondering where I asked

user12 PLSS

user14 the girls are fighting

landonorris its all good fun

user7 my pookies met

user3 the second picture is going down in sports history tbh

user5 congrats to them !!!

user6 am I fucking crazy or did he get those roses for y/n

user11 you're crazy

user8 @/user11 NAH NAH let them cook

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, lilymhe, and 1,492,753 more

oscarpiastri de nada

user6 I HATE ❌ TO SAY 🗣️ I TOLD YOU 🫵 SO

user2 AHHH

user4 the fact he got her flowers...

user3 just get married already

user10 I love them

user7 I'm so proud of her for winning gold today !!!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris, alex_albon, and 1,489,475 more

mclaren life rn

view comments

ynalcaraz why that picture of me 😕

mclaren sorry yn!!

ynalcaraz you’re forgiven admin 😚🫶

user1 THE FACT THAT LANDO AND OSCAR WERE FLIRTING WITH HER THE WHOLE VIDEO 💀

user2 it's mr steal your girl

user9 why was oscar actually so good tho

ynalcaraz he should sign up for aussie's team

user10 @/ynalcaraz I think he was trying to impress you

lilymhe golf next

ynalcaraz i second that

user8 @/mclaren admin were you the ballboy? 😭

mclaren I was and I'm proud

liked by charles_leclerc, user7, user1, and 394,473 more

ynalcaraz can someone tell @/carlossainz55 to stay out of my love life

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carlossainz55 I'm the one who got you the date ???

carlitosalcarazz I did all the heavy lifting

user1 c2 but not in the way you think

user7 @/user1 carlos got y/n in the charlos divorce

user3 I'd recognize those shorts anywhere lol

user4 bro made it SOOO obvious that it was him

user8 oscar we know its you open up

liked by oscarpiastri, carlossainz55, carlitosalcarazz, and 1,147,329

ynalcaraz "thank you carlos" we all say in unison

view comments

carlossainz55 you're welcome.

carlitosalcaraz it was about time

oscarpiastri I love you carino

ynalcaraz I love you too <3

lilymhe you and oscar too cute

ynalcaraz 🥹🫶

user3 thank you carlos

user1 thank you carlos

oscarpiastri thank you carlos 🫡

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

end notes: hi loves <3 I know this was a short fic but I hope you still enjoyed it! I'll hopefully be releasing some longer ones soon but I've been pretty busy recently.

[adragonprinceswhore]

Soft & Hard

Aemond Targaryen x Ex Girlfriend

Summary: How do you forget about Aemond Targaryen when he’s everywhere you look?

Warnings: 18+, AFAB reader, she/her pronouns, angst, emotional infidelity, descriptions of self-hatred, situationship, intoxication, smut, heavy petting, drunk sex, P in V, (some) size kink

Word Count: 4000

A/N: This has been plaguing my mind for weeks now, so I really needed to get it out of me and into the world. This can be read as a continuation of my Hockey player Aemond drabble, but can also be read as a standalone. Aemond is a hockey player in this modern AU! 🩵

You prop your feet up to rest on the sides of your bathtub, angling the shower head just right so it hits that spot that sends pleasurable shivers rippling through your body.

Your eyes are closed, and you’re desperately trying to visualise the hot guy from the TV series you’d just binged; mind racing through any arousing scenario you can come up with.

It’s not an easy task; keeping yourself occupied enough to not drift towards the very man you’ve vainly tried to erase from your memory. 

You don’t want to think about him. 

Thinking about him always leads to missing him. 

It leads to longing for him. 

No matter how badly he hurt you. No matter how much you rationalise your reasons for leaving, your stupid heart yearns to fill the hole he’s left behind. 

Pathetic.

You shut your eyes with more force, thinking of the hot TV character. Upping the pressure of the shower head, you imagine it’s him going down on you that’s causing the pleasure building inside. Your hips begin to shallowly sway back and forth, and low whimpering moans slip from your lips. 

As the pleasure builds and builds, the image in your head morphs; the hot TV guys’ hair turns silver, no matter how hard you try to stay focused. 

You’re close, so close, and just as you’re on the edge of pleasure, you hear him,

“You’re so pretty like this”

And you cum so hard you drop the showerhead in your grip, legs shaking as your hips jerk upward aggressively. 

Water sprays across the bathroom as the shower head falls, but you’re too lost in your own bliss to truly care, giving yourself a moment to just disappear into the fleeting, fierce pleasure consuming you. 

After a while, when your legs have stopped shaking and your cunt has stopped clenching around nothing, you turn the rampant shower head off with a sigh. 

The satisfaction of your orgasm is short-lived, promptly followed by the lonely reality of you chasing pleasure alone in your bathroom. You could stay in the tub and make yourself cum 10 more times and it wouldn’t change the loneliness residing inside of you. 

You could try to picture that hot guy from the show fucking you for hours, still you’d feel the same. 

Still, visions of him would cloud your mind. And the chill of loneliness would penetrate your bones, as it does right now. 

Because no one kisses your forehead afterwards, or holds you tight, or whispers sweet things into your ear. 

You're alone, and the warm water quietly splashing around you doesn’t stop the cold porcelain of your bathtub from chilling your heated flesh. 

You shiver. 

Sick of yourself; of your self-pity and hatred, you leave the tub and throw on a dressing gown, already on a search for a new distraction. 

Anything to take your mind off Aemond Targaryen. 

Forgetting Aemond was nearly impossible. 

Not only did your mind remind you of your heart’s longing for the man that broke it. The world did as well. Like when you overheard your colleagues discussing his latest game, and how skillfully he tackled his opponents, landing a blow on them so precise yet hard that they flew into the rink. Or when you got home after a long day and turned on the TV, greeted by him giving a post-match interview all sweaty and panting. 

The only way you knew him. 

Being restricted to seeing the man you’d spent countless nights together with through the TV screen has brought you to the conclusion that ultimately, your relationship hasn’t changed much. 

Sure, you don’t send him nudes anymore. Nor does he fuck you into the mattress of whichever hotel room he brings you to. 

But the distance is the same. The loneliness isn’t new; it always existed between the two of you. He never really cared to let you in. 

You were convenient. 

Pliable. 

An easy fuck. 

You should’ve realised it sooner. Like that time when Alicent Hightower, Westerosi socialite and Aemond’s mother, stopped by one of his practices. You were helping him lace his skates when she appeared, and as soon as he noticed his mum approaching, Aemond’s large hand gently but firmly pushed you away. 

Ms. Hightower’s curious gaze had asked about you, and her son huffed out, “She’s an acquaintance”

An acquaintance. 

Not even a friend. 

To you, Aemond was the first thing you thought about in the morning, and the last thing you thought about before going to sleep. 

To him, you were an acquaintance. 

Pathetic. 

That should have been the last straw. But you kept seeing him. Not even the humiliation and hurt you felt as you excused yourself and ran to the bathroom with tears in your eyes could stop you from craving him. That was the power he had over you.

The power he still has over you, even in his absence. Even if you blocked his number 6 months ago and haven’t seen him once since. 

The actual last straw was a message you’d gotten from an unknown number, asking if you’d send more of those “hot slutpics in dat black thong”. For a second you thought it was Aemond having a laugh, but the message didn’t sound like him, and he isn’t exactly known for being a guy that appreciates humour, or ‘pranks’.

Turns out, the number belonged to Aegon Targaryen, Aemond’s older brother and notorious fuckboy. Word around King’s Landing was that every girl who’d slept with him had gotten chlamydia, and still he seems to find a new conquest to throw his arms around each weekend. 

Perhaps the sleaziest guy in the Seven Kingdoms.

Turns out, it runs in the family. 

You blocked Aemond’s number that night. After swearing to never let your desire for him get the best of you again, you begged your friends to take you out and get you so shitfaced the humiliation Aemond had inflicted on you would be washed away. 

It didn’t work.

You’re still tainted by his touch. 

So you switch tactics. You look for someone else. 

About a month after you’d called things off with Aemond, you thought you’d found a good replacement. A nice, inconspicuous guy who was eager to please; eager to make you like him. You would’ve felt guilty, really, if the dark hole of lonely self-hatred in your chest didn’t outweigh your selfishness. 

And still, Aemond Targaryen was everywhere. 

You’d find him in that adoring look your new partner gave you as you sucked him off in the shower. You’d find him in bed, when you couldn’t sleep and imagined it was Aemond’s heavy arms holding you tight. You’d find him in your fantasies, seemingly incapable of coming with your new partner unless you closed your eyes and pretended the short, curly strands greeting your hand between your legs were actually long, silky and silver. 

Ultimately, your conscience caught up with you, and you broke things off with the new guy as well. He had told you that he loved you, and the sweetest of confessions felt like the sharpest of needles prickling your heart. 

Aemond never said it. 

Oh, how you wish it was him saying it. 

Sometimes, even after six months of not seeing him, you’re still surprised by how incredibly piteous he’s rendered you. 

Yearning for a man who only saw you as a plaything. Who only ever cared for you when you were conveniently there for him to do as he pleased with. Who refused to expose your relationship to his mother, and shared your nudes with his brother. 

Fucking prick. 

Today’s Friday. 

Single and lonelier than ever, you beg your friends to go out dancing with you. It’s become your new weekend ritual; go out and dance until your feet hurt and you’re so tired you collapse on your bed, mind delightfully empty. 

Now, you're back on the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes closed as you sway to the music. 

You always drag your friends to the same place, The Three Towers, a nightclub of the slightly more exclusive kind, with proper DJs and strong drinks. 

They must’ve figured out by now that it was Aemond who introduced you to this place. You see it in the pitiful looks they give you every time you insist on coming here instead of going to any of the many other places in Oldtown. Their eyes say what you’ve known to be true for over six months;

Pathetic. 

It’s not like Aemond likes to go out anyway. He hates crowds, dislikes strangers, loathes the fake people gathering around him to tell him empty words of adoration. 

But that one time you’d wanted to go dancing, he’d brought you here. 

Maybe he brings all his “acquaintances” here. 

You tell yourself that you don’t come here for him, that it just happens to be a great place, but still, every time you catch a glimpse of something silvery in the corner of your eye, dread punches you in the gut. 

Why do you seek him out when you know actually meeting him would destroy you? What if you saw him here with another girl? Maybe one of the models his brother so often gifts his infected cock to? 

Tumultuous thoughts swirl in your mind until you notice that the flash of silver isn’t Aemond’s hair at all, and ease settles over you. Well, something akin to ease. The self-hatred is still there,

Pathetic. 

Your feet quickly carry you to the bar, eager for more of the numbness only alcohol provides. You order another G&T and almost spit it out after the first sip; it’s basically all gin.

Good.

You take three large gulps and move back to the dancefloor, searching for your friends who you’ve lost in the crowd of intertwined bodies. 

You scan your surroundings, and then it happens again. A flash of silver. Only this time, it’s him. 

You remember the first time you saw him. TV appearances and watching him on the ice doesn’t do him justice. In person, his ethereal beauty’s blinding. Just like it is now. One of the spotlights over the sofa he sits on hits his hair, causing it to glow like the beacon of a dark night at sea. 

Calling you in. 

Your feet work by themselves as they walk towards him. You panic, desperately searching for any excuse to talk to him. 

What do you say? 

Suddenly you’re right before him, drink in one hand and the other nervously touching your hair as you dumbly stare at him. He looks up from the drink in his hand, a whiskey on the rocks you’d guess, and meets your eyes. 

His gaze is cold and stoic. 

Unimpressed. 

He raises an expectant eyebrow. 

And yet you say nothing. All the witty, insightful, hard-hitting truths you’d wanted to tell him for the last six months vanish as you stand before him frozen in panic. 

Pathetic.

Pathetic. 

Pathetic!

You have nothing. Your mind’s empty, the only thing you can do is feel. Feel the self-hatred, the loneliness, the insecurity he’s inflicted upon you. 

He rolls his eyes. Aemond’s not known for his patience, “If you’re looking for that new boyfriend of yours, he’s not here”

“I don’t have a boyfriend”, you blurt out, prompted by the shiver running through you caused by the venom dropping from his words. He sounds so hateful. 

He stands abruptly, forcing you to take a faltering step back as he tower over you,

“Come”

He takes the drink in your hand and places it on a nearby table before grabbing your hand and leading you out of the rowdy club. The chill of the night air hits your scarcely clad body as he drags you towards a cab waiting outside, your ears still ringing from the loud music in the club.

He opens the door and pushes on your arm to get in. His touch is still impossibly warm; just as you remember it. 

He slams the door shut and walks around to the other side, getting in and grunting an address you’ve never heard of to the taxi driver.  

You know your friends would be furious if they knew who you left with, so you send them a quick text stating that you’ve left ‘cause you didn’t feel well. 

You place your phone back in your purse and look outside. It seems like you’re driving towards the north part of the city, a place you hardly know. 

The deafening silence in the taxi is so tense, any sane person would ask the driver to stop and get out in a heartbeat. 

Aemond, sitting next to you with his jaw clenched and fidgeting with his customised black and red lighter, sends nervous ripples of fear through your being. You know he’s contemplating something, yet you wouldn’t dare ask. 

Any sensible person would get out. 

But you can’t. 

Because he still smells the same. And it’s everywhere in the stuffy cab. And your heart hurts, a tear threatens to spill, because you’ve missed it all so much; his smell, his hair, his voice, his touch. 

Him.

The silence persists, until you're finally freed as the taxi driver stops and Aemond hands him a few copper stars. 

You get out and take a deep breath of the late summer night's air. The buzz of alcohol still clouds your judgement somewhat, yet you feel more aware of yourself than ever before. 

You look around and see Aemond approach the entrance to a sleek building in that brutalist, modern design, and you follow in tow. He still hasn’t said anything, and neither have you.

You get in a lift, go up to the top floor, and enter a dark flat with only a small table lamp lit by the entrance, obscuring your view of the place. 

Just as you make way to move further into the room, Aemond hinders you. 

He doesn’t allow you entrance to the rest of the space, cornering you against a low side table by the entrance door. He’s so tall, and so broad, you disappear into the wall as he steals all the space around you. 

“Why did you agree to come with me?” 

He’s so close you feel his breath tickle your skin. It’s too dark to truly see the expression on his face, but the shadows cast on him makes him look stern. The smell of him intensifies. You feel warm.  

This is all you’ve wanted. All you’ve feared. 

You still desire him so.

“You told me to”

He’s quiet for a moment, and you know it’s because your reply’s caught him off guard. He’d assumed you’d fight back, jab at him in some way. He tries again,

“My mate saw you at that club last week, you know”

Is he keeping tabs on you? 

“What happened to your boyfriend?” 

How does he know about that? 

You swallow, “Nothing. It just wasn’t right” 

“Hm”

Your eyes are locked together, his mismatched gaze just as alluring as you remember it. Without looking away, he brings a hand up to gently stoke the cold skin of your arm. 

The harshness of his stare falters, 

“Did you miss me?” 

“Did you miss me?” 

The retort leaves your lips before you register it forming in your head. Can’t give in to him that easily. Can’t make your suffering known to the person causing it. 

The harshness reappears. 

“Did he fuck you the way you like?” 

His tone is cold, yet heated with anger. The same hateful tinge from before. 

Your drunk mind works without you operating it, 

“He wasn’t you”

The confession slips out, and so does the pitifulness. The loneliness. The pathetic mess you’ve become. 

Aemond didn’t expect your admission either, eyes narrowing in suspicion, 

“What do you mean?”

Is this the time? 

To tell him how utterly devastated you’ve been without him? How he plagues your mind? How your entire being is tainted by him? 

No. 

“Why did you bring me here?”, you ask, foggy mind finally cooperative enough to let you change the subject.

“Because you wanted me to”, he replies, the gentle hand on your arm suddenly travelling down to caress your exposed thigh before  harshly cupping your cunt. 

A startled gasp espaces your lips. 

His touch is so nostalgic it travels from your aroused core to your heart, and squeezes it painfully.  

His hand is big enough to cover you entirely, and with the heel of his palm, he pushes harshly where he knows your swollen clit lies obscured under your panties. His long finger taps against your hole, and he huffs a quiet, condescending laugh as he feels how moist the fabric is.

When did you get this wet? 

You feel the heat of his touch radiate from his palm to your cunt, so persistent it finds its way through your underwear. He only moves his hand to stroke you over the fabric and press at your clit, but the gratification of finally being granted his touch works you towards release at a speed you’d thought impossible. 

“Still a little slut for me”  

He brings two fingers up to press right over your clit, rough circles demanding that you obey his touch and come for him. 

His breathing hard through his nose, the look in his eye is hard to decipher, 

Arousal? 

Fury? 

Fuck it feels good to be pushed against a wall by him. To be subjected to his rough treatment. Anything to feel his touch on you again. 

Your hips move upwards to meet his fingers; you’re so close to falling apart. 

“You missed me. And that fucker you were seeing couldn’t compare to me. Isn’t that right?” 

He spits out the words, teeth grazing the shell of your ear as he leans even closer. 

Your arms have been hanging limply at your side, and you have to fight the sudden urge to grab him and press him against you. To feel him closer. 

“Did he make you this wet?”

Aemond’s tongue licks the sensitive spot behind your ear and you moan loudly, fully consumed by the way his fingers push you towards release. 

You angle your face so that his mouth is right by yours. With parted lips, you look up at him pleadingly, begging him to kiss you. 

Something in his eye shifts, and a victorious smirk breaks out over his face, 

“Come”

And you do. So hard you see stars and your legs give out. The pleasure is intense, it steals everything from you; your breath, your senses, your self-discipline. 

Your hands fly to Aemond’s biceps, anchoring yourself to him as your body twitches forcefully in the pleasure rupturing you. It’s cathartic; a long awaited release only his hands can coax out. 

When you come back to reality, to the dark hallway you're trapped against Aemond’s body in, the dreaded self-hatred you’d gotten to know so well makes itself known again. 

The brutal reality of exactly how far your pathetic infatuation with Aemond has driven you crashes over you like an ice-cold wave of regret. You feel hot tears well up in the corner of your eyes as they stay casted down, refusing to look up at the man who’s greatest pleasure in life seems to be to torment you. 

Why had he brought you here? Why did he enjoy hurting you? Why had you fallen for it? 

“What did I do to make you hate me so?” 

It’s the alcohol talking. Or maybe it’s the last thing you need to hear from him before you can finally let go. The last shard of your heart crushed in his grip. 

Silence is the only answer he gives you, and without looking up, you push him to move so you can get away from him. Instead of allowing you to leave, he brings one hand to your cheek, engulfing it in warmth, and drags your face upwards to meet his eyes. 

Before you can read his expression, he ducks his head down, letting his lips graze over yours. His tongue comes out to swipe over your lower lip in a slow, gentle caress that feels more sensual than anything you’ve ever experienced, and in retaliation your greedy arms pull him closer, eagerly kissing him back. There’s a slow urgency to the way his tongue seeks out yours, bending your body backwards to taste you deeper. You relish in it. 

You want him to eat you up. To devour you completely. You’re his anyway. 

Without breaking the kiss, Aemond leads you down the dark hallway and into a dimly lit room. The only thing you register is a large bed in the middle, where he takes a seat and keeps you standing between his legs, still kissing you. 

His hands roam over your body; over your exposed arms and legs. They find the zipper at the back of your dress and pull it down, slowly undressing you until you're completely bare. 

He stands for a brief moment to rid himself of his own clothes, and then sits again, guiding you to climb onto his lap. 

You follow his every command in enchantment. You grant him every kiss he seeks, allow him every touch he craves. He can have it all. 

He guides you to sink down on him slowly. You’re still so wet, yet he’s so hard your insides are forced to mould after his stiffness. 

Once he fills each part of you, he wraps your legs around his waist, sighing in satisfaction as he presses your body so close to his the skin of your torso sticks to his. 

“I won’t last long-”, he whispers into your ear, “-a 6 month wait is excruciating”

The touch that you’ve known as harsh and demanding is now so soft. So delicate it slowly picks up the shattered pieces of your broken heart and mends them together again with each gentle caress.

Your hands cup his cheeks, gazing into his lilac and blue stare as you slowly begin to move. 

Aemond doesn’t say anything, doesn’t say that one phrase that you want him to, but the look in his eyes is mesmerising. You’ve never seen him so vulnerable. It’s intimate.

He’s giving himself to you. 

You wrap your arms around him, accepting him. You want all of him, all to yourself. You’ve wanted him for half a year. You’ve wanted him since the first time you met him. 

He meets your hips each time you sink down, and the otherwise carnal pursuit for pleasure feels dreamlike as Aemond’s arms envelop you and you disappear into him. 

You want to say it, but not yet. You don’t dare. Would he retreat again? You know it to be true, but it’s too early. Maybe someday. 

Instead, it’s Aemond who speaks over the moans and sighs of pleasure,

“Don’t leave me again” 

You don’t know how long you fuck, but each orgasm feels more consuming, more powerful, than the last. Ultimately, you collapse together on the bed, legs and arms still intertwined. The familiarity of Aemond’s heavy arms over your waist soothes you, yet the soft sheets of the bed provide a stark contrast to the stiff, clinical sheets of the hotel rooms he’d always brought you to before. 

There’s nothing left between you, no more layers to shed, so you ask him about everything that had led up to your separation. About how he dismissed you in front of his mother, and about the text from his brother. The latter seems to genuinely surprise him, 

“I’ve never shared your pictures with anyone, especially not him” 

Guess Aegon Targaryen isn’t above snooping through his brother’s stuff. 

You talk all night, and Aemond tells you about his strained relationship with his family, “My family has an ability to ruin things for me”, he confesses, “I didn’t want that to happen with you”

As the rays of sunrise begin to seep through the window, you admit to the loneliness that’s been eating away at you since parting from Aemond. 

He cups your cheek again, thumb stroking your cheekbone,

“I fucked up. I’ve missed you more than I thought possible”

Your loneliness hadn’t been solitary. He’d felt it too. You’d shared it. 

You lay your head on his chest, listening to the slow drum of his heart. Before it lulls you to sleep, you remember the last thing you’d like to ask him,

“Aemond, where are we?”

“My place”

A/N: I never know if I should write it as come or cum? After some studious research (not), I decided that come is the original and therefore works better! Thank you for reading, I write these drabble for fun to improve my writing, so don't be too harsh please 🫶🩵

[sturnioz]

shy!reader is left alone for the weekend while fratboy!chris is at the fraternity formal — but when the weekend is over... ⌞ part one ⌝

when you found out that this weekend would be spent without chris—a weekend without raging frat parties—you initially thought it might be a refreshing break, envisioning peaceful days for you to relax.

instead, you were extremely unprepared for the loneliness that quickly settled in.

with most of your friends away at the fraternity formal, the apartment felt stark and empty. nick generously spends friday and saturday with you, easily distracting you from the hollow ache in your chest and the gnawing sense of isolation, and you're grateful for his company.

but sunday arrived, suffocating you with eerily silence.

you sit on the couch, the stillness of your apartment pressing in around you, unsettlingly quiet, and you fidget restlessly, trying to push away the spiralling thoughts in your mind as you stare at the flickering tv screen. one of your favourite series is playing, yet it fails to bring the comfort and joy you so desperately crave.

eventually, your hand gravitates towards your phone resting on the arm of the couch, and despite the nagging voice in your head urging you to leave it untouched, curiosity pulls you in. you open the instagram app, and you're instantly bombarded by a flood of posts.

you smile softly, liking the ones posted by kitty and matt, as well as your friend and nate. you even double-tap a few pictures from the other frat boys too. but when chris' post appears, you smile falters.

your thumb hovers over the heart button, and a heavy weight settles in your throat, making it difficult for you to swallow. why didn't he tell you about the formal? why didn't he invite you? did he go with someone else? the answer to that last question becomes painfully clear as you begin to swipe through his posts, and you freeze upon seeing a photo of him standing in front of a mirror, and cherry by his side.

he went with cherry? the last girl he was sleeping with? the realisation hits you like a brutal punch to the gut, and suddenly, you're gasping for breath, the air feeling thick and constricted in your lungs as your heart races with a mix of hurt and confusion.

you know you have no right to feel this way. you are chris are not even dating; you're just sleeping together. it's casual. yet, the pang of betray still cuts deep and you shut your phone off and place it down, your hands trembling slightly as you rub your chest uncomfortably, trying to soothe the ache that has settled there.

you sink deeper into the couch, wishing you could escape the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside you — the loneliness, the shock, and the sharp sting of feeling left behind. you wish you could silence the nagging thoughts that tell you you should be okay with this, that you should just let it go.

but the truth is, it hurts more than you want to admit, and you can't shake the feeling of being pushed to the side in a situation that was never supposed to matter this much to you.

when monday rolls in, you find yourself slipping back into your familiar routine — consciously pushing aside the worries and pain from the weekend as you greet your hungover friend as she stumbles into the apartment, giggling softly as she dramatically slumps on top of you, declaring how much she missed you.

fortunately, your professor called in sick, granting you a day off, so you settle in, spending your morning in your room as your friend fills you in on what happened on the weekend. you nod and hum along, smiling at her explaining to you how drunk she had gotten, but your amusement falters when she suddenly brings up chris.

"everyone thought you were going with chris, you know," her says, her voice still croaky as she rubs her tired eyes with a yawn. "so when you didn't show up, everyone just assumed that he'd be going alone, just to get fucked up or whatever."

"but..?" you press quietly, already bracing yourself for the answer you dread but need to hear.

"he went with some sorority girl — cherry, i think her nickname is? 'cos of her red hair and fucking insane double d's. i'm jealous," she huffs beside you, craning her head on her pillow to look at you. "are you okay?"

her words hit you, dragging you back into the painful reality you've tried to forget about and you swallow hard, attempting to compose yourself.

"yeah, m'fine," you reply, but the tremor in your voice gives you away. you force a fragile smile. "promise, i'm good."

even if she doesn't believe a word that came out of your mouth, she doesn't press the issue, which you're grateful for. instead, she shifts the conversation to something completely different.

throughout the day, you remain in your apartment, working on assignments, baking treats with your friend, and crocheting. you even eat popcorn and watch your favourite shared movies.

yet, every so often, your phone buzzes beside you, lighting up with notifications. you take small glances at the screen to read, but each time you see the name, you choose to push the device to the side, ignoring the person on the other end.

© STURNIOZ

[saltylemontears]

.jpg || ln4

summary: lando.jpg has posted...some interesting stuff warnings: none, just lots of fluff a/n: had to take a break from my george fic because i accidentally made it sad lol, this is very short, just a word vomit tbh

fuel my creativity here!

click!

the first time, lando doesn't notice. he's way too focused on his engineers explaining the race strategy to hear the camera shutter. you squint a little, trying to get the perfect angle.

you were not a photographer. far from that, actually. the camera feels a bit too heavy and unnatural in your hands and you need to do multiple takes every time, because it just doesn't look right. but god, it is fun. you can see why lando enjoys it.

click!

lando's sitting in his car already, sharing some thoughts with an engineer before the race, helmet already on, gaze focused, burning with that passionate look you fell in love with.

you crouch behind a mechanic and quickly snap a few pictures, fiddling with the focus of the camera until it centers on lando's eyes, capturing his look in detail.

you hide the camera when he looks at you for the last time before going on the track and smile to yourself when he waves at you.

click!

your arms begin to hurt after a few minutes of standing beside the track with the camera. this being your fourth attempt at taking a cool shot of lando's mclaren speeding past you, you start becoming slightly impatient.

the car goes into frame and you press the button like crazy, trying to get at least one decent photo in that speed, trying to capture the incredible atmosphere of the singapore gp.

and, fourth time really is the charm, because it comes out perfect.

click!

tears stream down your cheeks and you can't see anything, let alone the camera, so you blindly press the button, not even focusing on centering the shot.

lando's standing on the podium, in first place, and you've seen this before, but you'll never get tired of the sight of him on the top step, seeing the passion and happiness in his eyes as he holds up the trophy.

when he looks down at you, aiming the champagne bottle at you, you manage to raise the camera once more and photograph the way he looks at you with so much pride.

for once, you don't mind having champagne in your hair.

click!

it's way after midnight when you come back to your hotel, both pleasantly drunk off of victory and questionable alcohol, the loud music still echoing in your head. lando looks at his trophy again and you can't help but smile.

he always savors his wins so much, with so much gratitude, and god, you love him so much.

you take a picture when he turns his back to you to put the trophy on the small table in the hotel room, but this time there's no loud noises to cover the shutter.

lando shoots you a pointed look. "the fuck was that?"

"nothing, an accident. sorry!"

you kiss him to distract him, switching the mood.

+click!

this time, lando knows.

he's sitting beside you, smile brighter than ever, and you're taking a selfie of the two of you with the camera. in the next, he's pressing a kiss to your cheek.

you smile to yourself looking at the pics. your plan's slowly coming together.

with the help of your hand running through his curls, lando falls asleep in your arms, giving you time to finish what you started.

you import the shots into your laptop, logging in to instagram.

lando's never hidden anything from you - not even his instagram passwords, and that's how you find yourself uploading the shots on his lando.jpg account.

you take some time to think of a caption, but eventually, you figure it out.

"through my eyes. love, y/n."

you hit send, leaning your head against lando's. he'll have a nice surprise to wake up to.

[aceyalonso]

f1 drivers & how they express their love

drivers : oscar piastri, lando norris, charles leclerc, lewis hamilton, carlos sainz, max verstappen, george russell, franco colapinto

warnings/notes : none!

song: hold me down - daniel caesar

a/n : i love this song so much

main masterlist | taglist form

ʚ oscar piastri - remembering the little things

oscar always made it a point to remember the little things. whether it be how you prefer coffee or tea, or how you told him you fell off a chair as a child when you two were still friends, he will remember it.

he gets very shocked when you ask him how he still remembers something you said like 3 years ago and just stares at you like "so I was just supposed to forget about that???"

you end up just staring at him, not sure how to react because why the hell is his memory so good? you definitely won’t do anything embarrassing around him for a while because you’re scared he’ll remember it for the next 10 years (he will)

ʚ lando norris - giving gifts

i feel like lando is a giver (in terms of relationships). he's always getting you random stuff from whatever race you can't go to, he'll be complaining about how his luggage is too heavy but he's so willing to carry it because his gift is inside

he could be calling you, waiting on a couch for his next flight, talking about how the race was, what happened on the track, etc. when he suddenly starts complaining about how it's so heavy (and accidentally reveals his surprise gift) "yeah! and then- this bag is so damn heavy... you're so lucky I'm willing to carry this bag I got you"

the moment he realizes he accidentally told you about the (not so) surprise, he just starts freaking out like “WHAT??? WHAT BAG? HAHAHA WHAT? 😅😅😅 WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT” (some fans have caught this on camera at the airport; some drivers still clown him about it)

ʚ charles leclerc - name a song after you

charles has always been a romantic, planning dates, making sure he spends enough time with you, making sure you feel loved and seen, so what better way to show that by naming a piece he made after you?

if he would get asked why he named that song after you he'd simply say "oh, uhh, I named it after my girlfriend, but you guys already knew that- I named it after her because, well, she reminds me of a soft but loving melody, it took me a while to get it perfect- to make sure each note would be perfect."

the fans 100% gush over it, but you’re not too shocked. charles has always been one to think out each gift, each little detail, and how each would fit with the one he’s giving/dedicating it to.

ʚ lewis hamilton - leaving little notes

lewis is always at work, whether it be to race, to train, to do photoshoots for some magazine or interview, he's always never home. since the start of the relationship he has always insisted that you stay at his place, so roscoe can keep you company and whatnot. so during the times he has to leave early for work and you’re staying at his place he’ll always leave little post-notes around the house

when you wake up and he’s already gone, there’s a small note on your phone or glasses, “hi sweetheart, already left for work, love you!”, then when you’re in the kitchen there’s another note saying “made your favorite food earlier, make sure to heat it up :)”

or maybe when he can tell you’re a bit down or not in the mood, he’ll leave little motivational messages/reminders throughout the house like “make sure to take a break” or “don’t forget to eat and drink water”

ʚ carlos sainz - keeping your picture in his wallet

to carlos, it’s his way of subtly saying “i have a girlfriend”. he has this polaroid picture of you, it was a picture he took on your guys’ first anniversary, and it’s one his many favorites too

he also thinks of it as like… taking you with him when you have work, he ends up calling it his lucky charm too, saying it gives him financial luck and stability (even though you’re probably the reason he will go broke one day)

one of the paparazzis spotted him one day, he was out with his family, and paid for something, the paparazzi ended up capturing a glimpse of his wallet, the polaroid tucked in a clear ID/card holder. he was very happy to explain it the reporter that asked him about it. “ah… i keep her photo there for goodluck. she can’t be with me for every race because she’s working, so this is the best i could do.”

ʚ max verstappen - protective instincts

in max’s eyes you were something worth protecting- like some precious jewel. with that said, he always makes sure you’re safe.

for example, you guys are walking on the sidewalk, on the way home from a date and he just says“liefje, can you move to this side?” or when you’re leaning down and there’s a sharp counter corner, and he places his hand over it so you won’t hit your head

he is also REALLY protective of you when it comes to people he doesn’t really like/know. a random man could be flirting with you and he’d come up behind you, saying “hey, there’s an emergency with the car, can you come with me?” but when you both get to the car he just tells you “we’re going home, i don’t like the way he was looking at you.”

ʚ george russell - meaningful gestures

george is one of the few drivers on the grid that openly show how much they love their girlfriend, with that said, george’s way of showing affection isn’t limited to just giving you a brand new coach bag or taking you on a 2 week trip to some tropical island.

he says that he wants to show his love in a more “chivalrous” or “traditional” way, and so he does. he holds open the door for you, walks you to the car door, opens said car door, and sometimes cook for you when he’s not that busy with work

also, he would definitely lend you his jacket but not without giving you a little sermon about it. “see? i knew you’d get cold- i told you again and again, ‘bring a jacket, bring a scarf’ but you didn’t, so now here we are.” while he’s putting his jacket on you and wrapping the scarf around your neck

ʚ franco colapinto - secret handshakes & inside jokes

franco is 100% the type to fall in love with his bestfriend, and he’ll tease his girlfriend every chance he gets, he’s the type of person that sees his partner as his equal, his bestfriend, his partner in crime

you two already had many inside jokes and secret handshakes, i mean you two were bestfriends friends before you were lovers so when you posted a tiktok of you guys recreating some old videos from when you guys were in elementary or highschool

in an episode of team torque, alex brought up the fact that lily made him do some tiktok trend, franco takes the chance to talk about you too “ah yeah, my girlfriend made me recreate the video our parents took of us when we graduated, it was the handshake we made when were like… 7? 9? the last part where we slap each other is an inside joke we added 1 month before graduation”

taglist:

@nepobbylver @wobblymug @xoscar03 @irishmanwhore @nitiii

@anamiad00msday @morgrinha @zestytimbit @si1ver06 @lilorose25

@livsturnioloo @callsignwidow @tgif5577

[goldfades]

LATE-NIGHT CALLS ─── JOE BURROW

request: "I feel like Joe would always insist on calling you after every game even the late ones. Even if it’s just a sleepy, half-coherent conversation he refuses to go to bed without hearing your voice"

Joe's post-game ritual has always been the same: shake hands, hit the showers, face the press, and head home. But since the two of you started dating, he added a new step—one he never skips. No matter the hour, no matter how late the game runs or how exhausted he is from the rush of adrenaline and the strain of the field, he calls. Even if it’s the kind of late that makes your voice thick with sleep and your words slur together, he’ll still dial your number, waiting for the soft click of your sleepy “Hello?” on the other end.

You used to worry about his exhaustion, insisting he could wait until morning, but Joe’s stubbornness won out. It’s his way of winding down, he says, the easiest way to let the adrenaline taper off—to hear you, half-awake and warm under your blankets, murmuring about your day or teasing him for that one pass he wishes he’d thrown differently.

Tonight, the call comes later than usual, your phone buzzing on the nightstand as you squint at the clock—well past midnight. You know the routine by now, though. His name glows on the screen, and you don’t hesitate to answer, even if you’re barely awake yourself. Because somehow, even in those moments of barely-there conversation, there’s something grounding, something steady in the sound of his voice—low and sleepy and comfortable.

The phone buzzes again, and you let out a small sigh, rolling over in the sheets that are tangled around your legs. It’s late—way too late for anyone but him. You fumble for the phone, knocking your book off the nightstand in the process, and finally manage to answer on the last ring.

“Hey,” you say, voice thick with sleep, barely more than a mumble. Your eyes are still closed, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice before he even speaks.

“Hey,” he says, sounding tired but happy. There’s a warmth in his voice that makes you want to sink deeper into the blankets, your body relaxing even as you struggle to stay awake. You hear a faint rustling on his end of the line, the sound of him settling into whatever hotel bed or quiet corner he’s managed to find for this call.

“How’d it go?” you ask, even though you watched the whole game with half your attention, laptop open on your lap as you listened to the announcers shout his name. You already know he won. You can tell just by the way he’s breathing—steady and content, like the weight of the world isn’t pressing on his shoulders anymore.

“We got the win,” he says, and you can practically picture the satisfied grin tugging at his lips. “Defense pulled through. Felt good. Tired, though.” There’s a pause, just long enough for you to hear the creak of the bed as he stretches out, and you imagine him there, hair still damp from the shower, pillow propped against the headboard, eyes half-lidded and heavy.

“You sound tired,” you say, letting your own eyes drift shut again, his voice washing over you like a lullaby. He always sounds different after a game—softer, looser, the careful edges he keeps in place during the day falling away in the quiet of the night.

“Yeah,” he admits, a low chuckle humming in his throat. “Long night. But I’m good. Needed to call you first.” He says it like a fact, like calling you is as essential as breathing, and it makes something warm settle in your chest, even as you struggle to fight off sleep.

You know what he looks like right now—can see him so clearly it’s almost like you’re there. His face is flushed from the game, the last traces of exertion still lingering in his expression, and he’s got that soft, worn-out smile you only see when he’s alone with you. He’s probably half-reclined on some too-firm hotel bed, still wearing sweats and the hoodie he threw on over his jersey. You can picture the way his hand would brush over his face, rubbing at tired eyes, his fingers trailing down to the scruff along his jaw. He’s handsome in a way that doesn’t need effort, like he forgets sometimes that anyone’s looking.

“What’d you eat?” you ask, knowing he probably hasn’t had a proper meal yet. There’s a muffled sound, and you can almost see him shrug.

“Grabbed a sandwich at the stadium,” he says. “You know, the usual. But I’m not really hungry.” His voice is softer now, like he’s already sinking into the comfort of the call, the post-game rush fading away. There’s a beat of silence where neither of you say anything, just the quiet hum of the line connecting you, stretching across the miles.

His breathing evens out, and you know he’s lying back now, probably letting his eyes drift shut the way you are, letting the night pull him under. This is the quietest part of the day, the only time where everything seems to slow down, where it’s just you and him, your voices mingling in the spaces between words.

“Did you see the game?” he asks suddenly, and there’s a hint of teasing there, like he already knows the answer. He’s always known when you’re watching—can sense it in some unspoken way, even when you’re not at the stadium, cheering him on in person. You hum, the sound halfway between agreement and a sleepy sigh.

“Of course I did,” you say. “Saw that touchdown, too. You looked good out there.”

He chuckles, the sound low and deep, a bit self-conscious but pleased. “You think so?” he asks, his tone playful but with that slight, genuine curiosity you’ve come to love—like he still isn’t sure how you see him, even after all this time.

“Always,” you reply, and it’s true. Even when he’s a mess, jersey streaked with mud, hair wild from the helmet, he’s yours. There’s something honest about him on the field, something raw that you can’t help but admire. He doesn’t play with swagger—he plays with determination, with a kind of quiet, relentless grit that makes your chest tighten with pride.

“Wish you were here,” he murmurs, and there’s a softness to the words, a longing that cuts through the distance between you. You can hear the weight of it, the way he doesn’t mean for it to sound so heavy, but it does anyway.

“Me too,” you admit, turning onto your side, pressing the phone closer to your ear. You know he’s in some hotel room halfway across the country, the curtains drawn against the city lights, the room probably too cold for comfort.

And you’re here, in your own bed, miles apart but tethered by this line, by his voice, by the quiet spaces between breaths that are filled with the things neither of you say out loud.

It’s moments like this that make the distance feel bearable, moments where the miles don’t matter because it’s just you and him, lingering in the quiet of the night, holding on to the sound of each other’s voice like a promise.

“Get some sleep, Joey,” you say softly, knowing he won’t listen, that he’ll keep talking until he’s sure you’re drifting off, that he won’t hang up until he’s heard you yawn, heard the way your voice gets softer and softer until you can’t keep your eyes open any longer.

“Not yet,” he says, voice a bit firmer now, a smile tugging at the edges. “Just a few more minutes.”

You don’t argue, just let him fill the silence with the sound of his breath, the occasional murmur about a play or a moment you’d already forgotten, listening to the way his voice dips and slows, lulling you back to the edge of sleep. It’s the sound of home, you think, this quiet, late-night ritual that belongs only to the two of you—a secret shared in the dark, a comfort that’s become as essential as the game itself.

He keeps talking, his voice a low, steady hum, and you let yourself drift, knowing he’ll be there, knowing he won’t let you go until you’ve slipped back into the warmth of your dreams, his voice still echoing in the back of your mind long after you’ve hung up.

↳ make sure to check out my navigation or masterlist if you enjoyed! any interaction is greatly appreciated !

↳ thank you for reading all the way through, as always ♡

[ellecdc]

saw the blurbs rq post and immediately need

“i never knew i could feel this loved.”

w barty 🙏🙏🙏🙏

ugh friggen barty - I’ve missed him! Also sorry if it’s not too good, I wrote it on my phone. That means I also have no idea how long it is!! Thanks for the prompt 🫶

Barty Crouch Junior x Potter!reader who are at the manor over the school break

CW: touch starved barty (don’t worry, he gets touched), talking about grounding exercises, fluff

The school matron always told Barty to recite the “grounding lists” to help when things got to be too much.

What a load of rubbish. Who in the hells can recite 5 things they can see, 4 things they can hear, 3 things they can feel, 2 things they can smell, and 1 thing they can taste when they’re having a bloody fucking meltdown?

Not him, that’s for damn sure.

The only time Barty could imagine being able to do that was when he was already grounded.

Like now.

From his position on the sofa, laying on his stomach and situated between your legs with his face on your stomach, he could:

See

The plush, red velvet loveseat of the living room in your family home

The great expanse of pictures that hung along the walls of your living room

The half empty bowl of crisps the two of you had been sharing as you watched a movie

The throw blanket in a heap on the floor that the two of you kicked off of your intertwined forms

And the muggle tell-a-vision that was stuck on some fuzzy popcorn type screen because the two of you were too lazy to turn it off now that the movie was over

Hear

The low, staticky popcorn sound that the telly was making

The sound of your heart beat; so full of love that Barty swore it beat louder than anyone else’s

The distant sound of your parents laughing and conversing somewhere else in the manor

The sound of his thumb brushing over the space where the sleeve of your jumper gave way to the skin of your wrist

Feel

The rise and fall of your chest with every breath that you took

The fabric of the cashmere jumper he bought for you under his cheek

The warmth of your hand where it rested in his hair

Smell

The cinnamon and nutmeg candle you lit before the movie

The unmistakeable smell of you that Barty could never get enough of

And as he ran his tongue over his lips, he could still taste you from when you’d pressed a kiss to his lips before getting comfortable.

“Barty?” You whispered as though you weren’t sure he was still awake.

“Yes, my beautiful darling angel?”

You were quiet for a moment, and Barty could tell you were smiling to yourself.

“What are you thinking about?”

He lifted his head to rest his chin on your stomach so he could look at you; your hair was rather rumpled from the throw pillows, your eyes were clearly more than a little heavy, and Barty was sure that if you were alone, you’d probably be asleep by now. But you seemed to be putting 100% of your energy and effort into the loving gaze you were shooting at him, and Barty wondered - not for the first time - what in the hells he ever did to deserve you.

“I never knew I could feel this loved.” He admitted.

You froze for a moment; the breath you were in the middle of taking paused on its way out as your brows furrowed minutely before you expertly schooled your expression.

“Yeah?”

Barty hummed in agreement and pressed a kiss to your sternum.

“That’s funny,” you said as he lowered his cheek back onto your stomach, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

[frudoo]

I’ve only had your baker! simon for one day and I already know that I would cause mass destruction if something happened to him 😁 no but seriously such a cute and fun read I loved it thank you so much for sharing!

He is my BABY and I am obsessed <3

Part 2 of this!

Warnings: Simon is healing 🤍 Fem!Reader.

Simon’s heart skips a beat. It’s a scam, it’s got to be. No way such a pretty woman would dare talk to him, business move or not. Although, the more he looks through your profile and sees the amount of posts you’re tagged in, it’s easy to conclude that you are, in fact, real. Regardless, he’s still wary as he finally begins typing out a response.

— No charge? Sounds too good to be true. What’s the catch?

Maybe a little harsh, but hey—can never be too careful nowadays. If there’s one thing the military instilled in him, it’s to trust nobody. Simon flops down onto his couch, fingers anxiously tapping along his knee as he watches you type, the ellipses disappearing and reappearing again. He wonders if you’re just as nervous as he is, but if that were the case, surely you wouldn’t have contacted him first.

— No catch, I promise! No offense, it’s just that your pictures are a little grainy and I don’t believe they act as a great showcase for your talent. Really, I just want to show you how pretty your treats can look on camera!

Simon sucks his teeth stubbornly. He knows his pictures aren’t the best, but fucking hell, must everybody point it out? He’s about to type a scathing response and block you, but another message pops up beneath your previous one.

— Please, just a chance. We’re in the same area, so I can just come to you, wherever you want me.

A heavy sigh escapes the big man. His therapist has been telling him he’s too uptight, suggesting that he should balance out his peace by stepping out of his comfort zone once in a while. Besides, when’s the last time a sweet girl has given him the light of day? He’d be a fool to pass up this opportunity. Simon pinches the crooked bridge of his nose, trying to talk some sense into himself. It’s not like it’s a date, simply just two businesses helping each other out. If it doesn’t work, he never has to see you again.

Yeah, that sounds good. If everything goes up in flames, he can simply block you and move on with his life, continuing to post shitty pictures of his desserts. His thumbs twitch before tapping the screen once again.

— You’ve beat it out of me. When are you available?

Your response comes faster than he can blink.

— Saturday?

Two days. That gives him plenty of time to prepare (and maybe get Price to order an extensive background check on you). Simon can do that, no problem.

— I can be ready for you by about half 11.

Ready for you? Fucks’ sake, what is this? She’s not a bloody prostitute.

— That sounds good! Just send me your address day of. I’m looking forward to it!! :)

Simon smiles. Simon smiles, and he doesn’t even realize it. If he did, he would fix it immediately—but he doesn’t. Instead there’s a pep in his step when he stands from the couch, grabbing his journal and scribbling down his thoughts and ideas for what he’ll make on Saturday. His therapist will be proud.

Simon allows himself to be proud as well.

[keikikait]

ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴍᴇ ᴍᴏʀᴇ (ʀᴀꜰᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴇʀᴏɴ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ)

this is part two. for part one, click here!

pairing: rafe cameron x f!reader, (not au, both are early to mid 20's)

word count: 4.6k

summary: you wait up for rafe after he leaves you for sofia

warnings: ANGST/THEMES OF DEPRESSION. please only read if you're comfortable!, reader literally sits on her couch for 2 days, forced undressing (not sexually), no smut but they shower together, rafe is trying to be good i promise, i haven't finished s4 so if i get shit wrong about his house i'm sorry, not proofread

a note: ik i just posted part 1 yesterday but like. i had to keep cooking. let me know if you want a part three! also, i think this is my longest fic to date...

please reblog and like, it means a lot! let me know what you think!

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

You wait for him all day. Like the good girl he expects you to be.

You shower and pamper yourself, trying to take the edge off, but it’s all for naught. You were going to be an anxious, stressed mess until you heard those three knocks. You sit, fully dressed in a simple crop top and miniskirt, watching TV. You don’t dare move from this spot, just in case he decides to come home to you early.

The clock strikes one, and the waiting is too much for you. You're anxious, stressed, nervous; everything that you didn't want to be. The waiting feels like hours but also like seconds, the seconds ticking away painfully slow and too fast, the minutes and hours passing without your realization or intention.

You watch the TV with unseeing eyes, still sitting on the couch, fully dressed. And then it strikes two. And all you can do is wait some more. You don’t know how long you’ve been sitting there. You’ve already made it through a season of the show you were watching, mindlessly staring at the screen.

Sitting. 

Waiting.

The sun starts to set, orange and pink hues streaking across your living room. You don’t move from your spot, starting to grow even more anxious. The tag on your shirt is starting to irritate you, but you don’t dare to move. You didn’t want to miss him, didn’t want to miss the knocks from your bedroom. 

The sun completely sets, the only source of light coming from your TV. It’s just a few minutes after 6:00pm, but the room feels dark, so much darker than any other night before. Your phone vibrates, dancing across the coffee table, but it isn’t Rafe, so you don’t answer it, not wanting to miss the three knocks. Your patience grows thin, and each second feels like an eternity. Waiting is never a pleasant thing. Waiting for him is even worse.

6 PM turns into 9 PM, and suddenly it’s midnight. Rafe never came home.

You continue to stay up, pinching your arm occasionally to wake you back up. You didn’t want to miss him. You had a habit of being a heavy sleeper and sleeping in, and you knew that you would miss the knocks. 

You grab your phone, scrolling through Sofia’s Instagram with shaky hands. There was no point in checking Rafe’s, he barely posted. The little pink ring swims around Sofia’s profile picture, and you click on her story.

The first story is from 12 hours ago, showing a plate from a fancy brunch spot on the mainland. The date he ditched you to take her on. The next story is from 10 hours ago, a shot of both of their hands holding cups of ice cream on a pier somewhere. He was wearing the gold Ouroboros ring you bought him, and it makes your heart clench. The next story is from 7 hours ago, a selfie of her looking frustratingly gorgeous in Rafe’s bedroom, the covers pulled up over her bare chest.

Did they fuck? Even after everything that happened last night?

The last story is from 3 hours ago, a selfie of them together outside a sushi restaurant, her arm around his neck while he looks off into the distance, a cigarette in his mouth. He’s still wearing that stupid ring.

Did he forget about you?

It wouldn’t be the first time.

You hope, foolishly, that he would text you, tell you he’s running late and that he’ll be there soon. But he doesn’t. You don’t move to text him first, knowing he won’t respond anyway, especially if Sofia is next to him.

You set your phone down, feeling completely overwhelmed. The possibility of them sleeping together tonight makes you sick to your stomach, but you wouldn’t put it past Rafe to do something like that. Especially after what he said yesterday.

She’s my girlfriend.

And you were just his…what? His friend? His side chick? The other woman? A warm mouth and a tight hole that he sought out when he was done with Sofia’s shit?

You drop your phone onto the floor, grabbing the pillow from under your head and pressing your face into it, trying to silence your sobs. It takes everything in you not to scream into the pillow, your body shaking with the force of your sobs. How could you be such an idiot? He never fails to make you feel so naïve. You thought last night would change everything between the two of you, but it didn’t. 

All it did was remind you how worthless you were, that you were just his second best. Maybe the picture that you painted of him looks better in your mind.

You suddenly jump when your window slams shut. It blows open again before slamming once more, your curtains rippling with the wind. You get up, shuffling across the room. You shut the window, drawing the curtains closed, but not before looking out of them to see if Rafe’s car was parked outside. 

It wasn’t.

You lay back down, resting your head on your pillow, starting to stare at the screen again. You make it through a few more episodes of whatever the hell you put on before it suddenly shuts off. Even the show’s characters didn’t want to be with you. Your head is pounding, your throat is dry, and your eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from your tears. Your heart aches, and your lungs sting with every breath you take.

You don’t even move to turn the TV off or try to fix it. You just lay there, crying in the light of the TV static.

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The sun rises, and you don’t get up at first. 

You didn’t want to move, just in case he showed up, but part of you knew deep down that he wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon. You fix the TV before laying back down, staring mindlessly at the screen, trying to distract yourself. You reach down onto the floor, grabbing your phone. You check Sofia’s Instagram again. The little pink circle around her picture taunts you. You click on it anyway, wiping the tears out of your eyes.

Joining the remaining stories from yesterday is one new post. A selfie of her with a clay facemask on, one eye closed as she blocks the sunlight with her hand, lounging beside Rafe’s new pool. She’s wearing a necklace with a diamond ‘R’ charm on it, as if she’s personally rubbing it in your face.

You lock your phone, putting it down on the floor before sliding it away with a flick of your wrist. It doesn’t go far, hitting one of the legs of your coffee table. You change the show on your TV, picking some true-crime documentary before laying your head back down.

You watch the show with distant eyes, feeling completely numb. You don’t know why you keep checking her account, knowing it would just make you feel even worse. But you do it anyway, because maybe deep down you deserve it. You think about texting him, asking him if he’s coming over today. But you don’t dare. You don’t want to come off as a clingy whore. 

Your phone buzzes from the floor, vibrating the coffee table, startling you. You stay on the couch, reaching across the floor with one hand and grabbing your phone. You eagerly turn it over, expecting it to be from Rafe, maybe a long apology text, or even just a simple ‘On my way over.’ The phone doesn’t immediately light up. You hate that feature. You tap on the screen, your face immediately falling.

It’s just an email from your electric company about your mid-cycle usage report.

You let out a sharp scream, chucking your phone against the wall. It doesn’t shatter, but it bends around the sharp corner of the plaster.

The scream of frustration is cathartic, but it doesn’t last long. It’s quickly replaced by the feeling of loneliness that has become so common these past few days. But right now, it seems like a million times more unbearable. You start to cry again, burying your face back into your pillow.

The sun sets, and then it gets dark. You don’t move.

You can’t move. What if he comes back? What if this is the time he knocks? You can’t miss them. You can’t miss him. You curl yourself into a pathetic heap on the couch, hoping that he’ll come back. He will. He has to. He has to know how miserable you are. He has to realize how badly he’s hurting you and actually care about it this time. 

But each hour feels even more hopeless than the last. You stay up, wide awake, all night thinking about him. You don’t hear a single knock. You don’t see any headlights or cars pulling up into your driveway. There’s nothing but crickets in the distance and the sound of your heartbeat in your ears.

You barely pay attention to the show in front of you, staring with unfocused eyes at the screen. The sun starts to rise, casting a soft pink hue onto your living room. You’ve been sitting on your couch for two days, waiting for a man who probably doesn’t want you. Two days. Two days of sitting here, hoping, praying that he would come back. Two days of sitting here like a fool, waiting for a man who’s with someone else.

Yet you can’t seem to find the motivation to get up. You can’t. Just in case, this time, he shows up.

Your head throbs, your heartbeat pounding in your ears. You shut your eyes, burying your face in your pillow. You wish you were laying your head on his chest instead. Your thoughts are too loud, too consuming, too overwhelming. It’s hard to think clearly, to sort things out in your head. You’re so exhausted, mentally and physically, that you start to doze off.

You fall asleep, face buried in your mascara stained pillow.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･��✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

Your eyes suddenly shoot open when you feel your shoulder being shaken and a hand on your face.

“Hey, sweetheart. Wake up, I’m here.” Rafe’s voice is like music to your ears. Soft, low, deep. You feel his large hand against your cheek, his thumb gently stroking your skin as he tries to gently coax you awake. He’s here. After two long days of no food, no shower, no company except your own miserable thoughts, he’s here.

“Rafe?” You ask, head and body aching from two days of laying completely still on your uncomfortable Ikea couch.

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.” Rafe says, his voice soft and gentle. His fingers trail along your cheek, his hand so big against your face. He tries to hide it, but you can see the slight grimace on his face as he takes you in. “Are you okay? I tried calling you this morning, but you didn’t answer.”

You glance around, trying to take in your surroundings. You finally fell asleep, and judging by the slowly setting sun, you slept for a while. “My phone, I um…” You gesture to the smashed phone laying across the room.

Rafe sighs, his brow furrowing as he glances over to your smashed phone. “I’ll buy you a new one.” He says, looking back at you. His expression falls, and his eyes narrow. “How long have you been sitting here?”

“Two days.” You say, sitting up. You’re still in the same crop top and miniskirt, your hair starting to feel greasy and itchy.

“Jesus, baby.” Rafe exhales, shaking his head. “Have you eaten anything?” He asks, brushing your messy hair out of your face gently.

“I was waiting for you.” You say, completely ignoring his question. “You said you would come back. I was waiting for you.” You look up at him, feeling completely and utterly pathetic.

His eyes soften, his hand moving to cup your face in his palm. “I know. And I came back, like I promised.” He says soothingly, his thumb stroking your cheek gently. “Baby, you look terrible.”

“No, you promised me two days ago that you would come back.” You say, your voice growing thick as you start to cry again. “You said after your brunch date with Sofia that you would come back.”

Rafe opens his mouth to speak, only to close it again. He doesn’t say anything for a while, as if trying to come up with something to say. His expression shifts slightly, from sympathetic to something else, something almost akin to guilt. He sighs, finally speaking, “I’m sorry. I know. I didn’t realize how late it was until it was too late to swing by here.”

“So you left me hanging for an extra day?” You ask, reaching up to wipe away a stray tear.

“I’m sorry, alright?” He says, still gentle, but a hint of irritation is there. “I know I said I’d-… I said I’d come back, but I lost track of time, baby. I had to hang out with her for a while to keep up appearances.”

“Oh, fuck you and your appearances!” You say, standing up. You lose balance, reaching down with one hand to balance yourself on the arm of the couch. “Just admit that you didn’t want to see me.”

Rafe reaches out to steady you on your feet, frowning. “That’s not-… I did want to see you.” He says, his voice growing sterner, more irritated. “But I had other obligations. I had to keep up appearances. I told you that.”

“Don’t expect me to believe that bullshit, Rafe.” You say. You try to pull away from him, but he tightens his grip on your arm. “You can just dump me, you know.”

“Yeah? So can you.” He snaps back, his grip on your arm tightening even more.

Your face and eyes twitch slightly, your chest aching. You feel so stupid. Your breathing starts to escalate, coming out of your nose in short puffs. “Let go of me.”

“No.” He says, his voice hard, stern. He still grips your arm tightly, not wanting to let you go. He knows you well enough to understand that you would storm off, maybe even lock yourself in your bedroom. Both of Rafe’s hands move to your hips, pulling you closer. “Sweetheart, look at me.”

“No!” You shout, trying to pull away. You twist around, reaching down and trying to tug his hands apart. “You can’t do this to me!”

“Baby, look at me! I said, look at me!” Rafe raises his voice, finally using his strength against you, pinning you against his chest with his arms around your waist. He’s got you pressed flush against him now, one hand grabbing your chin and forcing you to face him, your neck craning. “Look at me when I’m talking to you, sweetheart.”

You squirm and wiggle, starting to cry. “You can’t treat me like this!”

His grip tightens, his jaw tensing as he grips your chin and face roughly. It almost feels like he’s manhandling you, forcing you to stay in place as he glares at you. His blue eyes have a hard edge to them. “I will treat you anyway I damn well please, sweetheart. You’re in no place to make demands or tell me what I can and can’t do. I said, look at me.”

You finally meet his gaze. You just sit in his grasp, sniffling as more and more tears threaten to fall. Your bottom lip trembles, and you wonder if you look as pathetic as you feel.

Rafe sighs, his expression growing soft. He loosens his grip on your face, his thumb caresses your cheek. He takes a deep breath, counting to four. “Come on, sweet girl. Let’s get you cleaned up.” In one swift motion, he picks you up, tossing you over his shoulder as he makes his way towards your bathroom.

“No! Let go of me!” You whine, pounding your fists against his back.

“Quit it.” He snaps, reaching behind his back and grabbing both of your wrists, yanking your hands away from him as best he can. “I swear to god, sweetheart, I will spank you if you don’t stop punching me in the back.” He pushes open the bathroom door, setting you down on the edge of the bathtub, your wrists still in his grip. He turns on the shower, waiting for the water to warm up before turning to you with a sigh. “Take off your clothes, sweetheart.”

“No.” You whine, trying to tug your wrists away.

He scoffs, exasperated. “I’m tired of having to repeat myself to you, baby. You’re gonna take a goddamn shower even if I have to force you to, so drop that attitude real quick, or I’ll strip you myself.” He leans in closer, his eyes darkening, his jaw clenching again. “You wanna be bratty and defiant with me? I can get real bratty with you right back, sweetheart. Real bratty.”

Your eyes water and your bottom lip trembles. Rafe sighs, taking another deep breath. He had to be nicer to you. “You gotta shower, baby, come on.” He grabs the bottom of your crop top gently, thumb rubbing along the hem.

You sniffle, wiping your cheeks. When your scalp starts to itch, and you catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, mascara smeared, you realise he’s right. You raise your arms up.

“Good girl.” He says, sounding relieved. He reaches behind you to grab the bottom of your shirt, slowly pulling it up over your head. He can see how exhausted you are, how awful you look and how horrible you must feel. He gently drops your shirt on the floor, gently running a hand through your hair with a sigh. He reaches behind you and grabs the waist strap of your skirt. “Lift your hips for me, sweetheart.”

You obey, lifting your hips.

Rafe slides the skirt off your hips and down your thighs, setting it on top of your shirt on the floor. He then grabs the waistband of your panties, kissing your hipbones as he tugs them off of your legs and adds them to the pile of discarded clothing. He then reaches forward, gently running his fingers through your hair. “You’re so pretty, baby.” He says, his voice quiet.

“Thank you.” You whisper.

He can tell that you’re still upset with him, and while he’s annoyed by it, he tries to maintain his composure, trying to be patient with you. He steps back, pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it aside before undoing his jeans. “Come on, pretty girl. Get in the shower while I undress.”

You nod, standing up on shaky legs and stepping into the shower. Your muscles instantly relax under the water as you step in, back facing the water.

Rafe watches you for a moment, his gaze lingering on your body before you shut the curtain. He quickly discards the rest of his clothes. Slowly, deliberately, he steps into the shower behind you, not wanting to startle you. He reaches over and moves you a little to the side, giving him room under the water to stand with you. He gently spins you around so your back is facing him, the water hitting your chest. He glances around the built-in ledges of your shower. “Where’s your stuff?” 

You point to the metal shelves you stuck onto the wall, full of expensive products, all gifts from Rafe.

He glances over at the shelf, noticing how neat and precise everything is. Rafe laughs as he grabs your shampoo. “God, you always gotta have everything organized.” He teases, pulling you against his chest with an arm wrapped around your torso, his strong hand pressed against your stomach. He kisses your shoulder before lifting your hair away from your neck to kiss there, his chest and abdomen pressed flush against your back. 

He pours a fair amount of the shampoo into his hand, setting the bottle down. He hasn’t had to actually wash his hair in so long, he forgot what a normal amount of shampoo looks like. He rubs his hands together, lathering it up before starting to gently massage into your scalp. “Keep your head tilted back so you don’t get anything in your eyes.”

You tilt your head back, reaching back and putting your hands on his ribs to keep steady.

He hums in approval as his fingers work, rubbing and massaging your scalp. His body is relaxed against your naked curves, his fingers now working through your hair slowly, ensuring it’s completely lathered before he moves onto the conditioner. He keeps the conditioner in your hair while he washes your body. You reach up and grab your face wash yourself, squirting some into your hands before thoroughly washing your face, trying to get the two-day-old mascara off. Rafe keeps his arm wrapped around your upper body so you can keep leaning against him.

After rinsing yourself clean, he turns the water off, pushing the shower curtain open. He grabs a towel for himself off of the hook by the shower, stepping out. “C’mere, baby.” He says quietly.

You step out, watching as he wraps the towel tight around his waist. He grabs another from your linen closet, holding it open for you. “Arms up, sweetheart.” He says, waiting for you to obey, and you do, lifting your arms. 

Rafe quickly wraps the towel around you, gently rubbing your body to dry you off. He then pulls you close, hugging you. One hand holds the back of your head, the other resting on the small of your back. He’s been craving the feel of your bare skin for the past two days, and it was nice to finally feel it again. “I’m sorry.” He says, quietly, sincerely. His lips graze your forehead.

“Why couldn’t you have just texted me?” You ask.

Rafe pauses, sighing. He was worried this would come up at some point. He tries to choose his words wisely, so he won’t start a fight so soon after the initial one. “Because… I…sweetheart, I was trying to keep a low profile with her.” His voice is just above a whisper. “Texting you would have let her know there was something going on.”

You shake your head. “You could’ve texted me and then immediately deleted the conversation. She wouldn’t have noticed.”

“I thought of that,” He starts, his brow furrowing. “But the thing is…she looks at my phone sometimes. So I just didn’t want to risk it, alright?”

You look away as he starts to dry your hair with the towel. “I wish things were different. I wish you could change.”

“That’s not fair, baby.” He says, his voice holding a hint of warning. He’s annoyed with you again, but he tries not to lash out this time, especially when taking into account how much he missed you. “You act like I don’t want things to be different.” He runs the towel over your head, gently squeezing your hair to wring out the excess water. “Do you even have enough respect to see me try?”

Your breath hitches. You watch him as he finishes with your hair, wrapping the towel around your chest. 

“I love you, Rafe.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you realise you even said them. “Of course I have respect for you. Of course I want you to try.”

Rafe pauses, his shoulders relaxing as his expression softens. He smiles at you, his eyes looking into yours. He grabs your hips, his thumbs rubbing along the soft skin there. He sighs, closing his eyes. “Then don’t act like I’m evil when I do try.” His voice is quiet, soft. “I mean it. Stop acting like I’m a complete ass to you, sweetheart, because I have been fucking trying.”

He didn’t say he loved you. You don’t care how crazy and clingy you sound at this point, you have to know. “Do you love me too?”

Rafe opens his eyes, his expression growing serious all of a sudden. He pauses for a moment, searching the gaze of your eyes. His hands on your hips move to your lower back, wrapping around you and pulling you close against his chest. His chest is warm against your bare breasts, his body firm and strong. “Baby, that’s a stupid question.”

“You didn’t answer it.” At least just lie and say yes. Please just say that you love me more.

He sighs, his grip on you growing tighter. One of his hands moves up to the back of your neck, holding you in place. He lifts your chin up with a single finger, looking into your eyes. “Loves never meant much to me, sweetheart. I mean… Ward told me that he loved me, and you know exactly what he did.” Rafe brushes his thumb across your cheek. “But…yes, I do love you. You’re the only one I truly love.”

“Promise?” You ask, your voice quiet.

Rafe holds that strong eye contact for a few more seconds before his face softens more, his gaze softening in his eyes. “I promise, sweetheart. I swear on my life. I don’t love anyone else as much as I love you.” His other hand runs up and down your sides, fingers spreading across your skin.

“Not even Sofia?” You ask.

“Especially not her.” He says, pulling you even closer against his chest. He’s growing agitated again. “I told you this before. Everything with her is fake, completely fake. I’m with her for appearances. All she is, is a pretty face.”

You want to believe him, so you do. You lay your head on his chest, wrapping your arms around his torso.

Rafe sighs, relieved that you seem to finally understand. He rubs your back, one hand wrapping around your neck to keep you held against him. He kisses the top of your head, resting his chin on top like before. “Don’t ask me that question again, sweetheart.” He says, his voice gentle, yet stern. “You know I only love you, there’s no need for you to ask such dumb questions.”

You nod. “Can you stay tonight?”

He sighs, nodding. “Yeah. I can stay tonight.” He takes your chin in his hand again, tilting your face up to look at him. “Can you promise me something, though?”

You take a deep breath. “Anything.”

His brow furrows again, his thumb rubbing along your jawline. “Don’t ever doubt my love for you, alright? I can’t deal with that self-loathing bullshit you pull sometimes, sweetheart, you got that?”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly. You weren’t expecting that. But at this point, you’re so desperate to lay down with him that you’ll do anything he wants. “I promise, Rafe.”

He smiles, kissing your forehead. “Good girl.” He says, his voice gentler. “Now, let’s get you into bed, hm?” You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist as he carries you to bed. He lays down next to you, tucking you in before handing you his phone. “Pick out what new phone you want.” When you look confused, he sighs. “I told you I would buy you a new one because you destroyed yours.”

Oh, yeah. This has been the longest two days of your entire life, and you weren’t even sure if any of that actually happened.

Rafe unlocks his phone before handing it to you, picking something to watch from the small TV on your dresser. You scroll through his pages of unorganised apps, before finally finding Google, typing in the newest iPhone model. You buy yourself a new phone in your favourite colour, all on Rafe’s dime. You’re tempted to text Sofia pretending to be Rafe and tell her it’s over, and to leave you alone, but you don’t. Rafe loved you, and Rafe wanted you. He could dump her himself.

You lock his phone, handing it back to him. He sets it on your bedside table, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close.

If it’s meant to be, then it will be.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧

let me know what you think my lovelies!

part 3 is here!

★taglist: @ietss, @loves0phelia, @drewsphswife, @pillowprincess4him, @maybankslover, @theeternaloptimistt, @jumpme300, @xcinnamonmalfoyx, @matthewswifeeee. reply to this post if you would like to be tagged! italics mean i couldn't tag you! x

[yelenasbraid]

good enough — joe burrow

summary — ‘we’re not good enough’ is starting to sound and feel like ‘i’m not good enough’ for joe

warnings — fem!reader, whole lotta angst, mentions of panic/not feeling great, takes place after the game against the eagles, lots of italics so sorry, maybe some ooc joe?? halfway proofread so don’t come for me.

note — i listened to the song j’s lullaby (darlin’ i’d wait for you) by delaney bailey and whewww it fueled the angst

ANOTHER FUMBLE RECOVERY. another turnover. another at-home loss. he couldn’t fight this game anymore, he couldn’t fight the refs, he couldn’t deny the very blatant fact that they weren’t good enough.

so he sat, watching jake perform the last moments of the game. he watched as they lost, the score 37-17. he knew the stakes coming into the game. the eagles were a prominent team, a good opponent. he was expecting a good game out of it, not a blowout.

the post-game press conference was going to be a nightmare.

what kept him sane as he walked in the tunnel wasn’t a thing or an event, it was a person. you. he knew you watched the entire thing, he knew you’d be upset, as was he. he also knew that if one person said the wrong thing he’d snap.

he just needed to see you. just for one second.

he walked into the tunnel, his head hanging as cameras flashed. he clenched his fists; they wanted a picture of this?

“joe,” he picked up his to the sound of your voice, and if he didn’t know better, he would have collapsed right then and there. he walked up to you, putting the rest of the energy he had into his getting to you. he gently wrapped his arms around you, inhaling your perfume, reveling in your warmth.

you pulled apart from him like gum from the concrete; he didn’t want to let you go. he didn’t want to go to the press conference and face the failures, his failures.

“don’t you dare go there,” you gently warned, your voice like a cool stream over a sore wound. your hands held his clenched fists, which eventually opened to envelop yours. you were right, but it was too late; he was already there.

“i’ll see you at home,” he swallowed. his eyes twitched, the glass beneath them shattering as he made eye contact with you. he took a breath; he was not going to lose it.

“i love you,” you reminded him, letting go of his hands.

“i love you,” he hummed, mustering up some energy to offer you a smile. to you, it just looked like a more relaxed expression. he trailed off, being whisked away by staffers. he gave you one last look before he disappeared to the locker rooms.

—

his drive home was silent. his hands wrung the steering wheel as the conference played over in his mind.

“we’re not good enough, we’re not good enough. we gotta get better,”

“we gotta take responsibility for how we’re playing individually,”

“i don’t think anybody was good enough today,”

the underlying message that the reporters didn’t catch, thankfully, was that he wasn’t good enough. he should have been better. it was all his fault.

you’d catch it though. he knew you saw through him the moment you saw him. he loved it about you, that he didn’t have to say anything for you to get him. it wasn’t always the case, but it was this time.

he pulled into the driveway, throwing the car into park and sitting there for a moment. he stared at the wall of the garage, losing himself in the defeat and disappointment of the night. he blinked, throwing himself out of whatever funk he was in, and shut the car off. his body ached, his head was heavy, and all he wanted to do was sleep. it was only 6 pm; going to bed now wouldn’t hurt right?

he grabbed his bag and walked up into the house. he opened the door to the smell of vanilla and woodsmoke, his eyes directed to a candle that was lit in the kitchen. he didn’t see you in the living room or the kitchen, and for a second he thought you’d left. he swallowed, nerves bubbling in his gut as he kicked his shoes off by the door.

“babe?” he called, his voice hoarse and scratchy. his expression relaxed as he heard you pad down the stairs, seeing you in sweats and a t-shirt.

“hey,” you smiled, coming off the stairs. you crossed your arms over your chest, watching as joe stood there. he didn’t know what to do, clearly this game proved that. he just wasn’t good enough. the voices from past recruiters filled his mind as he zoned out again, whispering sweet lies to him about his performance.

he’d never be good enough.

there’s always someone better.

he wasn’t even good enough for you.

his breath hitched as he focused on you, the world around him coming back into focus.

“what?” he cleared his throat, seeing the confused expression on your face.

“i asked if you were hungry,” you repeated. seeing him this dazed worried you, especially given the circumstances.

“don’t really have an appetite,” he responded, moving past you and towards the stairs. his emotions were a sour cocktail, and he was tired of it being the only thing settling in his stomach. he wanted you told hold him, to comfort him, but he also needed to figure out what exactly happened out there. his brain was leaning towards finding a solution, even if there was no use in the state he was in.

“i figured,” you hummed, letting him stroll past you up the stairs, “i’ll be here when you’re ready,” you added. you’d wait for him, all day every day. you’d let him go through his process, do his routine, and he’d come back to you. he always did.

joe paused on the stairs, something stopping him. he didn’t know what it was, maybe it was your voice in his head breaking through the noise, telling him to not shut you out. maybe it was your divine-like patience. you always made time for his moods and his failures. did he make time for you? amidst his struggles, did he ever take a second to make time for your moods and your struggles? was he being a good boyfriend?

“baby?”

“why are you still here?” he asked you, his tone sharp, despite him meaning to sound that way.

“what?” his tone caught you off guard, making you rapidly blink to help you process.

“you should leave,” he continued, “you…” he was panicking. why was he pushing you away? he needed you.

“what are you talking about?” your fear struck you, but you still fought yourself. he couldn’t mean what you thought he meant, right? you swallowed, watching as he battled himself. watching as his eyes avoided yours, as his fists unclenched and then clenched again. he was shaking too.

“you’re always here for me, when have i ever been there for you?” he asked, “i’m not a good boyfriend, i’m not a good quarterback,”

“joe, stop,” your voice stopped him, a stern expression reminding him much of his mother. while you were serious, there was undoubtedly a kind warmth behind your eyes. he panted, his eyes filling with hot tears.

as silence sat between you, joe’s breathing lessened. he walked back down the stairs, dropping his bag at the foot of them. he stood there, deflated, as you approached him. you took his face in your hands, feeling warm tears hit your fingers. your thumbs whisked them away, trying to give joe some semblance of comfort during a time where there wasn’t much of it.

joe wrapped his arms around your waist, nuzzling his face into your neck. he pulled you in close, the weight on his chest lessening as he let you pull him in. he let your warmth take him over, spreading like a wildfire over his bones. he felt your fingers through his hair, your hands running down his back. you were the personification of comfort and safety, and he was trying so hard to drink it all in.

“you are not a bad boyfriend,” you hummed, and in response he squeezed you tighter, “you’re not a bad quarterback,” you added, running your hands down his back. he pulled away from you as tears fell from his eyes. he wiped them away with the palm of his hand.

“how?”

“do you remember that time i was followed by some guy? i called you, and without any hesitation you answered and came to help me,”

“that’s just what a boyfriend is supposed to do,”

“hold on, i’ve got more,” you patted his chest, “the time when my mom had a cancer scare. you left practice early every day to make sure not only that i was ok, but if i needed anything. the time i got promoted at work and you surprised me with my friends over for dinner. the time i was spiraling so badly after a bad encounter with someone at work you picked me up, made me a delicious dinner, and made sure i felt appreciated and loved,” you listed them off, and there were many more. you guys weren’t perfect, by any means, but he was enough. he’d always be enough.

“you’re a good quarterback. if you don’t want to look at the numbers, look at your heart. you have such a passion for these young guys, for the vets. you lead them well and confidently, you make sure they know they’re appreciated and give them their first game ball if necessary, like you did with andrei. but because none of us are perfect, we make mistakes, but it makes us better. it doesn’t define you as a person,” you continued. you watched the gears turn, and while it would take some time for joe to see that himself, he knew you were right. he knew what you were talking about, he saw what you saw, and it calmed the frayed nerves in his body.

“i don’t deserve you,” he whispered, “i really don’t,”

“you deserve the world, joe burrow,” you countered, giving him a soft smile. he gave you one back, sniffling.

“i’m sorry for telling you to leave, i just…i don’t know,”

“i know, just don’t push me away. i’m not here to make things worse for you, i hope you know that,” you allowed a laugh at your last words, making joe chuckle too.

“i know that,” he agreed.

“don’t push me away,” you repeat, resting your hand on his chest, it movie with the rise and fall of his chest.

“i won’t,”

“good,” you smiled, “now, i say it’s time for a comfort show,” you grinned, which made his face light up. the both of you walked over to the couch, sitting down on the plush white cushions. you settled a blanket across your lap, while joe grabbed a blanket of his own, laying his head in your lap.

“spongebob?” he turned his head up to look at you, a hopeful look in his eyes.

“sure thing, squidward,” you teased, kissing him on the nose. you turned it on, then nestling into your spot on the couch. you ran your fingers through joe’s hair, occasionally catching his neck before going back into his hair. joe melted into you, cuddling into your warmth and your safety. he watched the episode, giggling at a couple parts, but the most important thing is that he was with you. that you were the glue that held him together. the feeling of your hands in his hair sent prickles down his spine, and in a good and comforting way. every prickle sent warmth across his body, relaxing his taut muscles.

you bent down and kissed his temple.

“i love you, joe burrow,” you hummed.

“i love you more, y/n l/n,” he hummed back. it wasn’t too long before sleep bid him closer, and took over his body. he slumped into you, his soft breaths telling you he fell asleep. you kissed him again, smiling against his warm skin. he was safe and he was loved, and that’s all that mattered.

joey looked so sad after the game 🥺 hopefully this makes a bit better. ALSO! i do have a couple more fics lined up that might be released this week so STAY TUNED!! i just wanted to write an angsty fic ngl

tags: @wickedfun9 @joeyfranchise